You Already Won

The walk to their mother's grave wasn't quiet.

Not because of the world around them—it was silent, hushed by loss, the air thick with the stillness of a civilization that had forgotten how to hope.

But Selcentra began to sing anyway.

A low, lilting tune. Familiar. Woven with playfulness and old defiance.

"They chased me through the ash and stone,

But I knew ways the stars had shown…"

Ashantiana groaned softly. "Really?"

Selcentra glanced sideways with a grin, still singing.

"…They had their swords and sacred names,

But I had wind, and I had flame…"

And then, against her own better judgment—and perhaps because her sister's voice cracked just slightly in the right way—Ashantiana joined in.

"…I danced through fire, I bit the sun,

And laughed because I was not done."

It was an old Dorferan song—one their mother used to sing when they were children. A tale of a clever creature hunted by kings and killers alike, who never fought strength with strength, only wit with will. A creature that outlived its hunters. That survived.

The path winded down into a valley of shifting colors—earth once green, now muted with gray and soft gold, dusted in ash from a far-off battle that had never fully settled. Wild grass had begun to reclaim the stone tiles, and half-toppled lanterns leaned against broken markers.

They passed graves of civilians, marked with simple carvings: symbols for bakers, weavers, children. Some were freshly covered, others weather-worn. The names were fading.

Ashantiana paused to press a hand to one.

Selcentra just walked a little slower, voice lower.

Eventually, they reached the old gate—a towering arch of silverwood entwined with vines now dry and cracked. Once, it had been flanked by living flame guardians and celestial spears. Now, only rusted sconces remained.

Except for one thing.

A man.

Old. Bent. In patched armor and faded Dorferan colors.

He stood at attention.

Still guarding the gate.

Ashantiana stopped. "…Ser Dolen?"

The man gave a slow nod. His beard had gone white, but his eyes were still sharp. "Commander Zarget. And Lady Selcentra."

Ashantiana shrugged and smiled. "Sadly a title that came too late."

"But one you earned all the same."

Selcentra smiled warmly. "You're still here."

He looked past them to the quiet field. "Someone has to remember them with honor."

Ashantiana bowed her head. "Thank you for standing guard."

Ser Dolen straightened, tapping the butt of his spear once to the earth. "Of course. Until my bones give out."

They passed through the gate, leaving him behind as he resumed his vigil.

They entered the Field of Fallen Blades—Quaqure in their language—the resting ground of Dorferan warriors.

Rows of headstones lined the grassy slope, each engraved with sigils and epithets. Many had blades resting beside them, some shattered, others still sharp. The path wove through like a river of memory, every step a name, a legacy.

At the far end of the field stood a white and pink tree, blooming in defiance of the world's ruin. Its petals fluttered in the wind like snow and flame, dancing across the grave below.

Their mother's grave.

Carved simply:

"General Caelya Zarget. Defender of Flame. Mother of Two. Loyal to the End."

Selcentra knelt immediately, Ashantiana didn't speak at first. She just looked at the stone. Then the tree. Then her sister.

And finally, she exhaled.

"Hey, Mom. We're back."

Selcentra brushed fallen petals from the grave's edge and made a makeshift pile in front of the grave. Ashantiana stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the name etched in stone. Neither spoke at first.

Then, softly:

"Sorry, Mom."

Ashantiana's voice was steady, but low. "We couldn't protect the land."

Selcentra didn't interrupt.

"The capital's gone quiet. The council is scattered. The people are doing what they can… but the kingdom is no more."

Ashantiana knelt beside the grave. "We fought, though. Until the end. And we're still here. For now."

There was a long pause before Selcentra whispered, "You'll see Father soon."

Ashantiana's jaw tensed.

"He died three days ago," she said. "He was defending our home when an Outlander with fiery sigils fell from the sky."

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Selcentra nodded, still calm. "He fought for us. He went down as he wanted."

Ashantiana didn't cry. She didn't mourn. Instead, she looked directly at the grave and said, "We won't despair. You raised us stronger than that."

Selcentra gave a small laugh, brushing tears from her own cheek. "And don't worry I'm dragging Ashantiana into helping me at the orphanage."

Ashantiana rolled her eyes. "To 'brighten my bitter soul,' she says. As if those brats won't eat it alive."

"They'll make you soft."

"I'll put them in training drills."

Selcentra giggled. "You'll give them nightmares."

Ashantiana snorted, then turned back toward the grave. "The army has fallen. The kingdom is ashes. But… I've slain more than a dozen outlanders and hundreds of competitors. Some were even a decent match. They came thinking we were weak. They didn't leave."

Selcentra bumped her shoulder. "Hey. Keep it positive, remember?"

Ashantiana groaned. "Fine. I just wanted her to know we did everything we could."

Selcentra sat back on her heels and smiled up at the tree. "Let's each say one good memory we had with her. Something… bright. In case we don't get to come back here. I want to leave on a good note."

Ashantiana scoffed. "That's stupid."

Then paused.

Then sighed. "You first."

Selcentra didn't hesitate. "When I was eight dual moon cycles, and I got sick during the Summer Festival, mom carried me through the whole parade route on her back. Even when I threw up on her armor."

Ashantiana blinked. "That was your bright memory?"

"You showed me a lot ," Selcentra said, grinning and ignoring her sister. "I saw the light show from your shoulder. And you didn't put me down, not even once."

She looked at Ashantiana. Expecting.

Ashantiana looked away. "Tch. Fine."

She took a breath.

"…When we were little. Before I left for my first mission. You snuck into my room and tied a ribbon to my wrist. Red and gold. You said it would keep me alive."

Selcentra's smile softened. "You wore it for years."

Ashantiana nodded. "Still have it. In my boot."

They were quiet for a while.

Wind stirred the petals around them.

Finally, Selcentra exhaled, content. "There. If we can't come back here… at least we didn't leave on a bad note."

Ashantiana looked up at the pink-and-white blossoms swaying overhead, then back at the grave.

As they stepped away from the grave, Ashantiana and Selcentra gave a parting nod to Ser Dolen, still standing at his post with his spear planted and eyes sharp. He returned it with a quiet bow of respect—his armor catching a sliver of the light through the shade as the suns set.

The sisters descended from the ridge, their boots and bare feet kicking up dust and stray petals as they returned to the city.

Delgoretha lived, but it did not breathe.

There were voices—distant, subdued. A smith's hammer still struck, though less like song and more like a whisper. A market stall still opened, but with no real commerce—only habit. Hope was no longer a dream here.

It was a memory.

And yet…

There were people. Children skipping stones. Elders feeding ashbirds. Two soldiers sparring with dulled blades, not for war but to remember rhythm.

The city was dead.

But parts of it refused to lie still.

The sisters stopped at the edge of a rounded building wrapped in vines, its roof sagging slightly, the wooden sign above the arched door still hanging by one sturdy hinge.

The Zenille Orphanage.

Before Ashantiana could knock, Selcentra kicked the door open.

"Little terrors!" she shouted, arms flung wide. "Your favorite storm has returned!"

The explosion of noise was immediate.

A thunder of feet. Laughter. Screaming.

Dozens—hundreds—of children swarmed her. Tiny hands grabbed at her dress, her arms, her legs. One climbed her back like a mountain. Another shoved a ragdoll in her face. A third slapped a mud pie against her shoulder triumphantly.

Selcentra cackled as she staggered backward beneath the wave of youth, spinning and lifting two kids into the air before dropping to her knees and letting them all pile on.

"You've all gotten heavier!" she said, laughing as a child tackled her mid-back.

"You only left yesterday."

"You promised to bring candy!"

"She did!" one shouted, holding up a melted packet.

"You owe us a story!"

"You owe us six!"

"You owe me a new bug! You squished it last time!"

Ashantiana stood at the entrance, arms crossed, a wry smirk tugging at her lips. "You sure you're not the one they orphaned?"

"HELP," Selcentra wheezed from beneath a child using her hair as reins.

A warm laugh answered her from behind.

Ashantiana turned to see a broad-shouldered older woman, skin the tone of earthen bark and eyes still fierce despite her age. Her long gray dreadlocks were tied back beneath a patterned scarf, and she leaned on a carved cane that had likely cracked a few skulls in its day.

"You two always had different ways of entering a room," she said with a smile.

"Gieventi Xoclug," Ashantiana said, bowing slightly. "Still standing, I see."

"Someone has to keep these little beasts from burning the roof down." Gieventi's voice was rich, gravelly, and strong as ever. "And from what I hear, you've been out doing the same on a bigger scale."

Ashantiana chuckled. "Someone has to."

They stood side by side, watching Selcentra shriek in laughter as a dozen kids tried to stack themselves into a human pyramid on top of her.

"She never changed," Gieventi said fondly.

Ashantiana nodded. "No. But she grew. More than I did, in some ways."

Gieventi glanced at her. "And you?"

Ashantiana didn't answer.

The old caretaker smiled and patted her hand. "Then you're in the right place."

Gieventi stepped forward, her cane tapping the floor twice.

"Alright, you squirming stars, settle down!" she called, her voice firm but warm. "You break her ribs, and I'm not bandaging them!"

The children groaned and scattered from their playful pile on Selcentra, who rose dramatically, clutching her chest like a wounded bard. "I'm lucky old Giev still loves me," she declared, wiping mud and cookie crumbs from her dress.

A chorus of giggles answered her.

"Circle up!" Gieventi ordered, and the little ones obeyed, forming a messy oval of cushions and crossed legs around Selcentra.

She sat at the center, pulling a thick old book from the shelf using a thread of Ryun—its cover cracked, edges feathered with time. With theatrical flair, she blew off a layer of dust and cracked it open.

"Tonight," Selcentra said, her voice suddenly soft, melodic, "we read the tale of Redbone and the Sleeping Sun. A trickster's story. One of my mother's favorites."

The children gasped and clapped.

As she began to read—her voice dancing between characters and narration—Ashantiana stepped to the back of the room where Gieventi stood by a table, pouring tea from a battered steel kettle.

"She still has the magic of storytelling," Ashantiana murmured.

Gieventi didn't look away. "She always did. She just didn't need a war to prove it."

Ashantiana leaned against the wall, watching her sister animatedly describe a sun that fell asleep and the clever girl who raced time to light the world.

"You been busy," Ashantiana said. "Keeping all of this… moving."

Gieventi sipped her tea. "Movement keeps fear out of the bones. If they stop moving, they'll feel it. The truth."

Ashantiana's expression darkened. "You mean the truth that death rides toward us all?"

Gieventi tilted her head slightly. "I mean that these children won't feel it. Not if I can help it."

That caught Ashantiana's ear.

She turned, voice low. "You don't just mean sheltering them."

Gieventi finally looked at her. Not hard. Not cold. Just honest.

"No child under this roof will feel fear when the sky falls. That's my vow."

Ashantiana stepped forward, gaze sharp. "Gieventi… what are you planning?"

Instead of answering, Gieventi asked, "And how do you plan to go out?"

Ashantiana blinked.

Then answered, firm. "On my feet. With a sword in my hand. And as many corpses around me that I can muster."

The old woman gave a slow nod, her tone shifting—less grandmother, more strategist.

"The region is fraying," she said quietly. "Our sky is scarred. The land is fractured. Reality itself is coming undone in places. People sleep and dream of fire. Animals flee woods they stayed they're whole lives. And outsiders walk through walls like they belong here."

Ashantiana felt a chill crawl up her spine.

"This isn't a siege," Gieventi continued. "It's a slow, sinking end. There's no line to hold. No army left to rally. There's no battlefield here, Ashan."

Ashantiana clenched her fists. "Then I'll make one."

Gieventi nodded again, not as approval—but understanding.

"You've always needed something to charge into. It's how you hold your shape."

Ashantiana's eyes narrowed. "Is that a dig?"

"It's a compliment," Gieventi said. "You're still sharp. Still angry. That's what makes you dangerous. But don't let it turn you to stone before you've finished being someone's sister."

Ashantiana's glare softened—just a bit.

The sound of laughter rose again as Selcentra mimicked a bumbling guard in the story, her arms flailing. The children erupted into giggles.

"I am still her sister," Ashantiana whispered.

Gieventi gave a rare, soft smile. "Then be that. Until the end."