“This is strange.”
Avalel looks at the letter before him, perplexed by the contents sent by his enemy. Handwritten notes are certainly commonplace on the front lines for the soldiers’ personal correspondence, but a full-blown formal letter, the smell of ink still wafting from the paper? It is a rare sight. Although somewhere inside his mind there is a vague memory of him picking up some kind of antique pen and writing in a similar fashion, he doesn’t recall ever using anything beyond a crude pencil back in the forest. A letter designed for somewhat personal correspondence, as if this is some invitation of friendliness disguised in contents seeking for help.
To admit weakness is unusual for a proud leader such as Nasition. During the years of war, Avalel has accustomed himself to the occasional Confederation domestic propaganda received as part of littered remains of some destroyed town. Not once did it mention a possibility of retreat, nevermind any sign of defeat. Typical, of course, if that view isn’t echoed amongst some of the Confederation’s high command as well according to intelligence. Nasition’s generals do not admit their weaknesses, and naturally, neither does Nasition himself, painting himself in some sort of superhuman image. Of course, this is what Avalel himself does as well. It’s effective in guiding the populace and the military to eventual victory, after all.
But here he is, reading a letter that supposedly asks for the New Rule’s help, even painting the Confederation as an ailing, weakening faction that cannot even remove a minor inconvenience. If he decides to make this public, the Confederation will be done for. Victory in his grasp, able to be reached with a single decision.
But that isn’t entertaining, is it?
He doesn’t know when these thoughts have started trickling into his mind. Maybe it was sometime during the battle of Pos, or perhaps even earlier. The denial of a clear, logical course of action in exchange for something more thrilling. It’s rather uncharacteristic of him, unusual for one who stresses so much on the protection of the people in his speeches and political stance. And the feeling’s growing stronger the closer he approaches the Pass of Elethien, the main gateway between the so-called Core Regions in the west and the Rhinish lands in the east.
“Can’t believe the leader sent a personal letter to us requesting for help,” Klarsten comments. “Has the Black Maiden become much more than a nuisance for them?”
“Who knows,” Avalel responds. “They sound quite desperate for our assistance.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Klarsten walks over to Avalel’s side, examining the letter together. “Does he see us as idiots, or worse, subordinates to take action upon this report? Decades of war might’ve finally killed his mind.”
“He has made some interesting observations on our state, though,” Avalel notes. “At the very least, I’ll give him credit for his intelligence network.”
“That is true… It's a little scary to imagine the spies he has amongst our midst.”
“Perhaps you may be one of them,” Avalel jokes.
“If I wasn’t an open book to you, maybe I might’ve been recruited,” Klarsten returns with an embarrassed smile.
“You’ll never turn to them for any benefit, anyway. I have complete faith in that.” For a moment, a pure, genuine sparkle from Avalel’s eyes reaches Klarsten, an innocent boyish gaze not seen in quite a long while in the chaos of the war.
“Wow…”
“Anyways,” he quickly returns to a more solemn expression, the youthfulness retreating into hiding once more. “On the letter, what do you think is the ideal answer to such a proposition?”
“I think you already have an answer to that,” Klarsten says. Such questions are, after all, usually just a disguise to see Klarsten’s perspective on the situation at hand as opposed to Avalel’s own ideas. “You’re probably thinking of publishing the letter for all to see, aren’t you? The enemy literally gave us an easy opportunity to punch them in the gut.”
“No.”
“What?”
Avalel smiles a little at Klarsten’s flabbergasted expression. “Wouldn’t it be better to wipe out the immediate threat with the information graciously given by our enemy?”
Klarsten looks at him in pure confusion, as if such a proposition is simply beyond human comprehension and logic. “You’re prioritizing defeating one annoying target more than the millions of soldiers we’ve been fighting for two whole decades?”
“Isn’t it a bit boring if the Confederation were to be defeated with a single letter?”
Klarsten takes a step back, his eyes in complete disbelief. “Boring? Pres—Avalel, with all due respect, this reasoning is utterly garbage!”
“Think about this: if—no, when we defeat the Black Maiden and present news of her death to the troops, morale will rise to new heights, allowing us to defeat the Confederation in battle all the easier. Of course, this is less direct than simply exposing the Confederation’s true weakness for all to see, but a victory with such an unsatisfying climax would simply be unbefitting of everything the military have sacrificed.”
“You, of all people, are thinking of such an absurd plan?” Klarsten is nearly delirious with anger, much to the amusement of Avalel. “We have a golden opportunity literally placed in our hands, one that will spare so many potential casualties, but you are instead fixated on the Black Maiden, an assassin that you didn’t even believe existed a few days ago?”
“Klarsten, my loyal aide, your logic makes complete sense—”
“Then why are you still thinking of taking this ridiculous step?”
Klarsten’s anger and shock is still in full fury, unable to understand the sudden madness of his President. Well, it’s only natural. Avalel himself would have taken the same course of action if he is still in his old insistence on protecting anyone and everyone. He is the guardian, the savior of the New Rule, after all. Why is he now denying their greatest and easiest opportunity to gain the victory they have desired since the beginning of the war? The civilians long for peace to return, the soldiers are exhausted from continuous battles, and the economy has been strained far too long, especially when the wastelands they are now retaking are only useless burdens to all.
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But there is the lingering feeling of worry, an incomprehensible sensation adding to his mental weight. They have already narrowed down the Black Maiden to her location, even forming a vague image of her appearance, but even that is not enough to dissipate Avalel’s doubts. There is still just something that still silently haunts him, even as he has already buried his past crimes deep inside his consciousness. Or so he thinks.
Maybe that is the real reason for his obsession towards the Black Maiden, the urge for entertainment merely a byproduct of the brewing storm of emotions inside.
Sometimes, his mind is just a mess.
He leans his face closer to Klarsten, their noses practically touching each other as the distance is uncomfortably closed. “Look at me, Klarsten. Our victory is inevitable either way. Compared to a result that’s easily forgettable in the annals of history, wouldn’t it be better to make our mark with a decisive battle? There were many great conquerors in the world, particularly in the late Empire, but why is it that only Elethien was remembered for her feats?” Whatever the reason, the Black Maiden will be prioritized.
“Elethien this, Elethien that… Are you some sort of Empire enthusiast?” Klarsten says with a slight hint of sarcasm. “You mention that name quite a lot, even comparing yourself to her, an icon that no one really wants to associate with anymore.”
Avalel suddenly goes silent, as if a switch or button in his mind is turned off. It’s rare for Klarsten to be this vocal and stubborn even under such pressure, retaining his dignity and mental strength all the same. And, to an extent, the man is correct. A thousand years since the death of Queen Elethien, the Achien Empire being nothing but a distant, distasteful memory, yet to Avalel, the image in his mind still depicts a dreamlike prosperity, the capital (which he has never gone to) a beacon of civilization. A hit of reality, to put it simply.
The Empire is gone. To him, he may be the last heir of a long line of monarchs, but to the people of the New Rule, he is simply President Avalel, their savior and leader. A leader that is guided forth only by impulses, by mysterious nudges inside his mind along with his supposed struggle for control against the Anapadeia. A leader lost without much reason to fight, driven only by whatever mission is next, whether it be the Black Maiden or the Confederation. Somewhat similar to his early days in the military, except back then he had friends to protect, people to ground him.
His mind is nudging him to face the Black Maiden now. And so he will.
It’s confusing, isn’t it?
“Avalel?” Klarsten snaps him back from his spiral, the aide’s voice now filled with concern. It isn’t the first time Avalel has drifted off into his thoughts. Now, Avalel’s eyes are staring past Klarsten, aimlessly planting his gaze upon the blank wall.
“R-Right,” he says, quickly composing himself. “As I was saying, it will make a more fitting end if we were to defeat the Confederation in a decisive battle than a weak, gradual resolution from publishing this letter. Defeating the Black Maiden, even if it benefits the Confederation to an extent, is to be prioritized.” Despite blanking out for a while, Avalel’s stance remains unchanged.
“... Is there nothing that can convince you otherwise?”
“No.”
Klarsten sighs dejectedly. “I’ll respect your decision then, President. There must be some reason beyond my comprehension for you to make this decision.”
Avalel smiles. “Thank you.” If Klarsten has decided to argue further, this might’ve developed into a particularly sticky situation, a stalemate where either side refuses to budge. Instead, much to Avalel’s relief, Klarsten has simply given up the prospect of being able to persuade him. A small victory, but he likely won’t push such an irrational decision upon his subordinate again.
With a light, weak salute, Klarsten departs for the exit. As a conclusion has been reached, he is now freed for a meal with the rest of the troops.
“How are you going to defeat her then?” he asks, turning his head as he steps out.
“You’ll see. It won’t be difficult.”
—
“What—”
Klarsten groggily steps out of his tent, being rudely woken by Avalel, the latter in an unusually good mood. For what their argument earlier in the day was worth, his President seems to have recovered by now. As he exits, what greets him are a cold gust of wind, the billions of stars above in the blanket of darkness… and a full company of soldiers standing in formation, headed by a figure fully dressed in immaculate white armor, holding a sword that glows hungry with crimson.
If he didn’t recognize his President right away, he might’ve thought it’s a freakish apparition.
“Ah, our final member is awake,” Avalel says as Klarsten imagines a smile behind that cold helmet. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Av—President, what’s this for?” Klarsten questions, still very much confused by the sight before him. Compared to him, his uniform somewhat disheveled, the soldiers before him are all completely suited, their weapons brandished and stances firm.
“We’re heading for the Black Maiden,” Avalel says matter-of-factly. “Did you already forget?”
“Is this…” Klarsten’s voice trails off, unable to register the sight before him.
“This is how we’ll defeat the Black Maiden,” Avalel explains. “We’ll simply charge from the southern end of the slums, forcing the Black Maiden to appear from her den. The company here has volunteered to be our executioners. You don’t need to know their names. Rather, they don’t want you to know their names.”
As his eyes start to adjust, Klarsten inspects the troops more closely. Instead of the usual equipment of pikes or rifles, the soldiers are armed with large shields and what seems to be pistols and batons. Their silvery armor is reinforced with an extra layer, creating a bulkier, slower build. In addition to their backpacks, each soldier is carrying a can filled with some kind of liquid. To him, they look more like a sort of riot police designed for gradual crowd control in more unruly towns than the rank-and-file troops designed for flexibility in battle.
“President, who are these people?” he asks.
“They are just heavy infantry borrowing equipment from the local police forces.” Somehow, as Avalel delivers that blank statement, Klarsten can see his President’s mouth arching up ever so slightly in an enigmatic smile. “Of course, a few are armed with the standard rifles.”
He turns, marching into the darkness as the soldiers follow closely behind. “I do wonder sometimes how the Confederation will repay us once we remove our common nuisance.”
A hundred against one, yet only a few carrying fatally-wounding weapons. The riot gear is designed to contain mobs, not against one highly mobile, stealthy target. Avalel’s white armor is sticking out like a beacon among the sea of silver.
Somehow, Klarsten feels this isn’t the most pragmatic solution to kill, or even to capture a target.
“Change into your armor, Klarsten.” Avalel’s voice jolts Klarsten from his thoughts as the latter realizes his unpreparedness.
“I’ll catch up later,” Klarsten hurriedly says as he enters back into his tent.
“Connect with my comms when you’re ready.”
It’s going to be a long night.