1223-09-04
Alex Morgan:
The wind bites at my skin. I step out of the tent. The harsh light of dawn creeping over the eastern front. The air feels still, too still, for a battlefield so fresh with the scent of smoke and blood. We were hit hard, and the strain on the men is evident in their tired eyes. Not a single soul is untouched by the fury of the night.
I glance around the camp. The smoke still rises from the wreckage of the fight—burnt wagons, discarded weapons, and the dead scattered across the ground. The sounds of the wounded fill the air. Soldiers move between the fallen offering aid where they can.
At this rate, I think to myself—we're going to lose.
We've been pushed back so far. More men come, more men go. I've stopped trying to remember their names. It's easier that way. Just keep moving forward, don't look back. The only familiar faces now are the medics and doctors. Our enemy is invisible, moving through the fields and skies like ghosts.
There are whispers of a man. A name I've heard before. Arden Silvercrest. The general of our enemy. Our nightmare. He's killed so many of our men, and yet he himself is already broken. That's our goal—to shatter him completely.
He stands on land that once belonged to us.
I hate that man. I hate the name Silvercrest. It reminds me of something… a horse I once owned. I thought I'd forgotten it. Thought the memory had faded.
Arden.
Arden.
A brown horse, a large, powerful beast who had carried me through battle after battle. A companion. A friend I had known for so long. I never even took the time to grieve him. He deserved his rest. But I had to keep moving.
The wind bites at my skin, whipping through my unkempt hair. The tattered tents around us barely hold. Our rations are running low.
We need to do something. Anything.
Inside the main tent, the officers and generals wait in silence. They expect me to speak. To lead.
All that remains of our force—one hundred men.
"Valen has given us orders. Let's carry them out," I say. My voice is steady.
"For those of you who don't know me—I am Morgan. And you will follow my orders."
"With any luck, you'll all make it out alive."
Five of the men laugh when they hear my name. The sound is rough, the kind of laughter you give when you don't know whether to mock or to accept.
"Morgan ?" one of them scoffs. "Isn't that a woman's name?"
"More like a name meant for a horse," another one adds with a grin.
"What's next, Morgan?"
"That's my mom's name," I reply, sharp.
"Are we supposed to bow to your steed, too?"
"Of course you have to bow to my steed," I say with a smirk, "though it might be a bit difficult."
"Alright, Morgan," he scoffs.
"I'll remember you five. From now on, you belong to me."
"We'll follow you, but you'd better lead us well," one of them laughs.
Just then, another general cuts in, his voice sharp and commanding. "Our target is Golcis. Focus up."
The room falls silent as the discussion shifts. We go over the counteroffensive, the weapons the UIK has at their disposal, and the position of Silvercrest's forces in the region. The odds are stacked against us. It's clear we'll have to push through anyway.
"What matters is that we keep fighting," one of the generals says, even though his breath is heavy.
Then, one of the men who had laughed earlier, still wearing a skeptical look, asks, "Fighting for land we'll never use? Fighting for what? What are we really fighting for?"
I meet his gaze, my voice steady and resolute. "We're fighting for our future. For the hope of our nation. I can't promise you'll make it out alive. I can promise that I'll fight beside you."
"Don't you have a family? Children?" he asks.
"I don't," he replies, his tone flat. "I was forced here."
A quieter voice rises, a soldier with deep concern. "This feels like a suicide mission. If we win, we'll finally have the upper hand, but the power Silvercrest commands—it's immense."
"What makes him so powerful, Morgan? What makes him different?"
A quieter voice rises from the back—a general, his tone laced with deep concern. "I've fought him once before. Silvercrest.. he's not just a man. He's bonded with a dragon. A wind dragon."
A murmur passes through the group, some faces faltering at the mention of the creature. One man speaks up, trying to find comfort in the uncertainty.
"The Lion will protect us from dragons."
I glance at them. Their shiny armor. Their boots polished to perfection. Their faces are full of optimism .
I feel a bitter laugh rise in my throat. I suppress it. They have no idea what they're walking into.
"Tomorrow. We'll go over the plan once more. On the sixth, we'll make our move." The other generals and men leave, and I'm left with the five men from before.
We leave together, and as we walk, I notice their smiles, recognizing that they seem ready for something new.
I return to my tent, finding myself sitting down when Polly enters.
I've been reassigned. I have important news."
I cut her off. "I'll find you once I survive this mess."
"Find us. Find me, Polly Pembroke."
"Pembrooke," I repeat, "I'll remember the name."
As Polly leaves, my mind drifts to thoughts of deserting. Not a single day goes by without the idea crossing my mind. How I just want to escape this war. Be with her. Make her my wife. Raise our unborn child together.
I know she's going to tell me soon. Every time I think about it, a weight presses down on my chest.
It feels impossible, yet it's all I want. Deserting my men, escaping to Pallas—it seems like an easy solution. But it's not that simple. All I want is to be with her.
I can't.
Not yet.