Bossia was about to ignite the tinder when a pebble struck her wrist. The flint dropped onto the tip of her war boot, bouncing into the weeds under the catapult. She crouched down to search for it, but found it hard to concentrate because she could see two pairs of legs constantly shifting positions in combat on the other side of the catapult—one human, the other belonging to a Dragonmaw orc. The sharp clashing of weapons was fierce and piercing.
She told herself to stay calm, reaching her hand back and forth in the pile of weeds. Bone fragments pricked her palm, and just as she found the crescent-shaped flint, she caught sight of the warrior in front of the catapult falling backward, landing on their back, and she gasped.
The orc's hammer came crashing down, but the warrior twisted their head to avoid it, then parried the hammer with a sword. It was a black-haired woman. Before she could roll to her feet, her gaze locked with Bousia's.
Her blood-soaked dark eyes seemed to speak to Bossia: Don't hesitate, do your part.
Bossia quickly pulled back, using the flint to light the tinder, then tossed it under the fuse of the explosives. As she was about to stand up, she felt a painful tug behind her left ear—a strand of her long hair had gotten caught in the catapult's wheel. Anxiously, she yanked at it with her hands, only to realize that using her sword would be a better idea.
When she finally stood, the black-haired warrior was still locked in battle with the Dragonmaw orc. Bossia looked down—the fuse had already ignited and was racing toward the explosives that would obliterate the catapult.
The orc's back was turned to Bossia as it swung its weapon once more. Bossia couldn't tell if the blow hit the black-haired warrior directly, but she saw her clutching her forehead, on the verge of collapsing.
Bossia rushed forward, plunging her sword into the orc's side. Even as the thick, solid muscles tore apart, they clamped around the blade like a rock wall. She summoned all her strength to push the sword another half-inch deeper. Dark, black blood spurted from the wound, drenching her fingers as it ran along the blade's groove. The black-haired warrior's second sword pierced through the orc's throat from the front. The orc fell, still gripping the hammer tightly.
"Kegila, are you alright?" Bossia asked, pulling her sword free. As the orc collapsed, she felt drained, but the crackling of the burning fuse quickly snapped her back to reality.
"Don't just stand there," Kegira called, nearly knocking Bossia over as she grabbed her arm and pulled her along. The two female warriors sprinted toward the nearest trench. Though they were moving farther from the catapult, the sound of the burning fuse seemed to follow them, as if it were right next to their ears.
The explosives detonated just as they leaped into the trench. The powerful shockwave hit Bossia like a giant's hand, shoving her deeper into the trench. She landed painfully, feeling as though she were trapped at the center of a cloud of dust. Her vision was blurred, and she shouted, "Kegila, where are you?" but couldn't hear her own voice. Her ears were filled with the ringing aftermath of the explosion. She fumbled around in the dark, accidentally pressing her hand into the mouth of a decaying corpse, and quickly pulled it back.
Before the dust settled, she experienced a brief moment of silence. At first, she feared she had gone deaf, but then she remembered—it was the inevitable silence that came after surviving chaos, the same kind she had felt in the forests of Goldshire. She coughed a few times, feeling a bit calmer, and then saw Kegira sitting not far from her, leaning against the trench wall.
Bossia didn't dare stand up just yet. She crawled over to Kegira and pressed her hand on her shoulder.
"We did it," she said. "We completed the mission."
Kegira didn't speak, only gasping in an irregular rhythm as she tilted her head, her eyes fixed on Bossia. It was then that Bossia noticed Kegila's wound—a wooden shard had pierced through her right side, and where it broke the skin, her pinkish, bleeding organs were visible. The explosion had sent a broken axle flying, and it had impaled her.
Bousia's first instinct was to press her hand to the wound. But after dismissing the absurd idea, her mind went blank. Medics, she thought, were there any medics nearby? She started to rise, but Kegira grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. In that moment, fear flooded Bousia's mind. That warm, deadly bleeding spot, like a trampled flower in full bloom, was only inches away from her body. It belonged to someone else, but death could touch anyone near it.
"I'll go find help," she said, starting to stand up again, but Kegira pulled her back once more.
"This…this." Kegira reached for her waist, fumbling between her armor and clothing, her movements like those of a clumsy puppet guided by a chaotic puppeteer.
It was a golden key, hanging from a thin string. She tried to place it in Bousia's hand but dropped it halfway. Bossia quickly caught it, the key slippery with blood.
"It's what I hid," Kegira said.
"Alright," Bossia nodded, then said, "Let me go for just a moment, I'll find…"
Where would she find a medic? They were on a desolate hilltop, and the other three soldiers who had accompanied them were already dead. But what drove Bossia to act quickly wasn't just the desire to seek medical help. She wasn't ready to stay by a dying person's side until the end. At that moment, she hated herself for the impulse to escape her fear.
"A blessing," Kegira said. "Can I…receive a blessing? Tell me."
"What? I don't understand, Kegila…what are you trying to say?"
"I'm scared. Tell me… the Light…can I see him too? Tell me."
"Of course, you can. You'll be together."
Kegila's eyes dimmed, but she still gazed at Bossia with the final expectation of a dying person. She doesn't like my answer. My words scared her, Bossia thought. She took a deep breath, not rejecting the scent of blood and dust in the air, and then spoke the words she no longer had the right to say, the ones she had sworn never to utter again:
"Light be with you."
Kegila's expression softened. Bossia continued:
"The suffering you endure in this moment is a blessing for those who follow the Light, Kegira. The pain will soon fade, and you will ascend the radiant steps into the eternal paradise of the Light…"
She tried hard to remember more, but that was all she could recall. When she had been a paladin, reciting these words had been as easy as breathing. She had once been so resolute in forgetting every prayer, but now she had to dig desperately through her memory to bring them out and comfort the dying warrior. To her surprise and fear, she realized that, though her voice was low, she could still perfectly replicate the rise and fall of the sentences. This rhythm had been strictly regulated by the Church of the Holy Light, and her accent had been personally taught by Benedictus. It was a recitation style that demanded perfect reproduction of the prescribed intonations, regardless of the dying person's gender, status, or manner of death. The theory behind it was that the Light granted equal love to all believers.
"Will my son…forgive me?"
"Of course," Bossia paused for three seconds. "He…he will be with you in the Light's garden, where no flowers ever wither…"
She forgot the rest. Would they enjoy the endless golden nectar? No, that was the eulogy for a widow. What should she say to comfort a dying woman who had once lost a child? Hurry up and remember, Bossia Wislanzo!
Three minutes later, she stood, wiped her eyes, and hung the golden key around her neck before climbing out of the trench. She looked out at the battlefield, bathed in the light of the rising sun, and then remembered the words: "…together in the Light's garden, where believers and their blessed kin dwell as its keepers, enjoying the fragrance and nectar that never run dry, just as the earth is eternally warmed by the sun's everlasting rays."
Does it matter? When someone seeks comfort in these words to soothe their fear of death, they have meaning. But Bossia hadn't said them in time.
She noticed the unpleasant smell coming from behind her—much of her hair had been singed, perhaps hit by the burning debris from the catapult. She reached behind her neck with her right hand, gathered a handful of her hair, hesitated for a moment, then placed the edge of her sword under it and cut it off. Then she cut another handful. The once radiant gold-red hair that had shone in the sunlight now fell to the dirt.
She began walking toward the foot of the mountain.