Chapter #48: The Call of the North
The headquarters was unusually silent that afternoon. It was not a peaceful silence, but an expectant one, as if the very walls sensed that something was about to change. Major Olivier Mira Armstrong was reviewing reports when a soldier knocked on the door with impeccable rigidity.
"Enter."
The young man stepped inside, extended a letter with both hands, and avoided meeting her eyes. Olivier took the envelope without a word. The official seal of the Amestrian High Command gleamed under the light. She did not need to sit down to open it; her posture remained straight and firm, as if even the paper itself were expected to obey her.
She read.
And for a single instant—only one—her breathing stopped.
Immediate promotion to the rank of Colonel.
Mandatory transfer to the North.
Assignment: Briggs Border Base, defense against Drachma.
Under the command of General Markus Falken.
Any other officer would have reacted with surprise, anxiety, or even fear. Briggs had a reputation for devouring the weak. The cold, the constant warfare, the political pressure—it was not a destination, it was a sentence.
Olivier smiled.
Not a warm or friendly smile. It was a sharp curve of the lips, filled with ambition and resolve. This was not a punishment. It was an opportunity.
"You may go," she said to the soldier, without lifting her gaze.
When she was alone, she read the letter again carefully. The wording was clear: she would be in charge of an entire battalion. She would not be an observer, nor a decorative figure. She would be directly responsible for men, weapons, and decisions that would cost lives.
Perfect, she thought.
Briggs. The North. The place where the military proved who truly deserved to wear the uniform.
The name of the assigned general, Markus Falken, meant nothing to her—but that did not matter. If he was competent, she would learn to work with him. If he was not… the North would expose him soon enough.
The natural impulse would have been to share the news. To inform the Armstrong family. Her mother, always proud. Her father, distant but attentive. Even Alex Louis, her younger brother, who around that time was already beginning to make his way in alchemy with his usual naïve smile.
But Olivier did not.
Not because she did not care—but because she understood something they did not: promotions were not celebrated, they were executed. And the North did not wait.
She folded the letter with precision and began packing immediately. Not much. Olivier did not carry unnecessary memories. Uniforms, sword, documents—the essentials. Everything else was excess.
At dawn, the sound of suitcases rolling down the corridor woke Alex Louis Armstrong. He stepped out of his room, still half-asleep, scratching his head, and found his sister already dressed, immaculate as always, ready to depart.
"Well, well…" he said with a broad smile. "And where is my beautiful sister headed so early today?"
Olivier looked at him as if she had just heard something unforgivable.
"Enough clowning around, Alex," she replied coldly. "An Armstrong does not behave like a spineless bootlicker."
Alex blinked, surprised, then exaggeratedly straightened up, placing a hand on his chest.
"You're right, sister. My apologies. I have failed the honor of the family," he said, trying to sound serious—though his tone remained light.
She snorted.
"I've been promoted," she said bluntly. "Colonel. I'm being sent North. Briggs."
Alex's smile froze.
"Briggs?" he repeated. "But… that's the border with Drachma. It's a permanent war zone. The cold, the attacks, the political pressure… Olivier, you should be careful."
She closed the last suitcase and slowly turned to face him.
"Nonsense," she declared. "The cold of that place is nothing compared to the cold they'll feel when I put my sword through their hearts."
Alex looked at her with a mix of admiration and fear. He had always known his sister was strong, but in moments like that he understood that Olivier did not merely walk toward danger—she sought it.
"You're incredible…" he murmured. "And terrifying."
"Both are necessary," she replied.
For a moment, silence settled between them. Not awkward—heavy. Alex took a step forward.
"Just… come back alive," he said. "Mom would be furious if you didn't."
Olivier looked at him. Her eyes, hard as steel, softened for the briefest instant.
"I don't intend to die in a place like Briggs," she said. "Briggs is going to outlive me."
She picked up one of the suitcases and passed by him.
"Take care of the family, Alex," she added. "And don't be stupid."
"I'll do my best," he replied, raising his hand in an awkward farewell.
Hours later, Olivier Mira Armstrong stood on the platform, watching the train that would carry her north. Steam mingled with the cold morning air. The whistle sounded like an omen.
She boarded without looking back.
As the train moved forward, the landscape slowly changed. Cities gave way to harsher, more hostile terrain. Olivier gazed out the window, thoughtful. There was no fear in her—only anticipation.
Briggs did not know who was coming.
Drachma did not know who would soon be watching them from the ice.
But they would learn.
Because Olivier Mira Armstrong was not going north to serve.
She was going north to rule it.
(End of the chapter)