The war trudged on, seemingly never ending. He still remembers the day he received the crown of the blessed from the goddess of the sun.

It didn’t feel like a blessing though, closer to being a curse. Where had his youth gone? That bright, bubbly boy he used to be was long gone, killed the moment he had to indulge this petty war between the sun and the moon. Tore from the person who completed him. He sucked in a sharp breath, running a hand down his face. Flashes of their argument when recruited, flashes of blood against his skin as the plunged the dagger into Tophitor’s chest. He wished he was never given the order.

The blonde wished he was never so loyal, so obedient to the goddess which he worshipped. His eyepatch was scratchy against the tips of his fingers, his dark brown eyes squeezed shut underneath his calloused palm. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out the silver locket that Tophitor had gifted them before their friendship came crumbling down around him. Before his world came crumbling down around him, actually. Quietly, he opened it, peering down at the old photograph

If he could go back, and stop himself from killing him, he would’ve. Yet he didn’t have a time machine, and his old friend was still buried six feet beneath the soil he could’ve been walking on today.

Sorafin knew he was chronically alone, only barking orders when he felt necessary. His voice was raspy from lack of use, only deep grunts being his responses to anything now that he had to watch his friend die at his own hands. His back was pressed against the leather of his chair in his office, war tactics written down in ink on the delicate paper that was carelessly spread across his desk’s top. When he heard knuckles rapping against the wood of the door, he looked up quietly. “Mh?” He grunted out, not particularly caring if whoever was on the other side of the door heard.