1223-09-06
Alex Morgan:
Crimson.
The battlefield is drenched in crimson.
It couldn't have gone any worse. The war, the conflict—I believed when I first started that I'd live to see the end of it. Now, I know that's not true.
Power—mysterious, incomprehensible power that they all wield. I couldn't grasp it. There's a presence surrounding them that I can't even begin to understand.
Khiz stands at the center of the world, the heart of trade and influence.
Why?
WHY?
WHY!
Why are we fighting them? This battle has made it clear: they could destroy us at any time. They could win in an instant.
Their numbers are greater.
Their forces are stronger.
Their alliances are more powerful.
We are nothing in the midst of them.
We have lost. The men I've come to know, fought beside—gone. They died on the battlefield.
Before this city, I didn't even remember their names. They were right: we would never win. We fought for a future we would never see. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands dead for this hollow cause.
But even with our dwindling numbers, we put a dent in them. A small one. The remaining soldiers, and more importantly, the general of the UIK, stood before me as I knelt in the dirt.
I thought of a memory, of a power I was told never to use—a power that could start a conflict, a power that would bring devastation to the world.
Silvercrest walked up to me. My hands—my entire body—shook, not from fear, but from exhaustion.
"It's over," he said.
"No," I jolted back. Blood poured from the wound at my side. I gripped my side tightly. I try to stop the bleeding.
"You've lost. Join me, join us, and you might have a chance to survive."
"What are you fighting for?" he demanded.
I didn't respond right away. I stood there. My thoughts are swirling. My body barely holding together. The pain from my wound is unbearable. My resolve was stronger than any agony. I took a slow, ragged breath.
"I'm fighting… I'm fighting for my unborn child. For my family." I yell.
"What a useless reason," he spat. "You don't think we have families we fight for?"
The cold gleam of his sword flashed in the dim light. He drew it.
"If you won't join us, then your death is assured."
I needed more time.
"You don't have a family," I muttered under my breath.
"I don't," he replied.
"Then why do you fight?"
He stayed silent. No answer came.
"What happened to your family?" I asked, my words a feeble attempt to buy that precious moment, to stall, to think of something, anything.
I hoped, prayed even, that the Merchant King would send reinforcements—more soldiers, more strength—but deep down, I knew it was a lost hope. It was already over, and I couldn't shake the thought of my child, my son or my daughter.
I thought of them, how I'd never see them grow, how I'd never get the chance to see them bloom, just like I had with my horse. I'd raised that beast from a foal, nurtured it through years of battle. It had been a bond like no other. I'd hoped for something like that with my children. To see them grow into the world I was fighting for.
I coughed. The sound ragged, and blood spilled from my lips. The taste of it filled my mouth. I held on.
"A dragon," Silvercrest said, his voice low and almost nostalgic. "They were killed by a dragon."
"You may have heard of it," he added.
I blinked in surprise, my mind racing. "Barta?" I asked, the name slipping from my lips.
A frozen relic of the past.
"Yes," Silvercrest confirmed, his voice colder now.
I laughed. The sound echoed across the barren plains. It mingled with the wind that howled through the bloodstained earth. My laughter rang out like a cruel joke.
"Since I'm dying, I'd like to tell you a story," I said, my voice ragged but resolute.
Silvercrest paused. He watched me. His face was unreadable.
I drew in a shaky breath. My mind fought to stay focused as the memories surged through me. Long-forgotten and buried.
Valen had once told me this story—one I thought I would never need to remember. It was the story of a boy, the son of a Maranona trader, who had gone to the Venadoma Academy but had eventually grown disillusioned with it all and left.
"I thought it was Venedoma."
"It's all the same in the end, isn't it?" I said, coughing.
He had witnessed the destruction. How the dragon had come down like a storm. How it tears through the skies. The frozen breath leaves nothing but death in its wake.
I remember him telling me how he could still hear their screams. He remembers it like it happened yesterday.
How his father died breaking him out of the ice.
"The boy's name ?"
"Valen." I replied.
"There were two survivors of the attack," I continued. "The boy.."
"But the second ?" Silvercrest interrupted, his curiosity piqued.
I swallowed hard. "A child," I said, the words heavy in the air. "The daughter of Mrs. Silvercrest."
Silvercrest's face tightened. his eyes flashing with something darker.
"Our daughter," he muttered. "My daughter is alive?"
"Yes, under a new name. Ana Aquavelle," I said, the name falling from my lips like a stone into a silent river.
"And why should I believe you?" he asked.
"Believe me or not," I said. My voice growing weaker, yet still firm.
Silvercrest took a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, his tone shifted, softer than before.
"I believe you," he murmured.
"When I first crossed paths with her, I noticed a heavy, silent sadness in her eyes. It was as if she was burdened with thoughts she could never share. I don't think she'd remember what happened, though—she was so young."
He fell quiet, his eyes wandering far off.
"Maybe a piece of her still remembers me, somehow."
I stayed silent, watching him. His question followed soon after.
"Why tell me this now?" he asked "this won't win you your freedom."
I met his eyes without hesitation.
"I thought you should take it to your grave."
I replied, each word deliberate, each one carrying the finality of what was left unsaid.
Silvercrest jumped back in surprise, but it was already too late. The soldiers had moved. The arrows were nocked and aimed.
The archers let their arrows fly.
It was too late.
Too late for them.
Too late for Silvercrest.
The battle was already over
"EDICT!" I roar as I clasp my hands together, "Echoed Insensibility!"
The world warps around me. It shifts to reflect the weight of the power I've unleashed. The ground beneath my feet hardens into something unyielding. The earth itself recognizes my determination. Time stretches, slows in the bubble surrounding us. Every movement feels like it's drawn out, giving me an edge to react faster than the eye can follow.
An aura of steel surrounds me, my body now impervious to the worst of what the world could throw at me. It's as though my resolve is armor, both a shield and a spear in one. I heal rapidly, the pain from previous wounds barely registering as my body reconstructs itself in moments. The very land trembles beneath the intensity of the experience. I feel unstoppable—unyielding. No one can break me.
The soldiers around me falter, trying to strike but unable to pierce the wall I've become. They charge, they shoot, but nothing seems to land. Their swords glance off me like water on stone. Arrows shatter in mid-air before they can even reach me. My sword slices through the air with precision. The wind cleaving through the enemy lines. Cut them in half with each strike.
But then, I see Silvercrest. He stands before me. His expression is filled with defiance.
"You'll die from blood loss," he taunts, his voice laced with mocking confidence. "And with Sha'tar entering the war, Rali is bound to die!"
"The Vale family is bound to die"
"The Montague family will die."
"You will ALL die!"
I don't flinch. Inside my Edict, my body is rejuvenated, every wound closed, every bruise erased. I grip my sword tighter.
"I might not survive," I reply, my voice cold, cutting through the air. "But you definitely won't!"
My sword floats in the air, obeying my command, an extension of my will. It's the embodiment of my strength, my iron resolve.
Silvercrest laughs, a dark, hollow sound.
"Then it's time to use this!"
Wings sprout from his back, enormous and silver. They stretch out like a shield. The air shudders as the wings create a barrier.
I charge, my blade slicing through the air with deadly intent, but his wings are impenetrable. They turn my strikes aside like mere gusts of wind. We clash, exchanging blows, a dance of power and death. His wings strike like blades, but my aura protects me, making every hit feel like a whisper against stone.
But then, there's a moment, a crack in his defense. I see it—a split-second weakness in his wings. Without hesitation, I strike. My sword rips through his defenses. It cuts through the silver appendages like they were made of paper. Silvercrest stumbles back. Blood pours from the wound as he falls to the ground. His wings, once magnificent, are now useless. The power of my Edict begins to falter.
I advance, every step sure, every movement precise. His eyes widen with realization. It's too late. With a final, brutal slash, I strike him down. The last breath leaves his lips as he collapses, blood pooling around him.
"I'm sorry, Amanda."
The Edict shatters, the land returning to normal. The protective aura around me vanishes, leaving me feeling the weight of the battle's toll. My wounds begin to return. I stagger, the strain on my body undeniable.
I kneel. I take a moment to steady myself. My breath ragged, but still alive.
"Polly," I mutter, my voice barely a whisper.
I think of her. The one who anchors me. The one I can't lose.
I apologize. There's no one to hear it.
I can feel the darkness creeping in.
The weight of the fight is heavy, and all I want is to find her, to hold onto something real.