He pulled himself away from the frost glazed window, the aluminum netting clipped to his helmet over his face swaying in movement – of loops strung together as if fishermen's nets catching nothing but the angular bones of his face. Alone, he stood in the cavernous hallway – headlong gray slate interrupted by the occasional sea glass tint of arching borosilicate glass windows. His darkened shadow loomed ominously across the worn amber hallway runner, a scant collection of abbot portraits filled in gaps on the crumbling walls. Today was anointing day – Otro's promotion as a noncommissioned officer and never had he felt more beguiled standing within such a place.
This luxury was unusual to him and he felt like a child playing dress up in borrowed clothes. Looking at his faded reflection in the tinted glass, the black sleeves of his vestment ran ill fitted over his hands. They caught themselves in his fingertips, the feeling of entrapment familiar to him. The distant hurried noise of squeaking bagpipes and thumping of bodhran interrupted his thoughts and he shook his head as if he was a dog shedding mud, turning to face the sudden eeriness of the hallway. Two nuns and a heavily decorated knight clunked themselves in a flustered pace down the corridor, a man gently thumping a bodhran behind them. A thick steel cross bent over the one woman, her habit sternly holding back wrinkled skin.
As they neared closer to him, cowered against the panes of glass, their shadows lusted chaotically after him, reaching the tip of his shoes before the person. The nun's blue black cloaks softly brushed the floor as the knight's black dress clothes swung out, revealing copper armor. As he turned his head towards them, the dim light from the windows glinted across the copper armor. It cast a warm glow onto his face and drew out the shadows of the netting. His eyes pierced out beneath it like a caribou in the darkness. Grasping his arm, the nuns clucked over him like mother hens and rolled his vestment sleeves back to reveal thin fingers. Exchanging glances with the knight, they ushered him down the hallway towards the large mahogany door at the end. With the beating of the bodhran drum, his heart thumped in his chest, and he allowed himself to be pulled away.
A thousand orange candles sat staggered as a mountain around the lapis marble swirled altar. A fervent chorus of Hallelujah swung itself down from the thick beams above, culminating in war cries. The scent of incense clung to the air, lingering in the deepest crevices of one's' skin. Ten bodhrans beat ferociously, moving from low brassy sounds to high pitched – beaten by tippers and the hand, of hand against the cream drum base. Simple black vestments dragged themselves behind him like the desperate hands of the dead. A twisted adornment of a layered golden hood crowned itself king over the chainmail covering his face like a melted halo. His hand twitched as he reached the last of the pews and was handed a thick caramel candle. Waxy smoke momentarily blinded him before cascading up towards the ceiling like smooth silk.
Gently, the hunched over nun guided him towards the back of the procession, her gray habit decorating her covered head like a cobweb. He steadied himself and willed his gaze to center on the lavishly carved altar. Smoke with its incense and singing crowded his mind like a drug. Focusing his eyes on the lead heels of the altar boy in front of him, slowly they processed up to the altar where a general and a bishop stood, his domed hat reaching towards the heavens. The servers fanned off to the sides of the pews like peacock feathers, humming the Latin chorus of a litany. As the man finished the procession at the bottom of the altar steps he bowed his hand like a sheep to slaughter. A server, a boy with a thin and knobby body, awkwardly stumbled over to the bishop with a glass tubed chrismaria – the green golden oil sloshing around on the inside.
Reaching forward, the bishop moved the knotted material off the man's fair head, gilded like a crown, to reveal the netting covering his gaze. The man closed his eyes as the bishop opened the vial and raised a pointed hand, his voice extending with all the power of fire and brimstones.
Through this holy anointing may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord Who frees you from sin save you and raise you up. May you forever grace your body with the purity of Him.
With that, the gnarled bishop's shaking hands poured oil over the man's head until it became slickened and did the sign of the cross. His blonde hair became tainted with the olive-green hue of oil and darkened like dried blood. He watched the drops mingle with the threadbare runner below, crystalizing in the dim light. Fierce fingers gipped the man's chapped chin and lifted it to meet the milky blue eyes shaded beneath the dome. For a moment, the man was startled. The bishop pressed his gaze into his as if he was trying to convey a message from the kingdom above. The young man became distracted, and the bishop pulled away, back to his sequestered spot on the altar.
In turn, the plate armor that marked the general as one higher ranked than a knight, clunkily hastened down the stairs. Sheets of blackened metal sometimes scraped over each other to make a grating noise with the move. It was as if he was trying to trot while carrying a stack of tin dinner plates. The general slowed, standing in front of the bowed man with braced feet. The candlelight wormed its way against his armor as if he was a mirage in the desert. Nonetheless he was real. Struggling to reach beneath a metal breast pocket, he produced a sweat dampened letter stamped with an auburn seal and a thin twisted ring with the insignia of an olive branch. Breaking the seal open with a stiff movement, he began to read aloud.
Otro from today onwards ye' shall be declared consul to the Highest Rank. Thy shall adopt the surname of Sanctus according to thy hallow'd position. Ye' shall no longer be seen as foot soldier and shall now be appointed to advising of the Seven Crosses Commander. Thou shalt receive all beneficiaries from yeh sect and position with promoting thereafter. Report by the setting of the golden orb.
The general placed a firm hand on the young Otro's shoulder in closing, the grip imprinting the pressure that weighed on his undeserving self. In the other gauntlet, the general grabbed his hand and slid the ring over Otro's right ring finger, the olive branch insignia seeming to wane. The general's hazel flecked eyes bore into Otro with a dignified air of a silent curiosity, before snapping back into rigidness. He felt as though he would throw up, right there, into the rust-colored runner and scuffed shoes below. Instead, he forced his mail link blinded gaze out towards the dappled stain glass that led a vision to the world below. In the distance, a fire burned amber against the dirtied snow.
✧
Across the soot-stained snow were frozen bodies that bled like footprints in the sand slowly extending to take over the entire depth of the cliff. The field above drained tobacco colored mud to mix with slush below, caking the survivors of the half burning village with thick swathes of exhaustion. Abandoned calvary ran rampant throughout the village, and the screams of those aflame drowned out one's own thoughts. A lone knight in the distance reached to pull a sword stuck in the murk, like a ferryman hitting a pole against river bottom. The dirty things remained hidden. Weakling trees that remained stood smoking, their branches spindling and weaving into coffins for the corpses. Small brown birds scattered with scarlet breasts crowded over the buried, in mobs, as the dawn bowed fully to storm. In the chaos, a young foot soldier blinked his eyes slowly, his ears ringing. Shield gone and half broken sword flung haphazardly against chest. He was streaked in blood, armor dulled by humanity. Somewhere a raven cawed. The blood his own.
Nearby, a horse threw its rider and bolted into the mess of man. The rider landed with a sickening thud before stilling. What is this plague upon man – to kill or be killed? Soon his body too would be eaten by the Earth and fertilize the bones of the unburied. He dug his toe tips into the sludge and stared at the awkward turn of the knight's neck, the twist of a leg, and the loll of the mouth beneath an open visor. Upon closer inspection his face was also that of a young lad no older than twelve, skin smooth as a mother's breast. His chest heaved under his chest plate as if a thousand stallions galloped in his abdomen.
The boy staggered, fighting an urge to hurl before lifting his veil and vomiting into the snirt. He heaved until nothing was left in his stomach but bile and pain. His lips curled back, and he slammed his visor down, breathing hot and sour against the metal. The war between the King of Hedmark and the Queen of Adger, a woman that was rarely seen in public, had been raging on for ten years. Slowly the coffers of even the monasteries were beginning to drain and empty pockets erupted like flowers in fertile soil. Yet what drained more was the blood of the young men coating the battlefield. When the dust settles, and the men go back to their mothers as boys in wood – what will happen then? What moves when we close our eyes? Does man evolve into a beast at the time? Even four legged creatures are not this cruel.
Hysteria surrounded him. Screams rang out across the barren muddy place and the snow moved so fiercely that any clear perspective was instantly muddled by the storm. He never found himself moving fast enough in training, always the one blundering over his own legs and beaten to a pulp – nursing his purply wounds in the battalions. The fear he felt having a wooden sword veer too close to his head was nothing compared to the trauma of real battle. One would think every man lacked a grain of humanity – each whittled down to their core to survive in the bloody fray. It was a place where the concepts of honor and chivalry are discarded by the harsh realities of war: death, injury, and the ever-present fear of defeat. One could never be sure if his thoughts were his own and seconds moved like hours. A missed timing meant death. The kid was only supposed to be in this village for a surveillance mission. For the villagers that complained of things being stolen, of the dead pig occasionally showing up on a doorstep, of night watch guards mysteriously missing only to find their bodies headless. He was too inexperienced for more. Too young to be anything greater than casualty.
In that moment, in that twist of the clunky body, he met the eyes of the Hedmark knight and saw the way their blue squinted behind the shape of a golden helmet. Fear. Utter fear struck his bones. Their ax swung in the air almost gracefully – a conductor to the thousands of arrows soaring across the dim sky as the fatigue roared in his own body. He felt like he had aged a thousand years within the few seconds before their weapons clashed. Sword against ax. He had not known the tension of such a piston, the throbbing in one's chest, the pounding of the heart against skin. He had not yet discovered the way his blood would run cold then hot in his body before the impact.
Maybe it was inevitable.
In moments the boy's head would be separated from the rest of his body, his blood mixing like oil and water with the snow below. It would not be quick; one hack after one hack with the ruthless slice of metal. Merciless. Until the blood bubbled in his thin throat, gargled screams choking on his last breaths, a foaming at the mouth, a rolling of the eyes. Falling onto his knees, the whimpering screams to have the enemy soldier end it, only to endure the pain and pain and pain. Like a puppet with the life drained out of him, would slump into the mass of the dead while the dishonored Hedmark escaped into the rocky caverns of the cliff. His golden helmet dressed in blood as his steps shuffled into the snow with forgotten time. The very presence of the intruder blurred. Somewhere in the distance the fleshy body of a cream tundra winged its way towards the small barrack, landing lightly on the crest of the monastery's roof, as a sword clattered to the red splattered snow.
✧
In the night, Otro was shaken out of his ramshackle barrack by an exasperated messenger, and half dragging his clothes on, was escorted to the Seven Crosses Commander in the inky blackness. He stumbled after the messenger, sleep rubbing itself from his eyes, as a thick bear pelt covered his body in a cloak. A weak lantern swung itself from his grip - light sputtering like a nervous lad. Trudging through the snow up to the monastery was torture, his face slowly becoming burned by frost. Shoving his hood over straw strands, the few hair pieces sticking out became glazed in ice. His eyelashes collected spirals from the sky before they melted from residue body heat. A thin sliver of moon forebodingly peeked anxiously from the snow clouds above. The wind whipped unforgivingly against them.
Eventually, they reached a mahogany door in which the messenger knocked thrice, and a booming voice roared in response to enter. Otro straightened his spine and shoved open the door while the messenger dissipated into the dark, the sorry sod. Otro raised a hand in salute as he stood in the middle of a barren room, one too slimy decorated for a commander with such a high ranking. There was but a single nickel desk and two chairs shoved beneath it as maps haphazardly strewn across the cobblestone. Books fell in piles near the single window looking out to East Landini below like excited children and two swords found themselves pinned against the wall.
Behind the desk was a burly man, his hands thickened with time, a crumbled burn climbing up the side of his face. Every time he opened his boisterous mouth it stretched like a tightened wire. His eyes were small and his nose like one that had seen too many fights, his very being commanding respect. Commander Alexander leaned forward, shadow morphing Otro's mini silhouette, and placed his calloused hands on top of the desk.
Consul Sanctus.
Reporting to Seven Crosses Commander Alexander.
A pause filled the room for a moment before Commander Alexander cleared his throat.
A village in the west, near the Cliffs of Landor, was pillaged last night. Half of it is still burning that unholy flame that licks at the bones of the dead.
Otro stilled, his pulse quickening with the shock.
Are you certain? Why was they out there?
The village princeps sent us a letter about some…disruptions.
Disruptions?
He straightened his back and pressed his hands together in a prayer like stance, interlocking his fingers, before bowing his head towards the desk.
We lost more than half of our surveillance crew. One witness reported seeing a golden helmet in the mass of our smoky ones.
Commander Alexander straightened himself, narrowing his gaze with this. Steel suffocated the tones of emotion within his voice and replaced it with cold authority. A curtain swept across Alexander's face as he placed a hand on the map in front of him.
I need ya to meet with the rest of the generals to formulate a plan for catching the Rogue.
Otro clasped his frostbitten hands together beneath his hairy cloak to steady them, yet he could not stop the brief shaking from climbing up his limbs. A thousand thoughts raced through his head like darts before resting on the target "meet with the rest of the generals". He shuddered at the statement, a frozen fear refusing to liquify his blood. None would take him seriously the second he stepped foot into the strategizing room. All those battle-hardened generals would never recognize him, even if Commander Alexander did, because he had never been in battle. Blood erupted behind his closed eyelids, and he blinked multiple times to steal away the images in his mind of beheaded children, crying women, and fields on fire. Otro personally knew the effects of war but to sword flying scoundrels of it, nothing was more important than experience.
Commander, with all due respect, my experience is nothing compared to theirs. Afterall, my head is still fresh with anointing. It may be best if you have another Consul go. Someone from a more refined standing will be better suited.
A vague hint of hysteria entered his voice and the Commander stilled, before rising and allowing his massive self to round the desk and stand in front of him. The commander leaned down to face him. The gleaming light of escape dimming with each passing move.
My boy. I know what ya have seen. Ya're the only one who is free from the sins of our bloodied hands. Ya are the only one that can stop those hastened to spill it more.
✧
Clouded light pierced the bitter cobblestone floor like enemy spears, the only haven the rugged gray oriental rug holding house beneath a round chromium table. The rays bounced against the table to reflect the mottled armor of three men. They floundered in their arguments, voices of different tones overlapping with conversational routes. Outside, the sky glowed red while snow howled like a malicious pack of hyenas against crumbling stone. Inside the air taunt with the possibility of crossing swords.
Victoris! Thee village 'twas razed to the ground by one man. We do not know his age nor affiliation nor if this 'twas an act partaken in by Hedmark. Thy kingdom doesn't care about the wee village! We need to mislead that rogue into submission.
In response, the pockmarked Victoris leaned back, his eyes solidified into ice towards the blackened metal man, as he spat on the ground.
Dracwell, this is thee prospect of war. Of fighting murder with more murder. Of living in a blood bath. We must seek him out and kill him. Do onto others what thy do unto yous.
The barrel shaped man, Augustus, slammed his fist onto the table, his beard flying in the movement like scalding flames. Aggression coated his calculating words with poison.
We should already be in the bath of snow outs theres! We's be a wastin' our mens searching amongst the bodies for our own. 'Twas time we send a letter to Commander Alexander and demands of him to speak to the Queen.
Their words collided and rose up into the vaulted ceiling, the dark words highlighted by the tension of coiled bodies. They beat upon each other like the crimson waves below. Each voice raised higher than the next in attempts to claim Creator instead of creation. Agendas would be pushed, blood spilled, and politics played as though the men in the fields were clay bodies designed for war.
In a paradoxical way, their words embraced solutions only to create resulting problems, more work arounds, and more pain. For they were pinned against each other like arrows in wood and their positions suffocated from the jealousness of self-preserving minds. Revenge colored all things the same and specifics brimmed into generalizations of blindness. One would have to choose between the pureness of water and the sinfulness of wine.
As they warred against each other, the door shuddered open into the inhospitable hallway, carving a reflecting path across the monastic alley. Light met the darkness, casting dice into the path of a bear cloaked Otro. To enter the scathing rays or back away into the shadows that melded into silence.
Beneath, a cream tunic embroidered with gold thread designed a scorching orb across his back and ragged leather pants worn thin bedecked his body as a frill caged in his neck. The stiff fabric suffocated the young man like a hand choking him. A few sheets of paper clung to his arms like scared kittens to a tree, dwarfing his stature. He was a child in the house of a party, something to be seen but not heard, born but unacknowledged.
Otro paused at the boundary that spilled out of the oaken door, the malicious words from the generals inside frolicking in his ears. He tensed, thoughts jostling in his head like thieves across rooftops. Had he missed the beginning of the meeting? Maybe Otro had been mistaken. He had thought it began when the golden orb rose west and looking out the small spiderwebbed window, he watched the tender rays fizzle over the curve of the mountainside. The sun was just beginning to rise.
Otro looked down to the thin olive ring resting upon his right ring finger, the obligation and words of Commander Alexander burning themselves into his cortex like skin touched by flame. It was time that he remembered why he had survived to be here. Choking down the waves of bile rising in his esophagus, he forced his paralyzed feet to enter, the door widening unseen and unheard by the generals. For a moment, he thought of retreating.
Of backing into the shadows, into the barracks, into the chapel, and back out to the amber fields that swayed with peacefulness and called his name. Yet, he recalled the innocent souls that could not afford to escape the war, the empty coffins sent home to their mothers, and the golden helmets that laid in the black sands like the snow in East Landini. In a devastated response, his heart lunged forceful against the thin lining of his skin.
He lingered near the doorway, waiting to catch the generals' eyes to be announced. Otro would have had to live a thousand lives or taken them to be recognized. A sweaty palm clenched the frill around his neck as he edged closer to the table centered in the middle of the room, their words battering him like a hurricane. Their teeth flashed white like stalactites and their arguments reared so close to Otro's head that their spittle coated the side of his face in disgust.
Victoris was a middle-aged man with a beak nose, long pockmarked chin, and high ears like a mouse. His dusty white skin burst forth beneath with ruddy patterns of veins like shining diamonds among the navy sky. As he leaned above a stained map unfurled across the table, a barrel shaped Augustus with a fiery red beard tied into thousands of intersecting braids, slid tactical symbols across the portion marked Cliffs of Landor. Dracwell, heavily cloaked in sheets of blackened metal, rose from his chair, and banged a goblet on the table. The amber liquid slid off the cusp onto the floor, reflecting the olive branch insignia carved into each rerebrace.
As Otro reached to grasp the limb of a chair to sit down amongst the chaos, his steel boot caught an uneven stone and the crumbled pages he carried scattered to the floor. The generals paused as he slammed a knee to the ground, hand flailing out to catch the head of the chair, pain radiating up his body. Otro's stomach dropped, and he willed the ground to swallow him whole. His knuckles that scraped the stone chair stung with freshly produced blood.
The generals revel in his weakness, sniffing out his wounds like predators circling easy prey. Their shadows stretched out like silence as Otro scrambled to his feet, straightening his tunic to meet the ferocious eyes of General Victoris. Hazel met green like hull crashing into rock, willing the stronger one to hold out. Tension radiated out of General Dracwell's and Augustus's postures. Otro dropped his gaze, a smirk hinting at the pleasure General Victoris received in the quick victory, like a king expunging a weak country. Moving around a tongue of cotton, Otro opened his mouth to salvage the moment.
Greetings General Victoris, Dracwell, and August. Consul Sanctus reporting on the movements of the rogue within the village near the Cliffs of Landor.
Dracwell ran a scarred hand along the tables edge, dragging his body eerily close to Otro's. His eyes bulged from his head like one with a bad taste in his mouth.
You are late Otro.
A cold sweat dripped down his back and Otro willed himself to straighten his spine, the mentioning of his first name instead of his title not going unnoticed. His chin quaked while he refused to swallow his pride.
It is Consul Sanctus now General Dracwell. About the rogue, I was thinkin--
General August laughed, the arrogance carrying in the room like a sword echo in a valley, the noise spiteful. He waved a hand lazily in Otro's direction before facing his body back to the other two generals.
Back to yous suggestion Victoris. Hows about we send the helmets out to skin him? I's sure he be frozen within a cavern now, delicate skin bloomed solid.
Dracwell butted in, the angular bones in his face growing sharp, adding to the building bloodlust that enraptured the room. His lips flared as if he was biting into each word, the juices running down the sides of his mouth like a decadent dessert.
We's could have 'em capture 'im and hang him in the square. Throw his broken body down into the catacombs. Sends deh armor back to their king. Have a surveillance brought.
A brief fury rose in Otro as they iced him out, his ivory hands reaching to grip the edge of the cool table. He felt as small as a spark used to cast a fire. All the while, Victoris's disdain loomed in his mind like Mt. Deicidae over the west, the hostile mountain face killing more men who tried to foolishly cross it to escape into Adger. Their bodies crusted in ice and left unrecognizable. The pity plight of desiring freedom when one cannot have it.
He gritted his teeth, the wind outside howling as ice lashed against the drafty windows like pitchforks, the vileness inside climaxing. Just as he opened his mouth to interrupt, a savage gust of wind blew open a creaking window at the right end, the hinges screeching forebodingly in the dusk painted room. The generals stilled before Dracwell trotted over to the window to force it close, his brute strength struggling to click the latch. Victoris nodded his head towards the window.
Otro. Yous just sittin theres uselessly. Goes close that.
Otro uneasily rose from the table making his way towards the opening with a stomach as heavy as a pit of lead and just as poisonous. Dracwell brushed past him as the window swung precariously, the balance lost. He grasped the hinge, looking out to the avalanches falling down the edge of the monastery's cliff to the abysmal world below. Uprises like the weeds of war simmered.
Their petty arguments wasted precious time that one could not get back, thoughts of the aristocratic that never trickled down to those they moved around like pawns. Life was not their idle chess games. Otro gripped the window edge until it cut into his palms and swallowing deeply, finally raised his head. At that moment, he knew he would have to do something radical to get them to listen to him. Gently, he closed the window before turning to face the table of generals, quiet tone beginning to spar with the louder ones.
Let me go out to the Cliffs of Landor. I can find the rogue. Urge him with words to gather information on Hedmark's movements. Surely that is more useful than just slaughtering an experienced knight who holds higher ranking commands.
Victoris paused in his debates, his hazel eyes meeting the stoic faces of Augustus and Dracwell. In a swift movement, he crossed to the corner and grasped Otro by the frill, rage dancing merrily in his eyes. Beneath the façade, a gleeful glimmer of something Otro could not place subtly faded away from Victoris's face, tamping down his own fear. Victrois leaned close, spittle raining down on Otro's soft expression, crumpling his dainty collar with thin finger.
Yous don't belong here Otro. By coincidence, Langelia died in that village and now yous 'ave arisen to claim his spot. You're no savior. No saint. Yous don't know what's outs there. Your revelations look nothing like the pictures yous want to paint. Yous has not touched a sword or seen the way blood flares out like a fan across the snows. Yous are spared having to remember every tortured day of your wretched existence. Letting yous go would be like leading a lamb to blade.
Otro stilled, seeing his feebleness reflected in the squinty hazel eyes of Victoris before raising his straw-colored head. He forced the hands shaking at his sides to still, a flash of barely recognizable defiance coloring his normally placate eyes. An eerily cool voice tore itself from his peaceful lips.
I may be inadequate but not you. Ah, how easily you can forget the look on the faces of those you have so wantonly slain. You ignore how easily you have taken life after life in your own home. You become ignorant to your sins that your fists only know blood now.
Victoris drew his face close, expression twisted into a vile mask. A mirthless laugh ripped from his mouth as he shook Otro's collar enough for stars to appear in his eyes.
Yous say this as your knuckles bloom with blood. Yous see yourself wearing thee hero's mantle, that much is clear. A vainglorious, self-appointed role. Don't yous know boy? Your hands are bloody from the ink of red tainted quills not swords. Your forms of metal be different but thee intent be same.
Hazel met green but Otro did not look away, his legs shaking beneath his worn trousers. Victoris relaxed his grip and shoved Otro to the stone below, slamming his boot onto the ground beside his neck. He reached down and dug his spidery fingers into Otro's quivering chin, the force enough to leave blue imprints of bruises.
Before yous even came out of your mother's womb, yours itchin' to goes back into it. I's have seen too many foolish young men like yous die. It's a war Otro, nots your fantasy make belief of peace. If yous so desire, goes see the slaughter on your hands.
Otro struggled in his hands, words cutting deep into him like the ice to the stone outside. He struggled, air escaping from his lungs before twisting to the side. Raw lightning flashed as the storm raged outside, coating their faces with divided lines. Raising an elbow, he smacked it square into Victoris's chest, loosening his grip enough to pull away.
You claim we do the same. Each small sin, so easy to commit, always "for the greater good". A single coin carelessly flung into a well. Then another. Yet here we are, and the waters have begun to overflow the stones. Why throw another in it? Why cause more ripples to cross this blood-stained wasteland? Just this once, let me show you I can prevent more stone throwing.
His quiet voice seemed to magnify the savage words from before, as Augustus awkwardly looked towards Dracwell. By some miracle, Otro lunged to his feet as Victoris regained his balance. Victoris laid a thin hand against his hip like a drunken man dependent on a flask. He staggered towards the other generals, shuffling through the pages he had brought in earlier. Positions laid out in red ink, pros and con lists laid, copies of maps marked up, before procuring a thin piece of paper. He placed it on the table as the three generals exchanged looks. Dracwell rose like a blackened fog, his scared olive hand reaching to read over the page named "Surveillance Search Request". August flipped through the material, comparing his map with the smaller ones of Otro. The three of them wore grim expressions while Victoris barely concealed his simmering anger.
August turned to Otro, maple-colored eyes colliding with his, searching for something that Otro could not remember. Conspiring in treacherous whispers, the three tilted their heads together in a huddle before Dracwell emerged from it. Wordlessly, Dracwell raised a stamp that had fallen to its side in the ruckus from the table and slammed it down on the request paper. The scathing imprint read Temporary Classification. Otro grasped at it blindly, the temperature in the room noticeably dropping as Augustus steeled a look towards him.
Consul Sanctus. Commander Alexander better not come to us when he finds your ravaged body. It's your funeral. You have five days.
Unsure how he had made his way out of the room into the hallway, Otro's gaze blurred as the adrenaline coursed out of his body. In the dim light, he stumbled towards a vase in the paralyzed corridor, stole it off the table, and vomited until his stomach rang empty with promises.
✧