'The Lycian army has claimed Ilia and is advancing towards the Temple of Seals—and you are asking me to pose for a portrait?!' Gale glares at the palace painter who flits around like a hummingbird.

'Think of it, good general!' The painter's steps are light like a thief on the stone floor of the King's Court, 'your handsome Etrurian features on pamphlets to be spread not just throughout Bern but the entire continent.' The painter traces an imaginary horizon before them with his hand, 'imagine: "General Gale, born to an abandoned mother in a poor Etrurian village, he became a top-ranked Bern general to combat the excesses of his birthplace's aristocratic, colonialist class." It will stir men's fighting spirits and cause ladies to swoon!'

'There's no time for this!' Gale tries to step around the painter. The feather-footed artist keeps blocking him.

'What's the racket?' Murdock leaves King Zephiel's side to see the painter's capelet fluttering as he keeps jumping into Gale's view.

'This fool is insisting that I sit down for a portrait when we are preparing for a head-on war with the Lycian army!'

'Please, pleeeeease!' The painter whinnies, holding out his finger to map out Gale's face proportions, 'it won't be long: I can see it already, how I will render those deep smouldering eyes and magnificent jaw!'

'You could spare a few moments, couldn't you?' Murdock states before whispering to Gale, 'war is as much about public morale as it is about the battlefield. So far, the Etrurian government has been far more successful at framing themselves as benevolent protectors against a militaristic Bern state. If we let them control the narrative, our own citizens will revolt against Bern's efforts to liberate Elibe.'

'Fine,' Gale nods to Murdock before glaring at the painter, 'but it'd better be quick.'


'Your son has evolved into quite a dashing young man,' Heath hands a Bern army pamphlet to Ilya, 'the refined features of an Etrurian noble with the physique of a Bern knight. Even my heart is aflutter!'

Ilya's silvery strands float in front of her face. She angles her head to scrutinise the drawing: the featured knight has a navy tint in his silky dark hair. The corners of his mouth flick up to hint at a seductive smile. Ilya pushes the pamphlet back to Heath, 'if I must be honest, this doesn't resemble my son at all… If anything, the face reminds me of Gale's father who was a Etrurian noble.'

'Ah… Perhaps the painter only had Gale sitting long enough to do some preliminary sketches and then… Put his own spin on the subject,' Heath warms his belly with the ginger-cinnamon tea from Ilya's teapot. He looks like an oversized figurine in the tiny cottage lined with various cooking equipment and farming tools, 'but Gale himself must be quite handsome if that's what his father looked like.'

'A mother can't comment objectively on her son's appearance,' Ilya smiles behind her worn dress sleeve, 'but ever since he met Miledy, he scowls less and seems much happier.'

'Then doesn't the news of their opposing allegiances trouble you?' Heath unwraps a cloth to reveal meat-stuffed bread buns.

'Their hearts remain united across ideological lines,' Ilya takes the buns to warm in a small oven. The smell of fresh herbs and beef fills the cottage, 'I am sure.'

'How can you be so sure?' Heath glimpses the Saint Elimine portrait above the mantelpiece.

'I am not a talented fighter like you nor a tactical genius like Miledy's mother,' Ilya smiles up at the holy image, 'but I have faith in Our Lady.'


'Victory for the Lycian army!' An axe-wielding warrior, Bartre, roars to break everyone else's anxious chatter. His boulder-like biceps gleam when he raises his beer jug. His other arm strangles Zeiss. After a pause, everyone cheers along by the campfire. A few mages throw fireworks into the night sky. Bartre hollers again, 'the Temple of Seals is ours!'

I saunter back to my tent, alone in the dread that I might meet Gale: he is directly under the command of Lord Murdock who is stationed to defend the Temple of Seals. The prospect of facing Gale had always been there. Now, imagining the blade of his spear reduces my stomach to a hollow drum. Opposing my other former comrades is difficult enough. But Gale, the one who trained with me for so many dawns before royal staff assemblies— Gale, who saved me from Narcian's attempt to expel me— Gale, whom I followed to church under the pretext of investigating whether he was an Etrurian spy, only to find myself admiring his serious dark eyes—

'Miledy, are you not celebrating with the others?' Princess Guinevere appears with General Cecilia. Their calm grace startles me, like I've been caught naked by two Etrurian ladies.

'I-I am just preparing my weapons.' Tonight, not even the sight of Princess Guinevere, the light of Bern, can assuage my dread about tomorrow's battle. How can I turn against the man who placed the ruby circlet over my head to request my hand in marriage? Does this mean my loyalty, my knightly honour, is wavering? My breaths leave misty puffs in the cold air. Among the tents is the faint glow of an Eliminean statuette. It is Father Yoder in his robes, crushing herbs and adding them to a rehydrated porridge mix. He recites a familiar prayer, one I had once heard Gale's mother crooning.

'Lady Miledy,' Father Yoder's warm voice muffles my panic, 'you're not dancing with the others? I'm too old to be partying like that. An old man needs quiet time.'

'Father Yoder, if it's alright…' My voice shakes as the bishop's paper white eyebrows droop with sympathy, 'c-could I made a holy confession?' I remember after mass, Gale and other attendees would sometimes disappear into a cubicle with the priest who spoke through a screen. Ellen explained that the purpose of the confessional was to share your sins confidentially in order to be spiritually cleansed and unburdened from your guilt.

'Of course,' Father Yodel opens the curtain of his tent, revealing a rolled-up rug and some holy books in one corner. I lower my head to enter and sit down. He kneels opposite me. My fingertips are shiny with oil under the lamplight, 'alright, let's start: Saint Elimine, our Holy Mother, listen to this wretched soul and…' He looks at me expectantly.

'I'm sorry…' My face turns hot with embarrassment, 'I don't know how the rest goes.'

'That's alright.' Father Yoder's knuckles are dry and bleeding when he rests them on his lap, 'I'll just listen. Everything will stay between us for I am merely the ears that Saint Elimine uses to listen and the mouth she speaks through.'

'My heart is full of doubt,' my lips quiver when I notice his eyes turning misty, 'we are about to face the Bern army at the Temple of Seals. I fear that my loyalty to the princess is - is wavering!'

Father Yoder merely nods with a concerned smile, 'is there a reason?'

'My fiancée, Gale-,' Oh, Gale! Just being able to utter his name aloud fills me with longing. I curl up like a shrimp as I try to bury my head in my arms, 'I-I couldn't speak to anyone about it, for it would cast doubt on my loyalty to Princess Guinevere and General Roy. But I can't bear to face Gale as an enemy!'

'I have no doubt in your loyalty and honour,' Father Yoder places a weighty hand on my shoulder. Outside, a drunk Bartre shouts 'Fir, my girl! Come meet Zeiss! He's a fine young man!' Father Yoder rearranges the folds of his robes to shuffle closer to me, 'but Lady Miledy, you must understand. Saint Elimine has blessed you.'

'Blessed? To be fighting against one's love?!' My eyes feel raw when I look up. The bishop's white beard blurs into his face. He continues, 'surely, you have met couples who seem to have every comfort and yet lack affection for one another. But you, Lady Miledy – when circumstances pushed your heart to the absolute limit- your love perseveres.'

Father Yoder dabs the edge of his sleeve against my face, 'General Gale is a believer of Saint Elimine, isn't he? That was how you knew the hymn and custom of holy confessionals.'

'Yes.'

'Then have faith, for our saint looks kindly upon bonds of true love,' Father Yoder's eyes flicker to the side as the outline of Bartre manhandling Zeiss appears against the tent, 'I guarantee that General Gale is also praying for your peace and safety.'


'You're still here?' Father Renault enters the small church with a broom in one hand. One of the older orphans assists in putting out candles, occasionally lifting his younger sister so she can blow them out with a salivary floooo!

'I'm sorry for disrupting your duties,' Gale jolts out of his daydream: back to his mother's farm, where he was leading Miledy by the hand through dewy grass.

'Miledy and Zeiss will be in the Lycian army whom you will fight for the Temple of Seals,' Father Renault rests the broom against the end of a pew and joins Gale, 'and you insist on being their enemy, even when you had some hand in their defection. What exactly are you fighting for?'

'I must repay Lord Murdock and King Zephiel for giving me a better life and chance to support my family,' Gale closes his eyes, catching a whiff of fragrant oil on Father Renault's robes. It smells like the tea his mother had brewed for Miledy when she visited his hometown on the Etruria-Ilia border.

'What will it take to repay the debt?' Father Renault kneels in front of Gale and places one hand on the general's shoulder, 'is it worth clashing weapons with those you love?'

'Father… I…' Gale watches the two children scamper away. Why does he find himself daydreaming about his mother's farm? Would it have been better if he and Miledy had deserted before all this conflict started and married in a small village? 'I... I must follow orders. General Murdock and the king trust me as a Dragon Lord of Bern. It is... The highest honour.'

'Please don't make the mistake I did during my past life as a mercenary,' Father Renault's voice falters as he lowers his head, 'after the death of my best friend, I lashed out at the world, killing those who stood in the way of avenging his death. I killed the parents of a young man whom I later met in the Elimine service.'

Gale holds his breath, watching the bishop clasp his hands in prayer as if still seeking that young priest's forgiveness. The sunlight glaring through the window leaves a flower-shaped impression in Gale's vision as he tries to focus on the bishop's face.

'The dark druid Nergel promised to revive my friend. In truth, he used corpses as shells to house soulless monsters,' Father Renault presses his hand against his forehead, 'morphs, as they were called.'

'You mean that the morphs were real?' Gale had read about them when preparing for the Dragon Lord history exams. He assumed they were mythical rumours inspired by Hartmut's legends, not occurrences in a recent past.

'These wars are laced with a magic darker than we can imagine,' Father Renault grips the vial hanging from his neck. The clear glass reveals a fluoro green liquid inside, 'tomorrow, when you set out to fight the Lycian army, do not fall prey to it. Do not let rage consume you'

'I will fight honourably,' Gale rises from the pew, staring straight into the Saint Elimine statue's vacant eyes surveying the altar, 'and I will keep my vows.'