Chương 82: Chapter 158 - Gathering Forces

Trinea's fireball wand was a nice one. Judging by its size and shape, it probably had two parallel conduits in it. And, because it was pointed right at her face, she could see the outer glyphwork was impeccable. Even with spell resistance, at that range and intensity, Mirian was going to lose her face. Mirian thought about denying it, but this was Adria's good friend. It would be like if someone tried to impersonate Lily; she knew her too well.

"I said, who the fuck are you?" Trinea hissed again.

"I can tell you," Mirian said.

"Just hear me out, okay?" Trinea's jaw was clenched and her eyes blazing. She needed to phrase what she was going to say carefully.

"Deeps agent Nikoline Brunn killed her entire cell and murdered Adria three years ago. She was impersonating her and sending you letters until I killed her. I'm a Prophet. So is the man you're trying to fight out there." Trinea's eyes were brimming with tears. They started to streak down her cheeks, but she didn't look away from Mirian, didn't blink.

"Bullshit. Adria wouldn't let… she wouldn't. She was too smart. Too brave. Too good."

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"I never knew her. But I know what it's like." The Praetorian jabbed her wand closer to Mirian so it was right by her eye.

"Bullshit you know what it's like!" She did, but Mirian understood that she couldn't argue Trinea out of her grief.

"I'm going to take a step back and summon a sword, okay? Not to harm you, just to show you," she said.

"If you try anything," Trinea said but left the threat unfinished. Mirian closed her eyes as she let Eclipse manifest in her hand, point down. As she did, she also summoned her mythril amulet. Trinea looked at the sword, then at Mirian.

"The reason the artillery was positioned perfectly to wipe out your squad is because Ibrahim Kalishah is living this month over and over until he can command the perfect battle. When this all started, Dawn's Peace was annihilated. So was I. So was my very good friend and roommate. I'm sorry for deceiving you. I know how much it hurts. But I need you, and I need the Praetorians. This was the only way." The woman took a step back, then collapsed against the door. She didn't weep, or cry, or scream.

She just looked shocked. Then she blinked, clenched her teeth, and stood. The resilience and control of a Praetorian, Mirian thought.

"Who are you?" Trinea said again, though her wand was back in its sheath.

"Mirian. A random student from the Torrviol Academy who you've never heard of. And the Seventh Prophet of the Ominian."

"Prophets. How can there be more than one?" She sighed, relaxing a little. Didn't think that would work.

"Great question. If I figure it out, I'll let you know. But my best lead right now for why the world ends is the Elder titan that's going to emerge at the end of the month. That part wasn't a lie."

"The world… what?"

"Ends. On the 6th of Duala. That's what I'm trying to stop. And if I have to cross some ethical boundaries to save the world, then, well, it'll have been worth it. I need your help." She didn't explain everything. There were far too many details at this point, but she laid out the basics.

"This is all going to happen again. That's inevitable. I need to know what I can do better." Trinea was looking for other possibilities to explain what was going on. Mirian was used to that by now, so she gave her time. But she knew the contents of the letters, could summon a mythril sword with an adamantium edge, and told a story that made a lot of things line up. Trinea had paced about as she talked, but now she was just sitting there again.

A Praetorian of all people would recognize mythril and what that meant about Mirian's knowledge of the Luminate Order's great secrets. Mirian waited patiently. That Trinea hadn't blown her head off with a fireball was a good sign that she could listen to reason.

"I can't look at you like that," Trinea said finally.

"Wearing her body. It's wrong." Mirian didn't have enough charged soul repositories to undo and redo the bindings, so she cast an illusion spell that resembled herself enough to pass. She didn't bother changing her eyes or uniform, though.

"Just some girl," Trinea muttered.

"Adria was no good at lightning spells," she said.

"And she always took 3rd position in the formation." She shook her head.

"You killed the monster that did this to her?"

"Every cycle. And no matter how this ends, her murderer dies. You have my word."

"What do you need?" she asked.

"I'd like this to stay a secret. Both Ibrahim and the Akanan Prophet are looking for me, and they don't have Baracuel's best interest in mind. The thing I need right now is how to act like a better Praetorian."

Mirian awoke to the pleasant news that the militias had foiled a dastardly plot by Persaman infiltrators to burn up the fossilized myrvite warehouse. She then created a forged letter—written in childish Adamic, because that was all she could manage—that both detailed a Persaman plan of attack and implied they'd seized key doctrinal documents in one of the forts. In short, the enemy could predict Baracueli attacks. Mirian claimed it had come from a militia member who hadn't realized what he'd found.

According to Trinea, Adria had known basic Adamic, so that at least wouldn't be questioned. When she produced it for Commander Ayral, the garrison commander also remembered her advice on the warehouse, and sent out orders across the line to rearrange their forces and timing. If any of the command staff had been able to read Adamic, it would have raised a lot of questions. Her plan to pass it off as the work of a nearly illiterate enemy officer, though, wasn't necessary.

With that done, the battle began to rapidly shift. When the Fort Aegrimere airships arrived a few days later, flying high above the battlefield, raining down artillery on the enemy, wild cheers erupted along the walls, and the news quickly spread throughout the city. As they landed in the plaza north of the Citadel, she was surprised to see Commander Hirte himself leading the operation. When he saw her, he gave her a nod of acknowledgment.

In the meantime, Trinea and Mirian had 'practice sessions,' which was just the veteran Praetorian giving her a crash course on formations and protocols. Over the next three days, the airships circled around the Persaman lines, destroying the train supplying them with logistics and helping relieve the besieged garrisons in the southern forts. While the enemy logistics and troop movements were cut to ribbons and their lines suppressed by artillery, the Praetorians sortied out several more times to drop precise fire.

Following that, the garrison and Baracueli reinforcements overran their lines, forcing the Persaman army to abandon its position. Commander Ayral then led the counterattack, pushing the Persamans all the way back to the forts. When those were retaken, Baracueli reinforcements poured into the passes, assembling field fortifications to supplement those forts. Ibrahim's siege was over, though the time traveler himself never surfaced.

After the tide turned, it was Commander Hirte who sought her out. They met on the battlements as the sun set.

"You came here yourself," Mirian said.

"When I heard the news of the attack, I had to. Fort Aegrimere will do fine without me," he said, tone light. Ironic. Now Fort Aegrimere might fall due to his absence.

"It's not over yet," she said.

"The titan awaits us."

"Of course," Hirte said, but she could tell his mind wasn't on that. Together, they looked out over the walls, past the white spires, past the houses and docks, to where the horizon was still bright along the Southern Range, all the way to the distant Casnevar Range to their west. Above that strip of orange, the sky was pale, until, like the corpses strewn across the battlefield, the light bled out into black.

"This is my favorite view in the Citadel," he said, smiling.

"Not because it sees the farthest, but because it feels more real. Behind you, the high walls of the inner fortress. In front of you, the city, and the people you're sworn to protect. All around, the Gods and temples, whose grace we spread, whose light we follow, and the great spires, pointing to the stars they guard. Unsurpassed in beauty. Except, perhaps, by you." Mirian involuntarily blushed.

She'd grown used to Nicolus's compliments, and over the cycles, they'd grown so predictable they stopped feeling genuine, even if they were. This was new and unexpected, for once. But it also wasn't something meant for her. It's meant for Adria. The two feelings mixed together into an unrecognizable alchemy. She didn't know what to do. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

"Adria!" Trinea called, and Mirian had to stop herself from breathing a sigh of relief.

"Ah, Commander Hirte, isn't it? Apologies, I need to borrow my colleague. After-action report protocol is very strict."

"Another time," Mirian said quietly, and looked back as she left. As soon as they were around the corner, Trinea whispered, "What in the five hells was that? Are you just going around ruining her reputation now?"

"No, I don't know when it happened," Mirian said.

"She exchanged frequent letters with Hirte, but I didn't know they were having an affair until I met him at the fort." Anger flashed in Trinea's eyes.

"Adria wouldn't have."

"Maybe she didn't. Maybe Specter did. I don't know, I was busy taking introductory classes at the time."

"Adria wouldn't have," Trinea repeated.

"Is that truly what you're worried about? You learn the world is ending, and you're worried about one indiscretion?"

"What else is there?" she snapped. That gave Mirian pause. What else indeed.

"I wish the truths of the world weren't so painful." They walked in silence, until Mirian said, "Is there actually an after-action report?"

"Yes," she said.

"Who does it go to?"

"Intelligence compiles them and—ah five hells. The Deeps. It goes to a nice little room in the Baracuel Intelligence Gallery in Palendurio where they make sure we aren't indulging in any excesses of power. Blood of the fucking Gods! I wish I didn't know. I wish I didn't know their piece of shit agent didn't—damn!"

"We'll sabotage the report. It only has to be delayed a week for it to be useless to anyone," Mirian said.

"Then… in future cycles, you won't have to know Adria is dead. I can do that for you. But I'll need your help." Trinea stopped and closed her eyes. Mirian watched the churn of emotions running through her. Then she said, "Yes. I'd rather not know." Blessed ignorance, Mirian thought. She already had the list of questions she still needed to ask Trinea in her mind.

The meeting with First Praetorian Voran took place in the heart of Alkazaria Citadel. By then, Commander Ayral had returned from the front as well, and attended with her command staff.

"Thank you for meeting with me. I will be brief," Mirian said, mimicking Adria's soft but concise style.

"There's a change," one of the other Praetorians quipped, which was a good sign.

"The secret project in Torrviol discovered an Elder titan burrowed north of Normarg. It will emerge at the end of the month. Political considerations have impeded my ability to gather an official response. I need your help in destroying it before it moves south." She looked around the room. Most of the attendees could regulate their emotions, but one of Ayral's staff had his jaw open.

"Should I elaborate?" Commander Ayral subtly elbowed the lieutenant with his jaw open and said, "Please." Voran just grunted. Mirian snapped her fingers, and Nicolus—in the uniform of a soldier—wheeled in the same style of divination device she'd shown Calisto. It was convenient; some time during the siege, he'd enlisted on his own volition, so it wasn't even really a disguise.

"I don't recognize these glyphs," Voran said as he examined it. There were murmurs of assent around the room.

"New discoveries," she said.

"This device is courtesy of Professor Torres. A long-range myrvite detector, using the light spectrum to code for intensity. Current scale is one meter to one mile," she said, and activated the device. The illusionary map flickered across the table. Dots of faint pink and orange lit around the gray prisms of buildings, with a pair of yellow dots west of the city.

"Desert drakes," she said, pointing.

"Eating carcasses. The spellwards will continue to fail around the city as the arcane eruptions intensify." The room grew quiet.

"Eruptions?" Commander Ayral asked.

"We can discuss it later," Voran said curtly.

"So this beast is the cause? But how can they be so far-flung?"

"The professors on the project hypothesize a connection to the leylines. Adjusting scale to one meter to a hundred miles." An intense violet dot bloomed on the map. Mirian found the reactions vaguely amusing. It was too much like the Ennecus meeting. There were patterns to how people thought, and certain ways to present information that made a point more clearly. She hadn't even intended to be particularly manipulative, but the result was the same.

"So… what's that?" Ayral's lieutenant asked, and this time, Ayral wasn't subtle when she jabbed an elbow into him.

"Ow! What was tha—oh! Oh, is that the Elder titan? Didn't the First Prophet fight one of those?" One of the Praetorians snorted, while another suppressed a smile at the unintentional levity.

"Yes. I have the preliminary logistics organized, including fuel for the airships waiting at Normarg. I also need crack riflemen, modifications to the airship artillery as laid out in these documents, and as many spellcasters who can hit 70 myr as possible. We have a week to assemble our force at the emergence point."

"That limits how many troops I can send severely," Ayral said.

"That, and the Persamans. We can't let them overrun the passes or forts again."

"Of course," Mirian said. The First Praetorian narrowed his eyes.

"Adria, your mission is secure while you do this?" The Divine Monument? Not at all.

"Yes. I'm sure of it." That didn't seem to assuage Voran, but he nodded in acceptance. It was the 21st, the same day the Prime Minister of Akana Praediar would die. By the time anyone here found out about the war that was coming, it would be too late.

The trains moved everyone to Normarg, dumping both soldiers and oxen out. The airships met them, landing in a nearby field that was lying fallow. The confused villagers were happy to take coin to load up the skiffs and bags, though they were suspicious as to why so many soldiers were moving through their town. Mirian had been pleased to discover the strike force numbered just over a hundred, all either crack shots with myrvite killing experience or experienced arcanists.

And that didn't count the Praetorians or the airships. There were no myrvite hunters this time; Mirian would recruit them in future cycles. This was a trial run, for testing one piece of the puzzle. She was still a bit shocked she was able to not only get the airships, but all the Praetorians. No wonder Specter chose Adria to impersonate. Her reputation was well established. They departed the village that same day, using packs on the oxen and the airships to carry supplies.

The airships would skip ahead to each campsite, landing to conserve fuel. That brought the estimated travel time down to two and a half days, which would get them there on the sunset of the 27th—just in time. Next came the hard part. She had no intention of fighting the Elder titan. All that would do is prepare it for future cycles. She couldn't actually use its catalyst now. She had to assemble the rest of the pieces of the puzzle. How to break the news to them all that there will be no fight?

Announcing that they were all going to die in six days probably wasn't a good idea. Or rather, it seemed only fair, but it couldn't be the focus. Perhaps the truth, but explaining how valuable their contributions have been. After all, what they've all done is necessary to save Alkazaria, necessary to save Enteria—just not in the way they think. Inspiration struck her. She started scribing an illusion spell, a much more elaborate one than anything else she'd made.

As she worked, it filled two full pages, and that was with her usual tight glyphwork. A mere construct of light wouldn't be sufficient for the effect she wanted, either, so she continued on a third page, including a wind spell and incorporating a project sound spell to cause a deep rumbling. She talked to Nicolus, too, who had insisted on joining the expedition, telling him the outlines of her plan. If I'm to tell them I'm a Prophet, they need to see a Prophet. On the evening of the 27th, she was ready.

Mirian released the runic bindings disguising her as they assembled next to the hill. She cast amplify voice and stood facing the gathered crowd so that there was plenty of open space behind her.

"Faithful of Baracuel!" she shouted. Embracing her focus, she cycled her soul-energy through the depressions the disguise bindings had left, letting her true self emerge. The transformation began to take hold. As it did, she levitated into the air, casting a golden light spell behind her so she was backlit. The airship crews, the soldiers, and the Praetorians were all before her in the camp.

"All is not as it seems. The Ominian has appointed new Prophets, for a new crisis is at hand. In seven days, the Divir Moon will crash down to Enteria. The arcane eruptions are the precursor. The myrvite titan resting below us is a harbinger. Certain doom will befall Baracuel." There were mutterings in the crowd. Confusion. Anger.

"But I have not assembled you here for no purpose. The Ominian's hand still guards Enteria. By his will, time is reset. I am Mirian Castrella, the next Prophet of the Ominian, and I will live this month again. I have assembled you here as part of a grand plan of the Elder Gods, one that will see you through this catastrophe." This time, she heard gasps of disbelief, but still anger. Nicolus stepped forward, shouting, "I know her.

She was my classmate in Torrviol, and now the family of Sacristar knows her as the guardian of Baracuel!" Mirian nodded to him, then continued.

"For this cycle, you have done your duty. Your readiness is all I can ask for. But the Elder titan cannot be defeated in this cycle. For it is too close to the Gods; it too has power over time. But you—you are the soldiers of hope. It is by your courage and action that we will make a breakthrough." The wind stirred, letting her hair fly about. She cast another light spell, this one silver, and summoned Eclipse.

"This is the blade of the Fourth Prophet! On it, I swear to you this—that as you have done your duty to Baracuel, I will do mine. I will remember your courage and faith, and one day, we will face the Ominian together, and say to Them—that we are all guardians of Enteria!" And with that, Mirian rose into the sky and cast her newest spell: visage of the Ominian. Her spellbook flared with light as she poured mana into the glyphs.

A deep rumble shook the ground, and the wind stirred as the first parts of the spell took hold. Then, the light behind Mirian shifted, and a colossal form emerged behind her—one of stone skin, nested with fractal spirals of teeth and eyes. As it did, there was a gasp from the crowd. Upon its shoulders and arms were two dozen black needles. It stood, higher than the hills, casting a great shadow in the evening light. On its brow was that crown of laurels made of fire, and in its chest, a beating heart.

In deep pulses, that heartbeat sounded across the hill. Mirian increased the intensity of her golden light spell so that it silhouetted her and Eclipse in front of the illusionary Ominian and lit up the construct of light. She rose up slowly, arms spread wide. Then, she let the illusion fade into shadows, and settled back down to the ground.

"Prophet," Nicolus said, and knelt. Trinea stepped forward next, even though Mirian had given her no instructions.

"I have tested the blade. It's made of the sacred materials. I name her Prophet." She knelt. Dozens more soldiers knelt, more joining as they saw their friends and colleagues doing the same. It was the Praetorians who mostly stood. Of all the arcanists here, they were experts in all types of casting. They likely knew what she had done was little more than fancy spellcasting. She looked to them, waiting for a response. To her surprise, it was First Praetorian Voran who approached.

"Mirian, eh?" he said. When she nodded, he said, "Fate's a funny thing, isn't it?" And he knelt. Mirian's heart swelled. It had worked. For one cycle, at least, they wouldn't die on a note of despair, but of hope.