The Wildheart

Azure light flashed beyond the bridge windows, making most of the soldiers cringe. General Hellebore, however, stood fast.

When the light faded, the entire craft rocked and a massive wave flooded across the windows, for a moment making Hellebore feel as if they were sinking underwater. But only for a moment. This too died down and calm returned to the bridge once more.

Well, aside from the panicked shouting of the crew. "We've lost forward cannons one and two!"

"Whatever. Still got the other cannons, right?" Hellebore said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Yes, General!" the bridge crew chorused back.

Hellebore clasped his hands behind his back, watching impassively as the crew scrambled back and forth. Shouting into voice-pipes, inspecting readout mirrors. Really, you'd think from the way they were acting they were facing a greater foe than just one skycraft.

Well, that skycraft so happened to belong to the Infernal Legion's greatest enemy. And Hellebore had to admit it'd been a while since the Wildheart had seen any kind of real action.

Pretty daring of Prince Darian, attacking head-on when her craft was completely outmatched. In fact, it seemed a little too daring – shading into recklessness.

The prince was many things, but reckless was not one of them. The Infernal Legion had learned this well from their losses to her over the years.

Quiet footsteps from behind, a drift of soft lavender-like scent. Hellebore turned to see Major Veratrum approaching.

"General," Veratrum said, saluting. "I must say, you seem rather unconcerned."

"You think?" Hellebore flashed him a feral grin. "C'mon, you know me. I'm not the sort to work myself into a frenzy over nothing."

"Oh?" The corner of Veratrum's mouth twitched, about as close to a smile as Hellebore had ever seen from him. "You believe this is nothing, General?"

If Hellebore were in a worse mood, he might have smacked the shit out of Veratrum for his insolence. Right now, though, he was still in the stage where he found the guy more amusing than anything.

"Hmm, I wouldn't say 'nothing,'" Hellebore said, making a show out of rubbing his chin. "Just...something feels a bit off about all this, wouldn't you say? Is Prince Darian really trying to take me down with that dinky rig?"

"Ah." Veratrum's eyes widened. "Are you suggesting it's a decoy?"

Rolling his shoulders, Hellebore cracked his knuckles. "Now you're talking, Vera."

Before he could say more, the mirror next to the commander's chair flashed with black Levia. Hellebore turned toward it, slightly annoyed that he had to bend down. Well, he could just sit in the chair, but he hated that damn fancy thing.

Soon an image resolved inside the mirror – a soldier, some random private Hellebore didn't know, drenched in rain and panting hard.

"General!" the soldier cried, pressing his fist to his chest in a quick salute. "Private Yarrow reporting. There's – outside, the extraction machine, we're being attacked! There's hardly any of us left. Requesting immediate reinforcement, sir!"

The image flickered and faded. Something must've happened on the private's end; maybe his mirror had broken. Not that Hellebore cared.

He turned toward Veratrum, his smirk spreading wider than ever. "Well, well. Looks like I was right."

Veratrum nodded sharply. "I will request immediate dispatch of the second and third battalions, sir."

Hellebore flung up a hand. "Hold that thought. I'm going out myself."

"General!" Veratrum stiffened, his face going chalk-white. "What are you – "

"You heard me." Coat flapping behind him, Hellebore spun toward the bridge doors. "Take care of things over here."

"Wait, General!" Veratrum shouted after him. "This is hardly a matter that requires your direct attention. Think of your position. You're one of the Four Grand Generals – "

Fast as a striking panther, Hellebore grabbed Veratrum by the throat. He pressed his fingers into the soft flesh, feeling tendons straining beneath his grip. Hell, and he wasn't even using that much force.

Not like he'd expected anything better from a weakling like Veratrum.

"Vera, Vera, Vera," Hellebore drawled, keeping his tone casual yet tinged with a warning. "Shouldn't you think of your position? I am one of the Four Grand Generals. And what are you?"

Veratrum twisted and squirmed, scrabbling uselessly at Hellebore's fingers. Adorable that he even bothered putting in the effort.

Even more amazing, Veratrum was actually trying to speak. The words escaped his throat in hoarse wheezes, so faint Hellebore could barely hear – but hear he did.

"The...the creator...of the...extraction machine...."

"Ah?" Tilting his head, Hellebore loosened his grip just a fraction. Just when Veratrum managed to gulp in a breath, Hellebore squeezed down again. This time Veratrum's futile kicking made Hellebore laugh out loud.

"You haven't been this fun in a while, Vera. Gotta say I'm a little impressed. And you're right, you are the creator of the extraction machine. But know what else you are?" He lifted Veratrum higher into the air, bringing him almost to eye level. "A weak little pansy who wouldn't be alive if it weren't for me. That you're still breathing right now is only because you amuse me, got it? So be a good boy and keep your mouth shut when I don't need it."

With that, Hellebore released his grip finger by finger. He lifted his thumb last, pressed over the hollow of Veratrum's throat, and Veratrum tumbled in a boneless heap to the floor. His glasses landed next to him with a forlorn tinkle. As he curled up like a grub, massaging his throat and wheezing for breath, Hellebore halfway contemplated giving him a good hard kick in the ribs.

No need, he decided; he was pretty sure that annoying nag had learned his lesson, and besides Hellebore had far more entertaining things to do.

Without a glance back, he marched out of the bridge.

~*~

Prince Darian was attacking.

So Mirage had heard from the other soldiers after receiving the order to assemble. Now he and the rest of the squad were gathered in a side bay, standing at stiff attention before Captain Lyura Tepi and awaiting further orders.

Which, apparently, did not involve going out and fighting. So what was even the point of coming here?

Mirage wasn't the only one who felt this way; the other soldiers shifted discontentedly around him, the bolder among them exchanging eyebrow messages. Not long ago, Mirage might have happily joined them.

But now everything was different. He felt acutely aware of Victor's presence behind him, even if he couldn't see the wizard, or even sense much of his Levia. After being released from the infirmary a few weeks ago, Victor had resumed his duties. They gave him a rankless uniform, signaling that he stood lower than the greenest new recruit, and the soldiers aboard the Wildheart gleefully jumped on the opportunity.

Not a day passed when they didn't harass him – petty nonsense like tripping him in the halls or stealing food from his plate. Lyura herself delighted in making Victor run around the craft fetching small items for her.

As expected, Victor accepted everything without complaint, but watching it made Mirage boil with rage. Not that he could do anything about it; Victor would only suffer the consequences if he tried.

The least Mirage could do, then, was make life just a little bit easier for him. The doctor might have pronounced Victor fit for service, and Mirage grudgingly had to admit that the human seemed to have no problem moving about, but the pain from his injuries must still linger. And every time Mirage looked at the patch covering his right eye, his chest squeezed so tight he could barely breathe.

One day, Mirage would have his chance. He would get his revenge, take over the Legion – but his dreams felt hollower than ever.

Foolish. After all, didn't tonight make the perfect chance? He'd always known Prince Darian must have gone to Tielos as well, but he hadn't imagined their paths would cross again like this. If he were the one to capture her, his standing in the Legion would surely skyrocket. Perhaps he would regain his old rank, if not rise to a higher one.

Yet he couldn't summon much enthusiasm. It wasn't like he had any kind of plan – and even if he did, who was to say it wouldn't blow up in his face like all his previous plans?

So like it or not, all he could do was stand here. A good little soldier. Completely useless. Worthless.

Like he always had been.