The young Remont gave Tereves his food, but the scholar stopped him. He asked Legosia,

“Boy, have you given thought to your legacy?”

And Legosia responded,

“No, for that is not mine to decide. It shall be written alongside my liege.”

Tereves then spat his food, throwing it outside of the cage he was trapped in.

“I refuse the food of someone who uses only a quarter of his wit.”

The young Legosia felt insulted. His tiredness in the long campaign did him no good, and so he engaged the scholar in his unspoken question.

-From the 8th Chapter of “The Remont of Elneshe”

“Why?” Dolish asked him.

The sudden request removed all sensibility from the general. First the imprisonment, and now banishment?

“Do you dare deny my orders, general?” the Armon asked with a scowl.

“No, Your Sharpness! I just want an explanation. What have I done?” Dolish backpedalled, trying to soothe the Armon’s anger.

Mortici Feranz didn’t care for the display, sweeping past the general and onwards into his stronghold.

“I will show you why.”

They walked to the end of the hall, the Armon leading him to his own offices. He slammed the door wide open, revealing his honour guard inside. Every single one of them bowed at the Armon’s entrance, stepping aside.

“Tell me, Venastian, what do you see in this room?” he asked Dolish.

“Evidence, Your Sharpness. Evidence I’ve been gathering against Yennel’s deceit,” Dolish explained himself. But the Armon raised a single finger, stopping him from speaking further.

“Remove yourself from your own position. Look at it as I might, Dolish. What do you see here?” he asked again.

The old general grunted, but listened regardless. The room was filled with works of extreme investigation, of work done to expose a madman. Notes, letters, pieces of what they’d said to each other. All of them were for the sake of uncovering Yennel’s schemes…. Or they were the work of an obsessed madman himself.

“An obsession,” Dolish replied. The right answer, by the nod of the Armon’s head.

“A product of a grudge, guilt, or envy, I do not care. But it is an obsession, and one that has borne our nation nothing but problems,” Armon Mortici lectured him.

“An ache is nothing compared to the guillotine Yennel intends to drop on us, Your Sharpness!” Dolish replied.

“A guillotine of your own imagination!” the Armon shouted at him, silencing the opposition.

He sat down in a chair behind him, sighing. And Dolish saw the Armon tired. His bones weak, his eyes sunken, and wrinkles that spread across his skin. His robes so loose that Dolish could see the thin bones underneath. The Armon had been wrung further than anybody else.

“Every one of you, leave. This is between me and my general. Someone guard the entrance.”

The room emptied faster than would have been possible. The only two occupants left were Dolish and the Armon. Silence stretched across the office, no sound coming from either of them except breathing.

“Use it, Dolish.”

A blue beacon exploded out of the Commander. Spirits entered his sight, and the emotions of those around him became as visible as their clothes. But the one closest to Dolish remained the Armon’s, who had a deadened soul.

I have no heir, Dolish. Not anymore. The children I adopted; they are not ready to take my position. The only connection I had back to Devebind now lays shattered. How do you think I could show my face back again, carrying Merin’s corpse?

The capital would accept you back with open arms, Your Sharpness. We needn’t waste everything here, Dolish told him.

Maybe that would have been true earlier, but now it is impossible. I will grant you this, I should have listened when you first came to me all those days ago. Should have receded while I still had my son with me, the Armon admitted. It was unexpected, and Dolish utilized the opportunity.

You can still hear my words, Your Sharpness. I am your blade, and will help you fend off our enemies, Dolish told him, bowing as deeply as he could.

He felt mirth from the Armon, but it was quickly squashed.

You cannot any longer, Dolish. You are the greatest man I have ever met, but even that is not enough for us to keep South Gejsa away from our lands. I am sorry, but my command is final.

The Armon stood up, rising to his full height as the ruler of the nation.

“I am tired of symphonies and secrets, conspiracies and assassinations, War and blood. I cannot allow you to interfere any further, in what may be our last hope for Ravenishtan’s survival,” The Armon told him.

“I am trying to save Ravenishtan! Not destroy it!” Dolish shouted at him. the words reverberated throughout the room.

“Every person believes they are doing what they do to protect, not destroy, Dolish. That does not mean the fantasies they employ are ever correct,” The Armon replied.

Anger gripped Dolish, and he saw it bloom through his powers. Anger at the ignorance. How had such a man ever been able to rule the nation. Why would he not just listen!

Dolish took a step forward without thinking. His hand rose, only for the Armon to say a single word.

“Desist.”

And the anger faded. Even in his state, the command had been too strong, too forceful. Dolish lowered his hand, clenching it. What had he been thinking? Was he really about to hurt the Armon himself? Dolish Venastian, the patriot?

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Is this why Vartel left? Because he, had these urges? They terrified Dolish. He never would’ve been able to take it back. He hung his head low, waiting for the sentence that was about to drop onto him.

“I will overlook this, just as I will overlook you sneaking into another General’s stronghold in the middle of the night. That is my one kindness to you, Dolish. You cannot function in this war anymore. A broken blade cannot be held by anyone.”

He stepped over to the door, having it opened by a guard outside.

“You have three days.”

****

Three days came and went as quickly as Dolish never wanted. The only solace he was given was that he could bring his honour guard. An escort of soldiers were to lead him away from the battlefield, in the event that Phasgoria learned of his leave and attacked.

He stood outside of the camp he had gotten to know so well. The camp that had expanded out into a city of its own, twisting roads, children and merchants on every street. The spires of the strongholds extended into the sky, always filled with Afterburners. A moment of rest could have meant Planar’s dropping troops in the middle of the camp after all.

No one showed outside of their houses any longer and paved roads remained empty. Winter had sharply ridden them of food, and the people were suffering for it. It was like an animal at the end of its death throes, squeaking out what remaining life it had. All the while snow fell lightly on them as they waited.

“A forced holiday for months, eh?” Borne said. “You think he’ll ever call you back? Or is this some form of retirement?”

“Borne…” Bark replied.

“At least we’ll be away from all the fighting,” Alef tried to cheer them up, but it only soured the general’s mood. He must’ve noticed, because the Devourer elected to move away from Dolish.

“Sir… at least you could spend some time with your family. Shann and Eval would be happy to see you after all these months,” Vaness told him.

Shan and Eval… They were the only thing he found uplifting about the forced leave. He had missed too many days of their life. Would Eval even recognize him once he returned? The fear of it almost made him not want to return.

But return he would need to. There was nothing else he could do. The Armon had given a decree and passed it along. There would be another general here before the attack. Dolish scoffed at it. It was the worst decision to make before a large attack. Whoever they brought in as his replacement would need to be caught up to the landscape of the war, and they hadn’t the time to do it.

But that was probably what Yennel wanted.

“Don’t think I can remember the last time I got a good night’s sleep,” Borne said.

“You get lazy when you’re not fighting. Best for the general to put you to another battlefield as soon as possible,” Bark told him.

“I’ll put on your clothes. Won’t be able to tell the difference. See how you like being his messenger bird.”

“What’s Devebind like?” Saeda asked. Vaness replied to her.

“It’s the largest city we have. The capital also boasts the largest population in the entire nation, by far,” Vaness replied.

“It’s a bit too huge if you ask me. You need to be an Afterburner or a Planar to even get around!” Bark complained.

“That’s because you don’t have the patience to go for a walk,” Vaness chided him.

“Walking’s for people what can’t fly.”

“I don’t think I’d ever like to fly again…” Alef said, reminded of his time with the blood.

They bickered amongst themselves for a long while, stopping only when the sending off party appeared.

The Armon appeared in front of Dolish one last time, surrounded by higher ranks of the military, including Yennel. He stared at Dolish resolutely, not letting a single emotion show.

“You’ve done a great service to me in this war, general. But I fear it is time for you to head home. I wish you well on your journey,” was all the Armon said.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Your Sharpness. Though I regret not seeing the end of this war, I will stand as a vanguard near Devebind and wait for your return,” Dolish replied.

The words hurt coming out, and Dolish turned to leave. But not before he heard a stomping of feet, and looked back to see everyone saluting him. He thought it an insult, and left without another word.

The carriages the Armon had allotted him were numerous, and they travelled in a line down the hills, away from the camp. The soldiers on them though, were all Dolish’s own. His troops, trained under him and not yet nabbed by Yennel.

But that didn’t matter any at this point. In a few hours, the camp was out of Dolish’s sight. He hunched over his seat in defeat and sighed.

Where had he gone wrong? Dolish thought upon the question even as his cart bumped into rocks and horses neighed. Alef and Borne were inside of the carriage with him, talking of inconsequential things.

“No, no, you lead with your shoulders and chest when you’re flying. Position them wrong and you’ll end up spinning in the air, vomiting everywhere!” the Afterburner lectured him.

It gave Dolish a headache. Maybe the Armon had been right. He was aging, and the war did no favours in that regard. How long could he keep pushing bewl through his system before it broke him down and left him nonfunctional.

How many more stabbings, cuts and bludgeons could Dolish heal before it affected his mind. He knew of many Bladeborn who had gone mad, and no bewl could fix that for him. He cycled it through his mind, wary of the change that had happened. But nothing changed.

Dolish saw the world the same as it ever was. There was no changing the passage of time.

And that meant all of his mistakes couldn’t be taken back. How could he have ever prevented it? Jerre’s death, Raisha’s death…. Merin’s death? Should he have worked with Yennel from the start, instead of undermining the man at every turn? What if he was honest, and Dolish had misjudged his actions for that of another?

Vartel couldn’t help him here. He’d left of his own accord. Dolish had been sent away. He was worse than his cousin in every way. Why couldn’t it have been him in Dolish’s position? He would’ve known the words to say, the actions to take. He could’ve prevented any of the tragedies that befell him. Vartel was the ideal, whereas he was what Ravenishtan had left.

“Sir?” Alef asked him.

“Hmm?” Dolish looked up at the expecting boy.

“Are you alright?”

No one had asked Dolish that for a long time. What a kind boy Alef had turned out to be.

“I… I am,” Dolish lied.

“We’re here for whatever you do, sir,” Alef tried reassuring him.

….Do it anyways….

Those words repeated in his mind as he crested another hill. With every moment, the words grew louder in his head and they got further away from the camps.

What would you do if given a difficult decision, one that you couldn’t take without repercussion…

Do it anyways.

He stepped out of the carriage, against the warnings of Borne.

“Where are you going!”

Why should he stop? Because the Armon sent him away? Because he made a decision that puts the lives of all Ravenishtanis at risk, for the dim hope that doing so might save them?

Dolish expanded his Commander field, stopping the entire line of carriages all at once.

Do it anyways.

Dolish rubbed the marble in his pocket, the one that Eval had given him all those months ago. I’ll see you again soon, I swear on my Form.

His honour guard rushed him from every side, surrounding the general.

“General Venastian, what happened? Why have we stopped?” Vaness asked him. She looked worried, but she needn’t have been.

The soldiers looked to him expectantly for an answer. He did not care how many followed him, only that he said the truth.

“His Sharpness does not know the threats levied against him. He does not know of the ruination that awaits him by Yennel’s hands. And in doing so, he has risked our families, our people, to try to earn the Spear of Arneshal,” he boomed out with enhanced lungs.

“I will not accept this!” he proclaimed. “I will not sit idly by in my house while our country falls around us. What I say may be treasonous, and you are free to go about as you would. But I refuse to return!”

Murmurs rose up from the crowd around him. some of the soldiers were unsure. Dolish walked past them, off the road and back towards the camps.

“Those of you who would join me, this is your last chance to do so,” he told them as he kept marching. He had given them an out, and most would take it, he hoped. Dolish couldn’t ask soldiers, much less ones that couldn’t face Bladeborn, to follow him into what would be suicide.

Despite that, he heard marches behind him. Dolish looked back, and was amazed for the first time. Not a single man had chosen to leave, and they all stood saluting the general together. Vaness, Borne, Bark, Saeda, and Alef, with the entire escort behind them. Dolish tried to hold back his emotions, but a smile still broke through.

He saluted them back, honouring the men as they had honoured him. And then they began to move.

He wasn’t Vartel, the strategist. Nor was he the old man who would rather be stepped over by the Armon than raise a complaint. He was Dolish Venastian, holding the Form of the talwar. Not a talwar held by the hands of the Armon. No, he was the talwar of the people, and he would save them from the decisions of its rogue leader.