.𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘴𝘩.

LES

His first waking memory was of fire in his lungs. It choked him, rushing down his throat when he tried to inhale. His senses screamed for him to breathe, but no matter how hard he tried, the flame was faster and more persistent. His hands clawed blindly at his neck. And now he could feel it burning away his scalp like paper.

When he sat up, however, he found the air around him was cool and it filled his lungs with relative ease. He coughed, having inhaled some ash, and then looked around.

Pelter stood over him. The alchemist’s dark red robes provided a stark contrast to their wintery surroundings. His elf-like features were withdrawn, but Les could see a guarded sort of sympathy within them. “How did that feel?” was his first question. His voice was muffled in Les’ ears, as if they were spoken underwater. As he spoke, he knelt to drape a cloak over the soldier’s body.

Les looked down. His pale skin was marked with black soot. The armor and clothes he had worn before were gone now, leaving him susceptible to the biting cold air. He fingered the edges of the cloak and then drew it more tightly around his body. “Thank you,” he muttered hoarsely. He stifled a shiver and then stood, knowing there was no point in wasting more time. He was entitled to a hot bath and a fortifying meal, perhaps a few days' rest if he was lucky. And then it was back to fighting. Back to dying on the battlefield in agony and unavoidable, animalistic fear until he was reduced, literally, to a pile of ash.

His body ached. That much he had grown accustomed to. It would take another good night’s rest before he felt like himself again. In the meantime, he was intent on getting out of the cold.

“Where am I?” he asked Pelter as he started walking toward the pitched tents. He recognized the rocky landscape as the northern moor of Helmwood, but he did not recognize the particular hillside, nor the layout of the nearby military camp. The pile of ashes and freshly turned dirt from which he had emerged sat atop an outcrop with little more than a few shrubs as protection. It was a rudimentary birthing place, if one could call it that, but Les supposed with a hint of bitterness that it didn’t much matter where his ashes were spread. In his determination to get clothed and fed, he did not notice that another had lain beside him. A vaguely human form, not yet breathing, had begun to take shape from the soot upon the hill.

“We have a tent set up for you nearby,” answered the alchemist in his paper-thin voice.

Les’ bare feet carried him down to the encampment, where a young man was waiting with a bowl of something warm. He took it, and smiled in thanks. Pelter continued to lead the way. As they walked, Les was able to turn his attention away from his aching muscles to their surroundings. A few snowflakes floated down from the sky, landing on the unsuspecting heads of the soldiers who inhabited the camp. Many of them sat talking, sharpening swords, or nursing their dinner. They looked battered, all of them. One of them had a bloodied bandage over his shoulder where his arm should have hung, but instead there was nothing but a stump.

“How have the men fared since I was out?” he asked the alchemist.

Pelter did not turn to look at him. Instead he gestured ahead, to where a crackling fire and a tent were waiting. “As well as one might hope,” he answered diplomatically. “The king and his men joined up with us two days ago to offer some welcome support. Anyway. This is for you. Rest and get yourself ready. I expect the others will be glad to see you alive and well.”

KAIVA

The weight of her sword was familiar, like an extension of her arm. She spun the hilt in the palm of her hand in a practiced motion. It sliced through the air in a circular motion with a soft “woosh” before it stilled.

The air was cold, no doubt on account of some Selvan sorcery, and she had to move to keep warm.

“Where are they?” she asked impatiently, looking over to General Heron with sharp green eyes. The man put his hands on his hips and squinted at the hill before them as if he hadn’t considered the question before. Behind them, a squadron of soldiers stood restlessly in their armor. Their breath billowed about them like smoke.

“Perhaps they decided to hunker down by the fire,” stated the general. His black beard was collecting frost.

Kaiva huffed, losing her patience. “I have to do everything around here,” she stated before striding away from the safety of the squadron. She heard the crunch of Syd’s boots as he followed. Her Ash Collector was always hooked to her hip. She sometimes needed to dismiss him if she wanted some semblance of privacy. But for now his company was welcome. The pair began trudging up the hill, picking their footholds carefully on the icy ground so as not to slip.

The phoenix was the first to reach the top, and she flinched as an arrow flew by her head.

“Get down!” she ordered Syd. She flattened herself to a nearby bush and glared through the prickly branches. Below them, in a small gully, was a gang of Selvan men. By her quick estimation, there were about forty of them, about matching the number in their squadron. She and Syd had taken them by surprise, but an archer crouched beside a boulder. His fur-lined hood obscured his face, but Kaiva scowled at him for good measure. When she glanced at Syd, he was gesturing for the others to follow their path up the hill.

“Wait,” he said under his breath, sensing Kaiva was restless. “Just wait for them to get closer.”

But by the time he looked over to where his charge had crouched by the bush, she was slinking down the side of the hill, using the wintery vegetation as cover. She had to step carefully to avoid clanking her armor against any rocks.

“Kaiva!” Syd whispered harshly. She did not turn her head. As quietly as a hunting lynx, she slid down into the gully to crouch behind a fallen tree. By then she was close enough to hear the enemy men talking amongst themselves. For a reason she could not yet identify, they had not yet been alerted by the archer who had spotted them. Their discussion was hushed but jovial as they discussed their dinner plans for the next day. I saw some wild garlic at our last camping spot. Perhaps there’s some around here. And: I don’t much like wild garlic.

Kaeva squinted at the opposite hillside, searching for the archer. Her wandering eyes nearly missed a flash of movement up above. She looked up just in time to see the rush of blood running down the archer’s chest and his body slump to the ground. Only then did she realize there were Traeterran men above, their helmeted heads blending in with the rocks. She felt a mix of excitement and disappointment battle in her chest. On one hand, she knew the battle ahead would be swift. On the other hand, there was danger of it becoming boring.

One of the Traeterran men was gesturing for her to stay put. He mouthed something as well as she looked away, ignoring his silent orders.

And then she stood up, launching a rock at the head of one of the enemy men which clanged squarely against his helmet.

“Hey! Over here!” she shouted.

FENRIR

This high up, where the air was so thin it was almost impossible to breathe, Fenrir was able to find some measure of peace. The wind roared in his ears as he soared through the sky, wings slicing through the air like a sickle through wheat. His breath misted in the air before him, fogging across his vision before the wind howling past him ripped it away. He swept his wings downward and reveled in the concussive boom! of the displaced air. He twisted his body, angling his wings so that he began to climb in a swift spiral until he cleared the cloud cover. There, he cupped his wings and flared them wide, just drifting on the breeze. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensations around him – the ice-cold breath filling his lungs, spreading the chill through his body; the minute changes of the wind and air pressure over his wings, for which he adjusted automatically. The wind hissing in his ears and washing across his exposed skin. He was fairly covered, dressed in thick, warm layers, but his face was bare to the biting chills.

After a long moment, Fenrir let his body tilt backwards; he arced into a dive, pulling his wings closer to his body, although he left them open slightly to control his direction. He slashed through the sky like an arrow; he closed his eyes to the wind and relied on his instinct and experience. He cut through the cloud cover, coating his form in a light mist before it was whipped away. He began to open his wings, flaring them out to slow his descent. In the same motion, he swung his legs downward and pointed his heels to the earth, further slowing his fall. Once he was at a more manageable speed, he angled back towards the Traeterran camp that his father had sent him to. Fenrir was arriving to the camp for the first time; he’d been sent as support for the phoenixes and other soldiers, since he was skilled in combat.

With another concussive boom, Fenrir landed in the center of the camp, wings still outstretched and open. He stood there for a moment, casting his dark gaze over the soldiers who’d stopped to stare before he straightened his posture and folded his wings back. He turned at the sound of rapid footsteps and met the gaze of General Heron. “My prince,” the man said, dropping to one knee. Fenrir inclined his head in greeting. “We’re moving on the Selvan camp now.”

“Good,” Fenrir said. “Let’s show them what we’re made of gentlemen.” He swept his wings open and launched into the air to the sound of cheers. Fenrir was quite popular amongst his people, as he made it a point to make himself available to those that needed him – even those who were not of nobility or high rank. Fenrir flew towards the hill, glancing about. He was looking for the phoenixes who were stationed here, although he did not see any yet.

A shout drew his attention, and Fenrir saw a young female stand up and hurl a rock at one of the Selvan men. The clang of the stone on the metal helmet seemed to hang in the air.

Fool, Fenrir thought to himself, although he grudgingly admitted that she’d provided a good distraction.

Another yell broke the air, and the combat began.

Fenrir slammed to the earth so hard his knees popped, drew the two short-swords at his belt, and launched into battle.