Mustang didn't give up anything—only muttered that the situation seemed to be changing. A few days later, Second Lieutenant Armstrong rushed to the Eastern Ishval temporary command post, bringing more than a dozen State Alchemists in his wake. Allen wasn't familiar with Armstrong and didn't bother asking why.
Over the next month, Ishval's situation flipped. First, the Crimson Alchemist slipped out to the Sun Temple and killed dozens; Mustang had men seize him and haul him back to Central. Soon after, the imprisoned Dawson turned up dead in his cell, and the Ishvalans began armed resistance. In one clash, a jittery soldier's gun went off and an Ishvalan leader was killed.
One shock after another—war arrived in full. The Crimson Alchemist's stunt shattered the government's original timetable and pushed the war forward by three months.
Before dawn one day, a pounding at the door jolted Allen awake. He swallowed his temper and yanked it open, ready to curse out anyone below his rank—only to find Riza Hawkeye scowling on the threshold. His fire went out on the spot. He knit his brows and said, none too politely, "What is it?"
It was still dark; Riza couldn't see Allen's expression, but the stiffness in his tone carried. Her temper was just as short, and the two of them seemed born to clash—if they didn't trade barbs, they acted like the other didn't exist. If Mustang hadn't been tied up, she wouldn't have come.
"War's on."
Allen gave her no warmth; she didn't waste breath, tossed the words over her shoulder, and left—leaving him blinking in bed-wrecking confusion.
War? What war?
Morning brains don't fire well. One hand on the doorframe, the other rubbing his slick chin, Allen stared after Riza for a long while, then swore under his breath at a tactless woman and flopped back onto the mattress. As his back met the soft quilt and his eyelids started to fall, the rumble of engines and a surge of voices rose outside. He bolted upright, eyes vacant on the star-salted sky.
War.
He threw on his uniform and hurried for Command. In the streets he passed squads of soldiers forming up at speed, shopkeepers craning their necks, and nightwalkers who hadn't turned in. From time to time a few half-dressed soldiers stumbled out of some side-house with laughing courtesans behind them—war's pressure, a notch lower.
Inside the temporary command post, the lineup made Allen blink: nearly fifty alchemists, plus Mustang, Armstrong, and several captains he didn't know—practically every officer on the Ishval front crammed into one room.
When Allen entered, people spared him a glance; he found a seat and sat.
A man rose at the head of the room; his shoulder boards marked him as a major general.
"I'll introduce myself. Mokhfat. Current State Major General and the commander of this Ishval operation. I've reviewed your files. Ninety percent of you are State Alchemists. You may not know why you were sent to Ishval, but that no longer matters. You have your assignment. In one week our forces will complete a full encirclement of Ishval. Your task is to lay out a massive transmutation array in the lands around it. Do not tell anyone about this. Do not disappear. The government is not gentle with the families of those who do. Remember that."
Two soldiers behind him handed out packets. Once everyone had one, Mokhfat continued: "This operation is public—and simultaneously top secret. I do not want accidents. The dossier in your hands explains the action. The array is included. If anything is unclear, ask Dr. Marcoh; he designed it. You have fifteen minutes to read. Then destroy the papers."
Allen read carefully. The deeper he got, the clearer the government's aim became. A year ago, Marcoh had proposed a new amplifier. The state had backed him with everything he needed. Today it was ready for the field—the Philosopher's Stone.
A few pages on and there were still no clues about inputs—only a drafted array and cautions. Nothing about the amount or composition of "raw materials." Allen crushed the packet in one hand; smoke leaked between his fingers. He didn't need the notes to know the fundamental ingredient was people. Living people.
Unlike Allen's calm, some alchemists were shaking. They were top minds, not executioners. They couldn't ignore human life. One alchemist shredded his packet, slammed both palms on the table, stood, and barked, "This isn't human work! Dr. Marcoh, you mean to forge something out of human beings—you're insane! I demand to withdraw and return to Central. I'll expose your crimes!"
He spun for the door, cloak askew. Mokhfat's mouth bent in a thin smile. He set both hands on the tabletop; a green flash, and a wooden spike punched through the alchemist's heart.
Mokhfat chuckled, snapped his fingers. A recording officer stepped up. The general swept his gaze across the seated alchemists. "State Alchemist [Name Redacted], for leaking state secrets and attempted treason, executed on the spot."
Only the scratch of pens answered him. Even breathing slowed…