"We are northerners! We are true Ferrans! We don't turn our backs when danger comes for us. we charge straight at it! These southerners made our brothers bleed! They tortured our own! They tried to take what belongs to us, and they failed! Now it's our turn. Now we take what belongs to them! Now we make every last one of those bastards pay for spilling northern blood!"
Gordon's rousing words were met with thunderous shouts from the northern cadets. He stood before the bulk of the northern army, more than a thousand able cadets gathered before him. Their elites, strongest, and head cadets stood at the forefront, their armor catching the morning sun in harsh flares.
Thanks to the elixir Malach had given him, Gordon's arm had healed as though it had never been broken in the first place. Still, he swallowed as a phantom ache seemed to throb through it. His body might have recovered, but his mind refused to forget the pain.
The price of failing Malach.
