The Runic Alchemist

Damian followed the boy inside the building. It wasn't as grand as Vidalia's, nor as ornately decorated, but it was decent in its own right. The emblem on the building looked familiar, but Damian paid it little mind.

They were all there—well, not all. Lord Ashford, the mage, wasn't present, and neither was Lord Parcival, the old second-rank knight veteran. The remaining four, though—Esme, Tristan, Aramis, and the pugilist—were still there, albeit heavily bandaged. The old female second-rank knight, Lysandrea, was also present, looking worse for wear.

The elf commander was in no better shape. She, too, was bandaged up and still wearing the outfit she'd fought in the night before, but had just her armor on top now. It seemed she hadn't rested at all. Well, she was responsible for this mess, so her dedication was the bare minimum expected of her.

No one greeted Damian or said anything as he entered. Esme, Tristan, and the old veteran knight gave him small smiles, but they remained silent. One chair at the table, in the innermost room of the strange new building, was empty. The room was better decorated than the rest of the building, though still modest. Damian sat down and glared at Vidalia, whose face was as expressionless as ever.

"So, as I was saying," Lord Tristan continued, "if we don't want to follow dear Ashford into an early grave, we should retreat now."

"We can't get far in two days," Aramis replied. "That is, if they even need that long for that damned tool…"

"And show our backs to the enemy?" the pugilist questioned.

"Parcival's sacrifice can't be in vain," the old veteran knight growled through gritted teeth.

So, the old man died too, Damian thought. The toll was higher than he'd imagined. Even high-ranking nobles had fallen.

"How many died?" Damian asked, his gaze never leaving the commander's eyes.

"Five thousand, at minimum. A hundred of them were nobles," Esme answered, the pain evident on her kind face. She had been the one most in favor of retreating, hadn't she?

"We were down to fifteen thousand in comparison before, and now another five thousand are gone. Many of them were highly skilled second-rankers," Tristan added.

"With their two third-rankers, fighting head-on is suicide," Aramis said. "I don't like the bastard's face either, but this time, he's right. We have no choice but to make a strategic retreat."

Tristan's face twisted in displeasure at Aramis's words, but Aramis ignored him and continued, "Provided, of course, that we find a way to neutralize their waygate, which could hinder our escape."

"If we retreat," the old veteran knight added, "it will forever stain Eldoris's history."

Her eyes, along with everyone else's, turned to the commander, waiting for her decision.

"We can't retreat just yet," Vidalia said, surprising half the room.

"My lady, if we lose, there will be no hope left for Eldoris once their reinforcements arrive. If you're not there..." Aramis began, but Vidalia cut him off.

"We must defend our land. Yes, we've suffered a heavy blow, and it seems hopeless, but believe in yourselves. They may have tricks and numbers, but we have experience. Our troops can hold on. We just need some sort of advantage."

"Hmph... Hahaha... haha..." Damian suddenly laughed, unable to control himself at the hollow words of encouragement. Everyone glared at him—except for Vidalia, who remained calm, her face as blank as ever.

"Boy! Have you finally lost your mind?" Aramis snapped at him.

"Enough, kid. What the hell is so funny?" Tristan also chimed in.

Damian's laughter faded, replaced by barely contained fury. His expression darkened as he glared at Vidalia. Everyone noticed the shift and looked to her for answers, but she remained composed, her face showing only the weariness of battle.

"Tell them," Damian growled. "You want an advantage? Tell them what you let slip through your fingers." His voice was louder than intended, surprising even him. Since when had he cared so much about what they did? Back on Earth, peace had sheltered him from confronting anything he didn't want to, bottling his emotions deep in himself.

But here, in this world, he was finding sides of himself he hadn't known existed with each unreasonable experience he suffered through.

Confusion rippled through the room as the others looked to Vidalia for answers, expecting her to reprimand Damian or at least respond. Finally, she broke eye contact with him and glanced at the faces of her companions one by one. She took a sip of her wine and then spoke slowly.

"He's angry because he trapped Moondancer with his spell, and I didn't let him kill her on the spot...."

The room fell silent. Eyes widened in shock, and one by one, they turned their gazes to Damian. Some of them even looked frightened. But this wasn't the reaction he had expected. Why were they acting like this? Didn't they understand the magnitude of the opportunity they had lost?

The chance to even the playing field, to stop this war in its tracks?

Then it hit him. Whatever reason Vidalia had for sparing Moondancer, they all already knew it.

"What...? What could possibly be so important that you let the chance to end this war slip through your hands? And all of you are fine with it..?" Damian's voice rose, despite his efforts to stay calm. He didn't want to shout, but his emotions got the better of him, the frustration evident in his childish tone.

The others looked away. Some turned their faces to the side, others stared down at the table or into their wine glasses, guilt etched on their faces.

What the hell is going on with them? Damian thought. How could they come here to fight and die, yet hesitate when given the chance to kill their enemy?

"We can't kill the third-rankers or a few of their selected top nobles," Esme explained, the only one brave enough to meet his gaze. "We can only hope to capture them. The life of our queen is at stake. It's messed up, we know... but that's just how things are. Only a few of us know the truth."

It was the biggest load of bullshit Damian had ever heard.