Chapter 2 : (2/142)
“You need to stay still," he said, lifting the edge of Mia's clothes. She instinctively tried to stop him, but upon confirming he had no intentions beyond treatment, she relaxed her body.
The situation felt awkward. The Rochefort Legion Commander that Mia knew was never this attentive or delicate.
The dark red bandages made a peeling sound as they loosened under unfamiliar hands. Mia clenched her jaw, determined not to show any pain.
"Tolerable, then." After watching her reaction, Etienne reached this conclusion and began speaking. His hands never paused as they stitched her wound.
After hearing the summary, Mia replied calmly:
"So our objective while stationed here is to secure surrender declarations from neighboring territories."
"In an ideal world, yes. But we expect no actual surrenders. Once reconnaissance is complete, we'll advance regardless of their responses."
This contradicted everything Mia knew. She'd been certain surrender declarations would arrive before their departure. Naturally, she'd assumed that was their purpose.
Mia fell silent, absorbed in thought. Etienne's monologue filled the air as his hands worked faster, the treatment progressing swiftly in the absence of conversation.
[Key adjustments:
Added "edge of" to clarify clothing movement
Changed "careful" to "delicate" for characterization consistency
Specified "peeling" sound for medical accuracy
Revised internal monologue to maintain third-person perspective
Used "reconnaissance" for military context
Tightened dialogue tags for natural flow
Removed colloquial "news to me" mismatch]
After sewing the final stitch, Etienne channeled sacred power into Mia's wound. While his divine energy wasn't well-suited for healing or recovery, it could at least prevent the sutured injury from reopening.
"There, all done. Was there anything else you wanted to ask...?"
Etienne spoke while bandaging Mia's wound.
No answer came.
...The treatment couldn't have been wrong. With sudden alarm, Etienne pressed his fingers beneath Mia's nose. The warm airflow against his skin confirmed she still breathed. That small mercy at least held true.
He'd mistaken her calm endurance during the procedure - maintained through full consciousness - for insensitivity to pain. Clearly, he'd miscalculated.
"Had I known she'd lose consciousness, I would've administered anesthetic."
Etienne's smooth forehead creased. Had she suffered greatly? He should have verified her condition earlier. His troubled gaze rested on Mia's eyelids, concern plain in his features.
'Still, this should be nothing serious.'
Less than a day would prove this assumption equally misguided.
"Teach me swordsmanship."
Who could have guessed that while training late at night to avoid soldiers who grew uneasy around their corps commander, he’d end up hearing such words?
Étienne scanned the woman before him with a baffled gaze.
Her disheveled clothes suggested she’d rushed straight from bed, her shoelaces hanging loose. The hilt of the sword she’d grabbed in haste jutted awkwardly from its scabbard.
A vivid red stain bloomed across her white uniform—clearly, her wound had reopened. The sight gnawed at him.
Why would she emerge now to say this? Anyone could see tending her injury took priority over sword drills. Yet Mia ignored the fresh blood seeping from her abdomen entirely.
This wasn’t the flawless Princess Blanchard known for her inhuman precision, even among the wolfish politicians of the court. Had nightmares driven her here? Sensing her resolve, Étienne tried persuasion.
"You look exhausted. Go inside and rest. We’ll talk at dawn."
"No. I need your answer tonight."
Her voice held no trace of sleep’s haze, only steel.
When Étienne met her eyes again, crimson irises blazed with purpose. This was no trivial matter nor some noble girl’s whim.
Mia Blanchard meant every word. Whatever fueled her resolve, Étienne couldn’t deny her sincerity.
Stop patronizing me with that look.
Was I so transparent?
You’re this lenient with soldier training?
They skip drills themselves when battered. I don’t force broken men.
But sir—am I truly their equal?
Huh?
Should a "hero" skulk to the rear over scratches like common infantry?
My lady!
I told you not to use that title!
Mia’s intensity clashed with Étienne’s concern for her labored breathing. As he placated her, their debate dissolved without resolution.
He bargained for her full recovery first. With false compliance, she let herself be herded back to bed.
Rochefort remained absent. Beyond the barracks, training cadences pierced the night.
Alone, Mia dwelled on yesterday’s disquieting dream. Even Étienne’s promise to train her couldn’t ease the memory’s sting.
Winter’s mountain trail bit with icy teeth. Unfamiliar cold slowed their adaptation. Snowdrifts and clawing branches hid both path and foe, while jagged slopes masked ambushes.
Each step deepened the dread of annihilation, eroding morale grain by grain.
Yet for the 1st Holy Legion—halved by prior slaughter—this death-ridden pass meant survival. Enemy hordes choked the plains; sea routes lay beyond reach. Desperation wore a crown of frost.
If they went around the mountain, they would clearly be pursued soon. Retreating wouldn't improve the situation either. Their best chance of survival—of reaching their destination alive—lay in stealthily crossing through the mountain.
It was a desperate circumstance, yet no one dared speak this truth aloud.
Not while Étienne Rochefort, their sole beacon of hope, remained at the vanguard.
No one anticipated this would be Legion Commander Rochefort's final battle.
No one except Mia Blanchard.
Mia stared at the scene with detached calm. Perhaps because she'd already lived through it once, or maybe because she knew this was a dream—either way, the old tension didn't grip her this time.
Frost crystallized across the terrain. Soon, the enemy would exploit the obscured visibility to ambush them.
Then Rochefort, ensnared in a trap, would charge into the enemy ranks...
"...Huh?"
This dream diverged from Mia's memories.
"Get back!"
Rochefort shoved Mia aside as he bolted forward. She rolled through the snow, a dry cough tearing from her throat.
Explosions of divine energy and swirling snow blinded her, yet her battlefield instincts pierced through the chaos.
Rochefort didn't need to die here. Not at this moment.
He hadn't been trapped—he'd willingly thrown himself into danger.
Had he clung to even a shred of self-preservation, he could have...
"Then... does this mean he died to protect me?"
Mia had watched Rochefort's final moments unfold beside him. She no longer recalled her own thoughts from that time.
But one memory stayed sharp—the crushing certainty that the catastrophe she'd orchestrated was too grand a price for a single life.
Étienne Rochefort never screamed. Not when the cavity torn through his chest—too vast to stanch—defied all reason. Whether through superhuman fortitude or some final message burning within him, Mia still didn't know.
"Blan...chard..." Blood flecked his lips as his weakening divine energy curled around Mia like a parting embrace. "You're... more capable... than you..."
Ah.
The recollection struck like a tolling bell, cutting through years of buried guilt.
Even as the light faded from his violet eyes, they remained fixed on Mia.
The last expression she saw was trust—profound, unshakable trust, blind to the truth that the subordinate gripping his hand had engineered his death.
It felt excessive. A reward far outweighing her incompetence and spite.
