“A fine day today, isn’t it?” Pava says to herself, looking down at the wasteland below.

Recently recruited to defend Thille, the squad of soldiers are all from the little town of Usa, just east of Thille itself. They have never tasted war, raised to become artisans, merchants, farmers, engineers for the economy, not soldiers for war. Their families have all been evacuated, settling in one of the many newly built refugee camps in Thille. It is a wise move, they presume, to have their families safely protected with the collective might of the military. All around them, they see machines before only shown through displays, the hustle, the dust from movement so fresh to their noses. It is a nervous but exciting experience.

They are conscripts, not volunteers. There are very few volunteers ever since the Pass had fallen, as they heard from their more veteran comrades, sitting in their crude bunkers and hastily built forts at night. They remember the tears of their families as they departed, the loving hugs they received, the gifts and bundles of clothing stacked on their already bulging bags, the shouts of blessings ringing in their ears as the transport became further and further away from the town. Many others, they heard, also had the same experience, as fellow brothers and sisters-in-arms collected together through the recently passed Conscription Act, by a young boy they have only heard the name of in the tongues of the other soldiers, younger than them, yet with the wisdom and leadership fitting to lead any government. He is their leader, their supreme commander, going by the name of Avalel.

Even as the battle looms over the horizon, they are not afraid. Their armor, worn every day, every moment with the exception of cleaning and showering, is more than sufficient to protect them from the attacks of the enemy, the Confederation that they all hate with a passion, just as Avalel claims in one of his many speeches directed to the people and the military. Their food supplies, although limited, are enough to sustain them, providing only hunger for battle. Whatever defeat they had heard the others have suffered before is only a setback, the true decisive fight being here, in the wastelands above Thille, the dried grass swaying to the wind, the Elyfesta shining down on them with its comfortable light. They are conscripts, but they are eager, eager to bring upon victory, and with it, glory to themselves.

“It is the first day of the sixth month,” she writes in her journal, the flat, small display reflecting his neat handwriting. “All is the same here, with nothing special of note. A little bit boring so far.”

“Hey!” another soldier calls.

“A-Ah, yes?” she stutters in surprise. Certainly the soldier doesn’t think she is only lazing around?

“Keep up the good work!” Helmetless, the soldier’s smile is like a beaming ray of light, illuminating her face.

“Thanks!”

She doesn’t understand the intense worry of the veterans. Rather, she enjoys the optimism of recruits similar to her, uplifting and encouraging. Of course, until a month ago, news of defeats were commonplace, the casualty count being just a number, so distanced from reality. Yet, back then, she could sense the anxiety from several of her elders, the unfathomable confusion of feelings surrounding her. She didn’t understand then, just as she doesn’t understand now. The news had all but disappeared for a month now, but the same sense of nervousness is still very much present, if not increased in tension and frequency.

It’s illogical. Even with her basic education, she knows that a calming presence is essential to completing a task with the greatest efficiency. One simply cannot perform their best when their minds are not even remotely ready. The veterans are always on edge, their helmets permanently covering their faces, their fingers fidgeting, their worn-down armor spotless, removing any sense of individuality. She just doesn’t understand. She knows war only causes pain and suffering, but she has always believed that one must simply move on. There is no time to wallow in despair, or so she would write in her essays, an integral part of her education

Maybe she just isn’t experienced, fresh on the battlefield. After all, she is only sixteen, the youngest age eligible to fight under the Conscription Act.

“Incoming motion from the battlefield!” a soldier shouts.

They all fumble for their helmets. Is it just a false alarm, or is it real? She does not know even as she peeks over the parapets, seeing only a rapidly approaching dot in the horizon.

“It seems to be a lone soldier,” another notices. There are no aircraft in the sky, not even the sound of artillery fire, unnatural for the Confederation’s tactics. It is just a single dot, growing closer in their eyes, a small black mass rapidly advancing on the empty wasteland. In fact, she finds it is moving much faster than the running speed of an average person, two lines of dust spraying behind the dot.

“Shall we fire?” They can see the enemy’s features vaguely now. The legs are bent low, lightly stepping on the ground, the dry dust barely even leaving the surface. It is two blades armed on the enemy’s hands, dragging across the ground, spraying the dust to the air. She can even see a metallic gleam on the enemy’s left arm, reflecting the light far more brilliantly than the rest of the body.

“A single shot is enough,” her squad leader commands. No sooner have the words left his mouth, a bang resonates through her ears. She looks to her right, finding her comrade Esail lowering his rifle, his focused eyes looking at his target.

A small pillar of dust explodes beside the enemy. The shot was close, but not enough. “That was disappointing,” Esail sighs, raising his rifle once again. However, Pava notices a subtle shift in the enemy’s direction, as if it had dodged the shot itself.

More shots ring, the others now also firing their weapons at the enemy. First in sparse intervals before it gradually becomes a hail, a spear of energy raining, stabbing at the enemy. Bang, bang, bang. None of them hit their target. The enemy’s figure is clear now, the appearance now recognizable as that of a woman’s. Wearing a dark hooded vest, concealing her head, and loose shorts, there is no sign of any armor on her, and certainly no sign of a bag of supplies of some sort. Her entire left arm is, in fact, a prosthetic limb, a long blade attached to it, wrapped around it from the elbow down. Meanwhile, her right holds a knife, sharpened and glowing, burning the dust around it. Tap, tap, tap… Her footsteps can be heard, a fast and steady rhythm beating closer and closer to their hearts.

It is obvious now. Their shots, hundreds of them, are not missing the target. The enemy has simply dodged them all.

“Fire the artillery!” someone shouts.

“They will kill some of us as well!” another argues. However, it is for naught, as they hear the shrill cry of a single artillery shell rising in a beautiful arc before falling right before the enemy in a terrifying explosion.

Her ears scream. Despite still being some distance away, she feels her entire body vibrate, the ground before her trembling in terror. She coughs, the smoke punching her throat and lungs through the gaps of her ill-attached helmet. The soldiers’ shouts are only a blur to her, their figures barely discernible from her dirtied visor.

She tastes it. Finally. The flavor of war. The irrationality of war. The unexplainable craziness of war.

A blinding flash. The smoke is suddenly cleared, the deep crater from the bombardment before their eyes. The light of the Elyfesta again shines on them, but they no longer feel its warmth. The enemy in black is gone.

Another flash, its darkness consuming her eyes for a brief moment. She hears a gasp. In the light of the Elyfesta, a soldier falls, cleanly beheaded, splattering his blood to his next comrade. Then his comrade is decapitated as well, his helmet clanking as it contacts the ground. The enemy stands before them, her tall stature intimidating, multiplied with her deathly aura. She brandishes her blade, dripping with blood. She scoffs.

Confusion, panic sets in. There is no logic. The fort is suddenly like a prison. She hastily fires a shot, the energy finding itself hitting the wall. She scrambles away, retreating towards the door, but it is already bolted shut. Calmness, her most faithful companion, has long left her.

A flurry of slashes. A dying soldier falls on Pava’s lap, her skull cleanly split open, liquids oozing from the gap. The small fort is filled with the stench of fresh blood, littered with the corpses of soldiers, seeing only moments of battle before they are killed. Despite the carnage around her, the enemy is completely unscathed, with only her clothing scattered with blood stains. The formerly silvery gleam of her metal arm is now a sickly, opaque crimson. Taking a step towards Pava, her boots squelch as they step on the viscous surface.

As the enemy approaches closer, Pava can again see her clearly as she removes her hood, for a few moments completely without the blur of confusion from before. A mask covers her face, a trail of black paint flowing down from each eye hole. Her short hair is damp, a chaotic yet elegant mess draped over her neck and hovering above the shoulders. Even through the slits in her mask, the enemy glares intently at Pava, her blades approaching closer and closer.

There is nowhere to retreat. Like a predator, the enemy pounces upon Pava, pinning her to the wall, the knife poised at her throat.

“Where is Avalel?” the enemy rasps.

“I… don’t know,” Pava responds shakily, only to have the knife pressed closer, practically touching her skin.

“Where is Avalel?” the enemy repeats.

The commotion of marching boots can be heard in the distance, the screaming of artillery fire converging onto the fort’s location. There is nowhere to hide, nowhere to live. The rudely alerted New Rule has sent its army for a single individual. It all happened so fast. Pava notices her journal, crushed to bits just out of her reach. Is this supposed to be war? Will her death only be a number in the casualty count? Is she now worthless, forbidden to even be remembered? Alas, she will never know.

“I have no time.” The knife slices Pava’s throat, opening her arteries, her esophagus, her larynx.

She doesn’t understand the war at all.

Avalel gently pushes open the door to his old dorm, untouched for months. It had taken him quite a while to reorganize the faction, but finally, he answers the unconscious call of his mind, begging him to go there. Just once. The area has been closed off by his faithful soldiers only for the sake of giving him his well-deserved silence. It is at least, perhaps, a chance to remind him of who he was, before being quickly disposed of, cleansed.

A creak. It is eerily quiet inside, no sign of life for so long. It feels almost foreign, the neat, tidied dorm so alien to him. The cheap sets of furniture have become disgusting to his eyes, so ghastly inappropriate for his position now. The lone bed, occupied so long by someone he used to know, is silent, the covers sitting sadly, folded emotionlessly on the edge.

He sits on the bed, looking at what was his home. It’s all so ugly, yet he can sense a sort of beauty in this small room. He doesn’t know why. The neatly stacked dishes, long dried from their last wash, have already gathered dust. The chairs, stacked neatly on top of each other, are flimsy, nowhere near his definition of comfortable. The lights, so dim, can barely give ample illumination to his white cloak. Yet something, something seems to give him comfort in this sort of cell, something that makes it larger than it is.

A strand of hair lies on the table, his observant eyes quickly catching its presence. He picks it up, examining the thickness, the shape, as if it is a relic of someone important to himself. It is very fine, swaying easily to the surrounding air. There is a sort of elegance in the slow curve of the dark strand of hair, sensitive yet unbreakable.

A box of cards lies dormant in a corner, alone and isolated. A cooking pan resting on the kitchen heating pad. A tunic hung on a rack, dangling lifelessly on it.

A black scarf, rolled up and placed just above the covers.

Subconsciously, he reaches a hand to the scarf, stroking the fabric gently with his fingers. The softness massages his nerves, rubbing his skin, lightening his mood. It seems to hold much importance for someone, being kept so well in its state. It is practically spotless, unlike everything else in the dorm. So clean, so pure, so contrasting to its dark appearance.

He wants to pick it up.

His hands tremble as if in a tug-of-war, a headache suddenly striking with great force. His pupils expand and contract, his breathing irregular, rapidly devolving to wheezes. The Anapadeia seems to attract his hands, forcing them to its handle.

But he still wants to pick it up.

Veins bulging, muscles tensing, he finally grabs the scarf and wraps it around his neck in one fluid motion. Comfort overwhelms him. For a moment, he feels as if he has gained all that he needs and wants. He truly feels happy, just for that brief moment.

And he feels it. Her presence. It has only been a month, but he feels it. The erupting hatred destined to swallow him whole.

She hates him now.

He discards the scarf again, stepping out of the dorm and greeted by his guards.

“Fetch me my armor,” he says.

“President, it has not been fully completed yet,” a guard answers regretfully. “Well, it is completed, but testing procedures have not begun.”

“There will be no delay,” he commands. “Fetch it for me.”

His hand reaches for the Anapadeia, rapidly imbued, surrounded with energy. Ruthlessness, mockery, and violence fill his mind, his pupils constricting once more.

The hatred of Kavlina brands itself into him, forever haunting him in her absence.