The Imperial robes, worn by the highest ranks of the Order, lay on her bed. But Kipling’s looming army dampens the celebration. Each failed manipulation and mistake replays in her mind. Every life she failed to save tarnishes the pristine uniform. A list of failures grows as she tucks the silvery undershirt into the high waist pants. The thick cobalt sash ties around her waist and provides padding. Her white waistcoat glides over her shoulders.

The golden embroidery adds a military flare. She is their commander. An unsettling thought for someone forbidden to engage in battle. Zander knows it's wrong for her to fight. He favours diplomacy over carnage. But her desire for Kipling's blood is too strong to refuse. A wrong must be righted. And she is the only one capable of resetting the scales.

“It is unprofessional to keep your army waiting,” Eclipse calls from the doorway.

“What if I’m not good enough?” she whispers, “what if they’re right?”

“They are not, your doubt only imprisons you. Remember what I taught you?”

“Magic is a reflection of your heart you show to the world,” she smiles. Remembering the bubbling excitement from her first ever manipulation.

“There are no weak hearts in battle. Find your footing, stand your ground, and disarm Kipling. And for the love of the Gods, return home.”

She secures the shimmering cloak around her neck. Her staff feels foreign in her hands. In the mirror, she sees a Mage who would make her mother proud. But also, the one her father feared. The words of the Oath echo in her head:

We fight for those who cannot…Our staff will ever be a beacon, a light for truth, justice, and hope. Glowing in the fog of lies, injustice, and despair… We come and go. We live and die. The elements are constant. They are and always be, forever.

After her tearful goodbyes, Chris escorts her through the courtyard where Lex waits on horseback. He’s poised in his armour on a black stallion with his broad sword on his hip. In an empty hand he holds the reins of a second horse, a white stallion, who waits anxiously at his side.

“I know you hate this, but I need you to hold it together for all our sakes.” She needs him sober, at least this one time.

“Don’t worry, the little lady is safe with me,” his tone is sombre. “And that kitten of yours, she’ll be fine.”

“Nicole is the heir to the enemy throne. If the army—”

“They won’t. I know you guys won’t let that happen.”

“Chris… I want to say that… I am glad I met you—”

“Don’t be starting any of that. Now, Zack and I had a talk earlier and we agreed you should let him and Stone run the army.”

“Are you giving me military advice?”

“Listen,” his words push through her laugh. “Zack will handle the army, me and Eclipse got the palace, all you need to worry about is Kipling. Don’t go above and beyond and get yourself killed.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be reckless,”

“See, that’s the problem. You never know when you are. You just go in there with staff blazing and you think it's normal.”

“Because it is.”

“Moira… I’m serious.” He squeezes her shoulders, “you need to come back alive. Both you and Zack. There’s no other alternative. If you don’t…”

“I’ll try. I mean it, I do. I promise.”

“Gods bless you, Angel,” he kisses her hand then helps her into the saddle. As he passes her the reins, he gazes at her as if it’s the last time. The knot in her stomach coils.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Stone greets her with a warm smile. “If there’s nothing more we’ll head out.”

“Yes, of course,” She glances at Eclipse who sits on the palace steps. She can’t hide behind him anymore. But the vulnerability his absence brings clings to her as they exit the palace gates. They travel through the crowded streets, waving at the spectators who toss flowers and scraps of ribbon at their feet.

“Everyone here is scared. But, if this is our last day, let the soldiers remember them as they were in life; happy and proud.” Their sentiment warms her heart, but her hands twist the leather reins as she spies the army formations outside the Gate. How will they remember her when she’s gone?

The landscape takes on a dangerous appearance with rows of soldiers organized in their deadly ranks. She nods to those saluting her and follows Lex to a tent he refers to as his ‘office'. Inside the officers huddle in groups. The atmosphere is tense. The formalities are cold; they stand off to the side pretending she isn't there.

She's stupid to assume they'll accept her. The space smells like a hot canvas and the stale air weighs heavily on her lungs. She tries to leave but Zack emerges through the tent flap holding a bag of apples. When their eyes meet his mouth curls into a broad smile.

“Morning Your Majesty, hungry?” She declines but follows him where the others stand. The tension eases as Lex explains the plan using a map on a rickety table. “Don’t worry too much,” he whispers, “they’ll come around.”

“Come around?”

“Women aren’t usually allowed in the tent.”

“I didn’t know this is some secret clubhouse.”

“Not anymore; if we aren’t careful all the women will want to know the secret knock.” As the officer’s leave, he leans in: “I hope you realize they’re afraid you’ll kill them. Chris told them tall tales about your abilities. The good news is they’ll probably give you a wide berth when the fighting starts.”

“It’s a start I guess…”

“Don’t let him bring you down Your Majesty, once they see you out there, they’ll realize how truly amazing you are. Boy, stop munching on that core like a starved horse, and get your knights in order.”

“Yes sir!” he salutes then winks at her before exiting through the tent flap.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him in a good mood…”

“There’s nothing like the thrill of the battle to put a spring in a young soldier’s step.” He shoves papers into a chest. “People like Zack find the palace too suffocating. He gets in his moods, but can you blame him? Let’s go, Your Majesty, battle waits for no one.”

She didn’t know he had a playful side to his professionalism. Was that a genuine smile just now? Why did he hide this part of himself? Every day, for months, it’s been the same routine and various versions of the same conversations. She can count on one hand how many times he even implied a joke. But here, in the muddy field he lights up the room.

An attempt to put her at ease. Is this the side Chris sees when they’re together? But for some reason he chooses now, to let her in on his secret. A glimpse of who he is, that she’s never known before. Why can’t he be honest with her, he doesn’t have to keep her at a distance.

Whose fault is that though? And the answer hurts her more than she realises.

They make their stand on the hilltop before the Gate. The soldiers stand in their ranks, poised for the command. Only the snorting of the officer's horses lingers in the air. The anxiousness surrounding her makes the hair on her neck stand straight. Her horse fidgets between Lex and Zack. She doesn’t fit beside them, its clearer now than ever before. People consider Lex a hero because of his actions during the Treason. He saved the royal line, saving her and her father’s life. Even Zack’s the kingdom’s darling for his tournament wins. What has she done?

Survived.

But is that enough, to earn her place beside them?

Across from them, on the opposing hill stands the ocean of blue uniforms of the Bellaverian army. Their ranks are as wide as hers. Archers, lancers, swordsmen, even cannons all stand before her. Never have these two armies fought against each other. A historic moment, to some distant scholar. But where she stands, she dreads the battle call. She can’t spot Kipling in the front lines. Somehow, they’ll have to get through the army to reach him. Beneath them is a valley which will become their graves. The men beside her demonstrate a calm calculated demeanor she can't fathom.

“They are larger than I anticipated.” Lex uses a spyglass to assess the battlefield. “I expected them to engage beyond the valley but here we are at risk of becoming trapped between the hills.”

“So, we wait for them to attack us here?”

“We all can’t fight on this hilltop,” Zack answers, “they'll trap us against the Gate and slaughter us.” She sighs, Kipling is over there somewhere, if they let her go, she’ll find him and settle this once and for all. “Sir,” he points to the advancing army spilling over the hill, “they are trying to force us on level ground.”

“If we retreat, they’ll overtake us as we climb up the hill.”

“Is retreating ever an option Uncle?”

“Right you are, my boy! Once they are in range unleash the arrows, get rid of as many as possible before we engage. Theo’s men will surround and push the enemy to the east of the battlefield. We’ll break their ranks; use our numbers and power to overtake them.”

“Yes sir!” he smiles riding towards the officers.

“You said you wanted casualties?” She asks.

“The more our arrows take out the less we have to.”

“And what happens when they unleash their arrows?”

“We hope their aim isn’t as good as ours.”

“Simply hoping will not do in battle General,” she smirks. The familiar magic bubbles through her body. She ignores his protests as she rides past their front lines; halting halfway between her army and the bottom of the hill. This should be far enough.

The arrows climb into the sky before arching downwards and piercing Bellavere’s front rank. The ranks collapse but more replace the fallen and unleash their arrows in response. Her palms sweat as she swipes the opal across the grass; it blooms crimson, igniting like a match. Her army roars behind her but fall silent as a fire blast cracks across the sky. The arrows take their deadly course but turn to smoldering ash as the flames engulf them. Grey ash floats through the air, turning a mid summer day into a winter wonderland.

Her archers cheer as they cock another arrow. The metallic bellow of the horns signals the charge. The thunder of hoofs rumbles the earth; she burns another cascade of arrows before racing alongside the soldiers. Horses, shouting, and clanging metal resound around her like a chaotic ocean. Zack leads the charge; their eyes meet before he slashes a cloth armored archer. She turns from the blood spray and stares at the opal; Zander, forgive me.

She urges her horse through the throngs of soldiers, wading through them like they’re an unfavorable tide. The valley transforms into a maze. Soon its unclear which way is which, and the edge of the fighting stretches further than she can see. She spies the opposite hilltop; overlooking the carnage is Remo Kipling. A master puppeteer pulling the political strings of their kingdoms. Putting lives at risk for petty revenge. Gripping the staff, she sets her jaw, and she accepts her fate.

She taps the opal along the ground, on the fourth tap the staff hitches; like a fishing hook catching a bite. As she heaves the boulder from the ground, she orders her men to move. They scatter and she hurls the rock across the field; crushing anyone in its path into the mud. The boulder crumbles to pebbles as she reaches the thick of the fighting. Her horse bucks as the light armored foot soldiers swarm them. Its sheer will power and prayer that she manages to stay on; clubbing as many of them as she can reach. They force her to smash, jab and kick them away; it isn’t graceful, but she breaks free.

Armored soldiers protect the base of the hill. Once more she ignites her opal and charges them. They stand firm, clutching their heavy swords and brace for impact. Move dammit. She locks the staff under her arm but they don’t flinch. Her horse jerks, trips, and throws her from the saddle. He tumbles over the mud, slamming into one of them; crushing him under his weight.

Another soldier lunges at her but falls into the fire. The flames lick the red glowing steel and hellish screams echo from inside the helmet. The rest don’t break their rank; whether it’s duty or fear, she can’t tell. But she darts past the flames and doesn’t stop running. The smoky air burns her lungs. Her feet slip from the ash dusting the grass. Every fiber and muscle aches; straining themselves to push forward. Each nail bends backwards as she claws at the dirt. When her arms are about to give out, she reaches the summit.

Waiting for her is Kipling with his hand resting on his sword’s hilt.