The White Silver Merit Medal
The battlefield is like a finely balanced scale. If even the slightest weight shifts on one side, the entire equilibrium shatters, and collapse is inevitable.
“The supply lines are open! We can get through this winter without a hitch!”
“Wasn’t Gartan Territory in a do-or-die situation, every moment counting?”
Gartan was a vital supply base that could push to the westernmost frontlines. But demons had infiltrated it, rendering the route unusable...
“The Windsor Knights went in on Her Majesty’s orders and sorted it out.”
That incident was now resolved. For Duke Benas, overall western commander, this was the best news he’d heard lately.
“Her Majesty truly has a plan!”
“...But Your Excellency, didn’t you gripe about sending support to Gartan first when the front was on the verge of breaking...?”
“To cover that up, I could lop off my adjutant’s head.”
“What was that I said?”
With the Gartan counterweight back in place, the desperate western front flipped in an instant. Supplies flowed smoothly, and the opened route added a key tactical option. The demon forces, sensing this, had no choice but to ease their pressure. Stability returned to the west.
And this news beat Sisilia—who was dozing on the train—to the capital.
“See? I told you, Sir Erterion.”
“No, what in the world... This isn’t some casual outing.”
Erterion couldn’t mask his astonishment.
“Solving the kingdom’s biggest crisis in under a week.”
Stabilizing the battlefield. Easy to say, brutally hard to do. Sure, the kingdom had the resources to neutralize Gartan’s threat. But plugging one hole opens another, and demons never miss a gap.
“...And on the way, they even rooted out terrorists. Whatever they did to the culprits left them so terrified they spilled everything.”
That was Erterion’s biggest shock. Terrorists? Fanatics wielding twisted logic to wreak havoc on the kingdom. Humanity’s betrayers, with convictions so ironclad no torture breaks them. Yet these ones cracked from sheer fear. It let them counter the ‘supply collapse’ plot.
“If that girl hadn’t stopped the attack, the fallout doesn’t bear thinking about.”
The magic engineering train was a primary supply artery. Gartan mattered because it was near the terminus. Train supplies hit the west in ten days; delayed three months? Disaster. They might’ve abandoned lines held desperately for a century.
“Who could’ve foreseen it? No one but Your Majesty.”
Erterion could only marvel at the queen’s foresight. The call was still reckless, but the results? Surplus capital forces flipped the war. Demon duke incursion, Sacred Flame’s dire omens—key assets couldn’t leave the capital. Perfect timing.
The queen smiled faintly, hands clasped behind her back.
“Trials and tribulations strike in chaotic times. Those who overcome them, pushing us forward—we call heroes. Rejoice, Sir. A hero has emerged. The continent’s fate will shift dramatically.”
Truly a mysterious queen. Sometimes a carefree girl, but in pivotal moments, always spot-on. In three hundred years of Liannen queens, she’d never faltered once.
Sensing his loyalty swell, Erterion replied.
“I was wrong. Yes, Your Majesty’s right. She’s nothing like Edward. Clearly... But what’s that you’re hiding?”
“Eh? Wh-what?”
Queen Lydia fumbled, stashing the ‘prayer relic’.
Erterion’s mood soured.
“Don’t tell me you sent her off yourself... then prayed for her safe return?”
Dispatching a treasured knight to near-certain death, sans confidence, just praying? His hard-won loyalty to the queen deflated.
Erterion spat in fury.
“After three centuries, grow a spine!”
* * *
Sisilia, practically a little sister to the Windsor Knights. Her triumph delighted most—but not all could smile.
“...Zero casualties.”
Edward double-checked the familiar report.
“A path utterly unlike mine. Sisilia Windsor.”
He set it down with serene calm. His fist clenched bone-white.
“And so brazenly.”
Heading to Gartan, she’d learn of that incident. No losses despite it? Crystal-clear intent. A declaration: she’d forge her own road, apart from Edward. A warning.
“...Slapping away the hand of peace I extended. So very you.”
Edward’s brow twitched. He vowed, resolute.
“I’ll make you regret it, Sisilia.”
He’d personally scorch her flower-strewn path. His world was eternal ash, after all.
Meanwhile, at the magic engineering train platform.
“Captain. Pacing won’t speed up the train.”
Adjutant Michael droned dully.
Chiron clasped hands behind his back, dignified.
“I fail to see the point.”
“...You’ve lapped the same spot fifty times already.”
“...”
The epitome of knightly poise, Chiron. Yet Sisilia rattled him like nothing else.
“The report said mission accomplished safely. No need to fret—Sisilia’s fine.”
Chiron had seen the report first, knew she was safe. Anxiety gnawed regardless. Only seeing her would quell it.
Rumble-rumble-
“Ah, train’s here. Captain, crowds—keep your dignity...”
Chiron was already charging ahead.
Hiss. The train braked, venting mana steam. Passengers disembarked; Chiron scanned for silver hair.
Sisilia soon stepped off.
Chiron hurried close.
“Sisilia.”
“Yes.”
Sisilia, same as ever. Enigmatic expression. One stark difference: small bandages on her right arm and thigh.
“...You’re hurt.”
His gaze fixed there; she glanced casually.
“Just bruises.”
Chiron’s heart wrenched. Not even of age for her rite. This child dismissed battlefield wounds like scrapes.
‘At least until adulthood, never to peril again.’
He vowed it deep.
Sisilia gazed up, expectant. Her praise-seeking look.
Usually, he’d hold back—lest adoration spoil her. But today...
“Well done.”
Chiron swept her into a fierce hug. Feeling her slight frame, he swore: her future, nothing but flowers.
* * *
‘...Hm.’
Sisilia blinked, statue-still in the vast hall. The central aisle’s red carpet drew every eye to her.
“Sisilia Windsor.”
Queen Lydia, no trace of mischief—deadly serious. Her commanding voice boomed.
“You braved any peril for Liannen Kingdom and its people. Your sword pierced the enemy, your courage shielded countless lives, your sacrifice saved us all.”
‘...That cleanup?’
Honestly, not tough. Ignoring casualties made ‘deception’ straightforward. No complaints—medal meant another cool trinket for newbies. She should be thrilled.
But... ‘Why the unease?’
Sisilia knelt flawlessly, one knee to ground.
“I recognize your deeds. I bestow the White Silver Merit Medal in commendation.”
The queen approached with a soft smile, pinning it to Sisilia’s chest. She whispered:
“May your sword and convictions ever light our kingdom’s path.”
“An... honor.”
Liannen’s military medals had no fixed roster. Prestige came via epithet. ‘White Silver’ evoked Sisilia—queen’s personal coinage. Like Edward’s ‘Holy’.
Here, alarm bells rang for Sisilia.
‘Why... not a Sword Medal?’
Her title: Sword Princess. Military honors ended in ‘Sword Medal,’ prefix be damned.
Calling it plain ‘medal’ meant...
“Further, single-handedly crushing Gartan’s crisis elevates your rank a step.”
Sisilia’s eyes flew wide.
‘No, no.’
“Sword Princess Sisilia’s epithet rises one tier: White Silver...”
Sisilia bolted forward, clapping a hand over the queen’s mouth.
“I refuse.”
“...!”
“...!!”
“?”
The Windsor Knights, beaming fondly. The royal knights, seething with envy and spite. Everyone in the hall froze solid.
First in kingdom history: the honoree rejects the award.