Most nights, the Morgrave University library feels more like home than my cramped dorm room does. It's easy to lose track of time, between the scent of old books and the gentle flickering of the continual flame spells on the walls, and the sheer variety of topics to research makes it even harder for a voluntary insomniac like myself to pass out from boredom.
Tonight it's different, though. I'd rather be anywhere else -- stuck in another boring round of lectures, almost dying in the Grey again, or even, il-Yannah forbid, asleep. The pile of documents and war reports stacked in front of me isn't going to read itself, though, despite my cat's best efforts to throw them off the table and into my face.
I stifle a yawn, grit my teeth, and flip open the next book on the stack. It's a Phiarlan poet's account of the battle for Loom Keep -- clearly Cyran, judging by the name of the publisher. I go into it expecting a fair amount of bias.
It starts off like most Last War stories I've heard, glossing over the terror and bloodshed and skipping straight to the glory and fame these 'heroes' achieved. The prose is so littered with propaganda that, if it wasn't for the subject matter, I'd think I was reading one of the old Riedran books Dad still keeps around for some godforsaken reason. I skim past descriptions of Karrnathi forces getting brutally slaughtered -- physically and mentally -- to find one specific name: Sergeant Jasmine Glayder, the future Grandmaster of Cyre.
She's described as a rising star, a diamond in the rough -- a shining example of bravery and leadership, swooping in to take charge and turn the tides of battle when her commander was struck down. Despite having no formal rank yet, her charisma and presence are supposedly enough to rally her comrades to follow her every order -- even to the death. She is a force of personality, universally beloved, able to win over even the most rebellious of soldiers with but a stare and a single word.
...it makes sense, doesn't it?
Gods, I don't want it to. But given how easily I fell for her, all of a sudden and out of nowhere, how I would've thrown myself back into that literal nightmare hellscape if it meant giving her mind a moment's peace...
No. We cannot let down our guard. If there is any truth to this, at all, it is likely that she still--
I've gotten everything I can from this one. I slam it closed with a little too much force and toss it to the side.
Next on the stack is a worn and tattered journal, belonging to a very young Karrnathi soldier who fought at Karrlakton. Its author died in the Mourning, apparently, but her writing was recovered and donated to the library by her family. I'm expecting less... blatant favoritism than the last book, though I still doubt everything in this account is trustworthy either.
Once again, it starts off much like what I'd expected. The soldier details her first few agonizing days at training camp, the idiosyncracies of military life (most of which just sounds like a typical day back at Kasshta Keep), the crushing loss she felt everytime she was sent to retrieve a fallen comrade's corpse to reanimate later. And once again, I scan the pages for a very specific name: Captain Jasmine Glayder, Empress of the Damned.
The woman she describes is a monster. A cold-hearted, ruthless commander, obsessed with victory at every cost. She forces her exhausted, outnumbered soldiers to press on through impossible odds, sacrificing their lives for her so-called gambits, her devotion to her country unwavering even as her men burn and suffer by her own command. And yet, despite what an uncaring brute she is, they worship her like a living god -- so loyal you'd mistake them for trained dogs. This is no hero, but the cruelest of villains.
This is familiar.
I know.
She would fit right in with the Inspired.
I don't want to think about it.
And yet, here we are, entertaining that thought... but look at the way she acts. At the way she siphons off their devotion, even as they sacrifice their bodies and souls to her.
Please. Please, stop this. I'm scared. I'm a prisoner in my own mind again.
I can't. The floodgates open. The memories rush back in -- the blood, the pain, the relentless screaming, oh, stars, the screaming.... no one was safe.
Not even the children. Not even me.
I can't take this anymore. Fine. One more account, then it's over for now.
I dig through the pile for the only piece of writing I have the mental fortitude to get through: a Brelish military report describing the siege of Vathirond. My hands shake and my entire body goes numb. Not even the gentle purring of my cat on my shoulders can distract me from the way my thoughts collapse in on themselves like a flaming kaleidoscope of paranoia and regret, simultaneously restless and deathly still. This, in the worst way possible, must be what dreaming feels like.
At least this one should be objective. The Brelish actively fought her, yes, but it still is a formal document. There still have to be protocols to follow, exact death tolls to report. I’ve always dealt better with statistics than words. There’s no easier note for this terrible journey to end on. I brace myself and begin reading.
The Siege Massacre of Vathirond. 5 Zarantyr, 993 YK. Casualties: 153 Cyran soldiers, under the command of J. Glayder. 240 Brelish soldiers, under the command of H. Rafe.
Civilian casualties: uncountable.
Collateral damage: the entire town of Vathirond. A few outlying fields and villages, razed to the ground. A non-combatant Lyrandar airship passing overhead.
It begins at midnight. My eyes glaze over with a mix of exhaustion and numbness, even as my mind races to run the numbers, reenacting the battle scene by scene. The Cyrans attack a nearby hamlet unprovoked, burning fields and slaughtering farmers. The Brelish army is drawn out of hiding behind Vathirond’s walls, just in time for the remainder of Cyre’s forces to attack the main city. The battle is swift, decisive, and one-sided. Glayder offers Rafe the chance to surrender. He refuses.
She decapitates him as his remaining soldiers look on in terror. Leaderless and disoriented, they drop their weapons. She orders her men to--
Here it is.
--give them no quarter.
...did we really expect any better?
No. Quiet. I trudge on through the rows of text. Without a commander, almost every last Brelish soldier is quickly and gravely slaughtered. Only an unlucky few are able to flee. The Galewind, an airship en route to Korth for a conference of the Twelve, swoops overhead. Glayder orders her surviving soldiers to fire-bomb it. The civilian ship is unequipped to retaliate. The onslaught continues.
Vathirond falls.
Kasshta Keep nearly fell that night.
It will take years to rebuild.
Will we ever be done gathering the shattered pieces?
Civilian casualties: uncountable.
I’ve had enough. These shelves are a prison. The truth, my jailor. They’ve thrown away the key and buried it under a mountain of lies and propaganda and dead bodies, and here I stay, flailing helplessly at the bars and screaming, with grotesque mangled vocal chords torn from my very flesh, to be freed.
I can never face her again. I can’t love a butcher. Come morning, I’ll hide in the back of my own mind and pretend nothing has changed as I catch the earliest train home to Fairhaven, exactly as I’d planned. I’ll go through the motions of the existence I lived before I met her -- of the lost, lonely little girl, running only on spite and fear, who wanted nothing more than for her brain to shut the fuck up from time to time -- and forget everything we had.
None of it is real anymore. How can it be, when the same hands that braided flowers into my hair are stained with the blood of uncountable dead strangers who did nothing wrong, when the same voice that softly called me beautiful ordered the merciless slaughter of an entire squadron of soldiers just trying to withdraw from an unwinnable fight?
The warm glow of the sunrise spills in through the window. My roommate sends me a panicked sending, wondering if I’d spent the night with ‘that Jasmine girl’ again -- oh, if only she knew. I leave the accursed books as they are, pack my bags, and head out. There’s just nothing else to do anymore.