I’ve tested with the needle once more. It’s sharp, the pain of piercing myself barely an inconvenience. But little wisps seem to creep into my thoughts when I have it. The uneasiness of the needle in my body doesn’t seem natural. As if a voice is talking me into taking it out, be rid of it or any other number of actions.

-From The Last King of Elneshe’s 7th Note.

“How did it go?” Armon Mortici asked of the only Afterburner who had returned. The woman was clothes in ripped grey clothing, blood soaking through and covering every inch of it. She drank from a bewllan crystal beside her as she spoke, patching up any remaining injuries across her body.

“We took out Araneus and Galanni, but the other Dukes evaded us, Your Sharpness,” The soldier reported. Dolish and the rest of the generals huddled around the woman, Armon Mortici the only thing separating them from her.

“I would’ve done more, but I was forced to retreat. I’m sorry…” she said.

“You did good work out there, soldier. Those Formless fools will be reeling from this for a while yet,” Yennel reassured her.

“And what was it that obstructed you? With your forces, taking out the party should’ve been a non-issue, Alegra,” General Amarna added.

“A Grand Duchess, General. She organized the troops to mount a counter offensive. We thought the forces would be overwhelmed but they proved… more resilient than we imagined,” Alegra replied.

“None the matter. You’re done with your work for now, Bladeborn. Get yourself some rest, you deserve it,” Mortici added, patting the woman on the back. She stood up from the barrel they had sat her on and saluted the army personnel there, before being escorted out of the room by Amarna.

“I told you, Your Sharpness. Their guard would be down during the rain,” Renolt said, a prideful smile on his face. He was carving something wooden at the edge of the room, knife in his hand as it cleaved away shavings. The scraping sound sounded annoying, but no one spoke against it.

“You’re right, General Renolt. I’d consider this mission a success. What about you, Venastian, you’ve been awfully quiet?” Armon Mortici asked. The group in the room turned towards Dolish, whose blank stare was indecipherable.

Why…. We were in talks just a few days ago. So, why? Questions Dolish wanted to ask, but caught on the tip of his tongue. He forced himself to get those words out, but they didn’t. Sending bewl through his body didn’t help, as his mouth still wouldn’t move.

“Venastian?” the Armon replied, only then the General did come back to reality. He looked at the Armon, who had a look of disapproval about him.

“I-I’m sorry, Your Sharpness. I didn’t mean to ignore you,” Dolish told him. The Armon looked out of the window and towards the night sky, nodding slightly.

“I suppose it was a late hour for a convention,” he noted. Dolish heard scoffing from Renolt, but the man kept himself preoccupied with his carving.

“If you could excuse me for a moment, Your Sharpness,” Dolish asked, the Armon idly accepting his request with a wave. He gave a salute to Mortici before he left the room, quickly pacing out of it.

Then, when Dolish thought he was far enough for no one to notice, he punched the wall as hard as he could. The stone underneath cracked before his blow, but didn’t break apart. Dolish took away his hand and saw tears across his knuckles, but he barely felt them. We had a way, Your Sharpness. Why would you go against it?

Why would you ruin our only chances of peace? WHY?! The frustration ate at him. Months. He’d spent months in this damned war camp, administrating, commanding, organizing. He tried his hardest to make sure the troops weren’t sacrificed for no reason. That eventually by the end of it he and they could go back to their families.

And now when the only sign of peace came for them, he thought that the Armon would accept it. Who advised him on the attack? Was it Amarna? No, she’s not the offensive type. Renolt? He would’ve followed whatever His Sharpness asked of him. Yennel? Was it Yennel? The recent arrival. Did his lack of honours in the war make him take such urgent action?

Was he to blame for their current predicament? If he was gone, would they have found a way to end this conflict? And is that any way for a talwar of His Sharpness to talk?

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“’Ruin our chances?’ Words like that would get you thrown into the brig, Dolish,” he spoke out loud to himself. He barely noticed the passing of the servants behind him as they walked past. He only looked to see that they were quickly scurrying off, away from him. Dolish looked back at the wall and understood why. Little pebbles and dust were dropping from the indent.

I can’t stay here. He walked out of the keep, not bothering to salute anyone there. An errant servant was told to clean up the crack in the wall. Dolish hoped that the boy actually listened while he gave the order, instead of staring at the General’s hands. Out the gates, the soldiers gave him proper respect, but he brushed them off as well. Where is it… he thought as he looked around the dimly lit camp. The bewllan hung from the tents provided illumination, but even that wasn’t enough for him to get the light that he needed.

For some, their Forms are their path, Dolish. Now, I won’t make you go one way about it. You’re going to have to choose for yourself how strictly you’re going to follow your own Form. But know that if you really want to embody it, then your path is already chosen. Vartel’s words hung in Dolish’s ears as he arrived at the location of the tent.

In front of him was a large tent. The tents His Sharpness had dedicated for the Devoted. The ones who could guide him on his path. There was a piece of wood on the surface of the tent that Dolish knocked on, forgetting that strength flowed through his veins.

A moment later, he heard someone pick up a lamp and the curtains parted, revealing a frail old woman with a mean mug.

“Who is i-Oh, General Venastian,” the woman said, focusing herself and her stance.

“What brings you to my house so late at night?” the Devoted asked. Her tent was more spacious, more extravagant than the rest, but came with a job equally as demanding.

“I need counsel, Devoted Trident,” Dolish asked of her. She raised her lamp to his face, the bewllan within shining and revealing his unsteady eyes.

“That you do, I suppose. Come on inside, I’ll set some tea to boil,” she motioned the large man through the tent, yawning as she placed the lamp down.

Dolish felt awkward in what was essentially the woman’s home. Bishan Trident liked to keep her office as her home and her home as her office. Everything inside was placed in a disorganized way that seemed convenient to the woman. He would’ve asked her about the trinkets she had inside her tent, the badges and medals that seemed to be hidden underneath dusty clothes, but the tea came sooner than expected.

She handed him a piping cup of it that he handled carefully. Then she plopped herself down beside him on a chair and took a large swig of it.

“Ah!” she exclaimed before continuing. “Now, you said you need help, General. Well, tell me what it is that troubles you,” she asked him.

Dolish didn’t answer at first, paying attention to the swirling liquid in his cup instead. But then he took a swig, grimacing once he realized it burnt, but not in the right way.

“You spiked this drink?” Dolish asked. Bishan nodded, smirking at him.

“Just a bit of fun for an old woman. It’s quite tasty still.”

“It’s three hours before morning, Devoted Trident,” Dolish told her, irritated.

“Three hours is long enough. But you’re dodging the question, Venastian. Why have you come to me?” she reiterated her point, staring pointedly at him.

Dolish sat the cup down beside him and spoke.

“I’ve… been having doubts about my Path. About how I can follow it when the circumstances around me make it so difficult to.”

Bishan took another swig of her cup, tapping the side of it as she thought to herself.

“You’re of the path of the Weapon, much as I was. What do you think that means, Venastian?” she asked him.

“It means we’re to be deadly, but disciplined. That we should embody being the weapon, wielded by those we trust to do good with,” Dolish explained.

“And yet that’s your interpretation of it. You are a talwar, whereas I am a trident. I hit with each point thrice, which means every problem must be considered with three angles.”

“You can hit any angle with a blade, though,” Dolish countered.

“And that’s my point. You can say we’re of the same Path, perhaps someone out there might even pick the same Form, but in the end, it depends on us how we embody that Form.”

She took a moment to pause, drinking from her cup again.

“Now, what brought upon this consternation?” she asked him.

“The Armon, he… he decided to ambush a party held by Phasgorian nobles. When only a few days ago we had finally opened talks with them,” Dolish explained.

“A shame, but His Sharpness knows best. Tell me, Dolish, as his talwar, what do you think you should do for the Armon?” she asked.

Help him achieve victory at all costs. So that we may find a way to fend off the barbarians that attack our borders. So that the people may not suffer.

But was his judgement really that better than His Sharpness’. The Armon was chosen for a reason after all. He must’ve displayed some sort of prowess to be selected by the previous Armon. Did he know better than the judgement of leaders long past? No, no he did not.

“I will do… whatever the Armon requires of me. Because I’m his talwar,” Dolish answered, setting his head low and accepting the words. Perhaps there really was no peaceful way out of this.

“Then, that’s your Path, Venastian. Once you’ve chosen, you cannot hesitate. Or else it would’ve been better for you not to choose at all. Now,” she set her own cup down beside her, standing up.

“I’ve got sleep to catch up on. Old bones like mine don’t work well, even if I’ve the hallowmancy to force them,” she chuckled to herself, Dolish keeping silent. By the time he was out of the tent, he felt a little better about the resolution, but a gnawing feeling still kept at the back of his mind.

Blades didn’t get gnawing feelings. They just slashed.