The Soldier's Stand

The polished brass buttons on my uniform gleamed, but they felt cold against my chest, not warm like I’d always imagined. The cheers of the crowd, which I’d pictured as thunderous roars of admiration, now sounded thin and brittle, like the crackle of dry leaves. I stood on the parade ground, the same ground where I’d learned to march, to salute, to hold my chin high, but today it felt like a stage set for a cruel play. Sparklewing was there, her delicate wings a blur of anxious movement beside a cluster of other creatures – the little moss-sprites, the giggling dew-drops, even the stoic, bark-skinned gnomes. Their eyes, usually filled with a cautious hope, were wide with a terrible, dawning fear.

General Ironclad stood beside me, his face a mask of granite. He had taught me everything – how to stand at attention until my legs ached, how to wield a wooden sword with precision, how to parrot the kingdom’s proud motto. But his lessons had been about obedience, not heroism. And I was beginning to understand that this kingdom’s pride was built on the broken wings of its people.

The Dictator arrived not in a carriage, but simply… appeared. One moment, the air was still; the next, a shimmering distortion rippled, and there they were, perched on a throne that seemed woven from captured moonlight and shadows. The Dictator’s form was fluid, shifting, their eyes like polished obsidian, reflecting nothing but their own immense self-regard. They surveyed us, a slow, deliberate sweep that made my skin crawl. It felt like a child examining a collection of dolls before deciding which one to break.