.𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘴𝘩.

ZANH

“We need to reevaluate,” Zanh announced. It was clear as she leaned over the edge of the table to scour the map that she was not interested in hearing dissent. Over the past few years, the Pillars had made their plans as a collective unit.. She had listened to the demands of the king and all his generals with their badges and their egos; each with contradictory visions of how the war should go. Most of them were far older than herself. Most of them were men who had not stepped foot on the battlefield since she was a child. Even if they were accomplished soldiers, they all fooled themselves into thinking they knew the correct plan of action. The problem, of course, was that in trying to implement the countless ideas, they had failed to centralize their focus. Now instead of succeeding at ten plans, they were failing at all of them.

Democracy be damned, she thought to herself as she looked around the room. What they needed was focus.

Her sharp black gaze directed all others to the map on the table. Wooden pieces represented both Selvan and Traeterran forces. The first were painted white, the second black. As they were currently placed, pods of both white and black figures were scattered haphazardly around the map. Even a child ignorant to the nuances of war would have been capable of seeing that the sides lacked unity.

“The satellite camps are not working. I understand that the idea was to splinter the Traeterran forces in order to weaken them, but in doing so we have weakened ourselves,” she continued. Her voice was low, measured. With a few quick motions, she gathered all of the white pieces and placed them in the middle of the map.

“Our forces are strongest when they become a single entity. We are doing the enemy a favor by allowing their small squadrons and their phoenixes to ambush our camps without warning. They are built for quick scuffles. We, by contrast—,” she then started pushing the pile of white pieces outward with the backs of her hands, “ are at our best when the sorcerers have as many soldiers at their disposal as possible. I cannot send ice shields to three different guerilla camps at once. What I can do is strengthen the front line. Which is exactly why we need to call every last one of our men to a single space.”

She straightened then, jaw flexing. “I will send the orders as soon as this meeting is adjourned.” Her eyes landed on her sister. Why do you want to be here? Her gaze telegraphed her question. She had not asked it before. Why would Rekh want to join in the plans to kill when she could be kneading fresh dough or reading a book from the security of her bed? But the look had a rare softness as well. Why would a precious bundle of swaddles wish to participate in war?

LES

When Maewen was ready to go, Les led the way out of the tent and back into the cold. He was relieved to be dressed, and the food was fortifying. Being a realist, he knew that what they were about to do had the potential to be miserable. But he also knew that they would get through it. The nice thing about being a phoenix was that no matter how much suffering he faced, he would wake up eventually with his body and his mind fully intact.

“I’ve never understood how women do that,” he remarked conversationally on the way Maewen braided her hair. He ran a hand over his own closely cropped head. He had a vague memory of trying to braid his sister’s hair when they were children and giving up after losing track of the strands. He had cut his own hair because it was the most practical way to wear it, especially in war. Yet he fought with women, and many of them maintained long locks.

The snow crunched under their boots as they walked. He did not know where the alchemists tent was exactly, but his feet led him toward the middle of camp. The alchemists, being an important pillar of the Traeterran forces, were usually shielded from the edges which faced out into the wild tundra. They were protected like a fragile, precious egg that could crack at any moment. In fairness, Les knew the alchemists were never trained to fight. They would be easy to cut down in their long red robes. But he knew better than to think of them as harmless. The alchemists had an ability to do harm worse than any single man.

Soon they arrived at the place. Pelter stood at the entrance to a large tent with thick, red canvas walls. His arms were crossed over his frail body, bracing it against the winter winds. His face was expressionless even as he spotted Les and Maewen approaching.

“Follow me,” he said stonily.

It was too late now to argue. Les held the flaps of the tent open so Pelter and then Mae could enter. Then, after a long glance around the camp, he followed them inside.

He had been in an alchemists’ tent before, but not since he received his final blood transfusion. An unexpectedly visceral reaction caused his brow to wrinkle as the familiar scent of dried herbs, smoke, and incense filled his nose. The main room was dedicated to creating new phoenixes. Several cots lined the room, some occupied and others empty. He spotted a young man with black hair receiving blood. He lay on his back, bare chest rising and falling as if in slumber. Les looked away before his eyes landed on the machine. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“I hope we won’t be hooked up to one of those again,” he said to Maewen under his breath.

Before she could answer, Pelter interrupted. “Thankfully not. We have something different in mind for you two.” With that, he gestured for them to enter a smaller room near the back.

The lighting was so dim inside that it took a few moments for Les’ eyes to adjust. In the center of the room was a table on which there were countless vials, mortars, and contraptions. There was another man as well, one whom Les had never seen before. He was tall, though his posture was poor, and it took Les a moment to realize his right arm was missing from the elbow.

“What do you want from us, then?” asked the male phoenix. He rolled his muscular shoulders as if preparing to fight.

---

KAIVA

Kaiva did not flinch when the prince flashed his sword toward her throat. She stood as still as a statue, eyes glaring into his with the intensity of a person who is not afraid to die. But the blade never reached her flesh. It stopped suddenly above her collar, hovering like a bird of prey.

She could see the questioning look in the Lystra’s dark eyes. Both of them were breathing heavily, condensation billowing in the cold air. Suddenly he said, “There.” His sword, which a second before was held to throat, flashed in her periphery. And then she did flinch.

“No!” she hissed. But it was too late. She heard the clatter of metal hitting the ground as the Selvan soldier was struck by the prince’s blade. The heavy shield hit the ground and then the soldier fell to his knees with a painful scream.

“He’s all yours,” said the prince. And then he was gone. A single downstroke of his wings carried him into the sky.

Kaiva growled in frustration. She pulled off her helmet, ashen hair whipping around her face as she threw the helmet after him. As the Selvan soldier continued to cry out in pain, she stood and watched the prince fly off to join the fray elsewhere. His black wings were stark against the snow-heavy blue clouds.

Eventually she looked down at the shield-bearer. Crimson blood was flowing from the shoulder of his sword arm. It stained his left hand, his armor, and the ground. Kaiva regarded him, green eyes unreadable. He looked up at her desperately. She could see he was in pain, and that the wound would have no chance of healing unless he was tended to quickly. “Please,” he sobbed.

With a swift flash of her light sword, she ended his misery.

And then she jogged off to fight a more worthy opponent.

----------------------------

The battle was over in what felt like moments. Kaiva surveyed the Selvan camp and many of her compatriots standing over lifeless bodies. Syd was not far off. He lifted his chin to her as he wiped his blade clean of blood on a patch of frosty grass. They had made such quick work of the fight that she had not needed to use her powers at all. She could feel the warmth coursing through her veins, daring her to light fire to something. But it would be a waste to do it now.

Despite the frigid cold, she was growing hot in her armor after such exertion. She removed her gloves and then dexterously unbuckled the straps of her breastplate. She tossed it to the ground, knowing that one of the Ash Collectors would grab it when they scoured the battlefield.

And then she spotted the prince. He was further down the gully with his back turned. Rolling up the sleeves of her linen shirt, Kaiva strode toward him. “Hey!” she snapped. “What the hell is your problem? I told you he was mine.”

FENRIR

Fenrir watched, rather dispassionately, as several soldiers stepped forward to help Selvan general to his feet. The man’s face was drawn, lips tight with anger. He winced as he was dragged to his feet, skin growing even more pale. Blood trickled from the man’s shoulder, where the spear Fenrir had thrown at him was still buried. Fenrir stepped forward and wrapped one hand around the wooden shaft. “This will hurt,” he warned the man. Bracing his other hand against the Selvan’s golden breastplate, he broke off the spear. The general groaned in pain; jaw clenched as he breathed rapidly. “Take him to the medic,” he ordered the Traeterran soldiers. “Treat him with dignity and respect. They think of us as monsters – prove them otherwise.” He watched as the two soldiers helped the Selvan off the battlefield, leading him towards the Traeterran camp below the hill. Fenrir finally turned his attention away.

He dropped the wooden shield he’d picked up, laying it down gently next to a fallen Traeterran soldier. He murmured a soft prayer, voice too low for anyone else to hear. Once that was done, he moved to consult with Heron, the Traeterran general. It was while the two men were in a discussion that Fenrir heard a now-familiar voice.

“Hey!” the female snapped, marching towards him. By the speed of her step, she was clearly angry. Heron hissed beneath his breath. “What the hell is your problem? I told you he was mine.”

“Kaiva!” Heron snapped. “You—” he stopped when Fenrir lifted a hand to silence him.

“Indeed, you did,” Fenrir responded wryly. His wings quivered at his back, before he settled them down. “And I respected that. You did not specify the condition he was to be left in, however, and considering that he was about to sever your head from your shoulders, I took the liberty to prevent that from happening.”

Heron glared at Kaiva, his expression thundering with fury. “You will show respect, Kaiva,” he hissed, “when addressing a member of the royal family.” Fenrir flicked one wing slightly. “Before you stands His Majesty Fenrir, Crown Prince of Traeterra, next in line for the throne. Regardless of your personal feelings, you will uphold the proper decorum. I should have you put to latrine duty for this.”

“That won’t be necessary, General,” Fenrir interjected. “I am certain that Miss Kaiva here was so engulfed and blinded with her need to protect and defend Traeterra and its ideals that the proper decorum and manner in which she addresses her superiors was briefly forgotten.” He leveled a warning gaze at the female phoenix. By his tone, it was clear that his statement was meant as a backhanded compliment – a public reprimand. Several other Traeterrans soldiers had stopped to watch and stare at the situation unfolding. He did have the authority to do far worse, should he wish to. “I am certain that it will not happen again.”

ZANH

Poor ol’ lemon face, also known as Baron Adelard, was no match for the silent communication between sisters. Zanh had ignored him for the most part. Over the years, she had grown accustomed to his red-faced stares. She knew he plotted with the other Pillars outside of the war room. He was the one who planted the disastrous idea to spend half the crown’s money on cannons two years prior. Those very same cannons, supplied by the “neutral” kingdom of Fastred, were impossible to transport across the rocky terrain of the battlefields and ultimately proved useless. Zanh was still having difficulty persuading the king to lend them money to feed, clothe, and arm her forces. He had grown much more stingy since Adelard’s brilliant plan.

Rekh was clearly bemused by the older man. She subtly tipped her head toward him in question when most of the Pillars were looking forward. Zanh stifled a smile. She would explain later, for a meaningful glance could not possibly contain all she had to say. In the meantime, however, she must navigate the minefield that was the war council.

“Ambushes, losing squadrons, casualties, these are all unavoidable aspects of war,” said Yew Langhan. He sat to the right of Baron Adelard and Zanh knew them to be longtime allies. He too was old enough to have a seat in the council since before Zanh was born. Unlike his companion, he was not red-faced or dimwitted. He was a clever man, and many considered him a charismatic one. Zanh saw through him, though. Behind his symmetrical black eyes and serpentine smile was a deep ambition. She knew he cared little about what could be lost in their war with Traeterra. He was only interested in what he could gain. In this instance, she knew he had a vested interest in prolonging the war as long as possible. He was a supplier of leather, endless amounts of which were needed to line armor and produce saddles for the cavalry.

Zanh realized belatedly that he was still monologuing. He used his hands in an animated fashion as he stated to the men and women seated around the table, “—allowing fear to dictate our actions. If we do as Lady Zanh is proposing, drawing all men to a central location, we risk losing what advantages we’ve gained in our strategy thus far.”

Zanh had to bite the inside of her cheek to avoid interrupting. She could see that a number of the council members hung on his every word. Her dark eyes slid back to her sister, scanning the younger woman’s face. Could Rekh see through these people too? Did she see how disingenuous they risked being, how reckless they were with the lives of Selvan men, all in order to line their pockets? Sometimes she wanted to scream with frustration. But she maintained a neutral expression. She had learned long ago that men do not respond well to a younger woman questioning their ideas.

Thankfully Zanh was spared from offering a measured response, or any response at all for that matter. Just as Yew had finished speaking, the door burst open.

"Entering, His Royal Highness Prince Mokhnaran Akkeren and Lord Bydivere Dyadant."

The entire council swiveled their heads in unison and then, after a moment of confused hesitation, rose to greet the crowned prince. Zanh, stunned at the sudden intrusion, stood with her mouth slightly agape. No one had warned her that Prince Mokh was in the area, let alone in the fortress. Last she knew, he was in the safety of the capital city. But suddenly, there he was, eliciting stunned gasps and excited whispering from grown men.

“Y-your Highness,” stuttered Zanh. “Please, join us at the table. I apologize for the state of the fortress.” She was referencing the bare walls, the cobwebs in the corners of the rooms, and the flimsy rugs strewn across the floors. Downstairs, an entire wing was out of commission due to being blown to pieces. She knew Mokh was no stranger to war, but there was a silent understanding that everyone without a royal title must bend over backwards to accommodate any visiting prince or princess. If she had known he would be there, she would have at least called up a fine chef to prepare meals. “If we had known you were coming, we would have made it more suitable for hosting a member of the royal family.”