“All personnel have been successfully gathered at Point N,” a voice reports through the loudspeakers. “Supply lines are stable. Preparations are in their final stage.”

Tanalien sits silently on her bed, tapping rhythmically on her covers. Her entire body is wrapped around with bandages, her legs crisscrossed with stitches. It has already been quite a while since that battle, a month or so, she believes, yet her wounds are still closing, the nerves still repairing themselves. She still is bedridden, only quietly waiting in the hospital as she hears news on the war, the endless reports of victories streaming into her ears. For her, it is a fugue of overlapping, chaotic voices, bringing her nothing but annoyance.

She only wishes to one day lead her company into battle, winning one after another, their fame soon eclipsing even that of Battalion Elethien, the name of her company alone striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. She wants to win. If the world is within her grasp, she wants it. She has seen the power of the Anapadeia… and she wants to win it. She has seen the immense influence Nasition holds over the Confederation… and she desires it. Anything and everything, she wants it.

She is the epitome of greed, never satisfied until the day of her death.

Yet she is weakened, her first experiment humbled before the might of the Anapadeia, her soldiers all lying in the same hospital as her. She winces. Her body, still recovering from the injuries, remembers the sensation well. The feeling of humiliation from every slash, the helplessness from every hit… He was deliberately mocking her, asserting his superiority over her. The bitter taste of defeat she so resents still lingers, reminding her of her weaknesses.

But it is by no means the end. She has learned. Within that impossible speed and precision, she sees them. Patterns. Like the intricate structures of every building, every substance, every living being, there is a pattern within Avalel’s strikes. She senses it, the simplicity within the complexity, the orthodoxy within the unpredictability. She cannot put her mind exactly what it is, staying only as a feeling, but it gives her hope, hope that one day she can imitate, or perhaps even overmatch it in return.

She continues tapping on her covers. Her ambition cannot be tired, reduced by a mere setback, only temporarily marginalizing her away from the center of the stage. She will only be ever more thirsty, seeking for the next victory, and the next, and the next.

She will rise above all, whatever it takes.

A light knock, and Nasition enters, his expression relatively bright, pleased with perhaps some development of the day. Wearing his armor, he emanates a sort of majesty no different from the conquerors of old. Compared to his disappointment months earlier even after the major victory at the Pass, he is in far better spirits, his fatigue from years of war hiding just a little behind his proud face. For Tanalien, it is not a fair sign.

“Have you rested enough for the battle?” he asks. Straightforward, soft, perhaps even showing a hint of sympathy for her being. How strange for his character.

“We are grateful that the Common Leader himself has spared the time to visit his injured soldiers,” Tanalien thanks cordially. “Although sadly we are still hospitalized. Perhaps you are in a good mood?”

“Perhaps I am, but that is beside the point,” Nasition says. “How are your injuries?”

“The wounds are healing,” Tanalien states. “At the very least, I can jog slowly around the hospital.” It is somewhat of a lie, she knows. The soles of her feet ache in pain with every step, her hands incapable of even holding a knife or dagger. However, she cannot afford to lose such an opportunity. The battlefield is where she belongs, her current stage of performance. Any moment away from it is a moment lost and wasted. If she must hone her skills on the field, then so be it.

“Will you and your company be able to fight?” Nasition asks. “I cannot afford to have a company with such potential lying idle here. If I must be honest, I have come to receive the ones able to fight, for I have a plan only for everyone here.”

That's it, the answer she wants, Nasition playing into her hands. It is almost a little too perfect, his response being exactly as she imagined.

“Naturally,” she lies again. “I believe that we are still not yet fully recovered, but when you demand, we are prepared to fight.”

“No worries,” Nasition assures. “The mission will be relatively simple. Every one of you has suffered at least some disappointment from your last engagement. Although you will not play a major role in our upcoming battle, I intend to portray you as such. The mission… is simply to sabotage Battalion Elethien.”

“This is strange,” Tanalien responds slowly, resisting the urge to utter a cry of pleasant surprise. “Are we not chasing the same goal?”

“Do you not remember our conversation? I invested, spent effort on this company to become the potential it holds, to serve as a balance to Battalion Elethien. What better board than the battlefield of the enemy capital itself?”

“How many members do you intend to divert to the battlefield?”

“Everyone. A total of a thousand, spreaded out in sparse pockets. In this battle, I intend to defeat all of my opponents, internal and external. This is your purpose, to kill the Battalion.”

“We have a mere hundred, possibly less after the days of battle and injury.”

“The Battalion is not one with order. They are masters at covert missions, but together, they are only weaker. To give your company some time, we are to besiege the city, the Battalion acting as the vanguard, directly facing the forefront of the enemy lines. Meanwhile, you are to sit for a short while, wait for them to tire themselves, and when the time comes, snatch the victory from their hands.”

It is music to her ears. To hear the words from Nasition himself is nearly impossible, yet here he is, openly commanding his own troops to turn on one another. Tanalien enjoys it, the absurdity just beautiful to her mind. She cannot help but utter a breath of excitement and anticipation. Oh, the sheer irony and insanity of the Common Leader himself.

She stands, her bandaged, wounded body straightening to face Nasition. “We await your command, Common Leader.” It is so simple. The fire reignites in her heart, as she feels her soldiers as well, revitalizing them, energizing them, the mild yet constant pain subsiding from their bodies. Tanalien’s eyes are gleaming with excitement, her veins glowing dimly as the energy frantically courses through herself. There will be no more mistakes.

Nasition smiles.

“And what are you doing to contact me only at the final stages of the battle?” Tevlaia asks in annoyance.

“These are the plans for Battalion Elethien in the upcoming battle,” Nasition says, displaying overlapping maps and notes, and in a corner, the structure of the New Rules military.

Tevlaia scans through the wall of text and images, her head occasionally turning around for a moment, monitoring the training of the Battalion’s newest, hidden recruit. The layout of Thille, so painstakingly mapped out in great detail, shows layer after layer of identical floors, pillar positions, even building layouts. The intelligence is frightening. Only months ago, they did not know the whereabouts of the New Rule’s capital, but here they are, the entirety of the city laid out before their eyes.

However, she cannot comprehend such a scale. She soon finds herself only fixated on the narrow alleys, the uniform corridors so clustered together, claustrophobic for others yet so comforting for herself. She imagines her small blades dancing underneath the massive boulders and concrete, charging alone into the city itself. Frankly, she doesn’t care about these complicated displays, so far removed from the actualities of battle.

“And what is it that you want?” she questions. “You are not thinking of using the entire Battalion again, are you?”

“Not exactly, although I intend for you all to be our esteemed vanguard.”

That smile. That disgusting smile.

“The vanguard? A thousand, no, several hundred of us to span the entire attacking front?” Tevlaia laughs bitterly. “Do you remember how many troops we have lost at the Pass? One hundred and seven. One hundred and seven of my own comrades, trained for years, only to die from your stupid strategies! How many have we replaced since then? Sixteen. How many have you personally recruited from the ranks? Zero. Do you want to kill us all, Nasition? Are you going to kill your best soldiers, the ones who have sacrificed their entire lives for you?”

Silence. Nasition can only look at Tevlaia, his eyes displaying merely indifference.

“Is it not for the ‘greater good’?” he finally says. “Is it not better that we minimize our losses? The Battalion is only a collection of elite soldiers. Compared to this, what is the hundreds of thousands ready to lay down their lives for the Confederation? Are they worth less than what is essentially a tiny fraction of our might?”

“I only want the Battalion to fight on the front lines,” he continues. “It is that simple. If several of you fall, is that my fault, or perhaps the fault of their true leader?”

“Who are we to you? Who am I to you? Are we merely mindless pawns, only serving for your incomprehensible wishes?” Tevlaia shouts furiously.

“Do not test my patience,” Nasition warns. “The war will soon be over with the fall of Thille. Please do not ruin all that I’ve built, all that you’ve fought for, all that everyone has been waiting for. Please do not betray my trust.”

“The same to you,” Tevlaia hisses. “Do not expect us to fight with our full strength when we do not even feel the remotest of support from everyone’s favorite Common Leader.”

“You are just an orphaned girl had I not taken you in. Know your place, Tevlaia.”

“You are just an emotionally broken failure had I killed myself after the ordeal, Nasition.”

“What do you mean?”

Tevlaia remembers her small, bloodied fists, her head dizzy as she felt her energy sapped away, a mysterious aura emanating from her arms. She remembers the dead children, their bodies pummeled, beaten, broken, some still in a fetal position, others already shredded to hunks of unrecognizable flesh. She remembers that strange sense of strength, giving her unparalleled power compared to those weaklings, her lungs and heart almost ripped apart from the exertion. She remembers the clearness of vision despite her eyes covered, flooded with her own blood, looking at those murderous fists, the fingers broken, stabbed with fragments of bones, her skin torn apart. She remembers the feeling of her dislocated joints clicking back together, her shattered organs regenerating themselves, her body essentially healed from the brink of death with that same burst of power. Yet she felt weak. She remembers raising those same fists which had killed the other children, ready to strike at her own heart for some peculiar reason she still did not know.

And then they entered the room.

“That is up for you to decide, wise Common Leader,” she replies bitterly, looking at her muscular arms, a dark layer of energy coursing underneath her skin. “May this battle finally bring an end to this ‘unending’ war.”

Nasition opens the door to his bunker, just far enough away from Thille to not be of any risk, yet close enough to quickly enter battle if necessary. The door gently shuts behind him as he takes a seat, surrounded by the sprawling displays before him.

He laughs. Oh, his acting has never been better. He is quite satisfied with his busy yet fulfilling day. Thille is just in front of him, but its capture will not be enough to bring peace into the world. He hears the ruckus of the armies moving into position, the walls vibrating from the mobile fortresses assembled and gathered above the ground. It must be a majestic sight above… and frightening. Enough to flatten any city, driving the people to death and ruin.

It is precisely this power which makes him fearful. Battalion Elethien has become beyond his control, Tevlaia already having a defined, independent character, unsuitable for his goals. If, by some chance, she were to revolt, he may suffer the same fate as Stasibel nearly seventeen years ago. All that he has worked for will be for naught.

But that will be avoided. The convenient ambition of a certain Tanalien will be of great help to his plans. He suspects she has her own schemes, but he does not care. They are only his pawns, disposable, replaceable. Their knowledge of magic is only a liability to him, offering no advantage but perhaps a sense of shock and surprise. They are intelligent, but they are weak. When their use has expired, he will have no need for them, tossed away like a child discarding his old toys. She is shallow. They are unnecessary. At the end, they are just slightly enhanced soldiers, too sheltered to even unleash the power within them.

He looks at the sole blank display in front of him, marked “Casualties”. Yes, it will be a battle of great casualties, but after the end, the people will have already forgotten about them, focusing their eyes only on their Common Leader. A new era of peace is near. Like the Achien Empire falling in a blaze of revolution, so too will the New Rule crumble in the inferno of his wrath.

And finally, Avalel will be extinguished.

It is the fourth day of the fifth month, three days since Avalel has seized control of the New Rule.