Alliyana Etheria's Perspective
The snow crunched crisply beneath my boots as I approached the Northern Gate, a satchel slung over one shoulder and the taste of smoked demonic meat still faint on my breath.
It was colder than usual today, despite the afternoon sun painting the rooftops in quiet gold. My limbs moved easily—well-fed, well-trained, warmed from the inside out. A fine day.
Ahead of me, I noticed something strange.
A crowd.
From the cliffs I had seen this place from above—how the fortress sprawled like a stubborn root system against the mountain's edge—but this was the first time I'd seen its arteries pump life so loudly. People lined the far road in murmuring clumps. Civilians with baskets, guards off-shift, even a few children peeking from behind scarf-wrapped mothers.
I walked through the gate without thinking—completely forgetting to sneak past like usual.
"Hey. You."
I stopped.
One of the guards leaned off the stone archway, half-lidded eyes scanning me beneath the hood of his helmet. His spear lowered lazily, not as a threat, just a formality.
"Where'd you come from?" he asked. "You don't look like a scout."
"Western sector," I replied calmly. "I'm a healer stationed at the clinic."
He squinted. "You're the girl, huh."
There it was again—that tone. Like I was a ghost from a campfire tale.
"I've heard of you," he muttered. "The one that was dumped out here."
I said nothing. There was no point denying it.
His grip loosened. He looked me over with something like pity.
I inclined my head out of acknowledgment.
I understand this world. This nation. Auresta belongs to Aurumor and Meliora. The divine Father and Mother, gods of War and Mercy. The people serve them faithfully. Most do at least.
Even I, who is generally skeptical, had to admit their presence. I've seen divine healing. I've watched split flesh re-knit with golden light, ribs regrow under trembling hands. Miracles that defied entropy itself.
Science had no answer. No mechanism. Just reset. A divine 'undo' button.
I couldn't refute it.
As I stepped onto the main street, I collided with a figure rushing out of the shelter.
"Alliyana!"
It was Lina—red-cheeked, scarf askew, hands clutching a bundle of folded bandages.
"Where were you?" she asked, eyes wide.
"I went for a walk."
She frowned, then perked up. "You're coming to watch the return, right? The hunting party's back!"
"I noticed."
Her face lit up like a lantern. "The Duke's with them."
"...And?"
"And he's so handsome!"
A sigh almost escaped me. Oh to be young.
"Let's go then."
It was the first time I'd seen the streets like this—alive. Every other time I left the barracks, the roads were quiet, cold, grim. People stocking up, heads down. But now?
Lanterns were being hung between windows. Someone was roasting root vegetables on skewers. A street drummer tapped out a rhythm for passing children.
So this is what hope looks like in the North.
I couldn't help but admire it. These people endured year after year. Frostbitten winters. Corruption at their doorstep. And yet they found a reason to clap, to cheer, to celebrate.
It was no wonder they had survived.
Unfortunate, then, that this place once belonged to the Dwarves. I saw their mark in the stonework—stubborn, detailed, efficient. But of them, there was no sign.
Another forgotten people swallowed by time.
The clapping grew louder.
And then came the horns.
A dozen strong, carved from ironwood, each blast vibrating through my ribs. The crowd pressed forward. Children hoisted onto shoulders. Mothers raised scarves to wave.
Then—they appeared.
The soldiers of Aurellia.
They wore long black trench coats over armor that gleamed dully in the light. Not bulky like Church paladins. Just enough plating—chest, gauntlets, helmet—for survival. Everything else prioritized movement, coordination. These were not men waiting for miracles.
These were men who adapted.
I couldn't help but nod slightly. Efficient.
Then came the Duke.
He rode no horse. Walked with his men. Same uniform—black, fur-lined, war-tested—but with silver trimming on the gauntlets. No crown. No cape. Just presence.
White hair. Pale skin. Crimson eyes.
A recessive gene, perhaps? An albino line bred into command?
It didn't matter. That man was worth respecting.
Beside me, Lina practically squealed. "He's so cool! Did you see his eyes? The color of wine—no, blood—no, like molten rubies!"
The young seamstress next to her let out a dreamy sigh.
I almost smiled.
But then—something shifted.
The cheering dimmed.
A group of soldiers passed by, carrying injured men between them. Some with bandaged legs, others missing chunks of armor. One waved at the crowd from a stretcher with a grin that reeked of pain.
But then—one of them stopped waving.
He spasmed.
The soldiers carrying him halted, confused.
The man on the stretcher writhed, clutching his chest.
I moved.
By the time I reached him, he was gasping. Pale. Sweating.
I stepped closer. One of the soldiers tried to swat me away, but I sidestepped his arm with ease.
"Go back to your parents girl," one of the soldiers said.
"I need you to remove his coat and shirt."
"What?"
"Now."
My calm tone seemed to irritate him. But he obeyed—reluctantly.
I examined him quickly. Right side of the chest rose. Left side didn't.
Trachea still midline. No visible collapse yet. But the veins in his neck were distending.
Possible pneumothorax. Pressure building in the chest. Air trapped. Lung crushed.
I rushed over to Lina
"What's happening? What are you—"
I didn't answer.
Instead, I ripped the needle pouch from the seamstress's belt.
"Hey!" she yelped.
I was already running back.
The soldiers were trying to lift him.
"Put him down."
"Kid, back off—"
"If you don't, he dies."
That made them pause.
"Second intercostal space," I muttered. "Midclavicular line."
I placed the needle over the site.
The soldier grabbed my wrist. "You can't just stab people—!"
"If I don't, the lung stays crushed."
He stared at me. Wild. Panicked. And then… let go.
I plunged the needle in.
A sharp hiss escaped. Like a kettle exhaling.
The soldier gasped. Air rushed into his lungs. His eyes cleared.
His pulse steadied beneath my fingers.
Silence.
Then applause. Quiet at first. Then building.
I stood, handed the needle to the stunned seamstress, and walked back to Lina.
She stared at me, blushing furiously as the crowd looked in our direction.
"Can we go?" she muttered, flustered.
"Sure."
She grabbed my hand and dragged me away.
I glanced back once. The Duke was still watching. Expression unreadable.
But his eyes were on me.