Morning Scar, a town set between two large territories, Serasin and Trilo. This small, backwater place was Spartan, much like its people. Simple stone houses contained small patches of land for planting crops, a garden of sorts, while small shops stood nearby. Morning Scar held an impressive reputation for its small yet diligent army. As laws stated, when boys reached the age of fourteen, they were sent off to large camps called Breakers. Simple context clues tell you why. Inside each camp, large arsenals of weapons and armor were picked for each recruit. They were immediately thrown into combat, their lives at risk. Children often died at these camps, buried in some unknown place.

Weaklings did not belong here.

Survivors of Breaker camps held the title of soldier. However, fighting was not the only thing soldiers were required to do. Assortments of experts on blacksmithing and weapon mastery occupied the camps. After years of training, soldiers rose in rank and traveled throughout the far reaches of the continent.

In the center of Morning Scar stood a massive coliseum, a monument built for testing future soldiers in combat. It also served an underhanded purpose. Gambling made the town flourish.

Mid-spring and summer were the busiest times for the coliseum. Nobles throughout the continent traveled with fine warriors, staking coin and lives on every match. Barbaric in nature but, who doesn’t love a good bloodbath? All twenty-seven rows were full of people in outlandish garb, bright colors mixed with dark colors amongst hungry screams for violence. Nothing was more exhilarating than making money for blood.

A tall man equipped in a light, dark gray steel tunic and brown trousers stood inside the cobblestone ring, muscle bound with short black hair and dark brown eyes. He looked ahead at a closed iron gate, waiting for another adversary. Thousands of people continued demanding for his death.

“All rise for his majesty, King Minos!”

The large combatant shifted his gaze upwards, staring at the sole balcony in the coliseum. Two velvet cushioned chairs sat near the lip to give the perfect view. The king of Morning’s Scar refused to dress like these outlandish “nobles” from the outside. Instead, the tall, aging soldier wore simple faded brown leather armor, trousers and boots. His brown beard grew again, puffy like a cloud and long like a horse’s tail. Wrinkles outlined his beady eyes, displaying signs of stress. He raised a hand, silence soon followed.

“Thank you all for coming. Before we get started, give a hand to my champion, for Niall Gaoth!”

A mix of boos, howls of approval and whistles echoed. Niall ignored the noise.

“Bring out the challenger from Il Maw!”

The large iron gate slowly crept upwards, a slender figure dressed in a black robe walked out. His face was hidden behind a black veil, but his curved scimitars were drawn. Niall knew about this person; Silgra the Slasher. Niall drew his silver great sword.

Everyone roared, they wanted to see someone die today.

Niall slightly bowed his head, Silgra stood still.

“BEGIN!”

Silgra dashed forward, both scimitars slashed high. Niall ducked underneath both blades, slamming a left fist into Silgra’s chest. He heard a loud clang underneath those robes, a distinct sound of metal on metal. Both scimitars returned to their respective positions, followed by blinding thrusts.

Niall maneuvered away from each attack while looking for weak points. After the final thrust, Silgra changed both weapons’ attacking path, swinging in a vertical X shape. Niall swung his large sword into the left scimitar. The immense force knocked Silgra off balance, causing him to stumble backwards.

Got ‘im!

Niall lunged forward, sword parallel to the floor. One stab to Silgra’s stomach would ensure victory.

Silgra smiled wickedly.

He quickly ducked underneath Niall’s large body, both scimitars within striking range of Niall’s stomach. Before the blades could reach their target, Niall allowed his sword’s massive weight to pull him down to the right. As he fell, Niall slammed another left punch into Silgra’s nose. He screamed, dropping his swords to grab at his broken nose.

Big mistake.

Niall landed on both feet. He swung horizontally for Silgra’s neck. The screaming ceased. Silgra froze, then his head and hands lazily rolled onto the ground. Fresh dark red blood flowed like a river, pouring until Silgra’s corpse fell. It jerked violently until the blood stopped. Niall sheathed his sword.

Roars echoed, more so from Morning Scar’s own residents. Their best fighter could never lose, not even to the fearsome Silgra of the bloodthirsty Il Maw kingdom. Others cried over lost money and demanded refunds, common bitching from sore losers. Niall looked up, King Minos smiled and nodded. Another day, another victory for Morning Scar. While each viewer left, Niall grabbed both scimitars and laid them on his opponent’s body.

“Mr. Gaoth, here is your payment.”

Niall stood up and slowly turned to regard the young worker of the coliseum. He was a slender boy, probably thirteen, with wild brown hair, blue eyes and freckles. The child dressed in simple, white cotton tunic and torn, dirty brown trousers with no shoes. Niall accepted his payment.

“Still here, soldier?”

King Minos walked towards Niall, arms folded behind him. The young boy got on one knee and bowed.

“Leave, greenhorn.”

The boy stood up and ran towards the exit. Minos stood beside Niall.

“Good work.”

“Il Maw’s pissed?”

“Those hot blooded fools are always upset. Their court’s demanding another shot at us. Good thing too, I’m itchin’ for a fight with that leader of theirs.”

“Didn’t you retire, old geezer?”

“Been years since I fought somebody decent.”

“The wife won’t wanna hear that.”

“Bah! Women, always complainin’.”

Niall said nothing. Both walked towards the exit, silent until they reached the outside.

“Tell your ol’ man I want that rematch he promised.”

Niall needed to speak to his father anyway, it has been two fortnights since his gigantic blade was repaired. As he walked along the main road, small children played a game called war. Boys played as knights while girls were princesses, some girls had no problem fist fighting to be heroes. They used broken broomsticks, shouted out commands and play fought until only one person survived. Legends of great heroes were common amongst folktales for kids, providing a reason to join Breaker camps and fight as soldiers.

Adults knew better.

Soldiers did not attain titles or glory, they simply fought until death. A swift and painless death was a merciful thought. Fighters had to continue forward, else they would be branded as cowards. Kingdoms recruited soldiers from Niall’s hometown as a primary offensive force, slave soldiers acted as cannon fodder. Somewhere in the bleak plains, unknown dead bodies piled up in heaps like trash.

Niall shrugged inwardly and changed direction. He needed a drink.

 

A young, brown haired girl sat outside a stone forge among the wild plains, gathering steel ingots, blacksmithing tools and threw large wood pieces into a large fire. Hues of orange, red, and yellow danced together, whistling winds and animal sounds created a sonata of life. Warm, powerful feelings rose inside that pyre. Three steel ingots melted inside the smelter, transforming precious metal into charred orange slag. She extracted the new metal with long tongs, folded the long piece in half and pressed. She eased the cooling metal onto the flat side of the anvil. Her hammer struck and began blending the two layered piece together with precision and measured force.

A standard longsword commission, simple enough. She hammered at the molten blade, spreading out the metal until she reached the tip. Using a small chisel from her utility belt, she chipped away excess metal and revealed a symmetrical, triangular point.

Perfect.

73 centimeters long, 29 centimeters wide. Everything continued as planned.

She placed the hot metal inside a large oil bath for quenching. Swirling fire erupted, dancing erotically for her attention. She extracted the blade again and wiped it down with a small cloth. Her work seemed tainted, unattractive and to novice smiths, brittle.

She thought differently.

The girl wiped sweat from her brow and readjusted her bandana. Her foot tapped on the grindstone mechanism, the large hunk of smooth stone spun quickly as she placed her unfinished blade against it. Sparks flew erratically while the blade moved vertically along the stone. Two shiny gray edges appeared.

Still have more to do.

She finished at sunset. Even in fading light, the long sword sparkled. Smooth, sharp, light weight, simple to swing, what could be better? She fell down onto dull green grass, breathing heavily. Her client would no doubt love her work.

“It’s dark already?”

She stood up and hastily gathered up her tools and the sword.

“ROSALINE! MEAL’S GETTIN’ COLD!”

“COMING, FATHER!”

Rosaline dashed back towards the village, she hoped her grip on her tools lasted until she arrived home. All she heard was the constant clanging of metal, heavy breathing, a daily routine she never broke. She left behind all the colors of nature, her world blurring into familiar gray blandness of Morning Scar. How could anyone work like this? Such a small place felt empty.

Dead.

Soldiers marched in formation, their faces expressionless and dull. Closer towards the back, young men wore standard uniforms, light faded leather armor, while higher ranked officials wore chain mail. Each person marched in sync, never diverting from the set tempo. Young girls and women stepped outside and issued a salute; crossing their arms in an X with clenched fists.

“LEFT, LEFT, LEFT RIGHT LEFT!” The leading official sung a simple cadence, his men moved their feet on command.

“PLATOON, HALT!”

The soldiers stopped.

“LEFT FACE!”

They turned to face the women.

“PLEDGE!”

“We are the Breakers of Morning’s Scar, your shield and sword! We hereby swear fealty to our people and promise a greater future! To our home we entrust our lives!”

Rosaline stared at their faces, none of them seemed excited. Out of all the similar, unhappy faces, she spotted someone familiar. Her friend looked at Rosaline and smiled, she did not respond.

Idiot, why did you join the Breakers?

“Staring at them again?”

She turned around, her brother Niall stood still and looked down at her. He smiled slightly.

“Yeah. They look so…sad.”

“You have no idea.”

The platoon resumed their synchronized march, headed towards a camp at the edge of the village. Rosaline shook her head. She understood the reason for the Breakers, they were a simple military force that carry a great reputation. If rulers wanted mercenaries, Breakers were first on demand. Was there any other reason for soldiers? Were they just pawns? Perhaps Rosaline’s friend fell into the illusion of “fighting for a larger cause”.

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s go home.”

Rosaline nodded and followed her brother home.

 

A large, burly man continued hammering away at the anvil, focused solely on his work. Sweat dripped down into his long, shaggy gray beard. His wrinkled, leathery face stayed stiff as he worked. His bandana drooped slightly.

Andre, Morning’s Scar finest blacksmith, worked at the top of Solitary Mountain, far removed from warring empires. Rarely anyone saw him walk around unless it was for business or an occasional fight. Puffy cumulus clouds overhead, lazy and gentle wind brushing by, towering birch trees with dark green leaves and moss, absolute silence, all these things kept Andre at peace. Halcyon Forge, perfect name for such a place linked to nature herself. A polished cobblestone pathway from Morning Scar and its surrounding territories led to his forge, which itself was a marvel to the eyes. Pristine, pearl white marble stone bricks laid underfoot, a smelter two meters tall and one-meter wide surrounded by a circular brick structure, weapon display brackets, large tanning leather sheets, two grindstones, a long workbench, large oil baths changed after each use, all organized in a fashion that resembled a small shop.

“How long will these swords be finished?”

“Ye’ll get ‘em when ya get ‘em, plain and simple.”

“This shipment has to be delivered to Serasin in less than a moon cycle, else my father will have my hide!”

“And yer ol’ man ‘as dealt wi’ me before. Ya get quali’y work when ya don’ rush.”

Flinn was not a patient man by any means. Prince of Serasin, head of arms inventory and trading, a young 26-year old major of the 2^nd battalion, scholar on War History, so much to do in so little time. He wore the standard uniform of Serasin mixed with his royal stature, a light purple breastplate laid over a dark blue tunic, black trousers and leather boots. His arsenal of choice: a golden rimmed shield with a purple emblem of a phoenix hung on his back and a golden hilted rapier on his right hip. His pale skinned face slowly turned red and his usual neatly combed brown hair sagged from sweat.

“Ya work too hard, Flinn. Too young ta be stressed, I wager.”

“I would rather be home and read my books like the tales about you and the Red Juniper fiends or the Thousand Night War.”

“Tales’re nothin’ bu’ embellished lies, somethin’ ta tell kids.”

“Perhaps, but tales have truth to them.”

“Bah! I’m jus’ an’ ol’ smith.”

Andre stood up from his seat and brought the piece of steel to an oil bath.

“Why don’ ye take a seat? Yer pacin’ back an’ forth don’ help my focus.”

Flinn continued his pacing, his attention on whatever else he needed to do. He sighed heavily and wiped away nervous sweat from his brow with a small, black silken handkerchief. He touched on his hair sporadically, pushing aside stray strands of long hair from his eyes. Although the wind felt chilly, Flinn continued to sweat.

Andre diverted his attention to the now quenched blade in hand, wiping away excess oil and silently mulled over how to improve the sword’s design. With a large leathery finger, he traced the vertical tang of the blade, feeling out the intricate shapes behind charred metal. He stroked his beard and hummed a random tune. As he placed the sword against a grindstone, Andre’s mind remained clear, present on the current task. Something about being a smith felt relaxing, being alone with only his tools and placing a great amount of concentration on work. Sparks flew in multiple directions, warmth flickering in his still eyes.

“Andre,”

“Hmm?”

“What made you…leave the life of a fighter behind?”

Andre did not immediately answer. He continued grinding out the blade but his eyes became hazy.

“Death is no’ a maiden I’d like ta embrace.”

Andre heard Flinn ask another question but he paid no heed. The world around him fell into darkness, emptiness devoid of sound. Although his head was downcast, images played out in front of him, most of them painful. His lungs began to tighten, threatening to snuff out his life. Why won’t those images die? Why can’t he be at peace? They continued on, sounds creeping slowly back into memory.

“I’m sorry Andre…but your wife will die soon.”

When…did she ge’ sick?

“While you were away fighting.”

The sight of his beloved, lying stiffly in bed while her breathing grew less and less. She couldn’t even open her eyes.

Sarah! Please don’ go!

SARAH!

Andre suddenly woke from his nightmare, his body stood up and his face brimming with tears. He panted, locked inside that state of fear.

“Andre…Mr. Andre…”

Andre heard nothing, he did not even feel his body running away from the forge, down the winding cobblestone pathway with the unfinished blade in hand. He had to get to her. He had to see her.

There he was, lumbering in front of his home, his gigantic body exhausted from his sudden dash. He slammed open the door and charged into his bedroom.

Sarah was still lying in bed, the same as he left her. She woke up and turned her gaze to him.

“Andy…”

“Sarah…I…”

Her weak and gentle hand slowly rose up and touched his weary cheek.

“I’m…okay, love. I’m…fine.”

He placed his large hand over hers, holding it there and refused to let go. Both of them smiled at each other. All those fears melted away as her warmth flowed through him. He silently thanked the gods for keeping his beloved alive.

Sarah struggled to sit upright. Andre helped her lie against the wall.

“I…see you didn’t finish, love.”

“Huh?”

He remembered the unfinished blade in his hand.

“Damn, no’ agin!”

Sarah laughed.

“You…worry too much, Andre. I was…just resting.”

The wrinkles around his eyes creased further, shadows growing darker to emphasize not only his age but stress. Andre said nothing to his beloved, only his hands held her closely. Sarah placed her head against his chest, feeling some strength flow into her. In that moment, time froze around them, a reprieve from fear and anxiety. She stroked his cheek and gazed into his eyes, smiling at the subtle sparkle lying within the dark brown portal to his soul. Andre noticed some of his wife’s color return to her face, a resurrection of the woman he fell in love with. Her skin resembled an opal colored cream, smooth to the touch and attractive to the eyes. Her once sunken blue eyes shone brightly, Andre felt as if he was staring directly into the azure sky itself.

After the moment passed, Andre resumed his duty as a husband and father. After he called out for his daughter to return, he sat down with Sarah again and allowed himself to fall back into serenity.

 

While they ate a simple meal of roasted chicken and potatoes, each person had a lot on their mind. Niall ate silently outside while Rosaline and Andre spoke heatedly about blacksmithing, weapons and armor. These discussions brought up old memories of how Niall and his father spoke to one another, except it was not about making things. That sort of discussion was rare.

He remembered when they would spar outside, their swords clashed often and sparks continued flying. Their styles of combat were not only different, they resembled who they were in the truest way. Andre, despite his hulking figure, focused solely on counterattacks and technique. Niall, on the other hand, was aggressive, borderline reckless. Adrenaline flowed, constant thoughts were blacked out, only instinct kept Niall alive. Yet, against his father, Niall never managed to win based on sheer might alone. What made them so different?

“Sittin’ ou’ here agin?”

Niall did not need to look up, only one person spoke like that.

“Ya know, when ya ain’ figh’in, ya think alo’.”

Niall said nothing, he simply nodded. Andre sat beside his son.

“How’d yer day go?”

“Same as always. Minos wants to kick your ass.”

“Ha! Ol’ fool can nevah take ah loss.”

Niall grunted.

Andre stared at his son with old, weary eyes. He marveled at how much his son grew over the years, even after enduring the Breaker camps and fighting in wars. Yet, he sensed something more, something Niall could not bring to words. Was it rage? Sadness? Apathy? Maybe it was a mixture of all these emotions, Andre could not truly pin it down. Still, he knew how to bring out those feelings.

Andre stood up and patted Niall’s shoulder.

“Ge’ yer sword ready.”

Niall stood up with his sword. Andre brought out his sword from his old soldier days, a shining silver great sword that was sharpened and cleaned to absolute perfection. Adorned with a golden spiral hilt, ebony black handle and onyx gem pommel, Andre’s sword was something to behold. During the rare times he used the old sword, Andre never held back.

A sparring match after so many years, and with his precious weapon.

They stood on opposite sides, both swords met on their flattened sides like a proper duel. At first glance, both father and son stood in a similar fashion. A deep front leaning stance, swords angled forward, tight grips on their handles, backs straight and expressed their individual strength. The looks in their eyes were very different though, one brimmed with a raging inferno while the other remained a clam, stagnant sea.

Niall lunged forward.

Andre met the immediate lunge with a parry, side stepping to the right and punched Niall’s rib cage. Stunned, the young man lost his footing, falling towards the grass. Andre took the opportunity and slashed downwards, aimed to split Niall’s head in two. His son reacted with an upper block, his right foot plunged into the ground for support. He pushed upwards, throwing the opposing sword away and created an opening to the chest. Niall dove in, feinting a horizontal slash. Andre did not fall for the bait, he simply stepped backwards.

Damn it!

He growled, his muscular frame clenched and exposed itself.

Yer no’ thinkin’ wi’ yer head, boy. Pu’ aside tha’ rage.

Niall roared and lunged forward again. Andre sighed.

The sword fight raged on, Niall’s strikes became filled with sheer anger. Andre knew this would happen, but countering these attacks was not easy. Some strikes were swift, others were deceptively slow, which led into another nightmarish barrage of movements. Niall’s eyes were overwhelmingly empty, his attitude much like a predator lashing out to regain power. Clashing against each other, their swords expressed words telepathically.

Why won’t you just fall!

I’d nevah lose ta ah mere animal!

An enemy! You’re nothin’ but an enemy!

I’m yer ol’ man, dumbass!

Niall slashed diagonally upwards, his sword ready to pierce through his father’s chest.

Foolish.

Andre ducked into the open area near Niall’s left shoulder. A left punch met his son’s stomach, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. Andre dropped his sword and grabbed underneath Niall’s shoulders. Andre lifted his son up and threw him against the stone house. He was paralyzed, unable to do anything but wallow in his own defeat.

“Ye’ve changed, son. Anger, hatred, ye’ve go’ nothin’ bu’ tha’.”

“Why…can’t I beat you?”

“Le’ those damned feelin’s go, my boy. O’erwise, ye’ll fall an’ nevah ge’ up agin.”

Niall said nothing, he just lied still, confused and upset. Andre strode towards him, lifted up his son and let him lean on a strong shoulder.

“I’ll say somethin’ tho’, ye almos’ had me. Ye make an ol’ man proud.”

Niall snickered.

“You give me a speech about bein’ angry and you compliment how I fight? You’re a strange, strange old man.”

“S’range? Me? Yer weird too, yer my son.”

Both heartily laughed.

“I dunno wha’ ye wen’ through ou’ there, bu’ bein’ angry leads ta madness.”

Niall directed his gaze away. How could he not be angry after all the things he went through? Sometimes it was better to release that pent up rage, it felt therapeutic. He carried a lot of guilt and constantly wondered why he was still alive while others died before his very eyes.

If only he did more for his comrades, if only he was there to keep them alive and laugh with them again. Niall allowed tears to trickle down, his face expressing raw emotion. Andre saw his son’s face and said nothing.

He patted Niall’s shoulder and let his son release those locked away feelings.

 

Rosaline watched a little of her brother’s duel with Father. As much as she admired her brother and enjoyed his wild fighting style, she felt that Father would win anyway. She directed her attention towards her bedridden mother.

“They’re…fighting again, aren’t they?”

“Yes, same as always, Mother.”

“Same results?”

“Yup.”

Sarah laughed and coughed somewhat.

“How are you feeling, Mother?”

“Better…I think. Just wish I could…speak easier without taking a breath.”

Rosaline stared at her sickly mother. She seemed a little better than usual, that was a good sign. It was better than being at Death’s door, awaiting the inevitable.

Sarah struggled to stand up, Rosaline briskly walked to her side and held her up on one shoulder.

“Thank…you.”

Rosaline slowly walked her mother to a chair near the window.

“Rosie…you’re just like Andre, always with the smith talk. I…wish you were more like me when I was your age.”

“You mean have my nose stuck in a book? We’re kind of poor, Mother.”

“Silly…girl. There’s nothing wrong with reading sometimes.”

Rosaline placed her mother on the chair. Sarah placed her arms on the sides of the chair, took in a deep breath and looked at her dear little girl.

“I do read sometimes, Mother. I’ve just been so busy that I haven’t had time for myself.”

“I…noticed. Look at you, girl. You’ve…gotten stronger, rough around the…edges, but a woman can still be intelligent…and look nice.”

“I know that.”

“Tell me…what can you talk about besides the work of a smith?”

Rosaline felt offended. What’s wrong with talking about weapons or armor or even duels? There wasn’t much to talk about in this village anyway, so why bother? Besides, she didn’t talk to many people anyway, she didn’t want to.

“Julianne enlisted today.”

Sarah gasped for air, shocked at the news.

“How…did she join! She’s a girl!”

“I don’t know and it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“What…do you mean? She’s your…close friend, isn’t she?”

That word hung for a while on Rosaline’s ears. Close meant that they both spoke about everything. Even if an argument happened, they still said everything, right? Rosaline felt betrayed. She and Julianne had been friends since they were little, they always did something together. They often sat on Dagger Peak, overlooking the bland village while gazing at the magnificent sunset, where a world of colors poured without restriction. Julianne wore a beaming smile but sometimes, those smiles seemed forced. What else was she hiding?

There was a knock at the door.

“Come…in”

The door opened, Julianne walked in.

“Hello, Mrs. Gaoth. Hey, Rosie.”

She embraced Sarah and walked towards Rosaline.

“What do you want?”

“Can we talk in private?”

“Why? Clearly you didn’t want to talk to me about the Breaker camps, what is there to talk about?”

“Please, Rosie. I just wanna talk.”

Rosaline rose from her chair and walked outside. Julianne followed.

“Why do you want to speak to me now?”

“I saw you earlier when I was with the others and you gave me a nasty look. What’d I do?”

“It’s about what you didn’t do, Julie.”

“What I…what are you talking about?”

“So you go off, disguise yourself as a boy and join the Breakers. You know EXACTLY what they’re about and you join anyway. Do you realize what you’re doing? Do you even understand what will happen to you?”

“Being a Breaker isn’t all that bad, really.”

“And yet you didn’t say anything to me! You didn’t even let me know beforehand!”

“Because I knew you’d be against it.”

“No shit! Why wouldn’t I be! I’m your friend, damn it!”

Rosaline began to shake. She forced back tears, she did not want to show her concern. Julianne placed a hand on her shoulder. Calm, resolute, Julianne’s face displayed an expression of inner strength and maturity. She smiled slightly.

“I know what I’m getting into and I’m not afraid. I don’t want you to be either, okay? I have no intention of dying.”

Julianne took a deep breath and exhaled.

“I want to make a difference somehow. The men shouldn’t be the only ones who fight, right?”

Rosaline kept silent, mulling over what Julianne said. She remembered how many times Julianne fought amongst the boys in the village, she always had a mad look in her eyes, refusing to be a pushover. Julianne fought with her bare handed sometimes too, as if all Julianne wanted to do was fight until she grew weary.

“By the way, did you finish that blade yet?”

Rosaline instantly snapped back to reality.

“What blade?”

“You know, the sword that Arnold asked for.”

“Wait, that sword’s-”

“For me, Rosie.”

Rosaline looked shocked.

“So…you enlisted and had someone else ask me for a sword…”

“Yeah, I wanted you to make something so I could fight too.”

Rage slowly built up inside her chest. Not only did Julianne not tell her about enlisting, she also had someone else ask for a sword on her behalf. She clenched her fists, white knuckles protruding while her muscles flexed. Julianne caught on to her friend’s reaction, backing away subtly. Rosaline grabbed Julianne’s collar and pulled her in.

All Julianne could remember was falling down, Rosaline’s right fist down on her opposite side.

“Ow! That hurt!”

Rosaline opened her door, entered, and slammed it shut.

“Rosie! Come back here!”

A few seconds later, a window opened and a sheathed sword flew out.

“TAKE YOUR SWORD AND LEAVE!”

The window slammed shut, Julianne took her sword and walked away.

 

Sarah watched her daughter stomp away to her room, taking in raspy breathes during her contemplation. At least one thing was certain, Rosaline shared the same principle about honesty, be up front and say everything instead of hiding behind someone else. Sarah heard her daughter’s conversation and saw blood on her daughter’s knuckles, part of her wanted to argue about violence despite laughing to herself. Meanwhile, she watched her son sleep on the floor. There was a joke she shared with her husband, one day their little cub would become a big bear. He slept like one too, his snores sounded like a growling bear.

“We’re ol’ now, eh?”

Andre planted his chair beside Sarah and sat down.

“Yes. My children are…so much bigger, so different.”

“Aye, tha’ they are, milady,” Andre joked.

Sarah laughed.

“I’m not…royalty anymore, sweetheart.”

“Says who? Yer me queen.”

She planted her head on his shoulder, allowing herself another moment of peace.

“How long has it been since we spent time like this?”

“I don’ ‘ave the faintes’ idea. Relaxin’s rare fer me.”

Sarah held her hand with his and closed her eyes.

Through the silence, memories from long ago came back. The memory of how she met Andre emerged from the shadows, enveloping her concentration and reflecting on a past life and time.

She viewed him as nothing but a simple man devoid of intelligence and judged him by his large stature and accent. Within the castle walls, Sarah saw Andre amongst the lower class, conversing with peasants as if it was natural. He was a high ranking knight; how could he speak with people who were lower classed? Andre never cut his hair either, it looked so shabby and unkempt. Did he not care about presenting himself in front of his superiors? Sarah was a princess of a large kingdom and he dared to present himself like some scruffy dog. How barbaric.

Behind her, the door to her chambers opened.

“Your Highness, you have been summoned by the king to greet the Morning Scar leader”

Sarah turned her head and nodded.

“Very well, I will be leaving.”

“Before that, prepare my chariot.”

“Understood, Your Highness.”

Sarah stood a moment longer at the window and maintained her stare on that scruffy fool. She stepped away and removed her overly extravagant gown, replacing it with a hunter’s outfit of leather armor, trousers and boots. She then tied her long flowing hair into a ponytail and armed herself with a steel shield, steel longsword and ebony bow.

The throne room was large indeed, crafted in marble stone. Brilliant, radiant light shone through stained glass windows, dispersing a myriad of colors across the polished floors. A high and arched ceiling stood above the royal throne chairs of the queen, princess and the king, as if in reverence of the great deities. Andre slowly marched along the long throne room, unimpressed by the architecture. Ahead stood a large man, perhaps in his early fifties, dressed in a silk purple robe and crown. At the last stair leading to the thrones, Andre went down onto one knee and bowed his head.

“Rise, Andre of Morning Scar.”

Andre obeyed.

“No doubt your purpose here is obvious.”

“My soldiers ‘n I are th’ fron’ lines tah His Majesty, th’ usual fer veterans like me.”

The king nodded.

“Ah’ve heard some thin’s on tha road. Apparen’ly, Ashrion’s continuin’ ther move through Serasin, hopin’ tah conquer tha tradin’ posts. Also, considern’ th’ status of Trilo and tha’ o’her ally powers, ther men won’ arrive fer ah few days, since they face Ashrion’s ally, Purfila.”

“I see. And how many soldiers did Morning Scar spare for us?”

“Includin’ me, ‘bout five hundred.”

“Good. What Morning Scar lacks in numbers they make up for in tenacity and strength. Five hundred of your men is equivalent to a thousand. That’s exactly what we need.”

The throne room opened and Sarah walked in slowly. Andre turned to acknowledge her and grinned. A woman who chose a fighter’s gear instead of a useless decoration was worth respecting, but only women worthy of being deemed warriors can address themselves as such. Though she had a slight frame, Princess Sarah carried herself with pride and an unfaltering attitude. He looked at her chosen arms momentarily, taking in information about her. Much like other royal members, he could tell she deemed him low and belligerent. A foolish mistake.

“Ah yes, this is my daughter, Sarah. I summoned her here to greet you.”

Andre nodded in her direction but she continued to look away from him. Another foolish mistake.

“Tonight will no doubt be when Ashrion will attack. If that’s the case, they will be drained from their march and previous battles. They will hide in the shadows to recuperate and wait until morning. Andre, send as many men you think is enough to strike in the forests. Sarah, post our soldiers at each critical point on the fortress walls and gather reports from our spies.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

Both bowed and walked out of the throne room, Sarah began to turn left towards the eastern portion of the castle.

“Look forward tah werkin’ wit’ ya.”

Sarah stopped for a moment and turned her head.

“Just do your job. And stay out of my way.”

A strong and cold statement of pride, second mistake. Andre had seen this before, typical noble mindset. He simply grinned and bowed. Surprised, Sarah flinched once the big man turned his back to her and began his stride. Proud, erect, strong, an unhurried stride as if he glided along the floor. She gazed at the gigantic sword sheathed inside a leather guard on his back, a hefty burden yet he seemed unfazed. It doesn’t matter, men have their uses and they always measured themselves out of pride. A big brute with a sword, nothing more.

 

The first night of the winter cycle brought snow, an unexpected factor. Sparkles of white fell lazily, immediately changing to water on warm clothing. No firelight or smoke emerged from the thick forest, made sense. Still, the enemy would no less be experiencing the cold. Serasin, Trilo, Purfila, Ashrion, no doubt more kingdoms are on the move as well. Morning Scar, however, was not involved directly. Breakers are a sub branch to the kingdom’s military, an expendable one at that. While Breakers are considered mercenaries for hire, one common quality they shared was loyalty to their kingdom, one of the many reasons why Morning Scar’s own men do not turn traitor. No kingdom would dare to anyway, considering the Morning Scar’s military reputation.

No doubt the hired swords for the kingdom would recognize their fellow soldiers, the game of war involved every piece, whatever side they landed on depended on a few factors. In the end, both sides want victory, despite the severe cost. Morning Scar was more than familiar with sacrifices for a larger goal.

Andre sat outside the forest perimeter, eyes closed but ears listening intently.

“So how many are we expecting, Captain?”

“A couple hun’red, if the king’s word’s tah be believed.”

“Serasin…the Athens like city…”

“A stark contrast tah us, tat’s fer sure, Indigo. Them rich folks love themselves blood, eh?”

“With all the trade they get from their ports and river ships, why come further north? That kind of tactic doesn’t make sense.”

“Dunno. Probly location.”

“Location?”

“Y’know we live in the middle of the Archah mountains, a great geograph’cal defense against enemies. And the king’s choose tah keep Mornin’ Scar small, know why?”

“Smaller kingdoms are easier to overlook?”

“Tat’s one reason, Indie. Second thing is, tradin’ in the mountains has its own taxation policies, if they concah th’ more northern kingdoms, th’ less taxes th’ royalty have tah pay.”

“But every kingdom knows about Morning Scar, sir. They can’t forget the strongest military men on the continent, that’s idiocy.”

“Can’t take us by force, tat’s fer sure. But remembah, mountain folk like us are not much. We’re small due tah weathah conditions and commahce.”

“Which means…they’ll want to outnumber us.”

Shouting erupted from inside the dense forest, snapping the two veterans to attention, immediately their swords were drawn. The snow continued its graceful fall, uncaring of the morbid chess game below. Andre extended his hand and began signing.

I’ll entah first, follow behind.

Indigo nodded and followed behind his captain. He was used to watching Andre’s back, been that way since they were little boys themselves. The Deadly Two, ah those were the good old days. Both were broad, sturdy warriors, except Indigo lost his right eye during a rebellion back in Red Juniper long ago. Despite the handicap, he was still more than enough of a fighter. While Andre preferred to let his hair grow out and maintain a leathery look, Indigo looked younger, as if time did nothing to slow him down.

“FIND HER NOW!”

Andre stopped and made a few signs.

Go east, surprise them.

Indigo nodded and headed east. Up ahead, there were at least one hundred soldiers from Serasin, dressed in their winter uniforms, white tunics and trousers with black boots, armed with shields bearing the portrait of their Goddess, Crest, and steel long swords. Indigo hid behind a thick tree, daring not to take a peek at his foes.

“Where did that bitch flee!”

“We don’t know, General Pierce! Last we heard, a few of our men were shot as soon as they entered here!”

“FOOLS! SHE IS ONLY ONE WOMAN, AND A PRINCESS NO LESS! FIND HER OR I’LL HAVE YOUR HEADS!”

Indigo could not help but feel surprised and somewhat boastful.

Good thing she’s on my side.

Ten men passed by him, rushing to find the desired princess. Although it was against his usual thoughts, Indigo stood up behind them. He withdrew two throwing knives and, with great accuracy, threw them into the darkness. The knives stuck out of two heads, causing them to fall and get the attention of the others.

“Evening, lads.”

“GET HIM!”

Indigo sighed and shook his head.

“Ah well, can’t be helped, huh?”

With one swing of his bastard sword, two soldiers were cut through the abdomen. Six left, Indigo could face them all on his own right now, but had a better idea. He dashed through the dense forest, listening to his opponents charging after him.

“WE FOUND A BREAKER! WE NEED BACKUP!”

Indigo continued his dash through the forest. He smirked to himself. As always, Indigo played decoy, distracting the enemy while Andre did the rest. Indigo preferred this though, something about being chased by drawn swords, dodging arrows and catching the enemy off guard, what a rush! Back in the day, Indigo was the fastest Breaker alive and when it came to guerilla warfare, he exceeded expectations.

Suddenly, Indigo turned left and jumped into the shadows.

“FAN OUT AND SEARCH FOR HIM!”

Indigo sat atop of a thick branch, above the enemy soldiers’ sight. He pulled out a few things from his pocket, darts with needles dipped in nightshade poison and a blowgun. Six to fifteen soldiers were looking for him now, a few were walking near the tree he hid in. Five teams of three slowly walked in different directions. Perched upon three soldiers’ shoulders were small Rocs, eagle like birds which stood three feet tall.

This won’t be easy at all.

While eagles often attacked smaller birds for their food, Rocs are known for their aggressive temperament and ability to intimidate most animals. Their call, a piercing caw, could be heard about two kilometers away and assemble other Rocs if under attack. Able to see in the dark up to half a kilometer, a sense of hearing which reached the same amount of distance, and powerful wings which could push back predators, Rocs claimed the honor of being the mascot of Serasin. Although Rocs are immune to most illnesses and poisons.

Except nightshade.

Indigo continued to watch the Roc birds move their heads slightly while the teams continued their march. Three birds, three exact shots without fail. He raised the blowgun to his lips and inserted a dart. He took careful aim at the bird’s neck and waited. The soldiers stopped moving for a split second.

Now!

He shot the dart. Before the Roc could utter its call, the dart pierced its neck. The nightshade poison seeped into its bloodstream, paralyzing it.

“Huh?”

Distracted, the Roc master looked at his pet. At first, he wondered what was wrong to his bird. Indigo slowly climbed down the tree and stalked towards his enemies.

“What is this?”

The soldier plucked the dart and his eyes opened wide.

“HE’S—“

Indigo emerged behind the first team. With one swipe of his sword, their heads slowly fell to the ground. Their bodies soon followed. The Roc, still alive, haunted Indigo with its piercing beady eyes. While nightshade was potent, it would not kill a Roc. Paralysis would last until dawn and, although Indigo wished to spare the beast, he did not want to take any chances. He withdrew a small knife and planted another hand on its neck. Indigo felt warm blood slowly move down his hand.

Two birds and twelve soldiers remained.

 

Andre crept through the shadowy forest, avoiding the gaps of starlight that penetrated through the foliage. Once he heard the enemy soldiers chase after Indigo, Andre maintained a low profile. Barely any noise escaped the silent ambience, it seemed that the enemy lurked further north, closer to the heart of the forest. The experience reminded Andre of when he escaped the Juniper Fortress in the northwest province, except the fortress teemed with guards and assassins who lurked around every corner. Timing, stealth and caution allowed him to live that day. Those same techniques were needed now.

A slight rustling sound came from above.

Andre immediately stabbed upwards into the branch.

“Watch where you aim that, brute!”

Princess Sarah landed beside the hulking man, hands on her hips and a defiant stare locked with his.

“Ye don’ wanna be makin’ noises, miss. Not here an’way.”

“Listen here, I know how to fight. You were hired for my father, you fight and die for his coin. I don’t need your kind who will leave at random just because you feel like it. So do me a favor, go fight elsewhere…”

Andre did not listen to her. Instead, he heard noises coming closer to his position.

“Are you even list-mmph!”

Andre clasped his hand around her mouth.

“Be silen’, lady. ‘Less ya wanna die.”

Sarah kept shouting behind his mouth but he paid her no heed.

“Lieutenant General Samson, some of our men spotted one of those Scar mercs running off east. Twelve men are on his tail, along with the Rocs.”

“Excellent! Scar men or not, they can’t escape the hunting birds! And I don’t have to sweat and chase him either!”

“However, we have not spotted the other large one who came in with him, sir.”

“Imbeciles! Find him or I’ll have your heads! You don’t want your commander angry, do you!”

“No, sir! We’ll search right away!”

Grea’, a moron’s leadin’ Serasin these days.