Dwarf of Bronze (ZnT/AU)

The tunnel was dark and cold and horribly cramped. It had also been hidden in the town’s well, of all things. There’d been an iron grating that Jeima had yanked off with surprisingly little difficulty and they’d had to climb down the chain to find the entrance; something Guiche had certainly not enjoyed but had managed to stop himself from complaining about given the urgency of the situation.

“And why, pray, could I not have simply opened a way through the ground to this path?” It felt like a pertinent question to ask while they slogged through the mud and grime coating the walls; tiny man with dim torch leading the way. But his guide had simply shot him a glance and spoken with a tone as chilling as any of Saito’s.

“It would have been unwise.”

And Guiche got no further explanation on the matter. He had decided he no longer wanted it. Their path was sloping downwards, curving slightly as it did, and the young nobleman found himself increasingly concerned with how far they were going. If this mysterious place was to help them then they had to reach it sooner rather than later. His impatience built and built until, at last, he could tolerate no more.

“I’m sorry, Jeima, but we don’t have time!” He grabbed the smaller man, lifted him into the air, albeit with a surprising amount of effort, and flicked out his wand. A Valkyrie’s front chest plate formed in front of them and he stepped on to it. Then he pointed behind them. “Hold on, my good man! This… is probably going to hurt. A lot.”

Guiche stacked Water; tearing it out of the mildew and slime on the walls and ceiling. It swept them up as he dropped to his knees and held the commoner tightly to his chest. The growing wave picked them up and launched them down the tunnel at a breakneck pace.

It didn’t take them long to spill out into a larger chamber and skid into the centre while rank water flooded in behind them. Jeima squirmed out of Guiche’s grasp and began to cough while the noble allowed himself to collapse on to his back. That had not been one of his better ideas. In retrospect, he probably should have applied his Bronze Flesh spell.

“This…” Jeima finished hacking out a bit of truly disgusting liquid and wiped his face. “This is it. I’ve only been here once. You need magic of some kind to open the doorway.” Which was… ah… Guiche frowned, looking around. As far as he could see the only door in this bizarre chamber was the entrance they’d come on through.

It was a rounded chamber with a dull orange light permeating it. For a moment he’d forgotten that their torch had been doused. Then he actually looked at the crystalline objects shining in the braziers around the room and his heart froze in his chest. They were Firestones.

“My father said that if you failed to open the lock on the first try they would explode.” Although the little man’s tone was conversational there was a note of fear to his voice. Guiche looked around a bit more and frowned. He still couldn’t even see the door, let alone the lock. “You’re standing on it, by the way.”

He blinked and then looked down. There it was. Guiche had to stare at it for several seconds before he realised what he was seeing. Really, he should have noticed that the water was draining. Under their feet was a stone grate and beneath that a series of horizontal, interlocking stone rods. They had sections cut out of them and fine engravings all across them.

“... a puzzle lock. By the Founder, could this be any more of a waste of time?” He looked at the braziers, then at the grating. Guiche drew his mother’s sword and stacked a lone Earth as he tapped the ground; frowning as he felt the feedback from his magic. He couldn’t see how it fit together, although he could see where to start. All he’d need to do was slide that one, then that one, and then that one. It was easy. But why? How did it work?

Jeima stood there and watched helplessly as Guiche paced. The man had no more of an idea than he did. Something about this felt wrong. Every time he moved to start he stopped and tapped the grating again; magic flowing through the rock as he examined it. It was easy. The only thing it would do is take up his time. Why?

A long path to reach it… a simple but time-consuming puzzle lock… it seemed to fit, but he couldn’t say why he was hesitating. Until he suddenly slapped himself about the head and walked over to the nearest brazier.

“Hey, Derf? Can you do something about this?” His shield rolled its… cleared its… well, it animated itself in an exasperated way as he held it up to the Firestone on the wall. Guiche felt a little bad for a moment given his tendency to ignore the shield for significant periods as of late.

“... yes. I can. Nice of you to remember me, partner.” He patted the shield as it pouted for a moment and then sighed. “Well, you know you can rely on me. Let’s do this.” Guiche smiled faintly and pressed his shield to the gem. It flickered for a few moments before sputtering out. He channelled Fire for a moment and a wisp of reddish white gathered on the tip of his sword as he drained the remaining Firestones.

Then he stacked dual Earths and swung down on the stone grate; shattering it and tearing a hole through the puzzle lock directly into the chamber below. Jeima stared with undisguised shock and, shortly, revulsion.

“I think that was cheating…” He looked almost pouty, but Guiche just walked over to the hole he’d made. There were stairs underneath it. When he dropped down and held his light up he found that, as he had suspected, there was no evidence of moving parts. Another trick.

“Something dangerous hidden by something innocuous… then danger clearly presented with a straightforward path to safety. Setting up the expectation and then tearing it down.” Guiche chuckled and looked up at Jeima. “The puzzle was the trap; brute force was the solution. My precautions were pointless, it seems. But if I’d tried to force my way into this chamber I suspect I’d have been taught to expect the opposite. Reminds me of a friend of mine!” He chuckled faintly in spite of himself, then shook his head. “Come along, good sir. We must hurry.”

The small man dropped down after him and together they began to walk the damp steps into the darkness. As they did so Guiche couldn’t help but frown. This was already taking too long, but he couldn’t act incautiously. Even so, the desire to rush was palpable.

He just hoped that Kenneth was okay.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Green fire danced across Kenneth’s gloved hand and down his arm. The leather turned black as it half-burnt, half-rotted away. If it were possible for a transgression against all that was good and righteous to look smug then the Wight was certainly attempting it. Something, however, seemed wrong. The flames had stopped at the elbow and seemed to have run out of anything else to burn.

Then a silver spike punched its way through the creature’s palm. Ethereal light shone forth and took shape; coming into being as blue glass that flickered and shifted as if it were fire. Spikes of it burst out of the creature’s arm and wherever it took form the sickly green flames sputtered out and died. In a moment all of the unholy energies were overtaken and the glass-like substance replaced it. Then it faded.

The spike retracted and the now empty corpse collapsed. Kenneth shook off the remnants of his glove and examined his left hand for a moment. He flexed it as best he could, silvery metal shining in the sunlight as gears whirred and joints clicked. Then he turned it so his palm faced him and eyed the aperture in the base of the metal. A metallic spike extended again; tiny runes glowing faintly blue.

“Hmf. Two, three… maybe four.” It retracted again as he sighed and hefted his axe; starting to jog towards the next set of Wights. There were two more Ether Spikes contained inside his prosthetic and each would work for maybe ten shots each if he aligned them well and hit closer to the core of the magic. He’d probably need to burn half of one for each dragon; assuming the metal could pierce the scales.

Well, come what may he’d hold until the end... and save as many as he could.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

The Duke breathed a sigh of relief as the wound on Cattleya’s chest finally closed. Her breathing was somewhat laboured but she would survive. If it hadn’t been for the heroic leap of Louise’s familiar… he shook his head to dispel the thought. As he did so a horrific memory suddenly dredged itself up and he leapt to his feet. Across the room Saito glanced up from where he appeared to be carefully melting the frost on the Zerbst’s daughter’s arm.

“He was bluffing.” His voice cut across the room but barely managed to scratch the ice that had filled the Duke’s vein. Saito didn’t look up from his careful work as a pale blue light began to shine from his other hand. The water pouring off the ice spike was caught against his hand and began to gather into a sphere as he carefully melted and extracted it. “All of the men he brought are in this room.”

Or what remained of them, at least. He couldn’t help but glance over to where the last crossbowman was slumped on the floor. The contents of his skull had been spread across the wall above him; as soon as he’d got the answers he wanted Saito had crushed his skull in one hand like it was an overripe grape.

Karin had told him that the boy was a diligent and efficient servant with a reasonably useful skill set. Now it seemed he was a powerful and talented killer who, it so happened, had access to bizarre yet undeniably effective magic. It made his head swim. The young man had saved Cattleya, but at the cost of Louise being taken.

“I’m sorry, Duke. This was my fault.” Golden light poured between the young man’s fingertips and into the girl’s wound. It sealed itself up again from the inside out; muscle and sinew reknitting into healthy flesh once more. “Sentiment. Foolishness. I’ve grown soft.” As he said that he stood and strode through the bloody carnage that he’d left in his wake. The lone remaining soldier was still desperately trying to pry his dented breastplate off between laboured breaths.

“You… you knew?” Saito stood, walking over to the Duke and Cattelya. His eyes began to shine again as he looked at her with a frown. Then he crouched beside her. The Duke moved aside for a moment as the young man stretched forth his hand and poured out more golden light; it seemed to be flowing out from under his sleeve. What was he?

“In a manner of speaking. I knew that Wardes was part of a group plotting against the Crown of Tristain, but I had no interest in his plans.” That… how long had he known this? Why hadn’t he acted against them? “Since your family is descended from the royalty of this country I assumed he intended to use Louise to legitimise his movement. This was outside of my predictions.” It took all the Duke had not to strike the young man; made easier by having to remind himself the boy was currently working on healing his daughter.

“That’s treason you’re talking about, boy. Why wouldn’t you say something?” The outpour of golden light ended and Cattelya seemed to be breathing easier. As soon as Saito moved out of the way, remaining silent as he did, the Duke shifted back into place. He quickly made to check on the state of his daughter’s injuries with diagnostic magic; only to find, to his shock, that the internal wounds were significantly reduced. It was to the point where she may as well have been jabbed with a knitting needle rather than shot with a crossbow bolt.

“I’ll speak it plain, Duke, and only the once.” He looked up into Saito’s cold, determined expression as the young man placed a foot on the face of the final survivor. The situation made him want to speak out but that face sealed the words in his throat. “I do not care about this country.” Beneath his foot the pitiful begging turned to cries of pain. “I do not care about its people.” There was a faint cracking sound, and blood began to drip down the poor mercenary’s face.

“And I do not care about your laws.” There was a crunch as the pressure being exerted by the foot overcame the resistance of the skull beneath it. Both Duke and boy were silent as they regarded each other; one with disinterest, the other with growing concern. Then the young man’s face softened. “However… I do care about Louise. And yet my sentiment spared Wardes because she cared for him. I allowed him to take her because I chose to save her sister. No more. I will get her back.” Saito ground the remains of the soldier’s skull beneath his boot. The Duke shuddered; less at that then at the young man’s parting words.

“I have no mercy left for them.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

There had been more traps. Guiche had sent his Valkyries ahead after the first near-miss and hadn’t regretted it. Whoever had built this disturbingly extensive structure had a truly incredible understanding of the human psyche. Every time he allowed himself to suspect that they had triggered the last trap his Valkyries tripped another one.

Each and every one was precise and deadly. Mostly consisting of pointed stone pillars dropping from the ceiling in such a way that it would instantly kill whoever trod on the trapped step. Followed by a portion of the stairs around the trigger collapsing into a pit. How many years had this taken? It was clear there was an immense degree of paranoia and effort poured into this…

The only word he could use was ‘Temple’. His wand-light illuminated painstakingly carved murals on the walls that made him feel uncomfortable. Jeima kept a respectable distance from them and Guiche alike; this entire place seemed to fill him with an awe that bordered on reverence.

At last, after what seemed like hours but had likely been mere minutes, they came out into another open space. Even with magic this must have taken years of painstaking work to complete. In contrast to what they’d had thus far the final chamber was rather simple. There was a carved bier in the middle of the room with what looked remarkably like a stone coffin laid atop it.

“Is this it?” Jeima nodded and stepped forward, clearing his throat. When he spoke it was with an exotic tone and a bizarre intonation as he formed words in no language that Guiche could recognise. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow as he spoke with increasing nervousness. Seeing as the little man seemed to know what he was doing Guiche allowed him to continue.

“That should be enou-” The darkness moved. It poured like ink into the circle of light as it formed blades and tendrils and mouths and Guiche very nearly soiled his britches as it flung itself across the room at him. Derf cried out and the shadow blades passed through his dwarven mail like it was no more than paper.

He barely managed to cut through the razor sharp limb before it reached something significant; the smoky substance immediately dissolving as the thing briefly recoiled. To Guiche’s abject surprise it formed a vaguely humanoid shape just outside the circle of light that he was still casting and even without eyes he could feel the raw hate that it was directing at him.

”How easily our pact is broken, son of my son. How easily is family betrayed! It leapt at Jeima this time and Guiche had to exert himself to the full in order to interpose himself at time. To his immense relief Derf was able to block the spear of shadow that became the entity’s arm as it reached out for what he could only imagine was the tiny, quivering man’s throat. Jeima tried to babble something in his foreign tongue but the monster didn’t seem to hear him. That, or it just wasn’t interested in listening.

”What did they promise you, that you would cast aside all that I fought for? I did not bind my soul to the very bones of this haven so that you could cast aside your heritage for coin!” There wasn’t much time for Guiche to muse on these revelations before the shadow-man struck out at him once more.

The way it attacked him was, apart from the constant transformation, eerily familiar. It pressed the assault constantly and utterly refused to give him a moment to breathe. Every motion was fluid and murderously efficient. Even when he managed to focus enough to stack two Earths and create a sudden explosion of spikes between him and it the entity seemed to effortlessly cross between the threats to pursue him.

His only real advantage was, ironically, the hate that it felt. It was predictable in its deadliness; every strike aiming for an instant kill and giving him a gradual advantage. Even that, however, felt strangely mundane to him. Which was why he wasn’t surprised when an attack was suddenly launched at his leg instead.

Several things clicked together for Guiche at that moment. This wasn’t an enemy he could afford defeat. Every second he delayed people died and if he kept this up long enough to figure out a strategy for actual victory he might well be one of those people. In this moment, he had to be decisive.

Guiche tossed his sword aside and stood his ground as the enraged monstrosity leapt for the kill.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

The battlefield had become no less than a blighted wasteland. Normal soldiers served no purpose save to give the monsters more fodder to spread through, Even the mages were proving ineffective at actually killing the Wights. Kenneth was down to his last Ether Spike now; there were still two Dragonwights and dozens of Human Wights left.

All in all the situation was looking dire. He was confident in his ability to survive regardless; but not in his ability to do so without sacrificing most of the people left alive. Through all of it there was something gnawing at the back of his mind. Why hadn’t the ships moved up yet?

This attack could have taken then all the way into Tristain. Ruined the country in one foul swoop. So why hadn’t they? He ducked a tongue of green fire as it issued from a Dragonwight and punched it in the lower jaw; cutting off the stream. His axe ripped out a good portion of its throat and the unholy flames poured forth to liberally coat the point he’d been standing in a moment earlier.

No sign of his shield yet… he was too turned around. A detonation to the side claimed three more soldiers and created three more enemy combatants. Kenneth yanked on his connection to the earth, felt it shift and flow as he sank one down to the knees and, a moment later, bisected it. The Wights had started fleeing from him towards other soldiers; moving in different directions to delay him even further.

At this rate he’d win the battle and lose the entire camp. They were acting with increasing intelligence and tactical insight. Someone had to be overseeing them and passing on direct orders. For a moment he had a horrible thought; that perhaps the King of Banefire himself had been summoned to this world. But, no… with the strength of magic here such an entity would not have remained unknown for so long.

His relief was short-lived as a Dragonwight took to the sky and Kenneth stared with increasing horror into the sky. There was nothing he could do, no way to save the poor idiots who had come with the intent to save them. A flight of Dragon Knights was inbound, already gathering flaming projectiles and trumpeting their arrival. Kenneth saw them much as the Wights did; Enemy reinforcements in the making.

Then the wind changed.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

The dead hesitated.

Something gnawed at the fire that raged where their souls used to be.

They felt the faint stirrings of a feeling that had been burned out of them.

Fear.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Atop the nearby hill stood a figure cloaked in white light.

It hung from their shoulders and spread out behind them; merging into the night sky and forming a shining aurora in hues of whites. Everyone had gone still; even the oncoming Dragon Knights and the many Wights littering the battlefield.

The radiance that bathed across them was bliss. It sank into them, to their very bones, and carried with it a biting chill that somehow still felt like a soft embrace. Every pulse of that icy light brought with it relief; from weariness and fatigue, from pain and fear, from all suffering. As the figure descended the hill the nearest Wights began to openly weep tears of green fire.

Immersed in that frigid glow the nearest Wight fell to its knees; reaching out with countless emotions literally burned into its features. Anger. Regret. Loss. Hope. And more besides. Its saviour drew a white blade and dragged it along the luminescent mantle that it bore. The weapon took on the frozen glow itself and then plunged directly through the heart of the Wight.

Green fire poured from its eyes as the pale energies suffused it. For a moment the monster almost seemed to smile as the shine in its eyes changed colour; its cracked and burnt lips mouthed words that none could hear before the light left it and returned into the shimmering mass at the back of its redeemer.

The corpse’s own weight caused it to slide backwards off the blade and strike the ground with a deafeningly quiet ‘thump’.

Guiche de Gramont gathered Moonlight to his blade once more and looked to the nearest Wight as its eyes suddenly surged; utter hatred for life overcoming the strange bliss that had, for a time, stilled its hands. He smiled with a faint tinge of regret as it began to charge him. Above, in the middle distance, the Dragonwight turned on its wing and started towards him.

A moment later a spike trailing blue light ripped through the air with the sound of burning glass shattering and struck the creature in the chest. Azure energy tore apart the animating Banefire and sent it crashing to the ground. Guiche spared a moment to glance over at his familiar and return the dwarf’s proud salute.

Then he set to work.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

“You’re certain of this, Tif? Lotta people are going to die if we go through with this.” A red-headed young woman shouldered a musket and stared down at the city of Londinium with evident distaste. The red banner of the Reconquista flew proudly above it and the fires on the plain before the city burned high with the wealth of the city’s nobles. There were gallows and crosses erected too; well-occupied by the former ruling caste of Albion.

Those that hadn’t been willing to join up, that is.

For all of the girl’s apparent softness, in multiple meanings of the word, Agnes had learned something about the half-elven girl she’d been living with these past few weeks. She had learned that Tiffania had an almost boundless capacity for compassion, forgiveness and love. However, she had also learned that the word ‘almost’ was, as it turned out, very important.

“We’re sure.” Tiffania set herself as best she could in the unfamiliar outfit. Armour, even leather, didn’t suit her at all but Agnes had insisted upon it. She looked to her side at the two cloaked figures for reassurance. “They’re hurting innocent people, someone needs to stop it, and there’s nobody else but us.”

“That’s right. This is our home, and we will defend it.” Matilda pushed back her cloak and smiled down at her little sister; clearly proud and yet torn at the same time. Thus far, Agnes didn’t particularly trust the woman but since Tif had vouched for she had to be alright. Besides… the help she’d brought along was certainly welcome.

Not that she thought poorly of their chances, mind. After all, they had… well… Agnes glanced back at the titanic white wolf sitting calmly at the treeline as it regarded their task with its usual, dispassionate gaze. Normally she’d think herself mad for ascribing any emotions to the thing at all but considering all she’d seen these past few weeks…

Stretched out behind it was their army. Such as it was. Quite possibly every dog in the whole of Albion and more besides. Birds by the hundred were perched in the trees; utterly still as they awaited the command of the sovereign of beasts that sat in their midst. Adding to that Matilda’s golem spells and their fourth member… the Reconquista wouldn’t know what hit them.

“Ah… it’s been so long since I’ve been to a proper battle. Thank you for finding me Miss Longue-... ah, Matilda. I do appreciate it.” Old Osmond stepped forward with a rather vicious grin on his face. There was an air of restrained power about him that made Agnes feel a tad self-conscious. “Particularly now that I know who is ultimately responsible for stealing from my Academy. Shall we?” A tremor passed through the assembled animals as their god finally stood.

The First Wolf howled.

 

“Protect your own!”

Guiche barely managed to get across the accusatory cry before the shadow monster was upon him. Rather than being met by rending claws he was hauled bodily off his feet by a tight grasp on his chin and shortly thereafter was faced with a pair of glowing red eyes meeting his own in a hateful glare.

“What did you say to me, boy? You know not what words you speak!” It raised a bladed shadow tendril, presumably to give Guiche the very shortest haircut of his life, when a flying rock struck it in the side of what he could only assume was its head. Across the room Jeima cowered slightly; bits of fallen masonry in hand and prepared to throw.

“He saved my daughter, grandfather. From a fate worse than death.” The shadow monster hesitated; confusion wrought across its features. After a moment it let go of the young noble’s neck and he dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Then the creature changed; shrinking and distorting until it formed a small, distraught looking man whose features were much the same as Jeima’s.

”But why, child? Why bring him here? This is your legacy. I left it for you, your siblings, your cousins, your parents. Why bring this outsider, no matter his merits?” Guiche could only stare in shock as the thing spoke. It truly was Jeima’s grandfather. He couldn’t still be alive, or else he’d have come out to help the village. So, somehow, he had managed to linger here after his death. It was impossible for Guiche to prevent his gaze from moving to the stone coffin in the middle of the room at that thought.

“... it’s gone, grandfather.” Jeima spoke hesitantly and mournfully; every word causing tremors of sorrow to pass across his ancestor’s face. “After you died, we couldn’t make any more Runes. The ones we had already worked but… you know they don’t last on objects, and we never…” His grandfather nodded slowly. Regret was writ large upon him; in the hunch of his shoulders and the twitching of his lip.

”Of course. I had hoped… I had thought… it had seemed to work, but…” He sighed heavily and frowned suddenly; looking to Guiche and Jeima in turn. ”Why have you come? What has happened to my home?” Overcome by emotion, Jeima seemed unable to speak for the moment.

“Wights, good sir.” At last he stood; pushing himself upright and pressing a hand to the bleeding wound on his shoulder. It didn’t feel like it had hit anything important, at least. “My fami… my mentor is a warrior of your world. He is fighting them while we come here.” The revenant’s expression turned grave and he turned to the stone coffin behind him. It seemed to take no effort for him to cast off heavy lid and draw out the items enshrined within.

Guiche thought it may well be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It was a black, silken, hooded mantle that seemed to faintly shine with an unearthly light. There were faint points of light upon it that didn’t move when it did; like the cloth was a portal to another realm entirely. With great solemnity the wraith offered it to Guiche.

“It is the Aurora Requiem. An endless source of Moonlight. Unholy things cannot abide it. There is a cost, of sorts. It is… difficult to explain, and we are short on time. You must merely withstand for as long as you can.” Then it looked to Jeima and spoke some of the unfamiliar language that they shared. There was a moment of hesitant silence between him and then the shadow fused back into the walls.

Jeima turned to leave immediately; Guiche having to practically jog to keep up as he did so. For his stature the little man was very fast. In the end he pulled off a handy trick he’d figured out after examining Kenneth and Colbert’s various bizarre machine designs; summoning half a Valkyrie. Specifically, the lower body formed around his own.

“What did he tell you?” With the animated legs moving with him he was able to keep up with Jeima and ask about the ancestor’s cryptic last words. The little man looked at him and finally checked his pace as they reached the opening to the upper level.

Then he made a two meter standing jump to grab the ledge and haul himself up. Guiche was gobsmacked for only a few moments before quickly stacking his Earths and transmuting a stairway for himself. It was good to be reminded that these people weren’t entirely normal.

“It’s the words to activate the item. You’ll need to memorise the phrasing. We can practice on the way up.” Jeima was waiting for him; clenching and unclenching his fists. The encounter had seemed to have an effect on him; Guiche suspected that there had been more passing between them at the end.

“Very well. Thank you for your assistance. We’d best hurry.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Emotion mattered as much as content it seemed, because he’d been told what the phrase meant as well as memorising the pronunciation. His efforts to learn Kenneth’s language, fruitless as they had been, had paid dividends here with his ability to pronounce the bizarre syllables that even gave Jeima pause. They weren’t from his native language either, although he had refused to elaborate.

Guiche had stood on the hill overlooking the battle and steeled his heart as best he could. When he said the words the mantle had begun to tremble on his back. Points of light had grown and burst forth in a wave of chilling luminescence that had left tears pouring down his face.

Moonlight was the Light of Memory, after all. All of the pain of the past few weeks magnified, every unsaid word and lost moment between him and his father and his brother dredged up and burned into the forefront of his mind. Every possible chance he had to change the outcome was thrown in his face and the anguish he felt burned as a cold fire in his heart, and on his back.

“Ignite, my sorrows; burn, my regrets; shine, Aurora Requiem.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

The howl split the night sky and sent shivers down the spine of every man, woman and child in Londinium. Something about the sound spoke to the most primal part of them; that darkness behind the eyes comprised of every remnant survival instinct that had been needed to drag their distant ancestors safely into the next day. It told that tiny bit in no uncertain terms that the origin of that noise could end them at its leisure.

There was another baleful cry following in the wake of the first as the clouds met the noise and shifted. Intent was carried to nature and it answered the desires of the caller. Vast and alien though it may be the power it wielded was curiously in tune with the forces of the world it had entered. Temperatures dropped sharply as winds picked up.

Within minutes a roaring gale slammed into the walls of the city with sufficient force to shake the stones and very nearly drive the rallying troops from the walls by strength alone. The aftermath was far weaker but it carried with it a biting chill that made it impossible to look over the walls. They tried nevertheless; well aware that something was coming.

Whispers of dark things carried through the men. Of monsters, of elves and worse besides. Many knew that patrols had been vanishing lately; disappearing down to the last man, horse and dog. This impossible weather pattern spoke to their growing dread and transformed it into frantic terror.

Outside, on the hill, Old Osmond watched with an expression of clear trepidation as the blizzard parted around them. Or to be more precise, and at this thought he glanced to his side at the titanic lupine creature standing beside them, it parted around the wolf. If he didn’t know better he’d think the monstrosity looked almost smug.

Agnes had told him that it could control the weather, but he’d not really believed it. No lone creature could do such a thing, surely? Yet this ‘wolf’ seemed to be far more than a tremendous animal. It walked across the snow without leaving footprints, it commanded bird and beast alike to its bidding and now its howl summoned what would have been the worst Winter storm he’d ever seen… if only ‘twere actually Winter.

“Well then, Headmaster. I’d say they’re suitably distracted. Shall we get to work?” He looked over to Matilda and forced a smile. Even with this terrifying display there were still things for them to do. Although they could starve out the occupying forces that would kill the civilians too, and no matter the strength of the beast or its storm it couldn’t breach the walls on its own. He and his former secretary unified their spells with careful coordination as they began to animate the earth beneath them.

Half an hour later, within the city, the few soldiers that could see cried out with terror as an almighty colossus rose into view; rising above the city walls in height and shaking the earth as it pulled itself to its feet. The winds parted for an instant as a stream of small, dark creatures poured through the storm. They were unhindered by the strong winds and that, in fact, was the only warning that they got. For an instant the awful winds stilled and then a feathered missile shot down to claw at exposed eyes and faces.

There was a tremendous rumble as the titan was finally completed and began its slow ponderous steps forward. Construction of two Square-class Earth Mages or not, such a thing would usually be a large and vulnerable target for magical bombardment; ineffective on an open battlefield and easily countered during a siege. However, any time the Reconquista’s Officers tried to take the walls and target it a dozen murderous birds would appear out of the blizzard and swarm them.

It was bloody chaos.

Before long the earthen giant was close enough to the walls to demonstrate its true purpose. Rather than moving up and attacking them directly it merely collapsed forward; head smashing into the reinforced masonry and bursting open to deliver its cargo. Dogs streamed out by the dozen and more charged across the plain. Now that their construct had fallen it revealed the holes in the underside of its feet; tunnels that the canines could scramble up, following each other through the darkness, and exit through the head on to the walls.

They had many advantages. The animals hadn’t just been battered by razor sharp wind and even sharper frozen hail for over half an hour. Even as they charged out the blizzard split and gave them a reasonable berth. Nor did they have to worry about being attacked on two fronts. Any soldier that tried to focus on the furry, biting horde was immediately blindsided by the feathered, clawing horde.

The rebels were already in full retreat when the First Wolf sprinted up the back of the collapsed giant and leapt into the city.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

On the plain of Tarbes a rout in one direction was already being turned in the other. Guiche de Gramont flicked his mother’s sword through the pearlescent light streaming off his shoulders and then contemptuously cut down at his opponent’s blade. The green flames on its surface sputtered out as he cleaved straight through the metal and directly into their skull a moment later. White light surged down his sword and purged the hateful energies from the corpse in an instant. As with all the others it died with a bittersweet smile on what remained of its face.

Kenneth had taken down another Dragonwight with the strange glassy bolts that he appeared to be firing directly out of his hands and there was just one left. It seemed reluctant to take wing and was rampaging through the ranks of what men were still trying to fight; keeping them between it and the dwarf. His familiar was circling around and slowly driving it towards him; if the thing had noticed there seemed to be nothing it could do about it.

Suddenly the men parted way for him and there was nothing between Gucihe and the dragon. It glared at him with undisguised hatred burning in its eyes. Quite literally, given the whispers he heard from the artifact on his back. Banefire was, at its core, the manifestation of one being’s absolute loathing of life. It felt appropriate that he met it with the cold light of mercy.

The dragon breathed green fire; a tight spray that crossed the distance in moments. Guiche brandished his shield, shining with a white radiance, and Derf drank in the unholy magic. Throughout the battle he’d been cheering and crying with undisguised glee, crying out his appreciation for such a unique conflict. With the cloak protecting his back and the magic-devouring shield defending him from the front all remaining threat from the Wights had been erased.

Whatever the monster had been expecting to happen it clearly wasn’t expecting Guiche to come charging through the spray of Banefire given that it recoiled for an instant when he emerged from the stream and handily removed its lower jaw. The stuff still made his skin crawl to come close to it but any that came too near was immediately wiped away by the waves of Moonlight rolling off his shoulders.

He ducked under the wild claw it swung at him and kept going; running between its forelimbs and taking a sharp left so he could spin around and cut through its right arm. Not for the last time in this battle he marvelled at the horrifying sharpness of his mother’s blade; limited in its cutting potential only by how quickly he could swing. The trembling dragon collapsed onto its side a moment later and Guiche stabbed it in the side, released and then spun around in place.

Carbonised adamant was amazing at channeling… everything, really. Kenneth had made him a glove lined with some hard black substance so that he didn’t die instantly when facing an Air Mage competent enough to use lightning. The trailing cloak of Moonlight had dragged itself across the blade and been sucked into it. There was a final tremble from the Dragonwight before, at last, the Banefire inside of it was overcome.

Guiche pulled his sword out and turned around to face utter silence. There was only one Wight left on the field but, as he watched, Kenneth removed its head and quickly shoved the body through the ground before it could detonate. Just like that… it was over.

They’d taken immense casualties. He couldn’t tell how many at a glance but he knew it had to be in the hundreds. Probably more. Guiche had lost count of how many human Wights he had killed, Kenneth had taken out just as many, and even the soldiers had, by working with care and tandem, taken out about as much as either of them. Yet, for all that, so many had died…

The white light shining from his back finally died out as Guiche could no longer sustain the cost of keeping it active. Now that he was no longer surrounded by a nacreous corona it was plain to see that his face was stained with tears. Nobody dared to approach him; all the men milling about and casting fearful glances towards the still stationary airships on the horizon.

A heavy hand touched his shoulder and he looked up into the thickly bearded face of his familiar. Then he was enfolded in a warm hug that smelled only slightly of burnt pork. Guiche shook a little but didn’t resist. He’d held on for as long as he had to but the price of Aurora Requiem was quite a simple one. It wasn’t even really a cost, as such. More like a hazard, really.

Every second it was active he was bombarded by memories. Vivid and clear in every detail. A constant, unceasing reminder of his failures as a friend, as a master, as a commander, as a brother, and as a son. He’d been crying from the moment it began to burn and even now the words rang in his ears.

“Ye did well, lad.” Kenneth released him, and then gently patted him on the cheek. Then he drew a slightly stained cloth from one of his many pockets and offered it to the young man to wipe his face. Guiche did so, and the dwarf smiled at him before turning his gaze to the distance.

“Why…” He had to swallow heavily for a moment, and take a deep breath to prevent his voice from cracking. “Why didn’t they join the battle yet? They could have wiped us out by now. Something is… very wrong.” His familiar nodded hesitantly, clearly agreeing with his assessment of the situation but still not quite trusting whatever conclusion he’d come to. “Kenneth?” The dwarf’s stare didn’t break but his shoulders tensed.

“Ah’ve no idea, boy. But wh’ever th’ reason is it cannae be good fer us.” The young man sighed and pulled himself to a standing position; raising his sword into the air and lifting the ground beneath his feet with a double-stacked Earth as he did so. Their reinforcements, the other Dragon Knights, had landed and were watching him along with the recruits.

“Men of Tristain!” All of his practice paid off in this moment as he projected his voice in as rousing a fashion as he could manage. The image of his father standing at the head of an army flashed into his mind for an instant before he continued. “We have fought off the first wave, but the enemy remains in our sight! Yet I say to you now… we shall not battle on.”

There was a quiet murmur of disbelief, of dissatisfaction, of relief, of cowardice and more. As many different reactions as there were watchers. Guiche continued before the whispering could gain traction. “We shall cede this ground to our foes, and retreat. And we shall do this with honour! For this land we stand on,” He gestured down at the raised platform under his soles, “This land is not Tristain.” Silence met his proclamation, so he pointed his blade over at the town of Tarbes.

“And this village, its buildings and its farms... they are not Tristain!” All of them seemed confused by his rhetoric and yet fired up nonetheless. It wasn’t in what he was saying, which mystified them, but how he said it; with a fire that was belied by the words themselves. “And our pride as soldiers, as citizens, as men... that pride is not Tristain.” He was a little more reserved then as he waved his sword and lowered himself down.

Now standing among them, all eyes on him or at least in his general direction, Guiche continued. “You are Tristain. We are Tristain. They are Tristain.” He gestured in turn to the soldiers, to himself, then in the direction the villagers had fled in. “If we stay and fight them now we will lose. And we will die, to the last man. It will be a brave and glorious battle! But we will die.” His tone and expression were gravely serious at that moment. Words such as ‘brave’ and ‘glorious’ sounded almost like curses in his mouth.

“Then they will sweep past us and kill the men, women and children of Tarbes. Then they will charge into the heart of our country and bring ruin with them and none shall know that they are coming until they are already there. Therefore, we will flee. We will run away, and we will warn our countrymen, and then, in the end, we will kill a hundred of them for every man who fell today! This I promise you!” A ragged cheer rose that quickly became full-throated and eager.

“Now then, follow me soldiers of Tristain! Onward, to victory!” And thus, with the most ironic rallying cry in history, Guiche de Gramont sounded the retreat.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Zharaqui sighed as she gazed at the scurrying soldiers off in the distance. They were organising to flee, huh? Well, that was disappointing but not unexpected. She’d hoped they would have sent for reinforcements and then dug themselves in here instead. Still, it was workable.

She turned and walked carelessly through the still-wet blood and past the corpses that covered the deck of the Flagship. As the wind shifted the Albionese vessels creaked slightly; that, and the occasional dripping, was the only sound that came from the fleet. The self-styled ‘Admiral’ of the rebel had wanted to press the attack. She had disagreed. That wouldn’t serve her Master’s purpose.

Of course, killing him had made the rest of the crew turn on her, and then the other ships had seen the mess and really it all seemed quite sensible if you looked at each step individually but the end result was quite messy. Fortunately, she didn’t need the ships to do anything other than float there.

There was, belowdecks, a makeshift forge and piles upon piles of scrap iron. They weren’t entirely necessary ingredients in the ritual, all she actually needed was the metal or even the ore in a pinch, but they made things faster. Much faster.

Pronouncing the words was quite difficult even with the blessing of her Master. The runes on her hand glowed with a dark light that twisted and formed a secondary symbol just above the surface of her skin as the space around her began to distort. By the power of the two-fold Void she was invoking something that ought not be within this realm and the world thoroughly disagreed with that.

Little tears appeared in the air as her words transformed; thought became language became intent became action. The pile of metal started to glow red hot and flow together as she spoke to it of heat and motion and, most importantly of all, of hatred. A thing that did not belong began to take form in the belly of the flagship.

Makeshift limbs tried to take shape and failed. Wood warped and blistered and began to crack and dissolve under the increasing heat and the strain on the fabric of reality. For a moment Zharaqui could hear laughter echoing through the rips in space and she rushed as much as she dared; between taking too long and tripping over one of the syllables she didn’t know which could cause the most damage.

The laughter began to grow in volume and in variety. Men, women, children and more all united in their amusement over her predicament. It wasn’t really an increase in raw volume, however, as much as it was a decrease in the distance between her and the origin. Sweat poured from her brow as the rents in the air grew in time with the undulations of the now spherical glob of molten metal that hung before her.

She wasn’t afraid. Fear was not a luxury her Master allowed her. Yet even then she trembled for a moment as the laughter went utterly silent and a pair of bloodshot eyes surrounded by bandages met hers through one of the openings in space. At that instant she spoke the last word. Reality righted itself with a sharp snap as the distortions all around her closed.

Zharaqui knew she had succeeded when the wave of palpable loathing washed over her mind. She didn’t stay to observe the results, however; by the time it hit her she was already flying up the stairs on to the main deck and when the first roar of abject hatred sounded she was halfway to the next ship. For the moment all she felt was a vague satisfaction.

However, when she heard the wood shattering as the thing she had made finally broke free of the vessel enclosing it, she allowed herself a faint smirk.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

When they heard the sound Guiche noticed that Kenneth was trembling. The keel of the largest ship in the enemy fleet split moments later and a glowing orange-red shape fell out of it. The dwarf had already grabbed him by the arm and yanked the young man down to his level by the time it hit the ground; absolute terror writ large across his face.

"Guiche. Listen. Take them all and run. Don't argue. No questions. Run." His familiar spoke with the greatest clarity he'd ever heard from him. A moment later he pushed Guiche away and unslung his axe once more. The arm that held it was only shaking slightly but it might as well have been spasming wildly for how unusual that was.

A vaguely humanoid shape flung itself out of the smoking crater where the ball of what Guiche could only assume had been molten metal had hit. It landed heavily on all fours and then raised itself up and roared at the sky. The sound left all those who heard it certain of one thing; that whatever it might be this thing was coming to kill them. It wasn't like the Wights, who despised the living and brought ruin and suffering with them.

This creature hated you, personally, simply because it hadn't killed you yet.

"Go. Ah'll hold it off fer as long as ah can." The words shook Guiche to the core... but still, he obeyed. He called out to the soldiers; commanding them to take what they could and flee even as his familiar began to sprint out to meet the oncoming monster. Terror had been snatched from the jaws of victory.

Then a golden airship dropped out of the clouds.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

It was gaudy and ostentatious by its very nature; small and sleek apart from the shining plating inscribed with religious iconography on every available inch of the surface. A smirking man with golden breastplate and matching cloak posed ostentatiously on the prow as his vessel rapidly descended. In his outstretched hand a sphere of light crackled with energy. He released it; the beam of Starlight scything through six vessels and very nearly cleaving them in twain before the energy died out. One by one they began to drop from the sky.

He didn't turn his attention to the ground until he was done destroying the stationary airships. Of course, Iulius had long since realised they were empty but by the time they had hit the ground the damage to the bodies would be sufficiently obscured that none would dare to give him the credit. In truth, he'd been waiting out of sight for some time now in hopes that the dwarf would succumb to the Wights. Sadly, that had not been the case.

Now, though, even he could no longer stand idly by. Wights he could kill in the thousands, of that he was certain, but if their enemy was bringing Ashwalkers to bear then he needed to put a stop to it. One he could handle. Maybe even two or three. But there were several dozen airships and if she had the resources to craft one of the Forge Eaters for every vessel then he suddenly didn't trust their chances. Besides, even if he kept poor company the young man down there showed a fine spirit. Perhaps he might be of some use.

Iulius stepped off his vessel and dropped like a stone.

Thin white energy poured off in thick waves and formed, for a moment, a massive array of shining wings behind his back as he neared the ground. His feet touched down like a whisper as the very air itself caught him and arrested his momentum. It was majestic, and beautiful. On the way from the Holy Land he'd had a mild revelation. Of course he was the most singularly powerful entity in this world. But he'd been wasting that power on... well, brute force.

And that, he mused as the Ashwalker charged across the plain at him, was just plain stupid. It was why those elves had been able to defeat him. He'd been complacent; forgetting his roots. If you tried to power through with raw strength at home then you got killed by the first person smart enough to hit you at your weakest point and everyone had a weak point.

Blue light that looked like glass and flickered like fire and moved like water covered his forearm. It crackled and it cracked and it shot out at the oncoming abomination. The Ether struck it in the leg and invaded it; the energies animating it being forced out and the mundane laws of physical interaction took hold immediately. Since there was no longer any magic for the Ether to act upon it transformed into mere force. The end result being that the glob of liquid metal that used to be its knee was suddenly painted across the burning ground behind it and the thing came crashing down.

This barely slowed it down; a head and shoulders tore their way out of the back like a newborn monstrosity tearing its way out of the erstwhile mother it found itself in. The rest of its mass flowed into position around the rapidly rising shape and within seconds it was moving at full speed with a slight reduction in size. Even Iulius couldn't help but shudder slightly at the sight and the accompanying perfect understanding that although it hated all things in that moment its loathing for him was extremely personal.

That moment of pause had been all he needed, however. A second sphere of Ether caught it in the chest and formed a crater as a blast of fire and molten metal spurted outwards. An instant later a bolt of blue-white lightning tore through the air and hit in the middle of the freshly formed depression; it left a line of expanding fog in its wake and brought the monster to a thunderous, crashing halt.

This was Arclite; Ice and Lightning fused. A flow of energy that consumed energy and thus froze what it struck in sharp lines. Veins of black metal appeared running through the creature as a good portion of its mass was frozen solid by the power surging through it. It stumbled and fell and tore a gash in the ground as it did so; molten steel bubbling around the frozen steel thorns filling it.

Iulius gathered more power as he walked closer. It was thirty metres away and trying to rise. Twenty-five and pulling itself to its feet. Twenty and starting to stumble towards him. Fifteen and now it could move its body properly as the skeleton-like lattice inside it melted. Ten and it broke into a sprint. Five, and he unleashed the second bolt of Arclite into its centre mass.

A burning arm struck him as it lunged into the bolt and he sidestepped as best he could. Even so, it was fast and he'd needed a clear shot. Molten steel caked half his face and burned as it grabbed his right arm. The metal melted in an instant and clamped down as it tore; sufficiently hot to calcify flesh and bone as it ripped the limb apart. All of this happened in the second it took for the magic to reach its extremities.

Iulius collapsed sideways; steam and smoke rising from his flesh and pain assaulting his senses. He stood then; half-blind and in an intensely familiar agony. It was not the first time he'd been burned this badly, though he'd never lost a limb before. Beside him the frozen statue that had been the Ashwalker was motionless; he'd shoved enough Arclite into it to to kill an entire flight of dragons and had totally solidified it in the process.

Golden light shone from him so brightly that it made him hard to look at. He reached up with his good hand and began to roughly scrape molten steel and burnt flesh alike off his face and out of his wounds. It hurt more than almost anything he'd ever felt but pain had long since ceased being debilitating to him. He was one of the Chosen of the Golden King of Zunal. Pain was a luxury that he chose not to indulge in.

Which was very good; as his flesh screamed at him while healing magic flowed into it. On Kelicho, regrowing a limb was the purview of complicated ritual magic that even the most hardened veteran would balk at participating in. But here? His eye finished reforming at that moment and he blinked from the intensity of the light surrounding it as an eyelid began to form. Half of his tongue had just grown back and he ran it across the line of his teeth as they reformed in his gums. Clenched the agonised muscles in his upper arm as a new elbow came into being for the tendons to attach to and bones began to extend out from it.

Yes, he'd been quite foolish. Trusted in power over intelligence, in brute force over precision and in a strength that came and went as it pleased. Yet, as Iulius regrew an eye, half a face, and his entire right arm... immense power certainly had its perks. Not least of which being the look that was undoubtedly on the face of that degenerate Dwarven 'Hero'. That he, of the Golden Legion of Zunal, had so easily slain one of the foes that had made the 'Flamecutter' so very famous...

Wonderful. It was time to greet the young hero and lord his clear and factual superiority over the subhuman. He was certain that the expression he was about on the face of the latter would be absolutely priceless.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Sitting in darkness on an even darker throne a lone figure sighed. He flexed his right arm and idly stared at the way his skin moved for a moment. Then he cast his vision into the ring on his finger. Within, a black sigil had long since formed. Elsewhere, on the forehead of a steaming body, an identical symbol seemed to twist and shimmer. Were it not for the sinister feeling it gave off one might convince themselves the effect was merely a trick of the heat.

"I suppose that some things, one must do oneself."

 

Guiche couldn’t help but stare blankly at the monster walking towards them. There was no other response that seemed to suit the situation. Beside him Kenneth seemed to be practically vibrating with condensed fury and terror both; the dwarven warrior visibly restraining himself from charging across the distance and doing… what, exactly?

The young man had recognised the symbols on the golden airship that was descending. It was a vessel of the Holy Church of Romalia; at the very least, none would dare to fake such iconography. Yet this… he couldn’t think of it as a man, no… this smiling thing couldn’t possibly be from this world.

They idly picked bits of molten metal out of the visibly regenerating flesh of their arm as they sauntered over without a care in the world and look all the more horrifying for it. A good quarter of their armour was just gone; the vanquished monstrosity had ruined it when they’d torn his arm off. There it was, though… new flesh forming beneath a thick haze of golden light that had stopped his men cold at the sight.

“Well met!” A voice split the air between them as the thing called out. It sounded surprisingly human. But Guiche only knew of one man-shaped creature that could survive a fall of that magnitude and wield magic of that calibre. This, though… it definitely wasn’t an Elf, that much he could be certain of. Suddenly, the young noble realised that the… ‘man’ had ceased his approach and seemed to be waiting for something.

“... ah. Ah! Yes, quite. Well met, good sir. I am Guiche de Gramont, Captain of the Undine Knights and senior officer of this training camp. We thank you for your most gracious rescue in our hour of need.” Which he was thoroughly relieved to find out this was. If they’d had to fight an enemy who had just taken out something even Kenneth was afraid of…

“Oh, ye can piss right off to the Depths ye misbegotten son of a Zunali goat! Take one more step towards us and ah’ll finish what that Ashwalker started!” His familiar pushed him aside and stepped forward; brandishing his axe and visibly gathering power in the way the earth heaved beneath his feet. The man stopped, face still frozen in a grin that had become more of a hateful death-rictus.

“Can I now? Tut-tut, little hero. We’re not on Kelicho right now and you probably don’t want to start another war over your little… prejudice.” The dwarf bristled at the wording of that statement and continued to glare with unbridled hatred… but, after a long pause, lowered his weapon. Then the man turned and bowed his head to Guiche.

“Iulius Caesar Aurelius of the First Divine Legion of Romalia. General Aurelius, in fact. I was dispatched by His Holiness, St. Aegis the Thirty-Second, to assist the nation of Tristain in repelling the heretics of the Reconquista.” That was… unexpected. This man was a mage of unsurpassed power and yet even with the increase in strength that came with the transition to this world Guiche was certain that Kenneth had mentioned the overall destructive capabilities of his homeland’s mages was… well, frankly, inferior to their Halkegenian counterparts.

It seemed reasonable to expect one to become equivalent in the transition but such a massive growth in strength was… it was terrifying. He half-suspected the man of being a disguised elf or vampire or lich or worse, given his place of origin. However, he also vaguely recalled Kenneth mention the nation of Zunal.

A fiercely xenophobic military power that was still growing in his homeland. Apparently they had been responsible for a number of massacres and atrocities in their expansion thus far but had yet to truly turn the whole world against them. Even so, their distinctly ‘pro-human’ policies had caused no small amount of friction. Unsurprising that this man might be welcomed here.

Guiche’s thoughts of political discourse were derailed by a point of confusion. He pointed into the mid-distance, at the ground, and turned his head to where his familiar was trying to have a staring match with Iulius; the man having fully recovered his body and turned to slowly reforming the remnants of his armour into its previous shape.

“Kenneth… is that meant to happen?” The dwarf looked over to follow the line of Guiche’s pointing. Across the plain the grass was slowly turning black and dying. Tendrils of dead vegetation were stretching out from where the Ashwalker had perished and a slowly expanding circle of darkness was following in its wake. To their credit as warriors both Kenneth and Iulius ceased any pretense of conflict.

“... no, lad. It’s not.” As he said that a pillar of black flames exploded upwards from the cooling wreckage of the Ashwalker. Moments later a hand parted it; the metal was glowing a pale white and the cracks in the surface… he didn’t have the right word for it. They seemed to devour the light. The renewed Ashwalker pulled itself free of the inferno and roa-

his father’s face ashen and pale brother eyes blank knife in hand montmorency with blood pouring out of her neck kenneth’s face empty hole through his heart wardes coughing up blood and falling to the ground saito’s spine breaks as he hits the bannister and spins away louise is knocked backwards in a hail of musket fire tabitha falls mutely from her dead dragon and strikes with a sickening cra-

A struck him in the chin and Guiche came back to his senses. He was on his knees; tears streaming thickly down his cheeks and his throat still hurt from the screaming and he was still screa-

Then a second blow the other direction and he again regained his senses. His entire body felt cold and empty, his hands were trembling and Kenneth had to haul him bodily to his feet. The dwarf was shouting something at him but he couldn’t be because he’d seen him die

“IGNITE, MY SORROWS!” At the first shout the shimmering cape on his back became an inferno of white light reaching out and encompassing everything.

“BURN, MY REGRETS!” Like a thick fog meeting dawn the unutterable terror melted in the wake of the soothing coldness that came with the cloak.

“SHINE! AURORA REQUIEM!” And then Guiche was free of it. Kenneth was supporting him and he felt so very cold but he had regained his wits. Looking around he could see the men near him affected by the wave of white light pouring off his shoulders but Guiche had no idea how long he could sustain it. The cloak fed off the user in part and even if efficiency was enhanced due to the abundance of magical energy in Halkegenia it still couldn’t last forever.

Outside of the circle of light cast by Guiche things were much more chaotic. Many men who’d ceased fleeing when the Ashwalker had been defeated were fleeing so fast they fell over their own legs every few feet. Others had collapsed into helpless piles of sobbing terror. The monster was still howling at the sky and Kenneth was right there with a grim expression. It can’t have been more than a few seconds but it had felt…

“Guiche.” The dwarf eyed him as he turned to his familiar; ashen-faced and trembling. “Are ye there, lad?” Slowly, the young nobleman nodded. He checked his forearm and found that his shield had gone silent and trembling.

“Derf? Derflinger! Can you hear me?” The animated object’s ‘mouth’ shivered for a moment before twisting into a hateful expression.

“P-partner. Y-yeah. I’m… I’m here. That thing… I don’t know what it is, but it’s wrong. There’s magic in it but it’s twisted… tainted, even. And it’s very…” His shield seemed to almost snarl and spit out the last word. “Familiar. We have to kill it, Kenneth! Right now! It’s killing the very land around it!”

Guiche felt that the former sword was right on the mark. The plants had decayed and turned to a thick black ash; it was nothing like the sort left behind by a fire, though. Rather, there was a cloying smell of decay in the air like a thousand years had passed in an instant.

“We do. Kenneth, can you fight?” The dwarf looked startled, but nodded. “General, are you with us?” He looked to the golden man and was surprised to find terror written across his face. Even so, the older man nodded after a moment. “Alright. With me, then. This artifact can keep the fear it produces at bay for all of us; perhaps it will have an effect upon the creature.”

“Guiche, you can’t-” Kenneth’s protests were cut off by a bright-bladed sword flicking out of its sheathe.

“I can. And I will. These are my men, Kenneth, and you are my familiar. The General has no authority. I am the senior officer here, and you will follow my instructions! I know you wish to protect me but this is a threat that we must face together!” His earnest outburst seemed to startle the dwarf into a brief silence. Off in the distance the howl of terror ended and the newly reborn Ashwalker burst into black flames. Guiche pointed at it.

“That monster is attacking my homeland, Kenneth. It’s poisoning the land, it just incapacitated an entire army and I cannot allow it to get any further! So either help me or by Brimir get out of my way!” A thunderous noise drew their gazes to the creature; it had just taken a shaky step but seemed to be growing more confident in its movements with every successive one.

“... aye. Aye. Yer right. Let’s go!” Man, dwarf and boy began to run together; all enmity forgotten in the face of their foe. As they drew closer and the thing began to charge Kenneth called out to him. “Guiche, lad! What’s the plan?” The young man tightened the grip on his sword and focused on the monster as hard as he could.

“... the heat aura is gone! Kenneth, face it directly! General, keep it off balance! Give me an opening and I’ll bring it down! Derf?” The shield creaked acknowledgement. “Think you can handle it then?” There was a laugh from the animated face.

“If I can’t then we’re all screwed anyway, partner! Let’s do it!” A savage grin found its way on to Guiche’s face. That’s right. This was it. A pure moment of utter stupidity.

“Let’s do it!” He pointed his sword forward as he ran. “For Tristain!”

Then Kenneth launched himself forward and slammed feet-first into the face of the monster.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

This particular bar in La Rochelle was known to be home to a less… legitimate breed of airship captains. In the chaos of recent events many had flocked to this place in the hopes of making a good bit of cash; either by signing on as mercenaries for whatever side would have them or by raiding both indiscriminately. All of those who survived the next few days would come to greatly regret that decision.

The doors slammed open and a young man with piercing yellow eyes stepped in. He was wearing a long red hooded coat, sleeveless, and little else; the arms of his white shirt having been torn open to reveal a wide variety of tattoos in multicoloured ink. When he spoke it was with a voice that didn’t match his youthful appearance and at a tone that was highly reminiscent of a snarling dog.

“I require passage to Albion at once.” There was a general chuckle from the bar and then a man stood up and sauntered towards the glaring young man.

“I think you’re in the wrong place, brat. Try the po-” His sentence ended as soon as he came into arm’s reach of the young man. A dagger had appeared in his right hand but it was totally clean. Instead, the fingers of his left dripped with flesh blood. Four perfectly circular puncture wounds were now present in the former human’s throat.

“Who here has the fastest ship?” The tone of voice didn’t change but the atmosphere had. All of them were frozen. Saito looked around with murder in his eyes until one shaken man pointed at the corpse beside him. That got a glare from the young familiar that caused the fully grown man to wet himself. “If you can fly his ship then step forward now. Otherwise, I’ll kill you where you are. And if you lie to me I’ll kill you slowly.” He had several volunteers and, thus, took all of them. The remainder sat stock still in growing puddles of their own urine until the terrifying demon-boy had left.

Ten minutes later an airship departed. It was utterly foolhardy of them to do so given it was in the late evening and the weather was, frankly, awful. But the port’s authorities didn’t especially care about the movements of pirates.

Saito stood on the prow of the ship as it rose into the clouds. All of the power in his Air Runes gathered at once and he kicked out; seeming to split the sky as a blade of wind divided the water vapour before him and revealed the night sky so the unlucky new captain of the vessel could set a heading. Then he stared out into the black abyss; fist clenched.

During the sprint from the Vallière's estate, a two-day journey by horseback for reasonable people, his fury had chilled to the perfect state of icy hatred that suited his people. He was busy thinking of inventively horrible things he would do to Wardes if even a single hair on Louise’s head was harmed. And if, Gods forbid, she wasn’t alive when Saito found her?

Then he’d kill them all of the Reconquista. Every last soldier, every Noble, every person who’d ever supported them, sheltered them, condoned them or even so much as had peaceful dealings with them. He would raze the entire damned continent to the ground if he had to. And in the ashes he would plant the true Crimson Banner so that all future generations could learn the most important unspoken law in all of Kelicho.

Do not mess with the Bannermen.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Fighting the Black Ashwalker felt like fighting against death itself. Or at least, Guiche imagined it must be like this. His skin felt cold every time it lashed out and the dark fire that surged forth with every strike seemed to be eroding the very ground around them. The Moonlight pouring off his cloak was keeping it at bay.

Iulius had shrouded himself in the same energy and was launching bolts of golden fire at it whenever he got a chance. He had to dodge, however, as he had turned out to be far more vulnerable to it than Kenneth. An idle strike had transformed his exposed arm into a withered husk and caused his armour to rust away seemingly from the inside out.

The dwarf, meanwhile, was highly resistant to the direct effects of the unholy magic. Guiche was certain it was due to his nature as a partial Elemental. Even then this beast was tenacious. Kenneth ducked under a wild swing and smashed his axe through the thing’s arm but it wasn’t even slightly inconvenienced. The surface had exploded in a gout of shadowy flames and the limb had remained intact.

Guiche was having to stay back and surge his cloak every time it made a move in his direction. Without Kenneth’s insane vitality and Iulius’ unfair regeneration magic a direct hit would be fatal to him even if he could negate the fire. It seemed to shy away from the ethereal white light but wasn’t actually damaged by it.

Iulius’ golden flames seemed to eat at it for a few moments before the black fire devoured it in turn. The curious blue, glass-like energy that Kenneth had used earlier and the General was trying now seemed to be even less effective. As soon as it came close to the Ashwalker it seemed to corrode and shatter in the air.

He flicked out his wand and summoned a pair of his Valkyries to try and distract it somewhat. They didn’t even get close before they collapsed into piles of black rust. Guiche could feel the magic he’d invested in them being burnt away as well; a horrific sensation indeed.

“Derf, are you alright?” The shield had been trembling throughout the battle but wasn’t otherwise any worse for wear. Still, he could see a faint tarnishing about the edges of it despite his best efforts to keep the dark fire away from him.

“Holding together, partner! I’ve been through worse than this!” Guiche suspected that this was a lie but he appreciated it all the same. Iulius deflected a wave of black flames with a wall of Moonlight that suddenly sputtered out halfway through; the resulting shockwave smashed him backwards. The Ashwalker immediately leapt at the most vulnerable of the three; Guiche.

Kenneth was there before he could blink; swinging a forceful punch with a shining blue left arm. It shattered in a blast that was near-blinding as soon as it struck the monster’s chest; sending dwarf and beast flying backwards and spinning off their feet. Guiche did something that surprised even himself; charging past his downed familiar and flicking his sword outwards.

The pale blade absorbed Moonlight and passed right through both legs as the face-down Ashwalker tried to lift itself up. This time it seemed to stick as the white light fought against the black fire and it collapsed back down. His sword flashed again; carving white lines through the body again and again. All four limbs had been removed now and the thing was writhing beneath him as it fought to shift its form. Whatever change had been made to it had rendered its body less malleable, though, and the cold-burning liquid metal was solidifying under his feet with each slash of white light.

“Guiche, now!” Derf called out his name and he immediately rammed the spiked shield into the body of the Ashwalker; loosing it from his arm right after and pulling back. He focused his mind and willpower then poured both magic and memory into Aurora Reqiuem; it exploded into a pillar of white light as tears ran thickly down his face for the umpteenth time today.

Beneath him the black fire was forced down and Derfflinger was visibly corroding as he devoured the animating force of the Ashwalker. It seemed to be almost at a stalemate; until Guiche shoved his sword through the shield and beast alike. The magic was conducted beautifully; the rose on his hilt becoming a glorious beacon in the evening light as the entire blade shone from within.

Then his footing destabilised and Guiche collapsed into a pile of foul-smelling liquid. There was no more fire, no more sense of dread, no deep chill in his muscles. It was… he pulled himself up and tried to wipe the metallic goo from his body. Then he saw Derfflinger.

The loyal shield was barely there now. His sword was gingerly removed from it with a twinge of guilt and he turned it around to hold in his hands. Even with a good half of it corroded away around the edges the remains managed to look smug at him.

“Heh… we sure showed it; eh, partner?” Suddenly the animated armament broke into a hacking couch that Guiche was pretty certain was a horrible sign. “Oof… that was a nasty tasting one. But we beat it, didn’t we?” The young noble looked around. There was a slowly spreading pool of black something that still partially held the shape of the Ashwalker’s limbs. For hundreds of metres in every direction the grass was more than dead. It looked like the ground itself had been transformed into a quagmire of rot and decay.

“... yeah, we did.” A pained expression crossed his face as he gently touched the jagged edges of his trusty shield. “Derf… I’m sorry. I’ve treated you rather poorly. With everything that’s happened I don’t think I really appreciated you…” The shield twisted in a way that perhaps was analogous to shaking its head at him and smiled.

“Don’t apologise. We had a good run, and you’ve shown me some pretty amazing battles! I’ve not had someone like you to fight with in... well, a long time. Apart from a little lack in polishing you’ve been a pretty great partner.” There was another round of racking coughs from the metal being in his hands and part of it broke off. “Pretty sure this is it, though. That stuff did a number on me. Not sure how much longer I can hold together…”

Guiche felt… torn. This wasn’t the first person he’d lost in battle. There had been plenty of bodies today to keep him company in his dreams. But this felt… worse, somehow. Closer to home. He’d known this might happen and chosen the path anyway. Derf had agreed to it, but… from the beginning he had treated the animated shield as more of a tool than a friend.

“Derf... “ What could he say? This was just another in the line of his failures. One of many, as of late. The shield’s face contorted into a frown.

“Don’t you go feeling sorry for me, kid. I’m a few thousand years old and short more than a few screws. Your dwarf told me I might not even survive the reforging and I was still willing to give it a go! Anything to get a little more excitement in my life. This ain’t such a bad way to go. Fighting alongside Halkegenia’s next great hero.” Derf grinned at him and Guiche felt a little better. That’s right. They’d… they’d done it, hadn’t they? The monster was gone and, Guiche glanced around quickly before allowing his thought to continue, there were no more threats.

… the day was won. Soldiers in the distance seemed to have recovered their senses somewhat and were gathering again. Ragged cheers were going up; celebrating being alive as much as anything else. He could see them moving to pick up the dead and wounded, pull tents back up and do what they could. Heroes. They were heroes, weren’t they? He was a hero.

“Hey, Guiche.” The voice was a little quieter. “Go check on your familiar, too. I’ll be fine a bit longer.” That startled him fully out of his funk. Kenneth! He was about to rush off when he remembered he was still holding Derf and, well, didn’t want to jostle him. Nor did he want to put him back down in the… whatever that thing had become. So he tossed out one of his last few Vakyries and passed the shield to it to hold while he dashed over to check on the dwarf.

Saying that his familiar was a little worse for wear would be a severe understatement. There were burns on his face and right hand that were very slowly being healed under a golden glow from said hand and his left arm was… well, it was gone. The entire thing had been shattered down its length and rained to the ground in little chunks around them. Kenneth was grinning from ear to ear, though, and was therefore probably going to be fine.

“We did it, lad!” His beard clacked as he laughed happily and Guiche couldn’t help but smile in kind. “We killed the damned thing! Ah’ve no idea what it was, but we… nay, ye killed it! That’s me boy!” His glee was infectious and before long they were laughing together. Then Kenneth awkwardly pulled himself to his feet and examined the damage.

“Not too bad, eh? Feel like ah’m short a few years o’ me life but that’s what this,” He tapped his semi-earthen chest, “Is for. Still… bit of a bugger about th’ arm. Red made it. Not sure ah kin rig up a replacement on me own, even with Colbert…” The dwarf shrugged. “Well, ‘twere definitely worth it. C’mon, lad. We ought t’see if the Zunali scumsucker is still breathing, even if he is a waste of good meat.” Guiche nodded; still somewhat startled by the sheer harshness of Kenneth’s invective.

Then, quite suddenly, the connection to his Valkyrie snapped. His head likewise spun wildly to face the construct as he readied his weapon expecting to see a new horror to fight. Instead the golem was merely standing still with the remains of a metal shield falling between its fingers and into the muck.

“Oh, no. Derf…” Guiche hurried over, Kenneth trudging along behind him, and knelt in the muck. The damage had finally overcome whatever magic had been keeping the shield intact and it had split in ‘twain. He picked up the two largest pieces in either hand with a heavy heart and then bowed his head in sorrow.

Then…

“... partner?” The young man’s head snapped up to look at his former Valkyrie. It appeared to be looking back at him and was radiating confusion. “... you know, I thought that we’d been through the weirdest stuff I’d ever seen but this?” The ex-shield held up his, or possibly her, new hand and stared at it with clear disbelief. “This tops everything else.”

Guiche was too busy hugging his new old friend to listen to the rest.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

“Something not going according to plan, Viscount?” Wardes tried to ignore the hatred in Louise’s voice as they hovered some few miles distant from the city of Londinium. The conquered city of Londinium. Well, it was already conquered before but now the Reconquista’s banners had been cast down, or set alight in some cases, to be replaced with the former royalty’s.

He wasn’t entirely sure how this had happened given the entire Royal Family of Albion was definitely dead. After all, he’d seen to that personally. Their armies had been crushed by the brutal combination of Reconquista’s ruthless tactics and the predations of his ultimate master’s unholy servant. There shouldn’t be anything left to resist.

But he could see the corpses of the rebels piled up outside the gates, a massive stone golem collapsed against one of the walls and what looked like a black cloud above the city turned out to be, upon use of magic to enhance his eyesight, a swarm of literally thousands of birds; of prey or otherwise. Many still had bloody talons and it was fairly easy for him to link that fact with the lack of eyes in many of the corpses.

Then there was the Wolf. For some reason his brain just added the capital letter on its own. The thing was the size of houses, plural, and it had been roaming around the outside of the city when he’d come into view. Now it was looking straight at him and he could have sworn it even met his gaze. From where she was tied to his saddle Louise couldn’t see it but she could tell he was dismayed.

“...” He opened his mouth to reply to her but it felt… pointless. Londinium had been his main hope. Taking her to the Reconquista and staying there for as long as he could in order to keep her away from the Mad King. Now, though… there wasn’t much of a choice. All of Halkegenia would be converging on Tristain to help repel Zharaqui’s insane assault and if they defeated it they’d be coming to Albion next. Saito wouldn’t be far behind him either.

Hating himself for the choice he was making Wardes spurred his exhausted steed to turn and head onward. There was another base to the North where he could commandeer an airship. Then he’d head to his last… well, his last point of retreat, he supposed. It was a bit of a stretch to call it either a ‘haven’, or even ‘safe’.

But, as things stood, Gallia was all he had left.

 

Captain Alden of the Reconquista airship noted, with some relief, that their target slowed as they approached and even began to fly their own colours; the familiar red flag easing some concerns. Of course nothing remained of the Royalist fleet but with the recent events in the Capitol he’d feared, as they all had, that a secret army was lurking in wait somewhere to sweep them from the isles.

That said army had yet to materialise, leaving the fall of Londinium a terrifying mystery, did nothing to ease the spirits of the rebels. Still, this looked to be a much needed supply run by one of the many airships sufficiently mercenary to be willing to sell to whomever could pay. Right now, that was them.

After an awkward minute or two the two ships were brought alongside and boarding planks lowered peacefully. No armed resistance materialised; indeed, the crew seemed entirely unarmed. Perhaps as a show of good faith, or perhaps they didn’t expect much trouble.

“Captain.” Alden inclined his head to the leader of the other ship that stepped forward to greet him; noting with a faint sense of trepidation that the man seemed somewhat nervous for some reason. His gaze was fixed firmly on Alden’s face and he seemed disinclined to look anywhere else. The crew, too, were similarly oddly tempered; those on deck were few and far between, merely the ones assigned to essential stations, and they all seemed to be pointedly staring away from his own vessel.

A quick glance back at his ship showed all in good order and he frowned before turning to the other man. “Are you alright?” The other captain swallowed heavily and nodded slowly.

“Aye. Just, ah, my first time doing the route, sir.” Well, that made some degree of sense. For all he knew he was about to have his supplies taken by force, without payment, and that wouldn’t do at all. Alden wasn’t a Noble by any stretch of the imagination and he’d joined the Reconquista specifically because of things such as that.

“No fear, my good man. You’ll be on your way soon enough. I just need to warn you that the delivery point for goods has altered; some fighting has broken out in Londinium and it’s not safe right now.” The other man looked quite surprised by this news, and even more nervous if anything.

“Oh aye? What happened? If I may ask?” There was a noticeable bead of sweat dripping down the captain’s face as he kept his gaze staunchly fixed on Alden and a growing sense of discomfort was starting to build in the pit of his stomach.

“A few traitorous elements remained. Inciting unrest in the populace.” That was the official line, anyway. In reality they’d just lost communication and been unable to penetrate the impossible blizzard surrounding the city. “As soon as the weather clears we’ll have it well in hand. Until then you need to go to the encampment in York for delivery.”

“Thank you.” The voice was soft and harsh, coming from behind him. Alden turned and saw, very briefly, a tableau of horror; all the men on his deck slumped in place with blood pouring from their cleanly necks. An apparition in red stood before him and he saw their hand flicker for a moment before feeling a heat spread across his throat. Then a hand grasped his shirt and casually shoved him into open air.

Fortunately for Alden, he passed out from blood loss before he hit the ground.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
​

It had taken all of Jakob’s willpower to not let his eyes flicker across to the events happening behind the Reconquista ship’s captain. The thing that had dragged him here in the first place had sort of just appeared over the side of the other ship and set about methodically murdering every single person on deck.

None of them had seen it coming as he’d leapt silently from kill to kill; cutting nearly all the way through their necks from behind with inhuman speed and delicacy. At this point, Jakob was utterly convinced that the boy was a vampire, an elf, or possibly some unholy fusion of the two. It was the only thing that made sense.

The last thing that he’d done was to go back to the other ship, severing the boarding ramp in the process, and for a moment Jakob thought he was free. That had been foolish of him. Instead, the monster had just torn through the mast with one arm, neat as you like, and then leapt back to their own ship before it had even hit the deck.

“Go.” Orders were called out before their master had finished going belowdecks; they swung away from the listing Reconquista ship as the living streamed up to the deck and cried out with confusion and dismay as they discovered the carnage. They had no idea how lucky they were to be merely stranded, floating in the middle of nowhere. With his power surely the boy could have sunk the whole vessel.

As they pulled away Jakob found himself wondering if he’d survive this trip. Things continuing as they had it was likely that they’d all be executed by their cargo at the other end; or upon the return. Maybe they should make a run for it when they dropped him off? Yet even that thought conjured up images of a furious spectre draped in red calmly explaining to his broken self that he’d have died much more quickly had it not been for the imposition of having to track him down.

It was almost a liberating feeling to resign himself to his fate. Perhaps, if all went well, he’d die quickly. Right now that seemed to be all that any of them could hope for.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
​

Agnès carefully finished drawing an outline of the enemy camp under the light of Matilda’s wand. The bulk of the enemy forces were arrayed there and the two of them had left with the wolf’s blessing to survey the enemy. Although the creature itself seemed near-divine it clearly was confident in dealing with an army only up to a point.

She could see why. The enemy forces looked formidable. There hadn’t been all that many guarding Londinium and the nature of their attack had given them a strong advantage. This would be much trickier.

“Do you have everything you need?” Agnès glanced at the green-haired woman and frowned. Her history was a colourful one, and not in a good way, which made her hard to trust. Knowing they were working with the former ‘Phantom Thief’ Fouquet was a little hard to stomach. Still… Tiffania trusted her, and Agnès owed that girl so much.

“More or less. I wish we could get a more accurate reading on their overall unit compositions but this will have to do.” She’d sketched the layout of their fortifications and taken notes as best she could as to the rough number of troops as well as the location of the command posts. If they could blitz them under cover of night and storm, take out the leaders…

Her thoughts were interrupted by spotting something; a ship floating in from the East. The camp had noticed it and a few of the traitor Nobles in their ranks seemed to be readying themselves. Matilda frowned and stared at the ship; she’d been using ‘Far Sight’ to pass details to Agnès until a moment ago and had yet to deactivate it.

Suddenly the woman turned pale and began to tremble. One hand seemed to move involuntarily to her throat and the other clenched her wand tightly. Agnès stared at the ship with her own inferior sight and tried to see if she could grasp any sign of what had startled the poor woman so. Then Matilda began to laugh.

“It’s over. We win. The war is over.” That brought Agnès up cold and she looked from Matilda to the ship; still slowly passing by the encampment as it circled around to the landing site. It was flying the Reconquista’s flag, but was it not theirs? The older woman was still laughing; sounding almost deranged in her vehemence.

“I don’t know what they did… but they’re all dead. Every last one. They brought him here.” Before Agnès could ask who was being referred to there Matilda pointed at the ship. A figure in a flowing red cloak had just appeared, strangely visible where he stood on the prow of the vessel. Even more visible as they stepped off into open air.

They dropped like a stone; falling like a bloody comet with a ruddy red-brown light suffusing them as they did so. When they hit the ground it shook and the entire plain trembled. Alarms were sounded, men being rallied and roused as the figure walked calmly out of the massive crater left by their landed; apparently unconcerned by the several hundred metre drop to the ground they’d just made. Matilda’s laughter had reached an insane fever pitch but, for the first time, Agnès realised she was also crying.

“It’s over…”

And then it began.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
​

The soldiers guarding the gate to the camp just had enough time to recognise the figure walking out of the billowing dust as a young man in a red cloak when, suddenly, he was gone. There was a moment of confusion as their minds rebelled against them; struggling to recall what they’d just seen as more than an impression of colour.

Then he landed between them and swung out with the two long knives in each hand; the force of his blows enhanced to the umpteenth degree by the shining white light on top of his hand. Their light armour wasn’t even able to keep their heads attached to their bodies for more than a second. He kicked the gate and it shattered inwards; spraying splinters over the startled Reconquista trying to rally inside.

Of the first to die none of them saw how it happened. There was just a flicker of red flashing towards them; an already inhuman level of speed multiplied by the power given to him by the familiar runes into something that defied comprehension. Heads sailed into the air with a single dash and a few leisurely swings. They were the lucky ones.

A Noble stepping out of their tent mid-cast found a dagger sprouting from their eye socket. Jeirazh began his work in earnest then; keeping a weapon in his weaker hand and leaving the stronger one free. Screams finally began to ring out as he charged the largest group of men he could see.

Impossible speed or not he could only kill them so quickly and there were thousands of them. He was not invincible to blade or shot and would, in the end, be brought down by a hundred grazing strikes from a thousand desperate men. Thus, he made sure to attack on two fronts at once.

Before him the first group of five were hit. He struck their armour and punched it inwards; trapping men in their own defensive accoutrements and stealing their breath away. This, however, was ineffective. The other dagger was discarded and swapped for a knuckle duster; the boost was necessary but free hands worked best for what he was going to do to them.

Working to his advantage was the curse of his people. Like this, in his true shape, he was like a wisp of fog both physically and mentally. The further he ranged the more confusion spread as those who had seen him attack their allies and friends desperately tried to hold on to their mental image of him to no avail. If he had been Saito in that moment they would have been able to recall him clearly and bring the full might of their army to bear. As it was…

A company was already under arms and starting to move into battle formation within the encampment; perhaps they’d already been prepared when he attacked. Still, they were his first target. As he moved between the tents he didn’t hesitate. A babyfaced soldier boy, barely sixteen if Jeirazh was any judge, weakly lunged at him with sword in hand; the clumsy strike effortlessly dodged and turned against its origin. He left the boy disarmed behind him and screaming at the pain of it.

The next one to clearly see him was armoured more heavily and tried to bring him down with a sweeping mace stroke. Jeirazh sidestepped clearly and then tentatively stomped on the mace where it hit the ground. To his glee the metal sank deeper and held his weight just long enough for him to push off it and kick the soldier in the head as he did so; the momentum sent him hurtling through the air with cloak flared behind him like a gigantic crimson bat. This drew even more attention and the army began to spread the word and converge.

There was the company. One hundred odd men, armed and armoured and with shouting Sergeants trying to bring them into order and rally them against him. He stepped up behind the nearest one in a blur of motion, wrapping his jaw around the man’s neck and applying pressure until his teeth met in the middle. The dislodged head went flying into the midst of the horrified troops who, at last, got a good look at him.

He stood taller than any of them right now; blood dripping from his muzzle and eyes glowing yellow in the dark. The claws weren’t all that effective as weapons, and didn’t register the rune benefits in any case, but they helped complete the package. To these men he looked nothing less than a monster. None of them wanted to act or charge; even as fires began to break out behind him and the screams of those he’d crippled on his way began to finally sound out.

It had been less than a minute since he hit the ground.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
​

Sitting in the forest overlooking the encampment, Agnès and Matilda watched the carnage in silence. It was hard to talk through all the screaming. In the few minutes since the red man had landed he’d cut a visible swath of destruction through the camp; marked by scores of dying men. Mostly dying, in fact. It was hard to see from here but even though he must have injured several hundred by now most of them were still moving.

Crawling, in most cases, admittedly but… even so. The only ones that seemed to die quickly were the Nobles that tried to confront the attacker. Their magic was negated with almost contemptuous ease and they themselves were rendered into no more than meat in an instant.

Just then he repeated a pattern he’d done twice already; shooting into the air and leaping sideways, in total defiance of all logic, to land outside the encampment. Then he circumnavigated it in a bloody blur of pain. The purpose of this was clear to see. Many had already tried to flee; running out through the front gate or the two holes in the wall he’d made with his re-entry the previous two times.

“He’s crippling them...” Agnès watched the man solidify beside a fleeing soldier and remove one of his legs at the knee before blurring into invisibility once more. He moved too fast for her eyes to follow reliably and in the moments between sightings she felt disoriented and confused. What was she even watching? That confusion faded quickly when she caught sight of him again but even so…

“No.” Matilda wordlessly reached out and offered a scrap of red fabric to Agnès. As soon as she took it she could suddenly remember everything. More than everything, even. The disorientation faded as she was able to recall the man between his moments of visibility. Beyond that, though, she could remember on several occasions spotting him in the past; out of the corner of her eye, watching the Princess from a distance. Yet when she’d thought to confront him she’d broken off in confusion as he slipped out of view and she’d just… forgotten.

“... what is… he?” The last word was tinged with a sort of horror as she stared at Matilda; who obviously knew about this abomination already. To her surprise the older woman laughed again, and then sighed.

“I don’t know. He saved me. Snapped my neck, then healed it and brought me back. Convinced my former masters I was dead. Gave me the mission; find Osmond, rescue my sister, and return to him. But I…” At that moment Matilda’s face went white as ash while she realised something clearly horrific. Then she swallowed heavily. “I disobeyed… I stayed here, and…”

Agnès saw the former thief trembling like a leaf in the wind and looked back to the camp. It took her a few moments to locate the blur of red that indicated the passage of the man once more. He’d just slammed headlong into a shield wall and broken it with sheer force; scattering the overlapping defence like dandelion seeds and literally leaping from flying body to flying body; kicking them down to the ground with bone-shattering force.

It all happened so fast Agnès felt she must be imagining what she was seeing, or confused. They’d moved as close as they dared to, given the distraction of the devastation being wrought before them, but even so…

“He’s not crippling them.” Having recovered some semblance of sanity, Matilda finally elaborated on her earlier point. “Their wounds are mortal. They’ll all die. Slowly. Painfully. Screaming in agony. Every new scream is a blade thrust at the heart of this force.” She pointed at those trying to flee despite the screaming wounded littering the plain around them.

“Look at them run. Even though they can see what will happen. Once enough are routing all at once he’ll let them go. They’ll never be soldiers again. He’s broken them.” In the midst of the enemy forces a change occurred. The flickering death that had been whittling through the ranks piece by piece ground to a halt. He stopped and faced the largest group of survivors, head on; standing there and waiting.

They gave it all they had. Crossbows unloaded, javelins and spears were flung, even a handful of spells unleashed. It was all pointless. With a slow, calm stride he gradually crossed the twenty metre distance between him and the line as if it was a casual stroll. Maybe it was, for him. Each incoming shot was deflected, dodged or negated without incident and with what looked like minimal effort.

Finally, as he reached the front lines a massive soldier in heavy plate with a two-handed sword broke ranks and charged him; swinging their blade in a brutal overhead cleave that split the air and then, quite suddenly, stopped. There was silence among the soldiers save for the screams of their dying in that moment as they all stared at the same possibility.

The monster had caught the falling blade between forefinger and thumb. It was held there, not straining at all in either direction no matter how the giant of a man tried to pull or push it. Then there was a loud crack as the surface of the blade splintered. Following by thumb and fingertip coming together; punching through the steel to meet in the middle.

That did it. Whatever semblance of morale might have remained was broken by that display. They all turned and ran every which way, as fast as their legs could carry them. Whereupon Matilda’s predictions as to the path of the battle were proven to be terribly, horribly misguided.

For the man had picked up a discarded blade of his own, a two-hander he wielded as if it were a butter knife, and begun to work. Circling around, chasing down the fleeing soldiers and striking them down in twos and threes with massive swings that bisected them horizontally, diagonally and in a few rare cases vertically.

These ones weren’t left to bleed slowly to death. It wasn’t a rout. It was a massacre. Once he was done nobody was standing on the entire plains except for him. He then began methodically moving to the Nobles that had yet to bleed out; cauterising their wounds and forcibly bringing them into consciousness in the process.

“... we’d best go see him.” Matilda stood and began to weakly walk out of the treeline. Agnès agonised, but eventually stood and began to follow her. As they slowly approached he paid them no mind whatsoever; merely crushing the throats of the Nobles he spoke to one by one as they gave him answers he clearly didn’t like.

As they picked their way through the bodies Agnès couldn’t help but pick up one of the discarded blades. She paused here and there to deliver a swift end to some of the more agonised soldiers in their path; going to all of them would have taken so long they’d like as not be dead by the time she reached them. Even so, she couldn’t just leave them…

“Matilda.” Now she was closer Agnès could see the inhumanness of what she’d originally taken for a man. It looked more like some painter had tried to draw a wolf walking on two legs and wearing human clothing. However, that image was shattered again as, with a crackle of lightning, the shape changed. Fur vanished, eyes stopped glowing, and proportions altered until an oddly familiar young man stood before them.

“... Jeirazh. Sir. I-” A blood-soaked hand was held up to forestall any further comments from her. Matilda stared at the ground, shaking in place.

“Save it. I will admit, I am blindingly furious right now,” A statement which, combined with the sudden murderous tone that contrasted the curiously polite voice and mannerisms, made Agnès freeze up on the spot, “That isn’t on you. Whatever you have done, you did it for your family and your people. I can’t fault you that.” Then his gaze fell on Agnès.

“You must the Princess’ former guard, Agnès. I’m sorry to say that you’ve been charged with the murder of Prince Wales, in absentia, and stripped of your rank as a traitor to the crown.” The words stung more than she’d thought they would, but weren’t unexpected. After this was all over she’d have to present herself before the Queen and beg for whatever mercy she might get. “But, given your accuser has kidnapped the Royal Playmate and proven himself a traitor I suspect you’ll be fine.” There was a moment of relief, and then…

“Louise?”

“Miss Vallière?”

Her voice and Matilda’s had rung out in unison; her own incredulous and the other woman’s horrified. At last the link in her head clicked and Agnès couldn’t help but point in horror. “You’re! That boy familiar! But… how… you’re… what are you?” Saito, that was his name. He seemed to take it in stride and smiled coldly; gesturing for them to follow as he began to walk toward the command tent.

“Viscount Wardes asked for Louise’s hand in marriage, then kidnapped her after she got cold feet at the wedding. He also tried to kill myself and her sister in the process. An investigation of a number of private letters I’m sure he thinks he burned will demonstrate that he has been a traitor for… some time.” Matilda turned a little red at that and Agnès glowered at her.

“This whole time, you knew?” The older woman seemed a little affronted and looked away.

“Well, we haven’t exactly been talking about what happened with you, have we? You rather glossed over it all. And I didn’t exactly want to tell my little sister what I’ve…” She broke off and stared at the ground once more; clearly ashamed. Agnès felt anger cooling slowly. It was hard to hate Matilda when she’d been as much of a pawn in this as anyone, by her own admission.

“Regardless, I thought he’d come here. I only just learned of the fall of Londinium and this encampment. No sign of him… your doing?” Saito looked to Matilda, who perked up and nodded.

“Yes. I found Osmond, per your instructions, and explained the situation. Then we came to collect my sister. However, I found Agnès with her and… something else.” Saito looked interested, so she continued. “She seems to have summoned a familiar. A rather tremendous wolf, with extraordinary abilities.” That brought him up cold and he turned to look at her.

“A wolf… vast size?” She nodded. “Power over the weather?” Another nod. A look of grim, nasty satisfaction filled his face and he began to smirk. “Of course. Of course. This is… haha… too perfect. Let us go and retrieve your sister and the Headmaster. I know exactly where Wardes must be. And Asilah, in her wisdom, has granted us exactly what we need.” The name was unfamiliar to her, but by his tone…

“You’re familiar with the creature?” Saito nodded, his expression still fierce, as he looked for thing to carry them. It seems he’d startled off all their cavalry during the fighting.

“Of course. He is the First Wolf of Kelicho. Rejoice, my dears. That creature is the closest you’ll ever get to seeing a god in the flesh. And my people have a very cordial relationship with his woman.” He began to chuckle then; low and dark and full of malice.

And although Agnès knew they probably deserved whatever was coming to them she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the fools that had made this man their enemy.

 

Louise de la Vallière truly had to wonder why any person would have built a room like this. She had no idea who could possibly own the castle, given there was little way for her to tell where they had been going from above, but the art and architecture appeared to be Gallian to her unprofessional eye. Still, even with the peculiarities of that nation this was…

The room was evenly divided by a wall of iron bars; her side furnished as if it was a normal room. She had a bed and a dresser and even a window, also thickly barred, as well as a small area with a curtain for privacy. A large table extended across the barrier, bars running right through it, and had a rising slat in the middle. It was unerring to think that Wardes had known to bring her here in particular. Equally so was the very low number of servants they’d seen as he’d dragged her in here; all of them had seemed quite skittish as well.

There had been an overwhelming urge to stab the traitorous bastard on many occasions but reason had stayed her blade. Firstly, Louise knew she would only get one shot in and she was not very confident in her ability to kill her ex-fiancé regardless of how much she despised him right now. Secondly, she had no idea where she was or how far away she was from safety. Lastly…

Sentiment. Perhaps Saito would have chided her for it. But she still had faint memories of Wardes from when she was much younger; where he was smiling and kind and gentle to the girl that didn’t really understand what ‘engagement’ meant. Then more recent times. Sympathy and pain alongside hers. He had helped her so, had he not? Which is why it hurt so very much to remember those dreadful moments at her estate.

It had happened, though. For all that kindness it had happened. Which was why when the door opened and the man himself stepped in with a covered tray she fixed him with stare full of every ounce of venom that she could muster. However, his reaction was not what she had expected. If anything it hurt her heart all the more to see the faint pain in his face before it forced itself back into a dispassionate mask.

“I don’t know how long we can stay here before… before I’m called to my master. Enjoy what freedoms you have while they last.” Though she deeply wished to scoff openly at his words the better part of her was chilled by them instead. Some weeks ago she might have insulted his choice of words, but now? Louise knew from the tales of Saito and Kenneth that there were worse fates than mere imprisonment. Worse fates than a simple death.

“... so you are a traitor after all. I had rather hoped you had just taken leave of your senses, Viscount, and decided to force an elopement. A far more romantic notion than treason.” In that moment she was every bit her mother’s daughter. Sitting calm and firm in the face of her adversary and letting him know just how far beneath her he was. Her particular emphasis had him visibly wince and yet he didn’t defend himself.

“I brought you soup.” After a long silence he finally laid the tray down; uncovering it. There was a steaming bowl there, with appropriate cutlery, and he pushed it up to the middle of the table. As he opened the slat to push it through the bars he continued. “I asked the cook to leave out the onions.” Louise stared at the soup and then gave him a withering look.

“I am very nearly a grown woman, Viscount, and for your information I stopped refusing to eat onions when I was nine. Tell me, has your understanding of me always been so shallow?” She stepped forward and shoved the tray roughly back. The bowl upended itself and soup spilled all over the table before starting to trickle on to the floor. Wardes sighed heavily.

“Louise, you really mus-” But whatever she ‘must’ do was to remain an unknown as a fire lit in her heart and eyes. Louise stormed up to the bars and grasped them; glaring at the man who would have been her husband with naked hatred.

“You shall call me Lady Vallière or you shall not address me at all, Viscount! I for one can think of no remaining bond between us that would allow you such familiarity with me.” Then she spun away and stormed off to stare out the window. The weather outside was dreadful but it was a sight more pleasant by far than that man’s face.

“Louise…” She heard Wardes sigh when she didn’t respond to him. There was a muttered incantation and then a slosh of water as he presumably cleaned up behind her. Then the sound of wood dragging across stone. “Louise. Please. I didn’t want… I don’t want… you have to understand, I had no choice.” She continued to ignore him for some time. When she did spoke the tone was as if she was speaking to the air itself; devoid of any emotion for any potential listeners.

“My mother says that only cowards lack choice in their actions. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that you would count amongst their ranks.” He didn’t seem to have a response for that. Louise remained thus, staring into the dark sky beyond and pointedly not turning around, for as long as she possibly could. Eventually, however, curiosity got the better of her. She turned around.

Wardes wasn’t even looking at her. He was staring into the middle distance between them; transfixed by something visible only in the recesses of his mind. She frowned and stepped gingerly closer. There was something off about him. He’d cast his hat aside and even removed his cloak; both were laying on the ground with no further thought given to them. Now that she really looked at him the man looked simply awful.

His eyes were red and puffy, his face pale and gaunt. She hadn’t noticed that during the ceremony. In fact, she was sure he’d looked much healthier then. His breathing seemed to be slightly heavy and the way he sat indicated he was favouring his right side. As if some pain suffused his left.

“You’re right. I had a choice. Once. I made the wrong one. Now there are no other paths left to me, and I am rapidly losing value to the one I serve. Once he has you…” Wardes let out a mirthless chuckle. “I suspect I will not be long for this world, my dear. He’ll have what he needs then. The legendary Void Mage.” Then he looked her in the eyes and she felt her stomach drop into the floor.

“You… what do you mean? Explain yourself at once!” Yet the infuriating man merely chuckled and slowly shook his head.

“I’m not surprised you never figured it out. I wouldn’t know the details either, but they were explained to me a few years ago. There are two main factors for identifying a Void Mage.” He held up his wand, not the swordwand still sheathed at his side, and waved it vaguely. “First; their magic always fails in some way. They definitively have magic, of course, but they cannot perform normal spells of the Four Elements.”

Thoughts were churning like waves in Louise’s head as he spoke. How had she never thought of it? Well, because it would have seemed heretical to even entertain the notion. Clearly she was magically able, if not entirely capable, but her spells all failed spectacularly. Why? There was no reason. Unless... “And then the second interesting feature. They always summon a humanoid familiar.” What? That made no sense… yet, Guiche... of course, their spells had been intertwined. It was a miracle they had succeeded at all.

“Naturally, my master was, heh, ecstatic when I informed him that two individuals at the Tristainian Academy had summoned humanoid familiars.” Part way through the sentence Wardes had let out a curious little laugh that Louise couldn’t understand. “Process of elimination meant it was you. Congratulations, Louise.” The words seemed to ring hollow. She could see it in his eyes; even he didn’t mean them.

“... you said you made the wrong choice. What was it?” If nothing else she desperately wanted to understand how the kind and noble man she thought she’d known had really been this pathetic wretch all along.

“It’s… no, it’s not a long story, exactly. My mother was a magical researcher, much like…” He shook his head and grimaced as she glared at him. “In any case. She fell into madness. Took her own life. I searched and searched, desperately trying to find out why. All I could find in her journal was the last thing she’d written. A symbol scrawled in her own blood.” The story had taken a turn that Louise hadn’t expected and she couldn’t help but feel some pangs of sympathy for him.

That didn’t mean she would show it, however. Much as Saito did she kept her gaze impassive and level. An effect slightly ruined by the fact that Wardes seemed unwiling to look at her; instead appearing engrossed in the ceiling as he leaned back and continued with his tale. “I sought that symbol for so long, Louise. Then, by sheer chance, I found it. A tattoo on a woman’s hand. A servant to the King of Gallia.” There was a faint trembling that seemed to be filling Wardes; a barely perceptible shaking was moving through his body as he spoke in a soft, dispassionate tone.

Louise found a chill running down her spine with no apparent cause. Something about his manner was putting her on edge. “I spoke to him. And he told me what my mother had found. What he had found. There was a calamity coming that would destroy all of Halkegenia. One which he could save me from. Not only me; but also those I cared about. More than that, he…” And here Wardes’ mask finally cracked just as emotion choked up his voice. “He showed me her. My mother. Brought her back to life right in front of me. Perfect in every detail. And promised me that nobody I loved would ever need to die again if only I served him.”

Such a blandishment… Louise’s heat was torn. If someone told her they could save her mother, restore her to the peak of health immediately… would she be able to say no? Yet Wardes’ expression was decidedly not that of a man that had received everything he wanted. “I agreed. And that was a mistake. It had all seemed to make sense at first. There was such an elegant plan… control the nations from within. At first it was just information. But then he asked me to act. At first it was fine, until…” Wardes sighed.

“He asked too much of you, didn’t he?” Louise had guessed this part already, yet when he nodded she felt an odd sense of relief. Even so, clearly he still referred to that man as his master. Therefore… “What did they do to you, Jean Jacques?” He was very still for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he unbuttoned his shirt halfway and opened it to show her a small black spot on his skin just above the heart.

“It’s called ‘Blight’. A magical malady of some sort. Held in check entirely by the willpower of my patron. If he releases that will then it will expand. The effect…” Wardes’ face went a little green at the memory he had to recall for this. “Is variable. Either I will become a shambling, undead thing that still acts at his behest. Else my flesh will essentially gain the consistency of weathered glass. My own heartbeat would kill me then.” The almost innocuous spot did seem to have a strange reflectiveness to its surface and merely seeing it was making her feel rather ill.

Louise’s head was reeling from all of this and the sensation didn’t help. She stood and stumbled to her bed; collapsing upon it. There she lay for a time as she tried to sort out her thoughts and feelings. Willingly or no, he’d still threatened her family. Still hurt people. Ones she cared for deeply. He’d tried to murder Saito; who, she now knew, was clearly far more than he appeared to be. That was an entirely different breakdown for an entirely different time.

In the end she sat up and faced him with a sort of melancholy resolve. Because in the end there were plenty of reasons for what he had done, yes. But no excuses. None that Louise could accept from him. Not after what he’d done. What he’d been a part of.

“I understand you quite well now, Jean-Jacques. And I do pity you greatly. Nevertheless.” She fixed him with her most steely gaze and stared straight into his eyes. There she saw hope and pain and sadness beyond measure. None of which swayed her in the least. “I cannot forgive you any of your actions. You are as much a coward as I first thought you and when your master kills you for delivering me it will be no less than you deserve.”

Nothing else passed between them after that. Wardes eventually broke eye contact first and stood; leaving the room in silence. There was nothing for him to say. He must have known he was damned from the moment he chose this path. Even so; he had to have known it could never end well.

And yet, as Louise collapsed upon her bed and cried into her pillow, she still wasn’t sure if she had told him the truth.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

“Evidence from the wreckage seems to indicate, your Majesty, that the fleet was not from Albion. It appears to have been Gallian in design; though flying the flag of the Reconquista.” General Tréville relayed the results of the report to the war council with a heavy heart. If this news were true it made them all the more fools for it; voices had cried out for war with the Albionese rebels and Germania in equal measure but nobody had foreseen this madness. The Queen pursed her lips with genteel dignity.

“I see. Details for which we have independent verification?” The Royal Messenger himself, Count Mott, nodded and stepped up with a letter in hand. Its gold-leafed wax seal had been broken of course but he still handed it over reverentially; as he did so the Cardinal Mazarin made the holy sign of Brimir across his chest.

“A letter from Pope Aegis Thirty-Two, your Majesty, delivered by General Iulius of the First Divine Legion. The Holy Church of Romalia has declared a Crusade against the Reconquista in light of past events.” Some of the older men in the room groaned heavily and more than one person looked outright ashamed. What an embarrassment this was turning out to be. “He verified the findings before returning in his personal vessel to Romalia, where he will be petitioning his Holiness to change targets.”

“A small grace, but not a short journey. With their fleet gone Gallia will be at a disadvantage but they may well have unloaded troops before releasing their abominations upon our troops.” Lord Dampierre grumbled out his pessimistic opinion but nobody could contradict him here. The Queen did not sigh but still looked to one of the younger men in the room; the Viscount de Aumal and, to his misfortune, current leader of the Manticore Knights.

“How are young Gramont and his familiar doing? I understand they were instrumental in turning the tide of the engagement.” Aumal nodded and glanced at his copy of the repot for a moment.

“Indeed, your Majesty. With the help of a local by name of… ‘Jeima’, he was able to retrieve some mystical artifact that had been concealed in the town of Tarbes for safekeeping by said man’s ancestor. It was inordinately effective against these ‘Wights’. As for the pair, they are currently at convalesence within the castle” The Queen nodded and looked over to the Maquis de Turenne.

“Henri, that town falls within your lands, does it not?” The man nodded slowly, unsure of his Queen’s point. “Are you especially attached to it?” That made the rotund man scoff slightly and shake his head.

“Not particularly, Majesty. I had to be reminded it was mine when we picked the plain for the muster point. You may do with it as you will.” The Queen smiled at him and then gestured for Mott to approach.

“Take note, Count. I hereby grant the village of Tarbes and all the associated lands along with the title of Baron to one Jeima of Tarbes. Unless his family line ceases with no heir apparent they shall retain the rights in perpetuity, regardless of magical capability. Are there any objections?” There was some muttering of discontent but nobody could muster up any true complaints. While the man was common as muck to their mind he had still volunteered a truly powerful item that had indeed saved a great many lives.

“I have heard that the young ladies of Tarbes are possessed of a particular beauty. With a title available, perhaps some of your younger sons might like to join the family?” Mott’s suggestion brightened their expressions somewhat; a potential title, however minor, for their second or third sons that came with land of its own that didn’t need to be carved out of their own estates would be quite welcome. The Queen nodded, evidently pleased, and continued.

“In addition, I shall be granting the title of Chevalier to Guiche de Gramont and Kenneth Manson alike. I realise that the latter is neither a citizen of Tristain nor even human; however, I think we can agree that they deserve this and more.” According to the report the dwarf had managed to lose an arm in the fighting, though it was a little unclear on the details for some reason, which was proof enough of his ferocity.

Although there were a few dark spots in the events that had unfolded which needed to unravelled, particularly regarding the execution of allied soldiers mid-combat, by all accounts both had conducted themselves with immense valour. A vast majority of the tainted dragons had been slain by Ser Manson, and Guiche had ended the initial battle almost single-handedly.

“Very good. Now then, it is clear that we are facing an enemy with grave and unholy power at their disposal. I suggest we reach out to Germania for assistance in this conflict.” A titter of consternation filled the room but the Queen silenced it with no more than a quirked brow. “Gentlemen. We face a crisis unlike any in the history of our fair Tristain. As it stands, it seems unlikely that whatever plans King Joseph has for us will stop at our borders. He has demonstrated a willingness to attack without provocation and in a time of peace. There is also good reason to believe he is responsible for the death of Prince-”

She was cut off by a vigorous knocking at the door. Frowning, Count Mott went to open it and berate the servant on the other side for their interruption; only to find that it was no servant at all but a Knight red-faced and gasping for air.

“Y-your… Majesty…” He wheezed and stumbled into the room; grabbing on to Mott for support much to the man’s clear dismay. “There’s… troop… Knights… approaching gate… Albion flag…” The Queen’s expression grew even darker at that word and her response practically dripped with malice.

“Ah, the Reconquista shows their hand at last I see. Aumal, take wing with your best men and apprehend these impost-” Then, much to everyone’s clear surpise, the Knight cut off his own Queen with a frantic explosion of words.

“No, your Majesty! Their leader is… it’s Prince Wales, ma’am!”