On June 23, Medith tightened the Dusk Legion’s ranks. Faces were set like stone under a dying sun; her worry eased. She pulled the original Elders Council straight out, a test by fire. Without the women leaders, would they still keep their high-grade drill?
“Medith, I have someone for the garrison’s command.” Milia spoke like a steady drumbeat, certain. Medith’s curiosity sparked; a first self-nomination. “Let’s hear it.”
...
“Her—Yunita.” Milia brought forward a green-haired Sprite, eager as spring grass. The girl’s features echoed Medith’s; glance twice, and you’d still hesitate.
“Well now? Interesting.” Medith reached out and pinched the girl’s dewy cheek, like testing ripe fruit.
“Um—mii?” The girl flinched, eyes shut. Feeling no malice, she peeled them open, and the war-god she’d worshiped stood breathing close. She studied Medith’s face—and found...
She looked no different from the sisters she saw daily. If there was a gap, it was aura: heroic beauty braided with cute charm, dazzling like twin comets.
“Good. Take her along as my adjutant. She’ll pour tea and water.” Medith’s smile was bright. Milia recoiled. “Huh? But... I recommended her for command...”
“No. Baby face, drifting eyes, fidgeting hands, shaky stance—she’s not cut for that. I’m guessing she was a small-squad star, bumped up for your sake?” Medith didn’t even turn. Her read hit home.
Milia scratched her head, sheepish. “Eh-heh... Wasn’t it you who said, give rookies more chances? I was just—”
“Give rookies chances—then who gives us a chance? The Southern Kingdom? Or the vicious Mountain Bandits?” Medith’s tone chilled like a sudden squall. Both froze, barely breathing.
“For other posts, sure, you can cultivate. But command is different. In crisis you stay cool. You become the wind vane that pulls everyone through.”
“Don’t smuggle private favor into war. Milia, remember: with that medal on, you stand in the whirlpool’s eye, every moment. Got it?” Medith straightened Milia’s coat, then tapped the gold-bright medal on her chest.
Milia blinked, stunned, then bowed in shame. Yunita’s eyes flooded; she begged, quick and soft, pleading Medith not to punish Milia. It was her little schemes that “forced” Milia.
Medith stayed quiet. Milia snagged Yunita by the sleeve. “Stop, Yunita. Wrong is wrong. Never excuse your own mistake. It’s done—now we patch it as best we can, not curse heaven or ourselves.
“Commander, please assign punishment.”
Medith watched Milia’s respectful bow. No blame clouded her face. She turned to leave and spoke over her shoulder. “Then you two will ready your gear in a day. Tomorrow, you’re coming north with me to seek aid.”
Both women blinked, then lit up, laughing. “Yes!”
...
“Scholar Pers, what are you doing here?” Medith passed the training field. Movements halted; a ring of soldiers crowded the Fleshgrinder Chariot, gasps popping like sparks.
“Commander, I’m briefing your engineers on its workings. Time’s tight; you’re about to depart. These two chariots won’t be fully analyzed in time.
“But with your city’s fine engineers, they’ll crack the core architecture. And...” Pers smiled with intent and glanced at a Sprite elder nearby.
He wore a black robe. His frame was bent, like wood close to rot, yet his eyes were bright—knowledge heavy, wisdom deep as wells.
“An Elder?” Only members of the Elders Council dress so within the city.
“This old bone, Klotov, pays his respects to the Commander...” Klotov dipped his head. With that stooped body, it looked like a grand bow.
“No need, Elder.” Medith hurried to raise Klotov up. So, these days, the Dusk Legion’s gear had passed through the Elder’s hands. No wonder maintenance shone.
Klotov coughed twice, then drew out a stack of reports. “Commander, this Fleshgrinder Chariot is a blade tailored for the Elvenfolk. Let us run it—half the strain, double the bite. In time, it’ll be the core weapon that beats back outsiders!”
