Rachel huffed, sitting down quickly on the grass. She was glad she found this little secluded area of trees between the two fighting grounds. It was a nice escape from her duties, especially from the talk of the War. Fighting, fighting, fighting, that’s all her Father talked about. She had to admit, this was the biggest one she had seen in a long time. It had the most deaths on both sides. This kingdom had fought hard against King Trigon, and Rachel didn’t blame them. Her Father had killed parts of their royal family, part of his plan to rule all of the land. But, did he expect them to take it lying down?
She glanced down at her dress, with it sporting traditional Azar colors; purple and white. The colors of importance, was what she was told. She knew that these colors represented fear to some, and hatred to others. She wouldn’t be surprised if all of Azar, along with every other kingdom, hated her father, and herself as well.
Bart grits his teeth, struggling to pull the leather gauntlets off his hands. The armor is completely ridiculous, too much protection for someone who so loathes fighting in this battle. Battle. He hates just thinking of the word. The War is ridiculous, too- not the effect, no, but the cause. His father had been a kind King, the kind they wrote songs and children’s tales about. And his aunt, though not a formal part of the court’s affairs, always had a place in the Central City of the Keystone Kingdom. She’d been the one to talk his father down the last time whispers of war with Azaria had arisen, but now-
Now they are both gone, and the War is more than just a whisper.
He finally manages to tug the offending garment off with his teeth, abandoning it in the grass at the border of the camp as he gets to work on the other. It’s his mother’s fault he’s here- ‘seeing their King fight beside them will boost morale,’ she said. ‘You’ll be home before you know it,’ she said. Nearly a month later, he’s still on the battlefield, and the people are getting anxious. He shakes the thoughts out of his head, dropping the last of the lightning-etched armor to the ground as he crosses into a clearing between the trees lining the two camps. He sighs a breath of relief, slumping back against a tree before he notices a figure on the other side. And it’s dark, but he knows those colors all too well. Azar colors.
“I’m sorry,” he rushes out, some mixture of rage and terror making his heart race. “I didn’t know this area was taken.”