In the regiment heading to Menethil and boarding ships for the front line, Bossia's unit was the last to arrive. The first two units had already set off for the Western Plaguelands and Desolace. Due to unfavorable sea conditions, the final transport ship hadn't arrived on schedule. Among this group, mostly comprised of recruits, various rumors circulated: the ship had capsized in a storm, was attacked by Naga, or perhaps the plan had changed, and they were being redirected to Sentinel Hill. The latter rumor was clearly the most unrealistic, as deploying recruits to defend the Blasted Lands was out of the question, but it still sparked panic. This panic led many recruits to gather around the battle-hardened veteran, Kegira.
"To conserve manpower, we usually use ballistae or similar large-scale weapons against the felguards in the Blasted Lands. But in every battle, at least half of the enemies must be dealt with by infantry in close quarters. It takes a team of six to eight soldiers to hold off a single felguard," Kegira spread her arms, "because its blade is wider than the combined girth of several of you. And if you're hit directly, little girls, you won't leave a single trace behind."
Some of the recruits bowed their heads, while others began to tremble. Bossia wasn't seated nearby, but she listened attentively to Kaegira's words.
"But with a good strategy and a capable squad leader, there's no need to worry too much. Like the squads I've led—five people are enough."
"Kaegira, have you earned many accolades?" one recruit asked.
"I've earned third-class honors and a few medals, but do you know what makes me the proudest? It's that I've been to almost every front line and lived to tell about it. So, before your first battle, you'd best start praying you get assigned to my squad."
"If you've won so many accolades, why are you still an infantry soldier? I heard you were once a sergeant, right?"
The same recruit asked this question, but this time she made a mistake. The surrounding air quickly quieted, and she realized her error. Kegira stood up, crouched before the recruit, and leaned in close, saying:
"What do you know? Absolutely nothing. On the battlefield, you need to learn to pick the most useful things to say. It's best to start developing that habit now. Look, I've been teaching you useful things, so you don't become cannon fodder on your first battlefield. But instead, you ask me useless questions. It seems your fate won't have much variation after all."
The recruit looked around helplessly, inadvertently locking eyes with Bossia. From her gaze, Bossia could tell she was thinking: "Great, I've ruined my relationship with Kegira, and now I'll be ostracized, just like her."
But there are always variables.
That night, Angelo summoned Bossia to his office.
"How are you doing, Bossia?"
"In what sense?"
"That item... has Kegira returned it to you?"
"No."
Angelo nodded. "I believe she'll return it to you soon. I've been watching; it seems your relationship with her is improving."
"That's because she's been busy bothering others."
"Hmm… well, try to be understanding of each other."
"What did you actually call me here for?"
"I've been thinking a lot about your situation…" Angelo rubbed his left temple. "But don't worry, I'm not prying into your business. I'm just pondering… the Light illuminates everyone's path. Even though you've temporarily forsaken your faith, I believe your path is still bright and straight. However, I wonder if you're on the right path. Let me speak plainly, Bosia—have you considered returning to Stormwind?"
"I've only been gone for a month. Are you suggesting I desert?"
"No, no, of course not. Think carefully, Bossia. When you stood beside the Archbishop as a paladin of the Cathedral, you shone so brightly, the embodiment of unwavering faith. So many people simply drew strength from gazing at you, then dedicated themselves to spreading the Light. But now, you've chosen to throw yourself into the mud of war. I'm not diminishing the irreplaceable significance of war, I just think that perhaps the battlefield is not the best place for you to dedicate yourself."
"You haven't been prying, Angelo? Has Benedictus promised you something, perhaps a bishopric in a new parish? If that's why you're trying to convince me to go back, then I advise you not to trust him."
"By the Light, Bossia, what are you saying! Yes, Archbishop Benedictus—I've considered him, but you mustn't suspect me of defiling the teachings. How could I not consider the Archbishop? The Light is the only thing that can truly save humanity, and he, naturally, is the greatest, most selfless man. The Archbishop seeks nothing but to uphold the path of faith. Yet your departure broke his heart; you don't know, but the day before you left Stormwind, he fell ill. As a result, not only he but the welfare of all the faithful was impacted. Bossia! Don't be so selfish—"
"I'm leaving."
"Wait! Think it over, Bossia. It's not difficult. Just sustain a minor injury, file a report, and I'm sure the Archbishop will find a way to bring you back. But it must be done before you leave Menethil. Once you reach the front line, it will be too late. You're far more valuable than those low-born, faithless soldiers. You shouldn't face those dangers—"
Bossia left the office. While she didn't expect to be free of her past anytime soon, losing the key and having a fanatical servant of the Archbishop by her side in such a short span was too much. What unsettled her the most was that she had once taken immense pride in her identity, and Angelo's words reminded her of that. On her way back to her tent, she spotted Kegira, wearing her usual mocking expression.
"What an irritating look," Kegira said. "Running to the priest's quarters at night, looking for a shoulder to cry on, only to be turned away?"
"Cut it out."
"What?"
"Someone is trying to drive me back to Stormwind. Compared to their efforts, your antics with me are nothing. So stop wasting your time."
"Oh, such an attitude. Little Light Baby's in a different mood today. Don't get me wrong—I'm not trying to drive you away, I just—"
"Veteran, you're a battle-hardened veteran, right?" Bossia interrupted her. "Then why scare the recruits to make yourself feel calm? You're just as uneasy about not knowing where we're going, aren't you?"
"You're saying I'm lying. And you, a paladin flower who's never been on the front lines, think you're qualified to accuse me of lying?"
"Stop associating me with that word. You keep spouting 'Light, Light.' Maybe you're the one who can't live without it."
Kegira suddenly became enraged, her breathing quickened. This anger caused her to lose her usual advantage. To isolate and mock someone, one must feign indifference, pretend nothing they do can affect you. Losing one's temper was the cardinal sin. "Shut up," she said, swinging a slap that landed on Bosia's cheek. But it was as though the blow had struck herself.
"What do you know?" Kaegira's pupils flickered with unease. "I don't need it. I don't even want to utter that word. That hypocritical thing, I—"
A booming sound outside the city walls interrupted their argument. Another followed, and then a third. The camp of new recruits stirred. From Menethil's sentinels, they quickly learned this was the third recent attempt by the Dragonmaw orcs to demolish or seal off the bridge leading out of Menethil. The orcs were using catapults to attack. The local guards were rallying to fight back, and some of the recruits were joining the battle. The two troubling conversations that had weighed on Bossia tonight drove her toward the gates, even without orders.
She saw large stones strewn across the bridge's center, and from the other side of the rubble, Dragonmaw orcs fired arrows at the guards rushing onto the bridge. Some orcs were climbing up the sides of the bridge's pillars, slaughtering those in their path.
"Hold the gates!" a dwarf guard shouted. "Hold the gates!"
What should she do? Bossia was at a loss. What unfolded before her seemed less like a battle and more like a riot. There were no formations, and the voices of the commanders were drowned out by the orcs' roars. Blood splattered, indistinguishable in the night. Soldiers cursed as they fought, only to let out screams when struck down without warning. Arrows flew, their sources and targets nearly impossible to track, whether due to the Dragonmaw's indifference to friendly fire or their sheer intent to sow chaos.
Standing at the left side of the bridge's railing, Bossia noticed a guard in front of her locked in a fierce struggle. Should she rush in to help or stay where she was? As she hesitated, she saw a hulking shadow rise beyond the railing—a climbing orc. She saw his eyes, glowing faintly like ominous flames about to be snuffed out in the dim moonlight. The orc's left hand gripped the railing for support while his right hand raised a massive axe toward her.
She couldn't avoid the strike, merely raising her sword to block it, but she was severely underestimating the orc's strength. A numbing pain shot through her palms, and her blade was flung back, slicing into the orc's left hand as it clung to the bridge's railing. The orc let out a howl and tumbled down, his stiff, plague-like fingers falling in four pieces at Bossia's feet.
It was a coincidence, she knew it was just a coincidence. In the past, she would have told herself, "This is the Light's blessing." She looked at her hands; both palms were bleeding from symmetrical cracks where the force had torn her skin. She recalled the moment when Jorgen survived an attack from a mourner thanks to the Archbishop's golden medallion. That, too, was a coincidence. How calm he had seemed, for he had lived through countless such random chances. Now she, too, had to experience these moments of chance. If this was the test she had to face in distancing herself from her past, she was willing to accept it.
She surged forward, assisting the struggling guard by striking the orc's shoulder. This marked the first time she had landed a hit on an enemy by her own strength. As she pulled her sword free, her head instinctively tilted to the right, just as an arrow whizzed past her left ear, barely grazing her skin. Another coincidence. She forced herself not to think, "What if I hadn't turned my head just now?" because she quickly understood that Jorgen would never think like that. If she wanted to survive longer on the battlefield, neither should she.
The orc fell, and she thrust her sword into his abdomen. His collapse before her was a coincidence, but the sword piercing his innards was not. There was no need to consciously tell herself to "kill him" before acting. For some, battle was instinct; for others, it was meticulous planning and execution, or perhaps merely a survival mechanism. Bossia was still searching for the meaning of battle in her own life. The first step, though, was simple: swing her sword, strike out, and let the enemy's blood break free from their muscles and veins, spraying wildly.
The battles that followed were clumsy, as she continued to stumble, but her mind gradually cleared. She realized that even on a battlefield, it was still possible to hear the sound of breathing, whether from allies or enemies. She understood that she needed to tightly control all the non-coincidental elements—the sword techniques she had practiced as part of the Cathedral Guard, the combat strategies specifically designed for dealing with non-humans—and truly apply them. As she slowly grasped this, the orcs no longer seemed so terrifying. Though powerful, their fighting lacked any real tactics. The rest would be left to chance.
After assisting and individually killing four orcs and sustaining two minor injuries, Bossia noticed the battlefield growing quieter. The enemy was retreating, and some of the guards were crossing the debris to pursue them across the bridge. She was about to follow when a hand pulled her back. It was Kegira.
"Are you crazy? Don't chase them. Get back to the city."
Kegira dragged Bossia as they sprinted back, her strong arms making it impossible to break free. Only then did Bossia realize there was another pungent smell in the air, aside from blood.
"Explosives," a guard's voice called from far behind them, but the warning came too late. The orcs had ignited a large stash of explosives buried among the debris as they retreated. A massive fireball tore through the Wetlands' dark sky, the shockwave rippling across the water like a razor blade. Some of the flying rocks struck the watchtower and the nearby hills, but many more crushed the guards and orcs into pulp. In the distance, the blast startled the raptors perched along the cliffs, causing them to raise their heads. In the swamp, the bog beasts surfaced, slapping at the waterweeds around them, then suddenly stood as still as statues. Half of the bridge had collapsed. Though it hadn't entirely fallen, only a narrow passage wide enough for two people remained at the blast's epicenter, connecting both sides.
"Let go of me." Safely back inside the city gates, Bossia shook off Kegira's grip.
Kegira stared at her, saying nothing.
"What are you looking at?" Bossia asked.
"Go wash your face. Quickly."
Kegira's eyes had lost their usual mocking glint entirely. After finding a mirror in the barracks, Bossia understood Kaegira's reaction. Blood stained her entire face and upper body. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and the blood that had pooled on her forehead dripped down, clinging to her eyelashes. The blood was all from others—both orcs and humans, the living and the dead. Why hadn't she noticed during the battle? Was it just because it had been night?
She removed her gauntlets and splashed handfuls of cold water over herself, scrubbing the corners of her eyes and the back of her ears. When she opened her eyes again, there was still blood caked on the sides of her face and neck. It was nearly dried, and she scrubbed it off forcefully. Even after washing all the blood away, something still felt wrong. She couldn't put her finger on what it was. In that moment, all the small details she hadn't noticed before—the axe that had nearly grazed her neck, the arrow that had flown past her ear, the final explosion—began replaying in her mind, over and over. I survived my first battle, she told herself, then squatted down, covering her ears in a futile attempt to block out the echoes of tearing flesh and breaking bones.