Her Majesty is Not on the Battlefield

"You again, Lieutenant Vladilena Milizé?"

Regarding Lena with a glance as she entered the office, the commanding officer seated behind the desk grimaced. His uniform was worn out, and his chin was covered in stubble. This officer, who almost seemed out of place in these times of peace, lowered his gaze from Lena, who stood perfectly at ease before him.

She wore an immaculate, starched black uniform, and her silver hair flowed like silk, with the exception of one section, which she had dyed red. She had adopted this look six months ago, when the Spearhead squadron—a squadron of Eighty-Six—had been sent to the battlefield on a suicide mission. As they were not allowed to return, their only option was to advance into enemy territory until they were killed in action.

Ever since, she had worn black to mourn them and dyed a portion of her hair red to signify their shed blood. Although it had been in clear violation of her orders, she had launched covering fire for them and been demoted a single rank as punishment. She would likely never be able to rise beyond the rank of lieutenant.

"Unauthorized firing of an interception cannon. Supplying your troops with an unregistered warhead and other supplies, as well as giving direct commands to other squadrons. Please refrain from creating more unnecessary trouble and paperwork over a bunch of Eighty-Six, Lieutenant. Do you have any idea how many complaints I've received about you from transports and supplies?"

"You wouldn't be getting any complaints if my requests had been approved, Lieutenant Colonel. If those complaints truly bother you so much, then feel free to gripe about them as much as you want, but I honestly could not care less."

A crease formed under one of the lieutenant colonel's eyes, which had become heavy lidded due to his severe alcoholism.

"Watch your mouth, young lady. A lieutenant like you should know her place."

Lena gave a thin, cold smile. He tried to pressure her with his rank and nothing else, only proving he didn't have the nerve to actually punish her in any way. Lena's squadron boasted the highest Legion-extermination rate on the eastern front. And the achievements of one's subordinates translated directly into the achievements of their commanding officer.

Since the ground forces had been decimated at the opening stages of the war, this man, who had managed to claw his way up to the rank of lieutenant colonel, desired to climb ever higher. To him, Lena and her achievements were like a hen that lays golden eggs.

So long as her pranks didn't go too far, he would defend her no matter what.

"I'll be taking my leave, Lieutenant Colonel."

She gave an elegant salute.

As she walked down a corridor of the palace that served as the military's headquarters—a luxurious building, even for the first ward, that was rich with beautiful, antiquated architecture—she could hear the whispers of disdain and see the scornful glares all around her.

There she is, the fool who threw away the rank of major and any hope of promotion to the higher echelons, all for a bunch of Eighty-Six. A princess who can't even distinguish people from livestock. An idiot who, even though the Legion will all stop functioning in a year, danced to the tune of the pigs' lies when they said they had to prepare for the war to last longer. Everyone knows it's going to end soon.

The cruel, merciless, inhumane Bloodstained Queen, Bloody Reina, who forces the filthy stains to fight to the death even though they're already on the verge of extinction.

Ridiculous.

The RAID Device on Lena's neck activated, and she stopped in her tracks. Clicking the heels of her boots, she continued walking down the beautiful wooden hallway with a quicker gait.

"Can you hear me, Handler One?"

"Cyclops. More Legion? What's the situation?"

The rough voice that spoke to her through the Para-RAID belonged to Captain Shiden Iida, Personal Name: Cyclops. The squadron Cyclops led under Lena's commanded came to be known as the Queen's Knights.

Ever since the incident with the Spearhead squadron, Lena had taken to asking the Processors for their names on the first day she took up a new post. However, she never referred to them by anything but their Personal Names. She couldn't, because once before, she'd called her Processors by their real names with the intent of treating them as equals. But in the end, she couldn't save them from the fate of dying as drones, with their graves unmarked and their names forgotten.

"They made it all the way into point 112 in the old high-speed transit terminal. It's our bad; the radar failed on us, and we noticed them too late… This fight's gonna be hard on the newbies."

Lena clicked her tongue bitterly. Yes, it was bound to be difficult. A single mistake on the battlefield with zero casualties could lead to countless lost lives.

"Head to point 062 and lure them in with a detached force. That point should be in range of the other interception cannons. The road should be dense with private residences, so it should put the Juggernaut's smaller fuselage at an advantage."

Cyclops laughed loudly.

"You're firing this close to the base? If you miss, forget this Sector—you might end up hitting your Republic's minefield."

"But if we're to survive this, that's the optimal bombardment site."

Hearing that flat, resolute statement, Cyclops laughed again.

Survive. They, the Eighty-Six, and Lena, in the Republic, beset on all sides by the Legion.

Survive, she'd said.

For the sake of the ones who believed she would fight and live on.

"Roger that, Your Majesty… I'll contact you again once we're in position. Let me know if you learn anything new."

The Para-RAID cut off, and Lena hastened her stride, heading for the control room, only to pause a moment later when something outside the window caught her attention. The paved streets of the Republic of San Magnolia, populated only by silver-haired, silver-eyed Alba. The Republic's five-hued flag, which stood for freedom, equality, brotherhood, justice, and nobility and bore the image of Saint Magnolia, the saint of the revolution, fluttered under a dim-blue spring sky.

Soon, the season in which she'd made first contact with the Spearhead squadron would come again. They, who saw reaching their final destination as their vision of freedom, who saw fighting to the bitter end as their pride, who left while laughing happily. They, who would never return.

Where were they now? In a field of blooming spring flowers, perhaps?

She prayed that, at the very least, they would be allowed to rest in peace.