Counsel of War

This was a war that erupted so often, it was said the land itself had grown weary of blood. The faces of the fighters changed—sometimes old against young, sometimes clan against clan, sometimes faith against faith—but war’s true constants were always the same: ruin and sorrow. No matter the banner or cause, in the end, pain was the only true victor.

Between the Patriot tribe and the Loyalist tribe, a river of blood had flowed for years, staining fields and memories alike. Each side clung to the fierce conviction that their cause was righteous, refusing to yield even a single blade of grass. The very word 'compromise' was poison; 'surrender,' an unthinkable blasphemy.

Tacticians on both sides spun intricate webs of strategy, each brilliant plan promising swift, decisive victory. Yet, every time triumph seemed within reach, their adversaries twisted away, striking back with even greater ferocity. The promise of an ending dangled forever just out of reach, a cruel mirage on a battlefield that refused to be tamed.

A stranger—a soul unclaimed by either side—tumbled into the frenzy. Terrified, he weaved through hails of fire and the chaos of close combat, finally collapsing behind the Loyalist lines. When his heart steadied, he surveyed the scene with outsider’s eyes. Unlike the soldiers, his gaze wandered beyond the lines and the carnage. That was how he noticed them: enormous, shifting shadows looming behind the Patriots’ camp. These were no mere silhouettes cast by men. They hovered far above, moving with an uncanny grace, as if tugging on invisible threads that controlled the warriors below.

The outsider’s trembling finger pointed out the impossible shapes. At first, the soldiers scoffed, but then—one by one—their eyes widened as the shadows resolved before them. Alarmed, the generals summoned a council. The outsider’s voice, unsteady but resolute, urged them to fire not at flesh and blood, but at the monstrous figures that loomed beyond. The eldest general, his face carved by a lifetime of war, dismissed the idea as dangerous folly. To attack such phantoms, leaving themselves exposed, seemed like inviting annihilation.

He was not wrong. The risk was real. Yet the shadows remained—unmistakable, undeniable. Should they persist in this endless, futile slaughter, or gamble everything on a desperate new hope? The council’s silence was thick with dread and doubt.

After hours of bitter argument, the council reached a fragile consensus. They would aim skyward and attack the shadows.

Pooling every last resource, the Loyalists aimed their flaming arrows high, hearts hammering in their chests as they waited for the Patriots’ counterattack. The distance was immense, the shot nearly impossible. But when they loosed their arrows, the sky itself seemed to hold its breath. Against all odds, the arrows found their marks. The shadowy giants shuddered—then crumbled, dissolving into nothingness.

The Patriots, bracing for a final, brutal clash, watched in confusion as the Loyalists’ arrows arced overhead, missing their ranks completely. Their eyes followed the burning shafts skyward—and there, for the first time, they saw the monstrous shadows. As the arrows struck, the dark shapes collapsed, and a suffocating weight lifted from the Patriots’ hearts. The fog of rage and war cleared. Instinctively, they turned and saw similar shadows looming behind the Loyalists. Without a word, they notched their arrows and fired. The shadows dissolved, and with them, the madness of battle faded.

Weapons clattered to the ground, the echo of their fall a strange, hopeful music. Healing would take time—wounds like these run deep—but at last, the war was over.