Nasition sits silently at his desk, observing the door about to be opened in a few moments. Supposedly, his generals have made some developments regarding the investigation on the legendary Black Maiden. If in the usual tension of battle, he wouldn’t be patiently waiting in his room, instead looking at maps for some way to rescue his deteriorating armies. Instead, the stacks of files and reports are nowhere to be seen, leaving a surprisingly organized desk.

Avalel has stopped his troops for some unknown reason. Nasition knows he’s personally commanding that army in Pos. No one else will dare halt an unstoppable advance at their own volition. For once, a breath of much needed peace is upon the region, already ravaged by the conflict for months on end. Even a day or two of such a break will allow his troops to organize their retreat, fortifying the Pass of Elethien before the inevitable tide crashes in.

It’s been four— no, five years since that battle, the single night that would’ve won him the war… if not for Avalel’s efforts. And he knows, as much as he prefers not to admit, if not for he and his troops, Avalel would’ve not been on that battlefield; not become the so-called “savior” of the New Rule; not turn the conflict against Nasition with that charisma of his. But it’s all too late for any regrets. Nasition can only reflect before continuing onwards with what he has left.

The war is not yet lost.

A knock. Finally, they’ve arrived.

“Come in,” Nasition says.

Only Paeil enters, carrying a hard briefcase and already disarmed. With a salute, she places the case down on the desk before opening it, revealing an organized file.

“Hrenul?” he asks, noticing the other general’s absence.

“Sickness, Common Leader.”

“Of course. Of course he’s ill.” Slowly but deliberately, Nasition rakes through the documents, picking and spreading out a couple of maps before examining them in detail. Nothing special at the first glance, with Paeil’s notes placed neatly at the margins. Those notes have been there since the last report. Instead, Nasition’s eyes move to a rather large arrow, pointing to a mess of makeshift buildings labeled “slums”.

“What do you make of this?” Nasition asks. The slums are not an unfamiliar place for the Confederation army. After all, in the years of war, settlements like these have become commonplace, replacing structured towns with lawless sprawls of buildings. Nasition has heard of several stories pertaining to the slums near Pos, being nothing more than rumors of unprofessionalism within his ranks. The subjects of those stories are all dead now, assassinated in their sleep. And the result? More stories and rumors suggesting the Black Maiden as the culprit. Well, if not for the sheer number of assassinations, Nasition might’ve simply dismissed it as a piece of fiction, a curiosity to entertain the troops. Yet here he is, taking it as a serious matter, looking at a report on a legendary figure. Quite the joke, isn’t it?

“We’ve located the Black Maiden,” Paeil reports confidently. “Well, at least the general vicinity, but based on eyewitness reports and information from some of our troops, I believe we’ve narrowed her down.”

“You trust the reliability of hearsay from our troops?” Nasition questions skeptically. “The ones who so adamantly believe in such a figure in the first place?”

“I… had that in mind, of course, so I cross-referenced it with the various eyewitnesses,” Paeil answers with some hesitation. “And from the results, it shows that she regularly appears in the southern end of the nearby slums—”

“You mean based on her estimated appearance.” Even now, he cannot believe the description of the elusive assassin’s appearance, or at least how detailed it is. Dark colored hair, a simplistic battle mask, considerably tall, dressed fully in black, a prosthetic left arm with the Confederation’s emblem… Considering the Black Maiden has covered even the slightest trace (save for the body itself) at every scene of murder, such a description should be near impossible. Perhaps he has simply underestimated the competency of his generals, or the troops are just too content with describing a person, yet failing to take action. He is inclined to think of the latter.

“It’s not too hard to identify one that matches our description, so I’m positive we are tracking the correct one,” Paeil reassures. “I’m quite positive.”

“Have you found her name based on what we have of her prosthetic?”

“I even sent some troops undercover to gather pictures, seen here…” A mass of dark, blurry photos are displayed, none being even close to adequate quality. “But there is no sign of a serial number despite our mandatory procedures. I had a team of officers go through the list of all individuals who had received the surgery in the past decade… still nothing. All of their identities are properly tracked.”

“It’d be a wonder to find a serial number with this quality,” Nasition sighs in disappointment. Tevlaia wouldn’t tolerate any of this. “But to not even have anything close to resembling numbers… It’s not possible.”

“Maybe the Black Maiden took the arm from a dead soldier and somehow erased the serial number—”

“Impossible. The photos show a newer model, definitely within the last decade, if not the last five years.” Nasition begins to pace around the room, clutching the locket inside his pocket. “She couldn’t have the means to even maintain such a model, nevermind somehow replicate it and meld it into her body in such conditions…”

The Black Maiden. The emblem on her arm indicates she’s most likely a former soldier of his, yet no records point to her existence. They already have her general location, but her exact identity still evades their grasp. An assassin of the slums, severely disrupting the chain of command for reasons unknown. Just as the night is mysterious, she too can only be considered a legend in his view. She can be multiple people acting as a single persona, or perhaps not even a real person at all, hiding behind that dark mask of hers. Even after so many days of investigation, they cannot even grasp just who she is.

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“Are there still ways to make progress?” he asks.

“I believe… so,” Paeil answers with relative unease. “There is still the possibility of interrogating the inhabitants, and maybe—”

“A definitive answer, General Paeil. There is no space for any hesitation.”

“... I don’t know.”

Nasition sighs. “Please, there is no time for this nonsense—”

“I-I do know the New Rule is currently also suffering similar cases,” Paeil quickly adds. “If anything, we have more time to investigate, even if I don’t have an answer you want just yet.”

“You mean the New Rule is also losing officers at a rapid rate?” Nasition asks in surprise.

“Yes. It’s something I noticed in our regular intelligence reports. There were simply so many name changes on their officer rosters to register as a coincidence. At the same time, there is an obvious drop in morale, which I believe you, Common Leader, already know about.”

“So that’s the reason why he has stopped his advance,” Nasition mutters to himself.

“What is it?” Paeil asks.

“Nothing of importance,” he quickly dismisses.

“Alright…” Paeil says with a hint of doubt, although quickly shaking the expression off. “Anyway, based on this information, I believe the Black Maiden is particularly active in Pos, and can say that she targets large numbers of officers regardless of their record, contrary to some of our findings before.”

A pause. “This is not a time for jokes,” Nasition says sternly.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Do you think the Black Maiden will only restrict herself to one ruined town? As you said, ‘contrary to our findings from before’, but do you know how much it’ll set back our investigations if it is true?” He stares directly into Paeil’s eyes, holding his gaze. “Today’s report will do nothing if you decide to refute all the progress from before.”

“Yes…” Paeil lowers her head, taking a careful step backwards.

He sighs. “Well, at least we have some borrowed time to gather ourselves.” He picks up a comms device from his desk, placing it in Paeil’s hand. “Send a message to Hrenul, informing him of the situation at hand. Order him to prioritize organization in our retreat, not speed.”

“Alright,” Paeil replies without hesitation. “And on the Black Maiden…”

“We can simply do our enemies a favor.”

“What do you mean?”

Nasition sits down on his desk, grabbing an antique ink pen as he takes a sheet of blank paper. “I am going to send Avalel a handwritten letter detailing the location of the Black Maiden.”

“But isn’t a usual message enough? Despite our enmities, they have ways to contact them publicly, right?”

Nasition looks at her in slight disbelief. “It can also be interpreted as bait to lure them into a trap. I do not mind whether they publicize this letter or not, but there is no sincerity if it is sent like any other correspondence. I’m sure that you, a general, should’ve easily understood that point at least.”

“A-Apologies…”

Such passivity. Two decades into the war, and instead of tough veterans able to hold their ground, Nasition now only has weak-minded officers commanding his armies. Of course, it has been a trend ever since the critical defeat at Thille with the shortage of trained officers, but he still can’t get used to it. The years of commanding passionate warriors have been replaced with reluctant conscripts, the courageous beasts replaced with tame pets. It’s rather strange, but he much prefers Tevlaia’s rebuttals now. Her toughness directly clashed with his plans and ideals, pushing for her own ways even if it meant his doubting of her loyalty. To the very end, Tevlaia was a soldier battling for the Confederation, sacrificing her core and soul from the very beginning. The military does not raise such troops anymore.

Maybe it was a mistake to dispose of the Battalion, that he had simply thought too much of their potential power and too little of their loyalty. No, it wasn’t. It mustn’t. That’d mean their deaths are all in vain, killed by the paranoia and jealousy of their superior, himself. He isn’t like that. Their deaths are necessary to maintain the stability of the Confederation, lest they had decided to revolt…

And yet he cannot convince himself even after four years since he annihilated Battalion Elethien.

“I’ll handle the letter,” he says, noticing Paeil still standing before him, unsure of what to do. “Return to your work and report if you find anything new. And bring Hrenul with you.”

With a salute, Paeil leaves, giving Nasition a sense of tranquility once more. Sighing, he begins to write, trying not to think of the Confederation’s ailing military.

There is something about writing with a physical pen and paper that makes Nasition feel particularly at peace, the scratch of the utensil as it traverses the paper soothing his ears and drowning out the anxious thoughts in his head. His handwriting, taught by Norai, displays a piece of living memory, as if Nasition’s hand is held gently by her, patiently guiding him through each stroke. Gracefully, the letters are written out in elegant fashion, a powerful, refined aura emanating from the words as Nasition attempts to personally contact Avalel for the first time.

For the correspondence between Nasition, Common Leader of the Confederation of Parvilien, and Avalel

I hope you have received this letter in goodwill.

To receive a personal letter from the Common Leader is not an everyday occurrence, nevermind a letter written directly from my hand and not a machine. This is even, perhaps, the first time you have received a letter from me. But let that not distract us from the topic at hand, a topic that you and I will perhaps find some common ground in this longstanding conflict.

You are likely aware of the dwindling number of officers in your army, many assassinated in their sleep. A silent killer, lurking in the night before it chooses its victim, ending their life. You may have suspected the culprit comes from the Confederation, aimed to disrupt the chain of command and thus slow your advances. You have even stopped your army, a decision only you are able to make. I do not blame you for such suspicions. After all, we are on opposite sides of the war, battling for a victory we cannot share.

And yet, the Confederation is suffering a similar predicament.

During these past few months, many of my officers, my subordinates, have been murdered in their sleep. The exact scenario as you are facing. Fortunately for you, your army still retains its integrity, lavishing in victory, but I must admit the Confederation had lost Pos precisely because of these assassinations which had befallen us first. If these assassinations are allowed to be continued, you may face an encroaching crisis, perhaps even a stalemate from the disruptions when you believe you are so close to victory.

The soldiers are frightened, I’m sure. Visibly shaken, even. Who knows if they are next, executed by an elusive killer? They call the assassin by a name. I’m sure you have heard of it: the Black Maiden. She strikes fear into the soldiers’ hearts, corrupting their morale with that unfathomable, incomprehensible reasoning she may have for the killings. You, I’m positive, would not like that.

But here, I offer you an opportunity: to attack the Black Maiden herself at her area of residence. She lives in the southern end of the slums near Pos, inhabited by people displaced by our war. I give you the opportunity to strike, to attack, and to bring the war to the Black Maiden. You will be hailed and praised among your troops, and if you do not publish this letter, I will receive none of the credit. There is no gain for me other than the avoidance of using my own soldiers. If you expect an ambush, I can confidently say there will be none. For this brief period of time, the Confederation will not attack the New Rule.

We are facing the same enemy here, Avalel.