‘Move, move!’

The panicked shouts rudely woke Amovishel from his nap. Judging from the warm light that shone into the tent, it was probably around afternoon. A Forester quickly rushed in and placed an unconscious Elethien on her bed of mats, her striking white hair sprawled across the surface. There were no visible wounds, yet her face was intensely pale, her breaths weak and shallow. A second Forester soon came in, placing her sword at a corner of the tent, far from Amovishel’s reach.

‘So it already ended—’

‘Shut up!’ The first Forester (his name was Teion, wasn’t it?) slapped Amovishel, a red mark quickly appearing on his face. The man’s face was clearly flushed in anger and frustration, but in his eyes, Amovishel saw panic and fear as if the man was looking at a dying body.

Still, he understood the reason for such panic. Elethien was unconscious, probably from over-utilising her magic a little in the battle. He had seen similar cases before when he observed battles from afar, watching dozens of Foresters collapse mid-battle as they spat out too much of their life force. It wasn’t uncommon to see some of them being later seen again on a pyre, awaiting to be cremated.

For someone who seemed practically invincible despite her stupidity, seeing her in this state was almost pitiful in Amovishel’s eyes. She seemed so fragile, so vulnerable as she lay struggling for her life. All because she had likely fought too hard in the battle earlier.

So much for being a queen.

There was no cure to this wound. She had essentially sacrificed much of her own life, something no one could possibly take back with the power of medicine. It just meant her death was now far more imminent. The Foresters all knew this. They had seen too many of their comrades fall to be hopeful in this situation. Even if she was to survive, there was now far less time to realise her goal. Her vibrant confidence, shining so bright before the battle, was completely extinguished, replaced with practically a husk who struggled to even draw her next breath.

Amovishel looked over at the Forester Teion, the latter now kneeling before Elethien and ignoring the lowly prisoner tied up just a short distance away. The man had already accepted reality. There was simply no way to transfer one’s life to another or some other method to revive her. She’d either wake up naturally, or she’d spiral further until her life force became completely drained, disappearing into the air as death reaped her body.

‘Put a blanket or something on her,’ Teion ordered the other Forester. It wasn’t much help, but it was the most anyone could do at this moment.

In the silence that ensued inside the tent, Amovishel could hear the chaotic ruckus going on outside. Sounds of Foresters running and grunting were accompanied by the shuffling of dirt, most likely from dragging bodies around. There were overlapping shouts mixed in with confused, rushed responses, many of the words basically inaudible from his ears.

It was frankly a mess. And Teion, the one who Amovishel believed was basically the second-in-command at this point, was still stupidly kneeling before Elethien as if his presence could do anything to wake her up. There was an almost boyish immaturity in his expression as he fixated on the unconscious Elethien.

Despite the narrow age gap between Teion and Elethien, it felt a little like a son helplessly looking at his sickly mother.

The young rebellion, Amovishel realised, didn’t have any sort of command structure. It was just Elethien, and below her, everyone else. Teion was an exception, but otherwise, there was basically no one to organise the rebellion once Elethien fell. The unity of the Foresters was the only thing preventing the whole thing from falling apart.

It was almost funny how this young, ragtag group could even survive this far.

‘Uh…’ Amovishel spoke up. ‘I think—’

Another slap to the face silenced him. Well, as a prisoner, he really had no right to say much in this situation. Not pressing Teion’s limited patience any further, Amovishel looked down, continuing to listen to the chaotic environment outside.

It wasn’t long before the second Forester came back, handing Teion a blanket they had likely looted from a nearby homestead before the battle.

‘You know, Teion,’ the Forester said. ‘Since Elethien is unconscious… What should we do now?’

The silence was deafening.

‘What should we do now?’ the Forester repeated. ‘Without Elethien, everyone doesn’t really know what to do. Right now, the entire camp is a mess. The wounded are being treated, the food is currently being distributed like usual, but no one knows what to do after this night. Do we resume our attack? Do we wait until Elethien wakes up?’

‘... I don’t know,’ Teion finally answered as a tear trickled down his face. ‘It’s only been around a month since Elethien promised us this kingdom, and everything’s already crashing down. I don’t know how to lead thousands of us like she does. I only fight at the very front. I swing my axe and kill my enemies. That’s all I can do.’

‘You’re the closest to Elethien,’ the Forester pleaded. ‘What would Elethien do if she was still awake?’

‘I don’t know!’ Teion shouted. ‘I’m not brave and charismatic like her! I don’t inspire people like her! I’m just an eighteen-year-old warrior who only knows how to kill a person!’

Sometimes, Amovishel forgot most of the Foresters were only around his age with their tall, mature frames… if not even younger. An age where it’d be rare to even serve in the military, nevermind leading an entire society.

‘Please, Teion,’ the Forester begged, falling to his knees. ‘We’ve seen you lead the vanguard. You’re brave and charismatic as well. You have no idea how many of us look up to you. You just need to tell us what to do for now. We’ll all follow your lead until Elethien wakes up.’

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‘I…’

‘For the sake of us all and Elethien, please, Teion…’

To put such responsibility on someone so young was borderline cruelty. Then again, the Foresters were already being treated cruelly before their rebellion.

Amovishel subtly shook his head. If the Trelvenese army attacked now when the Foresters had no leadership, it would be the end of the rebellion. All these promises, these dreams, these sacrifices would be forgotten, swept away in the flood of time like so many rebellions before them.

Of course, Amovishel wanted that result, but there was still a tinge of pity as he looked at these uneducated, simple-minded warriors. They were only a minority of all the Foresters that lived on the continent, but their bravery, albeit foolish, was something to be commended. Even if they followed Elethien like mindless sheep, this was a unity he couldn’t see within the Trelvenese court.

He could already picture the final stand. The corpses of the rebels sprawled across the burning landscape, the Trelvenese ruthlessly killing every enemy in sight. As they entered the tent, one would free him from captivity as the other plunged a cold blade down Elethien’s heart. Her dream of a Forester kingdom and her obsessive worship of Fate would die along with her. The Foresters fighting in Prentdor would probably never hear of this rebellion. The Guild would silence those who did hear about it. The war between Trelven and Rhinn would go on, forgetting such a rebellion ever existed.

It’d be a shame.

‘You can kneel here all you want,’ he said. ‘Kneel until your head is chopped off by the armies of my kingdom. Before Elethien can spread her wings again, the so-called Kingdom of Foresters will have already fallen.’

Strange that a prisoner would pity his captors.

This time, Teion did not slap him. Instead, he stood and faced Amovishel, his eyes now determined and firm. There was a spiteful hatred from his gaze, but this was precisely what Amovishel was hoping he’d show.

‘The Kingdom of Foresters will not fall so easily,’ Teion declared. ‘As Elethien has proclaimed, Maerila will fall.’

With that, he stepped out of the tent, the other Forester following closely behind. He still solemnly turned his head around towards Elethien every few steps, but his footsteps were unwavering. All it took was a little bit of provocation for the young man to steel his resolve.

Amovishel smiled. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged him…’

----------------------------------------

It was the next day. Light once again shone down on the Forester camp. Hunger and thirst were beginning to settle in for Amovishel, having been deprived of any food or drink throughout the day and night. There were no signs of any Trelvenese attack. Shockingly, despite the defeat the Foresters suffered, the defenders chose not to pursue their enemies, or at least to the extent of what Amovishel knew inside his prison.

Elethien was still unconscious. There was no way to feed her in that state. Teion came inside the tent several times to pray, and judging from the occasional silence when he did, Amovishel guessed the Foresters were praying outside as well. Other than that, they could do nothing.

A couple more days, deprived of any water or food, and Elethien would be dead.

Still, the Foresters’ morale seemed surprisingly high. There were no riots or even complaints, their organisation quickly being restored as Teion temporarily took leadership. For how weak Teion saw himself, Amovishel saw him as an independent leader in his own right.

If not for their collective religious obsession with Fate, Teion could easily lead the rebellion with his own power. Perhaps more effectively than Elethien too.

‘We’re heading out, Elethien,’ Teion said as his prayer was completed. ‘No matter how much we have to sacrifice, we’ll conquer Maerila for you and the kingdom.’

It was a rather stupid thing to say, but at least it showed his determination and valiance.

Ignoring Amovishel who was still tied up, Teion left the tent, and with the sound of marching, they all departed from the camp once more.

Amovishel sat tiredly as he looked at Elethien, her breaths still soft and weak. Not much had changed from the previous day. If anything, she was probably weaker from the inability to eat and drink. Just as Amovishel felt his parched throat unable to utter more than a few words at a time, it was probably the same for Elethien.

For all her belief in Fate, it was almost laughable that she was in this dying state, becoming a martyr for her rebellion so early on. As a fellow mixed-blood, there was at least some sense of sympathy from Amovishel as he looked at her. Both of them were essentially the same, separated only by their upbringing and status.

Taking such a bold step forward to declare her own kingdom, leading her people to a stupidly miraculous victory, capturing himself, launching a bold attack against the city of Maerila… All of this just to be at death’s door.

If he was king, Amovishel could simply give her a title. It wasn’t necessarily a kingdom per se, but at least there could be a safe haven for Foresters. Being a proper noble, she could then protect the Foresters more effectively within the Trelvenese system. And all of this with practically zero cost.

It was hilariously depressing how a little bit of status could make such a difference.

A sharp inhale broke Amovishel’s thoughts. Elethien’s arm twitched. Her breaths were much stronger. As Amovishel stretched his neck, he saw her face being gradually flushed with colour. Red marks began appearing under her right eye like tattoos, the pattern nearly identical to that skirmish in the forest. Except… it was bolder, the marks branching out, engraving themselves onto her skin. It was like some blood disease with the deep crimson colour, but instead of disfiguring her face, she looked beautifully horrifying.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. As she sat up, a faint stench of sweat wafted over to Amovishel. It felt a little like the smell of a corpse. Her movements were slow and encumbered as she turned and stood up. Her hair was draped over her face like a dusty curtain, swaying ever so slightly as she shuffled towards him. It seemed as if she was still in a half-conscious state, her eyes open yet lacking life. Once she was close enough, she knelt down, firmly staring at him.

Amovishel felt his stomach turn as the miasma engulfed him. Only a day and night without cleaning oneself shouldn’t have led to this. It was almost like she was just dug up from a grave.

Suddenly, without warning, she hugged him. Unlike her repulsive appearance and smell, the embrace was delicate and comforting, the contact being made with much care.

‘Please… don’t leave,’ she murmured. Her hands caressed his back, but it didn’t feel offensive. On the contrary, it was relaxing, and gradually, Amovishel found himself buried in her embrace. Even if he didn’t know what was going on inside that head of hers, it just felt instinctive to respond to her gesture.

It didn’t feel like a hug between soldiers. There was no comrade-like feeling to it. Rather, it was more intimate, and yet it felt different from the memories he had from his father and the queen hugging him as a child. It wasn’t the intimacy he felt with some of the dancers in the royal palace as well. Those were either polished, shy, or outright seductive. There was simply no past experience to relate this current sensation to.

It was just… strange.