September 7th, Medith walked beside Gerald across a training square that churned like a full army. Ten thousand moved in unison, hooves and boots drumming like rain. Cavalry and infantry crossed like twin rivers, drilling for every war and sudden storm. Medith watched these disciplined mercenaries and felt a cold quake under her ribs.
Days with the Radiant Knights had overturned her old mold, like a clay idol cracked by sun. In her mind, anyone bearing the word “mercenary” was a licensed Mountain Bandit, a wolf in legal fur.
A mercenary took coin and shouldered others’ calamities, like an ox under a storm yoke, good or ill.
But the people before her weren’t that, like steel tempered to a different hue. Gerald read her mood like wind over reeds, pointed at the crisp-armored riders, and said with proud warmth, “Who knows how much Gulo told you back then. Our trade split into two currents long ago, like a river fork.
“One current runs toward coin and power, taking any war like moths to flame. They joined for that, more or less, without faith, pure material iron.
“Brave and lethal, but shape present and spirit absent, like a statue with empty eyes. When losses pass thirty percent, they break without being struck, scattering like leaves.
“Yet living on the blade’s edge made them sharp as hawks. And war fattens purses like autumn granaries. Their authority, gear, numbers, and skills crush us on all fronts, like a mountain rolling downhill.
“They don’t care for dignity, nor for the world’s spit; they chase profit like dogs after bones. They’re the shame of mercenaries. Of course, those fellows say the same of us, like mirrors snarling at mirrors.
“They tried to peel ‘mercenary’ off and crown themselves another banner, like a snake shedding skin. But the old name became custom, and going solo cracked their own signboard. So they worked the surface instead, like paint over wood.
“You see, our Radiant Knights wear silver-white armor, bright as frost. On our chests is the Nameless Knight, a quiet shadow.
“Theirs is a monster stitched from a hundred beasts, like a nightmare sewn wrong. Just like themselves. They think it makes foes tremble and surrender without a fight, like birds before a hawk.
“Little do they know, we simply call them the Fulkus Mercenary Corps, a scarecrow with too many feathers.”
Gerald sketched the other faction’s history in a few strokes, like ink on rice paper. Medith saw the shape. So the Radiant Knights were the “heretics,” wearing the mercenary flag yet robbing the rich and lifting the poor, like storm and shelter. The class representative of knightly virtue, chalk in hand.
A sly spark flickered, then she cooled it like tea set aside. If that’s the case, why not shed the word “mercenary” outright? Your name and strength already stand tall. Unlike the Fulkus lot, you wouldn’t lose clients with the title gone.
“Who leads you all?” Medith went for the heart, the question like an arrow.
Gerald heard it, and his whole air changed, like dawn washing a soldier’s face. From his soul, reverence poured out without restraint; longing gleamed like starlight, and quiet happiness warmed him.
Medith had seen that look only once—on the day Ostos Ogathas the Tenth announced his abdication, like a crown lowered gently.
“Sharp as ever, aren’t you. Our Grand Commander is the founder of the Radiant Knights, like a spark that seeded a bonfire. Twenty years ago, she fought alone and found three kindred hands, like stars forming a constellation. They were born humble: a farmer with soil on his palms, a blacksmith with soot on his brow, a stable boy with straw in his hair.
“And there was also a princess of a fallen kingdom, a moon hidden by clouds.
“Her deeds could be inked across a hundred histories, like banners over a skyline. To this day, she leads us forward, never straying, like a compass true north.
“We address her as Her Highness, our Grand Commander. And she bears a byname—Felica the Unifier.”
Medith listened quietly, like water under reeds. Seeing the longing etched on that straight-cut face, she found herself raising her measure of the Radiant Knights’ Grand Commander.
“One day—could I finish everything too, and live beneath her same halo and simple joys…” The thought rose like incense, sweet and curling. She saw herself twenty years on, banners of the Dusk Legion planted across the continent like crimson sunsets. Songs praising her courage rose in every city like evening bells. Far away, she built a castle of stone and light. Inside, she spent golden days with heroes and comrades, with dear lovers by a warm hearth, like wine in winter.
Medith shook her head, scattering the dream like sparrows. Think too much, and you sink, losing your line of march.
“So, Sir Knight, do you take women?” Her smile held a hidden hook, like silk over steel.
Gerald chuckled. “Sadly, we don’t. It’s not scorn; it’s fear our ladies would be too pretty and bright, and this pack of hungry wolves would forget to train, like pups around honey. Especially the woodland sprite with rosy ears.”
“Hahaha! That really is… too bad.” Medith laughed, clear as a bell. Gerald’s laugh joined hers, easy as wind. The laughter thinned; silence fell like snow. They met eyes, a shared flame glinting between them.
“I’m heading out in two days.”
“Good luck.”
“Nothing else?”
“Everything’s in what’s unsaid.”
“Ah… No matter how many times, farewells are sad, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Because of that sadness, we’re spurred on, marching like sunrise. Dawnlight’s gate is always open to you, my dear friend.”
“Much obliged. If the castellan doesn’t mind, could we add another black sun to the war-banner?”
“Oh? Good. From far off, someone will see it and probably wet his pants…”
