Another fresh procession, yet these are different—more menacing. A stalwart contingent of women and men, all equally silent as though on honoured vigil, their armour embellished in finer decorum. They march forth onto the plaza behind the heels of their Lord Captain, faces sheathed behind masks etched in the likeness of scowling fiends.
Soldiers of the Interior Guard—disciplined and regal as the rumours beheld, and worthy of reverence for the simple novelty of being one of the few whose ranks are composed entirely of sorcerers. They all carry themselves proudly beneath the sun's glare, rightfully so.
I dare not look away, enthralled by the soft resonance of power they seem to possess. But while these people are a welcome sight, I did not have the time to be led astray by idle interest. My charge is clear—to meet with the Lord General himself, and so I stride on without pause, undaunted by the lone cadence of my steps echoing across the plaza.
Beyond the silent tide of soldiers, and into the town's inner reaches, stands an unmoving figure—flushed with a golden visage. I breathe out, steeling myself against the Lord General's unrelenting gaze. Behind him stands a pair of Interior Guard sorcerers—devoted to silence, as demanded by their reputation.
"Inora Ver'Riyah—Low Marshall of the 21st Royal Cohort. My thanks for heeding the summons," the Lord General states, voice humble, yet tempered like steel.
His eyes are battered and weary, yet they belie the secrets of a hundred campaigns. An old scar carves a path down his right cheek, fading just before reaching the edge of his lips. Such a wound ought to be older than I am.
I place a clenched fist over my heart and bestow a salute onto the Lord General. "The Cohort, and her soldiers serve at your behest."
He nods and steps closer, unfolding both his arms. "I've reviewed the missive sent by your Lord Captain. A strange rout of soldiers—garbed in black, and armed with weapons that sputtered relentlessly. And you led the ambush against them?" the Lord General questions.
The foul memories simmer forth. "An ill-fated one, yes. It was swift, and two of my own were slain," I sigh.
Word of my cadre's shame have undoubtedly spread amongst the Cohort, and possibly beyond. Our woes are just one of many, yet it did not diminish the echoing pain of losing two, dearly beloved companions. I will not engage such a brittle topic. Not when the scars are still fresh like dew upon sunrise.
After a moment of reflection, I lift my gaze. "No matter. Are the sketches and reports in order?"
The Lord General returns a light nod, easing that specter of doubt. "They need no further embellishments." he states, "And I share your sentiments, it would seem we have the unbidden attention of a mysterious, third faction. Your report is similar to the first encounter made by a cadre of your Cohort, also to our south."
"What did they say?" I risk a glance to the masked sorcerers behind him—still silent as ever.
The Lord General slowly treads away and gestures me to follow. "I can only speak on their reports and no more, for the 9th battle-cadre has been slain—seared to death amidst the battle of the Nul'Firan river," he reveals.
My heart falters at the revelation. His words held merit. A black banner stood in place of that cadre at last muster.
As we venture forth, the Lord General abruptly stops at the entrance to the Mending wards, his expression shadowed with worry. An Interior Guard sorcerer steps forth on his behalf, masked visage offering naught but an eternal, false scowl.
"At your behest, we stand ready to mind-probe those two prisoners," the masked sorcerer reports, his voice deep and measured, "but, under the laws of the arcane, know that such an act would certainly cripple their minds."
"A small price to pay to lift the veil," Lord General Thellius retorts. "How soon will your Hexchanter arrive?"
"No earlier than tomorrow," the mage replies with ample haste. His hidden gaze falls on me, yet he remains silent, unsaid musings left to rot behind that scornful mask. Whatever regards he has, it will be forever beyond my privy.
Without another word, both he and his companion retreat. The Lord General then turns to me and breaks the newfound silence. "Know this, I have made a decree for your cadre to be kept away from the fray, though not as penance for old shames."
My lips curl into a frown. "Then what for?"
The Lord General mirrors my tone. "Your lot thus far are the only ones to have faced those soldiers, I prefer as such to keep your cadre alive. Halt whatever tasks are assigned to you by Lord Captain Fenn and go to Mending Ward Ember.
"Make haste, and watch over those prisoners until their due sentence," he affirms.
The trivial, and often menial duties bestowed upon me and my cadre since returning is beneath our stature—befitting only for the army's serfs. But it is still preferable to serving as glorified protectors to those unfortunates whose people slew my kin.
In the place of a face—a dark, featureless sheen. The armour is imposing, each detail rendered precisely like notes of a song. They will forever blight my memory.
I look up and quell that pit of resentment. "By your decree, Lord General. Consider it done."
A hint of gratitude sweeps over his aged face. "They shall be under your watch," he pauses, his expression taut.
I nod, silently accepting my cadre's new station. But the mere thought of being saddled with them—even for just a day, stirs a deep annoyance within. How could it have come to this?
Every glance, thought, and worry concerning those prisoners will forever remind me of my greatest shame to date. Duty binds me to this and I have no choice but to abide by his clarion will.
Scorn and resentment aside, if this is my penance, so be it. I return to my cadre after presenting another reverence salute to the Lord General. And there they toiled in the Garrison's courtyard, languishing amidst a myriad of dented, and often broken pieces of used armour.
A few of the army serfs glance up, their blank expressions twisting with a hint of interest. Yet they will not be the ones to be given deliverance from the grim task of dismantling the battered armour to their components, one clasp at a time.
I clear my throat, delivering the Lord General's tidings with a hint of bitterness.
"We are to oversee the two prisoners housed in the Regiment's Mending faculties," I begin, garnering surprise from the two.
Sephra perks up, her violet eyes a shade brighter. "The ones deemed to not be aligned with our enemies?" she asks.
I nod, ignoring the serfs entirely. "Yes."
The young Mender raises a lone finger. "Ember ward then, it is just a hundred paces that way," she says, lips pursed.
"How long?" Oswin interjects, rising to his feet.
"For at least two days, until the Interior Guard has safely ferried their supposed Hexchanter to the town," I reply, much to the intrigue of both.
"Please, excuse us," Sephra murmurs to the serfs, and puts aside her assortment of tools. She swiftly takes the reigns and leaves, taking large strides that seem filled with renewed vigor.
We make haste to the ward under her lead. Soon enough, the familiar stench of decay fills the air. Some bodies remain, yet to be buried. Amongst them, is perhaps our own. In the glare of day, I could finally piece together the Regiment's losses in full—over fifty lives claimed in three days worth of battle.
"Don't look," I cast a glance over to Oswin and lift his chin from the ground. He nods, and heeds my decree, keeping his sights away from the vile candour of war.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
There is no peace to be found by regarding the slain, only misery. I am relieved he understands this with just a few choice words. We reach the Mending ward without further words amongst the three of us, crossing the veiled curtains into an unsettling discord of wounded soldiers in languish.
The air is rife with weak moans and mournful cries. Menders toiled endlessly across the rows of cots, yet their numbers were few and sparse—unfit to lord over the entirety of the Ward just by themselves. A few chant softly under their breaths, invoking some meagre solace to those who sorely needed it.
This in itself is a battlefield of its own, just as demanding any clash of steel or exchange of spell fire.
Sephra forges ahead, delving to the nearest untended patient, her hands gently threading over the man's deeply seared chest. "Make way without me, don't stop on my account," she turns around, her voice tempered amidst the turmoil, conviction set in stone.
Oswin and I exchange glances, understanding our companion's devotion to her oaths before continuing onwards through the ward. With every breath, comes the pungent stench of herbs, oils, and sweat.
The healers move aside as we venture ever deeper into their midst. Most dare not raise concerns nor take action against our stark presence. We are both still dressed as though for battle, the only ones thus far in this place of mending. The silence festers, heavy and tangible as the heft of my armour.
"Where are the esteemed captives," I finally ask, growing tired of the eerie calm and hollow stares against me.
A Mender steps away from his toil, wiping a bloodied hand on the drape on his chest. "The foreigners, those found by pathfinders of your Cohort?" he says, his gaze looming between me and his patient—a bedridden woman, her left wrist a bloodied stump.
I answer without delay and muster a dauntless front. "Yes, we are to stand vigil on behalf of Lord General Thellius. Where are they?"
The man gestures to the far end of the ward, his hand still wrapped around the bloodied tools of his trade. "Past that curtain—the guarded wing," he says, his gaze drifting back to the woman under his care.
"My thanks," I say, though he did not answer. Past the veiled curtains, and into the sanctuary, finally stands my charges—worthy only of contempt and bitterness.
They are a feeble pair, shackled in place with chains to a lone post. Both regard me with cautious eyes, as though privy to the penance that would soon befall them.
One of them thinks to speak, yet for all his audacity, his foreign tongue is no better than the mindless prattle of infants.
The other sits in silence and glares back, wavering only in the slightest as I move onto him. He brandishes his disdain with furrowed brows, guarded features reflecting simmering contempt and little else.
"So these are the unfortunates," I remark, removing my helmet to better judge them.
Both seem aged, perhaps cresting upon their twilight years. Stranger yet, is the curious shade of their hair—a dull gold. Their entire visage is as fascinating as it is uncanny. Foreigners without a shred of doubt.
"So it appears," Oswin seethes, his voice mired with disdain, "we ought to simply throw them back into whatever crevice they ventured out from."
Treacherous thoughts loom over me. At last, something to place my hatred upon—unwarranted it may be. The urge is potent, festering deep within. But no matter what I do, it will not bring them back. Harbouring this dark veil is a fruitless endeavor.
The tide of anger slowly fades with each breath, until only emptiness remains. Anger shall not stain my judgement.
"It is not our place to decide," I pause upon sighting the glint of keys to my left. They adorn the small rack which lies flushed to the wall, their purpose all but certain. A necessary precaution, one that would have been better used against more coveted prisoners.
I point to the captives who owe me nothing but obedience. "Uncuff them, then we make haste to our barracks. They no longer need the attention of our healers it seems."
Owsin steps forth and grab the keys, freeing both prisoners from their pitiful shackles. They offer words of gratitude, but their cryptic regards went unanswered by my companion.
"Be... silent," he finally glowers, lips tensed into a fierce scowl. If looks alone could slay, the odd man would already be rendered a smoldering pile of embers.
"Let us go," I step in, taking the reigns lest his ire festers.
Bruises and bandages aside, they are fit to tread on their own two feet. And so, with the threat of a fiery scowl and harsh words to ensure compliance, they heed my demands and soon make way to the exit under my careful gaze.
The soft trample of our steps echoes across the ward. Sephra looks up from her newest patient as I pass, silent in her regards. She offers a regretful look in place of words, the intent to stay clear in her expression before delving back into her trade.
'She is of better use her,' I quietly remind myself, pushing onwards with my decree to see the captives be protected.
Under my lead, everyone steps out of the ward and into the sun's ire. A tense divide ensures some distance exists between us, and them. A few soldiers watch from the sides. Their whispers and musings are incessant—worth no heed.
And now begins my wretched penance in all but name.
======
"Gentlemen, proceed directly into the Rift and head to Cygnus HQ. Leave your rucksacks and weapons inside the Valor, and make sure safeties are engaged," a uniformed researcher from the science wing petitions, stepping aside as Douglas exits the helicopter after complying with the man's requests.
"Staff officers and division representatives are expecting a full debrief concerning your findings. If you have any artifacts and items of note, please bring those along as well," he further adds, prompting a few operatives back into the helicopter to procure their respective indigenous contrabands.
Lieutenant Sullivan gathers both teams together for a brief headcount before directing everyone to proceed towards the glowing anomaly.
"Come on, let's go!" The operative hollers prompting everyone to break into a steady trot, pacing by the flight technicians as they begin work on post-flight maintenance on the Valor.
Signs of construction and excavation works litter the short expanse between the landing pads and our gleaming destination. As we approach the Rift, the temperature drops sharply. Cold air condenses around the anomaly, wrapping it in a hazy sheen that made it seem incredibly surreal in the darkness of night.
Colours swept across its surface in soft, mesmerizing waves, the shades varying mostly between pure white to an almost deep, icy blue.
Up ahead team Sabre steps through the misty threshold and vanishes into the light. I take a breath, and cross over, squinting both eyes as the light folds over me.
I keep on a certain heading, focusing on the vague horizon just ahead. Soon enough, the familiar crunch of snow begins to accompany my every step, and the harsh backdrop of light vanishes completely.
"Rear side's clear," a voice hollers, "get in!"
The deep roar of an engine cuts through the first few seconds as I spot a familiar vehicle ahead. It is the same type of rover that first ferried my team over to the Rift, and a closer look at the number plating shows it is the exact same one.
Its seats are already filled by team Sabre, leaving the exposed trunk as the only means of getting aboard the vehicle.
"Jerome, come on!" the same voice iterates with a sterner tone, forcing me out of the observation.
"Got it, wait one," I reply, looking around to direct my team to the back as they begin exiting the Rift in quick succession.
"Rear trunk—don't stop, let's go!" I gesture at them to mount the trunk. All three comply and quickly make their way up.
After making sure my team is onboard, I reach over to Sullivan and tap on his shoulder. He shifts from his seat in the rear passenger compartment, his visor sweeping over my team before returning to me.
"Go, we're all set." I give the Lieutenant a thumbs up.
"Got it." He nods and turns back around to inform the driver.
The rover jerks ahead, speeding across the Antarctic landscape as the roar of its engines fills the calm ambiance. There is still so much to take in—the deployment, the locals, and more, and it is likely that will only get stranger from here on out.
But before all that, the debriefing comes first. It is one of the few things I can never look forward to. This one in particular is bound to be a mess.
There will be a lot to explain and go over.
===End===