Chapter #66: Shadows Beneath the Walls of Briggs
Morning came to Briggs without mercy.
The cold remained the unquestioned master of the North—sharp, silent—but the fortress was already awake. The metallic sound of boots striking frozen stone marked the beginning of a new day. Troops moved with iron discipline, forming ranks as orders rang out, clear and forceful. The war showed no mercy, and neither did Fort Briggs.
From the watchtowers, reconnaissance units were dispatched. Their mission was clear: monitor the surrounding area, track any suspicious movement, and locate potential infiltrators. Ishvalan civilians fleeing north, Drakman spies, or any shadow daring to move near the walls had to be detected immediately.
Inside one of the cleaning rooms, hidden among shelves of detergents and metal crates, the mysterious figure slowly opened his eyes.
The sound of footsteps and voices pulled him from a light, fractured sleep. His first instinct was to clutch his abdomen. The wound was still there—tender, but no longer burning like it had the night before. It had been stitched clumsily, yet with knowledge. He vaguely remembered the doctors on the coal train: silent men who asked no questions as they sewed his flesh and wrapped it in clean bandages.
He had boarded that train without knowing exactly where it was headed.
All he had seen was coal, smoke, and the sign pointing north.
Briggs.
He had not wanted to stay in Ishval any longer. Not after everything he had seen. Not after what he had done… and what he had failed to prevent. Though doubt had taken root in his heart, the anger was still there, pounding fiercely, fed by the memory of the dead.
For several days, he remained hidden within the base.
He moved like a specter through secondary corridors, stealing small amounts of food and rations—always little, always just enough to avoid suspicion. He slept in cleaning rooms, behind forgotten doors, in corners no one bothered to check. He knew Briggs did not forgive mistakes—least of all the presence of an intruder.
Above all, he avoided General Armstrong.
He had heard her name whispered among the soldiers. The Ice Queen. The Empress of the North. They said her mere gaze could freeze a man in place. The Ishvalan had no intention of testing that rumor.
That morning, as he adjusted the bandage on his wound, a thunderous sound shook the fortress.
BOOM.
The walls trembled. Dust fell from the ceiling of the cleaning room. The sound was deep and brutal, followed by echoes rippling through the base. Distant alarms began to wail.
The intruder held his breath.
"What…?" he murmured.
He didn't know that allied forces had reached this far north. His mind—still trapped in blood-soaked memories—filled with images of the past. Massive explosions. Screams. Fire consuming everything. And that figure… that madman laughing amid the destruction.
He clenched his teeth.
"That bastard…" he whispered with fury. "The one who killed my family… the one who slaughtered my people… the one who murdered my brother…"
His brother.
The only one who believed the war could end. The one who had found a possible solution—a way out that did not require more blood. Everything had been destroyed along with their people, reduced to ashes by men who never even learned their names.
The hooded man leapt to his feet.
Rage wrapped around him like a burning cloak. Without thinking further, he slipped out of the cleaning room and headed toward one of the base's secondary exits, taking advantage of the initial chaos. No one noticed him as he crossed corridors and slid through open doors.
When he stepped outside, the icy air slammed into him.
From a distance, he could see columns of smoke and flashes of explosions near the outer wall. But as he focused, he realized something.
They weren't Ishvalans.
"Dracma…" he muttered.
He forced himself to breathe steadily. This was common in the borderlands—raids, skirmishes, constant provocations. It wasn't his war.
Not this time.
With fury still burning in his chest, he chose to leave.
He disappeared into the mountains, moving through snow and stone, blending into the white landscape. Briggs was left behind—for now.
But not all eyes were blind.
From one of the watchtowers, a man spotted him in the distance: a dark silhouette moving swiftly through the snow. The soldier frowned but did not sound the alarm. He assumed it was an animal… or perhaps a desperate civilian fleeing the conflict.
He had no idea how close he was to the truth.
That same day, another man was not so fortunate.
A dark-skinned citizen with red eyes was discovered trying to flee an Amestrian patrol. He was quickly surrounded and taken in restraints, escorted straight into the heart of the fortress.
Before General Olivier Mira Armstrong.
The man trembled—not only from the cold, but from the pressure of her overwhelming presence. The Ice Queen studied him with a razor-sharp gaze, analyzing every movement, every breath.
"Speak," she ordered. "And you'd better do it well."
In Briggs, shadows never went unnoticed for long.
And the war—though distant—was already knocking at its gates.
End of chapter