TWO MONTHS LATER

Her mission was not supposed to take her here, though she would never admit that, mainly because it would result in her head being cut off. That unfortunate impasse in Belanore to the southeast added a few dozen years, which made it all the more difficult to do that.

"You must find them, Jira," her father had told her. "You must find them and get them to safety."

Before she could really even attempt the second stage of the mission, the first being becoming a knight, Duke Oudet went to war against the king. Now the mission was in danger of being a complete failure, and she had little recourse but to adapt.

And here you are. So far from the goal. So lost in the storm, struggling to wade your way out of the tide. Trapped in these walls like a prisoner.

By no stretch of the phrase, the Star Bastion was the most absurd construct mankind ever built. And she had seen castles in lands as far as Asne Unarith across the Jade Ocean and city ruins as lost as those in the Hell Pit to the north. Such was its absurdity and immediately identifiable audacious invulnerability that, upon arriving at the Bastion two months ago, the first thing she did was turn to Gíla Arsinoe and say: "If we lose this place to a siege, we are without a doubt the worst fighters in the history of warfare."

It was not only the size that was outrageous to her but also that this place had somehow gone unseen for hundreds and hundreds of years before Aslofidor the First rediscovered it. The mountain range it was set in, known as the Spine, was the single largest landmass in the kingdom and was visible hundreds of kilometers away. Moreover, it had been manned only by a fraction of a negative value of the royal army even when the Aslofidor bloodline possessed one of the grandest armies on the continent. The Ircotts, according to the Drayheller stuck at her side, had only ever used the massive - gargantuan - fortress for their own personal degeneracy, with the latest ruler being a gluttonous pig who’d devour the entirety of Alsofidor’s food stock before ever putting mind to defending his gem of a castle.

Ignoring the entire length of the bridges, which themselves took three hours to ascend, the fortress built on a near mile-long sheer cliff and into the face of the range’s tallest mountain - known, logically enough, as the Star - was also incredibly large. So large, in fact, that it was more of a city than a castle, if any such comparison could be made at all. An utterly ungovernable city.

Jira’s final opinion of the place was that no one could successfully operate this grand construct in the modern age. The portcullis, for example, was as tall as a desert giant wearing boots and as iron-strong as an old man’s refusal to vacate his hereditary home, while the gatehouse it was settled in appeared as big as the smallest visible mountain near the base of the range. The outer wall had three sides - the northern, the western, and the eastern, with the south side of the Bastion protected by the towering mountain. Using other buildings as value, they were easily six citadels in height and at least two fortresses thick with interior rooms and floors designed to defend against an assault. Their battlements were manned with ballistae, repeater scorpions, catapults, and trebuchets, along with innumerable crenels, which were also in great numbers on the towers stationed at the corners of the front side. Taller than the walls with winter’s ice-blue coating, these towers were more suited to house arcaenomancers than soldiers in leather armor or plate mail, and Jira could only guess what lay inside them.

Beyond the gate was the outer bailey, filled out with necessary buildings such as six tavern-sized stables, ten three-story storehouses, two smithies, an unknown number of livestock stalls, a bakehouse the size of a flagship, five granaries, an unknown number of barns, an actual tavern the size of a royal home, and six living quarters for servants and guards. The wall separating the outer bailey from the inner bailey was, surprisingly, far more manageable in height, with the Lord’s Keep visible over its top.

The keep itself was the biggest of all the buildings, with its tower so tall that it possessed a balcony reaching out over the battlements of the east. Within the inner bailey, things thankfully calmed in the insanity of design. First was the existence of a church to God that had been the most recently constructed part of the Bastion’s territory, identifiable by its darker colored stone as opposed to the white colored stone used in the fortress’s construction. Secondly were the two massive barracks for elite knights and three-story kennel extensions for war dogs. Thirdly was the gate that led into the mountain and down into tremendous antechambers that would serve as the army’s living quarters.

Perhaps ten percent of the total volume of the Star Bastion had been utilized in the past two months. Livestock, horses, and grains had been delivered in some quantity by caravans from Jore and other civilized places in the rebellious duchy, adding to the already present stocks of supplies. The smiths had been filled with skilled laborers and apprentices, giving the bailey a shroud of steam and smoke from dawn till dusk. The bakehouse ran almost the entire day and through the night, with loaves of bread and other goods being mixed, tossed, flattened, shaped, and baked in great mass. That was at least a decent smell as opposed to the manure of animals, oils of the smiths, and whatever horrid stench reeked out from the church.

Jira sighed as the monstrosity of it all rested in her mind like a napping cat, her vision plagued by a transparent image of that wall that loomed before her.

She stood alone in the outer bailey near the gate to the inner ward. It was midnight and everyone else - save for the guards manning the battlements and gatehouse - was asleep or wandering the antechambers. The quiet nights like this gave her time to reflect and consider the events. Much had gone wrong since she came north from Belanore, and much had been pushed aside in the name of this war she did not want to join in the first place. She had become a knight in the duke’s name, a leader of a guild she had no feelings for. A guild she did not mourn after they were all demolished in the battle of Vucan. They were fools, driven into madness by the actions of that charlatan and questioning not an ounce of what occurred.

"You must remain smarter than them," she had told Gíla on their first night in the Bastion. "You need to stay alive. It is vital."

"Why is it vital?" Gíla had asked.

Jira had popped a grape into her mouth and chewed slowly, musing on what she was going to say. She swallowed dramatically hard and turned to her new friend. "Who else will tell my story when it’s all said and done?"

"Out here alone?" asked a toneless voice.

Jira turned to see the lithe blazing-red-haired figure of Orlantha Quills, Captain of the Bloody Ravens, striding toward her from the inner ward's entrance. As it had been for months, the woman was alone, her second having died in the battle of Vucan. Upon seeing her for the first time, Jira had regarded her as an oddity. Some called her the Crimson Wing. Jira called her a threat, a mystery, someone that was as much of a "should-not-be-here" as herself. To the people of this kingdom, she was likely a star figure of exotic attraction. Her hair was so vibrantly red that it looked almost meshed together like a long crimson helmet, yet still wavy and luxurious. The ends were braided with beads after some family custom, hanging in tails along the cut lines of a sharp fair face. Her eyes pierced the night toward her like glowing green stars. She moved with an elegance about her, though Jira saw it as serpent-like. Slithering rather than walking. When she came to a stop just feet from the silver-haired woman, she had forced her slim body into a flawless ‘ready to strike’ aura hidden behind an approachable openness.

Only six others could serve as the perfect prodigal knights that this Bastion needed, someone capable of reining in the others until the time for the slaughter hit its mark. Talented, skilled, efficient, practical, and diplomatic to a degree. Unbeatable, they said, with the rapier sheathed on her hip. All aspects of the best soldiers the Duke had in his arsenal. Beware her. Whatever the truth is behind such a lie, you cannot read it. You cannot expect it. You cannot fight it.

Jira was an expert at lies and deception. It was her trade. That and the assassination of high-profile political figures to stir the pot towards the desired flavor. Of course, how else could she have made it this far? But Orlantha Quills was better. Far better.

"Are you cold?" she asked, momentarily catching her breath as she took in the ethereal nature of Jira's face after she looked at her.

"No, Captain Quills," Jira finally said, deftly hiding the nearly automatic hints of tension in her voice and looking back at the monstrous wall. It was a simple question. Orlantha wore wool clothing suited for a place this high up. Jira wore only ash-colored trousers with an ankle cuff, tanned leather boots, and a gray linen tunic over an equally gray shirt. The heels of Orlantha's boots clacked on the stone, and the flaps of her grey-black fur coat flapped like devil’s wings in the wind. There was no chill from it. No cold. It was warm, in fact, like the breath of a drunkard. The arcaeno is strong here. Filling this mountain with life and ease of habitation. Gaudy, devastating in its size. But, honorable with its magics. These people do not deserve it. No one deserves it.

"Why do you stand alone?" Orlantha asked, just subtly reacting like all the others did to the pins and needles of Jira’s voice. Jira quickly glanced at her face and saw it shadowed by the night's darkness.

Act approachable. Avoid insult. Get her to leave amicably. Return to the camp. An invisible mask slipped on her face, and the sickly sweetness vanished behind the veil of warmth. "I enjoy the solitude of the night. It helps clear my head after a hard day’s work."

Orlantha stepped closer, now side by side with the ghostly woman, sharing her gaze at the monstrosity that was a wall. "Yes. We could all use a night for it. I especially, what with dealing with the commander’s…difficult nature every day. Apologies if that offends you. You seem to hold Mille in high regard."

"It does not," she promised. "Mille is a woman true to her values above all else. She is unpleasant in that regard on the best of days."

Orlantha gave a roguish smile with her bow-shaped lips. "I am inclined to agree. I know we have encountered one another before, yet I fail to recall your name presently."

She extended a hand, turning to face her directly. She pivoted, hinting towards a demure bow, and took her hand into her own. She gripped it delicately and offered a disarming smile. "I am Jira ne'Jiral. Knight of the Argent Contemptors."

Orlantha's face beamed with some unknown emotion that sent chills throughout Jira's arms. "Ah. That's right. Your guild was slaughtered entirely. Except for you. How lucky for a knight that has served the Duke for...how long again?"

Truth be told, she had served the duke since she arrived in Aslofidor out of necessity mixed with practicality. It was decidedly easier to be knighted by the gracious duke than the king, and seeing as how being knighted was the first objective - well, it just made sense. "I have served the duke since the beginning of the rebellion," she lied, her voice wobbly with emotion. "I was in service to King Asolofidor for quite a time until I saw his acts of cruelty and sin. I could not stand by and condone his crimes. I had to fight back for the people."

Tears shimmered in her eyes. Orlantha reached forward and placed a hand on Jira's shoulder, her face soft with what Jira assumed was understanding. "It's okay, Jira ne'Jiral. You fight for the right man now."

She fought the urge to knock the strange woman's hand away and merely nodded as she wiped the crystal tears from her eyes. Thankfully, Orlantha returned her hand to her side. "It's good to know that. It fills me with confidence."

She smiled. "Do you think our commander shares that confidence?"

Jira faked a simper. "No. As well you know, she made the journey to Vucan hell for the rest of us. She was the only one to oppose that battle and made sure we knew it. Hounded every night on how foolish it was during the first weeks of the march."

"And after she was done barking, she held us to a higher standard for our training drills. Personally attended every single one during camp. Tried to make the rank and file quit and go home, tried to make us lose confidence in our ability to lead a fight. Didn’t work, did it?"

Jira shook her head. "With a name like 'the Wolf,' she should have been eager to fight."

Orlantha lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. "It’s what we lived with. What we died with. But not you. You survived."

Jira’s brows knitted. She began to form a response when something glinted, flashed like a brilliant star, and vanished all at once in the peripheral of her right eye. Jira shot her gaze to where it had been, widening her eyes with perplexment. "Did you see that?" she asked no one in particular.

"See what?" Orlantha asked.

Another flash, this one directly in her vision. A mystery. Something curious in this curious place. Bright sapphire in the dark sky, momentary and transient. It floated down before dissipating behind the outer wall. She stepped forward, almost entranced by it. Though it was nearly a quarter-mile away, she could see it flash again through the thick bars of the portcullis as if it was right outside. Her steps were mere pads on the stone.

The bakehouse roared with life inside as the night-shift bakers scrambled to prepare the bread for the morning stews. The residual oils of the smithies wafted through the air in thin strands of scent. The horses neighed; the cows, sheep, and pigs made their rumbles; the laborers snored through open windows. More noise than usual, and she paid it no mind. Sapphire brilliance grew closer as the wall loomed more and more titanic over her. Breaths came short and sharp as her paddings became striding tramps.

"Jira," Orlantha called out again, following her but gaining no distance to her as the gatehouse neared. "Lady ne'Jiral, where are you going?"

She did not answer her but stopped at the iron curtain of the portcullis. The light had vanished again in a blink. Jira pressed against the metal, peering into the world outside for that light. Drawn to it like a dog is drawn to a bone. Something more than arcaeno? Something new. A new curiosity.

"Lady ne'Jiral," Orlantha asked once again, her tone somehow so apathetic that it held a special type of contempt. "What is the matter?"

Jira took a moment before answering. She backed away from the portcullis, spun around on her heels, and pushed past the red-haired knight with hard breaths escaping her lungs. "Nothing," she said. "A flash of wonder is all."