"Contrary to her rough appearance, Annalay was once meant to walk the path of a healer, for she belonged to the Order of the Mending Virtue as her mother and her mother's mother had led for many long years. Naturally she was expected to succeed them, only for the Virtues to find themselves bereft of an heir after she had forsaken her family name and joined the knighthood. It caused quite the stir back then; they insulted her for turning her back on family, on her duty. However, I remember it a little differently. Annalay was the one they abandoned. They failed her."

  —Lorelai Principality, Former Throne of Heaven

  ———

  The Knight

  The winged woman in thorns is a curiosity. According to the Knight’s recollection, the people of Polus value appearance and formality. It is their identity, the culture in which they stake their namesake, yet the new knight displays anything but. She stamps about with heavy, uneven step, her back curved into a hunch, and a slurring crass reverberation follows her every word.

  Even so, a deception lurks within. Hidden beneath the messy facade is a sharp, honed composure and a will under deliberate control. She is not like Dariel. She is dangerous.

  “Hoh? Looks like blood takes after blood,” she says, ruffling the officer’s hair much to his dismay. “Well, at least you’re cuter than that old fart! Speaking of which, he’s really damn upset at you. Said if you don’t come back to the capital right now, he’ll take away your scrolls or whatever the hells that means.”

  “Huh? No, he would stoop that low!?” Dariel gasps with eyes drenched in utter peril. “Wait, that’s beside the point. What brings you out here, Lady Annalay?”

  “What else? I’m here to pick up the remnant from the Alexandria.”

  “They relegated such a task to one with your position?”

  Annalay shrugs. “I don’t know, and I don’t really care; if Ascalon tells me to do it then I’ll do it. Just think of me as an exclusive convoy service! They even gave me this fancy top-of-the-line carriage from Ishmahab.”

  A bewildered expression creeps onto Dariel’s face, and for good reason: There is no such construct within the vicinity.

  “Where is it?” he asks.

  “Say that again? Didn’t hear ya.”

  “Where is the carriage?”

  “Ah. That.” Annalay peeks behind herself, staring off into the distance with an innocent, feigned guise. “Well, they’ll catch up eventually. The damn thing was moving slower than a foreman after a visit to the local brewery! Can’t fault me for wanting to get a little bit of a head start.”

  “So you abandoned the escort procession?”

  “Abandoned is a strong word you brat, but yes.”

  No words. The officer is speechless.

  The Nature’s Throne attempts to break the silence with a guttural hack of her throat, but it only serves to further steep their surroundings in discomfort. “So, where’s that survivor of ours? Who knows, I might even know the poor sap.”

  Dariel motions over to the Knight with a hesitant wave, caution etched in his movements, but there’s naught he can do before one of higher rank. “That will be a bit difficult. Their condition has vastly improved since their emergence from the forest, but the miasma’s exposure has left their memories stuck in a haze.”

  “Is that so?” She slowly trudges over and pats the being’s shoulder, but the gesture is not done out of concern. Her eyes are affixed with an eerie, dubious light. “You’re an interesting one: a bit burly, but not enough to be a Power knight. A little slender, but not like those of the Principality. That’s a pretty big mace there so you can’t be from any of the support divisions… well, let’s have a look at that face then. I’m not too good at recognizing people, but it doesn’t hurt to try.”

  “I would advise against that as well. They—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I can feel it: that sickly mist’s presence. Strange they look perfectly fine right now if it’s still clinging to them.”

  “How could you say that?” Dariel says. “You weren’t there when we found them lumbering in the forest. I still remember it clearly: the sight of their body twisted and contorted in pain. You weren’t there when all we could hear throughout the night were their screams crying out in agony!”

  The officer continues to berate the Throne, perhaps hoping to receive an apology from her. He doesn’t succeed. The woman is apathetic before the tirade and a brusque yawn is all his efforts yield.

  “Alright, I get it. Our survivor friend here has gone through a lot, right?”

  “Yes, and I implore you to be a bit gentler with your treatment.”

  “Gentle. Sure, I can be gentle. Just let me ask a little something first.”

  The grip on its shoulder tightens, and Annalay lowers herself down until the Knight can feel the warmth of her breath directly against its helm.

  “Who are you?”

  Dariel attempts to protest again, but a burst of bloodlust sends him staggering onto the ground. The Throne’s intentions are clear: None may disturb her.

  “Answer me, now.”

  There is only one response it can give. “I don’t know.”

  The bloodlust fades. Her grip loosens. Annalay trots back with an uncanny display of cheerfulness, her previous aggression vanishing as quickly as it arose, and she helps the struggling officer back onto his feet with not a hint of guilt for her actions.

  “Is that so?” she says with a hum. “How terribly tragic.”

  Before anyone can react, a flash of green glints across the Knight’s view. It looks down and discovers the prickly edge of a halberd pointed straight at its throat.

  “This is madness!” Dariel wheezes, strength still bereft from his body.

  “Sorry kid, but this needs to be done.” Her voice is no longer filled with the crass echo. Now, it is clear, honed, and suffused with hardened intent. “They may don Polus's emblems, but our kingdom’s technique is forged through countless years of training. No imposter could ever mimic our style. If they’re one of ours, I’ll recognize it instantly.”

  “But their body—”

  “Hah! If they’re truly a knight, then they won’t break easily. We’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

  Annalay raises her glaive high into the air.

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  “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.”

  And swings with the full force of her strength.

  The Knight quickly swings its mace and counters the attack with a bash - sparks spraying across its armor with tiny red embers - but the blow sends it flying back nonetheless, and it crashes directly into the medical tent. Splintered wood and flayed sheets fling out as a thick cloud of dust blankets the area, and confused cries from the surrounding personnel beg for the Throne to stop. It dissuades her not. She marches forward and readies her verdant blade once more.

  “Get up. I’m not done with you yet.”

  ———

  Annalay

  The suspicious knight rises from the rubble with a shaky step. They’re a bit beat up, but all in all it looks like her strike didn’t shake them up too much. Off to a good start. I would’ve been real disappointed if it ended this soon.

  “Come on,” Annalay taunts with a wag of her finger. “I’ll let you have the next move. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even leave a scratch.”

  But the knight decides to stay still, their feet planting firmly onto the earth, and readies their mace in a defensive position. The posture looks a bit similar to the one the Power’s use, but something’s a bit off. The movements don’t quite align and give off an old-fashioned kinda feeling. Annalay doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but she doesn’t let it bother her. Eh, similar enough. Guess that’s just their style.

  Still, one measly little guard isn’t enough to prove their identity. It’s time to get a little rough.

  “Well, if you insist. Don’t blame me for what’s comin’ next.”

  Annalay stabs her halberd into the ground and charges, dragging the earth in a trail of dirt as she closes in on the poor, unsuspecting soul. With a cackle and an upward rend, the heaping mound is sent hurtling forward. Her blade hovers up high as she awaits to descend on her stunned victim, but the moment never arrives. Instead, the knight lets itself be carried away by the force and redirects the dirt back with a big swing, splattering the filth all over her armor.

  It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t even cause her to flinch, but hells be damned if it isn’t a humbling experience.

  Now hold on here… that was a Principality technique. You deceived me!

  “Hm,” she mumbles, body trembling as an uncontrollable itch begins to assault her sides. Her hands shake; her waist doubles over; and she delivers a hearty slap to her thigh as a roaring fit explodes from her core and out into the wide, open sky. “Ya got me! Sorry about that little prank there. From now, I’ll fight you like a real Polus warrior.”

  Annalay forgoes her lavish techniques and takes a deep breath of the soil-wrought air: rich, musty, and full of life. There’s no better joy than a good spar on a nice, chilly day. She erupts with a blast of movement, bolting straight for the knight while whirling her glaive around and cleaving through the camp in an indiscriminate path of destruction. Their weapons collide, loud shockwaves sending the surrounding crowd tumbling back with each weighty smash. Thud onto thud, her glaive connects, and she savors every blissful sound of scraping metal on edge; the melody’s like a grand orchestra, and Annalay is the conductor, guiding the knight as the two put on one killer of a performance.

  Surprisingly enough, her little duo partner is holding up quite nicely despite her assault. They barely manage to repel her blows by maintaining a steadfast anchor and redirecting the force onto the ground around them.

  Although Annalay is restraining herself for obvious reasons, it’s pretty impressive that the knight has held on for so long. Quite the fortitude on this one. The fellows back home are far too boring to spar with because of my position, and the only ones who can put up a decent fight are all scattered about the Caelum lines. It’s quite nice to finally unsheathe the ol’ glaive on a non-rusted body for once. I might actually be able to go a bit rough this time.

  “Looks like you’ve got some spirit in you!” she bellows. “But this just won’t do. Let’s shake things up for a change.”

  Annalay raises her leg up high and smashes the ground with her heel, sending a tremor tunneling below and uprooting the knight straight into the air. The sky is Seraph territory: if you don’t have wings, then all that’s left is to accept the inevitable.

  She manifests her earthen feathers and takes off, speeding toward the helpless knight with her glaive primed for annihilation. But just as the blade arcs into a cleave, the survivor forcefully lurches their body into a painful looking twist and avoids the blow, bashing the edge at just the right moment to send themself crashing to the ground and back to safety.

  Annalay is dumbstruck. By Cosmos’s tits, who would have ever thought that old move working out in a real fight? That ain’t something some regular old spy can even know about, let alone pull off.

  After returning to the camp with a lazy fall, the repentant Throne emerges from the impact and prepares to do the one thing she hates most: apologize. Yeah, I messed up. To be fair, who wouldn’t be suspicious over something like this? But that’s enough; I think we can end it here.

  “Ahem,” she coughs. “I’ve seen enough. You don’t have to—”

  A blur of steel sends her retreating back in a moment of instinctual caution. The knight rushes forward, their mace ready to crush.

  … Yep, I wouldn’t end it like that either if I spent the entire time being treated like some training doll. Guess I’ll have to entertain ya a bit longer.

  Their positions reverse and Annalay switches to the defensive as the knight assaults her with strangely powerful bashes. It’s not like their attacks are particularly fast; rather, they have an odd sense of depth to them. Her glaive rings with dizzying vibration every time she repels the blows, and they do a rather good job at maintaining a steady, unrelenting pressure.

  The defense isn’t too bad either. Each little area and blind spot is meticulously guarded even in the midst of their attacks, and their subtle footwork allows them to push back and forth in a beautiful flowing dance of aggression and quick retreat.

  Annalay finds herself spellbound by the enchanting technique. In a brief moment, she lets her guard down and immediately suffers from a single, heavy bash to her abdomen. It’s a solid blow, one strong enough to even knock the air out of her lungs, and the giddy Throne lets out a crazed laugh as she retreats far away.

  “Passing marks all around!” she cries out with a heart completely taken over by ecstasy. This is it: the kind of fight one needs to really get their blood pumping. “You’re good, real good. I haven’t felt this way in a long time, so I’ll show you something special for your efforts!”

  The wind gathers around her, swirling into a miniature tornado as her glaive pants deep into the soil and washes over with green, murky aura. Creation squirms: a chant is near.

  “Shifting mound of the earth’s hollow, bless upon me—”

  A flash flies right past her and knocks the weapon away from its burrowed root. The halberd is gone, vanished under a pile of rubble, and so is the knight’s mace.

  Annalay can only stand in shock at the sheer audacity.

  “Oh, honey,” she gasps. “I might just be in love.”

  With both their armaments gone, the knight rushes in barrages her with a frenzy of punches and feints. The thorns on her cuirass do little to dissuade the hefty blows. Their fists carefully strike between the gaps, and the dazed Throne is forced to put up a sluggish defensive after the sudden switch in style.

  Finally, the inevitable occurs and a straight kick to her knee sends Annalay toppling forward, her helm freely exposed. The knight wastes no time with the sudden opportunity; a ferocious hook is coming in fast any second now.

  “Gotcha.”

  With a twist of her head, their attack only manages to graze Annalay’s cheek, leaving behind a nice, open spot ripe for retaliation. And retaliate she does with a devastating uppercut straight into the knight’s rib cage. They gasp from the impact, voice leaking out in a sputter, before collapsing onto the dirt bed and falling silent. A large fist-sized dent is imprinted on their armor; the winner has finally been decided.

  Annalay roars out with a triumphant cry, basking in the adrenaline from the surprisingly well fought battle. The close combat is a bit unexpected, but she isn’t complaining at all. How long has it been since a brawl has been this exciting? Lorelai is the only other person that met her clash with this intensity. It brings back fond memories of their training days battling it out on the field for days on end without rest. Now that was a real fun time.

  “Whew, it’s been a long while since I’ve fought fist to fist. You sure did a good job at keeping me on my toes.”

  The knight doesn’t respond. Hells, they don’t even so much as twitch. That can’t be good.

  “Oh. Um, I might have gone a bit too hard there.”

  A familiar face shouts at her from afar with a really, really angry sounding voice. Dariel runs up to the unconscious knight and frantically orders for them to be carried away, but he doesn’t forget to give the guilty victor a sharp glare beforehand.

  Oops.

  “Well, they’re definitely one of ours,” she says with a nervous laugh. It only makes things worse. “I’m guessing they probably belong to the Principality, so chances of being one of the elite guards are pretty high. Who knows? Maybe my beating will jog up some of those old memories.”

  Dariel continues to glare. Luckily, Annalay’s savior arrives in the form of the carriage she had left behind rumbling in the distance. Looks like they finally arrived. Thank the Stars, truly.

  “I’ll, uh, head back. Just load them up onto the transport and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Without treatment?” he mutters with a menacing drawl.

  “There are some Astrologians inside. I’m not that thoughtless.”

  “… Very well, but I’m going as well lest my friend to arrive at the capital as a corpse. Someone needs to assist them, and I don’t think it’s going to be you.”

  His words sting. They really do, but it makes sense. Annalay knows she deserves this, so there’s nothing else to do but endure Dariel’s disappointment and one little word constantly nagging at the back of her mind.

  Shit.