Chapter #62: The Will of the North
The following morning arrived wrapped in a strange, almost unsettling silence. It was not the tense quiet before battle, nor the usual howl of the Briggs wind, but a heavy stillness—as if the fortress itself were holding its breath after the carnage of the previous day.
Olivier Mira Armstrong opened her eyes slowly.
The white ceiling of the medical wing was the first thing she saw. For a brief moment, she frowned in irritation and tried to sit up at once—but a sharp, deep pain surged through her body like a brutal warning. She stopped.
"What… happened?" she asked hoarsely, turning her head slightly.
Two soldiers on guard jolted when they realized she was awake. One of them stepped forward immediately.
"Colonel—" he corrected himself, uncertain. "Sir… Armstrong. You collapsed last night."
Olivier narrowed her eyes.
"Explain."
The soldier swallowed.
"You were helping clear the remains of the missile launcher," he said. "You'd been working for hours without rest. You stopped, took two steps… and fell. The doctor said it was honestly a miracle you were still standing after everything you endured yesterday."
The colonel let out a short nasal laugh.
"A miracle?" she murmured. "What a useless word."
She tried to move her arms and legs, assessing the damage. It hurt—badly—but it was nothing she hadn't felt before.
A doctor approached when he heard her speaking.
"Good morning, Colonel," he said professionally. "Please don't try to get up yet. You have fractures in several ribs, severe muscle strain, and extreme exhaustion. If you follow orders, you should recover in five to eight days."
Olivier slowly turned her head toward him.
"Three," she said firmly.
The doctor blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"In three days I'll be ready," she repeated. "Briggs is not governed from a bed."
The doctor sighed in resignation. He had heard the stories about her. Now he was witnessing them firsthand.
"I'll do what I can to keep you from killing yourself," he said. "But I need you to rest today, at least."
Olivier did not answer. Her mind was already elsewhere.
"Bring me paper and ink," she ordered. "Now."
One of the soldiers left at once. Minutes later, he returned with what she asked for. Olivier pushed herself up just enough to write, ignoring the doctor's disapproving look.
She rested the sheet on her legs and began.
To the Führer.
The pen moved with purpose. There were no unnecessary flourishes, no gratuitous drama. Olivier recounted the events with surgical precision: Drachma's attack, the infiltration, Falken's betrayal, the revelation about Armd, the final battle, the sacrifice that saved Briggs. Every word was chosen to ensure the truth reached Central intact—before rumors, fear, or politics could twist it.
She explained how the attack had endangered not only the fortress, but the security of all Amestris. She detailed the destruction of the missile launcher and Drachma's retreat, making it clear that the threat had not vanished—only been contained.
Finally, she wrote the inevitable.
In light of General Falken's death, I have assumed operational control of Base Briggs to preserve order, defense, and troop morale until General Command appoints a competent replacement.
She signed with a steady hand:
Colonel Olivier Mira Armstrong.
Folding the letter, she handed it to the nearest soldier.
"Send it immediately," she ordered. "Highest priority."
The response did not take as long as she expected.
Days later—three, exactly—Olivier was already walking the halls of Briggs, her torso still bandaged and her expression as inflexible as ever, when a messenger arrived from Central. The letter bore the Führer's personal seal.
Olivier opened it standing, surrounded by several officers who waited in silence.
She read.
And for the first time in a long while… she smiled.
In Central, King Bradley set his pen down on his desk and looked at the letter he had just dictated.
"Well then," he said calmly. "Take this down, Mr. Armbrecht."
The secretary leaned forward, ready to write.
"To the attention of Colonel Olivier Mira Armstrong," Bradley continued. "I do not accept that you hold temporary control of Base Briggs."
The secretary glanced up, surprised, but kept writing.
"On the contrary," the Führer went on, "I want you to lead it permanently."
Bradley interlaced his fingers, satisfied.
"I am aware that, for this to be official, you must be promoted to the rank of General. We will take care of that."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"So… welcome, General Olivier Mira Armstrong, new military commander of Base Briggs."
The secretary swallowed as he wrote.
"My condolences for the death of General Falken," Bradley added. "I wish a ceremony to be held in his honor. Do not concern yourself with the budget—Central will cover all expenses."
He signed with a firm stroke.
Sincerely,
Führer King Bradley.
When Olivier finished reading, silence filled the room.
Then she looked up.
"Good," she said simply. "We have work to do."
The North had just gained its queen.
End of chapter