ZONE THREE

I had a literature teacher in tenth grade.
If she had seen these half human ruins, she'd most likely rave on about how they were “a monument to the indomitable will of the half-humans”.
The fact that I remember that is a feat within itself.

She'd have some merit in her words, though, for it was a place of unyielding stone if it was to last throughout all this.
And deservedly so, we felt safe, something that's been absent since the days of the Obsidian Maw.
I wonder what my children would think of the old girl if they saw her, the magnificent thing she was.
My heart dawned on Yui, once more.
If he were still alive, I'm quite certain he'd get along well with these four, only if.

The days that followed our harrowing victory were a shuffle of activity.
Below us, in the valley, the triumphant roar of the First Company was constant, and justified.
Although men were lost, General Kaelen's men had systematically purged the last demonic remnants from the mountainside, which I will admit, is impressive.
Within the fortress, however, the ever strange and forgotten sense of peace began to settle. A beautiful thing it is.

My world, once a myriad of maps and continents and battlefields, had shrunk to the size of the comfortable, well-guarded suite of rooms that the general had assigned to me and my children.
The grand strategy of liberating a world and curing my own incurable ailment had been temporarily eclipsed by the far more immediate and important tasks of tucking my daughter Iriam into bed.
Ioas's boisterous and wildly exaggerated retelling of our escape, of calming Izacc's nightmares.
Also, answering Idrian's quiet, intelligent, and impossibly difficult questions.
I felt at home.

"Papa, is... is Mom here, too?"

He had asked me the first night, his twelve-year-old face far too old and serious for my liking.

The question had pierced me to my core.
How could I explain the inexplicable?
The masked demoness, the silent saviour.

"I don't know, son," I had answered.

The honesty was a raw sore ache in my throat.

"But I know that you're all safe. And I will keep you safe. I promise."

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Being a father again, not in memory or motivation but in practice, was a bittersweet agony.
Every laugh, every hug, was a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, and every one of them was a reminder of the cataclysmic danger that now surrounded their existence.
They were the ultimate stake in this war, and their presence had changed everything.

Tulote was surprisingly awkward.
He who had never known a childhood seemed fascinated by it.
He would sit with them for hours, his immense frame perched gingerly on a small stool, and tell them the grand, sanitized epics of his father Silus, all the while talking in a gentle rumble.
He'd use his Terra Flow to make small, intricate figures of stone, a rearing horse, a soaring eagle, and they would march and fly across the table.
Much to the delight of Izacc and Iriam.
He was a demigod playing with dolls, which amused me very much.
But it was beautiful, a being of immense power trying to understand the simple magic of being a child.
I could see in his eyes that he wasn't just entertaining them, but he was seeing, for the first time, the future of the Imperium. Not as an abstract concept any more, but something to be the future of generations to come.

Cassandra was quite contrary to Tulote's earnest awkwardness.
She would sit with Iriam and, with a flick of her wrist, use a minor shadow illusion to weave tales in the air.
Shimmering butterflies that would dance around the room, or tiny, silent dragons that would chase each other across the ceiling.
She was good with them, a calm, enchanting presence.
Yet, there was always a faint, melancholic distance in her eyes, the sorrow of a being who had seen countless generations of children live and die I'd suppose.
It's a sad thing, really, and I wish it wouldn't be so.

The demoness just watched.
She never entered the rooms.
She never spoke to the children.
But she was always there.
I would catch glimpses of her standing motionless at the end of the hall, a midnight-blue statue in it all.
Sometimes, in the morning, we would find a small, impossibly detailed carving of a bird or a flower left on our doorstep, I figured it was her.
My children were not afraid of her.
They seemed to understand.
They called her "the sad knight," and would sometimes leave a piece of bread or a drawing for her outside the door, offerings that would always be gone by the next morning.

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But it was Xerta who surprised me the most.
Xerta, the blunt, pragmatic blacksmith who distrusted anything that smacked of nobility or magic was the one, arguably and in my opinion (redundancies galore) was the only one who truly connected with them.

She stomped into our rooms one afternoon, covered in soot from the fortress forges where she’d been helping repair the First Company's equipment.
"Right" she announced, "your dad's plenty busy saving the world. Who wants to learn how to make something that's actually useful?"

She didn't treat them like fragile, porcelain dolls, at least not to the extent where she spoilt them, but rather as smaller, less experienced people.
She got down on the floor with them, her heavy armour clanking.
She showed Ioas and Idrian the clerver mechanics of a dwarven crossbow, explaining the principles of torsion and leverage (that I'm quite sure they didn't understand).
Furthermore, she brought out a small, hand-cranked bellows and let Izacc make the coals in the hearth glow with a puff of air.
For Iriam, she produced a set of small, rounded hammers and a sheet of soft copper, and taught her how to tap out patterns of leaves and flowers.

"See? It's not magic. It's work. You hit the metal, and the metal remembers. It holds the shape you give it. That's real strength. Something you can hold. Something you can trust."

I watched from the doorway, my heart swelling with a feeling so potent it almost brought me to my knees.
Xerta was sharing her world with them, which I presume the others did as well, but what really made the difference to me was that she didn't just simply share her world. She taught them that they too can be strong, that they can shape the world with their own hands.
It reminded me so so so much of Kathuria.

In that moment, watching this tough, cynical dwarf laugh as my son proudly displayed a slightly dented but recognizable copper leaf, the quiet admiration I felt for her deepened into something warmer.
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This fragile peace, however, could not last.
The world was still at war.

On the fifth day, I was summoned to the high council in the heart of the mountain.
Tulote, Cassandra, Xerta, the Demoness and a grim-faced General Kaelen stood around a massive stone table, upon which was a map of the entire realm.

"The First Company is ready to march," Kaelen announced. "Of all the men, deceased, injured, and demoralized, we are left with 95,000 swords, spears, and cannons at your command, my Lord Regent. We are ready and we are waiting."

He formally placed his command baton on the table before Tulote.

"Your men have honoured the memory of my ancestors, General. To that I am truly grateful." Tulote said, accepting command.

"Now they will forge a new legacy."

The final strategy was laid out.
It was no longer a series of desperate liberations.
It was a single coordinated offensive.
The Elven armies from Zone One would march south.
The newly refitted IMperial Navy from Zone Two would blockade the southern coasts.
And the First Company, of Zone Three, would march from the north.

Three great armies, a global pincer movement, all converging on one final, desolate location.
The Irene Desert.
It was the festering heart of Dietha's power on Erton and the last known position of the encircled Imperial Guard, the Imperilati.

"Our armies will form a cage. But we must be the ones to slay Dietha within. Our role is to travel ahead of the armies, to strike directly at Dietha's sanctum and face her before she can unleash the full extent of her power."

A cold dread settled in my stomach.
The final battle.
The end of all things.
And a single, agonizing question.

What about my children?

I could not take them with me.
To bring them into the Irene Desert, into the very heart of Chaos, was a death sentence.
And yet, the thought of leaving them again, of walking away from the family I had just miraculously regained, was a physical agony.

That night, I sat with them, the four of them bundled in blankets before the fire.
I had to tell them.

"I have to go away again. Just for a little while."

"But you just got back, Papa," Iriam whispered, her lower lip trembling.

I pulled her into my lap, my heartbreaking.

"I know, sweetheart. But there is one last monster we have to fight. A very big, very mean one. And once we beat her, she can never hurt anyone ever again. And then... then I'm all yours. Forever."

I looked at Idrian.

"I need you to be strong for them. Can you do that for me?"

He nodded, trying to be brave, but I saw the tears welling in his eyes.

Remember Thial? I'd leave them in her care.
I couldn't think of anyone better suited for the job.

"I'll send word back to the Capital in advance."

Tulote made all the necessary arrangements, and they arrived at the capital unharmed, and safe.

The next morning, we stood on the highest battlement of Kaelen's Peak.
The combined armies of the First Company were in the valley below, ready to begin their long march south.

Our fellowship was complete at last.
Tulote, the Lord Regent who had found his peace.
Cassandra, the ancient queen who fought for the present.
Xerta, the heart of our party.
.... and the demoness, whose secrets were still her own.

Then there was me.
A father who had just made the ultimate sacrifice, wagering the entire world against the promise of a peaceful tomorrow with his family.

We turned and looked south.
Towards the distant, shimmering heat haze of the Irene Desert.
Zone Three was complete.
The final battle had begun.