Klarsten waits patiently outside the military hospital in Pos, pacing back and forth in worry over the condition of his friend and superior. Avalel has not woken up ever since that duel, the blood loss too much to dismiss as a collection of minor wounds.
They were lucky the Black Maiden was injured from the duel as well. He may have went against the wishes of Avalel when he fired his rifle, but it did save the leader from further peril. The elusive assassin, quickly slipping back into the shadows as soon as she was hurt, cannot be found once more. But she’s no longer on the forefront of Klarsten’s mind.
He only hopes Avalel will recover enough to at least scold him for his rebellious actions.
Or maybe allowing Avalel to even engage in such a duel in the first place was foolish to begin with. They had a company of capable soldiers, and with the goal of killing the Black Maiden, that would’ve been easy, even if that meant benefitting the Confederation as well. And with a few more days or weeks of rest, they will be ready to finally take on the Pass of Elethien, the lands lost to the Confederation over four years ago.
Instead, here he is, standing guard outside the tent where Avalel is currently being treated, the leader of the New Rule defeated for the first time since the battle of Thille. Avalel the invincible leader, shattered and wounded, the leadership now suddenly in a vacuum. If not for Avalel, the New Rule would’ve broken apart years ago, being picked and conquered piece by piece by the Confederation. The entire existence of the faction is thanks to him, its savior and leader.
And now Avalel is down, incapable of leadership until his recuperation. All because the young man had insisted on fighting the Black Maiden in a duel.
Soon, the news will reach Thille, if it hasn’t already. The Assembly, mostly symbolic more than administrative at this point, will likely seize this opportunity to regain their “rightful” power, driving the faction into chaos once more.
Klarsten grits his teeth. Those useless politicians cannot be allowed to gain control over the military as they had before. But what can he do now but hope it doesn’t happen? He holds no political power. He is the aide-de-camp of Avalel, but he does not command an army of thousands. In terms of power, he holds about the same as the average infantry soldier now that Avalel is unconscious.
Pacing around, guarding the tent while still in his full suit of armor is the most he can do. Quite pathetic, but he can do no more.
“Klarsten,” the military doctor suddenly exits the tent, her face a little pale. “Come inside. The President is requesting your presence.”
He’s awake?
Bewildered, he follows the doctor inside… and finds Avalel sitting up on the bed, his wounds fading away with every passing moment. The young man’s brown hair is unkempt, but otherwise his eyes are bright and alert, along with a sense of determination… or as Klarsten sees, his eye.
Avalel’s left eye is a void of pure black, his pupil crimson with a tattoo shaped like a blade with wings gradually appearing on his cheek. Klarsten has only seen this a few times before: when Avalel enters a trance-like state, mumbling to himself with different tones and mannerisms, accompanied by the same frightening glare that now freezes his movements on the spot. Not even in the ruthlessness of battles did he exhibit such coldness, such distance.
“Avalel, you’re…”
“It’s such a beautiful thing, this regeneration magic, isn’t it?”
“But when…” When did you learn how to do this?
“I’ve always had the potential. It’s only a matter of time that I am able to utilize it as I wished.”
Avalel speaks as if this is just a natural process, no different than a toddler slowly discovering how to walk, then run. Speaking as if magic is just something common, something easily able to master.
“Uh… Avalel?” Klarsten asks.
“Yes?”
“Can I touch you?”
“... Of course.”
Klarsten approaches Avalel with cautious steps, his movements rigid and uncomfortable. The coldness is seeping through his body, the air itself frigid and sharp. It’s not that the tent itself is cooled. On the contrary, every tent should be warmer than the outside, yet somehow, it is anything but. Klarsten has already forgotten the presence of the doctor, his eyes and senses all locked on Avalel. Before long, he is standing before his bedridden leader, and with some courage mustered up, he extends his hand and touches Avalel’s wrist.
No warmth. Barely even a pulse. Just coldness. Like a corpse.
“You’re a bit…” Klarsten finds his voice trailing off.
“Cold?” Avalel casually finishes Klarsten’s sentence. “In this temperature, anyone would be cold.” Paying no attention to his condition, he removes the straps and wires intended to monitor him before lightly stepping down onto the ground barefoot, as if he has simply woken up from a nap.
“Where are you going?” Klarsten asks. After all, Avalel is dressed only in a patient’s gown, the fabric far too thin for this supposed “temperature”.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“To address the army, of course.”
“You just woke up from your coma!”
“I had only slept for a night, didn’t I?”
How did he even know? Klarsten looks at Avalel in complete bewilderment, no longer recognizing the young man before his eyes. The confidence that now radiates from him, the clarity in his gaze, as if the world itself has opened up for him. As if one has just discovered everything that one seeks.
As if he was blind, but now can see.
“P-President!” the doctor finally manages to speak. “At… At least change into your uniform before you address the troops.”
“Right. You are correct.” Avalel’s voice is nearly robotic, like a puppet being forced to speak by the puppeteer. “And I shall.”
“Avalel,” Klarsten calls as his leader reaches for a set of clothing just lying in a neat pile near the bed. “Why are you going to address the troops now? At least rest for a bit while I can announce that you are in good health to preserve the stability of the faction.”
Avalel stops, turning to Klarsten as if that is some childish, stupid question to ask. “Our aim is to defeat the Confederation, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“We have the advantage in morale, in numbers, in organization. The soldiers are hungry for a fight, so I’ll be giving them one. It’s as simple as that. And if I were to be frank, I believe we were just wasting our time camping here for longer than we should, pursuing an individual that makes no decisive influence on the war. The Pass is just in front of us. I will not allow the enemy to prepare themselves at such crucial a junction.”
“Weren’t you the one who wanted to defeat the Black Maiden first?”
“Yes, but I was foolish. I decided, back then, it would be a fine idea to rid ourselves of a rogue pawn. I missed the big picture. But I see it now. Clear as the waters we drink. Total victory is in sight.”
Avalel rarely admitted that he was wrong, because, in Klarsten’s view, the President rarely commits wrongs. Yet now to completely change his mind and with such ease is unfamiliar to Klarsten at all.
“Ah, and fetch me my armor as well,” Avalel says. “A warrior without armor is like a peasant without clothes.”
“Wh— I mean, as you wish.” Shaking his head lightly in confusion, to which the doctor responds in kind, Klarsten exits the tent, following just behind Avalel, the latter being greeted with looks of shock and surprise.
“My soldiers!” Avalel bellows, already connected to his comms. “Your President is alive and well!”
Thunderous roars and cheers ensue, much to be expected of the soldiers of the New Rule, many of whose lives were saved countless times by Avalel in battle.
“I was, quite unfortunately, injured the night before, being targeted by the Black Maiden herself. I must admit I feared I would die from my wounds. We all have that moment at some time in our military career. After all, behind our helmets, inside our uniforms, we are but young men and women, complete with every facet of human emotion. Fear is, of course, one of them.
“But I do not fear death now, for I am saved by a miraculous cure that healed my wounds, an indescribable feeling that can only be felt when you are at the brink of death. I wish you all may feel this same sense of fearlessness one day, for this is the spirit of a warrior. Of one who knows they will die, but fight anyway every single day. Of one who gives their all for a goal they do not know if they will even achieve. Of one like you and I, who will not rest for the sake of ourselves, of our comrades, of our brothers and sisters across the entire faction.
“Yet what have we done since taking Pos? Nothing! We all want to one day end this war, but here we are, sitting around, burning what little food we have while being completely idle. That is partly my fault, for I did not spur you on. I didn’t feed the true hunger inside you all, the desire for victory, for an end to this otherwise unending war. And therefore, for today, I have only one command: march upon the Pass of Elethien! Immediately and without delay! I will lead from the very front, playing the role that I have neglected for too long: the role of a leader. And let us, with this battle, finally claim victory over this unending war!”
What?
There are upwards of a hundred thousand personnel stationed in Pos and its vicinities, and with one order, Avalel expects them to just organize themselves and join him on this stupid, spontaneous crusade?
Yet as Klarsten grabs Avalel’s suit of armor from his tent, he can already see soldiers mobilizing, gathering before their respective leaders. Some squads have even already fully outfitted themselves, marching eagerly away from their camps… or at least what remains of their camps. Patches of empty dry soil, formerly occupied by soldiers’ shelters, mark where tents once stood.
Their astonishing faith in their savior is nearly, if not even more miraculous than the rapid regeneration of Avalel’s body. There can be no logic behind such hasty actions. No one even scoffed at the ridiculous idea, only following it without question, trusting that their savior will bring them to victory even after that setback. Such is the power of Avalel, the undisputed leader of the New Rule for over four years.
A leader that everyone seems to know, but no one truly understands.
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Avalel marches in front of the armored vanguard, his white armor a stark contrast to the drab that dressed the rest of the army. Klarsten walks by his side, his rifle already loaded with a battery. For any outsider, the army now marching towards the Pass of Elethien can only be described with a single word: formidable. Hundreds of aircraft hover overhead, their pilots having only been briefed a few moments ago. Armored vehicles move in near-perfect unison in their columns, while the infantry marches as if they are in a parade, their rifles cleaned, their armor displayed with pride. The entire military force at Pos have essentially been ordered to advance at just a moment’s notice, but what comes of it is this spectacular sight. The army now is far different from the army four years ago. Instead of being used more as pawns in party politics, they are united under one man, a man that, four years ago, was only a soldier like them.
Klarsten can only admire the influence and power of Avalel. He is the only one who can even make this possible, the only one who can truly bring victory to the New Rule. Although he is still in shock at such a sudden change in Avalel’s mannerisms, such feelings are now overwhelmed with a sense of pride for being part of this mighty military, for being alongside the savior that many can only idolize from a distance.
The fortifications of the Pass are nearly in sight. The Confederation must’ve been notified of their presence by now. The Pass of Elethien. The major connection between the lands once know as the Core Regions and East Smarin, now known as the Confederation of Parvilien and the New Rule. Four years ago, the New Rule lost this pass to the enemy. Now, they have finally returned.
“Tell me, Klarsten, what is the date today?” Avalel asks.
“The sixteenth day of the ninth month.”
“... I see. Let’s pray it all ends today, then.”
In the distance, the silhouette of a mobile fortress, the Confederation’s trump cards, slowly appears on the dusty horizon. Its shape is far too obvious for any soldier who has seen the reports of the Confederation’s vehicle classes and command structure.
The Izatur. Nasition’s flagship.
“And so it begins… once more.”