𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐑 | j. kirstein

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

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"RUN, YOU FILTHY seeds of swine!" Commander Magath yells, sitting in his brown horse, observing the eight children running in the slippery mud, all on the verge on passing out in the cold rain. Iris being one of them.

It took all of her might to keep running.

The heavy backpack with rocks inside bounced at every sprint she made, pounding against her small back. She attempts to steady her hold on the riffle in her arms but the rain made it hard since it was trying to slip away.

Her feet are burning. Her legs. Her back. Her whole body is burning, even in the chill weather.

She was afraid that in any second now, her legs will give up and her face will meet the brown mud, and it will be the end of all her hard work.

After this, I'll murder him, she swore in her mind, glaring at her Commander.

To her advantage, she was still the first one. Her comrades were long behind and she was determined to keep it that way. She might not be the strongest or the wisest, but she is the fastest. If someone tell her to run, she'll run.

She could hardly breathe as she finished another lap. Just one more lap and she will finally rest, and after she rests, she will murder Commander Magath.

He's getting old, either way.

Raindrops were blurring her vision but she could see the finish line getting closer, so close, yet so far away.

Suddenly, something is caught in the corner of her eye.

Marcel.

Her comrade was now running beside her, speeding up and soon getting ahead of her. Iris begins to panic, she tries to fasten her pace but her body was close to giving up. But she doesn't care. She has to win this race and pass.

"Don't you want to become honorary Marleyans?!"

Commander Magath's words were like a switch inside of her, suddenly turned on and causing a rush of adrenaline in her veins. She grunts, forcing herself to speed through the pouring rain.

She runs, runs so fast her eyes were welling up with tears and falling down her red tinted cheeks. But before she knew it, all her efforts had vanished.

"Marcel Galliard, you pass!"

Iris didn't have to stop and accept her defeat, so she went on. Her foot stepped on the white line and the other followed. She made it.

"Iris Elvira, you pass!"

The riffle slips out of her hands. She falls down to the wet ground and embraces oxygen as if it's a lost friend that she wishes to keep forever.

She did it.

She's a Warrior.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ ✯ ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

May the best Warrior be chosen.

Those words never left her mind. Always echoing at the back of her head, more often than she'd like to admit. As if someone had nailed those words to her brain with a hammer so they never leave her.