Smoke fills the air, laying a thick fog over the battlefield and adding to the unpleasant smell in the soldier’s nostrils. He stands in position, watching the Lylth army several metres away with increasing anticipation. This battle was the turning point of the war, they’d been told. Win this, we win the war. Lose it…
He watches the far-off figures of the Lylth, wrinkling his nose at the smell of smoke and cooked flesh and sun-cooked gore.
Lose it, and our fates are sealed.
Gryffin’s eyes dart towards the king, sitting atop a large, white stallion. He analyzes the field and his opponent with a quizzical eye, one hand holding reins and the other resting on the hilt of his sword. King Arthur was their saving grace, several years ago. Gryffin only hopes he will continue to be now.
This war has been going on for nearly three generations. All he and his parents know is war, and all the stories his grandparents told him of peace and prosperity? Nothing more than children’s tales, meant to give the war-stricken hope. The Lylth were unstoppable as far as the majority of humans were concerned, and continuing to fight them was deeply frowned upon. Arthur should just let us accept our fate, his mother had said when his draft came in the mail, he’s not our saving grace. Not anymore.
Gryffin must be the most foolish of the family, to believe that peace is possible. Or maybe he’s just been trained to believe victory is possible so he doesn’t lay down in the middle of the battlefield.
Isn’t that such a fickle thing? Hope?
Arthur flips the reins, and his horse begins to move forward. The sound of armour clanking fills the air as nearly every soldier moves, trying to see what in the world their king is doing. None of them has been signalled to charge, or change positions—Gryffin looks to Honour, who watches the king with just as much confusion as he feels. She sits atop her own horse, her bows strapped to her back. She maneuvers her reigns, trotting forward a few steps, then back again. She looks behind her, catches his eye, and shakes her head.
A murmur echoes through the ranks.
King Arthur continues to ride forward. The man next to Gryffin nudges him, gesturing with his chin; “The Masae are on the move, too.”
Gryffin strains to see, and sure enough, the Masae Queen is trotting forward as well. Next goes the Leader of the Ki, then the King of Hem…
His eyes snap towards the Lylth, and the same thing is happening on their side. Leaders stride forward, their armies stay behind, until they meet in the center of the battlefield. Eight leaders total—four human, four Lylth.
It’s there in the center of the battlefield, after five generations, that a world-wide war ends: with the signing on the back of a war map.
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