Horns blared across the forest, but it sounded far away from Jona's ears, as if it's happening in another city. The soil quivered underneath his soles, going with the heart-clenching vibrations from the deep blasts of noise. It's a signal, and only the Dwanzeigian soldiers knew what it meant. Buried deep in the steep incline were something only the Grand Monarch's inner circle were aware of. Consider it their last resort, but Jona wasn't giving in to chance when it came to protecting the throne.

The wind picked up, rustling the remaining undergrowth. Jona clenched his jaw as the soldiers below did everything they could to get away from the impending doom while getting away from the black-clad people who chased them down.

Then, the entire mountain exploded.

A stringent groan streaked through the sky after that. At the tip of Jona's boots, the outer edge of the mountain cracked. He didn't need to stomp his foot to break it. The pull of the earth did that for him. Rocks, uprooted trunks, and clumps of soil rushed to the ground without mercy, without picking out who to spare from whoever's left at the bottom. Brown plumes bloomed and went the opposite way, blowing straight into the faces of the soldiers who made it by the lip of the grove in time.

Below, tons of confused and terrified screams were overshadowed by the pained crackles made by the tumbling quarries. By the time the rocks crashed into them, sweeping them off the incline as one would brush the floor with a broom, no voices could be heard.

The ground hissed, going against the silence of what's supposed to be the city of Ardgate. Smoke rose from the ground, carrying with it the smell of fresh earth, sap, and the faint whiff of rust.

So, that's the effect of the homegrown bombs the Grand Monarch ordered to be stuck deep into the sides of Gandirk's mountain. Due to calculated radii of influence, the spires and the entire plain where the throne's sanctuary perched on weren't touched. Everything else stood to burst the moment the horns sounded and the self-destruct mechanism started ticking. Jona found it hard to believe it came from the head of the only brownie in the espionage division. What was his name? Ah. Marthiaq. Marthiaq Lebayou.

This line of defense worked. Jona filed a note in his head to give the feedback to the brownie when they met again. Was he even in Dwanzeig at the moment? Or was he traipsing around in Penleth or Lanbridhr, doing who knew what?

Suddenly, Jona recalled the deep respect he reserved only for his father. As the Grand Monarch, his business extended from internal matters, touching external issues and gripping them by the scruff. And by sending his spies from all over, it's a miracle he was able to keep track of all their correspondences and their findings.

Was there even activity in the espionage division now that the Heiress was throwing all her stones at Dwanzeig? What about Synketros? Should Acosa be preparing for their onslaught?

Murmurs from the soldiers surrounding him came alive, bring Jona back to the present. How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? Days? Jona didn't know. All that registered in his mind was the sight of his beloved territory and the forest he fought so hard to maintain now reduced to an expanse of mud and blood.

A shaky breath blew out of his mouth and shifted in the wind. He...did it. He harmed nature of his own accord, buried souls underneath rubble, and unleashed a hell he didn't know how to fix. Would Pidmena exile him to a life of punishment now that he had blood on his hands? Would Nael ever forgive him? It seemed all he had done recently was make one atrocious act after another.

And the Heiress' men...

His stomach churned. A hand clamped against his mouth, his boots skidding away from the new edge of the mountain. Cold sweat tore through his skin, sending shivers down his spine. He pushed through the faceless crowd, and like a coward, fled deeper into the sanctuary.

Everything melded into a blur of colorful blobs, burning and stinging his eyes. Heartbeat drummed from his temples to his toes. His chest heaved, filling his head with unwanted air until it felt so light he figured he'd pass out before he got anywhere. For all he knew, he was somewhere in the grove, running in frantic circles.

A tent flap rustled behind him, metal rings clicking against each other across the rod they hung on. His knees hit the gravel's sharp points jutting from the ground. The bile climbing his throat became impatient.

He retched.

Weak fingers clutched the edge of the basin provided for all the bathrooms inside the sanctuary. Jona recognized the wooden planks nailed to form a deep crevice used for drawing water from the well somewhere in the middle of Gandirk. The back of his hand wiped the corners of his mouth as he pushed away from the basin and wandered towards where he and Nael slept.

A spare mattress and some blankets were pushed against a wall made of the same material of the spires. He only got to know these living quarters made from patched fabric and discovered cave systems when Jar and the others gave him a quick tour of the city he's supposed to be defending. And now, it's like he's destroying it one chip after the other.

It was his fault the Heiress found Gandirk. If he only stayed put and rested like Nael insisted he do, Cardovia wouldn't have found the throne without even trying. In short, Jona had been his race's salvation as well as its doom.

The first part remained to be seen. Jona has yet to save anyone. But how could he? He couldn't even save himself.

Movement glinted in his periphery. He turned to the source to find a mirror hanging from the small closet pushed into the wall. It's for storing essentials brought in by guests—starting from clothes, weapons, and well...the occasional versallis. Jona had to drill it to his mind that soldiers lived here, and that they're here to stay.

He dragged his gaze towards the person reflected in the mirror. Gaunt face, pale skin, sunken cheeks, chapped lips, bloodshot eyes.

It wasn't him. No way this person was him.

Slowly, he raised a hand to his cheek. His reflection followed suit. Fingers ran through the tips of his waist-length green hair. This...this would only get in the way. Now that the last line of defense was gone, should the Heiress send more soldiers against them, there's no way the remaining Dwanzeigian soldiers would be able to take them. At some point in this drawn-out battle, Jona would have to join the front lines.

And he couldn't do that if he looked the same way as he did before.

Because this wasn't him.

It wasn't him.

A sword appeared in his hand. Apparently, he had dug it out of the closet. It was the same sword Nael brought from Acosa. The dark sheen glinting against the meager light filtering through the tarps shielding him from the rest of the world told him enough. Dwarven metal. Always this godsdamned metal.

His fingers gathered his hair in a bunch. The edge of the blade bit against his neck at the same time it snipped the earliest strands closest to his skin. He didn't care. He shouldn't care. The war was bound to choose everyone who went through it. This should be nothing. This was nothing.

He pulled the blade backward. A weight eased off the back of his head, followed by the distinct sound of hair being snipped. The sword clattered to the ground. His boots crunched against what used to plait his back. He forced his eyes to meet his reflection's. His fingers almost touched the mirror's surface when the rings slid across the metal bar again.

"Qerdo's pyres," Nael's sharp curse tore Jona's attention from the mirror. "What has gotten into you?"

Jona whirled back to his reflection and exhaled through his mouth. "What, indeed?" he said. His voice sounded hollow in his ears. So...empty.

He felt himself being pulled elsewhere. "Stay here," Nael's urgent voice said before fading into a distance Jona would never reach. It wasn't even a minute when crunching footsteps came alive behind Jona.

"You should have told someone you wanted to cut your hair," Nael chided, urging Jona to sit on the ground. Fingers shuffled the frayed strands here and there. Nael looked like he knew what he was doing. "Why the sudden decision?"

Jona opened his mouth but promptly closed it when the first noise streaked past his ears. Snip. He froze, watching green locks drop to the floor. Nael had cut close to the scalp. Too close. Snip. Snip.

Snip.

"I had to join you in the front," Jona answered to the question he left hanging for as long as his tongue stayed frozen at the floor of his mouth. "I can't stay here and watch people die doing my job."

Silence. Snip. Snip.

Where did Nael even manage to find a pair of scissors?

"It's their duty too," Nael said, chipping more of Jona's locks. His tone was quiet, barely even a whisper. He didn't tell Jona to stay and cower behind the spires. What changed?

Jona pursed his lips. "I hurt a lot of people today."

The scissors froze halfway from snipping another lock. Nael blew a small breath from his nose. "Me too," he said.

And that's the truth to this whole escapade. They would be hurt, and they would hurt others. Suffering would be inevitable, and there was always something they would be bound to lose. Jona had to be strong. He had to accept that fact or it would eat him from the inside.

Nael tucked the scissors back to where he got it—from his satchel of supplies, apparently—and Jona stood up and faced his reflection again. The person now had green hair sheared behind the ears. Short strands covered most of his forehead and hung in a rowdy mop around his head. The back of his neck felt weird whenever a breeze slapped it. What surprised him was that he didn't look as hideous as he had predicted. Nael sure did a good job. Again.

He leveled his gaze at himself, noting the frown lines starting to mar his skin. Smiling shouldn't be the first thing in his mind. This was war, and if Jona proved to not be as strong as he believed himself to be, there's no reason to bare his teeth in amusement.

This was war—he reminded himself over and over. Because if he stopped, it's easy to forget. And if he forgot...

Then, it would be easy to run.

2412 Qintax 15, Reshpe

"Today's battle logs," Jar reported, flipping through the sheafs of parchment in his hands. Written by the troop leaders and some from Jona's own hand, the only thing left was to read it. To make the truth clear. And final.

"Deceased—twenty," the general reported. "Injured with no chance of immediate recovery—thirteen. Injured but close to healing—eight. Tally of active troops—forty-one. Which brings the overall tally to the following: deceased—a hundred and seven; injured with no chance of immediate recovery—seventy-four; Injured but close to healing—ten."

All eyes present in the room snapped towards Jona's direction. He tried his best to not show it, but his head had been pounding since this morning, and with the barrage of attacks and deaths around him. It took a toll on him, for sure.

They sat on one of the bigger caverns which has been used as a meeting hall ever since the sanctuary was besieged. Among those present were the commanders, Nael, and the rest of the remaining soldiers. There's no use in keeping things when there's so few of them.

"Any news about reinforcements?" Jona asked, his voice tinged with the fatigue that never left his system. "Acosa? Komery? Opreah?"

Jar shook his head. Jona spied a couple of troubled expressions from the rest of the soldiers who made it through alive. "We got a hold of the espionage division in Acosa," Jar reported. "The rest of the Natura are in charge of hiding the entire population from the Heiress' forces."

"What about the mobile platoon Eldan promised?" Jona prodded.

"They would need to travel on foot, past the hotspots of the battle with Cardovic forces," Jar replied. "If they weren't already held back by points of conflict in need of immediate help, it'd take too long before they can make it to Ardgate."

The room's mood dropped notches sadder. Jona had little to no energy to keep trying to raise it up. He wasn't a soldier, yet he had learned to wield a sword as well as someone who had trained with the Natura all their lives. Maybe he'd learn how to be a commander should they live to see the next day.

"How about the enemy?" Jona asked. "What's their tally?"

Jar consulted his sheaf once more. "Three hundred people attacked us for the first time. I believe two hundred more appeared in the succeeding weeks," he said. "We have dealt with a huge percentage with the bombs, but the Heiress must have a stock of soldiers. Their numbers are estimated to be back to two hundred."

A sigh bled out of Jona's lips. How could forty-one people deal with that? "Well, that's it," he said. "Let's prepare for another day tomorrow. Avraja."

The word that flew back was half-hearted. Weary soles grumbled against the gravel as the soldiers filed out of the meeting hall and disappeared into their assigned rooms. Without the scuffle of a hundred people, the sanctuary felt all the more empty. Jona spotted Nael disappear into their cave, and Jona let him. Both of them needed all the rest they could get, but Jona had to be somewhere first.

He dropped by the Liferewarder yet again as he had been doing every night before. The soft pink glow of the petals never faded and never failed to bring some kind of comfort to his nerves. He laid a hand on the ground, careful of knocking one of the burning candles off. He didn't want to start an accidental fire and end this war faster than he'd like.

Still, he lowered his voice towards the throne. "Show me how to save you," he said in the same way he had been saying since he started visiting. "We can't hold on for much longer. If you have a secret, something you have to let me know, please do it now. Scream, if you have to."

It might sound silly, but as a kaviste keiju, it wasn't a foreign concept to him. Plants and anything conjured from the energy making up the world have a language. Sure, they might not understand it, but part of the kaviste listris was attuning one's soul to the hidden words of the flora, and elika listris, the fauna.

Perhaps, through some farfetched reasoning, thrones have voices too.

He lingered for a while and was about to call it a night and leave when the entire field lit up in a strange blue light. What...

Wasn't the flower's glow pink?

Jona rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was just seeing things. But true enough, the whole garden was sparkling blue, from the vines curling around and hanging from the branches of towering trees to the blades of grass sprouting from the ground in multi-colored bushes. A hushed breath flew out of his lips. The throne answered. The light was its reply, but...what did it mean?

As fast as the light came on, it flashed off, plunging Jona's world back to the dim expanse lit only by the moonslight streaming from the gaps between the spires. He sprung up. He had to tell Nael about this recent development.

He hasn't even gotten past a step when the spires quivered against the force of an explosion. Blood drained from his face. It was the siege, restarting from the ground up.