If he wanted to serve their country and use his magic inefficiently, well, Mino would have to let him. Commander Caspian likely observed his situation with his own eyes as well—it was difficult not to, and he was perceptive—but maintained a bystander’s stance of doing and saying nothing. He did admirable work, but sometimes he wondered if the prince was ever concerned for other people, despite his public service and compassionate words. Hollow words. He seemed to have a switch that kept his emotions turned off. Permanently. In that way, at least, he resembled his father, their former king. Frigid and unmoving. Popular out of the royal princes with the common people, but friendless.

He didn’t speak much in the public government discourse meetings either. If he was more outspoken about his ideas or votes towards the peace of the island or an end to the war in such meetings, the public would be even more in love with him than they already were. Though already skewed in his favor without it, less civilians would be sided with the first prince. It was definitely his personality, or lack thereof, that hurt his image. Then again, they were only the public meetings, of which there were few throughout the year. He seemed to be more of a participant in private ones, though whether it was the truth or exaggeration by his supporters—or fans—in the media was a real puzzle.

Military intelligence was more his strength, whereas public politics and government procedures were more the speed of Prince Hallen, the second prince. Prince Caspian knew how to battle smarter; Prince Hallen knew what government systems to change or improve. Often there was equal division between who of the two to support publicly and politically, and who of the two was more charismatic. Prince Caspian was logical and responsible, as proven by his history in the military, while Prince Hallen was bright and kind. The first prince, on the other hand…

Well, it wasn’t Mino’s place to judge. Not yet at any rate. When one was made king and began to rule, then he would judge.

The tower they were destined for was in rough shape. Most of it had melted, black smoke creating a thick filter from one end to the other, while the rest of the high structure continued to crumble and smolder. In the wreckage on the ground, a crystalline block moved to reveal a human arm, dark blood stained against some of the ruins. Mino knelt by it, grabbing his shoulder gently. He didn’t hear the weak groan he was hoping for. He moved on to check the next body whose status was unclear.

One soldier showed a pulse, so he called for a medic through his comm, who, when they arrived, would examine the wounded, of which there were a few, in the area and render first aid. His team medic rushed over to disinfect and bandage wrap a bleeding leg. Mino assisted him by using his personal kit’s bandage as a tourniquet on a damaged arm.

Noises of pain, weeping, and complaints came from the rubbish, but they may as well have fallen on deaf ears.

Caspian had already gone up what was left of the tower to gain higher ground and put out the rest of the fire. Laurence Roze, Mino’s friend and comrade of three years, worked to do his usual, to provide cool water relief and burn salve on some of the wounded allies’ severe burns. He also injected some of them with analgesic medicine and sedatives.

Mino knelt by one man begging his attention. “What happened? Was no one paying attention to the tower?” he asked.

The man shook his head, then winced at the pain it caused, and rasped, “I don’t...remember much. Think I heard a loud noise from the far end, so loud it disrupted my concentration. Next thing I knew…”

A collapse? That would explain why no one had time to run, other than the length of the tower itself. If it was crumbling, then that may have been another story.

Mino furrowed his brows as he handed him a tranquilizer that would induce sleep. “It’s probably shock and adrenaline keeping you awake. Take this if you want. Medic’s on the way.”

Though he said that, the medic teams, far outnumbered by soldiers, were always busy in active war and would take ages to get there. The more medics and first aid that were needed, the more average soldiers were trained to treat the wounded—and that meant a lot of them. The medical field wasn’t for everyone, however, least of all crystal soldiers. It was more nuanced, scientific, and technical compared to the natural physical talents honed in crystallizing.

It was an area of weakness for Mino, but he did as he was trained for his weeping comrades. Some had lost a limb or two, invoking a sense of pity from deep within his heart. He had yet to experience losing parts of him large or small, and he could never imagine doing so. If it ever happened, he would rather die than be forced to live disabled.

“Medic’s on the way,” he whispered to each soldier that was awake. He caught Laurence’s eye, who looked just as sad as he felt.

At the top of the tower, an alert rang from Caspian’s comm through the military’s emergency line. He answered the call.

“Commander, did you read my text?” Captain Ried asked in lieu of greeting. “Minutes ago, the AF found and safely captured a single terrorist, and took him to the underground prison near Tower 15. We won’t start on him until you say so.”

Great news for the military. Capturing a live terrorist meant information about the present battle was in reach; more specifically, about the reason for it. It was not impossible to capture an enemy, but it was quite difficult even for the specially trained Armed Forces. He presumed that they had gotten to him before he could eliminate himself.

“Good work,” he said, and rang off. He descended the tower alongside General Soldier Denno, Team 0-11’s leader.

Denno approached Mino from behind, and examined the state of his friends. “How are they?”

Mino glanced at their fallen comrades. “Most are deceased. We’re trying to save the rest. I’m sorry, Denno.”

Caspian said, “I have business to take care of. I will return to the battlefield when I am done.”

He saluted the commander’s retreating back. “Yes, sir.”

At the age of 13, Caspian had formed several theories about the cause and initiation of the Ignited Volcano War with the elusive terrorist group. He worked to connect the theories together, a culmination of several causes for the eventuality of war: the hoarding of economic and environmental resources of eastern islands and countries during the Trading Period of Years 143-146, the steady exploitation of the Volcalan’s labor forces and merchants, the civil dispute of who was a higher social class between the Crystal and Volcano people that existed since their beginning, and the degrading magic torture event by an underground organization that most questioned even existed.

Their monopoly of economic and environmental resources of eastern lands caused an excessive spike in economic success for the Kingdom of Crystal, which in turn put many of the middle and lower class of the Volcano into deep poverty for many years afterward. People in general did not have a great impression of the Volcano people for their aggressive and messy behavior caused by poverty. The western lands were not interested in war with the east, so the Island of Volcano could not garner their cooperation or assistance. As a result of the hard economic situation, they were forced to give the KoC permission to use their labor force, businesses, and merchants. The Volcalans, as Volcano people were called, used to follow a longstanding tradition: make business only with products that benefited the Island of Volcano, among its people and close allies. However, with KoC controlling a portion of their marketplace, they resorted to making and selling Crystal items, which broke tradition and violated Island law. When factories and companies got reported for it, the government and political parties looked the other way.

Once upon a time, rumors spread like volcanic wildfire about a secret organization that held physical and magical battle royales inside a crystalline room, making it more likely that Crystallians were involved, or had at least built it. Details about each battle varied, especially in regards to what kinds of magic were used to torture participants. It was not always or even often crystallizing magic. One detail was prominent: participants were only Volcalans. Once participants eliminated three quarters of their opponents until only three stood, they were meticulously tortured by powerful magic torturers out of spite against Volcalans. Or so the rumor mill went, at any rate. It did not matter if it was true; the fact that such an awful bloodsport of a rumor existed to further smear the Island’s name in mud was more reason for the terrorists’ murderous resentment to coalesce into the hellhole that permeated both nations.

Caspian’s theory of a culmination based on historical facts nabbed the attention of reputable historians and academic professionals. From there, he collected all of his information about the current events of the war that he had sat listening to in the government’s main council room for three years, and brainstormed ideas and plots that repaired devastating damages to their land and economy caused by the war, and changed the course of war. Many experts figured he had inherited this thorough and competent aspect of him from his mother. After a year of developing strategies to the point where he felt a high probability of success, and pitching what he could to anyone who listened—anyone of political significance at any rate—the governing council approved real life experimentation.

When he enlisted in the military at the age of 15, he was already well known for his disciplinary training drills and efficient magic battle formations, used months before his enlistment. The training drills were clean, rigorous, and effective without being severe, providing troops with sufficient time to comprehend and practice their regimen, while his simple magic battle formations slowed down draining of magic usage in a soldier’s core, but showed continuing progress against enemies, destruction, and low morale. He attended training drills, lecture courses, and campus events like the rest of the soldiers, working his way up the rank through diligent and efficient combat effort. However, it was his aptitude and penchant for creative tactical intelligence that he was rewarded for in compliments, trophies, and promotions.

While envy and petulance swirled among the troops in his time, no one could argue against the evidence and eyewitness accounts. Caspian did not show a hint of acknowledgment or observance of hostility. It was these inspiring times that people with the proper frame of mind took to following in his footsteps.

His aloof personality, however, showed to many his lack of character. It did not create a positive impression on those around him, aside from his existing supporters, fan base, and superiors. When one immature man deigned to steal his book, he made no fuss and got himself a new one without even questioning a single peer. That spoke of one thing: that he would not involve himself. That he was above them all.

Caspian was not unaware of civilians, soldiers, or their reactions to his actions, personality, and behavior. In fact, he understood them. Unlike others, he just did not feel the same, nor did he know how to show it. That was the kicker. And what could he even do about any of it? Nothing, in his mind. He remained calm and shut himself off. Easy to do when that was how he operated most of his life.

Inside his temporary safehouse right outside of Mear District, he detached his drenched, bloody, and smoky royal cloak from his shoulder pauldron and swapped it with a new one. Blazing battles often ruined his cloaks, both from soaring flames and flying dirt, so he kept a stash of fresh ones at every temporary residence and base he stayed at. Undesirable, but necessary.

It was time to meet Formal Punisher Turslo and their new prime candidate at interrogation cell one. He made his way down a long corridor, then turned a winding corner. He noticed Captain Ried of the Special Armed Forces, from outside, watching Turslo inside the illuminated eight-by-eight cell. Turslo was entertaining himself with the inspecting and touching of his seven instruments, set out on the table before him. When Caspian approached, Captain Ried was staring at their prisoner seated inside the cell.

“Commander,” Captain Ried said in greeting, turning to salute. “We waited for you.”

He nodded. “Anything yet?”

“No,” Ried answered, eyebrows drawing together. “Looks like we got another tough battle ahead.”

He nodded again, hand on the door. “Don’t be so somber.”

Caspian went inside, drawing Turslo’s attention. And, he noticed, the prisoner’s, based on his posture and ear twitch. His body hair had risen, no doubt, in expectant fear. He was broad shouldered, of average height, with dark brown hair and a slightly muscular frame. Bruises and scars littered his tan skin, and his clothes were torn in some spots all around. He looked meek and weak, especially with the tight cuff restraints around his neck and wrists, which warded against all fire magic.

The room was frosted, which was a delight for Crystallians. Not so much Volcalans. A form of torture for them.

When Caspian glanced at Turslo, his enlarged pupils were already dark with excitement and menace. He was a pure sadist, if ever there was one. It was not usually a pleasant ordeal to be in his company, for anyone.

He queried, “Turslo, you didn’t start yet?”

“No, commander, I know my orders,” Turslo said, drawing himself up. “He was beaten like this during his capture.”

Caspian nodded and turned to the prisoner. In the Volcanic language, he spoke, “Gentleman, I’m sorry for how they treated you. I’m the commander here. What is the name you go by?”

The prisoner looked up, eyes wide with surprise and confusion. Crystallians did not speak the Volcanic language, as far as the terrorists and Volcalans were concerned. That Caspian could speak it was always a shock for many who heard. Still, he gave him no response, and turned his head instead.

“Perhaps you know me. Perhaps I don’t need to withhold my name. I am Third Prince Caspian.”

No reaction.

“I think you recognize me. I think you know what it is I seek,” he started, his voice even, “and what we will do to achieve it. Will you make it easier on yourself and tell me what I want to know?”

The prisoner hacked out a pile of spit in return. Turslo strode over and backhanded him across the face.

Caspian pulled out the empty chair across from the other man, putting distance, and sat. “What is your name, stranger? Let’s start small.”