Chapter #67: The Man Between Two Fires
The ragged man, with long hair white as old salt clinging to skin after too many winters, remained kneeling before General Olivier Mira Armstrong. His back was straight—not from pride, but from habit. His body remembered discipline even as his mind wavered. His hands, cracked by cold and exposure, rested open on his thighs, as if he had already accepted whatever verdict awaited him.
"Your name," the General ordered, her firm voice echoing through the interrogation chamber.
"Miles," he answered without hesitation. "Miles… just Miles."
The name—simple, bare—hung for a moment in the frozen air of Briggs. Olivier studied him carefully. His worn clothing. His tense posture. His red eyes, which did not avoid her gaze. He was not a frightened spy. Nor a blind fanatic. He was something more dangerous than either.
A tired man.
"How did you end up here?" the General asked, folding her arms.
Miles took a deep breath before replying.
"I served in the Amestrian military for a time," he said. "I left for external reasons. When I decided to return to my homeland… the war broke out. From then on, it took me years just to try to make my way back. Closed roads. Pursuit. Hunger. I couldn't return to Ishval… but I couldn't stay in Amestris either."
The General frowned slightly.
"And why don't you fight alongside your people?"
The question fell like a blade. Miles raised his voice for the first time, a mix of rage and pain breaking through.
"Because I was already on the road when I learned the war had begun!" he shouted. "From that moment on, I was hunted as a traitor. I couldn't go home, and I couldn't defend the land I came from. I wandered with other displaced people… until they stopped trusting me for having served Amestris. To them, I was a sellout. To Amestris, an enemy."
Silence reclaimed the room. Olivier stared at him for several long seconds before speaking again, her tone cold—but unexpectedly honest.
"I don't care about your skin color, soldier. Or the color of your eyes. Or your beliefs. Here, there's only one thing that matters to me: whether you serve or not."
Miles clenched his teeth.
"As long as you're useful," the General continued, "consider this your base. Get this man clothes and food."
Miles lifted his head.
"Miles. My name is Miles," he repeated firmly, as if he needed to anchor himself to it to avoid disappearing.
Something nearly imperceptible crossed Olivier Armstrong's face. It wasn't a smile—but it wasn't indifference either. It was recognition. She knew—though he did not yet—what this man would become. The future Major Miles, the unbreakable right hand of the Ice Queen, stood there trembling, not from the cold, but from uncertainty.
Later, now dressed in a Briggs uniform, Miles stared at his hands. The gloves were too large—or perhaps he himself had grown smaller after so many years of running. His mind felt blank as he assessed his situation: he wasn't with his people, but he wasn't against them either. And for the first time since the war began, no one was forcing him to choose a side at the cost of his humanity.
He stood still for a long time, caught between doubt and focus, until a sharp knock struck the door.
"Ready?" a deep voice asked.
It was Buccaneer.
"I'll be your escort and your direct superior," he added. "If you have questions, ask me. For now, we're at war… but I doubt that's anything new for you, citizen of Ishval."
Miles nodded silently.
His first assignment was night watch.
Briggs at night was a monster of ice and steel. Every creak of the wind sounded like an enemy's step. Every shadow felt like a threat. While other soldiers relaxed under the false security of the walls, Miles remained alert—too alert.
Deep in his mind, a persistent thought grew: this is a test.
He expected the moment they would ask him for information about Ishval. Movements. Bases. Names. And when he couldn't give them what they wanted, he knew what would follow. A quick death… or erasure.
But the days passed.
And no one asked him anything.
At the same time, elsewhere in the fortress, General Olivier Armstrong stood atop the wall, watching. The wind slammed against her coat with savage force, as if trying to tear her from her place. Behind her, the base was slowly being rebuilt. Briggs did not forget its dead—but it never allowed itself to stop.
"That man… Miles," Buccaneer said as he approached. "Are you sure it's wise to let him stay?"
"I don't trust him," Olivier replied without turning. "But I trust even less a system that forces men to choose between their blood and their conscience."
Buccaneer said nothing.
"Briggs is not Central," she continued. "We don't hunt based on faith or hatred here. We survive."
The General clenched her fist. The war with Ishval was advancing. Dracma remained a looming threat. And something, deep down, told her that the balance holding the North together was far more fragile than it appeared.
That same night, Miles felt something other than fear for the first time.
It wasn't peace—but it was close.
As he patrolled, he remembered his brother. The manuscripts. The research that must never fall into corrupt hands. The hatred was still there, buried like an ember beneath the snow—but it no longer consumed everything.
"Maybe…" he whispered to himself, "I can still choose who I am."
In the distance, General Armstrong's silhouette stood stark against the moon. Motionless. Watchful. Not like an executioner—but like another wall.
Miles didn't know it yet, but that place—so foreign, so hostile—would be where his divided loyalty finally found its end. Briggs did not ask him to betray his people. It demanded only one thing:
Endure.
And after everything he had lived through, that was something he knew how to do very well.
End of chapter