The plain Fields Outside District 4, Twilight
The wind was beginning to die down as the last of the red signal lights flickered in the skies. The battlefield had gone silent. Dust slowly settled across the ground where hooves once thundered, and all that remained was the heavy stillness that follows a swift kill.
General Boyce dismounted without a word. His boots crunched softly against the dry earth as he walked toward the fallen rider. His sword was already drawn, the blood-soaked blade catching the dim light of dusk. The figure beneath the crushed horse groaned faintly, his body half-buried under the weight of the beast, yet there was a defiance in him, a refusal to die quietly.
A red scarf wrapped around the man's face, half soaked in sweat and blood. The fabric, fluttering faintly in the breeze, was unmistakable: the mark of the Absalom revolutionaries.
Commander Violet approached from behind, her soldiers following closely. She said nothing, but her gaze was fixed, unblinking on the man they'd hunted across the plains.
General Boyce stood over the fallen man and pointed his sword down toward his face. "You must be a fool," he said, his voice cold and steady, "to think you could escape this city."
The man made no reply. Despite being pinned beneath a full-grown warhorse, he didn't flinch or cry out. The blood from the arrow wound in his arm still trickled freely, yet he stared up at Boyce with unshaken resolve.
Boyce reached out with his sword to strip away the scarf. But before the blade could touch it, the man gave a faint, breathless laugh.
"Escape?" the messenger rasped, voice dry and mocking. "I never planned to escape. I was playing my part… General Boyce." His lips twisted into a bloodied smile, and a low groan followed as pain tore through his chest.
Something in his tone made Violet tense. Her eyes widened as recognition dawned. It was not just his voice, it was the way he said "General Boyce," like an inside joke, like he knew them both.
Boyce must have felt it too.
Without waiting, the general yanked the scarf away with a flick of his sword. The blade cut into the man's cheek, opening a shallow wound, but the man didn't wince. He didn't even blink.
The scarf fluttered to the ground.
And then… silence.
Every soldier nearby stiffened. Alvoz's eyes widened in disbelief. Even the battle-hardened Elvric, who had joined moments earlier with Izen's squad, let out a faint gasp.
Only Violet remained still. She had seen it coming.
The man beneath the horse, the one they thought was Mark of Xec, was not the famed revolutionary courier at all. He was someone else entirely.
"Alfred Vasco," Boyce growled, his knuckles tightening on his sword hilt. "You absolute idiot."
He turned and looked back at Violet. Her expression hadn't changed.
Of course she knew. Vasco had once served under her command, captain of her own squad. She would have recognized the way he rode from the first moment he burst through the district walls. His famous "Thunderbolt Surge" maneuver—no one else rode like that.
Violet said nothing. Her gaze was distant, haunted. Memories of her former captain raced through her mind: his stubbornness, his wit, his loyalty, then his sudden disappearance a year ago. And now here he lay, broken and bleeding, beneath a dying warhorse, wrapped in the colors of rebellion.
Boyce stepped forward. "Get the horse off him."
But the dying man coughed and shook his head weakly. "There's… no time, General. My ribs are crushed. I won't make it. Besides—" he winced, voice thinning, "the one you thought you were chasing… he's already long gone. Out of this Godforsaken city."
Another silence.
Alfred's bloodied eyes met Violet's. His lips trembled, then curved slightly, even through the pain.
"I know what you're thinking," he said to her. "You still think the revolutionaries are nothing but bandits—traitors trying to burn Mediva to the ground. But you'll see… one day, you'll all see what's hidden beneath this city's crown."
He turned his head toward her, his eyes glassy with pain and truth. "I'm sorry, Commander."
His breath hitched. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I'm sorry it had to end like thi—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
His chest sank. His eyes stared forward, unfocused. Then, nothing.
The plains fell deathly still again.
Lamsjaw's voice cut through the silence, crude and casual. "Huh… he's dead?"
General Boyce didn't answer. He stared down at the corpse, his mind turning over the last few moments. During the chase, he had leapt from his horse, delivering the crushing kick that sent Alfred flying. But it wasn't his foot that killed him, it was the weight of the horse that landed on top of him.
"Strong bastard," Boyce muttered. "Survived longer than he should've."
He turned away, eyes scanning the soldiers. "Kill the horse. Take his body. We're done here."
A soldier nodded and approached with a blade.
Violet remained still, unmoving, her eyes still locked on Alfred Vasco's lifeless face. She closed her eyes. Her breath trembled ever so slightly.
Then, without a word, she turned away.
She walked silently to her horse, mounted it with grace, and stared off toward the horizon. Whatever emotions stirred inside her, she buried them beneath her composure.
Boyce watched her, his gaze heavy with concern.
Lamsjaw, on the other hand, watched her with a very different kind of attention. His eyes lingered too long on her form, and as he began to take a step toward her, Boyce's voice cracked like thunder.
"Lamsjaw."
The vice commander froze, one foot hanging midair. "Y-Yes, General?"
"If you so much as think about going near Violet…" Boyce stepped closer, his glare filled with cold fire, "...I'll rip every organ in your gut out and feed it to the crows."
Lamsjaw stiffened, then gave an awkward, forced smile. "Of course, General. Just being… courteous."
"Save your courtesy for your funeral," Boyce growled.
Behind them, more soldiers arrived—Commander Elvric with his remaining men, and Izen's squad in tight formation. Wordless glances passed between the leaders. They had all heard the name. Alfred Vasco. Another piece of the revolution's puzzle, now broken and buried beneath a dead horse.
No one celebrated the capture. No one called it a victory.
Slowly, in silence, the soldiers began to mount their steeds. One by one, the riders turned back toward the city, the sky above them still streaked with crimson, the wind whispering faintly across the quiet fields.
And far away, passed the hills, passed the walls of Mediva.