A Choice Without the Right to Error
"When one part of the body suffers, the whole body suffers. True strength lies in love, unity, and support for one's kin."
These words echoed within me like an old bell after my conversation with the Marshal. Memory is a strange thing: what seemed clear in the heat of discussion now blurred like watercolor under rain. Or perhaps some truths are too sharp for everyday consciousness?
Brandt de Mortvel's idea about unity in the face of common adversity is beautiful—it holds the ancient wisdom of tribes that forgot their feuds. How do you approach those we've trampled and say: "Forgive us, we conquered you, enslaved you, ruined you—but now let's be friends against a common enemy"? A wolf apologizing to a sheep for eating its lambs.
I hate lies—their sticky weight, their false shine. Even when the truth is a knife in the throat, I'll choose it. The more honestly you live, the harder life gets. But that's just how the world is arranged.
We were betrayed by Kriver. Betrayal is as ordinary as October rain. But is it right to measure all our actions by him? Won't we become a mirror of what we despise? Philosophers say: if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
I think we need to turn the army around and march on them—without hesitation, like a sword that knows only one direction. Though my opinion might change after talking to the captains.
I'll bring four division captains with me, and leave four with Lucian de Noctain. Each captain has their own character, ambitions, history. Each sees the war differently: as a chance for glory, a cursed necessity, a way to settle scores with life.
Ten kilometers from the enemy's border. In that distance, a whole life or death can fit. The air is saturated with tension and the smell of possible death.
I didn't change horses—let Wind stay. In a world where people betray, a horse is loyal. Simple loyalty without philosophy or doubts.
I waited out the night in the main camp. They fed Wind, let him rest, healed him with potions—that's how Lucian de Noctain thanked me for the rescue. Potions are a luxury in our time, when every coin counts. Their scent seemed almost sinful. Lucian even looked younger: like a youth, with a sparkle in his eyes. Or was it just the torchlight? They say gratitude works wonders better than any potion.
I saddled Wind—the world came alive with colors. Fields strewn with flowers red as blood and yellow as dawn stretched to the horizon. Their aroma mixed with the smoke of campfires. There it is, life—a beautiful and cruel mistress with a knife behind her back. We fight, destroy, and the flowers bloom, mocking our fuss.
It's time to gather these flowers—they grow everywhere. Even on the battlefield, when blood soaks into the earth and becomes fertilizer. The philosophy of war: death gives birth to life, destruction to creation, end to beginning.
In the morning, when the sun pierced through the tents, I realized: the decision had ripened on its own, like an apple on a branch. No need for doubts or reflections. There's a plan—act. There are enemies—fight. There are allies—trust.
Time to act.