After two hours of negotiation, the Marshal held a hand over his face. Metal gauntlet claws scraped across his forehead, laying sharp and cold against his scalp.

“It’s like talking to a rock. Why will you not see sense...?” The Marshal uttered a name.

Long ago, the Marshal had left his family and ventured to the volcanic mountains alone, undertaking the dangerous climb to learn mystical arts from a Sage. The Marshal had successfully apprenticed to a Sage, but he never knew the fate of his brother. Perhaps the boy had also taken to the mountains in search of a teacher; perhaps he returned home from an unsuccessful search, never to rise above the ordinary folk; or perhaps he dropped dead in the wilderness as many would-be seekers did, unable to withstand the elements. In any case, the brother’s name had been close in the Marshal’s mind for some time, and this name was now the word spoken.

The Guardian’s eyes widened. Outrage banished the surprise from his face.

“Fire Marshal of the Sun Army, you dare call me by a child’s name? I thought you were civil, but now you resort to cheap insults.” The Guardian stood abruptly, knocking his chair across the tent. “This negotiation is over. The next time we meet, I shall have your head.”

The Guardian stormed out of the tent, leaving the cloth door to flap about in the wind. The Marshal brought both hands to his head. Perhaps they were truly destined never to meet again as brothers.

“So be it, Guardian of the Eastern Rebels.”

Mastering himself after the moment of weakness, the Marshal left the tent as well. His top officers were waiting at the edge of the neutral parley zone, and the Marshal retrieved his weapons from one trusted aide. Aiming an arrow to the stars above, the Marshal shot a streak of golden fire into the night sky.

Not far to the east, a similar streak of green light sliced through the black.

As the Marshal returned to his own encampment, the distant thunder of cannonfire shook the world.

Firelight burned low in a tavern hearth, and the Sheriff watched the glowing embers with envy. They were scarcely two feet from his table. How simple it seemed, to merely reach out and grasp the very root of fire itself—yet, without the Fell Magicks of the Sages, these embers would do nothing but burn him. The Fire Marshal could handle embers with bare hands, with gloves, or through a gauntlet; why, then, not the Sheriff?

The Sheriff leaned out of his chair, extending a hand toward bright orange. The warmth on his skin increased as he approached, rising from a faint heat to the intensity of midday sunlight, and still he reached further.

A stick hit the back of his hand, knocking it away from the fire. The Sheriff yelped and withdrew the arm. A waiter frowned down at him, wooden ladle in one hand and a tray of drinks balanced in the other. The waiter held the ladle by its head, and the handle had struck the Sheriff.

The Sheriff scowled, rubbing his bruised hand. “You dare? Don’t you know who I am?”

“You are drunk, sir, and I don’t get paid enough to watch drunk customers burn themselves.” The waiter set the tray and ladle down on the Sheriff’s table, picked up the table by the sides, and deposited it several paces further from the fire. The Sheriff glanced longingly at his empty mug, which was now out of easy arm’s reach on the table.

The waiter then tried to do the same with the Sheriff’s chair, but the Sheriff evaded him. Raising both hands in surrender, the Sheriff moved the chair himself. At the new distance of ten paces from the hearth, he would certainly not topple into the fireplace. The satisfied waiter gathered the Sheriff’s empty mug onto the tray and moved on to the next table.

The new location had two major problems: firstly, it was cold due to the extra distance from the fireplace; and secondly, the Sheriff no longer had a private corner all to himself. Not far from him, a group of military-looking fellows were chatting loudly over a meal. The Sheriff looked closer, spotting the tell-tale flash of cloth bandages wrapped under sleeves and collars. These were injured soldiers, temporarily retired from the front lines while they healed. As they ate and talked, snippets of conversation floated into the Sheriff’s awareness.

“... that Eastern Sorcerer... remember when he set the Fire Marshal’s head on fire?”

“... the same fighting style... they even look the same... ”

“... Marshal and his Mirror... ”

The Sheriff frowned. How dare these soldiers mock him with talk of the Fire Marshal? Bad enough that the tavern waiter had to see him nearly stick his hand into the fireplace, but now these soldiers thought that they could comment on such greatness in his presence. Worse yet, these soldiers dared equate some enemy brawler to the power of the Marshal.

“... thought our Fire Marshal was the only one... ”

“... what if the Marshal isn’t strong enough? What if the Mirror wins?”

Rising now in anger, the Sheriff drew a dagger from his belt. He leapt over his own table, crossed the floor in two strides, and held the blade to the loudest speaker’s throat.

“You have no right to spread rumors of your betters! The Marshal has never lost a battle, and he never will,” the Sheriff hissed.

“Of course we can talk about the Fire Marshal. He’s our good buddy. If anything, it’s you who shouldn’t dare comment on him. What are you? Just a failed recruit,” one soldier said, flapping a hand. “Shoo, kid, shoo. Let the real men talk.”

The Sheriff’s eyes widened. His blade stabbed down into the table, barely missing the speaker’s hand. Someone chuckled. The Sheriff lunged for the laughing soldier’s throat, but then he saw his dagger. His hands halted midair, throttling empty space instead of the offender. Instead of piercing the table, the dagger’s blade had crumpled like foil upon impact. The Sheriff retrieved the warped metal, not quite believing his eyes. Everyone knew that steel was harder than wood. How could a wooden tabletop defeat his top-quality dagger? Seeing the Sheriff’s sheer disbelief as he inspected the twisted knife, the other soldiers started chuckling too.

“Bought one of the ol’ Treasurer’s fakes, did you?” one said, voice dripping with condescension. The Sheriff punched him across the jaw. Quick as lightning, he whipped out another dagger from his belt, waving it in the air.

“Quiet! You are all under arrest.” The Sheriff pointed the new blade at each soldier in turn, daring even one of them to argue with him. They smirked at one another and laughed even more.

“Yes sir, your Sheriffness,” said the one who had spoken before, rubbing his sore jaw. After confirming that nothing was severely damaged, the soldier held out his wrists with a smirk. “Is that another lead knife? Are your prisons made of lead, too?”

The Sheriff roughly snapped a set of cuffs around the offered wrists. He had not brought enough cuffs for everyone here. Fortunately, no one tried to run; the Fire Marshal’s soldiers were disciplined enough to obey the arrest order, even if they did not respect the one giving such orders. They continued to tease the Sheriff even while marching to the prisons, ignoring his increasingly frustrated demands for silence.

After stashing the smart-mouthed soldiers where they belonged, the Sheriff marched to the office of one Treasurer and part-time Arms Dealer to inquire about a certain dagger problem.

The Guardian General returned to the Eastern Imperial Court to report: the war had stretched on for almost a month in an uneasy stalemate, each side evenly matched in firepower and manpower. The enemy Fire Marshal would accept nothing less than the total surrender of the True Empire, and in turn the Guardian had upheld his own nation’s independence through every encounter. However, more battles would only lead to more losses; as such, the Guardian recommended that the Eastern Court open negotiations with the Sun King himself.

Although the Guardian was an experienced military commander, and had thus kept troop casualties as low as possible given the circumstances, the civil council of leaders grew impatient. Far from sending an ambassador to the field with a message of peace, their eyes turned internally with a message of war. Mandatory drafts were instated in every Eastern province, forcing anyone able to wield a sword to join the Guardian’s army, while taxes were raised to triple the normal amount.

The Guardian protested these measures fervently, but the Eastern Court would not be swayed. Victory was paramount in their eyes—never mind if that victory cost every life in the East.

After three hours of his entreatments falling upon deaf ears, the Guardian sensed a lost cause. He politely stormed from the council chambers. In the town square outside, a mob of citizens had developed. They held signs and chanted peace slogans, demanding the return of brothers and sons drafted to the war. When the protestors saw the Guardian, they came to him in tears and sorrow.

“Guardian General, you have long protected the people of the East. End the fighting before this war consumes us all,” they pleaded.

“I wish it were that simple. The Western Fire Marshal is a formidable enemy,” said the Guardian. His heart went out to these people, but it was not the place of a mere General to question the will of the Eastern Court.

A bold protester poked the Guardian in the arm. “My cousin said you look the same as the enemy. Is it true? Do you value your family more than your country?”

Dozens of other citizens roared assent, looking to the Guardian expectantly. The Guardian glanced between faces filled with anger and judgement.

“What? Of course not. This is ridiculous. I try to help you people, and this is the thanks I get,” the Guardian grumbled. He grabbed the bold protester by the shoulders. “Listen, you. My family is here, in the East. I have never seen the Western Fire Marshal before in my life. What’s more, even if we were related, I will always put the interests of the people first.”

The protester raised his hands in surrender, while the other citizens shifted back warily. Fear lurked beneath their anger, and it was an expression that the Guardian never wanted to see on the faces of his wards again. He released the protester, brushed some nonexistent dust off the man’s tunic, and then pushed through the mob of citizens. Voices grumbled around the Guardian, but he managed to slip past the crowd onto the open street.

Liquid splashed behind the Guardian. He turned just in time to see an overripe melon splatter against the council chambers. More angry citizens took fruits and vegetables in pockets or baskets, and they hurled these at the council chambers alongside foul insults.

A red tomato shot toward the Guardian’s face. He flung up a hand, snatching it from the air. Despite the force of the throw, the tomato had unbroken skin. The Guardian looked around, but the tomato-thrower was indistinguishable amid the mob. He took a bite, then spat it out with a grimace. Sour tomato.

The fruit slipped from the Guardian’s grasp and burst upon the cobblestones, leaving a lurid red stain. Red juice haloed yellow seeds on a gray backdrop: the colors of the enemy. The Guardian could not blame the citizens for their frustration. They expected a quick victory, yet he had given them a war that crept closer to a siege every day. Such prolonged combat led only to suffering for soldiers and civilians alike.

Untying his horse from a post, the Guardian mounted and rode away in a light gallop. He had been away from the field long enough. Now that protests had begun in even the heart of the homeland, an all-out revolution would not be far behind.