WE BECOME THOUGHTLESS

two | the warrior

lion // saint mesa

The night Cole peered down into the village and craned his neck at the Chrysosian soldiers below, he wasn't sad or desperate. He was angry.

His eyes went to the small, triangular huts in the snow and examined their spilled contents. The doors were kicked in, belongings strewn out across the dirt clearing ahead. Soldiers went through them; they tossed aside pots, wooden toys, clay shards. Cole's hands curled into fists. It didn't belong to them, it wasn't theirs to toss aside.

Cole felt a hand touch his shoulder. When he glanced to the side, Orla was standing in the snow, a face nuzzled into the furs over her shoulders. She smiled tightly at him.

"This is a big risk," she said softly, the words turning to fog in the cold air. "Are you sure you want to take it?"

A groove formed between Cole's eyes as he frowned down at the shorter girl, and he shook his head. "Of course, Orla. We have to."

She nodded and looked away, eyes tracking the movement below. The reflection of pin-prick lanterns glossed over her eyes. When she said nothing else, Cole brought his hand up to wrap his fingers around hers and warmed her skin with his. He smiled gently at her, if only to calm her nerves. And his.

"Alright," Emer came up behind them. "How're we going to go up against, what - the thirty Chrysosian warriors down there?"

Cole dropped his hand away and turned his body towards the other girl. Orla let her hand fall. "We don't need to fight them all. All we need is their mindrenderer dead, without it, they can't get what they came here for. More advena."

A communal shiver passed over the group at the muttered word. Advena.

The group of underequipped rebels had already been surprised enough when they saw the signature balloon ships planted in the forest not far from here, that when they spotted the mingling Chrysosians below, they couldn't believe what they were seeing. Never had they been so undeniably lucky. If it weren't for the poor man they'd passed along the northern trail, they wouldn't have found them at all.

The sad hum of his voice replayed in Cole's mind, over and over again; they took our minds, they'll take yours too. Cole wouldn't let that happen.

He brought the pads of his fingers to his chest, where he grazed the hard leather-plate wrapped across his torso. Beneath it, a cluster of snowdrop flowers were pressed close to his chest, where they steadied the thump of his heart. He inhaled. Exhaled.

He could do this.

"Is everyone ready?"

The group nodded their heads, and he grinned down at them from where he stood on an upturned log. The smile was fake.

"Then let's get to work," his big boots hit the earth.

By the time night had rolled in over the heads, the determination had set in. Hard, slack-browed faces waited for his word of assent before they stalked down into the valley, where the village was nestled into the cool earth, and he followed them down. To keep his hands from shaking, Cole rested them against the hilt of his axe.

The snowdrop flowers were supposed to attract luck, enough luck to name their crew of motley rebel fighters after their lesser known name; Galanthus, because when you had been less than fortunate in the past, a little fortune was all you hoped for. Cole didn't care whether it was just superstition. He believed it, and he liked that he believed it. It was reassuring.

His eyes went to the hidden latch behind the old house, where an assortment of Welish prisoners were packed into its comparatively small main-room. Orla and Angus trailed behind him. They were hoping to use what the Chrysosians didn't know against them - beneath every southern home was a basement, which was used during the intense winter months in order to maintain heat beneath the warm soil, ventilated accordingly alongside a fireside. These basements had two entrances - one on the inside, one on the out.