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The news from the Kingsglaives’ intelligence unit have never been a joy to listen to. Regis listens with a frown on his face when Cor takes him to the side after the latest military meeting and asks to speak to him in private.
The fact that Cor doesn’t immediately begin to speak warns him that something is wrong – or that he won’t like what the man has to say. He gestures at him encouragingly and watches as Cor takes a deep breath.
“We have not put this into the report because we were afraid to cause a panic,” he says and Regis feels his stomach drop. “In any case, we intended to report to you first, so that you would have time to decide on a response.”
“What is it?” he demands, fed up with the avoidance which is uncommon for his marshal. This, more than anything, tells him that this is serious.
“The troops on our southwestern frontline have been suffering several severe defeats in the last weeks,” Cor begins.
Regis nods. He is aware of that, has listened to an hour of explanations and requests for reinforcements.
“What you don’t know about this is that the majority of our defeats and retreats have been caused by one unit. We were holding position unless a clash with them happened.”
Regis scowls. “What kind of unit are we talking about? Did Niflheim improve their MTs? If so, why only that group?”
Cor shakes his head. “It’s not the MTs. It is one of the soldiers accompanying them.”
Regis stares at him, waiting for the man to continue.
Cor breathes out. “This soldier has been reported to use elemancy. If this is true – and I have no reason to doubt the word of several glaive units – Niflheim might have managed to copy the crystal’s magic. If this soldier is a prototype, as we think he is, then Niflheim might drop an entire shipload of his kind within the next month.” His gaze is unflinching but Regis thinks that he sees dread in Cor’s eyes. “If his magic is even as half as strong as reported and there’ll be entire units of magic wielders, our lines will not hold, Regis.”
Regis stands still as he allows himself to process Cor’s words. It seems impossible. How would Niflheim be able to steal their magic? Lucian magic has always been their ace, their strength in a fight against a superior military power.
“The crystal’s power cannot be copied,” Regis says, his voice less certain than he would have liked it. “If there is someone from Niflheim using my family’s magic, then it’s a traitorous glaive who has changed sides.”
Cor tilts his head. “That was my thought as well. I went through our lists of glaives who have been reported dead or missing, over and over.”
“You cannot tell me that there were no suspects at all?”
His marshal hesitates. “A small number of glaives, yes,” he admits. “But I don’t think it very likely.”
“Why is that?” Regis fights the urge to pace.
“As much as I dislike it, I will not deny the possibility of one of our glaives going rogue,” Cor says. “But… the amount of power this soldier wields. It does not fit any of the missing glaives. Unless Niflheim found a way to enhance their magic, we are dealing with a new entity.”
Regis curses silently, then forces himself back under control, his thoughts racing. “You are the person with the most information about this, Cor. What do you suggest as our next move?”
Cor’s face is grim when he answers. “We cannot allow us to be driven back any further as it has happened the last weeks. I will personally go to deal with this soldier, and ideally learn more about how his abilities work.”
“That’s a risky idea,” Regis says.
The marshal raises his shoulders. “So is allowing him to continue his destructive work. I intend to put together a squad of experienced glaives and mages. I doubt that we cannot deal with this threat if our attack is planned out precisely.”
“Fine,” Regis breathes after a long pause. “But you will have to make one change to your plan…”
The attack comes as a surprise.
Their last offensive maneuver has driven the Lucian glaives’ back, despite the thick lines of downed MTs they had left in their wake. Their commander had hoped for their unit to march further west, as soon as the command from higher up came. Now it seems the Lucians have brought the fight to them.
Within moments, their camp has turned into a battleground, glaives in black and silver driving a wedge into their midst.
The boy they call N00715 falls in step with his comrades and the MTs, suddenly glad that protocol does not allow them to put down their weapons even while resting. He takes up formation next to N00714 and draws his blade, trying to get an impression of the enemy’s plan. The attack is unusual in every way. Lucian reinforcements usually take much more time to arrive. They rarely become the offensive force, focusing on the defense of their lands rather than their extension.
And their attack is vicious, the boy notices. Are the Lucians lashing out – in retribution to the defeats they have suffered recently?
“N00715,” a voice snarls into his headpiece. “You’re needed in quadrant 04. The enemy is overwhelming our forces in this quadrant.”
“Yes, Sir,” he answers shortly, already moving towards the mentioned area. He dislikes the mention of the call number but right now it is not the moment to dwell on this. He has been N00715 for as long as he can remember. He dismisses the quiet voice that protests at that at the back of his mind. If anything, he would prefer it if they used an actual name. In the privacy of his mind, he has thought about this, long and extensively, and has come up with a name of his own. Not that anyone is allowed to know about it.
Noct weaves his way through crowds of MTs, waiting to join the action, and arrives at quadrant 04. The situation is messy, he recognizes immediately. For some reason, the glaives are targeting this section specifically. It doesn’t make a lot of tactical sense. Their arms depot is on the other side of the camp.
However, their transport is landed close to quadrant 04. Are they trying to make sure that they cannot get away, should their commander order their retreat?
It’s not very likely, Noct concludes. Magitek troops are not known to retreat.
He doesn’t have more time to think about this. He spots an empty gap where a Magitek Swordsman had stood before the enemy had overwhelmed his defenses. Noct moves towards the gap and closes the breach of their defense. It’s incomplete in several places where glaives have gained the upper hand in the fight but it’s still far from being broken. They’ll just have to take back the ground the glaives have taken.
He allows the adrenaline rush of the battle to empty his head, clenching his sword tighter in his hand and throws himself into the fight. The glaive he is fighting is skillful and fast on his feet, and Noct avoids having his insides sliced open only with sharp twist of his upper body and a follow-up heave of his sword.
The glaive starts a series of fast slices, going for Noct’s throat as well as the weakpoints of his armour. He steps back, trying to regain his breath, as he parries the attacks. The man is fast. It is not helping that the helmet Noct is wearing impairs his field of vision.
Suddenly there’s a flash of blue crystal and – shit, Noct really hates the warping. It’s unfair, an advantage of the enemy he really could do without. He sees the flash of the blade in the last second and ducks. The glaive is too close, nearly within his guard, and Noct can’t use his sword like this.
He snarls and throws out his hand, feeling energy burn and chase through his veins. It explodes right out of his right hand, a crackling flash of electricity that hits the glaive straight in the chest and catapults him back through the air. He hits the ground, rolls twice and doesn’t get up again.
Noct heaves out a relieved breath and straightens back up, only to find that the eyes of the remaining glaives have snapped towards him. It’s not unusual. His use of… well, the abilities that he has discovered as he grew older, tends to draw attention. But something is wrong and his skin is itching with it. He thinks he sees one of the glaives in the back speaking, a hand pressed to where his ear is hidden beneath his mask.
Refusing to be distracted any longer, Noct moves to the side, joining N00714 who is struggling in his fight against two glaives. He loses himself in the battle for a moment, an intense back and forth against two foes who valiantly block their combined attacks, covering each other’s weaknesses.
N00714 goes down and suddenly both glaives are bearing down on Noct. He dances back and throws a flame at the one on his right while he slashes at the left one.
A sudden noise draws his attention and as Noct looks up, he sees two black vans screeching into view. Glaives spill from them. Reinforcements? That should be impossible. The attacking number of glaives is much higher than expected already. What is going on?
The arriving glaives cut into their forces like a broadsword. Too many, too fast.
There is a small group of glaives who have stepped out of the second van and who are now surveying the action. It seems like they don’t even have to join the fight. It does not take a strategic genius to recognize that Niflheim is losing this fight.
The thought gives Noct a panicked burst of energy and he throws back his two attackers with a wave of flames.
Before he can decide on a follow-up attack, he spots one of the new arrivals – pointing directly at him. His stomach dropping, Noct realizes that he has made two miscalculations. Firstly, the separate group is not made out of glaives. Their armour is different. Even their stances are different, now that he focuses on it. Secondly, his flame attack has drawn their attention.
He allows himself another glance at them and feels his mouth go dry as he recognizes the weapon one of them is holding. A grey katana, the blade shining in the light of day. All the magitek soldiers have been informed on the leaders of the Lucian army. And unless Noct is very wrong about his conclusions, that is The Immortal, standing right there.
Staring at him.
As unsettling as the first realization is, it gets worse. The Immortal steps to the side to allow another man to stand next to him. Noct looks at the dark battle garments, golden ornaments and cufflinks worked into it. A golden knee support suggests that the man does not usually belong on a battlefield. The realization slams into him with the force of a gunshot.
The king. The Lucian king is in front of their camp, surrounded by his marshal and a man who must be his shield.
They are – they can’t be here because of Noct. That is ridiculous. Noct bans the thought as quickly as it flits through his mind. Then the Lucian king steps forward, his eyes on Noct, and Noct has to fight with every ounce of his self-control not to recoil.
Time doesn’t stand still for anyone and the glaives who have been fighting Noct are back on their feet, forcing his attention back on them. They drive him back with a flurry of attacks, and Noct notices that N00193 and his squad are being overwhelmed by the newly-arrived glaives.
He curses and swings his sword in a large semicircle, creating some necessary breathing space for himself. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees a blade twirling towards him. The glaive slams against his body and Noct struggles to bring up his guard in time to parry. He throws the man off but the distraction has cost him.
Out of breath, Noct dances to the left, away from N00193 and the rest of the magitek troopers. He sees Cor The Immortal starting to stalk in his direction. The king and the other man follow him closely.
On his right, N00193 is falling.
With a growl, Noct jerks forward, slashing his sword across the first glaive’s chest. He buckles to his feet and the second glaive rushes towards him, a glassy vial appearing in his hand with a burst of crystals. Noct summons flames to his fist and throws them forward. They would have hit both glaives – in the chest and in the back – hadn’t a crystal shard barrier formed in front of them in the last second.
Noct glowers at it. Before he can attempt to destroy it, he is forced back by – not the third glaive, shit, but The Immortal himself. How did he move so fast?
Noct backpedals quickly. He’s not as much of a megalomaniac as to think that he can fight The Immortal. The man has earned his title.
With a quick glance around him, Noct tries to evaluate his situation. His stomach clenches. Next to the two kneeling glaives, there are two others, circling him.
The Immortal is watching him with alert eyes, just like the king and his shield who are standing a bit further back.
Noct is in the process of being separated from his unit. His unit whose numbers are rapidly dwindling as the other glaives are taking them down one by one. Not good.
One of the glaives circling him – a woman? – raises her hands and suddenly Noct finds himself on the receiving end of Lucian magic. Icy cold is racing towards him and he jumps to the side. Too close to the other glaive, he finds out, as he barely avoids another dagger.
A second rush of ice and Noct curses when the edges of the attack brush against his armour and leave him cold and shivering. He’ll need to shield. It’s not a skill that he is using frequently. But he’ll make do.
The shimmering shards, buzzing with energy, form just in time for the third attack. It splashes against them and leaves them with a frozen crystals all over them.
Time to retaliate, Noct thinks grimly. Just because it is looking badly for him doesn’t mean that he’s ready to despair just yet. His magic has always been his strongest weapon. Now it has painted a target on his back.
If his magic is what they have come here for, he is ready to show them. Gritting his teeth, Noct chases after the energy humming in his veins, screaming for release. It floods towards his hands and Noct tries to keep it steady for a few moments longer – stay calm, stay focused – and then he releases his grip on it.
His magic springs forth in a burst of flames and lightning. It crackles towards Cor The Immortal and one of the glaives, leaving a charred path of destruction in its wake. The glaive warps just before the attack hits but the Immortal ducks behind a glittering shield of crystal magic.
Noct doesn’t wait for a response but is already throwing another punch – a second wave of flames, racing for the king. Is it a bad idea to target the Lucian king? Possibly. Another magical shield rises and, oh, the king’s shield looks pissed.
The Immortal emerges from behind his cover and dives forward. There is a new wariness in his face, lines of tension creasing his forehead.
There is no time to think. Noct tears his sword up and blocks several fast attacks that sting in his wrist. The Immortal moves forward and instead of parrying again, Noct twists to the side, grasping for the man’s arm. The blade misses Noct’s chest but scrapes along his shoulder. He hisses in pain but succeeds in his goal. The man’s momentum carries him forward enough for Noct to touch his arm.
He sends a sharp burst of electricity searing through the man’s arm and hears him yelping in pain, stumbling backwards. The sound is oddly satisfying. As The Immortal brings distance between them, cradling his arm closely to his body, Noct turns to keep the glaives in his field of vision.
It wouldn’t do to deal with one of his attackers if it earned him a dagger to his back.
Keeping them all in his sight is proving to be difficult. From his right, he sees flames coming for him. From his left, ice is speeding towards him. No time to run. Noct follows his instincts and draws up two strong shields on both sides, protecting him from the lethal impact of elemancy unleashed.
A flash of crystals – fuck those warping abilities – and Noct goes stumbling backwards, his head ringing from the hit against his head. He tries to swipe at the glaive in front of him but they’re already gone.
“Stop,” a deep voice rings out. A voice that demands obedience, that expects people to follow its commands. Noct stands swaying, his shields dissolving slowly. The constant use of magic is draining his energy. The king is approaching the circle that has formed around him, his eyes steady on Noct.
“Lay your weapon down,” he orders calmly. “And surrender to us.”
Noct fights the desperate urge to laugh. “To you? I don’t think so.”
He has no intention to allow them to take him to Lucis for an execution. Or would they kill him right here?
“You have fought well,” The Immortal interrupts him, “but you cannot win against all of us. You will only end up hurt. So surrender now.”
“Go to hell,” Noct tells them. If he is going to die, it will be standing on his feet, his weapon in his hand. Niflheim may have not been kind to him always, but they raised him, they had taught him to fight. He will not sully that memory by surrendering to the enemy.
“You use Lucian magic,” the king says. “Tell me how you got it.”
“It’s mine,” Noct answers defensively. So his abilities were the reason why they had singled him out. But why the king? Surely he can’t be important enough for that?
He thinks back on the last years – years of his fighting abilities being honed, his mistakes being corrected. An endless number of menial tasks, carrying supplies for the Imperial army, securing traveling routes, helping out in skirmishes. The other soldiers had always avoided Noct, as long as they weren’t actively terrorizing him. He knew that it was because of his Lucian looks – it had to be. But he had been just one of them, nothing special, until his… more special abilities had emerged during training. They had saved his life more than once, and had been the reason why soldiers had finally begun to respect him. Now they were his death sentence.
“The military gave it to you?” the king’s shield questions. He cuts an impressive figure and Noct is glad he hasn’t joined the fight yet, content with protecting his king. “What did they do? Hook you up to some machines and pump the magic into you?”
Noct blinks at them. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“There’s no harm in telling us,” The Immortal says. “We can help you.”
Anger wells up in Noct’s chest. “Who said I asked for your help?”
“You’re alone,” the king says quietly. “And no one else will.”
His stomach lurching, Noct turns his head to the side to look for his unit. He has been too focused on the fight, too focused on himself, and this useless distraction. He finds what he has already expected, has feared. The magitek troopers have been destroyed, smoking remains thrown carelessly all over the battlefield. The other Imperial soldiers are on the ground, dead or dying.
In the distance, there is still fighting, but here, he is on his own. Noct feels his hands beginning to shake, the realization that he will die worming its way into his mind.
“I don’t care,” he snaps sharply. “I will not join you, and if you won’t let me leave, you’ll have to kill me.”
Something in the king’s face shifts. A reluctant respect? Acceptance?
“Alright then,” he says. “Take him down, Cor.”
Noct’s gaze snaps towards The Immortal who waves at the glaives, gesticulating at Noct. The woman raises her hands first, raining a wave of flames down on him. He tears up a shield, feeding more of his energy into it as the hungry flames consume the outer layer within seconds.
A short moment later, a second glaive slowly raises his hands and electricity comes barreling towards Noct. He dives beneath the attack, smelling the sharp ozone in the air. He throws a crackle of lightning right back at the man but doesn’t stop to see whether the hit lands. Instead, he allows his magic to explode – a thousand ice shards shoot through the air, flying in all directions.
The glaives are reaching their hands up to shield their eyes and Noct bolts. He is not a fool. He knows that he cannot win against a large group like this. His magic resources are boiling much lower than usual already. No, his only chance to survive is to flee. He runs towards the edge of the circle, right next to the man who has been struck down by his lightning bolt.
Suddenly, another glaive is right in front of him, vicious kukris slashing towards his chest. Noct tumbles back, tries to move around the glaive and is forced back by a flurry of strikes. A second glaive appears in a flash of crystals next to the other one and Noct retreats.
Lowly cursing, he rips up another shield as ice sears towards him. The king has entered the fight. The shield Noct summons is much weaker than his previous ones and his teeth are shivering with sudden cold as it collapses under the strain. His hands grow cold and he feels much weaker than he did before. His ice attack has cost him.
When the next magical attack strikes him, he reduces the size of his shield, allowing it to take the brunt of the flames and dodging the rest. He moves around in the circle the glaives have formed around him, not willing to pose as an easy target, unwilling to let one of them out of his view.
He clenches his sword more tightly in his hand and throws himself against one of the glaives. He only needs to take down one of them, maybe two, and then run – his back an open target for any kind of attack…
The glaive throws his dagger backwards and follows it with a flash of blue light. The other glaives follow his move, and Noct finds himself in the middle of a circle once more.
Lightning sears towards him – from behind him this time, damn it – and he twists and turns to avoid it. He can’t. In the last second, Noct summons a desperate small shield and it holds, but only barely, as he feeds more of his energy into it. His hands have begun to shake subtly. His energy is running low.
He doesn’t remember the last time this happened. He needs a second to regain his breath. Just a second.
He is not given this short reprieve. The king himself throws another lightning attack at him, and damn, the man’s magic is strong. It is no surprise to Noct.
This is the man that is holding up the entire Wall that is surrounding and protecting Insomnia. This is the man that has rallied his soldiers, over and over again, since his son had been killed by a Marilith, to fight in a war that Lucis is constantly in the danger of losing. How is he possibly supposed to fight against this?
His shield shatters under the attack and Noct braces himself for the resulting pain, only to find that the attack has sizzled out. He is panting, his breaths coming fast and shallow and painfully loud in the safety of his helmet.
There is a short pause and Noct knows that they are waiting for him to drop his weapon, for him to surrender. He pushes on. Drawing on energy reserves he didn’t know he has, Noct pulls up another shield, small and wavering. He wish that he had enough energy for a counter attack but honestly, he’s proud that he can keep standing as it is. He will face this with dignity. But he will not escape it. He messed that up in the very beginning. He should have run the moment he saw The Immortal.
True to his fears, another magical attack comes for him. Not nearly as strong as the king’s, but it’s too much either way. He’s faltering, his shield splintering and dissolving slowly, as his knees give out beneath him. Treacherous things. Electrical remnants of the attack dance painfully over his skin.
Panting and shaking, he waits for the last blow, the strike that will put him out of his misery.
Instead, he hears steps that are approaching him steadily. Cor The Immortal comes closer to him and Noct tries to raise his sword, his arm twitching unsteadily.
The Immortal kicks his sword out of his hand easily and Noct winces, cradling his hand to his chest. Desperately he searches just for a sparkle of energy.
One hit, he thinks tiredly. Just one hit and he can take one of them with him.
There is nothing. Where once was sparkling power is now a gaping void, painful enough that he doubles over. A hand grasps for his helmet and, with a decisive move, draws it off his head.
The man freezes like he has been hit by a spell.
A part of Noct wants to laugh at his expression, a part wants to glower at him defiantly.
“Regis,” The Immortal says very quietly, not taking his eyes from Noct. “Regis, come here right now.”
The king steps over to them carefully and Noct turns his head towards him slowly. He can only imagine the impression he is making, hair messy and soaked with sweat, his eyes wild. The king locks eyes with him – without the safety of Noct’s helmet between them – and goes very still, his skin paling beneath the sun.
“No,” he whispers, his voice shaking. Noct doesn’t think he meant for him to pick it up.
Whatever the reason for their reaction, The Immortal shakes it off most easily. “Nyx, get over here and bind his hands,” he orders, still staring at Noct.
“We are taking him with us.”
The glaive with the kukris – the glaive that had foiled his escape – comes closer. He throws an uneasy glance at The Immortal and the king and bends down to grasp Noct’s wrists. Noct has no intention to make it easy for him, terror still kicking in his chest, but his weak attempts at struggling are ended quickly by the man’s iron grip. He doesn’t know where the glaive picked up the ropes he is winding with experienced ease around Noct’s wrists but they sit strong and unmoving when he strains to pull them apart.
Still, his magic is a painfully empty hole inside his chest, and he heaves in air, trying to chase away the unfamiliar sensation.
“What’s your name?” the king asks and Noct needs several moments until he can answer the question. He is so tired. He doesn’t think that he has ever felt as exhausted as this in his entire life.
“N00715,” he says, because what’s the problem in them knowing? He is dead either way. He tries to find some comfort in the fact that he didn’t surrender, that he fought until the end. It’s an empty solace, somehow.
The king sucks in a sharp breath, as does The Immortal.
“No,” the king finally replies, his reply a whisper. “No, it is not.”