"Earnest workers have no time for dwelling upon the faults of others. We cannot afford to live on the husks of others' faults or failings. Evilspeaking is a twofold curse, falling more heavily upon the speaker than upon the hearer. He who scatters the seeds of dissension and strife reaps in his own soul the deadly fruits. The very act of looking for evil in others develops evil in those who look. By dwelling upon the faults of others, we are changed into the same image."
– Ellen G. White, The Ministry of Healing
Letting evil go unseen and unspoken of when you can do otherwise is to accept it and become complicit. Of course becoming paranoid to the point of accidental cruelty isn't a good thing, but I'm tragically human and incapable of acting with no error at all. All insinuations to the contrary I've ever made have been jokes.
"It is not circumstances themselves that trouble people, but their judgments about those circumstances... whenever we are hindered or troubled or distressed, let us not blame others, but ourselves, that is, our own judgments. The uneducated person blames others for their failures; those who have just begun to be instructed blame themselves; those whose learning is complete blame neither others nor themselves."
― Epictetus
This quote implies that I don't blame myself as well as others? That's incorrect. Furthermore, this Epictetus seems to assume that anyone who is educated will agree with him. That's a fault you've called me out on before, unless I've been taking too many crazy pills.
The fundamental disagreement betwee you and me is really on the nature of social hierarchy. You see hierarchy itself as an evil. I see hierarchy as an inevitability of civilization.
Why on Earth are you phrasing that as though these views are contradictory? Of course hierarchy is inevitable, that's one of the great tragedies of being human.
Just because you can't stop something, doesn't call for pretending it's a good thing. ...or am I once more reading negative things into neutral language due to my pessimism?
The question to me has never been whether hierarchies and elites are good or evil -- that's like asking if nature's apex predators are good or evil (neither, they exist to fill a role, and ecosystems without them often collapse). But rather, how do you build institutions to incentize good behavior and discourage bad behavior? And that thought is part of the reason why I write Daybreak the way I do.
Like perfection, it sounds like an unachievable ideal that's worth striving for anyway. Please don't let pessimists like me dissuade you.
But just because humans are capable of good and evil doesn't make us any less of a natural creature than a tiger. That's just pedantry on my part, though.
I'll try to be less ungenerous than usual and avoid assuming you mean those ethics that share names in the same sense as Stellaris did. Since, frankly, there were good reasons they renamed Stellaris collectivism to authoritarianism.
But yes, I disagree with them on a lot of things. A collective has no value to me but what it does for the individuals within it. War isn't a good thing, but nor is it avoidable when someone wants to wage it against you. Pascal's blind trust in the mechanisms by which elites are chosen is straight-up insane even if I try to detach my perspective from the bit where I think they deserve a certain difficult-to-spell device made famous by the French instead of special privileges. That sort of thing.
If said teacher isn't on their literal first day on the job, they will have met children before. Therefore, failing to predict something so obvious is not excusable. Likewise, Sylvanie knows her maidservants are loyal to her personally, and she made no effort to hide the fact that she hates Kaede for being kidnapped and reshaped into a form that makes Pascal look like a pervert (instead of the thoughtless child he is).
Unless you mean to imply that a human with no brain damage could possibly miss such obvious connections? But that seems rather unbelievable.
No, but I can still condemn the people he's misguidedly trusting to not betray everything he fights for while he works with them. I can mean-spiritedly mock him for trusting them, though perhaps I shouldn't. ...but none of those were my actual intention when I wrote the quoted line. You're right, this one has no actual way of knowing the truth. Even I can't blame him for not having a spy network.
I really should go back to reading the story. I actually like the story.
Furthermore, this Epictetus seems to assume that anyone who is educated will agree with him. That's a fault you've called me out on before, unless I've been taking too many crazy pills.
I don't get that feeling from his quote. FYI, Epictetus is a Greek stoic philosopher who was born into slavery. And Stoicists never assume other people think like them.
Why on Earth are you phrasing that as though these views are contradictory? Of course hierarchy is inevitable, that's one of the great tragedies of being human. Just because you can't stop something, doesn't call for pretending it's a good thing. ...or am I once more reading negative things into neutral language due to my pessimism?
If it's inevitable, then it becomes a "law of nature". If it's a law of nature, it cannot be good or evil in my view. It simply becomes something that must be accepted.
Besides, the nature of good and evil has always been dynamic. To cite another well known quote:
"Evil is committed because those involved ignorantly believe themselves to be holy and unmistakably on the side of good."
– Aleksandr Solzhenisyn
I'll try to be less ungenerous than usual and avoid assuming you mean those ethics that share names in the same sense as Stellaris did. Since, frankly, there were good reasons they renamed Stellaris collectivism to authoritarianism.
I found the Stellaris template useful. But I think Paradox needs to hire more culture experts because gosh, the way they gamified certain ethics has a lot of issues. For example, on Authoritarian vs Egalitarian -- one of the most authoritarian states of human history (Qin dynasty China) was also one of the first to abolish slavery, while Black Chattle Slavery (which I would argue as the worst form of slavery known to man) was pioneered by one of the most eglitarian states of its era (the Dutch/British Empires).
But hey, all gamification tends to oversimplify reality (shrug).
If said teacher isn't on their literal first day on the job, they will have met children before. Therefore, failing to predict something so obvious is not excusable. Likewise, Sylvanie knows her maidservants are loyal to her personally, and she made no effort to hide the fact that she hates Kaede for being kidnapped and reshaped into a form that makes Pascal look like a pervert (instead of the thoughtless child he is).
Unless you mean to imply that a human with no brain damage could possibly miss such obvious connections? But that seems rather unbelievable.
That's totally unrealistic. And it shows that once again, you are applying your perfect information to others in an unreasonable demand.
In psychology, this is known the Hindsight Bias
Teachers fail to understand what's going on between kids all the time. Because teachers are always outsiders to the kids' social circles and therefore the kids behave differently when they're around. Not being part of the "in-group" means you lack crucial information.
The fact you think teachers can be so omniscient suggests to me you've never dealt much with people who work in education, where trying to understand what's going on with the kids outside the classroom (with detrimental effects to their learning) is a consistent headache.
The frantic shout resounded within the confines of Pascal's empty mind. He didn't recognize it, but he felt the desperation from someone he instinctively knew and held dear.
Pascal stirred with a splitting headache and a steady ringing in his ears. His eyes opened to the blurry sight of a mostly-collapsed room, and he tried to wipe away the tears still clouding his vision…
"Gahhh!"
Hot pain shot across his shoulders when his left arm attempted to move. His breath quickened to a labored pant as his right hand reflexively reached up towards the injury. It came across a thick, wooden shaft. A javelin had apparently pierced through his left shoulder and impaled him into the ground.
Perhaps even worse, Pascal couldn't hear his own pained cry. Apart from the ringing in his ears, everything else in the world was a deathly silence.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he reached his fingers around the pole before muttering "Disintegrate". The javelin handle instantly vanished into specks of dust, leaving only a bleeding hole the width of two fingers.
His arm moved this time, painfully. It jerked upwards briefly before flopping back down, neither of which were intended.
That was bad news, really bad. The hit must have shattered his left shoulder joint. He would need a real healer to fix that, which meant no curative spells until then.
"Blood Stasis."
Suspending the blood flow to his left arm wasn't much better, but it bought him at least some time. Healing magic could always restore dying cells deprived of oxygen, as long as he didn't bleed out first.
A quick check proved that his ears were indeed bleeding, probably ruptured from a sonic blast. After rummaging through an extra-dimensional belt pouch, Pascal pulled out two of his best healing runes and glued them to his ears with a sticking spell.
He then pushed himself back to sitting upright. His working hand rubbed to clear his eyes for a situational assessment of the disaster:
The command center was an expanded cabin with a wooden exterior, a hardened steel frame, and interior welded-steel armor. Yet now an entire facing of the ceiling and walls — what remained of them anyway — had buckled inwards. The room's furniture, including the enchanted map table, had shattered into pieces. Many of which were still burning, alongside several bodies and pools of rimefire on the ground.
The runes dropped by the air attack had destroyed wards and armor alike with a combination of Dispel, Disintegrate, and Sonic spells. They severed support beams and left gaping holes in the command center's armor, which cleared the way for follow-up spells and breath weapon attacks.
Over a dozen bodies lay mangled or burning on the floor. They were the remains of what had once been the brigade's command staff. Even more corpses could be seen outside amidst blast craters as the HQ's guard unit had been caught in the attack.
Pascal could only identify Brigadier-General Bernard by the single golden stripe on his helmet. Half of the man's face was missing, a gruesome sight that left Pascal at odds on what had hit him. The deputy commander, a quiet colonel by the name of Emil, also lay dead among the bodies.
The only reason Pascal survived was because he had activated all of his defensive wards after hearing the sentry's warning cry. His prepared runes allowed him to do this within seconds, a blessing not afforded to the other officers.
Nevertheless, as Pascal looked up through the gap in the ceiling, he could see several drakes of different colors loitering in the area.
A black-red volcanic drake flew by, strafing troops unseen with its fiery breath weapon. Its attack was mitigated by a spray of conjured water, likely from an officer who then cried for a return volley of arbalest bolts. However this made them a target for a deep-green forest drake that followed behind, which spat out balls of acid towards the platoons organized for anti-air defense.
I need to get out before they see me. Pascal thought. This room is a death trap!
He quickly cast Camouflage upon himself, a visual illusion spell that blended him into the surroundings. He then stood up to a half-crouch and began making his way through the rubble and wreckage.
As he turned a corner he found himself face-to-face with a medic, a commoner girl who had braved the danger to wrap blood-stopping bandages around the leg stump of a signal officer.
Her lips parted to say something. However he heard only silence.
"We need to get him out of here!" Pascal spoke back. His ears still unable to confirm his own words.
The medic nodded, and each of them took an arm of the half-conscious, clearly-sedated lieutenant.
They pushed aside fallen beams as they made their way out through the back of the command center and into the nearest communication trench. This left at least a wall between them and the fighting on the other side. Pascal added to their cover by pulling out a Mirage rune which covered their position with the illusion of a snow pile.
The young lord then tapped his sensory link to Kaede for an update with his own eyes.
He faintly remembered her reporting something just before he was knocked out. The connection opened in the middle of a rune-bolt barrage, with blasted snow and expanding fireballs everywhere in sight. Beyond that were the repeater crossbowmen that initiated any huskarl attack, although a sparse line of siphoneers soon overtook them.
Oddly enough, while Pascal couldn't hear a thing himself, he registered every thunder and explosion that Kaede heard.
Situation critical. Right flank under massive assault, he concluded.
The presence of elite siphoneers always raised a warning flag. Those flamethrower troops with their deadly weapons could afford to attack in a dispersed formation, which made them far harder to hit. The defenders had no choice but to stop the deadly siphons. Yet in doing so, they lost their best chance to deliver volleys against the massed charge that followed behind.
The only blessing was that the Northmen's coordination was slightly off. In their feverish haste to engage, the siphoneers' charge had opened a gap between them and the main force. It would take no more than twenty, thirty seconds at most, for the huskarls behind them to catch up. But for the defenders, every extra second they had to repel the vanguard before the tidal wave struck was a godsend.
Pascal shrunk the vision to lay over his own peripheral sight. Another signal officer sat further down the trench, miraculously uninjured except for a dozen bleeding scratches. Two medics soon rushed past that man, one carrying a small lemur on his shoulders.
"Where's your healer?" Pascal barked as he helped lay down the crippled officer. Then, raising his hand to tap the glowing rock stuck to his ear: "Get me your healer now! I have a battle to coordinate!"
The majority of medical squad personnel were only medics — commoners trained to treat injuries but couldn't actually cast spells.
To Pascal's surprise, it was the lemur who responded. The furry little primate who wore a Samaran-blood pendant leaped onto his right shoulder and pulled the rocks off with magical ease. Then, after loosely wrapping its legs around his neck, it inserted one tiny finger into each ear canal.
A healer's familiar…
Wherever its master was, he or she was clearly using the familiar as a proxy to channel spells. The carefully-controlled, focused Restoration spell proved exponentially more effective than his own. Within moments, Pascal was beginning to hear for himself again. The voices were still muffled and fuzzy, but it was enough for him to communicate properly.
The ground shook as a drake landed no more than thirty paces to his east. The beast was half again the size of most volcanic drakes and had a body covered by pitch-black scales. Rather than a single head, this drake featured three separate ones, all of which turned in the direction of an incoming cavalry company. Two of the heads spewed out cones of noxious gas before the third breathed fire to set it alight.
The gaseous cloud exploded as the air turned into a misty conflagration.
A Zmey, Pascal thought with widened eyes.
He had heard about the fearsome drake breed that originated from deep within the Grand Republic of Samara. However he had never seen one until today.
Yet, as the Zmey paid no attention to him or the medics that cowered in the trench, it became clear that the drake and its rider had been fooled by his Mirage illusion.
Taking stock of his priorities, Pascal took a quick glance through Kaede's vision first. The oncoming charge was rapidly approaching their right wing defense line.
Pascal shut his eyes. He hated himself for what he was about to do. It was a dangerous gamble, yet he couldn't see any other choice. This entire defensive line could buckle if that flanking attack wasn't stopped. This included not only an entire army, but the fate of the whole city of Nordkreuz!
Sure they had a fallback position being built at the city's ruined walls. However with the two armies already engaged, even a successful retreat during the day would cost thousands of lives. As the Landgrave of Nordkreuz, not to mention the officer who put forward this strategy, he had no right not to risk everything he had for the success of this battle.
Everything, including his own life and that of his familiar — Kaede herself.
It was his obligation as an officer, as a lord of Weichsel.
Pascal gritted his teeth and sent what he knew was an unreasonable order:
"<Order Major Karen to hold at all costs! Do you hear me, Kaede? Fight to the last! If the flank crumbles this entire army could be rolled up and destroyed!>"
He could feel his familiar struggling with her own fears he uttered those callous words.
Pascal had faith in Kaede's resourcefulness and insight. But it was clear to him that the girl was still too green. She was weighed down by anxiety and dread. And in a critical juncture like this, such decision paralysis would only decrease her chances of survival.
"Mental Clarity Surge!"
Mana coursed into his left palm before he shut it with a squeeze, sending the magic through the familiar link and to Kaede. Mental Clarity was a spell designed to focus the mind. However as a Surge spell which maximized strength at the cost of duration, it effectively became an emotional whiteout, pushing away Kaede's fears and leaving only her rationality behind.
Pascal had now given her all the tools he could. Now he had to make sure that reinforcements would get to Kaede before her position was overrun. But for that he needed to regain control of the situation where he stood.
I need to deal with this quickly! He thought as he stared up at the monstrous drake, which had just finished its breath attack and was taking a moment to recuperate.
But how?
For all of his proud magical talents, Pascal's sorcery focused on adaptability, not power. He hasn't learned any spells capable of taking down such a powerful monster. And he had only one chance, as the vector of his attack would immediately draw the drake's attention to his presence, not to mention the tendency for illusions to collapse due to light or mana distortions caused by offensive spellcasting.
Battle tactics were all about using circumstantial advantages to create force multipliers, which a shrewd tactician exploited for morale shocks to inflict paralysis and terror.
This should be no different, the young lord concluded as he stared at the mighty beast.
"Aura Burst," Pascal began by switching his aura magic stance for fasting spell channeling. "Sunward Screen," he then muttered to add a ward over the group, followed by summoning his runes to replenish his personal defenses.
With a deep breath to ready himself, Pascal pointed his casting ring towards the drake's three heads and cried: "Solar Sonic Burst!"
A blinding, red-orange light erupted in the drake's faces alongside a high-frequency sound discharge. The combination would not only blind and deafen the drake and its rider. The sensory overload it created would also leave them temporarily stunned.
Furthermore, the burst of light acted as a flare to catch the attention of all Weichsel troops in the near vicinity — a signal for them to 'shoot here'.
"Scourge Fragmentation Catalyst Dispel!" He focused on the armored rider next, collapsing the target's wards with cascading failure.
The pain from the backlash of mana burn would keep the enemy mage from responding effectively even as his senses returned. A second, simpler Catalyst Dispel went out to tear apart the drake's wards as well.
Pascal's right arm grew numb under the burden of rapid spellcasting. His fingers shook as he struggled to reach into his extra-dimensional storage pocket for a handful of small gems. He could barely clench his hand as he threw them with a spell, which guided the gems into a ritual circle around the drake's feet.
Then, channeling as much magic as he could into his casting ring, he pointed at the Zmey and cried:
"Force Boost Prison!"
Per its name, Force spells created an immaterial, directional force, while Boost drastically raised the mana cost to augment the effect's strength. The Prison spellword then redirect this inward from all directions, creating a crushing effect which would pin the drake in place. This had the added bonus of accelerating any inbound projectiles, increasing the damage dealt by the arbalest volleys that would soon come.
And surely enough, Pascal heard a cry from further south as more reinforcements from the reserve 5th infantry brigade arrived.
"BY RANKS, VOLLEY!"
Several hundred steel bolts flew into the zmey and its rider. The giant beast was tough but even it couldn't simply shrug off the massive, spell-amplified volley.
Pascal didn't even bother to look at the drake as he heard its death throes. He grabbed one of the medics who was still huddled against the wall of the shallow trench.
"Run over to the commander of those reinforcements and tell them that our right flank is under heavy assault! Ask them to relay orders from General Bernard — all brigades on the eastern third of the line are to send reinforcements to the right flank!"
Pascal never even hesitated to lie about whom the orders came from. If news went out that brigadier-general Bernard had been killed, leadership of this army would pass to the seniormost of the remaining commanders, which would be Brigadier Bergfalk. The yeoman general was competent enough, but he was also stationed near the far left of the defensive line, with some of the least idea on what was happening on the far right.
"Sir I'm just a medic…"
"You see anyone better around!? Now off to it or we will all be a head shorter by nightfall!"
The tall and lanky medic's eyes grew wide as saucers when he finally realized the severity of the situation. He then spun around and dashed off without another word.
"Lieutenant!" Pascal rushed over to the barely-injured one, although the young man's emerald eyes were still shaking — a clear sign of lingering shock from the attack that had nearly taken their lives.
"Lieutenant, do you hear me!? Is your Farspeak link with General Kasimir's 2nd cavalry still active!?"
The blond young man nodded back slowly, still half-dazed.
Pascal slapped the lieutenant with his right palm, straight across the cheek. Even Kaede, a complete civilian by all measures, had joined the front lines to repel a siphoneer charge. There was no excuse for such disgrace from an officer of Weichsel.
"PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, Lieutenant!" he shouted in the signal officer's face. "I need an order passed to Kasimir and I needed it done two minutes ago!"
It took another moment before the blond lieutenant finally began to snap out of it.
"Ye-y-yes Sir?"
"Tell General Kasimir that our extreme right is under heavy assault and they need relief ASAP!" Pascal demanded with a stern gaze while his working hand firmly grasped the junior officer's shoulder. "2nd cavalry should still have two battalions positioned behind the right wing. Tell Kasimir to authorize the closer battalion commander to form a new battlegroup — gather any spare infantry they can collect along the way and reinforce our right anchor!"
The signal officer concentrated to pass the message. Then:
"G-General Kasimir acknowledges. He requests the status of HQ command."
"Tell him those are General Bernard's orders! And have him shift his brigade back towards the east. That kraken on our left anchor is clearly a distraction. The main enemy attack is falling upon our right wing!"
The Lieutenant then glanced towards the destroyed command center. He clearly doubted that Pascal's words were orders from the General.
"Listen. We cannot afford for the situation to devolve any further Lieutenant," Pascal declared with every bit of severity he could muster. "I have the best grasp of the overall battle, so if you want to stay alive until nightfall, you will do as I say! I swear to the Holy Father that I will take full responsibility!"
The reply came back in the form of a slow, hesitant nod, but a nod nonetheless. The Lieutenant soon crossed his eyes again in concentration.
"Cold Steel!" Pascal heard a muffled cry from the other side of the ruined command center.
It was the Weichsel call for all arbalesters to draw melee weapons. Some of them would stream back through gaps amidst the swordstaff infantry, who now advanced with a wall of bladed polearms. Meanwhile others remained on the front lines as they drew pavise shields and short swords from their backs.
All this meant that a determined Skagen assault had reached the parapet of the main line.
Pascal checked on Kaede's senses just long enough to verify that his stand fast order was being executed by Major Karen. As he brought his attention back, he heard the muffled cry of someone closer crying out his rank:
"Captain!"
He hardly even noticed when the lemur leaped off his back. His ears weren't back to full capacity yet, but they would suffice for now. The healer — who was still not here in person — clearly decided the other lieutenant's severed leg was more important.
"Corporal." The young lord turned to face his visitor.
"I'm sent by Major Caroline of the 5th infantry brigade, 8th battalion, to check on headquarters, Sir!"
"Command is intact, but we have lost most of our communications," Pascal replied solemnly, not even considering it a lie anymore. "Tell Major Caroline to send us any signal officers she can spare, and pass word to brigade command that the enemy is seeking to break our right wing. 5th infantry is to commit all battalions held in reserve behind the center and right wing. Is that clear?"
"Yes Sir!" The runner saluted before taking off.
If the Northmen thinks destroying my HQ is going to ruin our response to their flank attack, then they are in for a painful lesson, Pascal thought.
The frontal clash will be a meat grinder but Weichsel would ultimately triumph. Pascal was certain of this. However the battle itself would be decided where Kaede stood. This meant everything depended on whether Major Karen could hold long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Then after that, whether their combined strength could fight off the Northmen assault until their main cavalry force under General Dietfried reached the battlefield.
Leaning heavily against the packed-snow trench wall, Pascal considered what else he could still do to sway the odds in Weichsel's favor. His arms were still numb from the rapid succession of spells he channeled against that drake. But he nevertheless focused to begin casting anew.
"Farspeak, initiate. To: Sylviane Etiennette de Gaetane."
It would take at least a minute to open a stable communication link. He knew that Sylviane must be tired if not exhausted after the air battle. His concern for her wouldn't allow this under any other circumstance. However he was in desperate need for his gallant princess to come help his first command.
—– * * * —–
"You stupid girl!"
Kaede was still trying to extract the siphon from its dead owner when she heard Major Karen's voice. As she glanced back on reflex, she saw the Major use her swordstaff to pole-vault over trench and snow alike.
"Flourish, Animated Assault!"
As the Major rotated her body around the shaft in midair, her red hair gained a life of its own as it shot forward with thousands of tendrils. They grew like wildfire even as they flew through the air, before wrapping themselves around the translucent arcane armor of the huskarl leader that was about to cleave Kaede in two.
The massive zweihander blade came within a finger's reach of the snowy-haired familiar.
Then, as Major Karen landed, her carpet-length hair pulled its grappled foe aside like the bent arm of a giant. The large man was thrown aside with ease as braking skis made for poor footing. His body was hurled across the snow before slamming into another. A wardbreaker rune inscribed into his sword discharged itself as the blade cut into his unfortunate comrade.
Two more Northmen rushed up before braking in parallel, which kicked up a massive wave of flurry and ice to blind the red-haired major. But Karen used her momentum to swing her swordstaff around in a wide arc, over the kneeling Kaede before slicing deep into the oncoming wave.
"Negation Surge."
The Major imbued her weapon with the ward-penetration aid, just before the sweeping blade met the thigh of one skier. The cut was blind and shallow. Though it nevertheless sent its victim into an uncontrolled crash.
"Cyclone Blast!" A lieutenant yelled as he stepped up beside Kaede. He aimed towards the ground at a low angle. His wind spell blew the wintry wave back towards the attackers while intensifying it with freshly loosened snow.
His spell was still taking effect when his stomach was sliced open, as a huskarl erupted from the concealing vortex and banked hard while leveling an outstretched sword.
However his killer, blinded by the snow, didn't turn fast enough and fell into the communication trench behind them. A pool of lingering rimefire soon set him alight in screams.
Got it!
Kaede raised her head as she finally yanked the siphon out of its previous owner's death grip. Her struggle had at least shown her where the trigger was.
Better yet, the rune-inscribed handle of the lower-barrel pump continued to push in and out automatically — probably as the result of an Animate spell.
It couldn't have been a moment too soon.
Zweihander-equipped ski infantry now poured into their position, claiming the lives of more soldiers who had followed their commander across the trench. The common Weichsen footman served as little more than fodder before the huskarl retinue troops, who all had heavy warding from their runes. However the same could not be said for the magic-capable officers — as Major Karen pulled her swordstaff blade out of yet another northerner, he fell to become the eighth enemy corpse that cluttered the nearby ground.
Standing just ahead of Kaede and to the side, the Major was the only one left who protected the familiar from the barbarian horde.
The huskarl leader, a Västergötlander nobleman based on his gold-studded helmet, stood back up to rejoin the fight. After clenching a runestone and tossing it aside, his skin darkened to a stony texture while a sheet of ice crystal layered over his chainmail-and-hide armor.
His massive sword swung in and pinned Karen's blocking shaft into a contest of strength, one that she quickly began to lose. Yet even as her life was endangered, the Major's prehensile hair continued to trip incoming foes to keep the smaller girl safe.
With limited precision involved in a flamethrower, Kaede simply aimed it towards the enemy and pressed the trigger against the lower barrel. Her first victims were two skiers charging in from the right. Their faces melted away in grotesque sight as the jet of rimefire sprayed into them.
Keep shooting. Keep shooting! The Samaran girl repeated to herself, trying hard not to stare at the gruesome fate of those whom she had just killed.
Strafing the siphon without releasing its trigger, Kaede swept the field with its curtain of flames. Over a dozen foes ignited into human torches under her fire, their piercing shrieks drowning out even the sound of battle. A crashed but merely injured siphoneer knelt in an attempt to return fire. However she noticed his movement first and sent him to a fiery grave.
After a brief pause to adjust her aim, the familiar then tapped a burst at the huge man who was about to overwhelm her guardian.
At just a few paces of range, Kaede nailed the shot on the nobleman's left shoulder. But some of the liquid fire splashed off the ice, which landed on Major Karen's right forearm and wrist…
"AaaaAHHH!"
The Major immediately lost her right hand's grip on the swordstaff. As though trying to escape the burning pain, she half-leaped, half-fell to her left.
Even after receiving enough rimefire to engulf his shoulder, the huge northerner continued to press in like it was just a flesh wound. His zweihander easily brushed aside the now one-handed swordstaff before hacking into the Major's upper arm. More wardbreaker runes triggered as the massive sword cleaved its way into a gap below her steel-plated spaulder, then skin, muscle, and bone alike, before severing her entire right arm in a spray of blood.
Ohmygod what have I done…
Kaede stood frozen with horror as her protector wailed with pain on the snowy ground. Her arms felt paralyzed by shock as they trembled without end.
Meanwhile the northern nobleman, dripping flames with his entire icy torso now ablaze, took a heavy step towards Kaede.
Tall as a bear and covered in frozen furs and chain-linked steel, the enemy seemed an unstoppable ice devil wreathed in hellfire. His deep growling felt more like the haunted voice of an anguished soul than the pained weakness of a dying man.
But before he could finish taking another step, the one-handed Captain stabbed her swordstaff — its shaft supported by wraps of wavy red hair — straight into his groin.
"KEEP… SHOOTING!" She yelled as blood continued to flow from her arm stump.
The Major's cry hit Kaede like a slap before the familiar snapped out of her paralysis. She adjusted the siphon with shaking fingers before sending a burst straight into the devil's smoke-concealed face.
Not even a magically-enhanced berserker could survive that.
Kaede swept leftward on reflex. Her weapon incinerated a squad of sword-and-shield huskarls who had almost reached her from the side. The curtain of flames then swung back right in a wide arc, forcing a new wave of spear-equipped infantry to bank hard and steer away from her blazing arc of death.
However it didn't stop some of them from hurling their spears. Most of them either missed or deflected off her wards. Though one of them managed to penetrate and plunge straight into her upper thigh.
Kaede cried out in pain as she fell down onto one knee. But she never stopped shooting.
Within a massed charge of ski infantry, there wasn't much room to maneuver without intruding upon another's lane. Fallen soldiers already littered the area as evading skiers rammed into those less accomplished. This in turn increased the obstacle count for those behind them.
Yet despite her efforts, Kaede felt certain that the defense was broken. She couldn't afford the time to assess her surroundings. However her peripheral vision could already see enemy troops crossing the trench en masse atop frozen ramps, overwhelming the far smaller number of defenders who stood their ground.
There was only so much so few people could do.
—– * * * —–
Major Reinhardt von Gottschall, commander of the 2nd cavalry brigade, 9th battalion, and leader of the newly formed 'Battlegroup Reinhardt', couldn't believe his eyes.
Some of his men were distracted by the frontal assault. The Skagen shield wall had come into contact with the Weichsen infantry, and a ferocious melee now engulfed the main defense line to their left.
Others gawked at the devastation caused by the few siphoneers who had broken through. Their rimefire inflicted untold losses among the tight infantry formations before they were brought down.
However Reinhardt remained focused on their objective at the extreme right flank, where he found himself staring at an awe-inspiring sight.
The entire 'line' — what had once been a battalion of hundreds — had been reduced to three holdouts and a few dozen men. Yet its center was still held by a lone girl who knelt on one knee due to her injuries.
Her armor was too light to be soldier-appropriate. Nor did she wear a proper Weichsel uniform. Yet with a fiery reach of twenty paces, her jet of flames continued to sweep back and forth, breaking the charge like a boulder in the middle of a stream.
Blazing corpses, burning pools, and the entangled limbs of crashed ski infantry scattered all around her across the ravaged fields.
It was a scene to inspire, a sight to behold.
"Battalion! Halt! Reiters front! Fire volley over the trench! Avoid friendlies!"
Under his orders, the Kostradan Noble Reiter company moved ahead of the regular cavalry and reached out with casting gloves. Over a hundred fireballs flew out. They hurled past the perimeter trench where they detonated together in a blazing inferno that covered the fields.
Assuming the enemy had standard wards, such a basic elemental barrage would kill and disable few. But battles were also a contest of morale. The chain of explosive blasts knocked countless foes off their feet, buying his forces valuable time.
Better yet: there were now plenty of foes lying prone in pools of icy slush.
The Northmen usually entered battle with frost runes on their skis to ensure clear lanes of advance. However that wouldn't help those who had been knocked off their feet.
"Reiters! Razor Field!"
A second barrage lashed out, with mana rays arcing over the air before striking wet ground. The wintry mix froze solid in an instant as icy transmutation spread, pinning fallen men to the freshly frozen ground. Spears of icy stalagmites raced upward, piercing flesh and forming rows of teeth to slow those still trying to advance.
The charge was soon stopped by a field of frozen icicles.
Here and there a northern officer would halt the transmutation with bursts of heat or antimagic. But against cohesive spellcasting sent in successive volleys from over a hundred mages, which simultaneously covered huge tracts of the battlefield, the efforts of individuals simply weren't enough.
Time for the finisher. Major Reinhardt thought.
"Reiters! Firemist! Cavalry forward! Form up for charge!"
The Noble Reiters were conscripted mages after all. They lacked the endurance training of true battlemages. After a successive volley of spells most of them would require a short break. Though this was a perfect opportunity for a massed charge by his company of regulars to throw back the enemy forces.
A hundred and thirty cavalrymen soon trotted forward with readied lances and swordstaves while their squad leaders cast warding spells. Meanwhile Major Reinhardt watched as a hundred rays scattered over the northern beachhead before the Ignition spells arrived.
"HOLY FATHER WITH US! CHARGE!" He heard the company commander cry out, just before a searing inferno erupted across the shoreline.
The quake of the massive explosion that followed could be felt tens of kilopaces out.
—– * * * —–
Sylviane almost fell into the water as her squad emerged from teleportation.
The earthquake, the thunderclap, the heat wave…
Perhaps Weichsel should rename their beloved Firemist Ignition combo as the 'Hammer of God'.
— Not that the Holy Father needed mundane articles like hammers to smite.
Sir Robert's teleport had landed them on a tiny island in Cross Lake's eastern wing. Only a light snow continued to fill the air, and they could see the battle in the distance. However they were still a good kilopace away from the burning shoreline, where a Weichsen counterattack was preventing the Northmen from deploying the rest of their thousands-strong assault force.
It was dangerous to teleport straight into a battlefield. One could never know where another mage might have placed the infamous Astral Scramble spell, which disabled the safety protocols on incoming teleportation and dealt an instant-death for any arrivals. The spell was so deadly that it was outright banned outside military use. And most towns' teleportation beacons had an enhancement to specifically suppress this spell within its vicinity, just in case some criminal tried to start a murder spree.
The Princess brought herself back to standing upright.
"Ready?" She looked towards her six remaining armigers. Four of them had been killed during the air battle. Three others had been left behind to recuperate from severe injuries.
"As ever, Your Highness," her bodyguard, Lady Mari, declared without hesitation.
Those words were followed by confirmations from all of her armigers, even though Sylviane knew every one of them must be exhausted. A few of them had caught some shuteye yesterday before flying overnight to assault the skywhales. All of them were now relying on Rejuvenate spells to keep themselves from collapsing.
"Let's go then, Blaze Ignition!"
Sylviane expanded her phoenix Hauteclaire's aura over her armigers, who formed into the customary chevron formation as they took flight after their Princess.
"Remember, our job is to disrupt the assault on the defensive line's right anchor," she declared as they flew over the surface of the lake. "Don't risk yourselves beyond that and let Weichsel sort out the rest. Also…"
She felt some reluctance before forcing herself to add: "Keep an eye out for Kaede the familiar. Break off and protect her if you spot that Samaran girl."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Sylviane wasn't entirely sure about risking her companions' lives to protect a girl from her fiancé's thoughtless summoning. Nevertheless, Pascal had asked, his voice almost begging, for her to save Kaede, and she couldn't refuse.
Besides…
Keep your jealousy under control, Sylv. The Princess berated herself. This is not befitting of royalty.
After all, had Kaede not performed as Sylviane had asked? Had the girl not done her duty through determination and bravery? Loyalty should be appreciated and rewarded — that was what Sylviane's father always said. And Kaede had proven herself time and again to be of great help.
Let's just hope she's still alive. Sylviane thought as she began to spin her burning meteor hammer.
—– * * * —–
Later that evening, King Leopold of Weichsel sat in his royal office at Königsfeld's Black Dragon Castle as he read over reports on the Battle of Nordkreuz. The overall operation had been a resounding success. Sure, the city of Nordkreuz suffered severe damage as a result of the air attack, but Skagen paid the far greater price.
The Skagen confederate army and Västergötland expeditionary force was unable to break through Weichsel's defense line before General Dietfried's 1st cavalry brigade arrived in the early afternoon. Several thousand horsemen smashed into the Skagen army from the rear, and the Northmen's morale shattered as their forces began to surrender in mass. Jarl Eyvindur and his retinue huskarls had fought to their death rather than face inglorious defeat, but the same could not be said for most others.
Combined with the loss of Admiral Winter and his skywhale fleet, the Battle of Nordkreuz brought a decisive and crushing defeat for the Grand Jarldom of Skagen in this short war. King Leopold had already accepted the captured jarls' request to begin peace talks.
He would be heading back to Nordkreuz later this week. But before then, there were some reports that he needed to address.
"Like father, like son," Leopold remarked as he leaned back in his cushioned chair while reading a report. "The first thing Pascal requests is five years of tax exemption for the citizens of Nordkreuz, as he argues that the damage done by the air strike is on par with that of a major natural disaster."
"More like two disasters at once," Colonel Hannes von Falkenberg, commander of the Black Eagles and the King's spymaster, stated. "By all accounts, Nordkreuz looks like it had just been hit by an earthquake and a firestorm at the same time. Its market district and docks both lie in ruins. The city will require significant rework to function as a trade hub again."
"I concur that Nordkreuz should be allowed to recover its economic prosperity first before we impose taxes again," a newly arrived lady nodded. "In fact, I would recommend Your Majesty to extend credit from the national treasury to aid in the reconstruction of its trade infrastructure."
Lisbeth Adele von Lanckoroński was the Chancellor of Weichsel. Despite her age at over a hundred years old, which was past the prime of a mage's life, Lisbeth still looked remarkably youthful as she stood proudly before the King's huge mahogany desk. Her thin figure was covered by the intricate red-and-white choir dress of a cardinal of the Trinitian Church, which also brought out the intensity and depth of her ruby-red eyes and her deep-red hair.
"Indeed. Nordkreuz's role as a center of trade must not be allowed to be usurped by another city," King Leopold confirmed. "Lisbeth, ask the merchant and industry guilds to see if they can also extend a hand. Nordkreuz is a hub for Weichsen steel, glass, and Lotharin wool. It is to their benefit to see the city restored as quickly as possible."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The Chancellor replied.
"Now, what's more amusing," the King then added as he took on a humored tone, "is that Pascal recommended his own familiar for the Knight's Cross."
Leopold then looked up with a chuckle: "can you just imagine what people would say if we knighted a familiar?"
"Well Sire, you'd be carrying on a proud, family tradition," the beautiful spymaster Hannes grinned. "After all, your great-grandfather knighted a commoner."
"Yes… and I still remember how much whining he received from the old nobility thanks to that," the King commented. "Though it does sound like the familiar — Kaede, was it? — deserves it. What do the other officers say?"
"I have two other reports also recommending her for the Knight's Cross," Hannes added in his soft voice. "One from Major Karen von Lichnowsky, 11th infantry brigade. The other from Major Reinhardt von Gottschall, 2nd cavalry brigade. Both declare that without the familiar's crucial role in staunching the surprise attack, the right anchor would have collapsed before sufficient reinforcements could arrive."
"And those two are heroes themselves," the King tilted his head thoughtfully. "Very well. Have a Knight's Cross prepared for the girl, and give her an honorary rank in the army as well. And as for her master…" Leopold tapped on the report's paper before adding: "give Pascal a star to his Knight's Cross, and promote him by three full ranks."
"Three!?" Hannes looked bewildered.
"A mere captain takes command of an entire army by pretending that his directives were his deceased general's orders?" King Leopold spoke with a shake of his head in disbelief. "Yes, he flouted regulations, and in any other circumstance he should be severely punished. But today his proactive leadership averted a potential disaster, which would have likely happened had he passed command to the senior ranking general as he was supposed to do."
"Even so," the Colonel remained hesitant. "Isn't three full grades at once a bit much?"
"I have half a mind to promote him straight to brigadier-general," the King declared. "Nobody expected him to take the reins in a moment of crisis. To do so, knowing he would be held responsible for the fallout if he failed — that requires real leadership! And don't forget that it was his strategy that we executed for both the air assault and the land battle. If the kid consistently proves himself this influential to military strategy yet I don't promote him to high command, then I'll be the one who looks like a fool!"
"Three ranks it is then," Hannes gave a faint shrug. "I think that just made him the youngest colonel in Weichsel's history."
"Now, Lisbeth," King Leopold turned his attention to his chancellor. "I'm sure you didn't come just to watch me hand out military promotions."
The Cardinal-Chancellor nodded. She opened the extravagant, gold-trimmed leather binder in her arms, and handed a paper to her king before explaining:
"Your Majesty, I have word that the young heir of the Rhin-Lotharingie Duchy of Baguette, Perceval de La Tours de Baguette, formally made a request to the Zimmer-Manteuffel family of Saale-Holzland to marry their daughter, Ariadne Charlotte. The head of the Zimmer-Manteuffel family, Brigadier-General Hartmut, negotiated that the marriage be made bilineal to incorporate the future family into the Manteuffel clan, which Perceval apparently agreed to."
The King's prior amusement immediately vanished as his face grew wary.
"When did this happen?"
"Just today."
"All in one day?" King Leopold looked up from the report in astonishment.
"Apparently Lord Perceval was in the city of Nordkreuz prior to the battle," Colonel Hannes began to explain. "He visited Captain Ariadne as she was being treated for her injuries from the air battle, where he met her father who was doing the same thing. I have multiple sources confirming this meeting. It seems the young Perceval is quite smitten with Lady Ariadne and was appalled by her near-death experience during combat. He proposed on the spot and took the opportunity to negotiate with General Hartmut."
This only confirmed Leopold's suspicions that it was Hannes who provided this information to Lisbeth, whose mercantile faction was one of Manteuffel's great enemies.
"Without his immediate head of family?" The King noted with surprise.
"Duke Mathias of Baguette, who is Perceval's grandfather, seems to have met Lady Ariadne before," Hannes stated. "The old man must have taken a liking to her."
"He's also known to be quite eccentric," Lisbeth added. "Considering he renamed his fiefdom after a piece of bread."
"Eccentric or not, he is a member of House de La Tours, one of the most powerful noble dynasties in Rhin-Lotharingie," Hannes commented. "It seems that the Manteuffels are hedging their bets. Since Your Majesty seems set on the Weichsel-Lotharin alliance, they intend to take advantage of the opportunity and extend their clan's influence into Rhin-Lotharingie."
"Baguette is also just across the border from Nordkreuz, which makes it easy to involve them in Weichsel's affairs…" King Leopold remarked. "I take it Neithard doesn't know about the coup in Alis Avern yet?"
"I doubt it, Sire. It's only been a day and we've been suppressing that information," answered his spymaster. "Though I anticipate news to spread by other sources soon."
The King nodded as his brows furrowed in deep thought. He stood up from behind his desk and walked over to the giant map of Western Hyperion in his office. His gaze fell upon the landmass of Weichsel's huge, western neighbor.
The matter of Rhin-Lotharingie would require more discussion and deliberation before he made a decision. However…
"The Manteuffels are getting out of hand," Leopold declared as his eyes narrowed. "Neithard already has the Duchy of Polarstern, and the branch families control Saale-Holzland, Altmark, and half of Starigard. Yet that is still not enough to satisfy his ambition?"
"Not to mention he took advantage of this campaign to place his lieutenants into the best command positions within the army," Lisbeth took the opportunity to fan the King's flames, as both she and Hannes knew the King was deeply bothered by this.
"Nor was that enough to satisfy him," Colonel Hannes added almost casually. "There's more promotion requests from this battle's reports, with a clear bias towards his own people."
"He must think I'm either blind or stupid!" The King growled.
"Perhaps he considers himself too important for Your Majesty to relieve," Hannes shrugged. "After all, Your Majesty didn't lift a finger to stop him when he reshuffled the commanders prior to the Skagen campaign."
The King instantly sent a smoldering glare towards his spymaster, but it had no effect. The Colonel continued to stand with a slight tilt, his stance so relaxed that it looked like he was about to start whistling a tune.
It wasn't really surprising, considering that Hannes was the same individual who once handed in a list of conspirators with his own name on top. The King had to warn him back then that it wasn't a very funny joke.
"I wanted Neithard to have an efficient command structure for a quick and decisive northern campaign," Leopold thought back to his decision. "I had hoped he would be like Karl and knew where to draw the line."
"I'm afraid that unlike the late Marshal, the Manteuffels are not known for their modesty, Sire," Hannes shrugged again.
King Leopold sighed as he paced about his desk.
"Neithard needs to be removed. I don't care how good of a general he is. If I let this continue for another campaign, his control over the army will be enough to gamble on a coup!"
"He already has enough to chance it," the spymaster interjected. "Just not a good one."
The King ignored him this time. He glanced back to his Chancellor instead with a congratulatory smile:
"It's what you've always wanted, isn't it, Lisbeth? Without Neithard to throw his influence around, the only easy way up in the administration is to bribe you…"
"Your Majesty, I…"
Leopold cut off the Cardinal-Chancellor with a raised hand.
"I know your greed, Lisbeth." The King stared at his chancellor with royal prerogative. "Everyone knows your greed. Even the children in the streets sing rhymes about it. However, you're also the best chancellor Weichsel has seen in two centuries. Most of your appointments are at least competent. Plus you know exactly where to invest to grow the country's economy and how to keep the guilds' interest tied to that of the state."
He then paused with a knowing smile, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"As long as you stay loyal to me and keep the nation's economy on track, Lisbeth, I'll let you shower yourself in gold. But be careful not to overstep, or you will certainly drown in your own wealth."
The warning at the end was almost dismissive. However the Cardinal-Chancellor was attentive as she accepted her liege's words with a slow, mindful nod:
"I will watch my step, Sire."
"Good! I like keeping my councilors." King Leopold smiled appreciatively before his face fell stern once more. "Hannes, Lisbeth, I want the two of you working together on this, and only your most trustworthy men. I want the investigation into Karl's death to point a finger at Neithard," he spoke of the late Marshal's assassination. "It doesn't have to be serious, perhaps he simply allowed a gap in the security arrangements. But I want it to look purposeful."
Colonel Hannes smiled, though it was more of an eerie smirk:
"You Majesty wants his reputation destroyed amongst the troops when you arrest him."
"Precisely!" Leopold sneered as he walked around his desk to sit back down. "And whom better to stage the act than convincing the wronged son himself to take revenge for his father? It'll be dramatic!" He accentuated in a theatrical tone. "The playwrights will be romanticizing it for decades to come!"
"Fabricating the evidence will be easy, given some of the murky details we've found surrounding the late Marshal's death," Hannes stated confidently. "When would Your Majesty like for us to make the arrest?"
"Do it tonight," the King declared. "Half the troops will be celebrating their victory, and the other half will be exhausted in their beds. It's the perfect opportunity to strike. Neithard won't have the time to notice anything is amiss. And by the time his supporters can organize anything, it'll be too late."
"And what of the Manteuffel clan?" Lisbeth asked next.
She was clearly not willing to let her other political adversaries go without a beating — which the King immediately noticed.
"Neithard lays at the core of the tumor. Once he is dealt with, we only need to lay pressure on the Manteuffel clan's branch families to make them splinter and break away from the main house." Leopold decided. "I see no need to start a purge. A few reprimands and withholding of honors should be enough to send a signal."
"I agree, Sire," Hannes nodded.
The spymaster didn't actually glance at the Chancellor, but it was clear he was concerned about her potentially exploiting a power vacuum.
"And as for the young lovebirds, have your Eagles send a discreet suggestion to the Baguette Duke that he should consider pushing back and demanding a patrilineal marriage," King Leopold added. "That should not be difficult once Neithard goes down, as the Manteuffel name will take a steep plunge in value."
Pascal's unlikely survival seemed well-explained, and I sincerely enjoyed the heroism of the the Karen who insisted on speaking with their manager even though it cost her an arm and a leg. I'm a bit confused, though, about how Kaede survived as a solo point of defense for so long without getting a chest full of arrows or javelin. Can't find fault with the monarch's reaction, either way.
"You'd knight a familiar?!"
"I'd knight a hunk of cheese, if it had a flamethrower and plot armor."
I'm confused about your intentions with bombarding me with quotes from obscure (from my viewpoint, anyway) philosophers who advocated inaction. Because you're reminding me a lot of my depression, telling me that I shouldn't try to help anyone because I'll just fuck it up.
You're willing to admit that one was evil? The way I see it, it was the form of slavery that got closest to the monstrously exploitative and arbitrary end state that all hierarchy naturally tends toward. So far, I mean; we've all seen how the elite treat dystopian science fiction as inspiration.
Teachers fail to understand what's going on between kids all the time. Because teachers are always outsiders to the kids' social circles and therefore the kids behave differently when they're around. Not being part of the "in-group" means you lack crucial information.
The fact you think teachers can be so omniscient suggests to me you've never dealt much with people who work in education, where trying to understand what's going on with the kids outside the classroom (with detrimental effects to their learning) is a consistent headache.
I don't expect teachers to be omniscient, I expect them to know that children are human, and therefore cruel and tribalistic (and in the case of children, have had almost no time to even begin the fumbling and insufficient attempts to overcome that which we make).
Pascal's unlikely survival seemed well-explained, and I sincerely enjoyed the heroism of the the Karen who insisted on speaking with their manager even though it cost her an arm and a leg. I'm a bit confused, though, about how Kaede survived as a solo point of defense for so long without getting a chest full of arrows or javelin. Can't find fault with the monarch's reaction, either way.
"You'd knight a familiar?!"
"I'd knight a hunk of cheese, if it had a flamethrower and plot armor."
Kaede survived due to a few reasons:
1. She was using Pascal's full defensive rune set at that point which means you need dedicated dispels to penetrate her layered wards first. Some random arrows or bolts from a common soldier will just bounce off.
2. She wasn't targetted by the first wave of repeating crossbows and siphoneers (or at least killed the one going after her group).
3. The second wave of shock troops were all melee and it's not exactly practical to put aside your two-hander sword to draw a crossbow while you're skiing.
3. Major Karen's personally led the last few remaining soldiers of her command unit to protect her. Otherwise several of the attackers written in chapter will have sliced Kaede in half.
I'm confused about your intentions with bombarding me with quotes from obscure (from my viewpoint, anyway) philosophers who advocated inaction. Because you're reminding me a lot of my depression, telling me that I shouldn't try to help anyone because I'll just fuck it up.
I like quoting people who are wiser than I am, especially quotes that can capture a lot of thought-provoking meaning :3
Whether or not you agree with them is another matter.
My opinion is that one cannot call themselves an ethical person if one does spend a proper amount of time thinking about the nature of ethics. Those who do not are just pretending to be ethical.
You're willing to admit that one was evil? The way I see it, it was the form of slavery that got closest to the monstrously exploitative and arbitrary end state that all hierarchy naturally tends toward. So far, I mean; we've all seen how the elite treat dystopian science fiction as inspiration.
Admit? Did I ever claim slavery wasn't evil? Or is this a passive-aggressive snub born of another ridiculous leap of logic?
I have an extremely low opinion of the Dalai Lama for a reason. Nowhere in buddhist scripture does it say "thou may enslave those you perceived to be of lower karma". The fact this guy has become an icon for buddhism in the Western mindset makes me sick to my stomach.
I'm not a fan of most dystopian literature because too many of them are overly exaggerated to be point of "comedically evil" just to prove the author's political point. As a writing book I read once noted: 'most villains are stereotypically evil because writing them is lazy and easy.'
It was everywhere, scattered across the surreal, snowy landscape like pyres of the underworld.
Kaede watched as the flames burned away the pure-white snow. They consumed the bodies of fallen allies which laid all around.
But most of all, they sprayed over still living men through a blazing jet — flames that pumped endlessly from her own hands.
A human wave of Northmen charged straight at her. Their zweihanders glinted with bloody, razor-sharp steel. However Kaede felt her arms pivot towards them as though moving on their own. Her finger held the trigger of the flame projector down, and the scorching fire that shot out from her hands landed squarely on those men's faces.
Rimefire dripped from their melting eyes and sizzling flesh. It burnt away their chainmail-and-hide armor to reveal only civilian tunics. Their weapons dropped away and left only outstretched hands that sought help. Their lips and chin were consumed by the liquid fire, exposing jawbones that began to wail more terribly than any banshee.
"KEEP FIRING!" She heard someone cry out from behind her.
The voice sounded desperate but it was nevertheless an order. The torrent of liquid fire continued unabated from the weapon held in her hands. Yet the burning corpses did not stop their advance. They shambled through the torrent of flames with agonizing shrieks.
"KEEP FIRING!" Kaede heard again. This time just before an officer of Weichsel charged past her flank to intercept the approaching corpses.
A major with long, wavy red hair, slashed through the approaching foes with her bloody swordstaff. Though instead of falling down, the pieces of those bodies seemed to fuse together into a four-armed giant.
This abomination grasped an even more massive sword, which he brought down upon the Major without mercy. It cut straight through the haft of her swordstaff as well as her right shoulder. Yet the Major did not flinch as she drove the remains of her polearm into her foe with her remaining arm.
However even as the giant fell to the ground before Kaede's savior, the familiar felt no relief, only apprehension.
The Major's body convulsed for a brief moment. She seemed to grow taller while her wavy-red hair shortened and went gray. The remains of her swordstaff changed into a marshal's baton just like the one Kaede had seen in Pascal's family painting. But as the figure turned about her face was no longer human.
Kaede felt frozen with trepidation as she gazed upon the woman who had just saved her. Instead of eyes, the figure had hollowed out sockets with ghoulish embers glowing in them. The officer looked upon the snowy-haired girl and decreed:
"Diieeee."
But… why?
Confusion and terror filled her thoughts at what she was seeing, right before an inexplicable wave of seething hatred crashed into her mind. Her body seized control once again as she raised her flame siphon. And with a press of the trigger she sprayed liquid fire straight into the officer's face.
Stop! What am I doing? She saved my life! Kaede's thoughts screamed.
Yet her lips spoke a very different message as she felt herself cry out:
"<You fucking traitorous PIECE OF SHIT!>"
However while Kaede could feel her lips moving, the voice she heard wasn't hers, but Pascal's.
A fresh deluge of searing rage cut through her anxiety like a hot knife through butter. Her chest was pounding while her eyes narrowed with disdain at the world. Then in that one moment Kaede realized that the nonsensical anger, the hatred, the betrayal that she felt. They weren't her own.
They were Pascal's.
His anger wasn't directed at her. However he also didn't spare her from the outpouring of raw indignation and malice. Kaede felt like her own thoughts were being consumed by a wildfire that now raged all around her — a conflagration that burned with an all-devouring desire to destroy, to murder, to take revenge.
This outpouring of hatred was more intense than anything she had ever felt, anything she could imagine.
— And it absolutely terrified her.
"<P-Pascal?>" She muttered both aloud and in telepathy, as her world faded to black and her eyes opened inside a dark cabin.
She had been asleep. It was all a dream, a nightmare. Except…
The flood of enmity and malice continued unabated.
It took a moment before Kaede realized that these emotions were flowing into her through the familiar bond that she shared with Pascal. The empathic link was supposed to be one way, from her to him, yet somehow it had reversed?
The familiar wasn't sure what was going on. She knew only that the murderous rage which overflowed her master was downright frightening. It felt like he was ready to burn down the world, kill anyone whom he encountered, anything to satisfy his thirst for retribution.
— And by extension, Kaede couldn't help but feel the urge to kill in her own emotional state.
She wasn't even sure whom this anger was directed at. All she knew was that she couldn't stop this raw desire, and it terrified her.
"<P-Pascal? W-what's going on?>" Her wispy voice was shaking as she tried to reach out to him.
—– * * * —–
Pascal sighed again as he put the final after action report down and leaned back against his chair in the new command cabin.
It was already past midnight, and this was the fourth time he had read over the document. He had to make sure every detail was duly explained before he sent its contents to the General Staff in Königsfeld.
The King may have been satisfied by his preliminary report. However the military administrators would be combing over every detail of his actions after how grossly he violated the army's rules and regulations during the Battle of Nordkreuz. Pascal had no doubt that some of these people would be seeking to do him harm. He was politically astute enough to know that rapid promotions and the King's favor always came as both a blessing and a curse.
After all, there were only so many high ranking positions. All of them were contested by the three major political factions of Weichsel, not to mention the personal ambitions of many individuals. The mercantile faction led by Cardinal-Chancellor Lisbeth wasn't too aggressive in pushing its influence within the military. But the same could not be said for Neithard von Manteuffel's conservative faction. They had been locked in a perpetual tug-of-war with his father's royalists for as long as he remembered.
Pascal had no doubts which side he was on.
His father had taught him that autocrats, especially competent monarchs like the Kings of Weichsel, had a vested interest in bringing 'new blood' into the existing power structures of society. These newly-made men, which included Pascal's father, did not have the generational wealth and established political influence that old merchant and noble families held. As a result, the newly promoted elites derived most of their power solely through the King's good graces, and as a result they were more reliably loyal to the King.
This did not apply to established elites like the Manteuffels, who maintained their political influence through a vast network of branch families and longtime retainers. Sure, competent old nobility, such as General Neithard, also sought to recruit new talent, and Lieutenant-Colonel Hans Ostergalen was proof of this. Yet to maintain his existing power base, Neithard von Manteuffel had to show favor to those who already followed him — lest they switch their loyalties to more fertile grounds.
These differences in support meant that, with all other factors being equal, the King was simply more likely to favor rising stars who relied on merit and not connections. Even for the Falken clans who have maintained a 'special relationship' with the monarchy, the rulers of the Drachenlanzen dynasty have always been careful to limit their power.
To Pascal, who was not only 'new nobility' but also respected merit above all else, it was a given that he would continue his father's royalist cause.
However, there was one new factor which muddled the political waters for him.
His betrothal to Princess Sylviane meant that he now had two royals to follow.
Weichsel's victory during the Battle of Nordkreuz had been costly. The city that prided itself as the 'Jewel of the North' lay largely in ruins. The Knights Phantom lost over thirty percent of their order of battle. The Phantom Grenadiers had been hit the hardest, as they were reduced to only a third of their original numbers. And this didn't include the thousands of casualties taken among Weichsel's infantry and ground cavalry — injured men and women who now overflowed every makeshift hospital in Nordkreuz.
It was no surprise that the healers were already running out of Samaran blood.
Yet none of this made Weichsel's victory any less than total. Both Skagen's skywhale fleet and confederate army had been utterly annihilated. Even Västergötland had paid dearly for their support by losing an expedition force of thousands. Over a dozen jarls had been killed in battle, and another dozen captured.
The Grand Jarldom of Skagen still had its seaborn fleet. But they no longer had the resources to prevent their peninsula on the continental mainland from falling into Weichsel's hands.
This however created a conundrum for Pascal.
He had hoped for Weichsel to end the northern conflict quickly so it could free its hand to join Rhin-Lotharingie's war against the Caliphate. This would require a white peace, a return to the status quo, for the two belligerents.
However that was no longer likely. After how complete Weichsel's victory had been, King Leopold would most probably seek to press for annexation of the entire Skagen Peninsula. Yet the people in these newly conquered lands belonged to both a different culture and religion. Their integration would require pacification, which would tie down considerable military might — forces that could no longer be spared to aid Rhin-Lotharingie.
I had not thought this far when I proposed the battle plan, Pascal reflected.
He had been too focused on achieving military objectives, without considering the broader political implications.
It was in times like these, when Pascal had to admit that in spite of all his talents, he was still a long way off from becoming a true general, let alone a renowned marshal like his father.
Pascal wished he could talk to Sylviane right now. She had considerably more political experience than he did, thanks to years of working under Emperor Geoffroi in the Lotharin court. But her armigers had called her away on urgent business — something about a message from home.
I might be the fiancé of their crown princess. But in the eyes of most Lotharins, I am still just a foreigner and outsider, Pascal sighed as he pondered over this sad and lonely truth.
The young lord leaned his head back from the chair, before bringing his right hand up to rub his temple. He had barely started before he heard two knocks on the door, followed by a familiar voice:
"Pascal? Are you in?" A soft soprano came through the door, which Pascal immediately recognized as the voice of Cecylia von Falkenhausen.
"Yes! One second!" He called back as he stood up and rushed over.
Pascal was genuinely grateful that Kaede had allowed him to semi-reconcile with Ariadne, which had brought his childhood friend Cecylia back to everyday speaking terms again. Word of her father's grievous injuries during the air raid must have reached her in Alis Avern. It was the only reason he could think of for why Cecylia would be in Nordkreuz.
"Hello Cecylia!" He greeted cheerfully as he opened the thick wooden door, and promptly froze.
The dhampir girl with scarlet-crossed eyes was only one of six people who stood outside. All of whom wore figure-concealing black cloaks.
"Sorry, official business," Cecylia noted as she gave him an apologetic smile.
"Could we talk inside?" A middle-aged man who stood right behind her requested.
Pascal's eyebrows shot up. This was certainly an unusual, late-night encounter. Without breaking eye contact or changing his puzzled expression, Pascal slowly turned his hand to point his turquoise casting ring at Cecylia. His other hand summoned four defensive runes, yet a subtle scan of her magic aura held a match to what he remembered. The unique mana signature was definitely Cecylia's, not some fake modified by polymorph or illusion magic.
He didn't detect any enchantment magic either. Sure, minor spell auras could be concealed. But any spell capable of overwhelming a dhampir's mana resistance and dominating their mind would be powerful indeed.
"Come on in," Pascal replied at last as he beckoned them into the command cabin, which had wards inside the structure against external eavesdropping and scrying.
"How is your father?" He asked to pass the time as the others strode inside.
"Father's legs were crushed when the air assault collapsed the eastern gatehouse," Cecylia kept her tone casual despite the topic. "Thankfully the healers reached him in time to save them. He'll be bedridden for a week, but they promised he'll make a full recovery."
"That is a relief to hear."
The last figure stepped inside the cabin and closed the door behind him. The six newcomers then reached out to take off their cloaks, revealing the pitch-black uniforms of the King's Black Eagles.
Pascal had an uneasy feeling about this. It wasn't natural for the Black Eagles to operate openly in groups unless the King was nearby. And as far as he knew the King was still in the capital.
The lean, middle-aged man who spoke earlier wore a fierce scowl and had blond hair tied back in a short ponytail. He immediately began to introduce himself:
"I am Major Kempinski, leader of field operations in the west for the Black Eagles' state security branch." The man revealed his Black Eagle crest-badge, offering it for Pascal to examine its authenticity.
However Pascal simply nodded. Cecylia's presence was good enough for him. If he couldn't trust a Falkenhausen, who had been faultlessly loyal to the Crown of Weichsel for generations, then there would be no man in the kingdom whom he could rely on.
Of course, his friendship and trust towards Cecylia was probably the reason why they called upon her for this task.
"I have been charged to bring you a personal note from His Majesty the King, along with conclusive findings of recent investigations into the death of Field Marshal Karl August von Moltewitz," Major Kempinski continued.
At the words 'His Majesty the King', Pascal immediately stood to full attention and gave a responsive salute.
"Hail the Black Dragon," he swore his allegiance before receiving the offered scroll-case.
What about father? Is there something else other than him being killed by Imperial Mantis Blades?
Questions rolled nonstop across Pascal's mind as he unfurled the two sheets of parchment and began reading.
It began with pleasantries, more condolences, all the warm words one could expect from an eloquent writer to a family friend. And it remained that way until right up to when the hammer struck:
…We have since discovered irrefutable evidence that the assassination of the Marshal had been supported by none other than General Neithard Mittemeyer von Manteuffel in a most blatant act of high treason…
Pascal felt his lungs halt mid-breathe. His eyes stared back as though threatening to pop out from their sockets.
Neithard… von Manteuffel… treason…
At that moment, facing the black, ironclad words on cold parchment, Pascal could have sworn his heart stopped. It had frozen in doubtful disbelief, then ignited as he read on, by icy flames of simmering fury.
…The Black Eagles have unraveled evidence of direct contact between the Manteuffel household and Imperial intelligence agents, including the passing of detailed information on the late Marshal's personal security, as well as the schedules of patrols outside the city of Königsfeld…
Pascal's knuckles had turned white. His arms had begun to quiver, though his grip on the parchment itself had grown as firm as steel.
This was General Neithard, one of the most decorated officers in the Weichsel army. He and Pascal's father had served together for decades! They might not have been friends, but they were at least comrades! How could he!?
…Although initially thought to be the work of a spy within the household staff, thorough examination by our diviners has confirmed that these documents have been personally handled by the General…
Pascal could barely believe it. He simply couldn't accept it. This was betrayal, a personal act of treachery from not just a superior officer, but a general whom he had looked up to for the man's tactical brilliance, a man for whom Pascal had nothing but respect for from a professional viewpoint.
"Is this… is this all certain?" Pascal heard his own trembling voice.
"The King had assigned the best investigators in Weichsel to this task and gave it the highest priority," Cecylia's soft reply came with an apologetic look. "These results are as reliable as they get."
But… why?
His thoughts were clearly one of denial, and Pascal knew exactly why. In the wake of his father's death, Neithard von Manteuffel had already become the main contender for the next Marshal of Weichsel, and it was questionable if his ambitions ended there.
To pass such sensitive information on the Marshal's security to the Imperials… Neithard could have done no worse if he had personally handed the Mantis Blades a sword to kill Pascal's father.
Pascal hadn't even noticed as his breathing grew heavy, or his shoulders quaking under barely-contained explosive rage.
The dark clouds of vile hatred, the thirst for blood and vengeance — he had suppressed them in the wake of the assassination for the interests of Weichsel. But now, they could no longer be contained.
Father knew you were too ambitious to be politically reliable. But he had always respected, RESPECTED you! Because you were a brave and brilliant leader, one whom he had thought shared the belief of a strong Weichsel independent from Imperial influences. Yet you…
"– You fucking traitorous PIECE OF SHIT!" Pascal finally spat out, before turning to the Black Eagles Major with murderous hatred in his tone: "I take it that you are here to arrest that treacherous bastard?"
"<P-Pascal?>" Kaede chimed in. However he completely ignored her concerned, wispy voice.
"You have my deepest condolences for the Marshal," Major Kempinski's steady voice replied. "But please stay calm and continue reading, Captain Pascal."
The young lord took a deep breath to swallow any further words of impatience. He begrudgingly returned his gaze to the parchment. The royal communique was more effluent than usual. He wished the King would get to whatever the next point was already so he could return to discussing how to strangle that man alive…
Then, there it was:
…It is my heartfelt desire that you be given an opportunity to personally avenge this betrayal by assisting in Neithard's immediate arrest, before his own agents may hear of his unveiled treason and prompt him into launching a military coup d'etat. The Black Eagles charged with delivering this message are hereby assigned to your command. Please exercise initiative with caution, my young friend, as Neithard's long career of service has earned him countless loyal supporters within every military camp. Should he resist arrest by any means, you have my permission for his immediate execution. The Weichsel army cannot risk a major disturbance given the present state of conflict in Hyperion.
Pascal found himself in complete agreement with the King's every sentiment. If the old traitor found out about his impending arrest, he could launch a military coup in desperation which would inflict immeasurable harm to Weichsel's military strength.
All of this pointed towards one fact: the sooner General Neithard was removed from command, the better.
"<P-Pascal? W-what's going on?>" Kaede's frightened voice came over their familiar bond again.
And once again Pascal ignored her. More precisely, his mind never even bothered to process her words. With eyes intent on his mission, he stood straight to face Major Kempinski at last.
"I accept His Majesty's mission with obedience and gratitude," his voice resounded as hard as steel. "However, Neithard von Manteuffel is one of Weichsel's highest ranking commanders. Should his immediate death be necessary, may I ask if you bear His Majesty's sword to represent his royal authority?"
The Black Eagles officer then shook his head without any change in expression:
"Unfortunately, we did not have time to transfer His Majesty's sword from the capital. We must make do with the orders of the King."
Pascal pursed his lips as he heard that.
Generals were some of the highest offices in Weichsel, and could only be promoted or removed through the personal consent of the King. With His Majesty's orders in hand, Pascal could certainly arrest a general, as that was a temporary measure. But to execute, to permanently remove a general, that required more substantial authority. It was an established tradition of Weichsel to ensure that no forged orders or subterfuge could do irreparable harm to the nation's interests.
Unfortunately, these were also special circumstances. King Leopold was certainly correct that they must move quickly.
"We will just have to make do then," Pascal decided. "With the King's personal letter and his Black Eagles at hand, there should not be any problems. If anything, the best time to strike would be now and immediately. Most of the encamped army is either celebrating or resting, with only perimeter patrols on battle alert. Last I heard, Neithard himself was overseeing the celebrations amidst the 1st cavalry brigade. Our biggest danger is that a considerable number of knights from his old unit, the Phantom Gale, will be there."
"Then we have no time to lose," the Major replied. "There is always the possibility that one of his loyalists sighted our approach here and might raise suspicions."
"In that case, we will meet Colonel Walther von Mackensen and gather whomever he has at hand. Not only is he a diehard royalist, but his Knights Phantom suffered the least casualties in the last battle. We will head over to the dining halls of the 1st cavalry brigade after that," Pascal finalized, as he stood up and began to stride towards the door.
And I hope that traitor does resist, because I will gladly send him to hell myself!
"<Pascal please say something!>"
Kaede's faint cry was almost begging when he noticed it at last.
The emotions pouring over their empathic link were beyond mere worry and concern now. They had entered the realm of being distraught.
When did she…?
Pascal realized it wasn't her first attempt, but he couldn't recall when her calls began, or how many times he had already ignored her.
"<Kaede you should be resting.>" His reply rang terse and imperious as he strode through the door. "<Your injuries…>"
"<The hell I'm staying put when you're out looking for someone's blood!>" The familiar cut him off in a clearly agitated voice. "<What's going on!?>"
Pascal didn't remember venting any of his stormy wrath across their telepathy. But clearly he must have, as it had been enough to alarm Kaede and drive her own anxieties to the edge.
I do not have time for this right now!
"<This is a political matter. You would just complicate the situation,>" he insisted.
"<Fine. I won't ask any more questions until you're ready to tell me.>" Kaede relented yet her tone remained desperate. "<But at least let me be there! Surely you could use an extra hand?>"
Pascal didn't really need her help. He certainly didn't want her in this dangerous affair, not when she was still recovering from her injuries after Sir Robert found her unconscious on the battlefield.
However Kaede was right in one regard. At this moment, he needed all the trustworthy manpower he could get. His familiar might be tired and recuperating, but she had also proved during the battle earlier that she was an excellent marksman.
Besides, if she was just going to keep pestering him, then this also doubled as a way of shutting her up.
"<Meet me outside the gates of the northern encampment in five minutes. Remember: no questions!>"
…And stay out of my way when I skin this bastard alive!
—– * * * —–
Although General Neithard sat amidst an atmosphere of celebration, he was anything but jubilant.
The men of the Phantom Gale — the Knights Phantom company that he personally led as its first commander — drank and sang in good cheer all around. However the General had plastered a trace smile across his expression while nursing his beer stein in silent contemplation.
Earlier tonight, mere hours after the Battle of Nordkreuz concluded in Weichsel's victory, Neithard had received a Farspeak message from a close friend back in Königsfeld.
The General knew that he had been under investigation by the Ministry of the Interior for weeks now. His entire household had been placed under surveillance, and his immediate family had been tailed on more than one occasion. However today he heard that a member of the King's Black Eagles had been seen colluding with these people — a sign that Neithard's enemies had reached the ears of the King.
It was ill tidings that cast a shadow upon the afterglow of victory.
Perhaps it couldn't be helped. No man could climb the ranks of power without making enemies, just as no man could maintain his presence everywhere at once. Neithard knew the moment he took command in the field, his political opponents in the Capital would begin to plot against him.
Cardinal Lisbeth, you slimy old hag…
As the leader of the conservative faction, Neithard had been bitterly opposed to the Cardinal-Chancellor's pro-Imperium mercantile faction for as long as he remembered. Neithard wasn't in favor of forming alliances with enemies of the Holy Imperium, like King Leopold and the late Marshal had done with the Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie. Instead, he wanted to uphold Weichsel's traditional policy of 'Papal Appeasement', to keep the Holy Imperium at a safe distance while Weichsel used its military prowess to expand into Northmen and Lotharin lands.
This would allow Weichsel to grow its national power without offending its huge, hegemonic neighbor… at least until their country was strong enough that even the Holy Imperium could no longer declare war without risking defeat.
It also didn't help that Neithard's and Lisbeth's personalities mixed like oil and water. Whereas the General was stern, stoic, and frugal, the Cardinal-Chancellor was… well, a greedy hedonist who liked to abuse teenage boys.
To enjoy younger members of the opposite sex was hardly a rare trait among the powerful. Nevertheless Neithard always wondered why the Holy Father allowed such a sinner to tend to his flock.
The late Marshal had believed strongly in staying out of this dispute. However that was a trait that Neithard found exceedingly foolish. No army could live on honor and tradition alone. It needed funding, gold, its slice of the national budget.
Sure, Nordkreuz was a rich region thanks to its strategic location as a center of trade. But not every duchy held such blessings! More money spent on economic subsidies and grandiose infrastructure projects meant less for the army. And these were crucial decades with military opportunities that Weichsel could not afford to miss!
So Neithard fought the Cardinal for every silver pfennig in the Marshal's stead. He used his military contacts to extend his influence into the civil bureaucracy. He clashed with the Cardinal over every digit of spending, every project of national infrastructure.
And more often than not, he won. Had he not secured these funds for Weichsel's army, the late Marshal could never have achieved his exceptional success during the last war.
However, such victories also came with a price.
Before Neithard knew it, Cardinal Lisbeth, the snake that she was, had begun spreading rumors of Neithard's ambition to seize state power for himself. By the time Neithard finally realized the danger he was in, it was already too late.
Only then did he finally understand why the late Marshal had been so careful to stay out of these factional disputes. For any man other than the King to control that much power — it was like wearing a bullseye behind his head.
Since then, Neithard did what he could in downplaying his hand. Though he couldn't stop expanding his influence in the army. The military depended on the quality of its officer corp, and he just happened to be exceptional at grooming new leaders. He had placed many of his followers, including young men and women from his own family, in pivotal positions that forced them to prove themselves. Those who rose to the challenge undoubtedly deserved their promotions.
However his clan, his extended families, had grown too accustomed to wielding such power and prestige.
Neithard had met his cousin, Brigadier-General Hartmut of the Zimmer-Manteuffel branch family, over dinner. He was astounded to hear that Hartmut had brokered a deal to expand the family into a Lotharin duchy just across the border. Sure, Neithard always believed that Weichsel should conquer the lands currently held by the Duke of Baguette. But there was a mountain of difference between a military conquest sanctioned by the King, versus an expansion of power achieved through political marriage by the House of Manteuffel.
Had he been a betting man, he would confidently wager that Cardinal Lisbeth had already received this news, and was using it to further her argument of his 'dangerous ambition'.
Neithard was still pondering when the dining hall's thick wooden door slammed open. The first one to step in was the young Captain Pascal, whose burning eyes soon met his with a clear murderous intent.
The General hardly had time to consider why before six Black Eagles and one Samaran girl strode in behind Pascal. They fanned out to both sides as Colonel Walther von Mackensen rushed in. Behind him entered one Knight Phantom after another, fully kitted in half-plate armor over their black-on-burning-red uniforms and wielding their swordstaves in hand.
All ruckus within the cabin died down in seconds. Even the drunk could sense the rapid shift in room temperature to below freezing.
"General Neithard Mittemeyer von Manteuffel!" Captain Pascal snarled as his hands held out a scroll of parchment bearing the royal seal. "By order of His Majesty the King, you are under arrest on charges of high treason for willingly conspiring in the assassination of Marshal Karl August von Moltewitz!"
What!?
For a passing second, Neithard found himself utterly stunned.
Conspiring in the late Marshal's assassination? Neithard's opinions might often have clashed with the late Marshal, especially where Rhin-Lotharingie was concerned. But they were still comrades in almost every regard! Why would he ever…
Then, his mind finally made the turn:
That snake has already spread her venom… and this is her killing blow.
Everything had been set against him. The trial's verdict was already clear. Cardinal Lisbeth would not have made so bold a move unless her 'evidence' against him was overwhelming.
If he surrendered here, his head might adorn a pike before he even had a chance to meet the King.
But what else… what else can I do?
Slowly, the cornered general stood up from the bench. He never once broke eye contact from Pascal's malicious gaze.
"I have fought a hundred battles for Weichsel, and not once, not once! Have I fought against our Fatherland!"
Yet the young Captain was already beyond reason, beyond reach. His turquoise eyes were filled with icy flames and never even flickered at the General's declaration.
Neithard did not want to rebel. He did not want to betray his king, even for a second.
But, at this stage, what other choice do I have?
The General was not afraid of dying. He had braved death too many times to fear it. However he feared his enemy's victory. He feared for his family's honor.
And most of all, he was afraid of just how much harm an unopposed Cardinal Lisbeth could inflict upon Weichsel's military.
His only chance was to stay alive — long enough to score an audience with the King, to appeal to Leopold in person.
"What would your father think, to see his own son beguiled by that Imp-loving Cardinal." Neithard announced with bitter sorrow.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH! YOU FILTHY TRAITOR!" Pascal cried back. "You have no right to invoke my father's memory!"
But Neithard's words weren't directed towards Pascal. They were meant for his own men, several of them were already beginning to stand up, their expressions an image of defiance.
Foremost among them was his protégé who sat right behind him: Colonel Sir Dietrich Gottfried von Falkenrath, commander of the Phantom Gale and one of his brightest pupils.
At the same time, he heard a voice call "General!" from just outside the doors. It was Lieutenant-Colonel Hans Ostergalen. Neithard didn't have a clue how the intelligence officer acquired information so quickly this time. Nevertheless he was grateful as more Knights Phantom stepped through the door with their weapons drawn towards his enemies.
"I had held no intention of rebellion against His Majesty the King! But I will be damned if I let that backstabbing bitch of a cardinal destroy everything I have worked for our proud army! Now, who is with me!"
"I AM!"
Neithard wasn't surprised when the first shout of firm allegiance came from just behind him.
He never even had time to be astonished when a swordstaff blade sliced through his neck.
—– * * * —–
Pascal's gaze was still frozen in shock as he stared at the fountain of blood spraying from Neithard von Manteuffel's severed neck.
His mind was still grappling with 'what the heck just happened' when Colonel Dietrich von Falkenrath slammed his bloody swordstaff onto the ground and reached deep into an extra-dimensional belt pouch.
Time seemed to stand still as nobody else in the room dared to make a single move. All eyes were anxiously awaiting a statement from the dhampir commander that had just plunged an already crazy situation into outright insanity.
Then, the Colonel pulled out his hand, carrying a crest-badge of the Black Eagles and an old, discolored scroll bearing the King's seal.
"By order of His Majesty the King, I have infiltrated the Manteuffels' inner circle for the past two decades to maintain watch on his activities. Should Neithard von Manteuffel ever attempt to betray the Crown, my orders are to eliminate him as opportunity presents itself! Now, in the name of His Majesty Leopold Karl-Wilhelm von Drachenlanzen, STAND DOWN!"
—– * * * —–
Colonel Hannes von Falkenberg, commander of the Black Eagles, smiled from behind his office desk as he read the report on the final moments of Neithard Mittemeyer von Manteuffel.
This isn't Rhin-Lotharingie, he thought to himself. This is Weichsel, and the only man allowed enough power to seize the throne is the King himself.
In a single night, Hannes had destroyed the greatest internal threat to the Crown of Weichsel. At the same time, he sent the only other menace, Cardinal Lisbeth, into cowering submission towards the King.
The former general's power base wouldn't just disappear overnight. With blood already spilled, the hatred of the Manteuffel loyalists would keep the Cardinal-Chancellor's faction under control for years if not decades. After all, nobody held grudges like old veterans with battlefield bonds.
It was unfortunate that the army had to lose its foremost commander, again. However the war against Skagen was already won. Weichsel was ready to annex three duchies' worth of new lands. Between the need to digest these new gains and the necessity to replenish losses taken during this short, winter campaign, it would be best if Weichsel stayed out of any other major wars for a few years.
A limited expeditionary force into Rhin-Lotharingie was still on the table. In fact it might even be desirable, as it would be an opportunity to train the promising young officers who had distinguished themselves in recent battles. Hopefully after that, some of these new talents would be ready to step into the older generation's shoes — ready to serve the King and not the entrenched political factions.
Everything had been a necessary sacrifice to maintain Weichsel's continued stability, and the centralized power of its absolute monarchy.
There was no way Hannes would allow his fatherland to collapse into the unholy mess that Rhin-Lotharingie found itself in today.
Putting down the report, Colonel Hannes looked to the far side wall at the life-sized portrait of Weichsel's founder, King Ferdinand I von Drachenlanzen. Centuries ago, his ancestors swore a blood oath to that very expression.
Today, he would uphold it once more, to protect the only realm in Western Hyperion that gave the dhampir clans a true home.
"Hail the Black Dragon."
His sapphire-crossed eyes glanced down upon the report once again, reflecting upon the name of a young captain — soon to be promoted to colonel — who helped bring this entire charade to its dramatic end.
Pascal had been lucky. The final words of Neithard von Manteuffel had made it clear that the young man had been taken advantage of by Cardinal Lisbeth. Nobody could blame him for being emotional over his father's death, especially not after the heartfelt eulogy Pascal gave during the funeral. This meant that while Manteuffel's supporters might begrudge him for partaking in this incident, their anger and hatred would not be directed towards him.
Instead, the blame would lie solely upon the Cardinal-Chancellor, which was exactly what Hannes had hoped for.
May you learn from this and grow to be as wise as your father in the game of politics, the spymaster of Weichsel thought with a satisfied smile. Then perhaps, just perhaps, Rhin-Lotharingie might make it through to become a reliable ally after all.
Okay, I deserved that one (I tried to get rid of the passive-aggression in pre-post editing there, but I clearly failed). My logic, whether ridiculous, a leap, or not, was that history shows that humans keep fucking enslaving each other, so it's clearly natural for us. Therefore, I interpreted "natural things can't be evil" as including it. It's just my misanthropy again.
I have an extremely low opinion of the Dalai Lama for a reason. Nowhere in buddhist scripture does it say "thou may enslave those you perceived to be of lower karma". The fact this guy has become an icon for buddhism in the Western mindset makes me sick to my stomach.
It would not do to let her idle arms reveal her anxiety and fright.
Fear was not a weakness. It was a sign of intelligence. It kept humans alive. But the same could not be said for cowardice.
For those born to royalty, leadership was an obligation rather than a choice. To inspire others, one must be willing to set an example. Soldiers matched the bravery they saw with their own courage. Those who followed lions into battle inevitably became lions themselves.
However what stood true for followers worked the same way for leaders. Soaring ahead at the tip of the spear, Sylviane's own mettle was fortified by the reassurance that hundreds followed in her wake.
Courage was not only the strength of an individual.
It was a collective force, drawn together from the hearts of many.
There are many kinds of courage. It makes sense to me that Sylvane is trained in inspiring one that is both particularly useful in battle, and makes her more important than she strictly speaking needed to be. Which isn't to say that it doesn't take a more conventional sort of courage to go into battle personally when she could get away with not doing it, especially with all the monsters and big spells.
Coming out behind the drake, Sylviane soared back up and spun around to hurl out her meteor hammer. Instead of smashing the mace-like cylinder into the back of the rider's head, she wrapped its chains around his neck instead. Twisting the chain around her waist, she used her momentum to yank his body off the blinded beast, snapping his spine in the process.
The Outrider was dead within the second. But his fingers kept a death grip on his siphon. It was still pumping fire when Sylviane hurled his body toward another pair of drakes.
Burn in your own hellfire, her thought passed without a shred of mercy.
How odd, I can emotionally approve of a more physical sort of brutality in war when I abhorred the emotional measures her father took. ...perhaps it's because I have no experience with murder and war.
The prelude of orchestral battle songs soon began against the noise of howling winds. It was a Weichsel army tradition — because the more decisive an attack, the more it needed musical accompaniment. Once a unit was committed in heavy assault, words beyond shouted orders grew meaningless. Far more important was the atmosphere that permeated their resolve.
It seems silly (in a good way) from my perspective on a comfortable seat reading on a screen in peace, but I can see why it would help. Sounding badass helps them feel badass. I... don't actually know how credible the claims I've read that battlefield music is a real thing are.
"Well what are you all waiting for!? You wanna live forever!?"
His growl quickly rose into a yell as he pointed his swordstaff down towards the heavy clouds.
"Triumph! Fame! Immortality! It's down there! Your courage, your passion, and your pride — ignite them all in blazing glory and seize it! It is YOURS for the taking!"
The Colonel then spun his swordstaff back, pointing in challenge to each and every one of his cavaliers.
"Let no lord claim yer not good enough! To befoul that your blood, your upbringing, your children aren't good enough! Today, you will show them courage! You will show them honor! You will show them all the true meaning of nobility! NOW WITH ME! CHARGE!!!"
"CHARGE!" Ariadne joined in the echoing shouts as over three hundred riders all plunged their mounts into a steep dive towards the clouds below.
In just a few lines, Colonel Hammerstein had managed to evoke everything those yeomen hated and wanted at the same time. It was a masterpiece performance that elicited a smile of appreciation even from her.
I suppose you'll think it's wrong in some way that I pity the yeomen being deceived into charging to their deaths out of spite for the people they're dying to benefit? Unless the speech is meant to imply that dying for the nation can raise their children to official nobility, which I admittedly don't know (my cynical self is inclined to think not, but this is a fictional nation and I think the only reasons Pascal or Sylvane would reject it would be practical).
Yet even through her fuzzy sight, Ariadne soon spotted an anomaly forming on the nearest skywhale's back. Glowing dots connected themselves into a rectangular field of mana, ready to unleash a weapon of unknown power.
"Mana Seeker! Grenades!"
What are you doing?
Ariadne's thought came instantly as she heard Captain Herbert's cry. It was doubtful if his company — which had bore the brunt of the thunder — could hear at all. Nevertheless many followed in his example, launching waves of disruptive seekers before drawing grenades.
Phantoms were not supposed to deploy grenades unless they had a crushing magical superiority against their foes. Did that idiot forget? Or had he simply grown accustomed to repeating the same tactic as they had been doing during their raids in the Skagen Peninsula?
From what I've read, doctrine is more general advice and guidelines than actual rules. But I've also read that other countries consider that attitude of ours strange?
For centuries, southern mages had mocked the Hyperborean's Runic Magic as obsolete compared to Aura Magic.
Runic Magic had its advantages, sure. It allowed for the storage of mana from pre-cast spells through the use of runestones. Many rock minerals' crystal lattices had a low mana diffusion rate, making it possible to maintain hoards of prepared spells. It also allowed anyone who knew the trigger conditions to activate prepared runestones in bulk — an absolute quantitative advantage which the Hyperboreans exploited at every opportunity.
However, Runic Magic's inability to spontaneously cast and its need for a physical carrier drastically limited its use. For example, there was simply no northern equivalent of the Mana Seeker multipurpose counterspell. The inflexibility of their spellcasting left them vulnerable to Weichsel's superbly coordinated spell volleys — a critical weakness which had cost them many battles.
But the manipulation of mana was as much a science as alchemy or metallurgy. Runic Magic evolved with time just like any other technology in demand.
To effectively place a spell, even a simple Air Glide, across a monster of such colossal size was no easy feat. Asgeirr doubted any of the other skywhale captains had prepared a rune of similar strength. This meant he had just painted a bullseye on his own sinking ship. Yet at the same time, it offered the only real hope of survival that his men had.
"I am NOT leaving my men behind to die!" The Admiral yelled back in fury.
He had known most of the Polarlys' crew for decades. The thought of abandoning them in this critical moment was unthinkable. It would be cowardice beneath the dignity of any man alive, an act of treachery for which he would never be able to forgive himself.
...given that he went alone into this gliding corpse-ship full of desperate retreating Hyperboreans for the sole purpose of killing their only hope of surviving the retreat, this feels like he's changing his mind.
However, as Reynaud braced himself and the seconds rolled by, there was no sharp, burning agony. No ending of consciousness.
Instead, Reynaud heard cries of agony above him, accompanied by the clanging of steel and swishing of chains.
He opened his eyes once more. And there she was, the Princess of Rhin-Lotharingie. Her meteor hammer spun in her hand, while her surviving armigers crushed the remaining foes with maces in their hands.
Her Highness… came after me…
As he coughed and another spatter of blood flew out from his lips, Reynaud watched the Princess wrap her meteor hammer's chains around her arm. She then rushed over to him, while her hands withdrew several runestones from her belt pouch along the way.
"Are you OUT OF YOUR MIND?" The glowing-haired Princess cried out in visible anger as she activated the healing runes. The stones took positions around him, and a hemisphere of turquoise healing magic — the same color as Pascal's — flared into existence.
Without even the energy to lift his hand, Reynaud could only lay there as he stared, crying, smiling, all at the same time. He looked at the Oriflamme whom he had sworn, just before the battle, to follow, to serve, and to protect.
"It worked… didn't it?" His bravado re-emerged as he tried to put on a normal face.
"YOU IDIOT!" Princess Sylviane shouted. "There's a difference between taking risks and commiting suicide!"
"I'm not dead yet." Reynaud joked with a faint, coughing laugh.
You know what, I think I actually will watch it. You're too much of a thoughtful person to just throw out clickbait.
"Brotherhood," huh? ...I'm honestly having trouble comprehending it. Perhaps that's because I'm such a mistrustful person. Is refusing that mindset why deserters are usually abhorred even when they're conscripted?
There was actually a fifth reason that Pascal didn't want to mention, and that was he wanted to spare Nordkreuz any more destruction by keeping the battle outside of its walls. The city already lay in ruins after the aerial bombardment. Its militia was busy rescuing people trapped in collapsed cellars even as they spoke.
It is my fault that the city is in such a state, the young lord couldn't help but think of the smoking ruins outside. I do not want the city's residents to suffer any more than they already have.
However, as Pascal was the Landgrave of Nordkreuz, it would seem selfish if he claimed this as one of the reasons. There would no doubt be those who see it as him using national assets to protect his own fiefdom.
It's not selfish. Those people aren't extensions of him, no matter what society thinks. However, it's almost certainly the right call not to mention it to this crowd, since he's the only one present who has any reason to care about their lives.
Though in reality, Eyvindur did not feel any of the confidence that he displayed, not even as he began to detail all the pieces of his converging, multi-pronged assault plan. He knew this whole battle was a risky gamble. However it was also a gamble he had to make.
I will not let your death be in vain, brother, The Jarl repeated the oath his swore upon hearing of his half-brother's demise. I will drown this city in blood to see you avenged!
Only one boy is responsible for your brother's death. And calling everyone cowards for balking at spilling a lake of blood for your personal obligations was just fucking dishonest.
"Command from HQ!" Kaede then stressed with a complete lie, hoping that her grim expression and battle anxiety might bury any obvious signs. "Swivel all men and face right to refuse the line! Their flank attack will be upon us within a minute!"
...yeah, she'd probably get into shit over that if she wasn't just attributing to Pascal an order fucking anyone would give knowing what she does. Seems like it'd be something one of Pascal's political opponents could use as an excuse to try and have her killed if there was any evidence. Unless I'm mistaken about the law?
Of course, the law is as meaningless as it always is.
"<Order Major Karen to hold at all costs! Do you hear me, Kaede? Fight to the last! If the flank crumbles this entire army could be rolled up and destroyed!>"
That's impossible, Kaede thought even as she heard Pascal's stern voice.
Mana coursed into his left palm before he shut it with a squeeze, sending the magic through the familiar link and to Kaede. Mental Clarity was a spell designed to focus the mind. However as a Surge spell which maximized strength at the cost of duration, it effectively became an emotional whiteout, pushing away Kaede's fears and leaving only her rationality behind.
...you know, despite technically being mind control, I think he did the right thing. Though I don't actually know if she'd have choked without it. I don't suppose you'd care to tell? It's not as though anyone else could possibly know.
Pascal never even hesitated to lie about whom the orders came from. If news went out that brigadier-general Bernard had been killed, leadership of this army would pass to the seniormost of the remaining commanders, which would be Brigadier Bergfalk. The yeoman general was competent enough, but he was also stationed near the far left of the defensive line, with some of the least idea on what was happening on the far right.
The Lieutenant then glanced towards the destroyed command center. He clearly doubted that Pascal's words were orders from the General.
"Listen. We cannot afford for the situation to devolve any further Lieutenant," Pascal declared with every bit of severity he could muster. "I have the best grasp of the overall battle, so if you want to stay alive until nightfall, you will do as I say! I swear to the Holy Father that I will take full responsibility!"
Aaand he's going to get caught. Someone's going to be extremely angry about him straight-up usurping command, especially if he, Kaede, and Sylvaine can actually manage to unfuck this situation.
Kaede's perspective on her desperate flamethrower use feels tragic. I kind of like the emotional effect.
The entire 'line' — what had once been a battalion of hundreds — had been reduced to three holdouts and a few dozen men. Yet its center was still held by a lone girl who knelt on one knee due to her injuries.
Her armor was too light to be soldier-appropriate. Nor did she wear a proper Weichsel uniform. Yet with a fiery reach of twenty paces, her jet of flames continued to sweep back and forth, breaking the charge like a boulder in the middle of a stream.
Blazing corpses, burning pools, and the entangled limbs of crashed ski infantry scattered all around her across the ravaged fields.
Seems plenty royal to me. (This has been a pithy anti-monarchist potshot, primarily for entertainment purposes. )
But it's a rare and precious thing for someone in power to be raised to view their part of the social contract as worth more than the paper it's not printed on.
"Now, what's more amusing," the King then added as he took on a humored tone, "is that Pascal recommended his own familiar for the Knight's Cross."
Leopold then looked up with a chuckle: "can you just imagine what people would say if we knighted a familiar?"
"Well Sire, you'd be carrying on a proud, family tradition," the beautiful spymaster Hannes grinned. "After all, your great-grandfather knighted a commoner."
"Yes… and I still remember how much whining he received from the old nobility thanks to that," the King commented. "Though it does sound like the familiar — Kaede, was it? — deserves it. What do the other officers say?"
"I have two other reports also recommending her for the Knight's Cross," Hannes added in his soft voice. "One from Major Karen von Lichnowsky, 11th infantry brigade. The other from Major Reinhardt von Gottschall, 2nd cavalry brigade. Both declare that without the familiar's crucial role in staunching the surprise attack, the right anchor would have collapsed before sufficient reinforcements could arrive."
"And those two are heroes themselves," the King tilted his head thoughtfully. "Very well. Have a Knight's Cross prepared for the girl, and give her an honorary rank in the army as well.
I expect Kaede's going to fucking hate it. Honorary rank and a medal, for burning a bunch of men alive. However necessary it was for both the war and her own survival.
And as for her master…" Leopold tapped on the report's paper before adding: "give Pascal a star to his Knight's Cross, and promote him by three full ranks."
"Three!?" Hannes looked bewildered.
"A mere captain takes command of an entire army by pretending that his directives were his deceased general's orders?" King Leopold spoke with a shake of his head in disbelief. "Yes, he flouted regulations, and in any other circumstance he should be severely punished. But today his proactive leadership averted a potential disaster, which would have likely happened had he passed command to the senior ranking general as he was supposed to do."
"Even so," the Colonel remained hesitant. "Isn't three full grades at once a bit much?"
"I have half a mind to promote him straight to brigadier-general," the King declared. "Nobody expected him to take the reins in a moment of crisis. To do so, knowing he would be held responsible for the fallout if he failed — that requires real leadership! And don't forget that it was his strategy that we executed for both the air assault and the land battle. If the kid consistently proves himself this influential to military strategy yet I don't promote him to high command, then I'll be the one who looks like a fool!"
"Three ranks it is then," Hannes gave a faint shrug. "I think that just made him the youngest colonel in Weichsel's history."
"Good! I like keeping my councilors." King Leopold smiled appreciatively before his face fell stern once more. "Hannes, Lisbeth, I want the two of you working together on this, and only your most trustworthy men. I want the investigation into Karl's death to point a finger at Neithard," he spoke of the late Marshal's assassination. "It doesn't have to be serious, perhaps he simply allowed a gap in the security arrangements. But I want it to look purposeful."
Colonel Hannes smiled, though it was more of an eerie smirk:
"You Majesty wants his reputation destroyed amongst the troops when you arrest him."
"Precisely!" Leopold sneered as he walked around his desk to sit back down. "And whom better to stage the act than convincing the wronged son himself to take revenge for his father? It'll be dramatic!" He accentuated in a theatrical tone. "The playwrights will be romanticizing it for decades to come!"
"Fabricating the evidence will be easy, given some of the murky details we've found surrounding the late Marshal's death," Hannes stated confidently. "When would Your Majesty like for us to make the arrest?"
I feel like Pascal's going to fuck this plan up somehow. Or possibly find out after he gets tricked into killing a man for a completely different crime than the one he cares about so personally (and one that hasn't actually happened yet, unless there's some nothingburger law on the books about corruption in the meritocracy that Leopold didn't even bother trying to apply). But maybe you're intending something unconventional.
Also, blah blah death to kings blah blah, I can't be fucking bothered to do more than state my opinion that you already know. Maybe it's because I'm like 80% sure the coup this treachery is intended to prevent would just be "meet the new boss, same as the old boss except he wants Pascal dead."
The Major's body convulsed for a brief moment. She seemed to grow taller while her wavy-red hair shortened and went gray. The remains of her swordstaff changed into a marshal's baton just like the one Kaede had seen in Pascal's family painting. But as the figure turned about her face was no longer human.
Kaede felt frozen with trepidation as she gazed upon the woman who had just saved her. Instead of eyes, the figure had hollowed out sockets with ghoulish embers glowing in them. The officer looked upon the snowy-haired girl and decreed:
"Diieeee."
But… why?
Confusion and terror filled her thoughts at what she was seeing, right before an inexplicable wave of seething hatred crashed into her mind. Her body seized control once again as she raised her flame siphon. And with a press of the trigger she sprayed liquid fire straight into the officer's face.
Stop! What am I doing? She saved my life! Kaede's thoughts screamed.
Yet her lips spoke a very different message as she felt herself cry out:
"<You fucking traitorous PIECE OF SHIT!>"
However while Kaede could feel her lips moving, the voice she heard wasn't hers, but Pascal's.
Huh, Pascal's sheer fucking outrage and hatred twisted Kaede's natural nightmare to include a betrayal that never happened (before it woke her up)? Wasn't expecting that to be possible, but it's not as though I thought I fully understood how familiar bonds work.
Hypothesis: Maybe it's just that her brain contained Pascal's feelings, and made up bullshit in the dream to justify their presence? Brains do shit like that.
Test: post the hypothesis and see if aoriiday confirms or refutes, lol
The King may have been satisfied by his preliminary report. However the military administrators would be combing over every detail of his actions after how grossly he violated the army's rules and regulations during the Battle of Nordkreuz. Pascal had no doubt that some of these people would be seeking to do him harm. He was politically astute enough to know that rapid promotions and the King's favor always came as both a blessing and a curse.
After all, there were only so many high ranking positions. All of them were contested by the three major political factions of Weichsel, not to mention the personal ambitions of many individuals. The mercantile faction led by Cardinal-Chancellor Lisbeth wasn't too aggressive in pushing its influence within the military. But the same could not be said for Neithard von Manteuffel's conservative faction. They had been locked in a perpetual tug-of-war with his father's royalists for as long as he remembered.
His father had taught him that autocrats, especially competent monarchs like the Kings of Weichsel, had a vested interest in bringing 'new blood' into the existing power structures of society. These newly-made men, which included Pascal's father, did not have the generational wealth and established political influence that old merchant and noble families held. As a result, the newly promoted elites derived most of their power solely through the King's good graces, and as a result they were more reliably loyal to the King.
This did not apply to established elites like the Manteuffels, who maintained their political influence through a vast network of branch families and longtime retainers. Sure, competent old nobility, such as General Neithard, also sought to recruit new talent, and Lieutenant-Colonel Hans Ostergalen was proof of this. Yet to maintain his existing power base, Neithard von Manteuffel had to show favor to those who already followed him — lest they switch their loyalties to more fertile grounds.
These differences in support meant that, with all other factors being equal, the King was simply more likely to favor rising stars who relied on merit and not connections. Even for the Falken clans who have maintained a 'special relationship' with the monarchy, the rulers of the Drachenlanzen dynasty have always been careful to limit their power.
To Pascal, who was not only 'new nobility' but also respected merit above all else, it was a given that he would continue his father's royalist cause.
His betrothal to Princess Sylviane meant that he now had two royals to follow.
Weichsel's victory during the Battle of Nordkreuz had been costly. The city that prided itself as the 'Jewel of the North' lay largely in ruins. The Knights Phantom lost over thirty percent of their order of battle. The Phantom Grenadiers had been hit the hardest, as they were reduced to only a third of their original numbers. And this didn't include the thousands of casualties taken among Weichsel's infantry and ground cavalry — injured men and women who now overflowed every makeshift hospital in Nordkreuz.
Someone's going to ask Kaede for donations. Their intentions and approach are likely to depend on who does it.
Hah, I completely got Neithard's character and intentions wrong. Shows what I get for trusting other characters to have accurate information on him. And apparently this ephibophilia of the Cardinal's is either so insignificant in the king's opinion that he didn't think about it while scolding her for her sins, or Neithard fucking imagined it. Now, my expectatation is the former, but you do so love to make this story more complex than I tend to expect. He's already mistaken about her personal level of influcence on this decision.
Yeah, I could definitely see myself being tricked like Pascal is being.
Or even how the king apparently was. Hell, I also bought the bullshit Hannes fed him (as you can see above). Playing to existing expectations like that... I can see why you wanted to see me react to this chapter. Frightening, and I was just as taken in as anyone else even with my pseudo-omniscient viewpoint, because the plot happened to play to my expectations too (I'm not so egotistical as to genuinely think that was intentional on your part).
...you're right, three dimensional villains are way more interesting. If I remember the blood oath thing right, Hannes would be compeltely unable to pull this off without being genuine in his fanatical nationalism and arrogant certainty that he knows what's best for Weichsel.
There are many kinds of courage. It makes sense to me that Sylvane is trained in inspiring one that is both particularly useful in battle, and makes her more important than she strictly speaking needed to be. Which isn't to say that it doesn't take a more conventional sort of courage to go into battle personally when she could get away with not doing it, especially with all the monsters and big spells.
I would argue that it's very important for Sylv to take such a role here. It's the whole reason her father sent her after all -- 'our nation is beset and we don't have the resources to offer our allies significant military support, but just by you being there it creates a debt from our allies that must be repaid.'
Courage is courage. It is the ability to face your own weakness. It is applicable to far more than physical dangers.
The real issue is that many people mistake bravado and even sociopathy as 'courage'. A man who goes into battle without doubt isn't courageous, just insane.
It seems silly (in a good way) from my perspective on a comfortable seat reading on a screen in peace, but I can see why it would help. Sounding badass helps them feel badass. I... don't actually know how credible the claims I've read that battlefield music is a real thing are.
I suppose you'll think it's wrong in some way that I pity the yeomen being deceived into charging to their deaths out of spite for the people they're dying to benefit? Unless the speech is meant to imply that dying for the nation can raise their children to official nobility, which I admittedly don't know (my cynical self is inclined to think not, but this is a fictional nation and I think the only reasons Pascal or Sylvane would reject it would be practical).
Hammerstein himself is a yeomen who was raised to the ranks of the nobility. Weichsel has a long tradition of promoting battlefield valor to noble status.
And why is this impractical? To paraphrase one of Napoleon's Marshals who was elevated to the French nobility, as he later faced someone who challenged his status:
"I'll let you take a shot at me first at 50 paces [before I shoot back]. If I die, my whole estate can go to you."
When his challenge was denied, he added: "I've been shot from that distance a thousand times before I earned all of this (his titles/estate)."
From what I've read, doctrine is more general advice and guidelines than actual rules. But I've also read that other countries consider that attitude of ours strange?
...given that he went alone into this gliding corpse-ship full of desperate retreating Hyperboreans for the sole purpose of killing their only hope of surviving the retreat, this feels like he's changing his mind.
Reynaud during this battle is a classic example of having bravado, not courage. He didn't truly realize what he was doing until he faced the consequences of his actions.
...yeah, she'd probably get into shit over that if she wasn't just attributing to Pascal an order fucking anyone would give knowing what she does. Seems like it'd be something one of Pascal's political opponents could use as an excuse to try and have her killed if there was any evidence. Unless I'm mistaken about the law?
There's a reason why the military is consistently the most meritocratic of all human institutions, and why it's always the first to tear down social barriers like segregation and racism.
Because in the military, results matter more than anything else. If you violated the chain-of-command but did it in a manner that brought victory, you still get the credit.
...you know, despite technically being mind control, I think he did the right thing. Though I don't actually know if she'd have choked without it. I don't suppose you'd care to tell? It's not as though anyone else could possibly know.
Yes she'd have died without that. Kaede isn't a trained soldier, which means she freezes up when fear strikes. In combat, fear kills, as there's nothing worse than failing to react to the people trying to kill you.
I expect Kaede's going to fucking hate it. Honorary rank and a medal, for burning a bunch of men alive. However necessary it was for both the war and her own survival.
Huh, Pascal's sheer fucking outrage and hatred twisted Kaede's natural nightmare to include a betrayal that never happened (before it woke her up)? Wasn't expecting that to be possible, but it's not as though I thought I fully understood how familiar bonds work.
Hypothesis: Maybe it's just that her brain contained Pascal's feelings, and made up bullshit in the dream to justify their presence? Brains do shit like that.
Test: post the hypothesis and see if aoriiday confirms or refutes, lol
More on this... I think next chapter?
Basically, remember how there's an Empathy Link between Pascal and Kaede due to the familiar bond, which was what allowed Pascal to understand Kaede's emotional anguish in v1?
That link has evolved.
Learning is aided, but not limited to education.
Learning is a lifestyle.
Pascal's father had that lifestyle.
This is what Kaede meant when she was more interested in the royal library than a throne room.
And apparently this ephibophilia of the Cardinal's is either so insignificant in the king's opinion that he didn't think about it while scolding her for her sins, or Neithard fucking imagined it.
No the Cardinal's ephebophilia is widely known and the King certainly knows about it. It's just he considers her too valueable to replace and is thus willing to overlook it.
To go back to Adam Smith - the more valuable your skills are, the more societal reward you (or in this case, overlook your faults) for it.
fun fact: Cardinal Lisbeth was inspired by Cardinal Wolsey - whom, like her, was a greedy hedonist, but he also was one of the first to implement a progressive tax policy, which both improved the lives of the poor and significantly improved England's finances during his time.
...you're right, three dimensional villains are way more interesting. If I remember the blood oath thing right, Hannes would be compeltely unable to pull this off without being genuine in his fanatical nationalism and arrogant certainty that he knows what's best for Weichsel.
Hannes isn't even written as a villain. He's a nationalist because the welfare of his people depend upon it.
You'll see later just what kind of racism the dhampirs have to deal with when they're outside of Weichsel. Readers of mine usually note that they're basically the "Jews of Hyperion".
"Brotherhood," huh? ...I'm honestly having trouble comprehending it. Perhaps that's because I'm such a mistrustful person. Is refusing that mindset why deserters are usually abhorred even when they're conscripted?
No, hating deserters is nationalistic war-time propaganda. Soldiers are uniquely suited to understand why people desert, because they've all felt the call of it. Some are just stronger than others.
To quote a veteran whom I once worked with: "If I told my old buddies from Afganistan that I have a problem, they will all fly down tomorrow to help me without me even asking for it. I can't make that kind of bond with anyone else."
To quote The Guardian: Until 1959, when China cracked down on Tibetan rebels and the Dalai Lama fled to northern India, around 98% of the population was enslaved in serfdom. Drepung monastery, on the outskirts of Lhasa, was one of the world's largest landowners with 185 manors, 25,000 serfs, 300 pastures, and 16,000 herdsmen. High-ranking lamas and secular landowners imposed crippling taxes, forced boys into monastic slavery and pilfered most of the country's wealth – torturing disobedient serfs by gouging out their eyes or severing their hamstrings.
But hey, the CIA had to elevate the Dalai Lama into the status of some kind of moral paragon just to use as a weapon against China.
For more details on just how foul the Dalai Lama's version of theocracy became, see this paper on "The Tibetan Myth".
Hammerstein himself is a yeomen who was raised to the ranks of the nobility. Weichsel has a long tradition of promoting battlefield valor to noble status.
And why is this impractical? To paraphrase one of Napoleon's Marshals who was elevated to the French nobility, as he later faced someone who challenged his status:
"I'll let you take a shot at me first at 50 paces [before I shoot back]. If I die, my whole estate can go to you."
When his challenge was denied, he added: "I've been shot from that distance a thousand times before I earned all of this (his titles/estate)."
All of this only applies to people who survive, though, and... wait, I'd thought the whole unit he was addressing had died besides named characters. But later events in the battle directly contradict that interpretation, what with them doing stuff and all. I guess that makes it him convincing them to gamble their lives instead of to commit outright suicide.
Seems like the same shit they did with the Taliban... I suspect it'll bite us in the ass in a different way, though.
The article is paywalled, though, so I can't give any analysis to anything but the abstract (which seems to be more "Buddhism isn't actually immune to the way organized religion usually turns out").
Hannes isn't even written as a villain. He's a nationalist because the welfare of his people depend upon it.
You'll see later just what kind of racism the dhampirs have to deal with when they're outside of Weichsel. Readers of mine usually note that they're basically the "Jews of Hyperion".
If that's true, then... fuck, this whole murder plot is a fucking tragedy (in a literal sense). Hannes will have been acting with me-like paranoia that the least horrible country for his people might go up in smoke...
No, hating deserters is nationalistic war-time propaganda. Soldiers are uniquely suited to understand why people desert, because they've all felt the call of it. Some are just stronger than others.
To quote a veteran whom I once worked with: "If I told my old buddies from Afganistan that I have a problem, they will all fly down tomorrow to help me without me even asking for it. I can't make that kind of bond with anyone else."
Alright, I can more easily understand wanting and reciprocating a bond like that. Actually having it... well, I can try to accept that something's real without being able to believe in it, if that phrasing makes any sense.
I would argue that it's very important for Sylv to take such a role here. It's the whole reason her father sent her after all -- 'our nation is beset and we don't have the resources to offer our allies significant military support, but just by you being there it creates a debt from our allies that must be repaid.'
Courage is courage. It is the ability to face your own weakness. It is applicable to far more than physical dangers.
The real issue is that many people mistake bravado and even sociopathy as 'courage'. A man who goes into battle without doubt isn't courageous, just insane.
Learning is aided, but not limited to education.
Learning is a lifestyle.
Pascal's father had that lifestyle.
This is what Kaede meant when she was more interested in the royal library than a throne room.
Very true. But where did his first opportunities come from to gain that wisdom, before he could demonstrate it, and therefore accrue merit within Weischel's culture?
Oh, just the usual entrenched powers pushing back against more useful people taking what they see as theirs. The king himself did something like that with the murder plot, and I expect a lot of the support for the "Neithard is going to do a coup" narrative came from members of his extended family expecting him to support them doing such things.
I was pessimistically assuming that Sylvaine's noble supporters during the civil war are going to be engaging in the usual or worse political fuckery while she's desperate.
I would argue that it's very important for Sylv to take such a role here. It's the whole reason her father sent her after all -- 'our nation is beset and we don't have the resources to offer our allies significant military support, but just by you being there it creates a debt from our allies that must be repaid.'
Hm. Given that everyone in the king's inner circle is has had their greed for other peoples' land enflamed by the successes of the most recent battle, that perception of debt is likely to indeed be necessary for Pascal to get permission to bring an army to actually fulfill the fucking treaty.
All of this only applies to people who survive, though, and... wait, I'd thought the whole unit he was addressing had died besides named characters. But later events in the battle directly contradict that interpretation, what with them doing stuff and all. I guess that makes it him convincing them to gamble their lives instead of to commit outright suicide.
Very true. But where did his first opportunities come from to gain that wisdom, before he could demonstrate it, and therefore accrue merit within Weischel's culture?
I've never lay down Pascal's father's backstory in detail (because it's simply not important to the story). But the gist of it is that he comes from an immigrant yeomen family that's "fallen nobility" -- as in his lineage was noble some generations back but since lost their titles. Pascal's grandparents would have been at least middle class and could thus send his father Karl through proper schooling. The rest is down to Karl's own abilities.
I was pessimistically assuming that Sylvaine's noble supporters during the civil war are going to be engaging in the usual or worse political fuckery while she's desperate.
Hm. Given that everyone in the king's inner circle is has had their greed for other peoples' land enflamed by the successes of the most recent battle, that perception of debt is likely to indeed be necessary for Pascal to get permission to bring an army to actually fulfill the fucking treaty.
I mean even without greed, the Skagen Peninsula represents the last of Weichsel's Northmen enemies on the mainland (and thus bordering them). From a purely strategic point, taking over this land would save Weichsel a lot of headaches and border conflicts in the future. It would be stupid for the King to not try to annex/integrate the territory.
The article is paywalled, though, so I can't give any analysis to anything but the abstract (which seems to be more "Buddhism isn't actually immune to the way organized religion usually turns out").
Religion and politics has rarely mixed favorably. Because religion is basically the distillation of a culture's views on ethics and morality, which means it always tries to define virtues and sins.
Well, remember when I quoted this? "Evil is committed because those involved ignorantly believe themselves to be holy and unmistakably on the side of good."
Religion can bring out the best in people. However, because religion often sees itself as "unmistably on the side of good", it also has the capacity to create the greatest evils. People are most dangerous when they're convinced they're right.
"–Pascal also said that given Rhin-Lotharingie's political position, it would be best if we managed a peaceful coexistence with the Caliphate."
These words, which came from a young girl merely ten years old, were a proposition towards the foreign policy of an empire.
After over a year spent in Nordkreuz effectively as a prisoner-of-war and political hostage, Princess Sylviane was at last returning to her homeland. Her father Geoffroi, the Emperor of Rhin-Lotharingie, had crossed the border in person to pick her up. And now she snuggled into the side of his broad chest as they rode the royal carriage back.
The young girl watched as an amused smile stretched across her father's visage. His large hand brushed the tresses of her dark-purple hair before rubbing the top of her head. His touch was heavy yet it brought a faint and nostalgic smile to the girl's lips. It was a comforting luxury that she had not experienced for too long.
"Pascal seems to think that politics consist of mere numbers and tools, freely manipulated for efficiency at will," the Emperor laughed. "The Caliph has an ego too. There is no way he'll simply agree to be friendly, when we Lotharins took lands that he painstakingly seized from the Imperium during the last war."
"Not even when we're the enemy of their enemies?" The Princess asked with a curious gaze. "I mean, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend', right? Doesn't the Caliphate have to struggle against Skagen's naval projection and the Holy Imperium's maritime dominance over the Inner Sea?"
Power projection, maritime dominance — they were concepts that Sylviane wouldn't have dreamed of using two years ago. But now, she spoke of them with pride and confidence, hoping to impress her own father with her maturity and growth.
Though for a moment, Geoffroi's smile wavered as he lightly shook his head:
"Sadly, geopolitics aren't that simple. It's not just situational circumstances, but also a clash of cultures and personalities. Apart from interests, there are also cultural values, the egos of rulers, and the trust between two societies…"
An all-embracing warmth soon returned to the father's doting eyes as he looked down to meet the daughter's wisteria orbs.
"I take it Pascal is an adherent of 'Realpolitik'? He is a Weichsen."
"Uh… maybe? Ummm, w-what is real-polit-ick?" Sylviane carefully pronounced the unfamiliar term, abashed that she still fell short of her father's expectations.
However his return smile, full of fatherly pride and love, chased all of her concerns away with ease.
"Looks like the know-it-all hadn't taught you everything after all," Geoffroi chuckled again. "Don't worry. Father will gladly coach you once we get back. And the next time you meet Pascal you can make him envious at just how much you've outgrown him!"
"Oooh, that would be great!" The child princess beamed back. "He's always wearing this smug little grin around. It would be nice to see him falter and cringe for just once!"
Geoffroi continued to smile as he rhythmically stroked her hair. However his blue-violet eyes grew pensive as he turned to look out of the carriage's window at the passing landscape. Their entourage followed the riverside road along the North Lotharingie River as they made their way west, crossing the Empire's heartlands as they journeyed back to the capital of Alis Avern.
"Sylv, you know, you've been talking non-stop about Pascal ever since I picked you up."
There was a tinge of sadness in her father's voice, and Sylviane felt her guilt instantly spike. She had been so engrossed in telling her father about everything she had experienced and learned that she had forgotten to ask about how he, or the rest of the family, was doing.
Her sunny demeanor vanished in an instant. Within seconds, the gloomy clouds of dejection swept in as her gaze dropped to the carriage floor.
"I'm sorry father. I was carried away–"
She then stopped as he reached down and gently lifted her chin back up.
"No, that's not what I meant," Geoffroi reassured with a wistful smile.
For several moments, neither the Emperor nor the Princess said a word. The two of them simply looked upon one another. The father's gaze was proud yet sentimental, while the daughter stared back with uncertain curiosity.
Sylviane couldn't figure out what her father was thinking, not even when his eyes grew glassy with moisture. It was almost shocking to see, as she had never, not even once, seen her father be overwhelmed by emotions.
He was Geoffroi the Great, the steadfast Emperor whose masculine strength was admired by every Lotharin throughout the realm. He was the ruler of the Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie, whose efforts to strengthen the nation through his half-century reign showed its results when he twice defeated the Holy Imperium of the Inner Sea.
Everyone whom Sylviane met, be it Pascal, or Marshal Karl von Moltewitz, or King Leopold of Weichsel, they all spoke of her father with great respect.
"Sylv…" Geoffroi finally broke the silence. "What do you think about Pascal? Do you enjoy being with him?"
"He's fun, and interesting… but but, i-it's not like that I like him or anything!"
Sylviane almost shouted back in a delayed, flustered response. She stared at Geoffroi with indignation in her gaze. Yet before those earnest, penetrating eyes, the young girl soon wilted and glanced away.
Her cheeks were burning red and hot. She didn't even understand why. It was just… embarrassing to talk about.
Besides, Pascal was from Weichsel, a country they had been hostile with until just a few weeks ago. She could be friendly and courteous with him, but she couldn't actually be friends with him.
…Let alone anything more than that.
"Royalty should never be afraid of their own feelings," Geoffroi added sternly. "Now, tell father: did you enjoy your time with Pascal? And you swear to the Holy Father that it's the truth, because this is very important."
Sylviane wanted to shy away from her father's gaze, to hide her embarrassment from him. However there wasn't any cover for her to shelter behind, not even a loose blanket. Under her father's unrelenting scrutiny, she finally returned a meek nod.
Silence returned to the air once more, and the young princess couldn't bring herself to peek at her father's eyes. Was he dejected? Disappointed? Disconsolate?
However the words that he spoke next showed none of those emotions:
"I am considering offering him your hand in marriage."
For a brief moment Sylviane completely froze. Her cheeks were glowing-red as her eyes grew as wide as saucers.
"W-w-what are you talking about, father!?" She snapped back. "I'm only ten!"
The young princess felt stunned by her father's proposal. After all, mages rarely married before mid-life, which left two decades after reaching adulthood to find a mate. Marriage betrothals at her age were exceedingly rare, even for a third-born child who had little chance of inheriting the family titles.
"Do you dislike him?"
"I-it's not that I hate him or anything, b-but isn't this against…"
"What have I told you about expressing yourself, Sylv?" Geoffroi cut in with another stern frown. "Clarity. Royalty must speak with clarity, confidence, and determination. There must be no room for misunderstandings. Because if you provide an opportunity for others to misinterpret your words and misrepresent your intentions, they will do so and exploit you to their benefit."
Sylviane shut herself up at once as she cast her eyes down again, ashamed in the wake of her father's lecturing words.
"Sorry."
"You never talked like that before," Geoffroi pondered aloud. "Where did you pick this habit up?"
"P-Pascal said…"
Her meek voice trailed off again as Geoffroi gave a deep sigh.
"That brat."
For the next minute, an uncomfortable silence settled over the two as Sylviane heard only the rhythmic creaking of the wagon's wheels. She could only hope that her reply didn't just ruin any chances of her meeting Pascal again.
"Sylv… do you remember what your mother once taught you about the 'Gaetane Legacy' — about how our family doesn't make political marriages?"
Sylviane rushed to nod back. It was precisely what she tried to bring up a moment ago:
"Yes father. Before Great-Great-Grandfather Charles the Bold united the Twelve Oriflamme Paladins and founded the Coalition of Twelve Tribes during the Rhin-Lotharingie Independence War, he had to abandon the love of his life and settle for an arranged marriage made by his parents. He blamed his wife and never forgave her, not even when she helped him faithfully during the war. It was not until his dying years that he finally recognized the damage done to his children by his failed marriage."
A nostalgic grin broke across her father's expression as he gently stroked her hair once more.
"Trust your mother to always emphasize the romantic parts," Geoffroi spoke with bittersweet nostalgia that left Sylviane briefly confused before his tone stiffened again. "Charles the Bold was an avid student of history, and he believed strongly that the endurance of any royal dynasty lay in the number of consistently able monarchs it produced. Before he died, he stated that the Gaetane family should never marry for political purposes again, but for loving, supportive families that can raise strong heirs — not only physically but also mentally, emotionally, spiritually."
The Emperor's doting eyes connected with his daughter's wisteria gaze again.
"Sylv, I know you've been told many things about what a Princess should be. But always remember that as a Gaetane, duty to our family is the same as building the future of our realm." Geoffroi continued his fatherly teachings with a proud emphasis. "The Holy Imperium's Golden Age ended when one of their finest emperors completely failed as a father. Therefore it doesn't matter if it's man or woman, conqueror or administrator — those who abandon their role as a parent also fail as a hereditary ruler."
Slowly but surely, Sylviane nodded back to her father's smile. She carved his words into memory, promising herself to remember them even years, even decades from now.
"I am certain that Pascal has many excellent qualities and will surely grow to be a capable man," Geoffroi acknowledged, much to the daughter's growing joy. "However, would he be a good husband? A good father? That I'm not sure about…"
"Father," the Princess murmured hesitantly. "You really want to m-marry me off to him? I mean, I d-don't object if you really…"
"Marry you off?" The Emperor said before he laughed. "Oh never! I'm considering asking for his betrothal to you, not the other way around!"
Then, as his tone gradually settled back down:
"Sylv, I know this might seem a bit early, but a political marriage cannot be arranged late…"
With her cheeks still glowing like charcoal, Sylviane instinctively opened her mouth to object. However her father laid a gentle finger upon her lips, stopping her before she even voiced a single word out loud.
"Yes, I know. I'm going against the decree of our dynasty's founder. Yet there is a problem with not forging alliances by marriage, and I have felt it keenly over the years. Ever since its founding, the Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie has remained a collection of autonomous and semi-independent feudal states. It is ruled by not just the Crown in Alis Avern, but also four kings and many powerful dukes that command entire regions. Our markets cannot adhere to standardized regulations. Our military lacks centralized control. Our efforts in the economy and industry are always disorganized, and our frontiers vulnerable to neighboring aggression…"
Sylviane nodded back as she understood the pain in her father's voice. Even Pascal had recognized this problem, which he highlighted to her as Rhin-Lotharingie's principal weakness that Weichsel exploited during the war.
"–Your grandfather and I both tried to change this," Geoffroi continued on in begrudging words, "and we both gave up when faced with powerful resistance from the nobility. These centralization reforms are necessary for our nation's future, yet they are also deeply unpopular. For any chance of their success, we need powerful alliances, the most reliable of which can only be obtained through ties of marriage and bonds of blood."
"And… that's why you want me to marry a Weichsen." The Princess realized at last, her embarrassment finally fading in the face of royal duty.
"Not just any Weichsen, but the son of their greatest duke and marshal since that upstart commoner Hermann von Mittermeyer," the Emperor accentuated. "Even without his own considerable potential, Pascal will inherit the richest duchy of Weichsel and retain the good graces of King Leopold through his father's legacy alone. He might not command any military assets without his king's authority, however his wealth and influence will more than make up for it."
Yet as Geoffroi's statement came to a conclusion, the Emperor's gaze softened to that of a father's once more:
"Nevertheless Sylv, I may be risking your happiness, but I'm not prepared to throw it away. That is why I want your honest, truthful reply: what do you think of Pascal?"
Sylviane's cheeks flushed red once more. Though this time, she neither stuttered nor faltered. Instead she fortified her will with a personal sense of obligation, before answering her father in clear, unwavering terms:
"I do get along well with him, and I honestly believe that he will grow up to be a splendid man. It's just that… I'm not sure what to think about him for marriage. For starters, he's not exactly 'chivalrous'…"
The Princess then halted in bewilderment as her father made the weirdest noise. An oddly tilted grin stretched across his countenance as his shoulders shook with something between a suppressed chortle and a choking sigh.
Geoffroi had to clear his throat several times before he could speak again:
"I swear… your mother read way too many romantic stories. What does chivalry have to do with ruling an Empire?"
Sylviane's brows furrowed once more. The title of Emperor was slated for one of her two older brothers. The eldest, Henri, had already secured his eligibility by summoning the phoenix Hauteclaire. It was hardly a task for her, let alone her future husband.
"Sylv, a perfect knight might be able to protect you as an individual, to save you from disaster to live another day," Geoffroi stated. "However a perfect general… he would guarantee not only your safety from thousands, millions of foes, but ensure the prosperity of your children, your descendants, your entire realm for generations to come."
"That is what I hope Pascal will be for you," the Emperor then declared. "A true general, a marshal, just like his father is to the King of Weichsel."
"You want me to secure an alliance and bring a military leader into the family to help my brother?"
It wasn't a flattering statement, but Sylviane knew she had little else to offer her brothers in the family business. At least this way she could ensure her contributions to the Gaetane dynasty, to her royal duties as ordained by the Holy Father.
Besides, she did admit that Pascal was 'hardly a terrible' choice.
Her father did not respond at first. Instead, his expression hardened into a sad frown, as a long and grave silence fell upon them both.
"Father?"
The young girl looked up, seeking the love of that paternal gaze once more. However this time, Geoffroi didn't meet her eye-to-eye. In fact he glanced away with a pained expression as though he was actively avoiding her gaze.
It was almost as if he couldn't face her, as if he was too beset by the guilt of forcing such a heavy burden upon the thin shoulders of his only daughter.
"Father, don't worry," Sylviane stretched a reassuring smile across her lips as her small hands reached out to his. "I'm happy to do the right thing."
For a brief second, she saw a faint smile return to the corner of his mouth. Her father leaned in to press a kiss atop her head, followed by the gentle, rhythmic stroking of her hair. Yet throughout his affectionate display he still would not directly meet her gaze.
Yet he still would not directly meet her gaze.
"It's… it's not just that," Geoffroi's unsteady voice spoke out.
Sylviane looked upon her father with scrutiny, and she saw that beneath the stoic exterior, his eyes had grown glassy with sadness and loss.
Geoffroi might be her parent, but he was also an emperor. Regardless of what happened, an emperor did not simply cry, not even in front of their own child.
Yet, as a single tear trailed down the side of his cheek, her father broke the news at last:
"Sylv, it seems no one was willing to tell you this. But last year, our family was twice struck by Imperial assassins…"
The Princess felt stunned as her thoughts went blank within an instant. Her mind refused to comprehend what her father was saying, not even as her body felt paralyzed as a horribly cold sensation travelled up her spine.
"Your mother and brothers are gone. And you are now the only successor to the throne."
—– * * * —–
Sylviane opened her swollen eyes and looked upon the dim cabin that she was staying in. She was still sitting on the floor with her back against a corner. Her reprieve in the past — the final memory of her childhood — had come to its end.
She couldn't even remember what happened afterwards. The remainder of that trip had passed in a blur.
But ten years old or not, she could no longer be a child after that.
For more than a decade since, she had walked the path of a crown princess. Her father had become her foremost tutor, instructing her in every affair of state through his daily tasks. Privy council, military council, assembly of lords, diplomatic audiences, legal consultations, et cetera… she had attended them all.
Her daily schedule ran from dawn until dusk. She initially had one day off a week plus two hours of free time per day, yet even that slowly vanished over the years.
There were times when she absolutely hated, hated her father for forcing her through it all. Crown Princess? She never once cared for her exalted rank and title. All she wanted was to be able to leisurely study and play at her own pace alongside others of her own age. She never wanted every boy to bow and every girl to curtsy before her, to speak through a false mask of cordiality and distance. She wanted to laugh and talk with them as friends, just as she had with Pascal and Cecylia during her time at Nordkreuz.
However when she finally gathered enough resolve to lash out at the Emperor, it was he who stole her thunder by faltering first:
"I'm sorry, Sylv," the Emperor whispered back, his pained eyes a visage of exhaustion. "I know you never wanted this, but… I don't have anyone else left. I have no other choice."
Sylviane had never felt as ashamed of herself as that day. She had sworn to herself that she would never, ever try to abandon her father again.
Yet the Imperials weren't satisfied with taking only three-quarters of her family away.
Yesterday evening, Sir Robert finally revealed to her the truth behind why Sir Reynaud arrived in Nordkreuz. Sylviane came face-to-face with a crying Elspeth — the younger sister of Lady Lindsay de Martel, commander of the Highland Guard and the Princess' martial arts instructor.
A tear-streaked Elspeth informed Sylviane that her royal uncle, Duke Gabriel of Atrebatois, who had marched south from the Belges region of northeastern Rhin-Lotharingie with an army of 30,000, stormed the capital of Alis Avern in a military coup d'etat. With the aid of the Knights Templar, Gabriel had butchered his brother Geoffroi, impaled the Emperor's head upon a pike, and burned the rest of the corpse in a final act of desecration.
Sylviane was no longer the Crown Princess. She had been denounced as an apostate's daughter, and everything she had toiled for the last decade of her life was gone.
Worst of all, she was now truly alone in the world. The last of her family had been snatched away, by what she knew without doubt to be an imperial plot.
Sylviane couldn't hold her composure after that. She had dismissed her armigers and secluded herself in a dark corner of her unlit cabin, where she silently wept the whole night away.
The sun fell and rose again. The tears ran out and left her with swollen, itchy eyes. But the orphaned, royal daughter couldn't be bothered to care. All she did was seek comfort in the sanctuary of her own mind: to reminiscence through memories of the past, memories of happier times.
In the darkness of her depression, she had even pulled out her engraved dagger. It had been a present from her father as part of a long Gaetane family tradition: to give every child, male or female, their first live weapon at the age of ten.
After carefully removing the sheath, Sylviane stared into the faint metallic reflection for what seemed like minutes. She could see the deadly glint of its razor-sharp edge, the vicious curvature of its blood groove.
She could end it all — the pain of loss, the despair of defeat, the endless exhaustion of a now pointless life, resigned to nothing but helpless solitude.
Following her father's footsteps had been everything to her. She might not have wanted to be the crown princess. Yet without it, she had nothing left.
Slowly but surely, her trembling hands turned the dagger towards her own chest, her very heart. Sylviane squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the sharp tip press in between her breasts…
That, however, was as far as she went.
Try as she might, she couldn't bring herself to commit the ultimate sin.
It could be cowardice. It could be weakness. However it was also because her conscience had called out to her being, screaming with everything it had to make her stop.
Not only the Holy Father, but even her parents would never forgive her had she committed suicide. She would have gone straight to hell, never to see her mother, her father, or any of her brothers again.
Sylviane had gasped with breathless anxiety upon her realization. She had tossed the gleaming steel dagger away as though it was burning her hands. It had skidded across the floor before coming to a rest near the doorway. In the hours since it had been forgotten about, as the despondent princess returned to staring at the empty air through hollow, bloodshot eyes.
She couldn't even die cleanly — that was the true worthlessness of her life now. The love of the Holy Father had evaporated away, and without it only the weight of a dead spirit remained.
Sylviane never heard the repeated knocking, or the calls in her name. She never noticed at all until the door opened to the sharp sunlight outside, framing the silhouette of a man and her armored maid.
"Holy Father in heaven," came a horrified but otherwise familiar voice. "Sir Robert, Kaede, wait outside. Shut the door, Mari."
Sylviane never bothered to even look up at the intruders. It took all her willpower just to crack open her parched lips:
"Mari… I told you to leave me alone…"
"You also claimed that you were no longer the princess, and we no longer had to follow you," Mari replied in a stiff voice as she closed the door and leaned against it. "If you wish to rescind that order, I will gladly offer you my head as punishment."
"You should have fetched me earlier, Mari," the male voice reprimanded as his figure crouched down. He picked up the abandoned dagger before handing it to the Lady's Maid.
"Apologies, Your Grace, but I thought she would recover as usual after a day or two of rest. I didn't think it was this bad until morning when I peeked in and saw this on the floor," she emphasized the dagger before tucking it away.
Sylviane at last recognized the familiar voice. The man was Pascal. He was much older than in her memories… and he was also the last person she wanted to see right now.
More precisely, he was the last person whom she wanted to see her like this.
"LEAVE!" She shouted at him with a hoarse voice, before pulling her knees in and burying her face between them.
Even during her worst moments, Sylviane had refused, utterly refused to cry aloud. The dignity of a princess was all she had left. If others saw her in such a miserable state, they would lose what little respect they had remaining.
"Sure, once you kick me back out." Pascal spoke almost casually as he walked over and sat down on her bed, no more than a pace away. "Your skills at that have improved considerably over the years. I am sure you would have no problem if you meant it."
Sylviane could feel her eyes trying to conjure more tears.
I do mean it! She thought. She seriously, truly wanted him to leave right now, before he could glimpse another look at her disheveled appearance and tear-stained face.
Yet it seemed even this, even her own personal space, had now slipped beyond her control.
"I don–I don't need your help!" Her voice cracked as it finally rose to a delayed yell.
"Of course, Your Highness," Pascal replied as a matter-of-fact.
There was no room for him to be here. She had no need for his self-righteous pity. Yet how could she force his departure without revealing her shameful state? Or perhaps, as a tiny voice rode against waves of staunch denial: is his absence what I really want?
An awkward silence hung over Sylviane's clouded thoughts for nearly a minute before Pascal broke it again:
"Where is Hauteclaire?"
The temperature seemed to plummet as silence returned. Sylviane felt her lips, her jaw, her whole body begin to tremble as the last vestige of her control cracked under a new tide of depression. Of all things, he had picked the worst topic to remind her. Even the noble and saintly phoenix could no longer tolerate her cursed existence.
"Gone," Sylviane barely murmured at last.
"Empath," Mari commented from her spot by the door.
"Riiight," Pascal drawled out with a full return of his most annoying habit. "Your depressive episode became too much for him…"
Sylviane felt it like a stab in the gut. She didn't even deserve pity from her fiancé, who only scorned upon her failures and sins before she departed from this unforgiving world.
"–Probably just out taking a stroll though," Pascal finished after a momentary pause, too little too late for the deep wound he already dealt.
"Why don't you just leave… You don't have to pretend to be my fiancé any longer," Sylviane muttered out with her last reserve of energy.
It pained her to say it. But beneath all of their casual intimacy, the betrothal between Pascal and her was a political arrangement from the very beginning. Now that she had lost all value, what possible purpose would their marriage still serve?
"Since when did I ever have to 'pretend' to be that?" Pascal almost snorted out.
Though before she even had a chance to rekindle hope, his truthful follow-up stabbed straight into her heart:
"I admit, I rather hate the prospective 'Prince Consort' title. Yet even that fit me better than how you approached your 'Crown Princess' role. Really, it did not suit you at all."
His words burned like searing acid, melting away the already-shattered armor of her dignity and pride.
Sylviane no longer even had the will to defend herself, nor the mental energy to retort. All she did was stay in her curled-up, protective embrace while pretending to ignore his incisive words.
"Do you remember when we first met?" Pascal said as he lifted himself off the bed. He sat down on the floor this time, his voice coming in from less than an arm's reach away. "It was kind of like this. Except I had to stand still for ten whole minutes without moving! Even my feet went numb that time. All because you insisted on pretending you were asleep. And now what? You are ignoring me again?"
Sylviane wanted to tell him that nobody was forcing him to stay, that he was more than welcome to leave at any time. However her throat was no longer responding. She couldn't even will herself to push those words out.
"Fiiine," Pascal sighed aloud as he leaned back against the bed. "I shall just sit here and keep talking to myself all day. On the hard floor, with my butt aching, next to this impertinent, unlovable princess whom, after ten years of engagement, would not even give me a free hug."
A faint memory brought awareness that those last two words formed one of Pascal's favorite jokes. Yet there was nothing funny in the context he expressed it through. Was it merely inappropriate or outright derisive? Her threads of judgment could no longer process its truth.
"Did you know that even Kaede gave me a free hug within a month after we met? Of course, she also gave me three broken ribs, so I guess it rather balanced itself out. Though the point is that she could at least express herself properly, even if it hurt to be on the receiving end…"
Why don't you just marry her then…
Sylviane was long past the luxury of envy or jealousy. She might have even whispered her thoughts out loud, to offer her blessing for a union that would at least leave him in trustworthy hands.
However this time Pascal did not wait before pushing on:
"You, on the other hand… even a decade ago you were totally not cute. A princess should do this. A princess should be that. That was all you thought about, all you seemed to live for…!"
The tone of his complaints rapidly escalated. Even his hands had joined in through dramatic gestures, as told by the faint swishing of air.
"I mean seriously! Which nine-year-old child who loves her parents does not cry when kidnapped to a foreign land by brutish troops? But noooo! Those rules did not apply to you!" He declared in an exaggerated voice. "You would not let me see you cry. You would not even admit that you were scared, or that you simply missed home!"
It was unpleasant to hear such criticism, to hear the apparent disapproval that Pascal had held all along. None of it even mattered any more, not after Sylviane lost her princess role.
Yet her thoughts would not let go. Her feelings could not let go. Even as her exhausted mind steadily zoned out, even as her logic stopped processing his words, her subconscious still clung onto the tone of his voice, the flow of his speech.
Perhaps there was a comforting warmth in his words after all. His emphasis was neither sarcastic nor condemning. Rather, it whined with disapproving familiarity, backed by a protective concern reminiscent of her father's love.
It both energized and aggravated her at the same time. Pascal might be many things. But a father figure to her was something he would never be.
Then, as though she had been shaken out of a reverie, her thoughts returned to a bitter silence. Pascal had stopped. However it had only been a respite before he mounted his philosophical 'peak':
"…Oh right. That was what Kaede called it — you just had to be a special snowflake."
For a brief moment, Sylviane found herself stunned at this conclusion. Annoyance began to bubble up inside her as her lips twitched at Pascal's complete and total hypocrisy, which only seemed to worsen as his tirade went on:
"Do you know how annoying that was? You would not throw a tantrum, or show your tears, or even do something childishly annoying. Nooo," he drawled out peevishly, "you had to pretend that everything was just fine, that they were doing a marvelous job keeping you locked up. Meanwhile I had to guess at what you wanted — to bribe the guards, to talk to the maids, to appeal to father on your behalf…"
She was a 'special snowflake'? Pascal had spent his entire life ignoring every law of man and concealing every weakness beneath his pride. The only difference between her 'princess' and his 'prodigy' was that he should have been wearing a frilly dress!
But then, that was also where they diverged.
'Childish' never quite described him. Though Pascal wouldn't have stayed quiet either. Instead, he would have irritated his overseers in his own way.
With a deep, exasperated sigh that seemed to carry more years than his age, Pascal finally settled down from his lengthy rant and returned to soft-spoken words:
"Sylv… you know I was never good at guessing what other people wanted. We shared many similarities back in the day, so I often scored right. But the more you matured into a lady, the less I could guess what you were thinking…"
It was true that his 'prodigy' and her 'princess' personas held common ground. Yet that was also mostly superficial.
Pascal was a gifted child, an exceptional individual wherever he went. As an impertinent boy, he chased away even his tutors and learned to accomplish everything in his own way. To him, life was an endless opportunity for a boundless mind. Being an officer might not be his favorite profession, as he always held a love for magical innovations. But it was nevertheless a career he would walk with joy and pride.
Meanwhile, Sylviane had been anything but 'special'. Raised in the palace as the least gifted of three siblings, she had grown accustomed to going with the flow. Traits that people wanted to see, qualities that brought others to approve — she had crammed them all within her mind, plastering them over herself. For someone who struggled just to meet her responsibilities, being the heir was an unenviable duty to which she had little choice.
Yet what did that make her? Was she just a reflection of the 'princess' others wanted? Did she still have an identity of her own?
Her mood swings, her jealousy of others, her hobby of collecting adorable garments to dress Vivi in, her desire to dominate Kaede that had nearly caused a rift between her and Pascal…
–Who would wish to claim such eccentricities as their own?
"…You have always kept weakness to yourself, Sylv, always kept others at arm's reach," Pascal heaved another sigh. "Sure, I am your fiancé. I just have to accept it 'as is'. But do you really expect to go through life, treating everyone around you as one of your subjects, your subordinates? Do you think those of us who view you as a friend would appreciate that? To see not the real you, only that mask you claimed as your own?"
His exasperated voice rose in pitch with every word, highlighting the annoyance behind them until it became an almost shout:
"Sure, most people in the royal court are vultures. But never forget that some are on your side! How long do you expect them to keep groping in the dark before they say 'screw it, I give up on trying to help!'"
As his frustration faded from the air, Sylviane sensed Pascal shifting to stand back up.
He had been her fiancé. He had been on her side. It was not her intention to keep him in the dark, but she had done it, not once but twice in just two recent months!
Her heart instantly lurched on the brink of eternal despair. No, she didn't want him to leave. No, she wouldn't be able to stand his cold back! Just as she didn't want to die, she couldn't even fathom losing his support!
Though was it too late? Had he had enough? Was 'screw it, I give up on trying to help' an expression of his own beliefs?
Of course…
Why would he tolerate her for a third time?
No. Please, her thoughts screamed out at last. I don't want that. Anything but that!
Then, as her fingers struggled to reach out, as her throat trembled to call out, Sylviane finally felt the presence of a sincere touch.
It began with a palm on her shoulder, soon echoed by another warm presence on her other side.
For a brief moment the princess almost tried to shake him off. It was an instinctive reaction, fortified by years of prideful demeanor.
She did not need to be consoled. She did not want to be coddled. A true princess would not need any of that!
–Even if she did.
However, Pascal never gave her the chance to decide.
Sylviane felt a crushing embrace wrap around her half-buried head and bent knees. His arms had slipped around her back. They squeezed hard and forced her head into the protective warmth of his firm chest. Meanwhile his desperate whispers finally reached past her ears, past layers upon layers of broken emotional armor and devastated mental landscape, and appealed to the depth of her soul:
"I do not pretend to replace your father, Sylv. I do not want to either." He declared. "But I do want you to know, to understand it in your heart, that the world is not over, and not all is lost! You still have those who love you, who care for you, who believe in you and will fight alongside you!"
Pascal's voice no longer held the firm control of his usual self. It no longer slowed with his aristocratic drawl or even carried his usual air of superiority.
With his knees pressed against the floor, the man Sylviane once considered 'unchivalrous' pledged his solemn oath to his princess through begging pleas:
"So please — stop bottling everything in just this once! Let me share your grief and your pain. I am not some outsider. I am your fiancé, your family, your future husband! Show me what you truly, honestly feel, and let me offer all I can to help!"
In that final moment before the dam cracked and broke, before her reservoir of suppressed emotions poured out in a great flood, Sylviane finally came to realize the truth that she had denied herself for years:
Pascal didn't like her just because he found her to be a 'beautiful', commendable princess.
He loved her because he had accepted her for whom she truly was.
—– * * * —–
Kaede couldn't help but release a silent yawn as she leaned against the cabin's exterior wall. She hadn't slept since that nightmare woke her up, and the incident left the army encampment in a furor that took until morning to calm down.
She tried to hold her anxieties at bay by playing with her long hair, though it didn't really help. Her hand then went down to press against her stomach next. She could feel a faint nausea, accompanied by those annoying cramps, ebb back in once more.
Not again, she sighed before trying to distract herself with other thoughts.
Kaede understood that Sylviane was in a vulnerable state of emotional turmoil after losing her remaining parent. In such a case, the best help would be a select few of those closest to her. As Pascal was her fiancé in what was evidently more than just a political marriage, he seemed the clear and obvious choice.
Yet this only left Kaede more worried. To put it simply: Pascal had no tact. Certainly not in sensitive situations like this. Thinking back to her own emotional episodes with him, Kaede found it more likely for Pascal to make blunt, foot-in-mouth statements that would only make the problem worse.
— Which was exactly what came to mind when she heard a muffled howl emerge through the door.
The magical, expandable cabin was warded against eavesdropping and supposedly soundproof. Pascal and Mari had vanished inside for what seemed like hours without the slightest noise passing through. To hear even a faint cry through its enchanted walls, it made the familiar wonder just how deafening the princess' wailing must be.
Kaede felt her heart melt with sympathy as she turned to her companion with concern. However Sir Robert never lost his composure. The boyishly pretty if not stunningly handsome young man merely let go a relaxing sigh before turning towards her with his sunlit smile.
— Though perhaps it wasn't entirely sunny. There was a sense of wistful resignation emanating from his vivid-green eyes as he shrugged back.
"About time," he stole another glance at the door where a stifled, grief-stricken bawl seemed to go on and on.
Kaede stared back with confusion. His concern for the princess seemed real, but then… how could he look happy at this turn of events?
"Letting it all out is the first step towards recovery," the Oriflamme Armiger replied to her unasked question with a sincere gaze. "Holding all those emotions back would only drive her to further despair."
Her only parent did just die a gruesome death, Kaede sympathized as she nodded back. I guess not grieving is far more worrisome than crying her heart out.
"Well, there you have it… our dear but troublesome princess." He half-chuckled before returning to the posture of a perfect guard. Then, as Robert took another glance at Kaede, he departed his post before retrieving a wooden stool from just outside a nearby cabin.
"Here, please sit," he remarked in a gentle voice. "They'll be a while still. And you look under the weather. Best not to strain yourself after yesterday's injuries."
Kaede smiled graciously before accepting the offer. She had already thanked Sir Robert earlier for being the one who saved her during the battle. However, his earlier words also left Kaede with a considerable chunk of fresh anxiety. Part of that worry held out for Sylviane, though a growing share went to Pascal and herself.
After all, those serving under a capricious ruler often met tragic results. The history of Earth had more than enough examples as proof.
"Does this happen often with the Princess?" She couldn't help but ask.
"Once in a long while," Sir Robert calmly noted. "But never this bad… never even close to this bad…"
Well, she was a teen until just two years ago, Kaede settled in her thoughts. "Must be stressful, for her to carry so much responsibility at such a young age."
"Unfortunately, Her Highness was never meant to be the heir," the armiger responded. "And after her brothers' assassination the Emperor rushed to start her training. It would have been better if she had a few more years of childhood."
It was a surprisingly candid piece of information from someone within the princess' inner circle. Kaede could only surmise that what Pascal just did solidified the armigers' trust in him, and by extension, her. Since whether she liked it or not, most nobles of Hyperion would always see her as an extension of Pascal. It was a simple fact that she might as well accept, with all its pros and cons.
"Given what happened back in Alis Avern, one could argue that the Emperor did the right thing," the familiar replied. "She is the crown princess. She had to be ready."
"For Rhin-Lotharingie, sure. But for her?" Sir Robert sighed once more. "Well… the damage has already been done."
"What do you mean?"
Kaede turned towards the young knight in his 'twenties'. Her perplexed rose-quartz eyes met his peridot-green gaze in a sincere exchange.
She certainly didn't miss the hint: Robert de Dunois was evidently someone who cared more about Sylviane as an individual than his loyalty to the crown, or her tiara in this case. Considering his apparent youth, Kaede thought it was very probable that the princess and her armiger also shared some sort of childhood bond.
However before he could answer, a familiar chirp from above distracted them both. Kaede didn't even have to look up before she felt relief from the growing warmth, the comforting presence that enveloped her whole being.
Hauteclaire circled around, flying low above them before descending to land. For a brief second, Kaede felt a flash of surprise and anxiety as the cerulean phoenix glided towards her.
Yet as Hauteclaire came to perch on her right shoulder, the aura of tranquility he emanated overcame her unrest. Even the sharp talons did not hurt. The soothing heat felt more like a shoulder massage than a bird's bony grasp. The warmth that engulfed her certainly helped with her worsening stomach cramps.
"I think he likes you," Sir Robert grinned.
Kaede almost tried to shrug. She didn't have a clue on what the expected behavior of a phoenix should be. Though she was sure of one fact:
Even from here, Hauteclaire's presence should definitely help Sylviane calm down.
Her hand reached up on instinct to brush the phoenix's burning feathers. She felt their comforting warmth in the cold, wintry breeze. And as the seconds dragged on in peaceful silence, Kaede felt a measuring look in her companion's friendly gaze.
"Milady, I have a request to ask of you."
"I'm not a lady," Kaede shrugged off the unusual politeness. "But please go ahead."
"I know our princess hasn't been the most kind to you," Robert offered an apologetic nod. "But her… hobbies, well, they're also some of the only habits she has left for herself, the only pastimes to counterbalance the weight of burden upon her shoulders. I know Her Highness can be rather demanding at times…"
Kaede released a deep sigh, which instantly stopped him short.
Toying with her like a doll in the royal sitting room was one thing. Kaede didn't like to admit it, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant of an experience. In fact, it felt comfortable to have her hair brushed and her head rubbed, even if she was too tense at the time to really enjoy it.
However Sylviane had also tried to treat Kaede like she was property, from dictating what she could wear to where she would sleep. Worse yet, the Princess had tried to isolate her from Pascal, from the only 'family' she had in this foreign world and her one pillar of safety, just to assert dominance.
Considering Kaede's problematic relationship with Pascal, the Samaran girl could understand why the Princess did it. Nevertheless those anxiety-filled nights when she had difficulty sleeping were certainly hard to forget.
"I don't begrudge Her Highness for 'trying to put me in my place', if that's what you're asking," Kaede spoke with a faint scowl. "I realize most girls in the Princess' place would do something similar, doubly so as she's royalty and used to commanding respect. However… that doesn't mean I enjoy being treated like her belonging."
Especially as she was even worse than Pascal was at the beginning, the familiar appended silently. At least Pascal was concerned about my day-to-day needs.
"The princess may not express it or even realize it, but she does like you." Sir Robert then remarked with a calming smile. "Otherwise she wouldn't have taken such an interest."
In me or in what I look like? The Samaran girl had to wonder, considering she seemed to share the exact same measurements as Vivienne, whom Princess Sylviane apparently treated like a live plaything with neither resistance nor repercussions…
"I won't ask you to simply do as she demands," Robert continued. "But please, at least be her friend. She doesn't have many of those to speak of."
Not trustworthy ones without any strings attached, in any case.
Kaede made an awkward smile as she held her hand against her stomach ills. Even with the armiger's aid to her in mind, she could only offer a rather noncommittal reply:
"I'll do what I can."
—– * * * —–
Sylviane wasn't sure how long she had wailed on. With her tears already spent, her emotions had seized her voice as the only form of release.
Now, it was impossible not to feel embarrassed as she and Pascal continued to sit on the bedside floor. They leaned against each other in silence, with Pascal's arm wrapped around her shoulders while her head rested upon his.
At least, she was silent…
Sylviane had enough experience to realize that Pascal could read the atmosphere. He just rarely knew how to act accordingly.
Not long after she stopped crying, Pascal went back to talking by himself.
That might have been fine, except the contents were entirely inappropriate for the moment. He started by filling her in on the events of last night: a Weichsen political drama that she, as an outsider, was only too happy to stay out of.
"Well, look on the bright side…"
Sylviane could feel the shoulder beneath her head shift as Pascal turned his expression towards her, prompting her to glance back.
"We are both orphans now," he announced through a somber smile.
"That is really not funny."
"I did not say it was," he protested in his usual drawling speech.
A puzzled frown soon stretched across her countenance. It wasn't like Pascal to make his point in a roundabout way. Being indirect simply didn't fit him, not to mention how hard it would be to guess his intentions, considering how different his thoughts were compared to everyone else.
Thankfully, he also didn't keep her waiting for long:
"You do not like to be pitied, and I do not enjoy it either. Well now, neither of us need to worry about that from the other. We are both alone, yet we both have each other."
"Together, alone?" she echoed back.
Pascal always had an odd way of trying to cheer people up.
"A most contradictory expression, is it not?" His words emerged with the hint of a chuckle.
"What about Kaede then?"
Sylviane had been hesitant to ask. But in the aftermath of the Marshal's death, it was Pascal who had announced to her that he had received a new family member.
"She is the same as us — no other family or close relations in this world."
"Isn't that your fault?"
"Yes, it is." Pascal admitted plainly. There wasn't even a hint of begrudging denial.
It was yet another virtue where he bested her with ease.
"Yet that is also why I have a responsibility towards her," he asserted before turning to stare into her eyes. "So please, be nice. We are all in the same family now. We have to support each other."
Pascal paused briefly before adding in a nostalgic tone:
"After what happened to me the night I learned of my father's death, I realized there was no way you meant it when you told me to leave. Even if my words and my actions might prove no good at comforting you, my presence alone should be of help."
Sylviane realized then that while she might not have a direct bond with Kaede, the familiar girl had been a pillar for Pascal on several occasions. And the princess was reaping the benefits of that now.
In hindsight that was what defined a family: not mere bonds of blood and matrimony, but a deep sense of trust and mutual, inter-support through hard times. And for that if nothing else, she owed the little girl some kindness and a few gestures of gratitude.
"I know," the princess murmured back before repeating, "I know."
In that moment Sylviane made a promise to herself: regardless of how much she liked or disliked them, those who were Pascal's friends and family also made them her own. She would treat them with the same respect Pascal always extended to her closest companions, like Mari and Robert.
The two of them relied upon one another far too much to do otherwise.
Well, I might still tease her a good amount, she left an honest opening for herself.
"So what do you plan to do next?" Pascal asked after a long moment of silence.
"I… I honestly don't know," Sylviane admitted. "I haven't thought about doing anything except being the Crown Princess for ten years now."
"Do you still want to be?"
"It's not a matter of want or not," she turned to reply as their eyes met once more. "I am a crown princess. It might have begun as simply a mask, but it's who I am now. Even if I'm told to stop…"
"Who told you that?" Pascal's eyebrows went up.
"Can I still be? A princess disowned by her country?" Sylviane commented before her depressed voice seeped back in. "Perhaps the Holy Father doesn't want me…"
"I doubt this is the Holy Father's work." His interjection was stern and instantaneous. "First your father gets excommunicated. And a few weeks later he gets deposed and murdered by the paramilitary branch of the Inquisition, led by a newly anointed 'Defender of the Faith'? This has the avarice of the Church written all over it!"
"Yet… the Holy Father allowed it to happen," the Princess noted dejectedly. "How can you be sure it's not his will then?"
"It is not simply what I think…"
Pascal's words rang earnest as his hand stroked her hair in trying to calm her back down.
"Emperor Geoffroi devoted his life to making Rhin-Lotharingie a better country. As far as I know, he was a ruler loved by his people, and few monarchs could claim to have upheld the crown as dutifully and faithfully as him."
"Besides," he stared at her with utmost seriousness. "Even if he dissatisfied the Holy Father in some way, do you honestly think our Lord's benevolent mercy would bestow such ruin upon Rhin-Lotharingie in the moment of its greatest crisis — during an invasion of heathen swords?"
No, it doesn't make any sense, Sylviane wanted to agree. But then… what does the Holy Father want of me?
If it was contrary to his will, then why would the Holy Father simply stand by and watch it happen?
"I believe the Holy Father is testing you," Pascal answered as though reading her thoughts. "These are troubled times ahead, and he wishes for Rhin-Lotharingie to be led by someone who is not just willing, but also ready to face the Empire's challenges. A leader who overcomes these trials can ultimately bring your country to greatness. The road ahead may be difficult, but we must have faith that the final goal will be worth the sacrifices."
"You sound like a priest." Sylviane's lips formed a wry, if hesitant smile.
"Must I be a priest to have faith?" Pascal countered with a gentle smile. "Faith is not just accepting what you are told. It is about believing in others: that the Holy Father, in his omnipotent goodness, will always be just and virtuous, even if his mysterious ways are not immediately apparent to our limited view."
"That doesn't sound like you at all," Sylviane remarked in jest.
Pascal might follow the Holy Scriptures, yet she would never tag him as a particularly spiritual man. He was simply too pragmatic, too much in love with understanding the material world.
"Probably because I acquired the saying from Perceval," Pascal shrugged. "He's the healer from the incident at the academy."
Right, one of your new friends, Sylviane thought, unsure of whether she should feel proud or envious. Nevertheless, she finally felt a smile return to her lips as she leaned back into him once more.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Pascal asked next after another moment of comfortable silence.
Of course, he never even waited for her reply:
"Let us go to Rhin-Lotharingie, to Alis Avern. Take back what is rightfully yours. Restore the country to order. Bring vengeance upon those traitors who backstabbed the nation during its hour of peril and murdered their rightful liege in cold blood."
You make it sound so easy. Sylviane thought as she relaxed further into him.
But then, the right path was never easy.
Yet is it the right path to take?
On moments like these, Sylviane wished the Holy Father could be a nudge more obvious with his signs. Though if that were the case, then was the conviction to move forward still her own?
If Pascal was right, if this really was a test, then this was her first hurdle. She must summon her own resolve to take back the throne that was rightfully hers.
"You're right." Sylviane spoke, softly at first before she declared again in a more resolute voice. "You're right. The Holy Father wouldn't simply abandon the Lotharins to crisis and catastrophe. All of this is happening for a reason, and I will not simply fold while the Empire needs me."
She then stared at him, her wisteria eyes locked onto his turquoise gaze:
"I will not abandon the responsibilities that I've spent my whole life learning to uphold."
Pascal smiled. His lips formed a broad grin that stretched from ear to ear.
"That is the spirit of a true Princess!" He remarked with approval. "We can restore your country and destroy your enemies in one decisive stroke! And we can take pleasure in exacting vengeance while doing so!"
"Wrath is a sin, you know," Sylviane raised her only objection.
"So it is." Pascal shrugged it off with ease. "I am human. Have to at least sin a little."
She almost scoffed at that. Almost.
The concept of 'transgress now, repent later' had taken deep roots within the Trinitian faith. It was a growing disease that sapped the morals of its followers, made only worse among the upper class by the abuse of indulgences — 'forgiveness' and 'salvation' which could now be purchased from the Church at premium cost.
"The Holy Father might dispense clemency to those who lament a moment's carelessness," Sylviane frowned back with a stern reply. "However, that is not the same as purposeful wrongdoing."
"And war is murder, politics is deceit. Yet knowing that, do we not still perform them out of necessity?" Pascal stated as he straightened his posture. "You know what is one lesson that last night taught me? People say revenge leads nowhere. But it felt good, and it felt right to see justice dealt. To see one of my father's murderers receive what he deserved — nothing could better restore my faith that no matter how dark the night may grow, the light of day will ultimately triumph."
His voice was neither hateful nor malicious. Instead it expressed a thorough satisfaction backed by firm intent, a strong will tempered by raging flames.
"We are not all saints, nor do we live in paradise," he sat up to face her with a steely gaze. "We need that something to keep us going through difficult times, even if it is not entirely virtuous."
Sylviane knew that in many ways, this was Pascal's ego speaking. Before the eyes of the Holy Father, it would serve as little more than an excuse.
Yet, that same self-justified belief was also what made him a confident, decisive leader. It was what gave him the same qualities that she had always craved.
"Does it really feel that good?" She pondered aloud, her voice still shadowed by doubt.
Pascal grinned in response and leaned back against her.
"Better than sex, in fact." He announced in an oddly satisfied tone.
"Uhhh, well… I wouldn't have a basis for that now, would I?" The princess glanced back through narrowed eyes.
Sylviane knew that Pascal wasn't a virgin. However she had also overheard enough gossip from the maids to realize that men having 'experience' should be considered a good thing. At least this way, one of them would enter their wedding night with some idea of what they were doing, rather than leaving her with a scarred memory for life.
Nevertheless…
You could at least avoid saying that in front of a lady!
"Do not fret. We will get to it eventually." He announced with a casual smirk.
Sylviane felt a burning heat rush into her flushed cheeks. As if on reflex, she leaned away to make room as her arm smacked him on the shoulder.
"Ow!" Pascal rushed to rub it at once. "Careful with that! You actually do swing a hammer around!"
"Hmph!"
The embarrassing sight that her imagination had conjured was fuzzy at best. Though it also refused to leave her head.
"A-anyways, what if we don't succeed in reclaiming the Empire's throne?" She banished her thoughts by hurriedly bringing the topic back on track.
"Weeell… as long as we stay alive, we can always return to Nordkreuz," Pascal noted as he turned towards her with a proud grin. "You can always be my wife…"
The urge to hit him again rose like a flash flood as her cheeks reignited at once.
"–However I am certain the Holy Father has more in mind for you than just that."
It was a simple line of words. Yet the unwavering faith it carried pierced her armor of pride with ease. The Princess turned away as she tried to hide her embarrassment. Yet it didn't do her any good. Rather than just her face, Sylviane could feel her entire body heat up from deep within. It felt as though her very heart was melting under his warm gaze.
"Flatterer," she barely whispered out.
"Not flattery if it is honest," he declared without holding back, his words only made her blush worse.
For several minutes, it felt as though she couldn't do anything. Sylviane merely laid there in his arms, her will sapped by a warm glow, content to stay buoyant in the gentle atmosphere.
Yet, there was just one nagging thought that kept trying to climb back up.
"Would you really follow me on an empress' path, wherever I go, whatever it takes?"
Sylviane hadn't spent years in self-doubt to recover under a single moment of kindness.
"Of course, I will accompany you anywhere," Pascal asserted, reminding her that 'Prince Consort' or not, he would not accept being a mere subordinate. "After all, I am not just your fiancé."
Her puzzled frown returned as she wondered what he meant by that.
"Do you remember eleven years ago, when I asked you 'what is the most important trait for a general?'"
They had countless discussions back then, yet Sylviane still felt the nostalgia as Pascal resurrected one of his favorite topics.
"Courage and decisiveness," she offered the same answer as years past. "I am a Lotharin after all. Oriflammes first, always."
"And I debated 'cunning, guile, and vision'. After all, it took far more than bravery to win wars."
However Pascal no longer sounded sure of himself. It was as though his idea was yet another relic of the past.
"Have you changed your belief to something else?"
"After yesterday? Yes." Pascal spoke, before taking a brief pause, to reflect upon a day during which he had seen and done so much.
"Dedication and loyalty, to his country, to his people," Pascal then declared without any inkling of doubt. "War is only ever a means to an aim, and that aim must be worthy as a cause. After my father was murdered, every soldier of Weichsel mourned for the passing of a hero who would go down in history. Meanwhile Manteuffel had no such dedication. He cared only for his ambitions, and as such the only legacy he would leave behind is the accursed name of a traitor — all his brilliance brought him nothing more than a passage straight to hell."
Sylviane kept her silence for the moment. She wasn't sure the circumstances were as simple as Pascal claimed it to be. After all, politics rarely unfolded as it appeared on the surface.
But now was not the time.
"Father had hoped for me to become the general of a new era. He wanted me to bridge Weichsel and Rhin-Lotharingie, our nations which share historic ties and geopolitical interests."
A fire seemed to ignite in his eyes as he turned to Sylviane in a solemn oath:
"That is my only wish by your side, and I swear I will uphold it until my dying day."
It was as off-putting as it was reassuring. To swear an unwavering, personal loyalty to her would be the moment of romantic legends. Yet that was not how events unfolded in real life. Those who followed blindly only degraded themselves as fools. The truly dependable ones were those who upheld a righteous ideal of their own.
As a woman, Sylviane knew she had Pascal's affection. But as an Empress-to-be, she would have to work hard to stay worthy of his devotion.
It was in moments like these when Sylviane realized: Pascal really did bring out the best in her.
Nevertheless, the world did have a mind of its own. Political circumstances change. And Sylviane couldn't help but worry as she asked:
"What if the alliance fractures?"
"If those in Weichsel seek to break the alliance, then they are my foes." Pascal replied without a moment of hesitation. "I will not take up arms against my state of birth. But the same does not apply to those who lead it."
It was a statement that could be construed as treason if heard by the wrong ears. Yet, it was also a sign of just how committed Pascal was.
"And if I did?" Sylviane raised the possibility, however unlikely so long as she held Pascal's support.
The smile he replied through was a bittersweet challenge:
The wintry winds lightened across the Skagen Peninsula's snow-covered coasts as the cold front withdrew. Frosty low clouds pulled away from the ground as they warmed, while the soft flakes they shed reduced and vanished.
It was as though even the weather could sense that the war was lost.
Yet even as the winds changed, a single, ominous line streaked south across the shrouded skies. The oppressive veil of clouds concealed the sight from all but a few faithful. And only the most devout recognized it as a possible sign of the divine.
…And for once in the span of several centuries, they were right.
Thousands of paces above ground, a pressurized bubble of mana and air blew apart yet another cloud. The expanding sonic boom left shockwaves in its wake, as a figure within the magical sphere continued its journey at supersonic speeds.
However on this day, the Hyperboreans' prayers for a miracle were not meant to be.
"<Where do you think you're going?>" A tranquil, feminine voice spoke straight into the feverish mind of the Stormlord.
The flyer that moved at breakneck speeds instantly banked into a spiraling ascent. The brawny figure climbed through the icy air as he decelerated from his godly speed. Clad in sturdy chainmail, rich furs, and thick hides, his bulging, muscular arms effortlessly spun a static-charged greathammer into a ready stance.
The immortal warrior had yet to see the speaker who interrupted him. But even without sight he already knew the immaculate voice that entered his thoughts.
"YOU!" His thunderous boom burst outwards with enough pressure to shatter air. "SHOW YOURSELF!"
A cloud parted as a woman of unearthly grace seemed to descend from the heavens. She had a thin figure surrounded by loose, silken-white robes that provided little insulation. Her long, silver-white hair floated around her as though she was a sacred spirit untouchable to the soaring winds.
"Yes, me," The woman announced serenely as her hand raised the only 'armament' she carried — a long willow staff with branches sprouting leaves as though it were already spring.
"It's been four hundred years, Sigurd. Not even a kind greeting for a one time companion of the battlefield?"
"You have too many names." The man identified as Sigurd scoffed back through his thick, bushy beard. "How am I supposed to remember which one to use?"
"Are you no different? Siegfried? Perun? Taranis? Perkūnas? Thor?"
Despite her challenging words, the white lady spoke through warm eyes and a calming smile. Hovering effortlessly in the windy air, she gently laid the willow branch over her other arm as her figure drifted to within twenty paces.
"A name means little to those of us who journey across multiple worlds," her voice flowed on. "Only Peter remained steadfast in holding onto his mortal identity."
"Fine! I'll settle for what I can actually pronounce then, Tara," Sigurd growled back, never letting down his guard for a second.
"Did the others send you to stop me?" He demanded.
"No," Tara's gaze held unwavering as she spoke with sincerity. "I am here on my own accord, Vanguard Sigurd. Patience has never been one of your virtues. But nevertheless you must halt. The situation is not as you wish. Should you continue, you shall set forth a most terrible precedent that would surely bring disaster for the whole world."
Sigurd's lips twisted to reveal his clenched teeth. His sneer challenged her with a silent 'make me'. Yet the white lady did not show the slightest hint of being provoked.
"Halt!?" The man spat his scornful reply. "By you and what army, Grand Strategist!?"
"I may not be able to defeat you in single combat, but I could certainly occupy you long enough for the others to notice."
The casual statement came without an inkling of hostility, yet it nevertheless added to the tension between the two immortal beings. Then, before her opponent could consider calling it a bluff, Tara's spring-green eyes turned to cast a cursory glance toward the southern horizon:
"Besides, there is that army down there…"
"The Wickers are not yours to command," Sigurd scoffed. "They are Peter's followers. Nor will they last for even ten minutes beneath my lightning storm."
"Only if your storm is allowed to form," Tara smiled. "I may not be your match in close combat. But I can easily cancel out your magic."
"Even so, to directly influence them would be an intervention as illegal as mine!"
"Ohhh? So you do remember that the offense you are about to commit is illegal? That you do not have the 'Right of Armed Intervention' unless your homeland, the Scania Isles, is being invaded directly?" Tara asked knowingly. "Then why–?"
Lightning crackled and surged across Sigurd's hammer as his simmering wrath boiled.
"Why? WHY?"
His leather-clad fist swung south with a pointed finger:
"Peter's followers have been encroaching upon the land of my descendants for centuries! The entire North Sea coast used to be Hyperborean, yet they continue to relentlessly push our culture into the sea! I will not stand and watch as they destroy the last of my people on the continent! I did not fight a lifetime for the dragonlords to see all of my promised lands forsaken!"
"A lifetime thousands of years past." Tara spoke with a nostalgic gaze as calm as a meadow in the gentle breeze. "The world has changed since the Dragon-Demon Wars. We must accept that, as unpleasant as it may be."
"Easy for you to say, Holy Protectress of Samara," Sigurd mocked. "Your descendents are doing well for themselves, ever since you intervened for them during the Great Northern War. May I remind you that the lands of the Grand Republic were once dominated by my followers before your intercession!?"
"And your followers are still there, even if they've somewhat waned in popularity," Tara smiled. "Unlike Peter, I have no intention to deny others of their beliefs. I merely took the opportunity to seed a great commandant amongst my people, when the descendants of Sunslayer Mergen overstepped themselves in their conquests. If the Scania Isles were being similarly invaded, I would suggest you look to your own options for establishing a lasting legacy…"
"Oh fuck your system of reincarnation!" Sigurd interrupted once more as a dry thunderclap resounded from his hammer. "Just because you've decided to cheapen out doesn't mean all of us will!"
"We all met the Allfather, the Maker, the Enlightened, the 'one true god', whatever it is you want to call him!" Sigurd declared. "He was there, leader paramount of Asgard, supreme commander of the Aesir. He was not just some distant, mythical ruler but our ally! His greatest warriors fought alongside us and the noble dragonlords against the endless evil that springs forth from demon realms!"
Heated breath rushed from Sigurd's nostrils as the unstoppable momentum of his beliefs plowed straight on:
"All of us met him! We may all have a different name for him, his people, and his world! We may all disagree on just what role he plays in the universe and what virtues he upholds. But you cannot deny his one desire from us: that the single most strategic resource in fuelling his armies in their eternal struggle against the demons are brave souls from the mortal realms!"
"Evil always is and always will be. However that does not prove your methods as superior to my ways," rebuffed the white lady.
"Karma through the Eightfold Path will cultivate souls of the highest discipline to oppose the tides of sin. That is my conclusion and Gautama's. It may be the opposite of Peter's 'mass conscription' approach, or your method of selection through the Valkyries' call, but it is certainly no less proven," Tara said sternly to bring an end to their tangential debate before moving on. "Regardless, none of this changes our agreement that the mortal realms shall have peace — to which, I remind you, you gave your oath."
Sigurd could no longer contain himself as he barked a derisive laugh.
"Peace? You call this peace! Oh sure, your homeland is certainly peaceful today! But what of my kinsmen? Are they just pigs to be butchered under the endless ambition of Peter's zealots?"
However Tara merely closed her eyes as she returned a sigh.
"Would you rather witness the loss of thousands, or the death of millions? We Worldwalkers wield the power of gods at our fingertips. That is why our descendants worship us thus. If we rend the treaty asunder and freely impose our conflicting views upon the world through strength and magic, then just what do you think will happen?"
The 1st Generation of Worldwalkers had fought alongside the dragonlords during the Dragon-Demon Wars. They were the greatest champions of humanity who followed the Grand Coalition in their offensive into the endless demonic realms. Even the least gifted among them could rend armies and cleave mountains. Those most able — like Tara the Grand Strategist, the World-Watcher, the Thousand Arms — could harness enough power to alter the fabric of reality across an entire world.
Far from satisfied by mere logic, Sigurd opened his mouth to retort. Yet the white lady was not finished, and she demanded his silence with her unnerving composure:
"Your head isn't there just to call lightning and smash hammers, Vanguard Sigurd," Tara berated him just like the old days. "Your kin may not win against Peter's followers on the continent, but there are better paths to victory than stubborn resistance."
For a dozen seconds Sigurd's sky-blue gaze seethed on without answer. Then, as though the voltage of his thunder finally pushed his brain into action, the huge warrior's eyes cleared with foresight at last.
"Really…" Tara whispered as she gently shook her head with a faint smile. "It's a shame Admiral Winter couldn't transcend mortality in time. For most of his life Asgeirr Vintersvend knew the future of Hyperborean society lay in the New World, the 'Frontier' as your people call it. It's about time you caught up to your visionary junior."
"Let Peter rejoice in his followers' victory," the lady added with finality, "for it will be his last against you."
…
"So which world are you off to save this time?"
As their interactions cooled to a casual conversation, Sigurd sought to ask one last question before he parted ways with his old comrade. It had been centuries since their last meeting, and another few hundred years would likely pass before they met again.
"I'll be staying around for a while, actually," the woman replied.
"What, you don't trust me?"
Tara turned about one last time to give him a knowing look:
"You're impetuous and rash, but not an outright idiot like your followers might like to claim," Tara smiled. "Though… there was that one time when you wore a bridal headdress…"
"We agreed to NEVER speak of that incident!" Sigurd's entire face turned beet-red as he cried out in a voice just short of a roar.
"I'm just teasing you," Tara chuckled. "I do appreciate that you've stopped calling me Freyja. I always thought that version of my story was… a little off."
"Shame. I always liked the part with you riding off to battle in a chariot pulled by your two cats," Sigurd commented. "But why do you stay then? I know you're not the type to linger in one world."
"I'll be staying around to advise Gwendolen when she comes back…"
It took Sigurd a moment to remember the name: Gwendolen was a 3rd Generation Worldwalker, a mere 'girl' by Worldwalker standards who was not even half a millennium old. She went by the nicknames Faerie Sword and Arboreal Sanctum. She was also one of the great champions of the Lotharins, an Oriflamme Paladin who played an instrumental role in the creation of the Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie.
"–Unlike your homeland, it shall not be long before her birthplace bears witness to the carnage of invasion and war." Tara explained. "I do not know if she will have the opportunity or the desire to intervene. But if she does, I want her to be prepared."
Hm. That the lack of intervention is caused by a detante to prevent a fantastical analogue of nuclear war implies that this "Peter" has a lot more options to stop the Papacy from disgracing his name through their actions than I thought... which in turn implies that he actually approves of their disgusting excesses. Which would make Gabriel 100% right about him, at least as far as his relation to living mortals is concerned (whether the giant piles of shitty conscripts he apparently provides to this afterlife war that's discussed could be replaced by a more humane method, or even if the war's continuation is as necessary as the enemy being called "demons" would usually imply, is something I have no data on).
@Winged One I guess it's time I share this dev diary I once wrote then:
Daybreak Dev Diary – The Worldwalkers
Ever since I wrote the original Daybreak, there's been a bit of a question on whom and what the Worldwalkers are. Some people akin them to gods, with a select group of readers who are rather displeased that they've been injected into such a story. I admit that I myself were of a mixed opinion when I introduced the Worldwalkers, as they certainly don't belong under the realm of political realism.
First of all, the term 'gods' don't quite define Worldwalkers. The Worldwalkers are based on the buddhas and bodhisattvas of Mahayana Buddhism. While the Buddha is often considered the 'god' of Buddhism, this is a poorly applied analogy. The word buddha simply means 'enlightened one'. Buddhism explicitly believes that there is a buddha in all of us, and all mortals are capable of achieving buddhahood by journeying through the Eightfold Path. The Buddha — the Indian Prince Siddhārtha Gautama — was simply the first mortal human from Earth who ascended to such exalted status. However, he is neither the only, nor the definitive first, as Buddhism has a multiverse cosmology and many enlightened beings come from worlds and species other than our own. Mahayana Buddhism believes that buddhas (and bodhisattvas) travel between the various worlds in order to teach their wisdom, hence I use the name 'Worldwalkers'.
The Worldwalkers of Daybreak are all figures of history and mythology, either in Hyperion or in our world. Buddhism is a religion that cares less for worship and more for virtuous action. That means as long as you share some of the virtues of Buddhism (which many other religions do), mainstream Buddhists — ignoring weird, fanatical outliers such as Sengoku Japanese and modern Burmese — are perfectly willing to acknowledge people of other religions as virtuous or even enlightened. As a result, I see no contradiction to extend the 'Worldwalker' status to many other figures of spiritual or divine natures.
This comes back to the reason why I added the Worldwalkers. One of my many interests in the social and cultural sciences is mythology, and the Worldwalkers offer me an opportunity to research and explore that angle. Their presence in the story is also meant to reflect upon the interwined nature of social sciences, as religions play a vital role in shaping society's history and culture, which in turn shapes government and politics. And while we think no supernatural power has ever intervened in human history, there are events — such as Joan of Arc, an inexperienced, illiterate peasant girl with who somehow had an excellent grasp of theology, leadership, and tactics — that are rather difficult to explain.
— Honestly, if the full story of Jeanne d'Arc was written out in a fiction, readers would be calling it a power fantasy for its unexplicably-capable mary sue protagonist. Since by the accounts of her own contemporary companions, Jeanne was far from merely an inspirational figurehead as popular history often claims. While she didn't fight, she had an excellent grasp of military tactics, had no problems discussing the true nature of angels with learned priests (bible was latin-only at the time), and defended herself in a court of law on theological grounds.
Since this is a fantasy story, I'd like to make a supposition — what if all those miraculous events in history which had far-reaching consequences really were the work of 'divine' actors? Daybreak is all about the exploration of ideas for me, and I thought this was a good route to explore.
Lastly, the following is a list of Worldwalkers described in Daybreak thus far.
Tara, the central figure among the Worldwalkers, is Tara the White (as there are 21 Taras) in Buddhism. Her identity here is also grouped with Guanyin/Kanon, the bodhisattva of mercy and compassion in East Asian Buddhism, known for her unconditional love and compassion, protection of the downtrodden and helpless, and many other things. In some stories, Tara is a former princess who originated from another world. She achieved enlightenment but chose to remain within the cycle of reincarnation (thus becoming a bodhisattva instead of a buddha). Due to the patriarchial nature of most societies in history, it is believed that humans, as they achieve higher karma, would be reborn as men instead of women. Tara however was bothered by this, and thus she vowed to remain a woman no matter how many times she was reborn.
Feodor is Feodor Kuzmich, a spiritual hermit from 19th century Earth who has been declared a saint by the Russian Orthodox Church. It is widely speculated due to a number of inexplicable factors that Feodor Kuzmich is actually Tsar Alexander I Romanov of Russia, whom — the theory supposes — faked his own death so he could finally retire and live in peace, a sentiment that was much desired in Tsar Alexander's own writing in his late life. This is why Feodor quotes a verse from the bible that Alexander himself was touched by, and why Tara's discussion with Feodor mentions the Concert of Europe — a system that Alexander helped to set up after the Napoleonic Wars where the various great powers of Europe tried to maintain balance in order to keep another continental war from breaking out.
Sigurd is the legendary hero of the Völsung Saga in Norse mythology. He is also Siegfried of the German Nibelungenlied. In Daybreak, Tara also called him Perun (the Slavic God of Thunder), Taranis (Celtic God of Thunder), Perkūnas (Romuva/Baltic God of Thunder), and Thor (Norse God of Thunder), which are often grouped together as many Indo-European cultures liked to trade gods and adopt aspects/tales of gods of their neighboring faiths — a form of religious tolerance that monotheism couldn't match. Sigurd/Siegfried is most well known for his slaying of a dragon (Fafnir) and gaining invincibility by bathing in its blood. In Hyperion lore and Skagen history, Stormlord Sigurd aided Fafnir the Lightning Dragon to defeat a demon lord during the Demonic Invasion. Impressed by his display of courage, the dying dragon bestowed his remaining strength to Sigurd, making him the first human to gain the dragonlords' power.
Peter, who has been mentioned multiple times, is Saint Peter, one of the Twelve Apostles of Jesus Christ. His work, combined with that of Saint Paul, would lead to the organization of the Christian faith and establishment of the Roman Catholic Church. In Hyperion lore, Peter is the first human disciple of Hyperion the dragonlord, and is the primary founder of the Trinitian Church.
Gautama, mentioned only in passing by Tara, of course refers to the Buddha by his mortal name.
Mergen, mentioned by Tara, is a diety of wisdom of the Tengri religion, the traditional faith of the Turkic nomads and Mongols. According to Tengri mythology, Mergen is was a legendary archer whose arrows slayed six of the seven suns that was baking our world into a desert.
(I cut out the part regarding Gwendolen, since she has a role in Volume 3 and I'd rather not spoil anything)
P.S. I'm about to leave on an international trip so, no more posts for a few weeks
Their presence in the story is also meant to reflect upon the interwined nature of social sciences, as religions play a vital role in shaping society's history and culture, which in turn shapes government and politics
I've always observed it to be the inverse when I read about history (or watched it happening in real time), by which I mean that politics and culture shape religion much more than the other way around. Though that "distillation" line you've mentioned a few times never seemed all that accurate to me either... for reasons I'm not articulate enough to express correctly, unfortunately.
Although, if you've combined this Tara the White with Guanyin... she seems oddly callous about the people who are about to become downtrodden and helpless because of the latest development of this war. I don't mean the mortals who will fight to the death resisting the conquest that their neighbors made possible by dying, but the ones who will be unable or unwilling to, and therefore live long enough to suffer from the upcoming colonialism.
It's not so much as an aside to me as a compulsion.
)