A messenger from the Eastern Army arrived at the Sun Army encampment with a formal declaration of surrender, signed by the Guardian General himself. Astonished by the Fire Marshal’s absolute devotion to—and high praise of—the Sun Kingdom, the Guardian also sent a letter of intent to defect, promising to bring over three-quarters of his troops. Those Eastern soldiers who strongly resisted the ceasefire had been dismissed to return home in disgrace.

The Eastern Guardian rode into Sun Army territory himself, unarmed and accompanied only by a few trusted officers. The Marshal met him with a squadron of elite troops. Dismounting, the Guardian spoke first.

“The Eastern Army will no longer fight for those who revile our contributions. We offer ourselves upon your mercy. We ask only that our families may once again know the peace of a united nation.” The Guardian bowed deeply, but the Marshal raised him with a hand to the shoulder.

“Welcome to the right side, brother.” In front of the elite troops of West and surrendering officers of East, the Marshal returned the salute with equal respect. “Now that our armies are united, there is no force in the world that can stand against us.”

“Brother?” The Guardian’s brows went up.

“In arms, and perhaps in history as well. Many have spoken of our likeness. The mountains are not too vast for two siblings to train under different Sages.” Hope blossomed within the Marshal’s voice. “We shall have to compare tales.”

A curious glimmer came into the Guardian’s eye. “Indeed.”

They returned to camp in high spirits. To celebrate the peace of Eastern and Western armies, the Marshal ordered a feast for the high officers of both sides.

Late into the night of the feast, a messenger from the Eastern Council arrived at the joint encampments of the Eastern and Western Armies. The guards let the messenger in among the festivities, directing him to the main tent where the Marshal and Guardian dined with high-ranking officers of both armies. The messenger held a parchment with the official seal of the Empire, and when he found the recipient, he read the message aloud.

“Cursed be the Guardian General’s name. As the Accused has broken faith with his country, we henceforth declare the Accused to be severed from all attribution of merit or valor, and to be remembered as a Traitor to Empire and Land from now until the ends of time. Be it in our ranks or that of the Rebel King, no power nor station can hide his true nature. Let all heed our warning: a Traitor once is a Traitor always.”

The Guardian slammed his cup on the table. “What nonsense is this?”

The messenger smiled cruelly. “Upon this day, in accord with the Common Law of the Empire, all associated with the Traitor through blood or oath have been executed.”

The Guardian froze. A moment later, he leapt to his feet. His chair crashed to the floor ten paces back from the abruptness of his motion. Snatching the parchment from the messenger, the Guardian read the condemnation for himself. He paled considerably. Excusing himself to the gathered officers, he rushed out of the tent.

The Marshal followed his ally out of the feast, bidding the other officers to continue their celebration in his absence. When the Guardian ordered an attendant to fetch his weapon and rushed in the direction of the stables, the Marshal veered off to visit his own tent. There was no time to don full armor, but he quickly gathered a longbow, arrows, and sword.

The Guardian was just saddling his horse when the Marshal entered the stables. The former still wore in the woolen attire he had worn at the feast, without even a single plate of armor, but he carried a glaive in hand and anger in his eyes. When he saw the Marshal, he stiffened.

“Forgive me for the quick exit, Marshal. I mean no insult to our ceasefire. My wife and children are still in the city. I must know if they have been harmed.”

The Marshal nodded, preparing a horse of his own for travel. “I understand.”

They set off together, the Marshal following the Guardian among unfamiliar paths into the heart of enemy territory. Even at top speed, the Eastern Capital was half an hour’s ride from the feast, and the torchlight cast by the Guardian’s flaming glaive could only illuminate the dark woodland path in a tight circle. When they came within sight of the Eastern Capital, the Guardian extinguished his glaive. The two riders slowed to a walk, allowing their horses to navigate more carefully by starlight and the feel of the ground.

The city wall rose twenty feet high, and it had a solid stone foundation under wooden ramparts. Patrolmen with torches moved along the top of the wall like glowing ants, trailing columns of smoke into the night.

The Guardian stopped with a sharp inhale. Above the gates hung three heads, cast in eerie shadows by the torchlight of the patrolmen: heads from a woman and two young boys.

“Does the Council think murdering a man’s family will stop him? Cowards. They were your people, too. You were meant to protect them! I will slay every last one of you for this,” the Guardian shouted. Fingers tapped against his weapon, and the blade of the glaive ignited once more. Light flooded over the two, painting them an easy target for any bowman; it was fortunate that they had stopped outside of typical shortbow range. The Guardian turned to the Marshal, lowering his voice. “Join me, Marshal. Let us avenge these innocent lives together.”

The Marshal rode in front of him. “Do not be a fool. You may cut down one arrow in flight, but what of a thousand? We are not armed for open battle. You would not reach the wall alive, and your death would come without purpose. We need an army to take the Capital.”

The Guardian’s mouth was a thin line, but after a moment, he lowered furious eyes to the ground. He nodded slowly, turning his horse about. Together, Guardian and Marshal retreated from the city walls.

“Traitor! Go back from whence you came!” Behind them, a soldier on the wall jeered.

The Marshal seized his longbow. Twisting in place, set an arrow to the string. The noisy soldier toppled to the ground far below, and no further insults floated their way.

Guardian and Marshal rode until the city walls could no longer be seen in the distance.

Once they passed the treeline, the Guardian steered his mount off the main road. He threw the burning glaive blade-first into the road, where it stuck upright from the hard-packed dirt. Light bloomed upward from the juncture between blade and shaft, cascading over the road and grassy aisle beyond. The Guardian dropped from his horse as well, collapsing to all fours at the edge of the road. Hands tore at the waist-high grass as he bowed over his knees, and a soft cry tore from his throat.

“I have bargained five innocents for the sake of fifty thousand loyal men, yet even a single life of those dear to me is a heavy price.”

The Fire Marshal dismounted as well, placing a hand upon one shaking shoulder.

“‘As the vassal serves his lord, the commander must serve his country.’ Those bound by duty do not have the luxury of favoring personal ties. You made the right choice.”

A gust of wind swept from the woods to the road, carrying with it the first fallen leaves of autumn. The fluttering leaves swirled about the Guardian and Marshal like a swarm of moths. The Guardian looked up, surrounded by shredded grass stalks, and his green eyes held infinite sadness.

“This I know,” the Guardian whispered. “It does not make the loss of my family any easier to bear.”

“Come, brother.” The Marshal stood back, offering a hand. “Let us give them a pyre worthy of their great sacrifice.”

The loss on the Guardian’s face hardened into resolve. He took the Marshal’s hand.

The Eastern Guardian General knelt before the Sun King’s wooden throne. A green cloak spread about his shoulders like the forest over the northern mountains.

“By the sun whose glory illuminates all the world, I vow to serve the nation’s people under a worthy leader, ever to uphold righteousness in the land.”

The Fire Marshal smiled from the left side of the dais, his usual place by the Sun King’s right hand. In the center, the Sun King was mantled in silver and crowned in gold, and his smile shone as the dawn upon his new vassal. The Clerk who had now become an Advisor drifted behind the throne, lurking like a wisp of morning fog in the Sun King’s shadow.

“Arise, Guardian General. For your great service, I hereby appoint you as the Marshal Who United the East,” the Sun King decreed. Turning to his trusted friend the Fire Marshal, the Sun King nodded with decades of respect. “And you, Fire Marshal—from this day forth, for your past merits, you shall be known as the Marshal Who United the West.”

Both newly named Marshals knelt before the Sun King, the former Fire Marshal at his right hand and the Guardian General at his left, expressing their gratitude as mirror images in respective cloaks of red and green.

The Advisor stepped forth, resplendent in white.

“We are glad for your support, Marshals. We have no doubt that you will fight for the right side, when the time comes,” the Advisor said.

The Marshal in red stood, holding out a gloved hand to his single equal in all the world. The Marshal in green clasped it in his own, rising as well. They shook hands as allies.

“Marshal of the East,” said the one in red, facing his equal and the throne.

“Marshal of the West,” said the one in green, facing his equal and the hall.

Two brothers, united in purpose—as it was meant to be.