Blinding Light

[Wolfe]

I
t was a scene well entrenched within the deepest recesses of my mind, a recurring memory that simply would not fade away. A dream that came to me often. A past constantly in pursuit of the present.
That day was a cold one. I remember freezing. Shivering in the frost-filled air, clinging on to what little warmth we had left. Holding fast to ideals that no longer rang true. Ideals that evaporated in the face of reality. Intangible. Irrecoverable.
Insane.
We were just two children, then, running away from the cruel tragedies of the past. Just us, crawling across the barren landscape, holding on to shattered remnants of hope. She was my best friend. My only friend.
I remember that look in her eyes, too. Pleading, I think it was.
“Won’t you come with me?”
Her bloodstained armor gleamed an ashen shade of red, the snow below her glowing crimson. There was death in the air, but a fragile hope covered her face. I remember that hope being stronger. It once held an unbreakable quality to it, conveyed a sense of defiance. It still did, I suppose. Months of disillusionment had done little to sustain the feeling, but it was still there, clinging to life. I could sense her trembling a little, then, but it wasn’t from the cold.
She reached out her hand, as if to clasp mine. It was her offering of another chance.
Had I taken it, perhaps I would have known happiness. She offered to me sanctum, a gate into a better future.
Her lips moved, doubtlessly trying to convince me to leave behind the past for something better. I don’t blame her for that.
Gunshots rang in the distance. Her voice quivered with worry.
“Come on, it’s just a little farther…we’ll be safe there, I p-promise!”
I stared up at her, my lips shaping into a sad smile.
“You’re destined for better things. Go, and do what I could not.”
I had already turned away and began walking when she called out to me:
“Take care, will you?”
I faded into the flurry of ice, leaving her there, the howling wind her only answer.
There are many things from that day that appear only in fragments to me, or are clouded by lapses in my memories. But no matter how many times I relive it, one thing always appears clear to me.
She changed the moment I left her, losing the last shreds of her hopes. She cast off the broken promises she had clung on to for so long. From then on, I knew her no longer.
Of that I’m sure.
I
VELLACROIX
“And so it is declared henceforth that the nation of the Lowlands, previously a province of the Kingdom of Two Segesticas, will rise as a sovereign nation, governed for its own people, by its own people.”
- Instrument of Surrender, declaring an end to the 11 Years’ War
Had the Kingdom of Two Segesticas known peace at some point during its thousand-year history, perhaps its people would have greeted the cessation of hostilities with jubilant cheers and joyous celebration. Yet they had rung no church bells; they had not raised their voices in song. Peace was a concept foreign to these people, who had borne the burden of their oppression for generations.
Here was a land that thrived on the very essence of war. The ruling classes lent their support on the basis that it consolidated their power; the clergy because it allowed them to tighten their stranglehold on the common people beneath them. Even the monarchy, whose power was unchallenged within its domain, enjoyed immense prestige with each successive victory. Nonetheless, the state executioners always found their fair share of victims whenever military defeat brought forth those foolish enough to express their dissent. They were, in essence, first servants to the crown.
Did the people who ruled over us ever realize that they were the root of so much suffering? It would be unjust to claim that evil pervaded their ranks like trees in a forest. The people who inhabit this world are rarely so simple, their motives often complex and unique. Labeling the reasons that drive a person to steal and kill as diabolical might begin to explain the depth of the subject.
Life may have been somber, but it was in no way unbearable. People seek out their happiness at any cost, no matter their circumstance. To that end, they turn away from all the tragedy in the world, all of the evil pervading its surface, in order to enjoy the wretched time they have in this life.
Many had drawn the conclusion that Segestica was a nation built on the graves of its people, yet few acted to rectify the situation. Willful ignorance had kept the regime in power, with all of its fractures and flaws. Imperfections that might be considered justified, given how nothing in this world is pure. Yet the cracks ran deeper than the surface, a tangled, twisted web of lies intricately spun and fabricated to deceive. I maintain that it was truly incomprehensible for any to fathom just how corrupt the ruling classes had become. They served none but themselves, placing the interests of a few above any else. So thus the government was in that time a servant to privilege, and little else. Not even the fires of war could change that.
Our people were once those who thirsted for change, and when that thirst was renewed by the injustices they suffered in every day of every year of their miserable lives, they turned to the violence all too familiar to them. But this war was different, a departure from what people had so arrogantly believed to be an uncontested triumph, furthering the progress of the human race. It was familiar indeed. Familiar in that brother fought brother, that people so close to oneself became murderers in service of an ideal. But this war was different, too. This revolution stacked the streets high with the corpses of heroes, made the rivers run red with the blood of martyrs. Monuments to the carnage we had wreaked upon ourselves, bloody and horrible. The death and destruction once confined to foreign lands now became apparent in our own lives. Change came, that change which the people had wished so badly for. But it came in the form of death, and brought with it hatred and strife. It did little but draw more blood from the suffering people, taking from them their lives, and their dreams.
So horrible was it all that the aristocracy itself was shaken to its very core. But when time came to decide whether to embrace the chance at a better future or return to a troubled past, they chose incorrectly. For all who those died, we have naught but a sea of gravestones to remember them by.
Our tyrants believed that it would be an end to it all, that we had been fully convinced that there was no path but this one. And we believed it too, for a time. For a time that thirst for change had been satiated with blood, from both our enemies and our own. For a time we had been subdued, suffering in silence, not wanting to repeat the mistakes of our past. And we accepted all the hardships that had previously been so hard to bear, for now we had seen with our own eyes what tragedy should befall us if we refuse.
The leading revolutionaries were tried and executed, a bloody affair that attempted to make an example of our former heroes. Many were glad to see them gone.
But though time heals the wounds of griefs, it cannot erase the scars that mark our pride. Our pride to have the same things, be granted the same opportunities in our lives. That reach for equality, an arm extended forward to something better. For a time this feeling had been muted, cast aside to a dark corner, never to emerge from behind the crimson veil of war. People are forgetful creatures, eager to forgive and make amends, eager to make the same mistakes as their ancestors did. However forgetful we are, however, there was no denying our greatest wish, our most noble. Our wish to be human. And Sylvos knows that people will do anything to see their wishes granted.
Time, too, was something that favored the tides of change. Looking back, it was an inevitability. Kingdoms rise and fall, empires are built and destroyed, washed away by the ebb and flow of time. I am sure that the tyrants who ruled over us found power to be a fickle servant.
Our new revolution only succeeded because the passage of time had witnessed them grow complacent, all too sure of their own might.
They sat in their castles, collecting their tithes and tributes, while the world around them began to change. While we, the revolutionaries, heralds of a new age, slowly gathered our strength.
Did we really style ourselves as heroes to be remembered across the pages of history? If that is so, we certainly paid the price for our naivety.
We had begun the quest for freedom with a series of triumphs. It had seemed like the old order would fall, completely swept away by the awe of a new age. But they came to their senses, all too late to hold on to power but soon enough to ensure that so many of our own fell with them. They did not go down without a fight.
At the battle of the Dawnglade, ten thousand men lost their lives in a matter of weeks. The soil soaked in blood, every tree adorned with a body. Mud spattered across skin. Everywhere, the dead outnumbered the living.
On the final day, a torrent of rain fell from the skies, soaking the blasted land below in its cold fury. It was not enough to wash away our sins. The fighting continued.
In Sanctis, fire arced across the sky, setting alight the land and sea, turning civilization into rubble, buildings burning away into nothing. The ashes of a broken city reminding us what we had lost. Splintered frames standing vigil over the blasted landscape, before crumbling too into dust. People fighting, and dying, dying, dying.
Across windswept plains and frozen steppes the fighting raged. Crimson and white, blood and snow. All of it coming together. All of the light lost to the dark, the warmth fading away to the frost. There was no fleeing the sickly smell of sulfur.
This conflict taught us much. We learned from it hardship, and the necessity of sacrifice. We learned that victory must be purchased with blood.
Piece by painstaking piece.
Behind us we left many things. We dedicated ourselves to this cause, this fledgling movement that had come from no past and seemingly possessed no future. Into it we poured out our dreams, and paid its toll with our suffering. Fighting ravaged the land, and took with it the lives of our people. Across all of the Lowlands, there is scarcely a man, woman, or child who has not lost someone to the cause. Where once people lived now lie ruined farms, barren lands, and towns decrepit of inhabitants.
An entire generation of people fell to the war. A generation of scientists, diplomats, and free thinkers. A generation that we needed to lead us into tomorrow.
A martyr may inspire, but the dead cannot lead the living.
These people, friends and family, brothers and sisters, fathers and sons, were all lost to us.
Such is the price of freedom.
Was it worth it?
Even as our leaders and ambassadors discuss the terms of peace, I seem to possess no answer to that question. We have lost too much, shed too much blood, and burned away so many of our hopes for this one infinitesimal spark of light. What it is worth, of course, depends wholly on the future that we use it to build.
As I stare at the hellish landscape around me, I cannot help but wonder what she would think of what I’ve done.







II
ASTER
The fate which has been sealed
Unto us, for our hate
Which we could not satiate
It revealed to us
Neither healed nor mended
That this strife would be our end
Ending us before we could know
The peace that comes and goes
With the breaking of each new dawn
- Mercuria, The Ballad of War

There are days for glory, and others for celebration. Days where the sun shines bright, ones where the sky is dotted with the gentle figures of clouds, pure white set against heavenly blue.
For us, this day was not one of them.
Tragedy always seems to mute the colors of the world, like a grey cloak that dulls the hues of life. One that keeps happiness out rather than cold.
I am sure that whatever awaits those lost to this world is far better than the hellish existence that we live. Our lives are those which are constantly tainted by tragedy, marred endlessly by loss. Our suffering knows no bounds. People die all the time, don’t they? I’ve always liked to think that they are happier in their new home, perhaps gazing down benevolently at the wretched people who still trudge across the world beneath them.
I don’t think that I always thought that way. In times gone past, I remember having dreams. Dreams meant for the world that we live in. I believed that we could make something of the world, that we could make a better future from the bits and pieces given to us. That fate was not absolute, that we determined our own destinies from the actions we took. That we were capable of free thought, and that we possessed the power to will change upon the paths that we were meant to walk.
Was I truly wrong?
I’m not sure if that’s even a valid question. If you try to bring reason to humanity and its actions, you will be driven mad. For there is no rhyme or reason to the way we act. It is such, and always will be. So that the world we live in can bear such kindness next to all of its tragedies. So that shadows can trace every hope that burns bright. We are constantly defying logic, irrational creatures that we are.
So many things that I once held absolutely in my mind are whole no longer, bits and pieces null and void in the face of the tragedy that I have seen.
If there is any truth that I may speak without a shred of doubt, it’s that if your mind is set to serve a higher calling, you’d better have the strength to hold on to it.
I was weak. For when my dreams first met the brutal reality that we live in, they were scattered and frayed beyond repair. I couldn’t keep them safe, sheltered from the storm.
Doomed to lay there helpless as my dreams lay dying. All that I stood for consumed in an inferno of hatred. All my loss meaningless in the grand scheme, a sick joke in a sick world. These hopes were ripped from my soul, and I could do little but watch.
For your own sake, it must be best to die early, before you can see that which you stood for being shattered by cold, cruel reality. That circumstance is the one under which these people lost their lives.
How noble must it be to die for a cause.
Their deaths weren’t meant to be. It was an era of peace which we supposedly lived in, the bloodshed of the past left behind us. But violence pursues men like a hungry predator. It sustains itself on our ambition, our lust for power. It lives wherever pride does.
The procession passes the corner I’m standing on, the coffins escorted by soldiers clad in black. Though they are in uniform, they are so wretched, scarred, bent and broken. Tragedy is etched across their faces; the subdued cadence of footsteps reminding us that time wants for no one. As they fade away into the dreary afternoon day, it feels like they are traveling to another world, so detached from the one that we live in. They march, and glide, like phantoms out of the past, ethereal in their passage.
A soldier’s life, however noble its cause, is one marred by misfortune and disaster. To have to kill for a cause, to be forced into fighting for your beliefs, slaughtering for the sake of a dream – wouldn’t that prove to anyone the depravity of the world? So much as we honor them, those noble few who take up arms to defend our values, their story is still so tragic. For they have seen the all the horrors of war, had to fight against foes and face the demons that lie within. Surely, they are as disillusioned as the rest of us are.
We are all so weary. So tired of bloodshed, wishing for something good to happen. Wanting to revel in the intricacies of life yet finding them broken by either the tragedy of the past or the terror of the present. We turn our eyes to tomorrow, where we hope our prayers will be answered, when we yearn for all of the mistakes of yesterday to be gone. But so long have we been disappointed by what the future holds, trampling over what few dreams we have left.
We are a people starved of happiness, for whenever it comes it is so quickly forgotten behind the specter of some new misfortune.
Our people jumped into this war, lured in by promises of new freedom. They held out their hands, pledged their hearts and minds to this crusade for justice, and lost everything.
Some like to claim that they received something in exchange for their sacrifice. They paid a heavy price for it, this hope that was so fragile. But the world stepped on that hope, too, breaking it like war breaks men.
There is nothing to accompany the breaking of hope; no boom of cannon fire, no slick sound of steel ending another life. Only the horrible silence that screams so loud but is never truly heard. A final request. A desperate plea.
For some like me, that hope has already been broken. The fighting continues, and each day, more people are caught in its grasp. Some say that people can never truly change.
I think I too believe that now.

III
VELLACROIX
“In sorrow and in joy, we are accompanied by those who live their lives around us. For broken people like us, only companionship can mend our broken hearts and broken dreams.”
- Marcus Teri, Segestican priest
Alone. That which I am. That which I have become.
I am alone in my sorrow, a black veil that shrouds my world. Above it, time still marches on, irrespective of individuals who cannot move on with it. Individuals who are caught in their grief, remembering days that have gone far past the present.
Silence, the suffocating silence. Where have the voices all gone? Why have they left me behind?
Why have they left me to suffer alone? To wherever I cast my reach, I find but emptiness in the dark. Those who accompanied on our journey have found their destinations. They are safe now, embraced by the light of the heavens. Safe from the torments of the hell beneath. Secure in that they set forth their lives in service of a greater cause.
I have left the somber procession of caskets in attempt to reconcile their deaths within myself. I will remember them, heroes who have fallen yet still stand in their place above the living. The pain of losing them is something that vanished long ago, dulled ceaselessly by the passage of time. But so long as I hold their memories in my heart, that pain will not leave me. It is a price I am willing to pay.
Here, staring out at the sea and sky that open before me, I feel closer to those whom I have lost. A stronger emotion than that which would have been evoked than had I chosen to stand among a sea of black and stare into empty eyes devoid of life. The dead have moved on. It seems as if we should as well. But then again, such matters are easier said than done.
Here I lay in my solitude, seeking solace yet finding none. A thousand days, a thousand nights, innumerable expanses of time, have all passed me by. And yet, I cannot quell the sorrow that still lies within me. That sorrow that tears and rends, rends and tears from one their soul, their dreams, their belief in all the world. Is it possible to have all that you are torn from you and still foster some sort of hope?
I have given in to the darkness that surrounds me. So that I have renounced more than my own faith. I have let go of hers.
I have resigned myself to the absolute truth that the world favors neither justice nor light. It is a principle steeped in sorrow that speaks of defeat at the hands of fate. Another individual holding the broken pieces of his hope. I have cast them aside, so much like the world did unto me.
Had there been some sort of reason in the workings of our world, she might still stand by my side. She might still share the sensations of freedom, of hope that I no longer have. But she was another casualty to it all. Another kindred soul consumed by the fires of fate. So the world turns anew, and each new day is greeted by a dawn that has been stolen from people who still have life left to live and light still to give.
She leaves me behind, even as I have still not found a purpose to my wanderings.
If her light was given a physical form, I can envision it as a ray of hope. Gentle luminescence, guiding light. Nonetheless, if I ever find my way out of my grief, it will not be aided by that same light. I will burn bright with a thirst for vengeance. A blaze, an inferno, the broken pieces of my own soul recast in a new fire.
But right now, in the present that I live, I have not the spark to ignite that fire. Grief snuffs out my would-be anger, the tinder dampened by tears.
I am crying. For the first time and surely not the last. The tears stream steadily down scarred features, and I curse myself for my weakness. Catyleia and the others will shed tears for me. For the living, there is little meaning in it but an admission of defeat. She may have tolerated it, but I will not.
The world may have broken my beliefs, but it has not broken me. All that it has done has carved away the parts worth keeping. The cruelty that I have faced has taken from me any semblances of good.
I am wretched. I am the remnants of what was once a noble soul. I am the final bastion of beliefs that could not breathe in the toxic atmosphere of this forsaken existence. I am the rage and the sorrow. I am the storm and the fury. The night that chases and steals away. The dawn that promises. The dream that breaks and has broken. I am the fear that remains even with the passing of the terror. I am that which still lives in the shadow, the shadow that is cast by blinding light. The justice that blinds, blinds like light, blind itself to what wrath it has wrought. Wrung of my emotions and sympathies. Whatever that I have become, and although I am lost within myself, I still know.
I know that I still am.
So long as my vile heart still beats out its cadence, so long as I still live to draw breath, I will continue to create the change that I wish upon that which surrounds me.
This change is not my own; rather, the sum of experiences gathered over a lifetime of sorrow, of joy, and of living. These people that I have met, scorned, trusted, feared, loved – all of them have shaped me regardless of what I would have otherwise wished for myself. These pieces, of all colors and shapes and lucidities, are the tinted lens through which I see the world. The color to my vision.
So even though I may view her great ideals with disdain, I cannot help that they are the end to which I strive for.
The sky and the clouds, in all their majesty, appear to be whispering to me, somehow privy to the blackened thoughts that fill my mind. They whisper in her voice, as if she is sitting in her place in the sky, carefully watching over me.
“So what will you do?”
I know very little of what the future holds for me. But that matters not. I will take my fate from time’s grip to shape in my own hands. The future that I sought – the one that we all looked for. Their memories in my mind, guiding my hand. I am them and they are me; intertwined threads of fate that tie individuals together.
Binding ties, and promises made. Oaths that death could not destroy. These are what I will live for, the dreams that lend my empty existence some kind of purpose. Something to strive for.
Is that not noble in itself?
It is a different sort of heroism, a persistent drive to keep memories from fading into oblivion.
They will judge me for the crimes that I must commit in order to do so. But these are my crimes, done by my own hand. Guided by my own thoughts. Carried out by my own being.
She will not look favorably upon it all. I doubt that any of my former companions will. But all that I do is for myself. I must make something from this life that has been granted to me, delivered into my reaching hands.
Preserve that which has been lost. I will stand vigil over their dreams with a vengeance. This is my retort to a world that laughs at the feeble individuals caught within its claws. How we suffer in our living, each day bringing new torments. I will fight it, the forces of time and fate, those which cause the memories of mortals to crumble across the ages.
Whether or not I will succeed in exacting vengeance upon the world that has wronged so many does not change my will to do so. It is something I will hold to my soul until my final breath. A promise that I make to myself.
Lost in my thoughts of retribution, the skies have been drained of their azure hue. Time ticks on. Again, I have been left behind as an individual who still fights the phantoms of the past. The pure white of the clouds has darkened into a shade far more sinister, ever reflective of the world they pass over.
I whisper back to them an apology. Surely the first of many still to come. I hope she will forgive me for the future that I am about to create.
I stand, a lone figure before the ocean glimmering with the last lights of day.
Their beliefs have given me much. A purpose and a dream. But they have not given me one thing.
As I turn away and walk from the sea, I am still alone.




IV
SAFIRA
“The governing body of the state known as Galatia has always existed as somewhat of a mystery to its surrounding nations. Within the hallowed passages of the palace at Valithria, primarch and councilmembers are locked in an eternal struggle for power. So long as the tenuous balance remains intact, the people of this northern land will prosper, for it is this battle that is waged between the higher powers that prevents either one from turning their attentions to those beneath them.”
- Alma II, The History of Galatia
“Milady, do you honestly expect your people to accept without hesitation every blasted one of your schemes?!”
“Of course, Sturm. They made me primarch for a reason.”
The door slams, and after the angry footsteps have faded from earshot, the only sounds in the room are the melodies of birdsong. Spring has come to Galatia, and while the flowers have yet to blossom, the land hums with the vibrant energies of life. Beyond the world that we’ve subjugated still lies a vast wilderness, and though we may have built walls and fortifications to deter any would-be intruders, it seems nature will always find a way back in.
It’s been four years since I fled across the border, and assumed power as primarch. It was a false power I inherited from my father, a crown of copper. Across the years, the Prime Minister has taken the primarch’s old place as head of state. I am here to play my part, and nothing else. My situation is the product of an obsolete tradition, and I am useless to my people.
Of course, if you were to ask anyone under the government’s employ, it was a supposed miracle that they rescued me as I stumbled half-dead across the frozen wastes that divide the continent. I’m not wholly certain of what they expected, but all they found was a girl bearing armor with a Rhygardian crest, who had thrown away her identity for promises that had gone unfulfilled. It didn’t matter to them, because all they needed was a puppet to pacify the people’s need for a leader.
A powerful figure who would revive and reinvigorate our stagnating nation.
…or so they tell me, but I’d like to make the assertion that I’ve lost more vitality sitting idle than fighting in any battle.
Needless to say, if there ever existed a commendation for irritability, I’m sure the bureaucrats under my command would be the annual recipients until their deaths.
Speaking of annoyances, Sturm appears to have left me with another stack of text, the latest addition to the enormous volume of paperwork sitting on my desk. There’s no doubt they’re little more than reports by bumbling administrators and news on the latest diplomatic scandals. A waste of thought to write and surely a waste of my time to read. At this point, I’m almost certain that my own government intends to stifle my ambitions by confining me to battlefields of ink and parchment.
If anything, they seem to be afraid of repeating the glorious exploits of my late father, the infamous Draco Rhygarde. The man was a fool, just like all the rest. I don’t think he ever completely understood how sick and depraved the world around truly him was. He carried that noble ignorance all the way to his grave. Unfortunately, his failures during his tenure as a commander weigh rather heavily on the system’s impression of me.
Those who knew me before I ran off would say that my experiences have made me bitter, resentful of the world we live in. I wouldn’t say they’re wrong, though it annoys me to no end that they have misunderstood my pragmatism as an overly-negative view of my surroundings.
As for Aster himself, I’m not sure what to feel anymore.
He arrived alongside a veritable army of rabble, their uniforms salvaged and dirty, and weapons in poor condition. Not soldiers, but militia. It’s difficult to see how they saw themselves fit to retake their homes. But I suppose that’s why they came here to enlist the help of the primarch.
To his great and everlasting credit, my father did grant them all the aid he could offer. Surely he was entranced by their noble struggle?
So it was, the beginning of that year’s summer saw a massive force of men, equal parts Segestican peasant and Galatian liberator, march south into the battlefield that the Lowlands had become. At the head of this army was none other than Draco the First.
But unbeknownst to the soldiers and to the royal intendants at home, one heir-to-the-throne had snuck away, alongside her revolutionary companion. It was him who satisfied her imaginations of valor and courage; him who poured out his soul to me, untainted and incorruptible at the time. His name was Aster. He convinced me that our actions were righteous, and surely to be backed by divine favor.
And that illusion held, at least for a time. We saw our banner raised high upon the ramparts of enemy fortresses, signaling our triumph over the wicked oppressors of free people. Resistance to us crumbled like waves before the shore. We were the light, and through our actions, the darkness was purged before us.
…if only the world could be seen in such stark contrasts of black and white.
All wars are messy. People lose to its ravages many things: families, friends, hopes, and dreams. Before long, all of our heroism, our notions of ethics and morality, lay broken like the bodies of the people before us. I think we all realized it at some point. Some just chose to lay that responsibility to the wayside. Ignorance can be terrifying.
On a side note, we lost that war.
My pleasant reminiscence is abruptly interrupted when an aide bursts through the entrance of the room, frantically waving a sheet with countless words scribbled on to it.
“Forgive the intrusion, milady, but-“
“Hmm? What is it this time?”
Still red in the face from physical exertion, she begins to rattle off a list of statistics, all but useful to a person of my rank. Clearly, this was information that was better off going to the administration beneath me. I had begun the arduous task of counting every brick in the back wall when a jarring phrase captured my attention.
“Wait. Did you say Segestica?”
“Y-yes, there’s been a revolution to the south, and the entirety of the Lowlands have declared themselves as independent republics. The terms of peace were signed as the crowns of Segestica acquiesced to the demands of the new republic two weeks ago.”
Snatching the report away from her, I whisper:
“Out. And not a word of this to anyone.”
Hurriedly, she leaves the office. I lock the door behind her.
Behind it, the sounds of nature are drowned out beneath the furious scribbling of pen on paper.
 
V
ASTER
“Only in peace do the horrors of war make themselves known.”
- Ferdinand Beauvais, Segestican general
The war was over, but the real fighting had begun. We had stood in solidarity against our oppressors, making countless sacrifices for our fellow man. On countless battlefields we had proven that we were willing to compromise, if only so that the things we believed in could see another dawn.
These dreams were many things. They were ones of peace. They were the hope that we could find another solution to our problems, the hope that war had become too brutal to sustain. They were the sun setting on the old age of violence and slaughter, the daybreak of something new, the daybreak of something different. They were the hopes of an entire generation, a generation that now lies dead upon the ruined earth. These dreams were my own.
But now, in a shattered cathedral hastily commissioned as a temporary parliament, we had already begun the process of tearing those very things apart.
Is this what we bled for?
The incessant cacophony of accusation dies down for a moment as a figure at the far end of the room stands up. Silence glosses over the room as realization dawns across the forum. Thomas Vellacroix, the great orator. The voice of our revolution, and decorated hero of the Lowlands. His words are marred by a cold hatred, a distrust born from hardship. He was just like the rest of us, once. I suppose misery exacts a different toll from each one of its victims.
His form is scraggly and emaciated from the years of famine that we all know far too well, and the scars covering his face speak volumes of his own suffering. Yet despite his broken appearance, in a way he holds a certain dignity to him. Like the rest of the people in the room, he lived when so many others died.
In a manner that holds an immeasurable amount of distrust, his eyes scan the room for those who would stand against him. He raises his arms above him in an authoritative manner before he speaks:
“My people! You have fought long and known misery beyond measure. You have broken the chains of your slavery, and have brought freedom upon yourselves. You have wrested peace from the most powerful nation in all of history. In itself that is an achievement that will be remembered across time.”
He pauses to survey the responses of his audience, daring someone to challenge his claims. The only answer he receives is a glaring silence.
“But for us, it is not enough, and never will be! The treaties we have signed are false reassurances. Do not allow yourselves to become complacent! I ask you, will we sit here, bickering like children over our petty differences? Will you ignore the cries of our people while they starve on the streets? Will you let their grievances go unanswered? Their despair be in vain? I think not. Honor their sacrifices with more than empty words. Honor them with your actions!”
The mood in the room rose to a fever pitch as the words spilled from his mind. He had started a fire, and while it burned bright, it was anything but a benevolent blaze.
“My friends, we have seen much done. We have seen the last of the invaders expelled from our homeland. Yet our country remains impure. There are still those who seek to undermine the sacrifices that all of us have given. Now is the time to cleanse ourselves of this scourge. This new state will rise from the ashes of the old, pure in its revival! We must begin anew, creating a state vilified by our ideals, uncorrupted by the wicked. I urge you, brothers and sisters, to join me in welcoming a new age of light!”
At precisely that moment, the sun casts its light through the high vaulted windows, bathing him in an inferno of dancing flames.
Despite the searing heat, I am shivering.
An uproarious applause engulfs the building as he sits back down. A creeping revulsion washes over me, rattling me to my very core. The air grows painfully hot. As I walk out of the room, I can still hear the roars of approval behind me.


Thankfully, the cold night air leaves me feeling very much refreshed, though the fear that threatened to suffocate me has not altogether vanished. The avenue that I’ve begun walking down is lit only by the stars above. Gazing out at their innumerable quantity, so far removed from our mortal struggles, the ruined city beneath the sky appears insignificant and miniscule. If only my worries were so.
I must have stood there thinking for quite some time, as the next I remember was a gentle nudge from beside me.
“You look troubled, Aster.”
I turn my head cautiously in an effort to determine where the sound had come from. My eyes are met with two teal blue orbs with an uncanny resemblance to the color of the sea. They seem to stare deep inside me, examining the broken soul that lies within my being.
Her name is Rose, and she’s one of the few people left who share my belief in peace. A person all too kind for this world.
I met her long ago, the person that I was then irreconcilable with what I am now. She saw me cast off the ignorance of childhood as I learned of the tragedy that so pervades the world. We both lived through the turmoil of war, but she, unlike myself, seems to have retained the strength to forgive.
At the very least, she’s caught me off guard, enough that I quickly look away before stammering out a reply.
“N-nothing’s the matter. W-wherever d-do you get that impression from?”
She laughs, a warm, reassuring sound that’s easy on the ears.
“Sit. I haven’t talked to you in forever.”
I glance at our surroundings, my mind still fresh with the scenes of Vellacroix’s oratory, his being bathed in the flames of his hate. I notice that I’m still trembling with fear.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I try to reassure her otherwise, but it’s quickly apparent that she doesn’t believe me. I’ve always been awful at hiding the truth.
We take a seat on a pile of rubble that might once have been someone’s home. There’s a brief silence before she voices the thoughts that have been simmering in my mind for the last half-hour.
“Vellacroix again?”
“If I had to answer you honestly, I don’t think it’s any one person to whom I can attribute my brooding.”
“Then is it what he stands for?”
“…”
She wraps her arms around me, like an older sister would.
“Promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll try to live your life without hate. You’ll be so much happier if you do.”
I promise her, despite knowing that it’s one that I cannot hope to keep. We sit there for a while, and just for that fleeting moment, our troubles seem as far away as the stars above.













VI
VELLACROIX
I made a promise to you, did I not? For all the sins that I have committed, I hope that breaking promises will not become one of them.

So much has transpired in the few months that have gone by. We emerged victorious from the ashes of war, but I know that alone was not what you wanted. You were never satisfied with just that, and now, looking at all that has been done, the vision of hope you so cherished is finally beginning becoming clear. I know that you wanted something better. You had a dream that I promised to bring into reality.

Are you gazing down at me right now, from your home among the stars? Will you forgive me after it is all done and over, after the dust has settled, after I have been laid to rest, sharing the sky with you?

Our friends are gone, too, now, the first casualties of our new republic. Perhaps if you still walked this earth, you could have brought them salvation. You saved us all, in your own way. But none of us could do the same for you.

I hope you were able to turn a blind eye to the terrible words that I have spoken. It was never my intention to inflict so much pain upon the world. I had prayed that it we might be able to escape the tragic fate that stretches out in front of us. But all I know is violence. I was born into it, molded by its presence. I could not let their sacrifices be in vain. My fear is strangling me, all the terror around me staining my very being black. I fear that I have lost you for nothing, and with every passing day, I fear that our only legacy will be one written in blood.

My actions were a necessity; I regret nothing. The nature of man demanded the things that I did. Deep down, we are all murderous animals, selfish creatures that will steal from one another, stabbing each other in the back until we can assure to ourselves survival without the faintest traces of doubt.

I am sorry, for what it is worth.

I am sorry that I could not see the world as you did, or shield your ideals with my own. I am not the person that you saw me as – or even the person that I would imagine myself to become. We are cast anew in fire, the people that we are formed in the crucible of terror. It is our choice to determine whether that is for good or ill.
- Thomas Vellacroix, Letter to Catyleia
People are beginning to leave now, with dusk falling fast across the crimson sky. Their bloodlust satiated by bombastic speech and furious expression, the vultures have left the assembly in flocks. The heat of the day has receded to the cool night air, and it appears as if clouds are gathering in the skies to the west. Perhaps this oncoming storm will wash away this weakness in me. Rain has always been a comforting presence, for as long as my memory still holds.
As the last stragglers clamber on through the great entryway, the vaulted doors slam shut with a resounding thud. The room is illuminated only by the dying light filtering itself through shattered stained-glass windows.
Outside, the storm begins to arrive in full force, the tears of the clouds becoming heavy droplets of rain striking against the aging cathedral. Here, in my solitude, I can find peace.
Tonight, people will go home, filled with poisoned thoughts festering in their minds. They will grow wary, and fearful. Uncertainty will follow their ambivalence. Their fear will demand a leader.
I do not seek power. I have no delusions concerning the consequences of that malevolent force, or some blissful ignorance that makes me blind to the tragedies that it causes. There are many who are far more qualified than I to bear the burden of governance. War kills and rips away the most heroic, the noblest of us. As I stare into these empty frames, missing works that were stolen away during the early years of the war, I see only the faces of those who I could not save, staring back with hollow eyes.
The pain of losing them is gone now, replaced only by a dull ache.
Was there something else I could have done?
Now, with the last rays of light gone until the breaking of tomorrow’s dawn, it is another night that I have to fight through. It is a battle raging within myself, against myself. Past versus present. My remembrance and my regret.
While I have escaped the pursuing demons that haunt the dreams of mortal men, it is my waking hours that are the ones that evoke the deepest fears.
Lightning arcs across the empty sky, a blinding fissure that shatters the night. The thunder shakes the very foundations of the old church with its fury. Against the storm, the world beneath it is shrouded in silence. I will take this respite, however long it may last. I will need all of my resolve to face the terror to come.
The hours bend around me, and time becomes fluid. In and out of the past, my reality is stolen away by the demons from times gone past. Thoughts fly out, are discarded, and return in short order. My only companion is my regret.
Daylight finds its way into the church, beams of light piercing the musty air. Catyleia always loved watching the sun rise, taking back the world conquered by night.
With her gone, daybreak has taken on another meaning. This new day will see the change we have released upon the world around us.
Eager anticipation drives me forward. I act to honor the past and shape the future.
I have a promise to keep.





VII
SAFIRA
“Idleness drives a man mad.”
Therinvale IV, Digressions on Thought
That’s my armor hanging on the wall, gathering dust in its retirement. It hasn’t left its resting place since the day I got here.
Another day, same as all the rest. Another day that will see no changes made, the new stifled out in favor of the old. If anything, this idleness is driving me insane. The old order is powerful in Galatia, the social standings left untouched for the hundred years of our history. Here, connections are everything. There is no opportunity without precedence here.
We are slaves to our own traditions. Caught in its own memory, Galatia does not live so much as preserve is past.
Anyhow, I find myself taking part in one of those dreadful council meetings, and though I try my best to find something to spark my interest, the steady drone of politics seems to reign over all of the other sounds in the chamber.
“…construction of the wall across the Luccan Divide will stem the flow of refugees coming from the Lowlands, in addition to providing another line of defense should the new republic turn against us.”
Nearly choking on the herbal tea that I was drinking, I sputter out:
“Wait. You want to tell me why we’re committing ourselves to this foolishness?”
The buffoon doesn’t seem to pick up on the cynicism dripping like venom from my words, and happily obliges, taking it as an opportunity to curry favor with the primarch.
“No, you fool, I asked you why, not how!”
Red with indignation, he bows his head, though I’m unsure of whether it’s due to shame or disappointment.
“S-seeing as our nation is experiencing an economic recession worse than any in recent memory, it would be the role of the government to aid those who need it most.”
“..And?”
“And so undertaking this project would give us a chance to provide employment, essentially giving people coin in their pocket to spend on commodities, which-“
I don’t give him a chance to finish, storming out of the room in a hurry, making sure to slam the door behind me. They loathe me, really. I’m the only thing keeping them from strangling the life out of the county. They’re doing a fine job of it – our economy has remained stagnant, and support for the arts has all but vanished. From their palace built into Valithria’s mountains, they watch over the common people, careful to remove anomalies, actions taken to hold tight to their power.
They are observers, hunters who have learned to cultivate their prey. They watch over their underlings, pacifying them with empty promises, smashing those who would dare speak out against their will. Oppressors who adorn themselves with the robes of senators. Behind their masquerade, they are little more than tyrants.
The meeting ends, releasing the scoundrels from their den. A cadre of soldiers leads the procession outwards. I stand there, in mock salute to the people who run my government. They try to smile politely, but their distaste is written clear all over their faces. I return the gesture, real amusement playing on my lips.
And then… “Safira?”
Standing in front of me is Galatia’s Prime Minister, Gaspard Sturm. To everyone else, he’s the one with real power. The grandmaster, pulling the strings. Putting on a show. Making his puppets dance.
To me, he’s a friend, although he’s stepped into the role that my father never filled.
“Safira, I told you not to go storming out of meetings like that!”
He sighs in exasperation, though his expression is one that betrays his concern.
“You know the councilmembers have already voiced their disdain for your theatrics on numerous occasions. Your immunity as primarch will only stretch so far.”
I shrug. This is a scene that’s all too familiar to me. I know he feels like he needs to watch over me, with Draco gone, but especially now, Sturm has more important matters to attend to than my antics. For once, I admit defeat and assure him that I’ll make an effort to be better next time.
His expression changes, all traces of worry vanishing from his face. He takes me aside, and whispers:
“I received your letter, if you were wondering. Meet me in the granite room, three hours from now. If anyone pokes their nose in, this conversation never happened.”
As his footsteps disappear down the stone walkway, I’m left to grapple with my own bewilderment.
With nothing left to do until Sturm reveals to me his schemes, my mind wanders as the familiar feeling of loneliness takes me into its embrace.


For the time being, I retreat back into my sanctuary, an empty hall known to none but myself. Here, I can scream all I want, and my only audience the hallowed walls and the darkness above that seemingly extends into infinity. I begin in a quiet, broken voice that surprises even myself with its emptiness.
“You brought me into your world of murder and massacre, of senseless slaughter and meaningless death. You taught me that there were things worth trying for, living for, dying for. If we ever see each other again on the face of this godforsaken world, I hope you’ve made the realization that the gullible little girl who believed in a world of heroes and ideals died when she stained her hands with the blood of others.”
“I’m lonely, you know? Lonely and slowly losing the will to live.”
“No one to talk to, no way to pour out my sadness, my joy, my fear, and my rage. There’s no one to listen to me anymore.”
The words that I speak are all true, and my inability to deny their meaning is something that I can’t ignore any longer. I feel myself unraveling into bits and pieces as I continue spilling my soul into the darkness.
“This world needs change. It needs fire to burn away all of its rotten pieces, nitrate to blow away the components that no longer work.”
“I’ve wanted something to believe in again, ever since you left me to be. I’ve grown since those days that we dreamed and hoped with our childish naivety. I’m not so fragile anymore.”
Tears, an unfamiliar sensation, are streaming down my face now, emotions long suppressed finally able to see the light of day. It doesn’t feel right to be crying when so little has happened here and so much wrong is everywhere else. But I let them flow, because they’re the only comfort that I have left.
“Years have passed, Aster, years! I have seen with my own eyes the corruption that hides around every corner, demons that have invaded every home and every family! I’ve been powerless, a figurehead with an empty title, for so long! Too long!”
A fury grips me, and I raise my voice in defiance against an invisible enemy. The shrill tones reverberate across the chamber, my terrible wrath bouncing across monoliths of stone. I hear an echo, a sad little voice that does little but make me long for someone to listen to my mad raving. If anything, it’s a painful reminder of how alone I am.
“You might see me and wonder if life has made me bitter. It hasn’t. It’s reared its ugly head and I can see for the first time what needs to be destroyed in order for the world to work again.”
Before I can continue crying out to the empty room, I turn around and find myself face to face with the very image of myself. The girl in the glass is perfect. Her flaws have been carved away, her wounds mended by her own strength. I look at her, she who is framed in gold.
I drive my fist into the dusty mirror, shattering her image. Blood mixes in with the flying shards of glass. Drops of the crimson liquid splatter across the ground, a steady trickle dripping from my broken hand. Despite how far the shattered pieces have flown, I still hold in my palm the biggest shard, the only one still unmarred by blood. It glows softly in the faded glow of the candles. I hold it up to the light, screaming at it, hoping someone would hear my cries. Desperately hoping that someone might be able to understand my sorrow.
“This is my hope! This is the promise that I made to myself. This is the world that I chose to believe in, because it’s one worth saving. Believe in me, won’t you? Give me back the faith that I lent to you, the same fanatical trust that I gave to your ideals.”
“I’ll be different, though. I’ll bring about my change, and the world will bow before my whims. I will carve from this ruin a masterpiece that will stand forever across the ages.”
I’m still screaming, raving at a marble bust of my father when I fall away from reality, my world tumbling down in the enveloping folds of darkness.
























VIII
ASTER
“The 11 Years’ War can likely be counted among the bloodiest conflicts in the history of man. Ravaged by both Galatian and Segestican armies, the population of the Lowlands experienced a drastic decline. Conservative estimates place the toll around a fifth of the population; others claim that more fell to the scourge of war. Consequently, the ensuing famines devastated the land and its people even further. Wherever the revolutionaries would lead their shattered nation, it was clear that they could not turn back.”
Alma II, The History of Galatia
Fear and self-loathing. I can run away from my enemies, but I can’t run away from myself.
The sun streaks across the morning sky, its rays pouring through the skylight above me. Against it, the darkness recedes into nothing as a new day begins. Will today see our peace broken? Or will we turn back the tides of our hatred?
Maybe if I lived for something, I could follow others with the blind loyalty that changes the world. But I’m not like that, and I don’t think I ever will be. Always questioning, never acting. Since the war that’s left both Safira and I disillusioned with the world we live in, I’ve done very little. When I left her to pursue the path she had always been meant to take, I felt nothing, no feelings of loss and longing. By that point, the person inside me had already died. I was born anew, into this empty existence.
There are too many missed opportunities for me that I’ll never have the chance to reclaim. Do I hate myself? I’m not sure, although my disappointment with myself is glaringly apparent. It’s something that stems from my inability to find peace with the person that I’ve become, a product of the many consequences of my actions.
Some days, I feel useless, like a single voice shouting out against the crowd, drowned out by the roar of those more powerful than itself. Other times, it’s a blind desire to do something right, a wish to make the world just a little bit better.
Would it be so much to ask for people to give peace a chance?
Rose pokes her head into the doorway of the kitchen, her auburn hair spilling out into the air.
“Hey. You sleep well?”
Even though last night was one I spent tormented by my nightmares, I nod, not wanting to upset her so early in the day. I didn’t have anywhere left to return to after the war ended, so she offered to me her hospitality, something I’m eternally grateful for. I’m more of a burden than anything else, but she always insists otherwise.
“That’s good. I’ll be heading out in a bit to go help with the rebuilding. You alright finding us something to eat?”
She breezes into the room like a free spirit, with all the poise and grace of a bird in flight. Her feet glide across the wooden floor, navigating past the broken planks and holes that riddle the ground below. She appears to float over the haphazard flooring, her elegant stride unaffected by the battlefield of splinters beneath. Rose leans over, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.
“It’s been a while since we’ve had some of that highbrow cuisine, huh?”
“You want a glass of champagne with that?”
She winks at me, a kind of happiness playing in her sea-green eyes. Rose grew up without the comforts that were afforded to the rest of us. And yet, it’s made her grateful for every blessing that she receives. I wish I could be more like her, with her kindness and will to move forward. The ability to leave the past behind. Maybe we could all learn a little bit from her.


“Get back here, you miscreant!”
I clutch the parcel of goods close to me as I take off running.
My feet strike the pavement beneath me, the sound of their impact equal to the pulsing of my heart. Tearing across the streets, I am free. I feel the air flying against my form, the whistling of the wind drowning out the shouting behind me. Ahead, I see only islands of pure white set against the azure majesty of the sky.
Blood trickles from bruised lips, but it’s a smile that frames my face. The smell of the food wafts up to my nose. It’s intoxicating, and I can only imagine tasting the delicacies inside. But it isn’t the thought of tasting my prize that makes me excited. Maybe it’s insignificant compared to the works that Rose does, but this is my little piece of happiness that I’ll present to her.
I slow my pace, breathing heavy. The brutes have given up the chase, thinking it futile to recover the stolen goods. I sigh, relieved, and turn back to find my way home.
Then:
“E-excuse me, b-but could we have a little bit of food?”
It’s a girl, dressed in rags. Behind her is presumably her older brother, sitting still, who has appears to be missing a portion of his leg. Victims of war, no doubt. Inside, my consciousness is fighting against itself, seeing in the two familiar pieces of the person I once was. But is it worth Rose going without? I meet her brother’s gaze, looking into eyes that speak louder than any words. Fear and self-loathing. Unlike mine, in those eyes there is still a glimmer of hope.
In my contemplation, I notice the girl looking away dejectedly, taking my silence as a “no”. She begins to turn away, discouraged, before I call out:
“Wait!”
I hand the package over to her, still fresh with the rich scents of its contents. From my pockets I pull out all the money on my person, coins of gold and silver, wrapping it in a scarf that I had stolen earlier. As I place it on the parcel now held tightly in her arms, she tries to voice her objections, but I quickly hold a single finger to my lips.
“But don’t you-“
“No. I think you need it more.”
I turn to leave, taking one last glance back at the pair. She’s still standing there in silent awe, mouth agape, arms wavering under the heavy load they now support. But on the boy behind her sighs, an expression that’s a mix of relief and happiness, the intangible burden lifted from his shoulders. He cracks a smile, and waves. I return the gesture before I begin the journey back.


The sun has long vanished behind the mountains to the west when I arrive home, empty-handed.
Rose is waiting on the balcony. Hearing the sound of my footsteps on the stone stairway, she opens the door before I have a chance to knock.
“Aster! You had me worried sick! Where were you?!”
I can only smile sheepishly in response, unsure of how to explain myself.
“Sorry I couldn’t get you the food…”
She places her hands on her hips, discernably red with indignation.
“You know that’s not what I meant! And your lip…”
She makes me sit down on the couch, and spends the next half hour tending to my wound. Through it all, an uncomfortable silence as she carefully washes the blood away, anointing the split and holding a rag soaked in cold water to it. She’s visibly upset. When I next speak, it’s with a bowed head and apologetic words.
“…um, I got the food, but there were some people…”
She’s quiet for a second, thinking to herself.
“You’ve grown, haven’t you?”
I shrug, pretending not to know what she means. I’m still looking down, my face tinged with embarrassment. She smiles.
“Well, I’m glad you’re safe.”


IX
SAFIRA
I open my eyes to the warm glow of lanterns hanging by the side of the bed. They paint the stone walls around me in a cream-colored light. The room is small, its ceiling drooping, heavy with hanging shadows. It’s strangely comforting, the light and dark flickering against each other, back and forth in their struggle.
As far as I can tell, I’m alone with only my thoughts to keep me company. You’d think people would know better, considering that the last time they left me to my devices, I completely lost my mind. I sigh. There’ll be repercussions for my stupidity, I’m sure. More attendants I’ll have to avoid, even less places where I can enjoy my false freedom. Even as I lay here, I can imagine the golden bars of my gilded cage closing in on me.
I turn my attention to my hand, wrapped in clean cotton bandages, the work intricate. Doubtlessly done by a careful hand, woven as such to minimize my discomfort.
I hate my vulnerability.
I hate that I can’t always stand on my own, or accept fully the consequences of my actions. Every time, it’s someone else who suffers because of my childishness. Why can’t my mistakes be my own?
The room is quiet for a while, before I hear the careful tread of leather on stone approaching. I know who has come.
“Safira..? Oh, you’re awake.”
I answer Sturm as I stretch out my arms, yawning.
“Yeah. How are things going on your end?”
He scowls, his disdain written all over his face. It’s followed by him blankly staring at me, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind my words. The Prime Minister of Galatia may be the most eloquent speaker the country has ever known, but he happens to be rather hopeless in social situations.
“..I’ll choose not to answer that. Do you even know why you’re here?”
I shrug, offering him an innocent smile.
“Some poor aide found the primarch collapsed in a heap, in a puddle of her own blood. What were you thinking?!”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I have a lot of feelings.”
He frowns, disappointed. I feel a pang of guilt tormenting me.
“You know you have a role to play. You’re the primarch, for Sylvos’ sake! You can’t run around doing whatever you please, with your mischief and blatant disregard for manners like that. You’re the leader of a nation!”
This again. This is his duty taking over. Countless times I’ve heard this lecture. Time and time again, each reiteration making a smaller impression than the last. I try to respond, hoping that maybe this will be the time he’ll finally listen to me.
“You know, maybe if I had someone to talk to, someone who could understand the things I think, maybe I wouldn’t have to go driving my hands through glass, raving at an audience that doesn’t exist!”
In a quiet voice, still hoarse from my previous tirade, I add:
“…maybe you could listen to me.”
His grey eyes are stormy. He speaks in a growl, a low tremble that manages to be terrible yet devoid of emotion.
“That’s not my job. I suggest you mind your own.”
Sturm places the heavy stack of papers on the side of the bed, its outline monstrous against the dim light of the lanterns. It lands with a thud, the force of its impact shaking the bedframe.
“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? See that you have them read the next we meet.”
He leaves.
There is no emotion in my eyes, only cold fury. I reach over to collect the papers, taking as much as I can hold.
I’m tired, my eyes wanting to close with the comforting atmosphere around me, but the throbbing from my broken hand keeps me awake. The importance of these papers is not lost on me.
This is my chance! With it, I can begin to break free of my shackles. With it, I can bring a method to my madness.
Hours of poring over the pages reveals to me the fruits of Sturm’s labor – building plans, secret entryways, all of the inner workings of this ancient castle, carefully etched across hundreds of pages. Did the revolution in Segestica convince him of my mad scheme?
These are more than some child’s idle fantasies of secrecy and subterfuge. What I hold in my shaking hands are the wings that I will use to catch my dreams. With it, I will have the strength to pursue the power I desire, the power that I need to bring about my change. These pieces of paper are so much more than they are. My capstone, my quintessential element, my pièce de résistance. Anger forgotten, I make a mental note to thank Sturm for his work.
Soon, I will finally fly free.
I spend hours gazing at the source of my joy, studying every little detail, all of its inner works and intricacies. Meanwhile, the day slips into night.
Remember how you abused your power, how you sought to keep me down. Remember the girl unable to act upon her dreams, for she will be gone with the daybreak.
Even as the lone wolf howls at the full moon, change is coming.
X
VELLACROIX
Somewhere, a lone messenger hurdles through the darkened world with nothing but his own mind to guide his way. He is a deliverer of dreams, one who gives breath to nations and lifts them from their place in the mud. He is a merchant who deals in information, and first servant to the sovereign.
These individuals are rakes; spies; ambassadors; diplomats; men whose first loyalty, whose only loyalty, belongs to their country. They provide more to their masters than papers and thoughts. They are the right hand of any ruler who seeks for his people something better. Fingers that can spin lies. A fist that can silence those who dare to defy.
Black rain seeps from the sky above.
This time, I am not alone. The councilmembers of our fledgling nation are with me, wolves whose only hunger is that of power. They make fine servants.
We have relocated our government to a more appropriate venue, the previous despot’s extravagant residence. He is dead now, head on a stake, eyes open, filled with the sight of the suffering that they laid blind to all their life. The manor has been looted, its once prim exterior now tarnished by blood and ruin. Where the banners of Segestica once hung now hang the flag of the Lowlands.
Its design was commissioned by the provisional government that led the nation in its first days free from tyranny. The Council of Elders may have wrested power from them, but we have kept their flag, and the façade of a republic.
Our banner was designed to become a tangible embodiment of the revolution’s ideals. Two stripes of crimson, with one of white interlaced between them. Its creators intended for it to symbolize that even from bloodshed could come hope. All I see is fury strangling our light.
All at once, the conversation quiets down. There is a knock at the great oaken doors of the assembly room. I nod, and the two sentinels guarding the entryway pull them open. A single man stands between the parted doors. He salutes us, waiting for further command before continuing.
I am the first to acknowledge him.
“Citizen! You have returned safely to us. What have you gleamed from your time spent among the enemy?”
He looks around at the assembly, unsure of whom he can trust.
“You may speak freely. We are all here to guarantee the sanctity of our new nation.”
He weaves a tale of palace intrigue and the desperate struggle for power within the halls of the palace at Valithria. From the rumors he has heard, it appears that their primarch has gone mad, a victim of her own isolation. The rest of the government is incapacitated, splintered factions vying for control. The common people are suffering, but the current regime has no appetite for war. Galatia appears stagnant, and unlikely to respond to any action taken by us.

A flurry of conversation envelops the chamber, questioning the legitimacy of his claims. Excitement charges the atmosphere, as people come to realize what the messenger’s news means.
For the dignitaries surrounding me, it means that their dreams of freedom and liberty can finally be realized. With the Segestican nobility worn out from the bloodshed of battle, and their counterparts in Galatia too busy fighting amongst themselves for shreds of power, there will be no one with the means to stop the implementation of revolutionary doctrine.
That is, no one but myself.


After several heated debates as to what to do with the information just gifted to us, I find myself exhausted, and retreat to my own personal chamber.
My quarters are situated away from all of the palace’s other permanent residence. I pride myself in my solitude.
Naturally, then, I am the only one who has any reason to walk these halls. The sound of my limping gait reverberates across the length of the passage. Candles placed at sporadic intervals barely fight back the darkness, their light battling to breath in a sea of shadow.
I reach the end of the passage, a heavy oaken door awaiting me. I pause, listening for sounds of activity; there are none. No amount of precaution is excessive. As the key turns in the lock, the door creaks open, revealing the room behind it.
The room has been stripped of all its worldly possessions, trinkets of gold missing from the walls. I would like to imagine that they have gone to a better cause, but it is far more likely that their wealth has been squandered away by the thieves that accompany any revolution.
I sit down at the oaken desk, surveying the multitude of papers that blanket its surface. Some with their importance, detailing the reports of our scouts and spies, others pointless verbiage spattered across the page. Scooping the pages into the stack, I cast them into the flames burning steadily beneath the mantle, having committed their contents to memory. The crackling of fire fills the room with a warm presence.
The pace of change has already begun to quicken. Here, in our capital of Sanctis, sweeping reforms have been issued across the entire chain of command. The bureaucrats that ruled over the old order, their positions gifted to them by heredity, have been flushed out in favor of the revolution’s heroes. More than anything, they thirst for power and prestige.
Our state now is more powerful than the Segestican government could have ever hoped to be. An executive tribunal, our Council of Elders, wields in its hands both legislative and judiciary power. There is a popularly elected assembly to satiate the romantic notions of representative government, but it is little more than a forum for posting complaints. Grievances that are often laid to the wayside when the Council meets.
Our previous governor lies dead, an example to all those who would tyrannize those they hold power over. More than anything, it is a reminder that nothing can hold on to power forever.
Faster and faster the world spins, the state no longer bound by the interests of warring nobility or the demands of the populace.
Our aims united, we stride together toward the future that we seek.
Conflict is as inevitable as the oncoming dawn. In it, the Lowlands will be born anew.
This world favors neither the feeble nor the weak. Those who cannot fight for their dreams will so surely see them lost to time.
I cannot falter now, not when fate has finally delivered fortune to my reaching hands. From this, I will act for Catyleia. It was her wish for a purified world, one where people could shed their hatred for hope in their fellow man. One where people could grasp the consequences of their actions. It sounds idealistic, does it not? But it is in the end what she wanted, and it is in the end that I promised to bring her just that.
War has burned away my humanity, eaten away at my being, made me a shell, a phantom, an empty soul. I no longer dream, nor look up to the deep blue sky and see beauty in it. Some say that for a wretched person like me, life bears no meaning.
I care not. I have taken hold of my own.















XI
ASTER
And while the flames of war may burn bright and brilliant, hope takes root even in the wake of their ashes, for no fire can blaze on forever.
- Catyleia Thistle, Segestican aristocrat and ambassador to the Lowlands
Another dawn, another day. For the time being, I’ve found these little bits and pieces of hope that I’m still trying to put together. I’m stumbling around in the dark, looking for something to hold on to. But I know there will be light somewhere. I just need the patience to keep searching.
Where did I get this hope?
Another question to which I seem to have no answer to. Maybe misery isn’t the natural state of human beings. Maybe those around me have inspired me to think better of the world I live in. If anything, the lack of tragedy in the present isn’t hurting. As always, it’s something fragile, something that I haven’t fully committed myself to. For the world is volatile, the present bound to the whims of fate, the future equally likely to be molded by either tragedy or triumph.
For the most part, the rioting has stopped as the entire nation struggles with the burden of rebuilding. More or less, people have realized that for any chance at a brighter future, we need to forego destruction for creation. If we cannot persevere through the present, there won’t be anywhere for us to go.
Time has slowed its relentless march, at least for the time being. Though some among us are eager to further our gains by turning against each other, the rest are sick and tired of all the carnage that war inevitably brings. If change will come, it will come like a breeze rather than a storm, like gentle rain to wash away all the little things that seem to plague us. In my mind, it’s something for the better.
As for Vellacroix, his words seem to be little more than a desperate attempt at fanning the flames of conflict. With the future ahead of us finally in our hands, there are very few who would turn back to the violence of the past. Whatever he’s plotting, it would probably be best for the country if those plans of his never come to fruition. The Council of Elders that assumed power after the initial struggle seems to be sorely lacking in control itself. Any moves it takes to increase its own status will not sit well with the people. They are at worst a threat that has yet to surface.
I can’t deny that our current system of government isn’t doing much with the little power that it’s been given by the people, but in our circumstance, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. After all, after years of oppression by our previous masters, we need to learn what freedom feels like in order to harness it for good.
Ah, freedom.
It’s something akin to how one might taste the blue skies above them. It’s definitely there, an imaginary friend to keep you company, there always to remind you of how far you’ve come, and maybe how far you still need to go. This freedom is only the means to an end, there so we can use it to help us find happiness or salvation. We are inclined to think this way, perhaps because freedom without the ability to make something from it is worthless.
I pause what I’m doing for the moment to stare up at all that surrounds me. I can’t help but think Rose pigeonholed me into helping with the rebuilding, but she claims otherwise. Of course. Whenever she’s asked, Rose tries to see the best in people. The parts which aren’t so broken and twisted. According to her, there’s good in everyone. The world is only so pervaded by evil because people are too afraid to let their noble selves grace the world around them. Which, of course, is a generously optimistic view of life. Maybe too optimistic. But I have no right to judge, what with all the mistakes that I’ve made.
Whatever my inner motives, this is the kind of change that I committed myself to so long ago. I like to think that I’ve changed since my early days of naivety, but doesn’t everyone?
I’m sure that this is different, though. Where I once sought change from conflict, life has taught me that the only change worth the cost of that which is slowly earned, one small step at a time. Plenty of people die for a cause. That’s apparent, if anything. But the change that truly lasts, weathers the ravages of time, is that which demands you dedicate your life to in a different fashion. Something that demands more than a worldly sacrifice of blood and the courage to let yourself fall away from this world into the next. This change is something that necessitates your mind in your soul, all of your hope, to even have a chance to become real. And it isn’t a single commitment, either. Day in and day out, you need to hold onto your change despite everything around you flying by as the world spins. It’s a principle that Rose holds close to her heart. She’s rubbed off on me, I think.
Spring arrived a few weeks ago, but it’s only now that it’s made its presence known in full force. Spring in the Lowlands is like anywhere else a time for renewal and rebirth. Here, where you’re never far from the blue, be it the stretching sea or the soaring sky, spring is different, too. As the oceans unfreeze and the vast oceans thaw out from their icy prison, you can see all that owes its life to the sea begin to live again. The birds flock back after the long winter, and before long, the Lowlands are humming and squawking with sounds of life. It’s the earth awakening from its long slumber, shaking off the dead things for the new chances awaiting it. And as the earth reawakens, so do the hopes and dreams of the people who walk its surface.
The era of violent change and turmoil may have passed, but we are still in search of the promise that was made to us when we committed ourselves to this revolution. It was a simple promise, one that we were sure of taking. It’s apparent now that things like liberty and equality weren’t given to us, held out to our reaching hands. What we received in exchange for all of our sacrifices was the chance at something like it.
You can look around and see what we are doing with the opportunity we’ve been given. Violence in the streets has faltered in favor of heated debate. People no longer sling stones so much as they shoot words. There are protests, too now, something that we’ve only read in our books.
We are no longer afraid to speak our minds. The most unpopular opinion here is the one that lies unspoken.
No, it’s not paradise, not by a longshot. People are still roaming the streets in search from food. There are still plenty of panhandlers and beggars littering every street and avenue. Only the richest of the rich go to bed every night with their bellies full.
We have problems aplenty. But they’re our problems. And somehow, we’ll come up with our own solutions to solve them.
It’s a first, and very might well be the last. But for now, I eagerly await to see what the future holds.


























XII
VELLACROIX
Patient is the conqueror, who sees haste as a sin
For it is he who will wait, is he who will win.
- Segestican Proverb
Frustration. My fury has become palpable to the point where it has manifested itself into bulging veins and clenched teeth. Why do I find myself unable to play the role that I was so intended to fill? Anger seeps through my being, rage from helplessness, wrath from my own incompetence.
Anger mars my penmanship, the writing uneven, the letters vying for space amongst themselves. Another squeeze, and the flimsy pen shatters in my grip. The black of the ink stains the many scars of my hand.
I sigh, and wonder where it all went to pieces.
Providence gifted to me all the tools that I required for my task, and yet I find myself still unable to even begin my mission. I may as well have had enough munition to blow all of Segestica to smithereens, yet try as I might, I could not muster a single spark to light it.
The proposal that I spent all of last night laboring over now lies torn to pieces, another victim to my anger. The Elders deemed it unfit as it they saw it a threat to their power. Just as I see them as ever-resembling the tyrants that the people bled to break free from. The frenetic energy that was present when the momentous news of Galatia’s inner turmoil was revealed has vanished now, fading away as old divisions fractured the unity that we sought to create.
We are currently unable to reach any semblance consensus, even on some trivial manner such as the reinstatement of old bureaucratic titles.
Without a firm hand to guide them, the Lowlands are crumbling, falling victim to the chaos that has been the undoing of many a great nation. Ruffians of all sorts are the only inhabitants of once bustling neighborhoods, stealing and thieving to their hearts’ content. With nothing to maintain it, the infrastructure of our country is collapsing from within. We have been reduced to the primitive practice of barter, paper currency worthless in its excess. Is this the future that those revolutionaries wished upon our nation? Those fools have unwound the hands of time and undone the achievements of the modern era.
Order is a necessity. Order is sacred. Without it, nothing can hope to exist.
None seem to understand its importance, what it has contributed to humanity. Even she didn’t. People prefer their absurd ideas of freedom and liberty, taking it with them to their deaths. Creativity never saved a man from the bullets of the firing squad.
There are fewer and fewer who rally to my words. Many of those who once sought change for the better have resigned themselves to whatever securities they can lay their hands on. The vast majority have cut their losses, preferring to hold on to the little consolation that fate can offer them.
But I am different.
I have already lost all that holds meaning. Whatever I do, it is with a clear conscious and a free mind. I am prepared to gamble everything for what still remains.
As I sit here, thinking of the future that has yet to pass, my mind wanders back to thoughts of her.


It was autumn when we first crossed paths.
I remember the way the wind caressed her hair, and how the leaves blew past in a swirl of color. It is one of the few memories of happiness left to me. I cherish it.
She was kind, almost infuriatingly so. Yet that kindness was her strength, a resolve that knew no equal. It was her radiance, the reason why she burned so bright. She was capable of hatred, but not for any one person. It was the ideas that people represented that she could take a stand against. And she stood above the petty violence so crudely utilized by those could not see the world like she did. Catyleia was a pacifist, yet she sought her dreams with the same ferocity that the rest of us could only achieve in conflict.
It was purely accidental, our first encounter. Traditionally, those with noble blood in Segestica pass down entire estates within their bloodlines. Since the kingdom’s inception, the aristocracy had laid claim to vast expanses of land. Catyleia’s family, the House of Thistle, was no exception to the rule. The rest of Segestica’s inhabitants, we the commoners, were not serfs by any measures, but trespassing on another’s property was something akin to a death sentence.
Emboldened by hunger, I had crossed into the some nobles’ territory, if only to steal away an infinitesimal morsel of food. To them, a petty trifling. To me, the world.
I had fallen from the tree from which I had stolen from. A sickening sound as my flailing limbs hit the earth below. Then, the cacophonous barking of hounds. I said my last prayers to Sylvos, hoping perhaps that this life was not worse than the next. Our views of death in those days were reflective of the burdens we carried each day. To us, who had known hardship beyond any reasonable measure, whatever the realm beyond held could not be worse than the life we lived. I had resigned myself to my fate, with no regrets. As I still am now, I had nothing to lose back then.
But I did not perish there, alone and away from all that things I once held dear.
I opened my eyes to the sight of a girl not much older than I was staring at me with a quiet reverence. We were frozen in that moment, her amber eyes staring into mine. It was I who broke the silence.
“Milady, isn’t it about time that you carried out retribution against the scoundrel who so audaciously trespassed on your land?”
Amusement played on her lips. Her eyes seemed to sparkle.
“What would be the fun in that?”
From there it began, the root of all our misadventures. In that one moment she pried open the gates, from which would spring many things.
That day was the start of something good. And from there it began.


For now, however, there is little I can accomplish with the cards that the world has dealt to my hand. The people do not want change badly enough. They cannot be made to throw themselves into the fire so soon after they have lost so much. It was my mistake to never have realized this in the first place.
My mind calms with the thought her, violent water becoming smooth, perfectly still.
I suppose that I once held her ideals upon a pedestal of my own. The world has corrupted them with all of its evil, its wrongdoing and tragedy. I have fallen out of grace. Evil has very deeply entrenched itself into my soul. Oh how she would hate the person that I have become.
But her memory remains pure. I have fallen, but she will forever remain perfect, her ideals unmarred by the specter of death. It has brought her immortality.
I realize this, and my anger subsides. Time will favor my mission.
So I will bide my time, holding in my ambition until I find a less treacherous path to achieving my ends.
You are not forgotten, Catyleia.
I will ensure with every fiber of my being that your memory will persevere forever in the fleeting memories of men.
I promise.











XIII
SAFIRA
The familiar sounds of crinkling parchment fill the air. We work in silence, by candlelight that barely fights off the darkness around us. Revolutions don’t come from nothing, you see – even with all that Sturm has prepared, all the information that he’s elicited from his network of spies, there still remains the question of how to go about our business.
Frankly, I’m not quite sure why I’m even here, as my competence with logistical matters is rather lacking.
A yawn escapes me, and I stare out at the night sky, gleaming bright with the luminescence of countless stars. It really is late, though no one seems to be deterred by the lateness of the hour. Dedication to their country is what drives the individuals around me forward. It’s a virtue that seems to escape the members of our governing staff. But then again, when are bureaucrats ever motivated by something other than a hunger for power and their own personal greed?
I glance over at Sturm, surrounded by a cadre of hand-picked officers, all of them gathered around a table with countless maps splayed over it. For whatever reason, Sturm has decided to give them his trust. It’s apparent that he expects me to do the same.
Oh well. Revolutions are not the efforts of any single person. I decide to cooperate for now.
I stride over to one of the less populated tables, where a group of armored individuals is gathered. These are the pitiful remains of what was once Galatia’s secret police. Ah, another work of my father. The brutish man wielded them like hammer and shield, smashing away at all those who did not fit into his vision of a perfect world. He was noble, alright. Those ideals that crowded his head must have left no room for rational thought.
Their first loyalty is still to their primarch, though, and as I approach, one of them, a boy not much older than I, turns and salutes me in acknowledgement.
“Primarch! How may we be of service to your grace?”
Noticing the identity of the boy who has just addressed me, I suppress a laugh, though a crooked smile still hangs on my lips.
“Drop the formalities, Mikael. I’d just like to know what’s going on .”
He stands up and offers his seat to me. I accept, still drowsy from many nights of fitful sleep. Try as I might, I’m unable to shake off the nightmares that constantly chase me.
“You know, you didn’t have to come tonight. You look like you could use some rest.”
“What? And be lectured until the end of time by Sturm?”
He cracks a grin, despite the atmosphere around him.
“It’s been a while, you know? You haven’t changed a bit.”
I pause, not sure of what to say. Though brief, the silence of the moment feels ever so oppressive. He recoils, embarrassment spreading across his features.
“S-sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken my mind so readily. Forgive me.”
I shake my head, and sigh.
“No, it’s not that, it’s-“
My heart screams at me to continue, to have someone finally listen to my crazy ramblings. To pour out the poison in my soul. But I stop myself, thinking better of it. My burdens are my own. Mikael doesn’t deserve to carry them with him. I attempt to compose myself before continuing:
“It’s nothing. How are the plans proceeding?”
His response is quick, mechanical, drained of its previous humor.
“As you know, most of the threats to Galatia’s power have permanent residences in and around the city of Valithria. Those most likely to oppose a new order are located most densely within the palace halls.”
I know this, but gesture for him to continue, not wanting to upset him again.
“This castle was built in the very beginnings of the state, back in the days of monarchs who held absolute power. Since then, it has expanded massively, as successive dynasties have made additions to the existing structure, layering the new over the old. Hallways have been closed, fallen into disuse, abandoned to time. Secret passages that none but their architects knew of.”
“Until Sturm.”
He nods in agreement.
“Until Sturm, yes. He’s unearthed a wealth of information about the intricacies of the building, piecing together countless blueprints gathered from the archives, synthesizing their contents so that we may make use of them.”
Of course. Sturm climbed up the ranks of bureaucrats, learning the ways of his craft during his ascent. In the end, he was promoted by my father, the latter of which who was impressed by Sturm’s loyalty to the country. If anything, it’s likely Draco’s most lasting legacy. One thing that I don’t have to ashamed of my father for.
I ponder Mikael’s words for a moment, their implications slowly becoming clear in my head. Of course. Sturm, the mastermind that he is, planned for a pre-emptive strike against the factions that would oppose the new regime. All the plans, the schematics, simply pieces of a larger puzzle. I don’t know how long he’s planned for this. Maybe since my birth, maybe even before them. But I’m grateful that he’s dedicated his life to this cause. Grateful that he’s working for something larger than himself. It must be gratifying to see the pieces finally falling into place after all these years.
Mikael’s still talking, but I’ve completely disengaged myself from whatever he’s saying. Important things, I think, but I’ve found myself to be incapable of focusing on any single thing for too long. He pauses, and looks at me, concerned.
“Safira, are you alright?”
I shrug off his concerns with a dismissive wave, and try to put on a smile. He sighs, and turns around to the table behind to before handing me another piece of paper. At a glance, it appears to be a summary of what he’s been talking about.
“Read this when you’re better rested, okay? Don’t push yourself too hard. We will need you for the days to come.”
I accept his offering, and thank him for his time. It’s not often people are patient enough to explain things to me, especially with my frequent lapses in attention. I’m grateful for him, and everyone else who still bothers with me.
Looking around, everyone still seems buried in their work. Everyone here has a part to play. A part in this mad play put on by the prime minister of this godforsaken nation. Thinking about it, I finally have a role too. I don’t have to sit idle anymore, my fate cast by others around me.
No, my time hasn’t come yet. But I know it will. It has to.
In the meantime, though, since there is no one who I can speak to about all that’s happened in the past few days, I pick up a pen and pour my thoughts onto the blank page sitting before me.
I’ve always had a gift for writing. All of the speeches, the fiery orations that could rally crowds to a frenzy – that was Sturm. I’ve always had a horrible stutter whenever forced to speak under pressure, so in order to preserve the primarch’s image, I’ve had aides read the speeches that I’ve written. It’s not a perfect system, but I’d like to imagine that it’s better than me tarnishing my image with more than a few botched up words.
So I write, then. And I think. I think of all the change that will come of this, of all the good that I can do now because the doors have been opened for me. I’m excited, I think. I have to steady my hand before continuing to etch out the words against the paper. It’s strange, I know, but the words that I’m writing aren’t in the usual sarcastic tone that they usually hold. No, this time, they’re filled with my hopes for the future. I am breaking free, free of my own shackles. I need to write this out, even if he never gets the chance to lay his eyes onto its contents.
It doesn’t matter. Whether someone reads this or not, it means so very little. But I need somewhere to empty out my feelings, and the paper is the only thing that will listen to me.
I roll it up after signing the bottom of the page, tying it with a neat red ribbon. I tap Mikael on the shoulder before speaking in a whisper:
“Here. Could you do me a favor and make sure it gets to where it needs to go?”
He winks, the old traces of amusement back in his eyes.
“Of course.”
He turns away, scroll in hand.
I can’t help but smile. Look at me now, Aster. Look at me become what I’d always dreamed of becoming.
Look at me carve my own mark into history. Look at it and remember me, won’t you?
XIV
ASTER
This new hope of mine is fragile. It’s the buds of the flower, the delicate porcelain that barely holds together, the wisps of dandelions. It’s fragile, and it’s beautiful.
Since that day in the cathedral, no storms have passed, no quakes to disturb our sense of peace. And so, as there was nothing to cull it, the peace that we wished for blossomed. It’s still young, swayed easily by the breezes about it, but what matters is that it’s there.
Since then, there have been far fewer nights I spent haunted by my demons. Sleep doesn’t escape me so easily anymore, and each day seems to present new opportunities and new light. It’s becoming a cycle now, our routines established as our lives finally grasp the stability we so longed for. I work now, not for payment, not for pride, but for myself. There must be something innately good in humans, I think. We are creatures who find joy in helping others. It’s strenuous, but it’s satisfying. Satisfying to see the fruits of your labor, compounded over many days and many nights, building and building, seeing your efforts finally surmount to something. And satisfying to be thanked, to feel needed somewhere.
“Hey, Aster, mind giving me a hand?”
This kind of thing isn’t out of the place anymore. I’ve come with Rose to all of her volunteering lately, and though our bellies may hunger for food at night, at least we’ve taken our fair share of gratitude.
I help her with her request, lifting and holding beams into position so that they may form the walls of a new house. She’s humming, an easygoing smile plastered over her face. I’m straining myself, barely holding up their weight. It’s hard work, and it’s something to be proud of.
The time flies by, many hours of laborious effort taking their toll on me. People dart around the site, eager to take up the cause. We tire, but that alone does not deter us from our task. It’s in the smallest things that people put the greatest effort into. It’s because they do that the world around us is so vivid with individuality. You can see when someone’s efforts are manifested in a concrete object. More than anything, it belongs to them, is an extension of the person they are. That kind of thing is something that means far more than any contract or deed.
I can’t shake this cautious optimism, despite the knowledge that something will happen to break it. Maybe I am defined by those around me, their personalities, their hopes, and their dreams absorbed into the person that I am. I’ve never really held an identity of my own. It’s always been these influences around me that have spelled out my story. Bound by fate, essentially. I’ve never tried to break the mold or break free from that which surrounds me. Does it make me weak? Perhaps, but the world doesn’t need everyone to be leaders. What this world needs is people who will listen to others.
The afternoon has come, and the heat of the midday sun has receded, leaving only remnants of what it once was. It paints the sky a truer shade, the clouds of white all the more striking against their canvas.
Rose calls me over, and we share a loaf of bread as our meal for the day. We’re just engaging in some mindless conversation about the colors of the earth when she asks out of the blue:
“Did you ever want the power to change things for the better?”
She’s caught me off guard again.
“…mm…maybe?”
She raises her eyebrows in an amused kind of matter, continuing her inquiry.
“You know there isn’t a right or wrong answer to it. So please, tell me.”
“Power corrupts us, doesn’t it? It’s because of all these leaders who have lost sight of right and wrong that we’re in such a mess right now.”
Rose crosses her arms, feigning a sort of annoyance. I can’t help but smile.
“There you go again, with all of your philosophy. You get caught in that head of yours, sometimes.”
I shrug, and she presses on, her amusement fading away:
“I’ve been thinking, you know, maybe I should be doing more. Peace isn’t an opportunity that comes very often.”
“But you’re already doing so much!”
She smiles at me, but with a bit of lingering sadness, as if she’s trying to convey something that I don’t quite understand.
“We’re a republic now, aren’t we? That means power can be granted to any who are entrusted with it by the people.”
I can see where this is going. But I don’t want her to face the monsters that currently sit in office. She’s not trying to make enemies, but to those who still hold their power with a tenuous grasp, any threat to them must be treated with hostility. I try to voice my objections, but all it does is sound like a plea. A plea for her to stay safe. A plea for her not to leave me alone again.
“You’re too kind for that kind of thing! Only the scoundrels, the worst of us, can hope to compete for command!”
Her response is calm, undeterred by my protests.
“Then let me be the first to change that.”
I’m faltering, my voice becoming entangled in doubt.
“You…you can’t…”
She sees right through my reasoning. In an attempt to comfort me, she tussles my hair like back when we were children. But I don’t feel any better for it.
“Oh, Aster, you know I won’t be leaving you. And you know, I have my own strengths. I promise I won’t lose myself to power, okay?”
My voice is tiny in its reply.
“Promise?”
A smile coats her lips, this time with genuine joy.
“Promise.”


By the time that we have arrived home, twilight has come, absorbing the last lights of the day. It’s been an eventful day – we’re covered in sweat, limbs aching from physical exertion. But it feels right. It feels good to have done something, to have spent your time on something that will bring another happiness. It feels so very satisfying to save the day from going to waste.
I bid goodnight to Rose, and carefully make my way through the darkened hall to the room that Rose has lent me. Its previous resident left his aura in every nook and cranny.
It’s something that finds its way to the bookshelves bulging with their contents. A plethora of carefully selected works lives among the sill, golden letters on their spines still gleaming despite the dust that’s collected upon them. Pens, of all shapes and sizes, their feathers littering the floor, their ink staining every exposed surface. And paper. So much of it, strewn everywhere. Across them, letters dance across the pages in a messy scrawl. Letters that tell stories of love, and loss, and everything else that comes with life.
I should know. It was my own brother who was the last to live within these four walls.
He’s watching over me now, from his place among the pages. It feels as if he never left. I blow out the candle, and with it the light in the room.
Goodnight, Reiner. Next time we cross paths, I hope that you can finally be proud of me.











XV
SAFIRA
“That happiness that you reach for, searching for it with every ounce of your soul, that dream, that hope, that peace you’ve always wanted but never held – maybe, if you look around for a moment and forget the relentless pursuit of it all for but a moment – maybe you’ll realize that it was here all along.”
- Darien Sheth, Dreams
It’s begun.
No more waiting to be heard. Today, my voice will ring true in the ears of those who have refused to listen to me. Today will be mine.
The first rays of the morning sun break against the castle walls. The golden banners blaze in the daybreak, fires that have begun to burn bright at last. It’s a new beginning, one where I’ll carve away at the old. The future calls out to me, as if it’s beckoning me forward to speak. This time, I’m not narrating ancient tales written by the titans of old. It’s me and my story, the one that I’ll burn into this new day.
We’ve assembled ourselves within the legislative chamber. Hundreds of sentinels at arms, assassins cloaked in black robes. They all bear the emblem of Rhygarde. How strange it is to see it here, making its return in such momentous force. Father would be proud, wouldn’t he? If I am to make the same mistakes as he did, I’ll have to be sure to follow through with them to the very end. But I won’t die today. There’s still too much left for me to do.
Sturm addresses the assemblage, his normal garb replaced with that of a commander’s. I know he has waited for this day far longer than I have. But he maintains his authority, as always. Country before self. Could I have expected otherwise?
“I know that you have all made your preparations for this day. I know you all to be men and women loyal to our nation. I know that you have all thrown in your lot with Safira and I, as you see in this country the same flaws that we do. But I know too that you share the belief that we can save it yet. From the ashes of old grow the blossoms of a new era. There is little to do but trust in yourselves and in each other. I trust that we will find our victory. I know that you will too.”
He raises his weapon, and I follow with mine. We salute in unison.
“Vivat Galatia!”
The reply is thunderous.
“VIVAT GALATIA!!”


We have splintered into our own assault groups, each assigned to a target. Heavy footsteps tramp across the hallways. Their echoes fade quickly into the labyrinth of stone. I know that many will lose their lives in the battle. I’ve known it for a long time coming. I’ve resolved myself not to care, even if it is my own life that is extinguished in the fighting today. It’s the change that I wanted – that I needed. It will not slip away from fingers that still have strength.
Today won’t be one dictated by the regrets that have come to haunt my every waking hour. Time that had trickled through my outstretched hands is gone. But I won’t let that bother me. It’s amazing, really, to see all of your errors washed away, cleansed from your being, with the coming of the new. It has absolved me of the guilt I held, clearing away the rubble from the broken landscape of my mind. Opportunities, opportunities. Here, I’ll try to claim mine.
“Milady…are you unwell?”
Mikael stands beside me, as do the other members of my guard. Armored in the colors of Galatia, they are a sight to behold. Regal, glorious, the harbingers of change.
“I’m…fine. Just pondering.”
“Do…you want to talk about it?”
The words catch me by surprise. I don’t remember the last time I had a meaningful conversation with someone. Something that’s a product of my own beliefs. I sigh. I don’t deserve pity, especially not my own. He’s still standing there, a questioning look still plastered over his face. What can I say to him? What is there left to say?
My soul screams at me. Everything. And then the cold voice of logic, that tells me to keep to myself, orders me to hold my words like I do my pride. Back and forth, back and forth. Ceaselessly. Endlessly. I’m caught within the battle of my own mind, victim to the destructive struggle that plays out each and every day. Crippling me. Making me turn away and turn in, leaving myself isolated, cold, alone. Never yielding, never faltering. Never slowing down for all the things that make life worth living.
The silence returns again, me paralyzed within myself. My reply is incoherent and empty.
“Maybe…”
He shoulders his weapon, a little smile cutting across the corners of his face.
“We have time, don’t we? Sturm wouldn’t send his Primarch into the fray, now would he?”
The voices in my head have stopped screaming at each other for just a moment, leaving me, a broken person who, despite everything, still clings to the shards of broken promises. I never learned to let go, did I? Still bleeding from wounds that healed years ago, there’s something within me that still isn’t quite right. I couldn’t fix it myself.
The words are out of my mouth before my demons can question them.
“Will you listen to me?”
“Of course.”
So I tell him, I tell him about my father and how I couldn’t stand his heroics, his naivety, his ideals that brought him to an early grave and left me alone to fend for myself. About how I couldn’t become the person whom he wanted his daughter to be. Failures, and triumphs, every event defining my life, twisting and turning my hopes, my dreams, my very person.
I tell him about Aster, and about the hell that I saw and lived in. The words flow from topic to topic, misshapen pieces of my life strung together on a fragile thread. I let the emotions out, and they roar with a rampage as they cascade free of their bindings. All of it out, in the hope that I may find someone to help me ease the burden.
And when I finish, he’s there as he was. No shock, no sympathy. Just two simple words that mean more than anything else in the world right now.
“I understand.”
“You do, don’t you?”
“I can’t help you, you know. I can’t whisk your troubles away with just words. I can’t fathom all of your struggles and what they’ve done to you, eroding away at everything that you are.” I can’t do any of that, you know? All I can offer you is-“
“You’re such an idiot, Mikael. Do you really think any of that matters to me?”
He laughs, a joyful sound that I’ve always liked to listen to.
“You don’t want pity, or someone to tell you that your faults aren’t there. You don’t want someone to heal your wounds, your flaws, mending you to be perfect. You just wanted someone to listen.”
I nod. There are no tears. There is no smile on my lips. Only relief as the voices finally grow quiet.