Thomas was a simple man. He wanted to live in peace and die as an old man with his sweet, loving wife. He wanted to see his children grow up and marry and have families of their own. He wanted to spoil his grandchildren and continue to forge to the best of his ability, to keep his title as best blacksmith in Vulcan.

He liked to think that those dreams were relatively simple. Easily achievable. Surely the gods would be amenable to granting him it? He was a pious man. He attended church services whenever he could and when he couldn't he made sure to make the necessary sacrifices, even if it meant he went hungry for a few days.

But as he heard bells ring distantly he felt his dreams wash away into ash. Those bells had not been wrung for nearly one hundred years. And they only meant one thing.

"What's going on papa?" His son, his eldest boy Richard, asked. The fifteen year-old spent most of his day at the forge with his old man, whereas his younger brother ran rampant through the streets with his friends.

"Nothing good." Thomas replied, not wanting to worry his son. Maybe it was just an overzealous guard? It must be boring staring out at the sea for hours on end every day of every year.

Then the horn blew. It came from the north, where the crumbling remnants of Vulcan's defences lay. It was confirmation. A warning. They were under attack.

"Get a weapon." Thomas ordered his son, who stumbled and nearly dropped the bundle of cross guards he'd been carrying.

"What?"

"Get a weapon. Something sensible. We're under attack."

Richard's eyes widened, but his jaw firmed and his eyes narrowed. Despite the storm of worry and adrenaline making him jittery, Thomas couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at the man he'd raised as Richard put aside his bundle and grabbed a nearby sword without hesitation. The sword was a fine thing, with sharp edges and an intricate hilt. Thomas recognised it as the first sword they'd forged together.

Despite wanting nothing more than to squeeze the life out of his son in a bear hug and show how much he loved him, Thomas gently hustled his son to the back of the forge, which led into an alleyway.

"Go find your mother and your sisters. Either get them out of the city or hide them. Be careful. There's going to be panicking on the streets soon, and the line between friend and foe will fade as people try to flee."

"What about you?" His son asked. His eyes were wide and Thomas could see he already knew what he was going to say.

"Make sure the militia's armed, then I'm going to fight with them." He answered honestly. His son tried to protest, but he raised a finger and hushed him quickly. "I've fought before. I may be old, but I'm not infirm yet. Get your mother and your sisters out of here. You're old enough to know what happens to women of conquered settlements."

His son tried to say something, but his words failed him and his head fell down so he glared at the ground. Thomas felt his stomach twist helplessly at the sight, but he knew it was the way things would have to be if his family was to live on.

"Look at me."

Richard didn't.

"Look at me son."

Richard raised his reluctantly, and the brilliant blue eyes he'd inherited from his mother were shining with tears he was desperately trying to not shed.

"I'm proud of you. You're a better man than I could ever hope to be. You have a future ahead of you. A long life. A wife, a family. Children to raise and new memories to make. I know you think it is honourable to stand and fight and die, but if you have any love for me then you will get our family and get out of here before it is too late. Do you hear me?"

Richard swallowed, then nodded quietly. A tear rolled down his cheek.

"Hey, hey." Thomas said softly, unable to resist the urge anymore and pulling his son into a fierce hug. "There's no need to cry. I don't intend to die just yet, not for a very long time. I'll find you again. I promise."

The promise was true. But they both knew it was deceptive in nature. They wouldn't see each other again until the afterlife, and Thomas prayed to the gods who seemed to have forsaken him to not let that day be until a very long time in the future.

"Go." Thomas ordered, gently pushing his son back. Richard had to go now, before his will broke and the urge to find and protect his family overcame him. "Go."

"What about Henry?" Richard asked, half turned away from him.

"The boy's a menace but he's smart. He'll know to get out of here. Your priority is your mother and your sisters. You hear me?"

Richard nodded and jogged away, holding his sword in a white-knuckled grip. At the end of the alley, he stopped and turned. He stared for a moment, as if committing the sight of his father into his memory, before he turned and disappeared.

Already, Thomas could hear the growing pandemonium as the gravity of the situation dawned on his fellow citizens. He couldn't blame them for panicking, not when he felt it himself. Vulcan was a peaceful, sleepy settlement. It had barely been touched by the Faunus Rights War, and had only been witness to a few naval skirmishes during the Great War. Its prosperity lied in its peace. Something that seemed to suddenly be broken.

Taking a deep breath, Thomas schooled his nerves and went back into his shop. He set about organising the vast armoury that lay within, piling up finished weapons and pushing aside unfinished work. He was quick, and finished far quicker than he expected. He took a quick drink from the wine he kept hidden underneath his counter. His hands were shaking, and he cursed as he spilt some on his apron.

As he was talking the stained apron off, several guards entered the smithy. Wordlessly, Thomas pointed to the pile of weapons. They immediately set about gathering them up in their arms, and whilst they were doing so a dozen more guards and their captain, Buxton, entered the smithy.

"Gonna fight with us?" Buxton asked. He was smiling but it was clearly strained. The man had fought with Thomas during the Rights War, and had continued his career afterwards whereas Thomas went back to being a blacksmith.

"Might as well. Nothing better to do." Thomas replied, meeting his friend's eyes. They were solemn and determined. A silent conversation passed between them, before Buxton relaxed and his smile became more genuine.

"Then the bastards don't stand a chance. I remember you during the Faunus War. This crazy fucker broke through the Faunus frontline at the Battle for Kingsberg." Buxton told his soldiers, who stared at Thomas with wide-eyed wonder. He felt nothing but pity for them. Their young faces and too thin bodies told all he needed to know in regards to why they had joined the guard. Free food and a roof over their heads meant little when being asked to stand and fight and die in a shield wall.

"Aye." He replied with confidence he didn't feel at all. "About time I stretched my muscles and kicked some arse again. Speaking of, who are we fighting?"

"We don't know for certain." Buxton replied, his eyes staring at the pile of glistening weapons, avoiding his gaze. "Could be pirates, but if they had been gathering in those numbers we would've had prior warning."

"Who is it Bux?" Thomas asked, and he didn't know if it was the use of his nickname or the realisation he wouldn't give up that made him answer honestly.

"I don't know. All we know is they are flying red sails."

Red sails. Oh no.

"Don't tell me-"

"I already told you I don't know for sure. All I know is they are flying red sails and there is a fuck ton of them." Buxton glanced at his soldiers, who were murmuring nervously to one another. "But it doesn't matter anyway. Regardless of who they are we're going to kick their arses back into the sea."

There was a low cheer of agreement from the soldiers, but they were quick to go about their orders quietly. The air was thick and heavy with an indescribable tension. The only word he could think of to describe it was one of imminent doom.

"Thomas." Buxton said, nodding his head to the side of the smithy which was further away from the soldiers. He followed Buxton to the shadowy corners of his smithy, where his friend sighed and shook his head before speaking.

"I've sent out a fisherman to tell them we surrender. I've got my more experienced lads organising an evacuation of the women and children. The rest are conscripting anyone with two legs, two arms and a spine. If we fight we die, but unless I get some sort of agreement giving us some protections then we don't have another choice."

"What are our orders from the top?" Thomas asked.

"The bastard Alderman has already fled. So has the council and half the bloody guard captains. It's just me and an old man still in bed sleeping off a drunken stupor left Tom." Buxton replied, spitting onto the floor angrily at the cowardice of their so-called leaders. "Look I need a good, decent man to command some of the conscripts. Who better than a war hero?"

"Bux no." Thomas gasped.

"Bux yes." Buxton grinned, before his face fell into a stony determination. "Please Thomas. Don't make me beg. People respect you. You've fought before. You know what to do."

"I've fought, not led!" Thomas hissed, careful to keep his voice down. It wouldn't do to be seen arguing with the person commanding their defence, not by soldiers who seemed to be low on morale already.

"It'll do. There isn't anyone else I can trust. The ones I can are leading the evacuation, I couldn't put the creepy bastards in charge of looking after vulnerable women and children could I? Please Tom. I need you."

Thomas sighed, and looked away from Buxton's terrible attempt at puppy eyes. He had a five year-old daughter, he knew how to resist the pleading of a middle-aged man. A middle-aged man who was his old friend, who he'd fought and survived a war beside…

Fuck.

"Fine. But don't expect any miracles." Thomas replied after a moment of silence.

"You beautiful bastard!" Buxton cheered, grabbing him and swinging him in circles. "You fat, beautiful bastard!"

"Put me down!" Thomas barked, struggling out of his friend's grip. Buxton did so, but he was grinning like a cat that caught the cream. The smug grin made Thomas want to punch his old friend, with his left hand of course, they were still friends after all. The soldiers were smiling, perplexed at what they had seen.

"Get some armour on. Get a weapon. I'll meet you at the docks." Buxton said, before gripping his hand fiercely and giving it a quick shake. "Thank you. I mean it."

Thomas nodded, and Buxton walked past him, barking orders to the soldiers. Thomas hurried over and grabbed a sword, shield and some bits and pieces of armour before heading into the back of his smithy to change. His hands weren't shaking anymore. Any fear he had felt was long gone.

Knowing he wouldn't have the chance to do so in the middle of battle, Thomas drank some water and made sure to relieve his bladder before he dressed himself for battle. He felt stupid, wearing ragtag pieces of metal, but he knew they would do their job because he had made them.

He strapped the shield to his arm, the sword to his hip and after one last glance at his smithy he made his way down to the docks.

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When he reached the docks he was met by barely organised chaos. Some guards were offering conscripts, some of whom looked younger than his eldest boy, a hasty attempt at guidance and training. Some were more effective than others, one particular group managing to form a half-decent shield wall under the watchful gaze of a grizzled old guard. Thomas didn't know the man by name, but he knew by the aura he emitted that he was a fellow veteran of war. Their gaze met briefly, and the man offered a quick nod before returning to his impromptu training session.

Deciding to follow the flow of the steadily progressing defences, Thomas eventually found his way into what he could tell was Buxton's headquarters. It was a pub next the docks, the stench of alcohol and fish mixing unpleasantly in the air but smothering the smell of sweaty, mostly unwashed men preparing for battle. Thomas wasn't particularly sure which was worse.

The guards to Buxton's headquarters recognised him and let him through easily, having been there to collect the donated weaponry from his smithy. Thomas nodded in greeting and thanks and made his way into the pub, where Buxton leaned on the other side of the bar.

He looked up from the map he'd been surveying and smiled at before waving him over and pointing to the two men sat in front of him.

"Sergeants Thorn and Coda." Buxton told him, pointing to each man. Thomas shook their hands one after the other, remarking at their similar resemblance. "They'll be helping us defend the city."

"Has the fisherman returned yet?" Thomas asked, remembering what Buxton had said about his emissary.

"No. But we've seen their response." Buxton replied darkly, glaring off into the distance.

"What do you mean?"

"They've cut off his head." Coda spat angrily. "Strung it up on the mast. We only saw because the captain has a fancy spyglass. It's only a matter of time before others can see."

"Gods above…" Thomas murmured.

"That's not the worst part Tom." Buxton said. "We managed to get a good look at the bastards whilst they did it. They're Mistrali Tom. It's a second goddamn Great War."

Thomas cursed and rubbed a hand up and down his face. That was bad. This was bad.

"What are we going to do Bux?" He asked after a few moments of processing the information.

"Whatever we can." Buxton replied determinedly. "The bastards have made it clear what we should expect if they win. I've sent riders out to warn nearby settlements. Cavalry won't be much use in the streets where they can't manoeuvre so I might as well give them something to do. I've asked for aid but the nearest settlement with enough forces to make a difference is miles away. It's just us."

"How many do we have?"

"The guard typically has five hundred. But knowing the council and the Alderman they likely fudged the numbers to get more funding from the Crown. I don't know how many conscripts we've got because we don't have the time to count them up. If I'm a betting man, and you know I am, I'd say we have around four hundred professionally trained guards and about two thousand conscripts, but that's an optimistic guess at best."

"Isn't there any guilds or anything to help us?" Thomas asked, wracking his brain for anything that could help them. Coda snorted.

"Vulcan is sleepier than counting sheep. Any guilds we have are for merchants or bankers." Coda grumbled, sighing as he unsheathed his sword and began surveying it, making sure the edge wasn't nicked. "All we have are drunkards, old men and beardless boys."

"You know the stories." Thorn said, speaking up for the first time. He was soft spoken but there was a certain weight behind them. "With the right leader, drunkards, old men and beardless boys can do a lot. We've got a good leader. All we need is a good plan."

"I'm taking it you have something in mind?" Buxton said, smiling a knowing smile. Thorn nodded, almost shyly, and Thomas sat down next to him and gave him his full attention, as did the Coda.

"We have the home advantage. We know these streets. Not to mention they'll be tired after a couple of weeks at sea. The winds haven't been blowing up from the south either, which means they were either slow or rowed. Either way they won't be fighting as well as we will." Thorn paused, and when none of them offered any criticism he continued, voice more clearer and louder as he gained confidence. "The only problem is we don't know how strong their forces are. They could easily outflank us by landing further down the coast."

"What do you suggest then?" Thomas asked.

"We keep some men in reserve at Fort Maxim. They can hold our right flank against any Mistrali that land down there. We shouldn't have to worry about our left flank because of the cliffs, but it would be best to send a few dozen in the hills just in case. If the Mistrali don't try outflanking us then we just call them back into the battle."

"Shouldn't we be trying to extend the battlefield?" Thomas asked, remembering a conversation he overheard when guarding Lord Ironwood's tent during the Faunus War. The Faunus had outnumbered them at first, and Ironwood had suggested they divide their forces to make the Faunus do the same. Thomas couldn't particularly remember his exact wording due to the fogginess of the memory, but the tactic seemed to work out well enough considering they ended up winning the ensuing battles, as well as the Rights War itself.

"Not really." Thorn replied after a few moments. "That would be best if we knew they outnumbered us but the terrain around the city isn't suited to the sort of fast paced manoeuvres we'd need to properly divide and conquer. Not to mention most of our forces consist of conscripts with no training. No. I think it would be best if we concentrated our troops on a narrow front. That way we can create kill zones and chokepoints inside the city and since we'd be fighting right next to our homes our troops would probably fight better."

Thorn then glanced between the three of them, before shifting uncomfortably under their shocked faces.

"Unless you've thought of something better that is."

"How the hell do you know this stuff?" Thomas said aloud, blinking when he realised he'd done so.

"My grandfather was part of Lord Ironwood's staff. He taught me a lot." Thorn replied, a faint, embarrassed blush spreading across his face.

"It's a better plan than anything I could think of." Buxton admitted, pushing himself off the bar. "You guys in favour?"

"Aye." Thomas and Coda replied in unison. Thorn swallowed nervously.

"Coda, help Thorn implement his genius idea. Tom, I want you to round up some lads and head for the Merchant's district. If the wind stays in our favour it'll be a few hours before the Mistrali actually get here. We'll meet back here in an hour. Understood?"

"Aye captain!" Coda and Thorn said. Thomas quickly followed suite.

"Hurry up and get your jobs done." Buxton replied, rolling his eyes before sighing and picking up a piece of paper. "I've got a speech to write."

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Thomas grunted as he shoved another chair onto the rising pile of furniture. They'd all been 'borrowed' from the nearby houses and stores, all of which had been deserted. Except for one, where an old man who couldn't walk had been left to die by his family. Thomas had ordered two men to take the old man to the nearest evacuation point.

The evacuation itself seemed to be going smoothly. The bulk of the city had been evacuated to some of the close but not too close settlements nearby. Already some were moving on from those villages and hamlets, desperate to put distance between themselves and the coming invader.

Luckily the wind had remained in their favour. It was a flowing, gentle breeze from the north, slowing the Mistrali progress. However they were close now. Thomas could hear their war cries in the distance, the pounding of their drums and the sound of spears thumping against wooden decks.

He glanced at the sky. He figured it had been an hour.

"Roger!" He shouted, attracting the attention of a baker turned soldier who had proven adept at helping organise others. "Make sure the barricade is finished. I'm going to see Buxton."

"Aye, aye Thomas." The baker replied with a mock salute, before dumping the table he'd been helping to carry on the mound of wood that would've made for a brilliant bonfire. "You heard the man boys! Let's make sure this present is ready for the Mistrali."

Thomas jogged down the streets. They were far emptier than usual, but were still filled with hustle and bustle. Only now it was soldiers running about rather than pedestrians.

The Merchant's district wasn't too far from the docks, so Thomas found himself back inside the pub that was now Buxton's headquarters in record time. Coda and Thorn were already present, making him the last to arrive yet again.

"About time Tom." Buxton grinned. "I was worried you had drowned under a pile of furniture. How are the barricades coming along?"

"Nearly done on my end. They're getting shored up now." Thomas panted, catching his breath from his brief jog. Maybe he was more out of shape than he had thought?

"Good. I'm afraid I haven't done much. Couldn't be bothered with a rousing speech so I ended up going around trying to cheer up some of the lads. What about you two?" Buxton asked Thorn and Coda.

"We've put about two hundred men up at Fort Maxim and three dozen in the hills to our east." Coda said. "That's about it on my end. I've been helping shore up the defences where I could."

"That's fine. What about you Thorn?"

"I've been organising the army, making sure there are sergeants and seconds in commands so people know where to look for orders when the battle begins." Thorn replied. "I haven't done much else though."

"That's more than enough." Buxton told him reassuringly, before slapping the bar of the pub and standing straight backed. "Now listen up. Our best bet is to try and give the MIstrali a bloody nose that'll convince them to sail down the coast to disembark. All we can doo is try and hold for as long as we can. Coda. I want you on the right flank. Make sure they don't take the lighthouse or they'll have a bird's eye view over our defences. Can you do that for me?"

"Aye captain!" Coda replied with a quick salute.

"I'll command the centre. Those buggers won't be getting past me, and that won't just be on account of the size of my gut!" Buxton continued, mirth in his eyes as he slapped his belly. "Thorn, I'm giving you command of our reserves. There isn't much but I'm giving you the authority to utilise them as you see fit. You know your stuff better than I do."

"Aye captain! Thank you captain!" Thorn replied, giving a proud salute.

"Tom, I'm giving you the hard part. Most of our troops will be in the centre and right, but you have a better defensive position thanks to your barricades. All you have to do is hold the left flank for as long as me and Coda hold our respective areas. Can you do that Tom?"

"Aye. I'll do my best." Thomas swore, holding his friends gaze sincerely before giving a mock salute. "Captain."

"I'm thinking of promoting myself to general actually. It sounds better than captain. More pay too." Buxton joked. Thomas was too nervous to come up with a good response, so he just rolled his eyes instead. "Well then gentlemen. Let's kick some arse."

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A Mistrali soldier screamed as Thomas speared him with his own spear. He did not know if the man had been levied and forced to fight or if he was a mercenary who fought for plunder and gold. He did not care. He couldn't afford to care. He had to wall off his emotions and look into the man's brown eyes as they narrowed with pain and glistened with tears. Then Thomas heaved forward, and with a grunt, pushed the soldier off the barricade.

He lost his grip on the spear however, and was about to fall over with the man he'd killed before a hand grabbed onto him and pulled him back.

"Thank…you…" Thomas gasped, resisting the urge to talk of his helmet and wipe the seat from his itchy brow. The soldier didn't reply, but he did offer a spare sword to him. Thomas took it gratefully and took a moment to survey the battle from behind the shelter of the impromptu rampart built on top of the barricade.

The Mistrali seemed like a flood, filling the street in front of the barricade like a school of fish. Bronze armour glinted in the fading light of the setting sun, and they were chanting some sort of song as wave after wave of them tried climbing the barricade and breaking through.

His arms were tired and the sword in his hand felt like a lead weight, but Thomas pulled himself to his feet and began battering the nearest Mistrali soldier.

At first they had tried using axes to break the barricade, but then Thomas had ordered his men to throw down anything they could get their hands on. Cups, trinkets, yowling housecats, broken chair legs, pots and pans as well as some spears, javelins and a few arrows from the scant few archers at his disposal.

Then they had tried climbing it. A pile of Mistrali bodies began piling up at the base of the barricade, creating another wall between them. Then they had tried oil and fire, but bucket brigades put out whatever fires did start and Thomas had led a brief sally that had driven the oil throwers back.

Now they were back to climbing, only the soldiers defending were just as tired as they had been at the start of the battle.

His sword finally slipped into a gap between the armour on the Mistrali's shoulder and his helmet, causing ribbons of crimson blood to spurt from his neck. Thomas pushed the man onto the pile of his former comrades to die, his sword sliding out of the man's neck as he did so. Already another Mistrali was clambering up the pile, hoping to be the one to finally break through the stubborn defences.

Thomas swayed. Everything ached. Everything hurt. By the gods he was tired. He took a few steadying breaths, before he calmly exhaled and readied his sword for the moment the next Mistrali got within his range.

Then a low, piercing horn cut through the cacophony and chaos of battle. Thomas stared in the general direction of the noise, somewhere to the east, but he couldn't see anything because of row upon row of houses blocking his vision. But he didn't need to see it to know it wasn't good news. The Mistrali cheered and seemed to surge as one, clambering over each other and their fallen comrades in a sudden, almost zealous rush.

Thomas managed to strike down another three Mistrali before he realised he was overrun. His soldiers were dead or wounded or dying and then his world was spinning as he was pushed off the barricade. His back slammed against the paved ground of Merchant's Square and the breath spilled out of his lungs. Something was definitely broken, and it wasn't his back. Which was a shame because it meant he had to keep on fighting, just now in pain.

Someone helped him to his feet and dragged him away as the first wave of Mistrali soldiers jumped off the barricade. He could feel the rout emerging from the remnants of the brave soldiers who had fought so long with him. But they couldn't run yet. He couldn't give up yet. The longer they fought the more chance it meant his family could escape the inevitable wrath of the Mistrali horde.

"Rally! If you want your families to live then rally to me!" Thomas bellowed, ignoring the ache from his broken ribs to grab a shield and hold it high. "Rally to me men!"

Some ran. Some stayed. By the time he organised them into a shield wall the Mistrali had formed one of their own. It was wider and deeper than their own, so whilst they organised he steadily retreated further back until their flanks were protected by a church on one side and the town hall on the other.

A low thrum emerged from the Mistrali as they advanced, each step in unison in an impressive display of discipline. Someone must have gained some sort of control over what had been little more than a desperate rabble. Thomas felt a sense of relief when he realised the Mistrali were focused on attacking the scant few men that remained with him. It meant they weren't flooding through the streets and outflanking Buxton and everyone else still fighting.

'I'm sorry old friend. I held on as long as I could.' Thomas thought, hoping his friend could somehow hear and understand.

"For Atlas and for Vulcan! For our home and for our families!" He yelled out loud. "To the death!"

"To the death!" The brave souls that stood with him yelled back, and he felt a sudden surge of energy and adrenaline with the knowledge he did not stand alone.

The Mistrali cried something back in their own foreign tongue, before their shield wall surged as one and they were joined in battle once more.

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They were holed up in the town hall now. The church had been burnt by the blasphemous dogs that called themselves Mistrali and it had been their only option for retreat. The Mistrali needed the town hall intact; it was a symbol that would legitimise their rule when they installed a new Alderman for the city. Or whatever the Mistrali had that constituted their version of a mayor.

Thomas felt dazed. He was tired and hungry and the wound on his shoulder had been bleeding a lot of blood for a long time now. He had ordered someone who had offered to stitch it up to help the rest of the wounded instead, and the gods knew there were many of those.

Both sides had suffered immense losses in their brutal battle. Only two dozen men stood where there had been nearly three hundred hours earlier. Only a few of those men weren't wounded in any way, but they were all tired and exhausted to the bone. He wasn't sure how they had managed to make it inside the town hall. Everything felt distant and woozy now.

The sounds of battle had faded away as night fell. Thomas hoped Buxton was okay, but the worry he had for his family was overpowering. It ached into his empty guts and writhed and wriggled like a dagger.

"Sir."

Thomas blinked. The room was dark. Hazy. The only light came from the flickering fires where the church had been.

"The Mistrali, they've sent an emissary to negotiate for a surrender."

"Couldn't they have done that before the bloody battle?"

The soldier didn't reply, so he sighed and stood up, using his sword to help hold his weight.

"What are they saying?"

"I wasn't really listening sir, I just went to get you straight away."

"Right then. Take me to him then soldier."

"It's not a him sir."

"Oh?"

"Aye. It's a she. A she who is claiming to be the Queen of Mistral."

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The soldier had practically carried him to the town hall's entrance. Everyone else was huddled there, silent and watching and waiting. Thomas gently extricated himself from the soldier and used his sword as a walking stick to support him as he pushed open the doors to the town hall.

The Mistrali had arranged themselves impressively, in neat, long rows of armoured soldiers. Before them all stood a single figure. His vision was blurred so he struggled to get a good look at them before he limped closer.

It was indeed a woman. She wore bronze armour and had a red sash tied around her waist, the same colour as her long, pony-tailed hair. Both swayed gently in the soft breeze. Her eyes were as green as the sea and her skin pale and creamy. She wore some sort of tiara or crown, and she exuded a regal air often displayed by those in higher social positions.

"What is your name, soldier?" The woman asked. Her voice was soft and tinged with a light Mistrali accent. Who would've thought she had bothered to learn the language of the people she wanted to kill and conquer?

"Thomas." He replied, his voice raspy from smoke and a lack of water. The woman noticed. She beckoned someone forward, and a tall man wearing nothing but silk robes and a metal collar around his neck stepped forward. He was carrying a plate with food and drink. With shaking hands, Thomas sipped at the wine, hoping that if it was poisoned then it would at least be quick, before he murmured thanks to the slave.

"Do you know who I am Thomas?" The woman questioned, face a polite mask that gave nothing away.

"My men say that you are the Queen of Mistral."

"I am. Queen Pyrrha at your service." The woman replied, giving a mocking bow. Some of the soldiers behind her chuckled, only to be cut off by a glare from their queen.

"Shouldn't it be the other way around?" Thomas replied, wondering when she'd get to the point.

"It should. But first I would like to commend you and your men for your valiant resistance. You're the last part of the city's defenders not to surrender, you know?"

He did not know. And he wanted nothing more than to muster what was left of his flagging strength and kill this girl playing at being queen to avenge Buxton and Coda and Thorn and everyone else who had died.

"I didn't." Thomas replied curtly. Why was he so weak? He felt like he would collapse if the breeze blew any harder.

"Well now you do. I do wonder what made you fight so hard, so bravely? It didn't have to be like this you know."

"We saw what you did to our messenger." Thomas replied harshly. "I'm not letting my family suffer the same fate as that fisherman or him."

He nodded his head at the blank-faced slave, who did not respond in anyway. The same could not be said of the Queen.

"What messenger?" She asked. Thomas blanked. He knew that tone of voice from his wife. A deceptive calm that concealed a fury that not even hell would want to unleash.

"Buxton, my commander…" Thomas winced as his broken rib rubbed and ached and sent pangs of pain through his body. "He sent a fisherman to negotiate. You lot cut off his head and put it on the mast of your ship."

"What did the ship look like?"

"I didn't see it."

A tense silence filled the air. Thomas could see soldiers glancing at each other, and the Queen herself was glaring off into the distance. Then she exhaled.

"All this bloodshed could've been avoided." She sighed. "What would it take for you to avoid more? I don't want to kill you or your men. No more blood should be spilled."

Thomas pondered on her words for a few moments. He didn't want to die either. Didn't want his men to die either. But he needed to protect his family.

"We have wounded." He began, and the Queen nodded quickly, shooting a quick glance at the blood coating his right side.

"We have healers."

"My men are free men. We won't accept slavery."

"They will remain serfs, or whatever passes for that in these parts."

"If that means we live as we normally do then fine."

"It does. Anything else?"

Thomas paused. He gathered what was left of his strength. He had to do this before he passed out or died or both.

"My family. I want protection for them. My wife, my daughters…"

Her eyes showed nothing but compassion and understanding. It was odd for a conqueror, but then she nodded fervently and spoke solemnly.

"No harm will come to them. Nor any other woman for that matter. They are well disciplined."

His face must have showed his scepticism, because she sighed.

"What are their names? It would be easier for my men to identify and find them."

That made Thomas pause. He didn't particularly want his family to be hunted down by Mistrali soldiers, and he sure as hell didn't know if he could trust her word. But what else could he do? The battle was over. All he could do was throw himself at her mercy and hope she had some.

"My wife is Adelaide, my daughters are Alexia, Daisy and Delane. Richard and Henry are my boys."

"They'll be safe. I promise."

Good. He hoped it was true. It didn't matter anymore though. The world swirled and he felt himself fall as his strength failed him. He hit the ground hard, and his aching body made sure he felt the pain of it register. As his blurry vision faded the last thing he saw was emerald eyes and a worried face shouting something. If it was the last thing he ever saw, then at least the face was beautiful. But not as beautiful as his wife of course.

With a wry grin, he then closed his eyes.

A/N: So what's going to happen on 22nd May (supposedly when I started this thing according to A03) is the first chapter of many until the end of May. Basically as follows:

22/05/22-Chapter 28

24/05/22-Chapter 29

26/05/22-Chapter 30

28/05/22-Chapter 31

30/05/22-Chapter 32

31/05/22-Chapter 33

I'm not sure if I'll have another chapter ready for June 6th or if I'll have to skip that month so afterwards the next chapter could be July 6th. It depends on my workload, the only reason I was able to write so much was a massive slowdown in customers over the Easter period.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy! :)