Aleksander was standing in the town hall of Feirvangen, waiting for the leader of the local militia to arrive. For a soldier who was supposed to be combat-ready all the time, the man certainly didn't seem to mind making him stand around all day. He tapped his foot against the wood floor, focusing on landing his toe within the narrow planks in the herringbone pattern.

He was tempted to leave. It wasn't his fault if the town was overrun, nor did he particularly care. But word would get back to the queen as it always did, and that was something he didn't want to deal with. So he walked around, brushing his hand along the beige wall, running his fingers over the smooth surface of the oaken table in the center of the room. Beyond that, there was nothing but wall décor: several painted portraits of ancient warriors and monarchs, and one wood-carved symbol hanging behind the head of the table— three interlocked triangles, the sign of their god. The Rikensk called the god Skaperen, but it didn't matter to Aleksander what they called him. If he existed, he was doing an awful job of keeping his followers in line.

He considered touching the symbol just to anger the militia leader, but before he could, the man finally arrived. Aleksander was tempted to knock the man's teeth out for making him wait, but decided that the man had enough problems on his own. The militiaman had bushy, reddish hair that stuck up as if he'd been caught in a strong wind, a face as narrow and pointed as a rat's, and watery green eyes, all of which contrasted with his body, which was wider than the table and thick with ropy muscle.

The militia leader extended a hand. "Jens Larssen."

Aleksander shook it but didn't offer his own name. He had sent it already in a wired message, and if this Larssen didn't have it, then it wasn't his problem. He wasn't here to be friends with the man.

"Please, sit," said Larssen, gesturing toward a chair.

He did, and Larssen took the seat across from him.

"Good morning... erm, is there a certain rank by which I should address you?" Larssen asked, but Aleksander was silent. "Right then. Good morning, Herr...?"

"Jelen."

"Jelen? A defector, then?"

"You could say that."

Larssen nodded. "Well, I can't blame you. I'd flee too, if I lived in a country like that."

I did not flee, he almost spat, but he held his tongue. Instead he said, "I doubt you'd like it much. But I'm not here to talk about that."

"Yes, I got the message— an attack, it said, by one of their special soldiers?"

"Yes."

Larssen was biting his lip, clearly a little frustrated with Aleksander's terseness, but his voice was calm when he spoke. "Do you know when, and by how many?"

"A squad, and soon. I don't have any specifics beyond that."

"I'm well aware that Feirvangen is small, but I think we're capable of handling a squad."

"You aren't."

"Are all Queen's men this rude, Herr Jelen?"

"No, most of them are just stupid." He stared pointedly at Larssen. "I am from Moravsko. One of their 'special soldiers'," he said, baring his teeth slightly, "can kill most or all of your tiny town militia."

Larssen crossed his arms. "And what do you recommend?"

"My men and I will stand with you, but you should increase the size of your militia."

"How do you suggest I do that? Recruit boys?"

The man's tone had been mocking, but Aleksander was entirely serious when he said, "Yes."

"You're joking. I think that between us, we can eliminate one above-average soldier, and then the rest will be easy pickings. We can get to them before they can inflict any pain on our men."

I could show you what one of those 'above-average' soldiers can do, Aleksander thought, balling his hands into fists under the table. I could ruin your entire militia in front of you.

Noticing Aleksander's expression, Larssen said, "I will not be the one to tell mothers that their boys will be forced to fight."

"Then you'll be the one writing condolence letters to wives and children."

"I think you may be overestimating their strength. Your former countrymen may think these soldiers are blessed, but they bleed like mortal men. One of them led an attack against Brevfjord not long ago, and he died along with his entire platoon."

He dug his fingernails into his palms until he felt beads of blood welling up. I know, he wanted to scream. I know I know I know—

Shoving his chair back, he stood and stalked out of the room, ignoring the look on Larssen's face. If the man wanted to die, what was it to him? Why would he care if this entire town burned to the ground, if all the people in it became ash? Let them. Let this whole country burn until there was nothing left of it but ruins.

He just wanted to be the one to strike the match.

Aleksander took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The time would come, and there were much bigger fish to fry than one idiot militia man. This pathetic little town would be overrun anyway, regardless of how much Larssen and his men prepared. How long would Larssen last? Ten minutes? He seemed the martyr type, the kind of man to run forward while his soldiers fled, one last war cry on his lips. Aleksander snorted. Melodramatic.

The houses to his left would be reduced to dust and cinders; all of the soft pastel walls and red-shingled roofs would be the same dull grey as the stone beneath his feet and the sky above his head. The pale blue and white flags flying from every storefront would be in tatters, and every Moravský soldier would make it their mission to wipe their boots on them. The trees would become darkened skeletons surrounded by scorched pine needles. Every single brick would be torn down until there was nothing left of the town but a cautionary tale to be spread throughout Riken.

His ears perked up at a slight sound behind him. The sweep of a boot over cobblestone, a soft rasp. He did not turn, did not move. This was not a friend— not only because he had none, but also because any townsperson or soldier would have declared themselves. Joking between soldiers wasn't uncommon, but none of them would dare try it with him.

After the initial soft sound, there was nothing more, either because the person had stopped moving or because they were very, very good at moving silently. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around and attack, but he stood perfectly still. Waiting, waiting, waiting...

Duck! Now!

And he did. At the same time, a whistling whoosh of air came from above him, right from where his neck had been. He spun on his heel, preparing for another attempt, but the person was gone. Where...? There! A flash of white and blue disappearing around a corner— the hem of a dress.

He snarled and went after her. If she wanted him dead, then she could at least stay and try to finish the task. He ducked into the alley she'd gone into, expecting her to ambush him, but he could see her near the end of the path. On the other side was the town square, and it certainly wouldn't be hard for her to lose him there.

The alley was narrow; there was barely any space between the house on the left and the house on the right, and he could feel his uniform brush against the walls. His attacker was slender, and so it was easy for her to make her way through.

When he reached the square, he scanned the small crowd there. Mostly men in their coats and trousers, with long socks and shiny black shoes, but there were few women, all in dresses. He immediately disregarded the older ones among them, but that still left most of the women. None of them were out of breath, and none of them had the incriminating evidence of a knife in their hand.

He also passed by the ones who were clearly married, standing with their arms linked with their husbands'. That left a few. A small, blonde woman, but her dress was red. Another young woman, but given that she was pregnant, he highly doubted that she was an assassin. That left one more, who was in the years between girl and woman. Taller than most around her, hair the rich brown of soil after rain, broad-shouldered... something about her looked familiar...

She was looking away, avoiding everyone's eyes, but not in the way of a shy girl who would blush and duck her head the moment she fell under someone's gaze. Her chin was raised ever so slightly, one corner of her mouth curving upward. And how she stood— straight-backed, proud, with her arms at her sides and her fists clenched— that was a soldier's stance.

He stepped closer slowly, carefully, watching as her eyes flickered to him and then back again. She could have been simply a soldier's daughter, mimicking her father's posture and adopting the wariness that all people of a country at war had, but his instincts told him no. And since his instincts were the only thing he had left to trust, he reached out and grabbed her shoulder.

She screamed, and he thought for a moment that he'd been mistaken, but when she opened her mouth again, he got all the confirmation he needed.

"Get off—" she started, before clapping a hand over her mouth. He was about to grab her with his other hand, but she wrenched herself free of his grip and ran, kicking him in the shin in the process.

Polished boots. Moravský accent. He gave chase, not caring about the shouts of the townspeople behind him.

"Did you see—?"

"He just grabbed that poor girl!"

"And one of the Queen's men, too!"

A man stepped out into the street, stretching out a hand to stop him. "Sir, your conduct is entirely inappropriate—"

Aleksander backhanded him across the face. He ignored the man's shriek as he ran after the fleeing girl. She was fast, disappearing down the same alley before his fingers even left the man's cheek. There were very few people that were anywhere near as fast as he was, which meant... oh, you're strong, aren't you?

And then he remembered the queen's words: I want what I've asked for. He stumbled over one of the cobblestones but righted himself, scanning the area for any signs of the girl. There! A flash of white, down another alley. He ran faster, feeling the burn in his muscles and the slight beads of sweat forming on his forehead. There she was, and in uniform— she must have torn off her dress. A white uniform, with crimson... Voják Rovnováhy.

When he'd told Larssen that they would attack soon, he didn't know it would be this soon. If the girl was here, then that meant that her squad was as well. She could be leading him to them so that they could attack him together, but he didn't care. He would kill all of them.

His heart was pounding, but not from running. His boots thudded against the stones, but he barely felt it. So his old commander wanted to send his regards. Maybe after this girl, he'd find the commander, tear him apart in front of his own damn church and leave him to his dogs. Fitting. He threw you to the wolves; why shouldn't you do the same?

The girl was near the edge of town now. If she got out, she would soon vanish amidst the woods and snow. But there was one thing that could keep her from escaping, one thing that would guarantee the fight that he so badly wanted—

"Coward!" he roared.

And she stopped.

All right, things are heating up! Small notice: from here on out, the POV chapter order will vary-- it won't just go from Morana to Aleksander to Ari. I'm also considering adding a few other characters' POVs, but that's yet to be decided, and the three I have currently will stay as the main characters.

Voják Rovnováhy: singular for Vojáci Rovnováhy (so just Soldier of the Balance). Pronunciation is vo-YAHK rohv-nohv-AH-hee.

Moravský: from Moravsko (like American for America, Japanese for Japan). Just as a cool language tidbit, the accent over the 'y' indicates that this adjective describes something masculine, in this case the word accent (which is přízvuk in Czech).