They shall reclaim the afterlife, and the Tomb of Souls shall crumble before them.

-Excerpt from The Book of the Endowed

Ithrey Valeo, High General of the Miradoran forces, watched as another of her dearest friends died. Rishin trembled as nurses stood haltingly around his bed, unsure what to do about the large shard of metal protruding from his chest. Ithrey gripped his hand, her own hand still sheathed in titrite armor.

She should know how to save him. Long ago, she’d wanted to become a nurse. She’d ended up becoming a warrior instead. She hated herself for that. Especially now, as she saw Rishin fading.

“Tell my wife I tried,” he rasped. “Tell her I died because I loved her. Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t live because I loved her, too.”

Ithrey closed her eyes, a tear sneaking its way out of her right one. Then she forced them both back open, forced her head to swivel about, taking in the carnage. Men lay everywhere, groaning, dying. Surgeons rushed around the room, trying to save as many as they could, mostly failing. Those who died were quickly rolled aside, not out of disrespect, but out of the necessity that came from having fewer beds than you did wounded. Red covered the floors, the sheets, the doctors, the patients. Ithrey herself, though unharmed, stood caked in crimson, the product of a battle fought against the Talar earlier today. She hated the sights, but she would not avoid them.

So many lost, she thought. Another pang of guilt rang in her chest. If Alaran were here, they’d have lived. Alaran was her brother, her ally, and a powerful memory burner. Most would have thought her irrational for assuming one man could stop an invasion, but they hadn’t met Alaran.

“We might want to leave,” Syril, her attendant, said. “The Surges aren’t coming. His only hope is the nurses now.” He was standing beside her, clipboard in hand, the paper on it soaked in sweat. His voice was soft, if shaky, and he leaned in close to keep Rishin from hearing. He was pale, and he was shivering violently; his face was scrunched up, as if he were about to retch. Ithrey couldn’t blame him. Everyone reacted differently to things like this.

“You’re right,” she said, her other hand tensing involuntarily in frustration. She should be able to stop this. It was why she’d become a fighter, instead of a doctor.

She should have chosen the doctor. She’d never been a warrior, not deep down.

“Take it out,” Rishin rasped.

“That will kill you,” Ithrey said. “You’ve lost blood. Patience. A Surge will be here shortly.” It was a lie. But perhaps it would ease the pain. That was all that mattered now. She closed her eyes, trembling. “It’ll be alright.”

Rishin snorted. “You’ve always been the best of us, Ithrey, but I could hear you. No Surge is coming. Take the blade out. If I must die, at least I will die with my heart open to the world.”

Ithrey hesitated. “It will hurt. I don’t want you to hurt.”

Rishin grunted. “Torment will hurt too. I will be fine. Do it.”

Ithrey wavered again. Then, slowly, reverently, she reached out her hand, gripping the shard of metal with a titrite-covered fist.

“Are you sure?” Her voice was a teary rasp now. She should resist that; she was supposed to be better than giving in to grief. She had a nation to defend.

“I’m sure.” He closed his eyes. Ithrey averted her eyes, but yanked the metal from his chest.

Blood spurted in a rush from the wound. “A chance,” Rishin muttered. “What I’d have given for a chance.”

Then he fell still. Green mist poured from his mouth, mist that turned red, then faded. Ithrey stood, numb, for a long moment; it took all her strength not to fall to her knees and sob.

But she remained standing. Slowly, she turned away. She wiped the warm blood from her hand with a nearby cloth. She had to work hard to keep her gaze from drifting back to Rishin.

“He was a good man,” she whispered.

“He’s gone,” Syril said gently. “We need to tell them what to do with the body.”

“With him. Rishin. He has a name; he is a person. Not just a corpse.”

“Still. There is no time for a burial.”

Ithrey winced. Paused. “Have him cremated,” she said finally. “I’ll tell his wife. We can grant him a proper death stone… later.”

“You don’t have time for that conversation,” Syril noted. “Not now.”

“I…” Ithrey wished she could protest, but she just sighed. “You’re right. Have someone he knows well let his wife know, at least. She’s a good woman, too. A good woman, married to a good man.”

“I can try,” Syril said. He swept his eyes over the carnage, growing a little more pale. “My lady, we probably need to leave. I’m already receiving a flood of reports from the High Captains.”

Naturally. Reports of the shieldwall’s steadily falling power level. Of consistently increasing Talar forces. Of casualties mounting. They’d been coming in for weeks now. And they all said the same thing.

Mirador would lose this war. When they did, Ithrey would have to run. She doubted Larsh would let her live if she didn’t. The best she could hope for was getting put in one of her example squadrons.

I knew this war was coming, she thought, but I didn’t realize how hard it would be.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

She nodded, forcing her eyes away from the carnage of the medic room.

You could help them better, if you were a memory burner, a part of her whispered. If you’d learned more from Alaran.

But she wasn’t Alaran. Her shoulders slumped.

“Alright. Let’s begin.”

***

So much work to do, so little strength to do it. Only an hour later, Ithrey threw down her holoscreen in frustration and buried her head in her hands.

We’re going to lose. I keep telling the men I can save them, but we’re going to lose.

She shivered, the image of her own body dangling from a noose flashing through her mind. She’d faced death many times, but her neck still burned with dread; she could practically feel the rope twisting around her throat. That, and the pounding guilt in her chest, of not knowing if she could have avoided this. Looking back, she could see choices she’d made in the heat of the moment that should have been different. Small changes that would have saved countless lives, maybe even won the war.

Alaran would have made the right decisions. If he were in charge, Larsh’s head would have ended up on a lasertip, rather than his own…

Beside her, Syril cleared his throat. “Are you alright?”

I am most certainly not. But she lifted her head. “I am fine. Simply overwhelmed.” She rose from her chair; they were sitting in a small office. “If you can give me a few minutes of peace, that would be appreciated.”

Syril nodded curtly. “But… just a few minutes, General. We don’t have much time for breaks.”

She nodded. “On that, we can agree.” She exited the room, heading into the next one over, where lesser officers sat filing through holoscreens rapidly. There were bags underneath their eyes, though those eyes were still wide with fear. She noticed multiple holoscreen projections vibrating as the screens themselves were held in trembling hands.

She hated how fear, the emotion that was supposed to keep you alive, was your greatest enemy, almost especially in moments where you were in danger.

Hope conquers fear, she reminded herself. An ancient Rift saying. Something she should understand, as one of the Seekers. She didn’t understand it, though. Not as much as she wanted to. Still, she fought through the fear enough to pick her holoscreen back up.

She froze as she activated it, and felt the blood drain from her face.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Ithrey shot Syril a pointed glance. Alaran, she mouthed. Marked a five. Syril’s eyes widened, though he quickly regained his composure, standing and clearing his throat.

“I take it you need some privacy, then, my lady.”

“Yes.” Ithrey rose. “I will need to be alone. Alert me if the shield falls, or anything else of equal importance. Until then, Syril is in command.” The men would know what to do; Syril was her second, and this wasn’t the first time he’d taken charge. He wasn’t a great leader, but then, most of their great leaders were already dead.

She acted as if she were walking slowly and tiredly at first, but when she was out of earshot of the officers’ room, she picked up speed, almost jogging as she made her way to her private quarters. She hesitated at the door, considering if she should use her command privileges to use Mirador’s hidden comms bunker, for extra security.

But then, Alaran had marked this message a five. That was the highest level of import among the Seekers. And he did not use that designation lightly. Even the Miradoran government could not know what he had said, not until it had passed through Ithrey’s ears. She stepped inside her room, then shut and bolted the door.

Her quarters were simple, a square room with white, windowless walls, an unadorned floor, and a single cot. It wasn’t as pressed for space as a barracks, but she’d done her best to imitate the feeling. She sat down on the cot, then, hands trembling, played back the message from Alaran.

The image of his face popped into existence in front of her. Her brother had red hair like Ithrey’s; their mother had been Herreon. He wore a silver and red Grahalan uniform, with a star on the left side of his chest — the star of the Grahalan Governor. Usually, he stood tall and imposing, but today, he slouched, his hair and beard disheveled, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep.

“I do not know who will receive this message,” he began. “I have done my best to ensure the signal will go through, but I cannot guarantee it will. The Talar have besieged Grahala, and there is only so much I can do.”

Ithrey tensed. The Talar had attacked another planet? How? Their army had to be spread thin, after conquering so many planets so quickly.

But then, Larsh’s war machine was not something to be underestimated. She gritted her teeth as Alaran continued.

“We will lose the invasion. This is something most of you expected, as did I. You’re probably wondering why I marked this of such importance.”

He hesitated a moment, his expression shifting from weary to hopeful, then back to weary again. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then closed his eyes, and spoke.

“I have found the Endowed. She arrived on Grahala just hours before the invasion. She has the scar, as the prophecy predicted. And she can wield all Three Powers. I do not know where she came from, only that there were… complications when she arrived. Voidlings, chasing her. They have been dealt with, though she remains unconscious.”

His eyes opened again, now alight with fiery determination. “Larsh is coming for me. Perhaps Cyrla, too, if the Shadi know I am here. I will not, I cannot lose mankind’s only hope to the Talar. My forces lack access to wormdrives. I need someone to get here and get us off the planet, as soon as you can. Please. Delti depends on it.”

He hesitated again, then smiled grimly. The transmission ended. Ithrey slowly let the holoscreen fall from her hand, shock setting in.

Alaran… had found the Endowed….

Could it be true? Could they truly have found the hero of the Prophecy, after a millennium of searching? Emotions flooded her, too many to pick out anything coherent.

Except for one thing. She had to get to Alaran. Mirador had all but fallen already. They didn’t have any ships with wormdrives, unfortunately, but it was possible she could steal a Talar model. She rose to her feet, pacing around the room, trying to form a plan through the haze of the new information.

Then, suddenly, someone banged on her door, loudly.

“General! General! The shield’s fallen!”

Ithrey froze. Then cursed, throwing open the door. Behind it, she found a Miradoran soldier, armor half on, panting.

“Shield’s fallen,” he repeated. “They’re coming, General. Larsh is with them. Oh Okron…”

Ithrey pushed past the messenger, who continued to stand there, muttering to himself. People were now rushing through the hallway, mostly soldiers, throwing on pieces of armor as they went. She made her way through them, too, mind reeling, praying it wasn’t true.

But, as she stared out the nearest window, her denial was crushed. The blue dome of energy surrounding the Miradoran capital was gone. In its place, the Talar fleet loomed, sharks in the sky, gliding their way toward the Miradoran military headquarters.

And toward Ithrey herself.