Chapter #53: The Sphinx of the North
Colonel Olivier Mira Armstrong stood motionless before the troops, her back straight and her chin slightly raised. Hundreds of men were arranged in perfect ranks before her, lined up like stakes driven into the eternal snow of Briggs. The northern wind howled mercilessly, slipping through uniforms and biting into exposed skin, yet no one moved. At Briggs, the cold was no excuse—it was a constant trial.
Standing atop an improvised platform, General Markus Falken dominated the scene. His mere presence inspired respect… or fear. He was a massive man, nearly two meters tall, shoulders broad as a fortress wall, his face hardened by years of war and ruthless decisions. His gaze swept across the soldiers as if they were pieces on a board only he understood. There was a calculated despotism in his posture, an unquestionable authority, as though the North itself belonged to him.
"Listen carefully!" his voice thundered, deep and commanding. "The North is no longer just a forgotten border. In recent months, our lines have been infiltrated by Drachman soldiers and spies. They think the cold weakens us. They think they can hide among the snow."
A restrained murmur rippled through the ranks, quickly smothered by Briggs' iron discipline.
"For that reason," Falken continued, "High Command has decided to reinforce this base with a new strategic asset. Someone who is not here to learn… but to command."
He stepped aside, extending an arm with deliberate theatricality.
"I present to you Colonel Olivier Mira Armstrong."
The name struck like a blunt blow. Some soldiers' eyes widened slightly; others remained rigid, but the surname Armstrong never went unnoticed in Amestris. Falken went on, clearly savoring the moment.
"One more link in a long chain of soldiers who have served the military with honor. From a family renowned for its legacy in alchemy. Sent directly from Central by recommendation of General Trumman… and the Führer himself."
Olivier did not react. Inside, her mind was a contained storm.
What the hell is this man doing?
Every word Falken spoke exposed her more than necessary. At Briggs, standing out too much could be just as dangerous as appearing weak. She glanced at the general out of the corner of her eye—huge, confident, enjoying every second. It was obvious: Falken wasn't introducing her; he was testing her.
"Colonel Armstrong will, as of today, serve as my second-in-command at this base," Falken concluded. "I expect you to learn quickly how to obey her."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Falken turned his head slightly toward her.
"Colonel, would you like to say a few words?"
Olivier stepped forward… then stopped. Her gaze swept over the ranks: men hardened by ice, distrustful eyes, some clearly displeased at taking orders from a woman sent from Central. She understood immediately—any speech would be seen as either weakness or arrogance.
"No," she replied simply.
A barely perceptible murmur passed through the troops. Falken raised an eyebrow, surprised, but said nothing.
"Dismissed," he ordered. "Return to your duties."
The soldiers dispersed swiftly, leaving behind the rhythmic crunch of boots against packed snow. When the courtyard was nearly empty, Olivier exhaled deeply for the first time.
"An interesting choice," Falken remarked without looking at her. "We'll see whether the North breaks you… or you break the North."
Olivier did not answer. She didn't need to.
A few steps behind her, a thin-built man cleared his throat.
"Colonel," he said in a firm yet slightly nervous voice. "I'm the lieutenant in charge of logistics and internal operations. As of today… I am your assistant."
Olivier turned slowly and assessed him from head to toe. Slim, serious-faced, posture correct—but lacking the typical harshness of Briggs.
"You?" she said coldly. "My assistant?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Don't misunderstand," she replied. "You'll be my right hand—for now. Until you earn my respect… and my trust."
The lieutenant swallowed and nodded.
"Understood, Colonel."
Six months passed.
Six months of relative peace at Briggs—which meant constant training, endless patrols, and unceasing vigilance. Olivier adapted quickly. She observed, analyzed, learned. She didn't try to change Briggs; she became part of it. The lieutenant, despite his fragile appearance, proved himself efficient, quiet, and loyal. He hadn't earned her full respect yet… but he was getting there.
Then, one night, hell awoke.
Explosions rocked the base from the outside. Alarms began to blare, slicing through the air like knives. Red lights flashed through the corridors.
"Attack!" a soldier shouted. "Drachma!"
Falken appeared immediately, sword in hand.
"All units to defensive positions! Repel the attack!"
The soldiers surged forward like a perfectly trained tide. Olivier moved with them when something caught her attention. Amid the chaos, a man was heading in the opposite direction—deeper into the base.
He wasn't running.
He didn't seem worried.
Strange, she thought.
Without a word, she broke from the group and followed him. The farther they went into the fortress, the clearer it became that the man knew exactly where he was going. He didn't hesitate at intersections. He never looked back.
They reached the main armory.
The man stopped before the massive sealed door… and raised his hands.
Olivier narrowed her eyes.
"What…?"
Out of nowhere, alchemical symbols spread across the floor. The man slammed his palm down, and gigantic roots erupted upward, tearing through the metal door as if it were paper. Living wood—twisted, violent, growing with terrifying force.
Olivier stepped back, stunned.
"Botanical alchemy…" she murmured. "Here?"
It was an exceedingly rare form of alchemy—especially for a Drachman soldier.
The man entered the armory.
And in that instant, Olivier knew the truth:
the real attack… had only just begun.
(End of Chapter)