Lieutenant Goman sat with his squad eating breakfast and feeling ill at ease. These past few months had been strange to him in many ways – not the food he was eating, though. That was an improvement over what he’d been stomaching the past few months up there in the High and Cold. ‘Rations’ they’d been called, but it was pretty evident that the reality of the thing was that they had all been scrounging for whatever they could get in and around the base of the peaks they had eventually surmounted to get to where they sat that morning. Though they on the mountains had been few in number, less than a hundred in total including the generals and Prince Bayamon, that was still roughly a hundred mouths that needed to be fed. The first month they’d all gone through the bread – that included the loafs they ended up making themselves from scavenged grain at the base of the mountains. The second they’d gone through seemingly every animal within twenty miles. The third they’d all figured out every way there was to make use of bones and marrow for cooking soup.

Still, though, the food wasn’t what was making him feel ill at ease. Compared to the days of starvation that had plagued them all during the time leading up to the final push that saw them victorious, this meager meal of porridge, meat, and bread was a feast! He felt downright fortunate to be scooping pieces of the stuff onto a piece of bread and biting it with a mouthful of meat to give it some flavor.

Nor was it the view of the mountains he’d spent so many months on, off in the distance, the thing that was making him feel queasy. The distant morning mist that coughed its way up from the sea around and between Fat and Thin gave the Wuldrang mountains an ethereal look to them, as though all that had happened on there was but a distant dream. He knew that it was very much real, though. Every painstaking moment of it. Running up and down the slopes, marching along narrow paths to reposition themselves to try and get a better line of attack on the rebel forces coming from the West or else beating a strategic retreat to avoid their assaults in kind. Sitting there and looking at the peaks now, he could swear that he still had that damn pebble somewhere in his boot digging into his heel even though he’d thrown it as far as he could down the mountain two months back…

As he chewed a mouthful of his breakfast and stared, he sat up and took a moment to drag his fingers through his brown hair in a futile attempt to comb it and keep it orderly. It’d been growing longer and longer of late. Getting to the point where it was actively bothering him any time he noticed it tickling his neck and ears or needing to be brushed out of his eyes. His muddy locks were wavy and luscious which might have made him attractive by some standards but was damn distracting for a lieutenant to deal with!

Swallowing and digging his spoon around the near flavorless porridge he was gladly eating, he considered if maybe that was the thing that was bothering him – his rank. When he’d left Damocles with Third Prince Bayamon he’d been a private. Now, for the better part of two months, he’d been a lieutenant, he’d been promoted by Prince Bayamon himself! Thinking on it, though, the promotion had come at the cost of his previous captain’s life. Their death had also been dealt out by the Prince personally. Since then, he’d been too busy giving and following orders to really stop and consider how that promotion had happened, and if he’d wanted it to begin with. This breakfast was the first time he could remember since before the Struggle of Succession that there weren’t standing orders. They were, all of them, waiting now in the West.

He wasn’t the only one considering such things either. All around him he could hear chattering among his fellow soldiers. Talk that ranged from how nice it was to eat breakfast in peace to openly wondering what they were still doing there or how long they’d be there in the West when all of the fighting still to come was to the East of them. Goman, for one, was not quite ready yet to make the required trek up and over those slopes. The blisters he’d become acquainted with were a bloody massacre on his feet, and he’d rather not take any more time to wash blood out of his socks if he could help it.

Taking another bite of breakfast he looked at the three other ningen and one bloodling that were sitting around him in a small circle now. These were the soldiers that he’d been in charge of since their shared captain had been put to rest by Prince Bayamon. He’d served with them and over them and knew each and every one of them more intimately than anyone else in the rebellious army that chose to follow the Third Prince.

To Goman’s immediate right sat Private Torbek, hunched over his bowl, narrow eyes sharply keeping a look out as he chewed his food. He’d adopted the habit of borderline laying on top of his food when he got it over the past couple of months when someone had stolen his rations. It might have been paranoia if it wasn’t for the fact that this one meal, generous though it might have been, would not sate Prince Bayamon’s army for long. His black hair was getting long as well, but as he had kept the sides and back shaved to near nothing before embarking on this campaign for multinational independence, the worst of it was on top of his head where it could be easily managed with a flip of his head.

Next to Torbek sat Lance Corporal Geugo, who had long since finished his breakfast and licked the leavings off of his fingers. He sat with a relaxed posture, leaned back, arms supporting his torso, head lolled to one side. He almost looked carefree, but Goman knew better. Geugo was the most perceptive of them – aside from Migs, the bloodling of the troupe – and likely the stealthiest, too. Not that they’d ever put that to the test, the five of them, but they’d each learned long ago that Geugo was always watching and listening no matter how he looked. Several times he’d made abrupt comments, inserting himself into a conversation, while seemingly asleep, and it had surprised them each time it happened! Goman knew without a doubt that he was listening to what the others were saying. Considering it carefully.

Beside Geugo was Corporal Migs, short for Migamo, the bloodling of their company. The imperial military was not entirely devoid of bloodlings – Migs was obvious evidence of that – but they volunteered much more infrequently compared to ningen. They made for damn fine soldiers and Migs was just that: a damn fine soldier. Likely the finest that Goman had ever met or may ever meet! The likelihood of meeting a Knight was pretty slim these days, at any rate… He’d known Migs since before the Struggle, when things were much simpler, and it had been an exciting evening indeed when he and his other bunk mates pressured Migs into revealing just what kind of bloodling he was. Bets had been placed and Goman had lost – he’d been so certain at the time that he’d be a Beast, not a Noble! Migs sat picking at his food and eating it slowly like he always did, shaded goggles firmly in place to keep the rays of the sun to a minimum. That was the one downside to bloodlings as soldiers: their sensitive eyesight. Fortunately, goggles were cheap and easy to source.

To Goman’s left and Migs’ right sat Lance Bombardier Buoh who, like Geugo, had finished his breakfast and was currently sharpening a plumbata on a piece of flat stone he’d picked up along the way that was just perfect for sharpening a blade, to hear him tell it. Out of the five of them, he was the only one who had any plumbatae left. The rest of them had launched them at one thing or another (enemy combatants, an animal, a tree, etc.) weeks ago and had since had to go without. Buoh had been consistently the best among them at maintaining his equipment. The darker skinned ningen seemed to understand, long before any of the rest of them, that replenished equipment was going to be difficult to come by, so they had to maintain the ones they had with excessive care. Each of them had managed to keep at least two javelins on hand, none of the explosive ones of course, but Buoh had three plumbatae left to his name! Just as well since he was the best shot out of the five of them. He’d certainly earned his rank of Bombardier many times over.

Each of these men were Goman’s friends and brothers in arms. Comrades in a cause that saw them pitted against most of the world for a cause that was so much larger than all of them: something that he still had trouble picturing properly. He’d seen each of them change and fought beside them in ways that hadn’t been done in centuries. The scars they’d each gained were stories that only the five of them could properly and wholly related to! Migs had been the prettiest among them before the Struggle, a real lady-killer! He’d gotten a scar on his lower lips from one of his fellow soldiers during the Struggle of Succession when he’d been bit in return after biting someone else! The way Migs told it, he thought it would have been a good scare tactic at the time to embrace the ‘bloodling boogeyman’ stereotype and bite a few necks for show and sustenance. He hadn’t expected the guy to bite him back, and on the mouth of all places! That knobby ring of teeth marks was a constant reminder to him to not be a show off in the heat of combat. A lesson hard learned that had gone a long way towards making him the best soldier Llieutenant Goman knew.

Geugo had a long scar running over the top right side of his skull, permanently parting his ash brown hairline and inching down towards his eyebrow. A thin thing, he’d gotten that only a few weeks ago when a piece of mountain shrapnel came whizzing past and almost took his eye! Geugo, perceptive as always, had seen the flying stone coming and ducked at the last instant, saving himself the blindness but earning a gnarly near-scalping in return. It was the freshest scar they all had and hadn’t quite finished healing completely yet.

Buoh, Torbek, and Goman’s scars were not as dramatic as Migs’ and Geugo’s were. Body markings. Flesh wounds. The sort they all shared on their arms, legs, feet, hands. Indelible marks. Proof that this war had happened – was happening – and they were present for it. A history written on their skin that they each shared. They’d all taken turns patching each other up and complaining to one another about the pain from this skirmish or that. Goman had a particularly unsightly scar on his right knee that had formed when he slipped and fell only a few feet down the side of the mountain (thanks to that damn pebble in his boot! (which had been promptly evicted after this particular incident)). It had taken nearly a week for the swelling to go down and the scarring to begin properly. Thankfully they hadn’t needed to move in that time and he was able to walk again by the time the regiment needed to relocate. It had subsequently become the most dramatic scar in terms of size and appearance went that any of them had and the most boring received.

Scars, old and new, were not what was bothering Lieutenant Goman, though. As he sat there quietly musing about just what had his stomach churning back and forth as though he were at sea, the realization came to him that he was going to have to verbalize this and bounce ideas back and forth between his squad to fully puzzle this out. This admission felt like a personal failing to Goman who believed that a Lieutenant ought to be able to figure something as simple as internal personal conflict on his own without the aid of the men under his command. A clear reason he didn’t feel qualified for his position of command to contrast with him being pretty good at it.

“Lance Corporal,” Lieutenant Goman spoke up. A reason he was good as a lieutenant – he never forgot to address his men by their rank before speaking to them on a personal level.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Geugo responded, rolling his head back around to look at his superior officer.

“Geugo… what are we doing here, exactly?” Goman asked quietly. He wanted this conversation to remain between the five of them.

Geugo turned his head to the side slightly. A physical gesture of a question mark. “Eating breakfast, sir?” the Lance Corporal offered.

“A damn good breakfast it is, too,” Torbek said, sticking his tongue out and dragging it over the backside of his spoon before hunching back over his bowl to scrape up what was left within.

“I know that,” Goman replied, softly. Another reason he wasn’t a very good lieutenant – he had a tendency to speak soft when he should be firm. “I meant… here. In the West. Camping out in the ass crack of Fat and Thin. How did we get here?”

Lieutenant Goman had Lance Corporal Geugo’s full attention now. Goman hadn’t spoken like this before and it occurred to Geugo that this was the first time that they’d shared a conversation together in what could loosely be considered genuine downside. As he spoke, he began to worry that he was learning about a part of Goman he wasn’t going to like. “Awaiting orders. The Prince and Generals are discussing with that rebel leader about resupplying and reequipping us, I imagine. Marshaling troops to fight for the future of the Empire.”

“That what you see and hear from the others?” Goman asked.

Geugo leaned forward, resting his arms on his upturned knees, his blue eyes circling towards each of his squad members. “Most of the regiment are just happy to be having full bellies, sir. Some are grumbling about shacking up with traitors in traitor’s territory, but their head’s still in the fight. Don’t realize that the ‘traitors’ are beyond the Western Peaks the way we came.”

Good man, Geugo. Goman felt a part of the puzzle shifting into place as he nodded slowly.

“Something on your mind, Lieutenant?” Corporal Migs asked, setting his bowl down. Buoh, Geugo, and Torbek eyed the food hungrily but knew better than to ask Migs for it. They all knew he was going to eat it, he was just a slow eater.

“Sort of,” Goman confirmed. “It’s just… you all remember the Struggle in Damocles, yeah?”

Migs smiled, the scar on his lip almost like a second grin on his chin, saying, “Couldn’t forget it if I tried, sir.” The others gave their affirmations as well.

“It happened really fast, didn’t it? One minute we were soldiers of the Empire, the next the generals gave us the word and we hopped to, then we were fighting our own, and running, and running, and we didn’t stop until we got to the Wuldrang range… I can hardly remember how it all started, really. Can any of you?” Goman inquired, lifting his eyes up and peeking at each of the men under his command.

“Sure, I remember, sir,” Buoh said, lifting up the plumbata he’d been sharpening to eye level before blowing on the newly sharpened point and setting it aside to pick up the second of three that would receive the same treatment. The scraping of metal on stone accentuated his every word. “Never thought we’d have to be using our equipment for anything other than carrying on patrols or breaking up some inner city bar room brawl. Tell you boys the truth, I was plumb excited to put my training to some actual use!”

“Yeah, I bet you were, you fuckin’ savage,” Torbek replied teasingly, tossing his empty bowl down between his feet and smirking. Buoh had earned the nickname of ‘Savage’ between the five of them because of how quick and willing he was to engage with others in combat. Turns out Buoh had a knack for this whole ‘warfare’ thing!

“I remember what all lead up to the Struggle,” Geugo spoke up, tilting his face towards the sky and squinting at the thin overcast as he recalled the calm before the storm they’d been living in these past few months. “A lotta talk about Emperor Gawain’s health, who was going to assume the throne… In the ranks, that is. By rights we all know Prince Mordred was next in line, but we soldiers all knew how Prince Ganymede wanted the throne now that he had played ‘soldier’ for a while. Worst kept secret in the military!”

The others nodded. No one, not even they who followed Prince Bayamon, disputed that, legally, Mordred was the right and proper heir to the Imperial Throne. Too bad legality wasn’t the most important thing to consider, in their eyes, as to who should be sat on the Throne of the World.

Geugo continued. “I remember first hearing about a sincere separatist movement growing in Damocles, too. Feels like one day I was hearing about people wanting the Empire to split up, the next, we were making it happen! Making history, boys!”

“And you, Corporal?” Goman prompted, wanting to hear from everyone.

Migs sighed and scratched at his black beard as he contemplated. “Well, I certainly remember Prince Bayamon rallying troops to sow some chaos. All fire and thunder. Yes. Getting those of us who agreed with him to act quick, fast, and in a hurry once Emperor Gawain had passed and was shipped off to Emperor’s Rest. I think the Good Prince was just saying the quiet parts out loud for a change, and we who agreed with him… well, I guess the idea felt more legitimate and less treacherous with a Prince saying it. Made turning on our fellow soldiers a lot easier at any rate.”

“Shame Ganymede had the same idea,” Lance Corporal Torbek spoke up. Migs pointed to him and picked his food back up to take another bite. “Would have been a lot better if he’d just stayed in his place and let us get ours sorted! It wasn’t enough that he was born a Prince and forced himself into the position of Knighthood, greedy fuck had to make a grab for the Throne as well!”

Torbek had a sentiment that was difficult for anyone who had sided with Prince Bayamon to disagree with. The First Prince’s actions were a large reason as to why Third Prince Bayamon had rebelled. As the ningen species’ (as Migs was often quick to point out to them, bloodlings had their own aristocracy to deal with on top of the imperial family) one and only sovereigns, they were supposed to set an example for all others in the world to follow. For those that didn’t know Ganymede personally, as they all were, how could they not view him as a petulant child wanting more, more, more? And it wasn’t as though any of them were in a position to ask the First Prince for his position on the matter. The two factions had been at each others’ throats since the beginning.

“Not that Mordred’s any better,” piped up Geugo. “All he wants is to continue the same broken system that lead to this civil war in the first place. Better to put Prince Bayamon on the throne and fight for a better tomorrow, eh?”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Goman asked after a moment of hesitation where the others had given quiet affirmation. “Fighting for a better tomorrow, I mean?”

“’Course it is, where you going with this, Lieutenant?” Geugo asked. His tone suggested some aggressive incredulity, but he was mostly just concerned for his Lieutenant at this point.

“Well, I just… I’ve been thinking, ever since the Lieutenant died and I got promoted in his place -” Goman began, only to get interrupted by a quick remark from Torbek.

“May the worms be feasting on his carcass, treacherous ass.”

Goman chose to ignore the comment. None of them had very well liked their previous Lieutenant, whose name they’d almost forgotten (almost: Lieutenant Harod he’d been known as), in the short time that he’d been included in their number. Truth be told Goman still felt a bit guilty about his death since he’d been the one to spur the Lord Prince into skewering him that day in the rain. But he’d been the sort to complain first and loudest among them, and it was from his lips that Goman had first heard word of insurrection, even if it was in passing. He hadn’t regretted his decision to tell Prince Bayamon about the lowering morale, but he hadn’t wanted the lieutenant to die, either.

Goman continued as though he hadn’t been cut in mid sentence. “- about how we got here. The weeks of marching and riding from Damocles after we… failed,” he hesitated to use the word, factually correct though it may have been. Bad for morale, “to take the capital, heading off to deal with the rebellion that sprung up… and, I’m just thinking about our childhood, you know?”

Geugo snickered in disbelief.

“What are you getting at?” asked Buoh, flipping the head of his second plumbata around to get the other side nice and sharp.

“We all grew up under the rule of Emperor Gawain. Fine Emperor he was. Maybe too good? If he was a bit worse I reckon there might have been a bit more crack on the whip to keep things in shape, from getting to this point I guess…”

“Get to the point, Goman, Sir,” Geugo respectfully urged, growing a bit impatient with his Lieutenant’s ramblings.

Goman continued after half a second of faltering. “We all grew up under a good Emperor and a good Empire. We all learned when we were young that we were one people, ningen and bloodling alike, no matter where we came from. We were all imperial citizens -”

“Don’t forget the animunculi, eh?” Torbek interjected again.

Goman shot him only the briefest of annoyed glances as he amended his sentence: “Imperial citizens allied with our good friends the animunculi, no different from one another in any way that mattered. One people, one nation, one world. That’s the creed we were all taught… so why’s it feel like such a lie now? If we’re all ‘one people’, then how come we just spent four months fighting and killing our own?”

“Cur, you’re more naive than I thought, Lieutenant! We’d best keep you on the march if this is where your head gets to when we slow down,” Geugo teased. He was only half serious.

Migs was there to set him straight. “We fought ‘em ‘cause we had to. End of story. Prince Bayamon sent an envoy to sue for peace before the campaign began, remember? The rebels spat in our faces, so we were within rights to tear ‘em asunder.”

“Yeah but they were fighting for the same thing we were, weren’t they? Independent nationality? Shouldn’t we have… I dunno, tried a bit harder to get them to see things our way?”

“What they wanted was different from us,” Geugo said flatly. “They wanted to send a message. Get a change of policy, not pave the way for a new world.. I heard it all on the vine. They were never serious about independence.”

“So then why was it necessary to do what we did to them?” Goman asked quietly.

“To send ‘em a message,” Migs said, just as flatly as Geugo but with more sympathy. “Look, I get it, it seems cruel and not right to have burnt ‘em out of their holes like we did and all that, but Geugo’s right, Sir. They weren’t on the same page as us. Now they are. They’re still our people, they just needed to be nudged along a bit to get back on track. If we hadn’t done it one of the other brothers would have.”

“For now,” Buoh said, lifting up the sharpened tip of the projectile and blowing on it.

“Eh?” Migs asked, confused by the statement.

“They’re are people for now, Migs,” Lance Bombardier Buoh stated bluntly, looking him in his goggled eyes. “Once it’s all said and done, they won’t be our people anymore. They’ll be their own people. Their own nation. Neighbors. The point,” he turned to look at Goman as he continued speaking, “of all this was to get ourselves some neighbors eventually, who’ll be free to govern themselves as they see fit and we’ll be the same. Prince Bayamon’s right. The world’s too big to be for ‘one people’. It’s got space enough for plenty more.”

Buoh let the silence hang in the air as he got to work sharpening the third projectile he owned. The words rang true and yet they somehow still bothered Goman. Like a pebble in the pit of his stomach, the slightest bit of doubt weighed on him. He believed in what Prince Bayamon wanted with all of his heart, he really, truly did! He’d abandoned his home, openly rebelled, fought for and killed for the belief that the world would be better off with multiple nations in it rather than a single, monolithic government. Yet as he sat there with the pebble rolling around in circles in his gut, he realized that he had never imagined fighting for a cause would be like this. He realized that he never knew exactly the shape of the future they fought for in the first place.

He thought back to the peaks during the last moments of the fighting. When the small troupe of scouts, no larger than his own unit, who had been sent south to acquire some supplies from a military outpost that was relatively close to their position had returned with not just ammunition and food, but machina, they all knew that the conflict was over. In their haste to retreat from Damocles after the failed coup, none of them had been able to bring much with them. Not supplies, mementos of home, not extra equipment. The march to the Wuldrang mountains had been done to the beat of lectures on taking care of their equipment and making sure not to lose even a piece of it because of how few in number they were. So receiving word that the scouts had not only come back successful in their endeavor but, indeed, abundantly overachieving in their aim, it had been euphoric! Those war machina, once set into place and operated properly, had ended a stalemate lasting months in a matter of hours. They sat now, resting, not far from them, those walking trebuchets. He remembered how he’d directed Buoh where to throw his explosive javelins with his atlatl to maximum effect. He remembered Migs, Geugo, Torbek, and himself all fanning out and storming a rebel encampment below them while Lance Bombadier softened them up from afar. He remembered the pained look on that ningen’s face as he threw his own javelin into his belly and called it back to his hand. The sudden gush of crimson blood as the hole came unplugged.

Was this what being ‘neighbors’ was going to mean he wondered? Were soldiers of the Empire, and every other nation that formed as a result of their coup, going to have to regularly go to war with one another in order to maintain relevancy? Soldiers in the Empire were little more than a citizen’s militia these days, that was true, but as Migs finished off the last of his porridge Goman couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that was better. He believed that there needed to be multiple nations in the world. He believed that ningen and bloodling alike were as one people, nothing but superficial differences between them. Would nationality soon become reason enough for one ningen to kill another in the name of their country? The question was only a fuzzy suggestion in his mind, yet it lingered like an odious fart that wouldn’t disperse in stale air. He simply wasn’t capable of imagining what a world separated might actually look like.

He was only beginning to understand, though.

***

Knight Colonel Gilford sat scribbling out logistics notes on pilfered paper by candle light, desperately wishing that he had a better light source to write by. A small convenience but one he’d desperately missed since fleeing Damocles was the advent of electricity – oh, how he missed the electronic wonders that it empowered! Candles and lamps lit by oil certainly got the job done, but monitoring and maintaining them during the long hours of the night did get tiring when one had a war to plan and prepare for. Especially when you were on the back foot in that war.

Thus far, the army under the command of Supreme General Ganymede had been fortunate. Very fortunate indeed. They hadn’t yet needed to test their mettle against other soldiers nor had they needed to get truly violent with civilians as they moved about their campaign to conscript more to their cause. Such a peace wouldn’t last. The anticipation and anxiety over the inevitable collision of army against army weighed heavily on the Knight Colonel’s mind. Why hadn’t Bayamon and Mordred made a move yet?

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It was understandable why Bayamon hadn’t tried to assault them yet. He and his forces were, when last a report had come in, still occupied in the Wuldrang mountains fighting rebels who had declared themselves as such before the Struggle of Succession. Softening themselves up, if their luck continued to hold. If not, bolstering his forces. In either case, the Third Prince was far and away from them. A distant concern to be dealt with at a later time.

Mordred was who really had the Seventh Knight on edge as he dragged pen against paper. Since their efforts to repel Bayamon from taking the imperial palace and Damocles had been successful – for, indeed, that had been what he and the First Prince had done that fateful night; defend Damocles – they hadn’t heard so much as a peep from the Second Prince, the self proclaimed Emperor’s, forces. True, Ganymede had wisely chosen to travel as far north as the Purified Ocean, and, true, they had done well to specifically go out of their way to avoid any and all settlements that were anywhere remotely close to a military outpost, fort, or major population center that would draw too much undue attention to their still small forces, but still, nothing? He couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been harried by some sort of scouting force these past few months at the very least. Were he in the good graces of the Second Prince, he would have advised they do so. So what was Knight Gawain waiting for?

Gilford let out a small scoff as he accidentally misspelled the word ‘advantage’ as ‘adavntage’, striking the word out and going again with more focus on the task at hand. Advantage… Yes, that’s what they currently lacked in this war: advantage over Bayamon and Mordred. Especially Mordred. Bayamon’s forces were battle tested by now. Tried and true! Experienced in siege warfare in unfavorable conditions. There was no substitution for real experience in a battle, much as experience taught better most everything. Experience is what the First Prince’s forces currently lacked. Advantage Bayamon.

It wasn’t just the civilians who were being conscripted into the growing army either. By now their numbers were close to three hundred ningen who were actively being taught how to fight while they kept on the move from one little rebellion to the next. Darvish had simply been the first, and easiest, to reconquer, but there had been others since then. Lupmount. Veilford. Rockshire. Each were presented the same option, each relented, each yielded more ningen for the cause. But none of them were soldiers. A few of them had once been soldiers who served their tenure and then quietly continued on with their lives, but none of them seemed to remember what it was like to hold a weapon. Stand in marching order. Basic discipline. And those were the ones who had had training before! Most of them had never so much as seen a soldier up close in uniform, much less learned how to throw a spear and call it back with a nanite gauntlet. None of them had the experience for warfare. Not even the troops he and Prince Ganymede had personally trained with who had chosen to leave Damocles with them.

Then there was Second Prince ‘Emperor’ Mordred, who occupied the Throne of the World and by far had the most resources at his command. The greatest amount of soldiers. The aid of the bloodlings and their so called ‘Under Empire’. Supply lines. Communication networks. Everything – everything – that both Ganymede and Bayamon lacked, Mordred had at his finger tips. By far, his was the greatest advantage out of all three brothers, and yet he seemed to do nothing with it. It was maddening to Gilford! He had no doubt that, at the very least, some of their movements had been spied on by bloodlings and were being reported back. They had to know where they were, at least relatively speaking. If Mordred wanted to he could march on them and there’d be nothing they could do to stop the oncoming end!

So why? Why? Why? Why had he not done so already? What was the angle? What was the advantage of holding back?

Was it concern for his brothers? Was the Second Prince truly so naive as to have a hope of sparing either Ganymede or Bayamon after what they had done? The damage they’d caused the seat of the Empire? Ludicrous. Not even in his wildest imaginings could Knight Gilford envision a scenario in which Mordred would show leniency towards his brothers. The only recourse was death, surely.

If not concern, then caution? Was Mordred attempting not to underestimate either of his brothers in this war? Was it because this was a war, something which none of them had ever properly experienced beyond studies in books of ancient history? What would be the sense in giving Ganymede and Bayamon more time to bolster their forces, dig in, prepare for a counter attack? What could the reason be?

Gilford sat his pen down and closed his tired eyes, leaning back in his seat and pinching the bridge of his nose. Too much. All this overthinking was leading to catastrophizing. Too many questions. Too many possibilities. He had no answers, so he simply needed to breathe. Breathe, recenter himself, and finish up these notes on the logistics of their struggle against two militant forces with a scraped together army of provincials.

Letting out a sigh, the Knight Colonel leaned forward in his chair that wasn’t truly his and planted his elbows on the surface of the table he’d commandeered, planting his face in the palms of his hands. This was a private moment of weakness for him that he wouldn’t deign to show anyone, not even Prince Ganymede to whom he was so close. A Knight, by his estimation, should not need such moments as these, but these were strange and difficult times he was living through. He was getting tired. Tired in a way that, in all of his thirty nine years of living, he had never quite felt before. Advantage. Advantage. What Advantages did they have over Bayamon and Mordred?

The Knight could think of only one, and that were his brothers in arms. Those who had fled Damocles with he and the Prince, who had sworn their lives to a better tomorrow for the Empire. They were, each of them, soldiers – real soldiers. Not the ‘tour of duty’ sort who joined for prestige or the comforting benefits that came from giving oneself over to guard duty as so many often were. Each of them were fighters. Talented. Skilled. Obedient. Tactical. Knight Gilford had trained them himself, along with Ganymede, before the Struggle. He knew what they were capable of, even if they weren’t veterans just yet. By his estimation they were some of the finest soldiers within the entire world. That had to count for something and make up for their lack of numbers, didn’t it?

Out of all of the Knights of the Empire, save for perhaps Knight Gawain himself, Gilford took the role of being a soldier the most serious. Though there were no wars to be fought, no victories to be won, he believed firmly, and had since before his tenure as a Knight, that a soldier’s duty was to be sharp and ready as a knife awaiting use. Even if the skills they cultivated as soldiers were never used – nay, in fact, especially so – it was still deathly important that each and every enlisted ningen or bloodling knew how to fight, how to follow orders, to maintain their bodies and their minds so that they could pass down the knowledge and skill they gained to those that came after them. This was how they had and would continue to maintain the Empire throughout the centuries: Discipline, unfettered and rigid discipline. They were the ones training the new recruits now, these soldiers who he had trained, and, fortunately for all of them, Ganymede was of the same mind as him.

The thought brought him comfort and his face out of his hands which returned to the work of keeping records of their military logistics. Yes, that was the one area that he and Prince Ganymede exceeded at even more than Mordred: the dedication to discipline. It’s what the Empire sorely lacked these days. The reason that this coup was necessary to begin with. Princes and Princesses passed and learned to be diplomatic and make political decisions, but for far too long had the need for an iron will to sit on the Throne of the World been absent! Ganymede understood this. It was high time that the will of a dragon returned beneath the toothed crown they had both agreed in their private, philosophic musings to one another during Ganymede’s training to become a Knight. The thirteenth Knight of the Empire… Unprecedented. A necessary change. Oh, how far away those days seemed to him now…

Gilford’s head snapped to attention as the door to the small bedroom in which he sat was opened, whipping around to turn his gaze over his shoulder. Prince Ganymede had just entered his chamber, and the Knight Colonel sat his pen down and turned in his seat at attention at the sight of his Lord.

“Supreme General?” the Knight asked quietly.

Ganymede gave a wave of his hand and shut the door behind him without replying.

“It’s late. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Gilford suggested.

“Shouldn’t you?” Ganymede countered.

“I will, once I finish writing this,” Gilford assured him, patting the paper without turning away from his prince.

Ganymede moved to the bed adjacent to the small desk where Gilford was burning the midnight oil and took a seat. “I couldn’t sleep,” Ganymede admitted sheepishly, lacing his fingers into one another over top his lap.

“Something on your mind, my Lord?” Gilford invited.

For a moment Ganymede was quiet. He gave a slow nod. “Yes. But I doubt it’s anything that isn’t also on your mind, brother.”

Gilford smiled softly. How easily he forgot how alike the two of them were! Of course the First Prince was having the same concerns he was. As the head of this growing army and the future Emperor of the World, it only made sense that the intricacies of the ongoing civil war would be front and center in his mind. Yet, alike as they were, Gilford did often remind himself that they weren’t identical. “Was the state of the war all that was keeping you awake, my Prince?”

“Ought anything else?” Ganymede replied swiftly, looking up at his trusted Knight he stared back at him. Ganymede turned away with a sigh and shook his hand through his fiery hair. “I was thinking about my father, in his final days,” the Prince admitted.

“You visited him often,” Gilford recalled somberly. Out of all of the Knights and all three of the Princes, Gilford knew of none, save for Gawain perhaps, who was at his Majesty’s side more often than his eldest son towards the end.

“Often, yes, and yet I still felt that we were no closer to understanding each other,” Ganymede lamented, his hands rejoining in his lap in a firm grip. “He was always so against my breaking tradition to become a Knight…”

“Emperor Gawain wished for you to rule, my Lo-”

“Gilford, please. We’re alone for the moment,” Ganymede interrupted.

“Ganymede,” Gilford continued. “You were his first born and chosen successor. It was only natural that he would have wanted you to walk his path instead of that of Knighthood. I would have wanted the same were I in your father’s position.”

“Yet becoming a Knight gave me more of a perspective of what the Empire needed more than any lesson in courtly etiquette or the subtleties of politics. I was only ready to rule once I fully understood what was at stake, and how to fix it…”

It was a discussion that Gilford and Ganymede had had many times over the years. Ganymede, the First Prince, son of Emperor Gawain, chosen successor, would seem at a glance to have had the entire world at his finger tips and chosen to set it aside in exchange for lesser prestige. Yet it was clear to both of the Knights that Ganymede had chosen to relinquish his inheritance in order to better serve the Empire. Initially he had been sincere in his decision to leave the Throne of the World to whichever of his brothers their father had decided to choose in his stead, or Mordred by default. It wasn’t until his father began to grow ill did his resolve crystallize into a desire for change that broke from centuries of established tradition. Emperor Gawain had never been able to quite see that about his own son.

But Gilford understood. To rule the Empire meant to have the proper perspective of it and what it, and it’s people, needed. All of the studying and meetings with politicians and signing of decrees in all the world would be no substitute to actually engaging with the force that made sure it all happened and was held together in the first place. Those who are willing to put in the actual work, to march into battle if need be, and had the capability to do so, to maintain an empire had the right to rule it. That was the shared believe that both ningen shared. It was why Knights ranked higher than any other form of nobility besides the reigning sovereign and their children in terms of political pull. It was that political pull that they both felt was not often enough used, which is how the Empire came to be in this state of civil war to begin with.

“Of course,” Gilford agreed. “Your father was a fine emperor and a great ningen, but he had his faults. His insistence of adherence to tradition and a lax hand are what caused Bayamon to rebel. They’re what caused the people we’ve been conscripting to have the courage to do the same. We agree with your younger brother in one regard at least: the Empire must change. Only you have the insight necessary to steer the world towards a better tomorrow, though. What we’ve been doing these past many weeks, rounding up rebels, putting them in their places where they might properly serve the Empire that gave them everything – that’s what’s needed to set the world right! You’re what’s needed! Never doubt it.”

“My father doubted it,” Ganymede replied wearily, giving Gilford a sad look. “A fine emperor and a great ningen doubted my path. I’m resolute in following it, but should we not consider what such a great ningen and fine emperor thought on the matter?”

“To a point. Your father, Gawain, is dead,” Gilford said bluntly. “The future is yours to make of it now. You’re not bound by what your father thought. He had his beliefs in how the Empire should be and you have yours. All you can do is act upon those beliefs, and I will be at your side every step of the way. A firm hand where yours cannot be, if necessary.”

“My brothers,” Ganymede said flatly, holding the look.

Gilford nodded solemnly. “If need be.”

Ganymede sighed once more and laid back on the bed, draping an arm over his green eyes. “What do you think they’re up to, Gilford? Do you think they’re keeping warm? They’re well fed? Do you think they’re happy with what they’ve done?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t the access to a spy network that could tell me…” Gilford replied, his mind wandering back towards the logistics he’d been penning. He thought, for a brief instant, that now might be a good time to discuss a particular matter he’d been musing on for days with the Supreme General now that he was here and the moment was quiet. He sat it aside in lieu of the melancholy air between them. It could wait until the morning.

Gilford turned back around in his chair and picked up his pen. “Sleep, my Prince. Use the bed on which you lie, I think I’ll be up for a while longer.”

Ganymede let out a grunt, lifting his bare feet up onto the mattress and rotating his body so that his head rested at the foot of the bed. He shifted uncomfortably in an attempt to find some way to lie that didn’t irritate him. Such bedding was as a doss to him, and much in the same way Gilford missed the convenience of electricity, the First Prince wouldn’t have denied if asked that he missed the bed he used to sleep on in Damocles. As he drifted off to sleep listening to the sound of Gilford’s pen scratching away, he thought of moving his bed into the chamber that used to belong to his father as one of the first orders he’d given the palace guard. The emperor’s room was the most secure in all the palace. He wouldn’t have to worry about ambushes in the night once he took back the Throne of the World from his brother…

***

First Knight Gawain, Second Knight Aimi, and Fourth Knight Anansi all stood together in the council chamber around the oblong model of the world. Markers had been placed to indicate such things as last known locations, estimated forces, likely lines of attack, and predictions of future movements for both the First and Third Princes. Their adversaries. This meeting between them was private, though not secret, and being held at night when none of them were more busy. They had been having this meeting for a while and had such a meeting every few days. Sometimes there were more Knights in attendance. Sometimes the Emperor himself wished to be a part of the process. Most times it was Knight Gawain, Knight Aimi, and at least one other such as it was this evening.

“Let’s go over it again before calling it an evening,” Knight Gawain suggested, tapping the long, slender wooden pole he held against his shoulder.

“Must we?” Knight Anasi asked from the opposite side of the table. His pole had been laid to rest in front of him some time ago and he hadn’t bothered to stand for a while either. Anansi was a stocky ningen, ‘barrel shaped’ some might call him, with a dark complexion and short black hair. He had a trimmed mustache that bent down at right angles on either side of his thin mouth and bright, light brown eyes.

“Just for posterity. Please, I know it’s tiring, but your efforts are very much appreciated and crucial,” Knight Gawain assured his comrade, who groaned in response and leaned forward in his chair to reexamine the dull diorama of the planet. It hadn’t seen any changes to it but every few days, if they were fortunate enough to get word of either of the enemy Princes’ movements in that time.

“This is more Shiun’s area of expertise. Couldn’t we wait to go over this again until -”

“Anasi,” Aimi interrupted sharply, lowering an annoyed gaze at his fellow Knight from where he stood, hunched over, arms planted firmly on his end of the oblong table. Aimi was as pale as Anasi was dark with long, thick blond hair that reached down to his lower back and piercing blue eyes, a face chiseled from marble with a body to match, and broad shoulders. Leaned over as he was, the Second Knight had a visage like that of a gargoyle.

Anasi scoffed, hands raised up and waving before him. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine. Go over it again,” he relented, standing up and grabbing a hold of the pointing pole to deploy as needed.

Gaiwan met Aimi’s blue eyes for a moment before straightening up himself and bringing the pole around slowly in a wide arc and pointing its cupped tip towards the top of the mainland continent. “Bayamon and Ganymede fled north, here, and here respectively,” Gawain repeated, tapping the carved wooden ridges representing the Western and Northern peaks just to the sides of sets of black and green markers, each differently colored set representing each of the brother’s armies. “Each of them pursuing different rebel factions of their own volition to absorb into their cause.”

“Bayamon met with resistance in the Wuldrang mountains,” Aimi picked up, the blond Knight extending his own pole from the right side of Gawain and circling its end over the black representative tokens. “He was stalled from advancing for about five months but broke the stalemate after his rebels pilfered war machina from an unmanned military outpost where they were being stored.”

“A crucial oversight on our part,” Anansi chimed in, raping his knuckles against the tabletop. This was always the part where he had the most to say. “It should have never happened in the first place! To think of those adlide paraded up into the mountains! They weren’t designed for such steep slopes! The calibrations are probably all thrown off and -”

“Anansi,”Aimi interrupted once more. “Focus.”

“Aimi,” Gawain replied firmly. “Let the Master of Arms speak.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To tell you both how Bayamon is likely destroying these machina by now?” Anasi hissed, annoyed. “You’ll need to know how likely it is that the Third Prince will still have functioning adlide after traipsing them,” he brought his pole across the table and slapped it down with a harsh ‘thwack!’ that echoed in the council chamber, “all up and down the Western Peaks, how badly the hydraulics will be damaged, how stressed their aeolipiles will be! All this you’ll want to know so you know where to strike most effectively to take a stomper down when it comes marching up on Damocles!”

“We’ve heard this speech before, we don’t have to go over it again,” Aimi said, closing his eyes and clenching his wide jaw. He didn’t have the love, or the patience, to know every little detail about how machina and animunculi worked quite how Knight Anasi did.

Anansi huffed and withdrew his pole. He had spent ample time expressing his displeasure over the misuse and mismanagement of imperial war machina to the both of them this evening and ones previous. It had been one of the first discussions he’d been truly engaged in when they learned what Bayamon’s rebels had managed to do. Oh, how he’d raged! Personnel had been sent to every military outpost to insure that none of the others could be so easily taken advantage of the very hour that they had learned of the theft. Anasi had personally made sure of it.

“Now they’re over the Twins, having subdued the rebel leader Maewa and convinced her to join his cause,” Knight Gawain picked up, dragging his pole and pushing the black tokens over the representations of the dual land bridges that connected the western continent to the mainland. “It’s possible that they may be stalled up there for quite some time. Internal conflict between Maewa’s former forces may cause strife in the ranks. Not everyone in the West knows that Maewa has failed in holding Bayamon back as of yet. When word reaches other sentimental factions, they may be pinned. Time will tell I suppose.”

“Ganymede’s forces vanished until fairly recently,” Aimi once again spoke up, redirecting his pointing stick towards the green tokens that represented the First Prince. They’d had to gather more in short order these past few weeks. “He took a small regiment along with Knight Gilford when he fled, and wisely chose to avoid major cities, large towns, and military installations as he made his way north. Based on his reappearance, we believe he had taken refuge in or beyond the Ysgrambull mountains. He’s headed east, gathering up numbers for his ranks and training them as he goes.” Aimi let out a small sigh as he bunched up the green markers with his pole. “His forces have multiplied significantly in a very short period of time…”

“He continues to smartly avoid and evade any major imperial settlement and is making due with the men and equipment he can muster, although it’s only a matter of time before he raids a fort for arms,” Anansi summarized in a rush, wanting to get to his next point quickly. “You know, I still don’t understand it, Gawain.”

“What exactly?” the First Knight asked, knowing exactly where this was going.

“Why we don’t just swoop in and squash them both right here and now!” Anasi roared, thumping his fist on the table. “We’ve got the means! We’ve got the numbers! We know where they are! Ought we not end this little rebellion for the sake of the Empire and be done with it already!?”

“Emperor Mordred wishes to keep his brothers alive, Anansi,” the Second Knight quickly responded. “You’d know that if you cared about anything other than your toys.”

“I’m well aware of Emperor Mordred’s predilections about the Princes, Aimi, but it seems to me the Emperor’s personal feelings are getting in the way of efficiency. We’re at war!” The Fourth Knight declared.

“And you’d know all about war, wouldn’t you, Anansi?” Knight Gawain asked evenly, quietly. His tone drew Fourth Knight Anansi’s gaze away from Ami who he had just been quarreling with and brought him leaning over the table, his hands folded into themselves.

“No more than you,” Anansi admitted with a shrug. “No more than any of us. We’re Knights. War is technically our business, even if there hasn’t been one for seven centuries or so, and should be conducted as such. It seems to me that war should be treated like the cleaning of a weapon: sterile. Efficient. Removed from feelings. It’s a duty for us, not a family squabble. It’s waged because it’s better to do so than it is to not. It shouldn’t matter if we don’t want to do it, it needs to be done to maintain the integrity of the instrument – the Empire, if you will. It seems our Emperor is forgetting this, by my estimation anyway…”

Aimi let out a heavy sigh. If Anansi weren’t a Knight, his words could have been construed as tantamount to treasonous. Knighthood had its privileges, though. He was thankful that it was just the three of them and no one else was around to hear a Knight questioning their Emperor.

“The Emperor has the unfortunate position of being relatives with the enemy. I’m afraid that it will be quite impossible for him to not view them as such,” Knight Gawain replied in the same tone, raising the pointing pole and angling it so that it rested just beside the bevy of red markers that signified their own forces located in and around Damocles. “Which is why we have been on the defensive rather than the offensive. Princes Ganymede and Bayamon are playing catch up, amassing and stealing the resources necessary to try and march on the capital again. They will have to fight and claw and bite for every scrap of advantage they can get over this,” he continued, circling the cupped end of his pole over the representation of where they were sitting on a global scale.

“We can afford to sit back, shell up, and be patient. We have a world of resources at our disposal. They don’t. Emperor Mordred’s current position is to wait and repel his brothers wherever and whenever necessary. There are four Knights in Damocles currently,” Gawain summarized, tapping at the white markers which represented the three of them as well as Knight Shiun. “Seven more are currently spread out across the globe, organizing efforts in every major city to do the same. Eventually, there will be nowhere for the rebel Princes to go except one of our strongholds. They’ll become desperate, and when that happens, we will be ready to subdue them, preferably with as little loss of life as possible. This is the Emperor’s wishes, and as his Knights, it is our duty to see it so.”

It was Knight Anansi’s turn to sigh as he slumped back into his chair and looked up at the ceiling, exhausted and glad that they had managed to get through yet another meeting where, ultimately, nothing happened or changed. The First Knight was right, of course, but he had far more patience than Anasi did… and sympathy.

“Don’t worry, Anansi. I’m sure you’ll get a chance to try out your new toys before this is all over,” Aimi teased, pushing off of the table and walking towards the door.

“I had better, too!” he called back after Aimi grumpily. A large part of Anansi’s impatience was the revoked resignation to never being able to use the vast majority of the military might that the Empire had at its disposal in the form of weaponry, war machina, and seldom used detachments of their forces. In particular, he was excited about the prospect of deploying the Psychopomps, but, in truth, he was a ningen with an innate fascination with all forms of militant equipment. For most of his career he’d studied the mechanics and history of the arms that had forged and maintained the Empire over the centuries, and this civil war presented a unique opportunity to see them in action! He’d be lying if said he wasn’t excited to actually see much of the tools of his trade functioned.

“Wait, Aimi,” Knight Gawain spoke up, stopping the Second Knight in his tracks.

“Yes, Gawain?” he asked, giving the First Knight a puzzled look.

“I want you to start drilling troops around Damocles in trench warfare, and make preparations to create trenches around the city if necessary. Brush up on historical tactics and strategies for this style of warfare while you’re at it.”

Anansi leaned back forward. This was new. This was out of nowhere for Gawain. “Goodness. Whatever for?” he asked curiously.

“Yes, Gawain, why exactly…?” Aimi trailed off, turning fully towards the older Knight.

“For the sake of preparedness and our Emperor’s wishes,” Gawain explained, dragging the end of the pole over the northern border of the representative Damocles. “At this time, it is safe to assume that we will maintain greater numbers over our foes. If we force them into trenches to take the capital, they’ll be beaten down and demoralized. We’ll force them into a war of attrition and we’ll win that way.”

“You’re talking as if you expect Ganymede and Bayamon to make it this far south again uncontested,” Aimi noted.

“’Expect’ is a strong. Preparing is better,” Gaiwain said, straightening up and leaning the pole up against the edge of the table. “We’re only five months into this war and it may drag on for years. In the worst case, Ganymede and Bayamon will succeed in dividing the world in three. Even in the best case, we shouldn’t expect to maintain our status as indomitable. Ganymede and Bayamon aren’t fools, after all. They’ll figure out ways to even the scales, so we need to be prepared to weigh them as much in our favor as possible, while also respecting his Majesty’s wishes.”

Aimi felt flush as a warm wave of admiration washed over him for the First Knight. He wished he’d been the one to think so far ahead and make that suggestion! Little did he know that Gawain had only made the suggestion in order to avoid a more sever form of warfare. In much the same way that Knight Anansi was eager to actualize the theories of most pieces of equipment at their disposal, there were certain options that Gawain wished to avoid at any cost…

Saluting the First Knight, clawed hand over his heart, Knight Aimi replied, “I’ll begin drilling with different regiments in the morning. In a month’s time, every soldier in and around Damocles should have the basics, and we can prepare for upcoming conflicts from there.”

“Good, Aimi, good,” Gawain said, returning the salute.

“Well, while Aimi is dealing with the ningen, I’ll make sure that our machina is up to snuff for digging trenches I suppose! We’ll need them if they need to be dug in short order, or else rely on the troops to dig them by hand, eh?” Anansi declared, standing up from his seat as Aimi turned to leave once more. He was feeling much better now that he had an excuse to tinker around and tune machina. “I trust you and Shiun will see to the particulars of where, how deep, how many, so on and so forth?”

“Naturally,” Knight Gawain said with a grin. His gaze turned back to the map of the world as he was left alone with his thoughts. He’d retire soon, check up on Emperor Mordred if he was still awake, and then head to bed himself, but, for a moment longer, he wanted to contemplate the state of the world as it was.

Anansi was getting harder to placate in these little meetings about small updates to Ganymede and Bayamon’s moving. The towns captured by Ganymede and Knight Gilford were seldom held for long and they took those capable of being taught to fight with them. Bayamon was potentially about to take away the entire western continent from them over the following weeks, perhaps months. It was only a matter of time before Prince Ganymede made larger moves as well. He was, after all, a Knight like himself. He’d personally helped train the Prince all throughout his life, before and after his renouncing of the throne. Gawain knew he wasn’t a fool. Before long, the shape of this world would possibly change and all of them would exist in one which was unrecognizable. He tried to imagine what that might look like. A world divided into three instead of united as one. The First Knight failed to picture it, but every time he had one of these small meetings, he tried again. His hope was that if he could imagine a world like that, he could find a way to concretely stop it from happening…

Without killing either Bayamon or Ganymede as Mordred wished.

Knight Gawain turned off the lights when he left the council chamber and tried to think of how to stop a civil war without damaging the nation over which it was being fought.