The stalemate stretched on, bringing more casualties with each passing day. Cannonfire boomed in the distance, a perpetual rumble of thunder and destruction, tearing swaths in the forest to splinter the Eastern Army’s defensive barricades. Eastern soldiers responded with arrows and steel, but no amount of enthusiastic spear-shaking could bridge the technological gap between the two armies.

The Guardian General sat in the Eastern Army’s command tent, coating the handle of a recently repaired glaive in fireproof paint. It was his tenth polearm in as many weeks; the blade had been salvaged from one previously broken, but the handle had been repurposed from a standard-issue spear. The enemy Fire Marshal had an uncanny eye for locating him every time both took to the field, clashing in force and fire enough to shatter weapons and rend armor.

A breeze shook the tent, setting the heavy cloth flaps of the entrance aflutter. The Guardian glanced up. Footsteps approached in the distance, and soon a voice called from outside.

“General, dinner is here,” said the voice.

“Enter.” The Guardian set his glaive aside.

The chief doctor stepped inside the tent, carrying a bowl of watery porridge. He was followed closely by the manager of supplies and the master of scouts.

“Ah, good comrades. Sit.” The Guardian swept a hand to the side. “What brings you to my door?”

The three officers sat on low stools to either side of the Guardian. The doctor set the porridge before the Guardian. As the Guardian began to eat, the doctor spoke in a haggard croak.

“Casualties from the last battle are worse than ever. Nearly a quarter of the new recruits were injured, and half of those may not last the night. Two stealth units also ran afoul of the enemy’s fire-traps. Only seventeen of two hundred survived, and they all have severe burns. They may never be able to fight again.”

“I am not surprised.” The Guardian stirred the remaining half of his porridge with the spoon. “The Council’s latest draft almost doubled our numbers, but the new conscripts are little better than children—either too young or too old, and altogether too inexperienced for the front lines. They can barely swing a sword, much less hold formation. Their lack of discipline endangers the veterans.”

The supply manager leaned forward. “That is not all. Our supply wagons still deliver at the same speed, but the larger army is eating through the food three times as quickly as before. This rate of consumption cannot be sustained. Within two months, the New Capital’s grain reserves will be exhausted.”

“If we are low on supplies, the Sun Army must be suffering as well,” the Guardian mused. He set aside the empty porridge bowl. “Sun Army supply lines must extend far between the Old Capital and our borders. Ours only travel a few tens of miles between here and the nearest supply depot. We may yet outlast them.”

The supply manager shook his head. “The shortage is worse for us. The western expanse has been cultivated into farmland since ancient times. Its vast plains and rivers nourish bountiful crops, but our people must carve a living from the wild forests and the sea. Furthermore, our cities have always relied on the Old Capital’s grain stores during past shortage and famine. Our own reserves could not hope to reach that capacity for several years.”

The scout master took a map from his sleeve and spread it across the tent floor.

“The Sun Army rotates its active troops with reserves at garrisons to the north, south, and west of the capital.” He pointed to each location as he spoke. “Injured regiments swap with fresh ones on a regular basis, leading to a smaller but more efficient army at all times. They are well organized for the possibility of a longer engagement, while we brought our full force from the start. The Sun Army may be smaller, but its men are organized and well-trained.”

As the officers spoke, the weary lines on the Guardian’s face deepened. The news was grim, but grimmer still was the knowledge that they had only problems without solutions.

“What options do we have?” the Guardian asked, looking to each of his subordinates in turn.

The doctor glanced at the scout master, but the latter shook his head slightly. The supply manager dragged a hand over his face, staring at the floor. His mouth moved silently for a time, but then he spoke.

“To fight without sufficient food is certain death for our men.”

No one dared comment after that, but the same thought pressed upon all of their minds.

After the three officers were gone, the Guardian moved to his desk and picked up a pen.

One morning in late autumn, the Sun Army patrol seized an enemy soldier at the western edge of the neutral zone. They captured the enemy alive and dragged him to the Marshal at once. The man was a messenger from the Eastern Army, and he carried a letter written in the ancient script of the Sages. The Marshal took the letter, recognizing the seal of the Guardian General upon it, and retreated to his tent to muse over the contents.

The Guardian explained the situation: he had been ordered to take the Marshal’s head and drive back the invading armies within a fortnight. If he could not, he would be replaced by another general. The note ended bitterly: “You will no doubt win a victory without merit. My colleagues are not your match, and their defeat would be no worthy triumph for a warrior of your caliber. If you are no coward, let us two decide this conflict at dusk, one against one, now and for all time.” A set of coordinates followed, detailing the location of a small clearing in the forest between the two army encampments.

The Marshal chuckled aloud at this note. “Can it be that your council is not content with a mere draw, but must hasten to their own demise? You must think me a fool to walk into such an obvious trap.”

A map of the region was pinned along one wall of the Marshal’s tent. He inspected the terrain that the Guardian had chosen. Gloved fingers brushed over the proposed meeting coordinates.

“If you surrounded this clearing, at most a few hundred lightly armored men could hide among the treetops and underbrush. Any more would be seen or heard from afar. One of my elite infantry divisions could crush such an ambush in mere hours. Surely you know this.”

The Marshal considered further.

“If it is a trap and I send troops, then the Sun Army wins. If you are truly there alone and I send troops, then I would secure a victory unworthy of merit. Yet...” A satisfied gleam came into his eye. “If you are there alone, and I arrive alone as well, the battle will be no different from our other ones. If you set a trap, and I arrive alone... well, my single-handed defeat of your ambush should prove both cowardice and weakness on your part.”

In the same ancient script, the Marshal wrote a quick confirmation. He handed this to the messenger. Victory or defeat of a worthy opponent should be determined by prowess alone; the Eastern Council had no place interfering in this battle.

“Take this to your leader,” said the Marshal, “and tell him that I will grant his wish.”

Come nightfall, the Marshal clad himself in a lightweight set of armor—though it gave less defense than full plate, it allowed better ease of motion. He also brought a horse, longbow, arrows, a sword, and a sturdy spear into the forest. The Sun Army patrolmen would have normally questioned anyone leaving or approaching the encampment, but the Marshal’s passing would not be disputed by his own subordinates.

The Marshal came to a small clearing amid a stand of pine trees. The forest was silent but for the sound of rustling needles. He circled the area to search for signs of an ambush. No trace of concealed soldiers appeared. Only the Guardian stood in the center of the clearing with a set of twin swords in hand. Torchlight cascaded from atop a tall wooden pole stuck in the ground, and a great black horse with a white nose was tied to a tree twenty paces outside the clearing.

The Marshal dismounted and stationed his own horse by a tree. He left the longbow, arrows, and spear tied to the saddle, keeping only the sword on his belt and the armor on his back. As an afterthought, he left his helmet as well; fighting in the darkness would be more practical if he retained a full field of vision, rather than the limited view granted by the slit in his visor. The Marshal stepped into the clearing, and two enemies circled as one whole.

Marshal and Guardian fought now as they had countless times before: similarly skilled, evenly matched. Sparks and moonlight flashed upon their swords, and the scent of crushed pine needles rose from beneath leaping feet. In speed and strength, in force and finesse, they danced across branches and flat ground as equals. Neither held back, yet nor could either could gain the upper hand. They wove in and out, blades and limbs flashing to attack or defend in an intricate rhythm that could have been choreographed, so well did each anticipate the other’s style.

In the end, the Guardian leaned against a tree, breathing heavily. The Marshal sat on his heels upon the ground several paces away, similarly gasping for air. Two short swords and one longer sword lay on the leaf litter next to their respective owners. The Marshal removed one gauntlet and brushed a hand over his head. He found no injury, though his tied hair felt shorter at the top than before. A lucky swing must have clipped the edges.

“Well,” said the Marshal, voice airy with the exhilaration of a duel well fought, “despite your efforts, my head is still attached.”

“It would be a shame to waste such talent,” the Guardian replied, sinking down to rest as well. The ghost of good humor appeared in the lines around his eyes. He leaned back against the tree trunk, dusting off clumps of soil from an unlucky tumble. Sticky pine sap had smeared across one of his black armor plates. He flicked his fingers over the affected area, banishing the smear in a wisp of pale green.

“The reverse is also true,” said the Marshal, and the seriousness of those words was enough to draw the Guardian’s inquisitive gaze away from his own armor. The Marshal jabbed a finger at the other. “Your skill is wasted serving a Council that neither heeds your advice nor understands your capabilities. A true leader should recognize and use any talent in his followers.”

The Guardian scoffed. “In all the world, is there such a leader?”

“In all the world, there is but one.” A faraway look came into the Marshal’s ember-bright eyes. “Behold—my Sun!” The Marshal waxed poetic on the virtues of the Sun King’s leadership: of its glory that outshone the very stars, of the singular purpose brighter and purer than any before, and of the promise of a brave new future for the Empire and the world beyond. Such was the perfection that only the most loyal of followers could perceive.