1223-06-11
Alex Morgan:
The wind bites at my skin. I step out of the tent. The harsh light of dawn creeping over the eastern front. The air feels still, too still, for a battlefield so fresh with the scent of smoke and blood. We were hit hard, and the strain on the men is evident in their tired eyes. Not a single soul is untouched by the fury of the night.
I glance around the camp. The smoke still rises from the wreckage of the fight—burnt wagons, discarded weapons, and the dead scattered across the ground. The sounds of the wounded fill the air. Soldiers move between the fallen offering aid where they can.
The outcome was narrow, too close for comfort, but we've held the line. Just. The men fought with everything they had, but there's a hollowness to their victory. The resources we had left were stretched to the breaking point. And I can feel it.
I lost good men last night. Men I've fought beside for years. We have to keep moving, though. We can't afford to dwell on it.
The woman who brought me food the night before. It's strange, the way she stands out to me now
She's tending to a wounded soldier. Her hands move quickly as she applies what little medical supplies we have left. The sight of her steady hands comforts me in a way I can't explain.
"You're up early," she says softly.
"Not much else to do," I mutter. "And you're still going."
She gives a small shrug, her eyes flicking over the camp, then back to the soldier she's tending to. "Someone has to. The wounded won't tend to themselves."
I stand there for a moment, watching her. She seems so... out of place here. It's strange, how it pulls me in.
"I didn't catch your name yesterday," I say, trying to break the silence. "Mine's Morgan."
At the mention of my name, she looks up again, this time her eyes warm. She pauses for just a moment. A hint of something like amusement crossed her face.
"Nice to meet you, Morgan," she teased. "I'm Polly."
"Polly," I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. It's simple, but it fits her somehow.
"You seem like you could use some help," she says.
I nod, the exhaustion pressing down on me. I don't say a word.
" It's... hard to keep track sometimes."
But then I hear it—an explosion in the distance. A scream. And then—soldiers. UIK soldiers, charging across the camp.
"Polly!" I shout, my voice harsh with panic.
She doesn't hesitate. She crouches, scrambling under the bed. I grab my blade, stepping outside the tent just as the first wave of enemy soldiers surges through the camp.
The camp erupts into chaos. Metal clashed against metal. Shouts of commands. Cries of pain fill the air.
"Form up! Hold the line!" I shout, the words barely breaking through the din of battle. But we are already outnumbered, our men scattered, unable to form any real defense against the onslaught. The enemy pushes, driving us back, and I know we can't keep this up for much longer.
But as I fight, my thoughts keep circling back to Polly. I can't—won't—let them get to her.
I push forward, cutting down soldiers with grim precision, my mind locked on one goal: protecting her. There's no room for hesitation. No time to dwell on strategy or tactics. My every movement is fueled by the desperate need to get back to her, to keep her safe.
A soldier swings a blade at me. I barely manage to dodge. I bring my sword down on his chest.
The camp is overrun, the lines have broken. I can't see Polly. I can't—
Another explosion rips through the air, and the sound of men shouting orders reaches me. The UIK forces are retreating, the attack faltering. We've held them off. For now.
The enemy soldiers break away, retreating into the distance. The camp is left in a stunned silence. My body was covered in sweat and blood. I stumble back toward the tent. My heart pounding.
I lift the bed's edge and find Polly huddled beneath. She's shaking. Blood filled the floor of the tent. Soldiers must have been here.
I pull her out from under the bed.
"You're safe."
She doesn't say anything at first. She just clings to me, her body trembling. Her fear is palpable, but there's something else there too. Something I can't name.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice shaky but full of relief.
I nod, swallowing hard. "You don't need to thank me."
Her eyes meet mine. The chaos of the battle, the deaths, the destruction. It all falls away. It's just me and her. The brief stillness of the storm we've weathered together.
"Do a headcount," I ordered. "Alert the backline. We need to be ready for anything."
Hours later, we had managed to make the camp livable again. More soldiers set up tents, and I ordered them to keep a watchful eye. Polly seemed shaken, though it was against the Varvensi agreement to harm medics. She was still clearly rattled, her hands trembling as she moved.
As I sat in my tent, I could hear footsteps approaching. A General entered, his posture tense.
I hear the harsh voice of someone stepping in.
"Where is Morgan?" A man's voice demands. His cloak hanging loosely on his shoulders. His eyes scan the room. They finally locked onto me.
On his hand, a small red circle was etched. The symbol of a dragon in the center.
"You're Morgan, right?" he asks, though it's more of a statement than a question.
I nod, slowly standing. The weight of what's happened sits heavy on me, but I meet his gaze with resolve.
"That's me." I bowed.
"I'm lieutenant general Valen," he snaps. His tone is laced with anger. "What happened here? You let them get this close to the heart of our camp. Do you even know what you've done?"
I tried to steady my breathing, but his words hit hard, cutting into the small sense of relief I had left. I want to explain, to defend myself, but before I can speak, he takes another step forward, his voice rising.
"You lost good men. Myron. Darrek. Hynes. They're dead, Morgan."
The loss of those men—the ones I called brothers—is too much.
"I know, and I will carry that with me."
Valen eyes me for a moment, then nods curtly, though the anger in his eyes doesn't fade.
" I won't tolerate failure. Merchant King Ronan won't tolerate failure"
As Valen left the tent, Polly walked in slowly after him, her footsteps hesitant.
Her eyes are wide, searching, as though she's waiting for something. Maybe for me to fall apart, maybe for me to break.
But I don't.
I won't.
I can't.