Chapter I – War

Her hand gripped her stomach as the Warden stumbled to her knees, blood flowiŋ freely between her armored fiŋgers. Her stomach felt like it was on fire. She couldn’t breathe! Why couldn’t she breathe‽ Gaspiŋ for breath, the knight’s hand flew to her chin, the blood on her gauntlets slippiŋ against the warm steel of her helm. Thaŋkfully, she managed to pull open the visor, allowiŋ the silvery helm to slip to the ground with a metallic claŋ! Vivid red hair framed amber skin as it fell into its natural shape, its brilliant yellow streaks barely visible through the blood seepiŋ from a gash in her head.

She fell to the ground. She felt dizzy.

The Warden struggled to get up, reachiŋ for her loŋsword. In her disorientation, however, she couldn’t reach the hilt; Miroiter’s blue leather grip seemed to be in six different places at once. She thrust her gauntlet out to grasp a different hilt. No luck. Again and again, she tried, desperately seekiŋ the feeliŋ of her fiŋgers claspiŋ the grip, but to no avail. No matter where she lay her hand, she could not feel Miroiter’s grip in her hand. It was no use; the loŋsword she had proudly wielded for so loŋ was now useless to her, in her hour of need. Whether she liked it or not, she was at her enemy’s mercy.

Thaŋkfully, her enemy wasn’t fariŋ much better.

The Warden lifted her head. Apollyon was leaniŋ against the stone railiŋ, her black armor dented and cut in several places. She was barely keepiŋ on her feet, stumbliŋ every few seconds. Her loŋsword, its serrated edge loŋ used to slice open the weak, was now little more than a metal walkiŋ stick; the black-iron suit that once made her seem a devil, now only made her look faded and empty. Rust surrounded every eye-hole, and the wicked spikes that decorated her shoulder now bent at unnatural aŋgles.

Desperate to take advantage of this opportunity, the Warden shook her head, riddiŋ herself of the dizziness. She reached for her loŋsword, and at loŋ last, felt her armored hand wrap around the leather grip of Miroiter. Struggliŋ to her feet, the Warden raised the weapon above her head as staggered toward Apollyon. Shiniŋ steel glinted in the morniŋ sun as she swuŋ the blade downward, Apollyon stumbliŋ out of the way at the last moment. Thiŋkiŋ quickly, she pivoted on her heel and swuŋ her leg outward, her armored shin kickiŋ the warlord back into the stone railiŋ.

“It’s over,” the Warden said at last. Drawiŋ upon the last of her streŋgth, the knight straightened into a poise of courage and honor as she managed to stand upright. “We will have peace,” she said with finality as she sheathed Miroiter, the red gemstone gleamiŋ in its shiniŋ crossguard. She turned to leave before her streŋgth failed her. Already her knees were threateniŋ to-

“Peace?”

The Warden turned back to see Apollyon leaniŋ against the railiŋ, her black armor seemiŋ to regain some of its former sheen as she looked out toward the risiŋ sun. The warlord shuddered, a humorless laugh escapiŋ from the breathiŋ holes that dotted the helm’s face.

“So,” Apollyon began, turniŋ back to face the Warden. “What happens now?” Her armored hand gripped its pommel, her loŋsword aidiŋ the warlord to her feet. “You all just–” she stumbled forward, causiŋ the Warden to step back. “–go home?” she finished as she straightened, finally standiŋ level with her adversary.

Before the Warden could respond, Apollyon turned back to the cliff, and with a grunt, hurled her loŋsword over the edge. The Warden staggered to the railiŋ beside her adversary as the jagged weapon sailed over the edge, finally landiŋ in the weathered wood of the drawbridge far below.

On either side of the blade stood two armies: The left, the Warden recognized as the Iron Legion, their shiniŋ metal makiŋ it nigh-impossible to see the yellow & green the Legion was so famous for.

On the right of the sword stood the Asahi clan, the red sun on their banners contrastiŋ sharply with the blue and white paint that adorned their armor. The Warden watched in horror, her cyan eyes threateniŋ to well with tears as she saw the commanders drop into fightiŋ stances.

“You came into my home,” Apollyon said, her voice hollow. The Warden looked back at the warlord she had once served. Though she couldn’t see through the black-iron helm, she knew Apollyon was smiliŋ. “And you brought your armies.” But there was no humor to be found in her voice – only emptiness and sorrow. The voice that had once cowed armies had loŋ lost its threateniŋ aura. Now, only a bitter laugh escaped the warlord’s lips as she removed her helm.

The Warden had never seen Apollyon’s face before. She didn’t think anyone had. Surely, such beauty would’ve been talked about.

Silvery grey streaked through braids of pale blonde hair, not unlike the Warden’s own gold-streaked mane. Her face looked like it had once beloŋed to an angel, the loŋ hair and pale skin briŋiŋ forth memories of a seraph the Warden had once seen in the colored glass of a church. Now, her face belied the warlord’s true age – much more than the Warden had ever supposed it would. Apollyon’s angelic grey eyes were hollow and empty, and the scarred amber visage around them was faded and subtle like mayhaps her skin had once been awash with color that now lay dormant.

Apollyon slowly turned to face the Warden, her mouth upturned in an emotionless smile. “What did you think would happen?” She asked, her blank grey eyes meetiŋ the cyan gaze of the knight beside her. “Peace?” She scoffed. The Warden didn’t have an answer.

A war horn thundered down below, drawiŋ the two knights’ attention back to the battle that was about to erupt. The two sides had been standiŋ down, ready to find peace between knight and samurai – then the Vikiŋs stormed the gates, roariŋ and bellowiŋ in their quest to ravage and plunder. The Warden watched in horror as the two sides charged, tears of pain welliŋ in her eyes as the two commanders tried in vain to call off the assault.

Apollyon laughed beside her. “That isn’t how the world works,” Apollyon said between chuckles, her armored hand flyiŋ to her stomach in pain as she spectated the ragiŋ battle below. Blood flowed freely between her fiŋgers, and the warlord’s face quickly turned to a mask of aŋger. “Don’t speak to me of your virtue,” she spat, venom drippiŋ from her voice like the blood from her stomach.

“Duty.” A samurai fell to the ground, gutted by the loŋsword of a Warden.

“Kinship.” A Raider’s axe cleaved through the steel helm of a knight.

“Honor.” A Kensei ducked under a Vikiŋ’s skjǫldr, his ōdachi sliciŋ cleanly through the raider’s exposed gut.

Apollyon’s expression was impossible to read as she witnessed the carnage – whether it was from the warlord’s expression or her own vision blurriŋ from pain, the Warden didn’t know. “You’ve forgotten what you are.” Though Apollyon’s voice was even, the Warden could hear an underlyiŋ air of condescension she knew too well. She had sounded like that once, so loŋ ago, when she had believed herself to be so much better than anyone else. It was as if Apollyon believed that mankind’s natural state was one of conflict and it was up to her to show them…

“You want war,” the Warden said, realization dawniŋ on her face as she stared in bewilderment at the once-feared warlord. “Only war.”

Apollyon smiled as the color slowly drained from her face. With considerable effort, she pushed herself up from the railiŋ. “All I want,” she said, her voice ragged as her breaths slowed. “Is for you to admit,” She thrust her hand out toward the Warden, a siŋle fiŋger raised accusiŋly.

“What. You. Are.” Every word was punctuated by a thrust of her fiŋger, blood drippiŋ steadily from the soaked red metal. The light was fadiŋ from her eyes, and the Warden knew the same was happeniŋ to her as well. Apollyon threw her arms outward in an embraciŋ gesture, blood splatteriŋ her face as she fell back against the railiŋ. “All of you,” she rasped, struggliŋ back to an upright position. Once again, the warlord extended her hand. This time, however, the hand had turned upside down, the stained black metal giviŋ way to the blood-soaked cloth. Though the Warden’s vision was quickly failiŋ her, there was no mistakiŋ the sign Apollyon had offered to the knight who’d bested her.

A universal gesture of friendship.

“My… wolves…” The light finally faded from the warlord’s eyes, and she collapsed to the floor.

Apollyon was dead.

In spite of her own impendiŋ demise, the Warden couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Not two years ago, she had served under this madwoman. How fittiŋ that the one obsessed with combat would die by her former ally.

The Warden pondered this for a moment, then pushed herself up from the railiŋ and turned to leave. She dropped to a kneel as she retrieved her helm, not dariŋ to descend any lower for fear of never risiŋ again.

Haviŋ loŋ since been drained of the adrenaline of battle, the Warden found the pain of her wounds returniŋ in full force, and even stayiŋ conscious soon became a pantagruelian task. Every few steps, she staggered, forced to fall against a pillar for support. Her vision was darkeniŋ. She knew this was it.

She was goiŋ to die.

Just as the Warden pushed herself up for another few steps, the door to the balcony crashed open, giviŋ way to the unmistakable form of Holden Cross. “She’s here!” She thought she heard him say. From behind the massive Lawbriŋer, two smaller figures dashed into the room: Hikaru Ayu and Aria Blaze.

Standiŋ still at the sight of her friends, the Warden felt the last of her streŋgth finally fell away and she dropped to her knees. Had Ayu and Aria not surged forward and caught her, she would’ve likely joined Apollyon on the cold stone floor.

“It’s… this i-is it,” the Warden coughed out as she lay her head back. “It’s… it’s o-over.”

The worried faces of her friends stared down at her, Aria’s eyes welliŋ up with tears. “No,” she cried, her hands forsakiŋ her hatchet and dagger in favor of the dyiŋ knight’s collar. “You can’t die,” she begged, shakiŋ the Warden in desperation. The Warden’s vision darkened further as her head rocked back and forth before she looked up as the shakiŋ stopped to see Holden Cross place his hand on Aria’s shoulder.

“D-don’t be sad,” she thought she said, reachiŋ a shakiŋ hand up to sooth her weepiŋ friend. Unfortunately, all this did was smear blood across the siren’s face. “It’ll b-be okay.”

“No! It won’t!” Aria cried, buryiŋ her face in her hands. “You can’t leave us!” She took Cross’s hand off of her shoulder and buried herself in his armored chest. The Warden thought she saw Ayu reach up to place a hand on the siren’s shoulder, only for Aria to throw the daimyō to the floor.

The Warden tried to get up to stop her, only for her hand to slip in the blood pooliŋ underneath her, and she fell back to the floor, her head slammiŋ against the stone. This caught everyone’s attention, and they turned to look at their dyiŋ companion. “H-hey now,” the Warden rasped, giviŋ a weak smile. “D-don’t… don’t fight.” She lay her head back against the stone, feeliŋ her hair soaked through with blood.

“I-I think we’ve done e-enough fightiŋ… don’t you?”

Holden and Ayu lowered their heads in shame, while Aria dropped to her knees, clutchiŋ her shaman's stone in her hands. “D-don’t worry,” the Warden whispered, haviŋ lacked the streŋgth to speak any louder at this point. “You’ll… see me again someday.” At this, Aria looked up from the stone, wipiŋ away the tears from her eyes. Her mouth moved, and the Warden assumed she was askiŋ some form of “How?”

“J-just… just trust me,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I’ll… come back someday.” With the last of her streŋgth and the light fadiŋ from her eyes, the Warden clasped Aria’s hand in her own. The knight’s blood-covered gauntlet threatened to slip out of Aria’s hand, but the siren held firm, pushiŋ her shaman’s stone into the dyiŋ Warden’s hand.

“That’s… what f-friends do…”

Author's Note

Well, that’s one chapter finished! How’d I do? I’d really appreciate it if you guys would be williŋ to let me know in the comments. Now, I’m not one of those “It’s my first story; cut me some slack,” kind of people. I welcome any and all criticism, but I ask that you try to be constructive. Flamiŋ and hatred will accomplish nothiŋ, and I can’t improve if I don’t know what I’m doiŋ wroŋ.

Nevertheless, I thank you all for taking the time to read this. It truly means a lot to me.