In the captain and his lieutenant's tent, June took off his helmet and placed it onto his cot. Delirious, he sat down. He balled one hand into a fist, covering it with the other and resting his chin on top.

  Inhaling as he did so, a wave of exhaustion washed over him.

  He wanted nothing else but to close his eyes and finally rest for the first time in ten years.

  A decade of freezing rain, of not having a warm place to sleep for the night, of watching everyone he knew die or go mad; it was an eternity. His once handsome face had faded, replaced with the haunting visage of a man one foot in the grave. Growing up in Frosthelm, where the winds blew cold but the people’s blood ran colder, he wasn’t a stranger to the evils of men. In fact, he could even say they were well acquainted with each other. He no longer knew how many men had died by his hand, having stopped counting years ago. He thought it likely that not even the Goddess knew how deep the rivers of blood he'd formed ran.

  But even then, the toll the war took on his mind was immense. In the past, to waste the little free time granted every blue moon, he would engage in frivolous hobbies. While he wasn't a master fit to paint the royal family, he was partial to drawing. And while what he knitted very often came out lumpy and shaped irregularly, he still took pride in what he made. After all, he enjoyed doing those things. And they calmed him.

  But things had changed. It was only when his sword was in arms reach that he felt the slightest bit of peace. Else, an impossible fear would engulf his mind. His skin would go cold, his eyes darting back and forth. Searching, scanning desperately in the shadows for that which would harm him. Reduced to his most primal instincts, he would jump at the slightest noise. Bouncing his knee up and down, seeing, hearing, smelling things that weren't there. His only solace, his sense of security, his blade.

  It was the sheer scale of the damn thing, June reasoned. The Northern generals, six of the seven, went and rebelled. Baron Kaelor Elef, "The Mad," as June used to hear others call him, wasn't the best lord.

  Hell, if only he was just a middling one, June thought, a dry smile on his face.

  Things could have been different. June always fantasized about it. About a world where Lein the Pious, now the Black, didn't start all this for Anyiul knows why. But it was inevitable. That as he started with Lein, he'd go down an endless road of hypotheticals. Of infinite regrets he'd remember with hazy eyes.

  If only he wasn't originally of the third border army. Maybe he'd feel differently if that were the case. Those people he'd killed, he knew them. He'd met their wives, mistresses, children and bastards on New Years. He knew what drove them to take on extra patrols in the darkest cold for an extra bronze. He knew what dreams they dreamt that made them the slightest bit more cheerful the morning after. He knew what made them toss and turn at night, lying awake and staring up at nothing. He'd congratulated them as they cheered. Comforted them as they cried. Fought with them at his back. They weren't of his blood, but they were his brothers.

  And in only a decade, he'd lost them.

  June closed his eyes. He reminisced on better times, of when he was still a child. How, after a long day at the blacksmith's, he would come home. Opening the door, the smell of a freshly made mince pie would greet him. As he walked in, Asha'd run up to him, and standing at half his height, she'd dig into his waist. He'd stomp on their house's wooden floor, cleaning the snow off of his boots. And every single time, without fail, his mother'd yell at him. Say that if he did it one more time, she'd spank his bottom such that he wouldn't be able to sit down for a month. And every time, he'd yell back that he'd heard her, promising that he'd change. But it was inevitable he'd renege on his words the next day. And she would too.

  When the father, the husband came home, the four would crowd around their small table and begin to eat. Though the food itself was always disgusting, June didn't mind.

  He smiled a sad sort of smile. He could still recall those moments down to the smallest, most minute detail. For that, he was eternally grateful. But no matter how hard he tried, how many years passed, he could still remember the way those moments came to an end. Such was his curse.

  He could still feel her lips on his forehead, as for the very last time, she kissed he and his sister goodbye before going off to sell roadside trinkets. Only, she never came back.

  June found it difficult to recall her face without beginning to tear up. If it meant being able to go back and beg her to stay; to lie, say that he felt ill so that she would stay and take care of him. If it meant being able to do those things, he would even be willing to transform into a demon. Forty more years of joy for an eternity of damnation.

  He remembered how his father reacted. So determined to find her, he left the house every day, from sunrise to sundown. But time passed. Weeks became months. Months into years. His hope transformed into a poison and he sought solace in drink. An occasional occurrence, when the grief became intolerable. June understood. For as long as it took. he'd take care of Asha. Cover their father with a blanket as he slumped over at the table, empty bottles around him. But akin to an infection, the passage of time only seemed to cause the pain to fester. One drink became two, two became three, then as he spends the day in a drunken stupor, his daughter cries in hunger and his son scrounges through garbage for scraps.

  Time passed. June reached the age where he was old enough to know the evils of liquor, yet still so naive as to believe he could change him for the better. And Asha, still so young, akin to a baby chick, always followed his example. They would block the door to their home with their tiny little bodies. Beg him to stay.

  At best, he'd smile. Play lip service, tell them he agreed. That he'd get better tomorrow, but to just allow him one more day of indulgence before a lifetime of temperance. Reluctant, June would agree and pull the confused Asha away. And the next day, he'd go back on his word.

  At worst, an expression of indescribable, blackhearted rage would come over his face. His jaw clenched, his skin a sickly green, he'd beat them bloody. When June was lucky, he was beaten, Asha if he wasn't. And with tears in their eyes, the son or daughter would relent, drag the bruised, unconscious body of the other out of the way.

  And even when they gave up. Made peace with the fact they'd bury their father in an early grave, when they actually did, they still wept. But the ground was frozen; their tears became crystals of ice in the cold winter wind.

  Over his father's interred ashes, June wept. Amidst curses accumulated over a decade, he made a vow. To make the world a better, more peaceful place. To take up the sword. To protect the weak. To change the city for the better.

  He scrounged up whatever money he could and purchased an aged sword manual. In the span of a year, he cultivated every second, of every minute, of every hour he had, and became a level 1 swordsman. Hearing word of his achievement, the city guard recruited him. So overwhelmed was he by the euphoria he felt that he ignored how the city guard were a disorganized rabble. How they helped no one but themselves. How, instead of working to protect the city they instead sucked the blood of the commoner.

  But he believed he could bring about change. Older than when his father was still alive, yet just as naive, he believed that he was different. That there had never been anyone of such talent nor conviction as him ever in the history of the city guard. And that even if there were, they had been weak. But not him. He was strong,

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  If he was a farmer, then the city was his harvest. All he had to do was get rid of the few rotten fruits. And so, he worked. Thieves' hands cut off, rapists castrated, murderers put down like the dogs they were. Some called him a zealot, a mad man of the worst kind. The kind to believe what he was doing was right. But June wasn't of that sort.

  He knew that he was right.

  So he continued on, his single minded crusade reaching it's zenith on his twenty-fifth year. Having recently reached level 4, a new belief began to take root within his heart. That with his newfound power, he had a greater responsibility for the safety of the city. And so, he formed a faction in the city guard. He surrounded himself with those who's idealism and fanaticism rivalled his own. And they set their sights on those who truly made the city horrid, the worst of the rotten fruit. The drug dispensers.

  When word reached them of people dealing in narcotics, they'd steal away the culprits under the cover of night. Transport them to the territory they'd cleansed. There, they'd cut out their tongues, such that their lies would no longer deceive wayward souls longing for salvation. Skin them, to remind them that no matter how monstrous they presented themselves as, they were still human beneath it all. Torture them, such that their wails would serve as a song from which their victims could draw some solace.

  It was only when they reached the point where they no longer begged for life, but death instead, that they'd stop. They'd watch. Watch as the skinless, tongueless, beasts bled to death. Their last words unknown, indecipherable.

  And when morning came the following day, the people of the city would wake up to the smell of blood. Another skinned corpse hanging over the rivers.

  Even now, he felt no regret for his actions. He did what was right, and even if given the chance to repeat everything, he'd change nothing.

  June closed his eyes. He couldn't remember the faces of those he'd killed. They were blurred, indistinguishable from each other. They were all the same. Save for one. An old merchant.

  He was once the head of a thriving mercantile company. His hand was in all industries. Whether it be in the trade of slaves, fine Imperial Silks, or artifacts, he did it all. But when a particularly harsh blizzard blocked the roads in the Baron's domain, he was left powerless. Frightened by rumor of evil things in the snow, the mages did nothing. Whether they be mercenary or of the city guard, they were content to let the people starve. But despite everything, June remembered how the sale of pork in Frosthelm only seemed to go up in that time. Only after months had passed and the old merchant had spent all his fortune trying to force a dozen caravans through did the snow finally melt. And he had lost it all.

  The old codger grew desperate. So desperate, he not only whored out those with a debt, but their children as well. An evil of the likes June had to have seen a hundred times over. But it was still almost inevitable he'd set his sights on the man.

  June remembered the house the old man lived. He'd visited once, when he was still a young guard. It was a modest, one story building constructed on the outskirts of Frosthelm, in the mountains. But it was the estate the house was on that was truly splendid. A beautiful garden stretched around the entirety of the house. Roses, beautifully maintained hedges, lilacs. Even plants of all different colors, hues and sizes June hadn't ever seen before grew. And at the center, a pristine white brick fountain that constantly spewed out water. But both house and land had fallen into a state of disrepair. An infestation of cold vine had taken root and covered the house and fountain. As for the plants, they were left overgrown, such that the grass now reached June's knees.

  His companions held up by other tasks, June, alone, slit the throats of the few guards on the compound. He remembered sneaking to a window that overlooked the dining room. spying the old man, as surrounded by his family, they ate dinner. A modest meal of bean stew. A meal even the lowliest of commoners would turn their noses up at save for during hard times.

  But even still, they emptied the pot, not a morsel of food left in their bowls. Their hunger satiated, their bellies full, the parents left for bed while the old man and his grandchildren moved to the study. Atmosphere warm despite the absence of a fire, the young ones played. With only a lantern for light, the children cheered, jumping and running on and around the old merchant. He sat on a large cushioned chair, quilted blanket on lap, a smile on his face. He stayed quiet, only moving if he thought a child would hurt themself. And when the children had tuckered out, exhausted themselves in their reverie, the old man took them in his arms. carried them to their bedrooms, tucked them in, kissed each of their foreheads goodnight, before returning to the study.

  Only to be met with June, sitting on the very same chair the old man had sat.

  And yet, despite knowing what he was here to do, the old man didn't cry. Didn't beg. He only requested one thing.

  To not wake the children.

  A lump formed in June's throat, the old man's words echoing in his mind even some eighty years later. June remembered slitting his throat where he stood, head pounding. The old man died with dignity, making nary a sound nor movement. He closed his eyes as he died, falling to the ground and on his knees. As if in prayer to the Old Goddess.

  As June left through the window he'd used to leave, vision hazy, something caught his eye. A locked shed, exposed by the moonlight. Not an uncommon sight on wealthy estates. Meant to store the gardening tools used for the few months where life blossomed in the North.

  But a lock for a shed on a property subsumed by vegetation was irregular.

  June held the lantern from the study and moved towards the shed. The hairs on his skin stood on end. He struck the wooden shed's lock with his sword, the door opening after. Met by only darkness, he held the lantern in front of him.

  He illuminated the inside of the shed. Large, brown sacks haphazardly strewn about on the inside. As he stepped foot inside, he noted the lack of dust. As if what was being stored in the shed was under constant subject to change.

  He tore open the brown bags. Each and every one of them had been filled to the brim with Naira Lilies. A flower native to the Kyriena Kingdom in the South, they were the color of the sky. June heard tell of how the lilies could drive a man mad if they weren't of any level or if they stared at it for a long enough time. Innocuous enough on it's own, but in the hands of a capable alchemist? They'd take on the consistency of tar. They'd become Ocean Blue, an indulgence favored by the bastards of and those without any chance of inheriting nobility. Only a fingernails amount could bring about visions and feelings of bliss, that all one wanted could be their's for an hour. And when it ended, it was said brothers would kill brothers. mothers their children, lovers each other, all for another hour.

  The amount of Ocean Blue able to be created from the Naira Lilies in front of June could fill a river. And he lost strength in his legs, dropping his sword and lantern. Collapsed onto the floor and onto the ceiling, he laughed.

  At first, a breathy noise as if he was straining to get it out of his chest. Then transforming, into an uproarious sound. Before finally, it crescendoed into repressed sobs.

  So intense was his desire to rid the city of monsters that by the time he slowed, he realized he himself had become one as well. But he had long made peace with that. After all, as long as he was bettering the world, he'd continue to consort with the dead in his dreams. He would continue to crush those rotten fruits to save the rest of the harvest.

  But he could finally see. The crop itself was wretched. A gaping wound in the world, from which no good could arise. Only evil existed in Frosthelm. A veritable den of jackals. And any good that could've drawn breath was long snuffed out. By Baron Elef, by the guards, by the people themselves.

  He left for the border armies the morning after. There was an obvious evil there. An enemy he could kill. A battle in which he didn't need to think.

  And so, he lived on, reaching level 5 on his fifth year as a border soldier. Having failed to form a sixth magic circle, he again, readied the resources for ascension. Until he heard news of Asha's death in childbirth. Eyes hazy, he returned, holding her cold hands until the very last moment before she was thrown into the fire.

  The first time he laid eyes on her child, a white hot rage scorched his insides.

  He had no prejudice for those born out of wedlock. Bastards had to have made up one in five soldiers at the border. But she had taken his beloved Asha, the last of his blood. And for that, he hated her with every bone in his body.

  June remembered walking to her crib, a pitch black, detestable anger in hist chest. The idea of smothering her until she no longer drew breath in his mind. Holding a lumpy, worn pillow, he raised his hands into the air, until he looked onto her eyes. So full of mirth. So pure. Devoid of malice.

  And he melted like snow in the spring, weeping.

  Holding her up to the air, he cradled her until she fell back asleep in his arms, before lowering her into the crib.

  He had failed in protecting the city. But for his niece, he would give her the world. As long as he lived, that girl would remain safe.

  Breaking out of his reverie, June stood up to take off the rest of his armor.

  Just one more day.

  One more day before the war would be over.