Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A nameless man sat atop his tower and opened his eyes.

An endless sea of scenes and sensations unfolded before him. A brother's hug. A child's prayer. Blood dripping from a blade. A family eating dinner. Screams suddenly silenced. Cheers. 

A kaleidoscope of sights and sounds battered him like waves in a storm, the disjointed moments in time flashing before him and vanishing just as quickly. Scenes of the past, present, and future shot past, faster than even he could comprehend them. Reflexively, defensively, his mind assigned metaphor and symbolism to the chaos to help him weather the sheer cacophony of information. To turn the raw sensations of living a thousand moments every second into something his mind could process without breaking. The riotous display was enough to overwhelm, even shatter an unprepared mind. He was well accustomed to the experience and even he needed a moment to center himself, to gradually submerge himself and ensure he was not pulled under.

He concentrated and instilled some order to the chaos. The scenes flashed by too quickly to comprehend but he could exert his will to slow them enough to make sense of them. He looked to his anchorage points, moments in time he knew well and could reliably find even amidst the endlessly shifting tide of images and sounds. The past solidified, cemented. He took his bearings amidst the familiar landscape of what had been and looked forward. His awareness of the present spread and he had the always curious feeling of seeing himself, sitting in his chair, blind and deaf to the world around him even as he saw and heard more than any man could.

The future spread out infinitely. Endlessly changing possibilities danced before him, reaching out beyond the horizon, farther than even he could see. A thousand, thousand futures were obliterated every instant and replaced by even more potentialities. He could, and often did, distill meaning and knowledge from even that tangled skein, but that was a draining process and thankfully not his purpose now. He sought what was, not what could be.

As it always was in recent days, his gaze was drawn to the shadow. It loomed out of the corner of his eye, to use a defensive metaphor, always present but just out of sight. If it were caused by anything else, he might almost be grateful for how it obscured some of the visions before him and reduced the stress of perceiving all of reality and possibility at once. If only the visions he wanted most weren’t hidden within its ominous murk.

He eyed the shadow with trepidation. He still felt the pain from his last attempt to pierce it, to force his sight through the veil hatefully woven to block it. Duty demanded he burn himself on those flames again, and soon, no matter how it cost him. There was no one else who could.

He put the shadow out of his mind, turned his attention back to his task. Images sharpened and came into focus as he bent his will toward his goal. He flew across the sea, over mountains and under valleys, seeking the familiar face. His view narrowed as he closed in until there was only one island, one city, one room before him.

There you are. He marked the location and withdrew slowly enough to perceive his surroundings as he followed the path back to himself. His goal was not the place but the directions to it, after all. He locked them in his mind’s eye, memorizing them even as the visions faded and fatigue replaced them. That even such a simple search could exhaust him so, he thought ruefully as he took a selfish moment’s rest. A weariness had sunk into his bones of late, but there was still much and more he needed to do today and a proper rest would have to wait.

He ignored the tiredness that weighed down on him and forced his true eyes open. He rose from his chair and relayed his findings to the eagerly waiting faces before him.

Deep within the shadow, its malevolent source lurked unseen. With patience born of a hatred so intense it burned cold, it waited within the shroud it had woven. It had not perceived the man’s foray, nor would it have cared if it had. It already knew his purpose and welcomed it, had prepared for it. All it needed to do, was wait. 

Soon.

Chapter Text

The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the colorful streets of Radz-at-Han, and they were beginning to become crowded. Many Thavnairians preferred to conduct their business outside of the blazing heat of the midday hours, a habit Marcus Dorne had come to adopt in his time there.

He cut an unassuming figure, a Hyur man with short dark hair, blue eyes, and the kind of features that could be seen a dozen times walking down the street in any Eorzean city-state. His armor, as well as the sword on his hip and shield on his back, were well-crafted but with only a small degree of detailing, made by Tataru’s artisans according to his instructions to match his preference for a simpler aesthetic. Even the one distinguishing feature he did have, a scar that bisected his left cheek, was a furtive thing, a thin, nearly horizontal line that often blended in with the rest of his skin almost like it was trying to hide itself. What’s more, he was accompanied by a female Miqo’te, who one would think would garner greater attention for sheer rarity value in the Near Eastern metropolis. And if not, then her striking silver hair and eyes would almost certainly draw the eye over her much plainer companion.

And yet, it was Marcus who grabbed the attention of most passerby. Those that saw him often hastened to clear his path and whispers followed after the duo as he and Y’shtola made their way to Meghaduta. It was, in a way, a nice change of pace. He certainly preferred this respectful distance to the fawning he sometimes received in other cities, but he still dealt with even this limited degree of attention with an air of resignation. It made him feel uncomfortable, even now, to be viewed as such a figure of towering importance. But alas, he was the Warrior of Light, the Champion of Eorzea, the Savior of Ishgard, and bearer of so many other grandiose titles he had stopped bothering to keep track of them all. A bit of gawking was inevitable.

Still, though not being entirely comfortable with his fame, he was accustomed to it and was not about to let it ruin his good mood. He’d had a productive day today helping the local hippo riders with their fledgling business, had managed to pry Y’shtola out of the Great Work without too much hassle, and was looking forward to an unfortunately rare evening together. Their respective schedules often didn’t permit it, between her intense focus on her current project of transmuting an artificial Atomos and his obligations pulling him to other continents on a regular basis, and he intended to make the most of each opportunity.

“How is the work on the Atomos going?” He asked casually as they waited for a cart to trundle past.

Y’shtola shrugged. “Better than I had feared, worse than I had hoped.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much I can do to help?” Marcus offered. He was no alchemist, but he knew there had to be grunt work that went into such a large project that only required a strong back and a willingness to follow instructions.

Y’shtola looked up at him with the hint of a smile to show she appreciated the offer even as she declined it. “None that would not be a gross waste of your prodigious talents.”

“Well, I would hate to waste my talents.” Marcus said drily. “Completely unrelated, but do you want to hear how my day delivering packages went?”

She smirked at the joke. “I concede there are precious few things that would fully utilize your abilities. A greater reason not to have you hanging around the Great Work would be the potential for distraction.”

“Oho, so I would distract you?” Marcus said with a smug grin. Y’shtola kept her features neutral, but could not keep the hint of humor out of the corners of her mouth.

“I’m willing to let you believe that you would be distracting me.” She said with deliberate irony.

Marcus chuckled. “I do love how you are so considerate.”

Whatever Y’shtola was going to say in reply was cut off by a shout.

“You there!” An authoritative voice rang out, cutting through the chatter of the crowd. Like most people on the street, Marcus turned towards the noise. Unlike most people, he froze in shock at the sight of the speaker.

A trio of armed and armored men were pushing their way through the crowd. Their armor consisted of a visorless helm, gauntlets, greaves, and a chest plate with pauldrons. The metal had little in the way of ornamentation beyond the silvery hue of its polished mythril that blurred the line between it and the padded silver doublet and breeches worn beneath it. They each wore a sword on their hip and carried a shield on their backs. Plain, utilitarian equipment. Forged to be easy to use, easy to maintain, and hard to break.

Marcus knew that armor. He had worn it himself, a lifetime ago. His eyes locked with the man in front and Marcus knew the shout had been directed at him.

Reacting on instinct, he swept Y’shtola’s legs out from under her and brought her up in his arms in a single motion. Powerful legs bent, flexed as strength coursed through them. Like an arrow loosed from a bow, the two of them shot into the sky. Another shout receded behind them.

“Stop!”

Marcus had no intention of stopping. Riding the wind with his dragoon’s leap, he and Y’shtola flew over the building and landed in the next street over. She was looking at him with shock as he set her back down on her own feet. He opened his mouth to explain, when he heard a yell.

“Over there!”

There were more, two women and a man, all wearing that damnably familiar armor. Marcus hurriedly glanced back at Y’shtola.

“What-” she began before he cut her off. He wasn’t sure he had answers to her understandable questions. Not ones that wouldn’t take a lot more time than he had right now.

“Listen, some people are after me. Whatever happens, don’t interfere.”

He took off running before she could protest. He quickly left her behind, Y’shtola not having anywhere near the physicality to match him in a full tilt sprint. He just hoped she listened. He wasn’t about to submit to his long overdue punishment, but neither did he want her to vaporize the poor sods who were just doing their duty.

To be honest, he hadn’t expected anyone to come after him, not after all this time. But, as he rounded a corner and spotted yet another trio, it would seem they had come in force. Marcus hastily turned down another street and kept running. He was reasonably confident he could fight his way free if cornered, but he couldn’t in good conscience bring himself to take up arms against his pursuers. 

Still, he knew the city well and it was a safe bet his hunters didn’t. He could out-distance them and find a place to hide before they could corner him. He considered making his way to Meghaduta. It wasn’t his proudest moment, but hiding behind the Satrap’s authority would be a way to avoid swords drawn over the matter and he was reasonably confident Vrtra wouldn’t be willing to extradite him. But that would bring questions and he was still finding himself short on answers. He hadn’t exactly prepared a story to explain why he was being hunted halfway across the world.

For lack of a better idea, he kept moving through the brightly colored streets. He could find somewhere to go to ground, maybe even flee the city if it came down to it. All he had to do was avoid his pursuers until he could reach safety. He raced past a group of Radiants who were startled at his hasty passage and grabbed at their weapons.

“Stay out of this!” He shouted back to them, not sure if they heard him but unwilling to stop and explain. He was still maintaining the hope he could resolve this by running away from it, like he had all those years ago. That hope withered when he glanced down a cross street and saw a man in a different suit of familiar armor, this one a set he had never worn other than in dreams.

The Knight looked as surprised to see Marcus as Marcus was to see him. His eyes narrowed in recognition and Marcus grimaced.

“Shit.”

Y’shtola raced through Radz-at-Han, following the sounds of chaos.

She ran up to a vendor whose stall had its contents strewn on the ground after someone ran into it. “Where did they go?” Her tone and expression brooked no argument and the Arkasodara man wordlessly pointed down one of the interconnecting streets. Wasting not another second on him, Y’shtola took off running again with her mind awhirl.

Marcus was being chased by someone. Several groups of someones, all wearing similar armor that suggested they were part of an organized military force. One that she did not recognize, but he clearly did. The chase was sowing no small amount of chaos throughout the city as Marcus eluded his pursuers but could not shake them.

She rounded a corner, lungs burning from the exertion of running across half of Radz-at-Han and spotted another trio of the hunters. One had his hand on his ear, the unmistakable gesture of a man receiving a linkpearl call. He said something to his comrades and they sprinted off, ignoring her call for them to wait. With little other choice, Y’shtola followed after them.

She could have cast one of several spells that would force them to stop and answer her questions, but she refrained. Marcus had told her not to interfere, and she would trust his judgement. To a point, at least. Magically shackling one of them would probably rate as interfering, no matter how tempting it was to make someone explain to her what was going on. She reassured herself that, as far as she had seen, their swords were staying firmly in their sheaths. Whoever these men and women were, they did not appear to be about to engage in violence.

Following the trio bore fruit, as she came upon them having cornered Marcus down an alley.

“Warrior of Light! Stop! We-” Whatever the leader was going to say was cut off by Marcus nimbly leaping over one of the buildings surrounding them. “Damnit!” He shouted instructions into his linkpearl while leading his fellows down another alleyway.

Y’shtola came to a stop, not just because she needed a moment to catch her breath. She had been cooped up too long recently, she thought ruefully, though she knew even those whose aetheric talents were of a more physical nature would likely find this chase tiring. She was not going to be able to catch up to Marcus, not when he was moving fast enough to outrun multiple teams of people coordinating via linkpearl. She needed a new approach. She began walking down the road to where, if she was correct about her current location, a guard post was located. Perhaps she could coordinate herself with the squads of Radiants that were undoubtedly being stirred up by the commotion.

Her attention was seized by another man running into view at the end of the street. His armor was a full panoply of gilded plate not dissimilar to Marcus’s own attire, but also with clear similarities in style to the pursuers. A greatsword nearly as tall and broad as he was slung across his back. The tower shield worn alongside it suggested the immense weapon was meant to be wielded one handed and the man’s hulking figure made Y’shtola doubt he would have any trouble doing so.

A leader, or at least a champion. Y’shtola could tell at a glance that he might be the best person to answer her questions and was also the most likely person to finally succeed in running Marcus down.

“You there!” She shouted, but the soldier paid as much attention to her cries as Marcus did to the cries of his fellows and kept moving. With a disappointed click of her tongue, Y’shtola ignored the fatigue weighing down her body and resumed running.

The man moved with the pace of someone in a hurry, but not outright running and he was still so quick she could barely keep up. Thankfully, she didn’t need to follow him long before Marcus passed into view again. He had leapt onto a rooftop again and after a moment coiling his legs beneath him shot with a dragoon’s agility into the air. From somewhere below, a chain forged of pure aether shot out and snared him around the leg. His flight arrested, Marcus fell backwards towards the source of the magic chain, it snaking around him to pin his arms to his chest, and dropped behind the buildings in front of her.

“Finally.” The man she was following said, sounding more exasperated than anything. Y’shtola decided not to bother shouting another futile demand for explanation as he rushed off, now truly running towards where Marcus had landed. Heedless of the growing hitch in her side, she followed as fast as she could.

She arrived at a growing crowd in a public plaza. She ungently forced her way through the milling people and finally caught up to Marcus. He was on his knees, the softly glowing chain still wrapped around his arms and torso. His pursuers were gathering here, nine of the more plainly grabbed soldiers and four of the ones with ornate armor. Each of the latter were beacons of aether, far more powerful than the others and comparable in might to elite adventurers. These four surrounded Marcus, one woman still holding the other end of the chain that bound him, while the other soldiers surrounded them facing outwards.

Even as she watched, another trio of the lesser soldiers pushed through the crowd and took up positions. None of them had drawn their swords, but the line of armed and armored men was proving an effective cordon keeping the bystanders away. Nevertheless, there were increasingly concerned and angry voices coming from the crowd that suggested they might be provoked to action soon. Y’shtola elected not to step forward and challenge Marcus’ captors just yet. Doing so might just kick off a riot, and it was possible this could all be resolved peacefully still.

She craned her ears to listen as Marcus spoke. “Four Knights were sent after me? I think I’m a little flattered.”

The knight Y’shtola had been following cocked his head in confusion. “You know who we are?”

Marcus similarly cocked his head, sounding equally confused. “Wait, you mean you don’t know who I am?”

“You are Marcus Dorne, the Warrior of Light.” The knight answered. He hesitated. “Are you not?”

“Marcus.” Marcus repeated to himself, still sounding perplexed. His gaze centered on the knight again. “You mean you’re not here to arrest me for desertion?”

“Desertion?” The knight repeated, sounding as surprised as Y’shtola felt. Marcus regularly sought out battles and conflict to lend his hand as much as possible, even despite the best efforts of her and the other Scions at times. To hear that he had deserted any sort of army was shocking, to say the least.

The knight processed the implications of Marcus’ admission. “You are an Elarian soldier.” Y’shtola’s brow furrowed. So Marcus was from Elarion. That confirmed her long-standing theory as to his origins, though the confirmation left more than a few questions. The knight’s features hardened as he made a decision. “Then you are under arrest.”

He punctuated the statement by drawing his sword. On that signal, the other Elarians drew their weapons as well. And with that, Y’shtola decided they were past her aforementioned point.

“Unhand him, at once!” She demanded, stepping forward and drawing her staff. To her left, a squad of Radiants pushed through the crowd, their spears held at the ready. The leader pointed at the knights.

“Release the Warrior of Light and lay down your weapons!”

Marcus’ eyes widened with genuine fear. “No!” He struggled against the chain to rise. “No, stay back!”

Assessing the odds, Y’shtola understood his fear. Going off a cursory glance of everyone’s respective aethers, she could not say she felt entirely confident about this match-up. The knights alone would be fearsome enemies and their followers slightly outnumbered the Radiants. They could win, she thought, but it would be a bloody business. She knew that she could not hope to subdue the knights nonfatally without surrendering the battle and a dozen swords against ten spears would surely end with more than one life ebbing away into the cobbles.

The lead knight appeared to be making the same assessment. He spoke curtly to his men. “Stand down.”

“We can cut through.” One of the other knights said. The leader shook his head at her.

“No. We will not slaughter innocents merely trying to protect their hero.” Matching deeds to words, he slung his sword on his back again. At a gesture, the other female knight relaxed her hand and the aetheric chain dissolved. Marcus quickly bounded forward, pushing past the men sheathing their weapons to stand between Y’shtola and the Radiants and the Elarians. He held up his hands in a placating manner.

“Everyone just take it easy.”

“You are unharmed?” The Radiant leader asked as her men relaxed a touch.

Marcus nodded as Y’shtola stepped to his side. “I’m fine. Just please, don’t provoke them. They weren’t kidding about how they could cut through you.”

“Would you let them?” Y’shtola asked archly. She had put up her staff in hopes of defusing the conflict but was still more than a little confused and, if honest with herself, angry at his passivity.

Marcus nodded grimly. “I’d do my best, but taking on four Knights…” His eyes drifted off, lost in thought for a moment. He refocused. “Whatever this is about, it’s a misunderstanding and I’ll handle it.”

The Radiant hesitated, unsure whether to believe him. After a few seconds of deliberation, she gestured and her men straightened up out of their battle stances. With clipped, precise orders she tasked half the squad to dispersing the crowd and the other half to watching the Elarians for any sudden moves.

Y’shtola was about to demand an explanation when the lead knight stepped forward. “Let’s start over, Warrior of Light. I am Ser Castor of Cenopylae, a Knight of Elarion which, I am gathering, you already know. If I promise we are not here to arrest you, will you stop fleeing us before we can get a word out?”

“That promise will be hard to believe.” Y’shtola put in. “Seeing as how you just did try to arrest him.”

Castor removed his helmet. He was a bald, dark-skinned man with vibrant green eyes, set in a face with the wear of a man forty years of age, or thirty if enough of those years had been hard lived. Rugged features lent him certain handsomeness, in the same way a stately castle or a scenic mountain can be called handsome. Much like either such edifice, he towered over her, not terribly impressive given the stature of Miqo’te women, and Marcus, which was much more noteworthy. His aether was a deep orange with a hint of red like a sunset and had a vigor and stability to it Y’shtola did not see in many.

She was not prone to seeking out the rush of combat like her partner, so the flash of emotion she felt at the knowledge she had not come to blows with this man was definitely not disappointment.

Castor folded his arms and regarded them with a stern expression that looked well at home on his face. “I had this bizarre notion that a self-admitted deserter might not be willing to answer the call to arms.”

“So, you want my help?” Marcus asked.

The knight nodded. “Elarion is threatened, and we were sent to ask for your assistance in combating that threat.”

Marcus’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Elarion is always threatened, what could possibly prompt a prince to send four Knights halfway across the world to find me?”

Y’shtola shot him a surprised look. Even with their organization officially disbanded, it was the duty of a Scion of the Seventh Dawn to aid those in need. A charge Marcus had wholeheartedly embraced even before joining them. It was not in his nature to be blasé about people in danger. Which implied that attacks against his people had to be commonplace indeed. Not for the first time, she wondered what exactly happened in his life before he came to Eorzea.

Castor’s mouth hardened into a line. “The Princeps saw that you would be essential in–”

“The Princeps?” Marcus cut him off. His aether had the kind of turmoil that signaled he was thinking very quickly. “You’re one of the Princeps’ Knights?”

“Yes.” Castor answered simply, leaving Y’shtola little context from which to infer who this Princeps is. She recognized the word, dredging her memories for everything she had learned about Elarion during her studies, but she could only recall that the man was an important figure in Elarion, not what capacity that importance lay.

Marcus nodded, his aether clearing as his mind was made up. “Then let’s go. Right away.”

Castor cocked an eyebrow, his face showing a fraction of Y’shtola’s own surprise at the sudden reversal. “Just like that?”

“Would any red-blooded Elarian ignore the call of the Princeps?” Marcus asked, his tone making it clear he found the question absurd.

“Red-blooded Elarians are not deserters.” Castor retorted. Marcus’ features hardened, showing anger for the first time in this confrontation.

“Don’t think my desertion was in any way caused by a lack of loyalty to our homeland.” He said, his voice dangerously low.

Castor met his gaze long enough to signal he was not intimidated by it, then looked back to his men. “As you say, then.” A whistle and a wave, and the Elarians formed up into lines. Castor glanced back. “The Harbinger is moored off the island’s western shore. We require time to stock it for the return journey but will be ready to depart by noon tomorrow. You have till then to prepare to depart. Do not keep us waiting, time is of the essence. “

“I’ll be ready.” Marcus promised.

“His gaze be upon you.” Castor said in farewell. His words had the sound of a traditional friendly farewell, his tone anything but. Marcus’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Blood for Elarion.” He retorted. Y’shtola’s eyebrow raised at the phrase. Castor’s own gaze hardened. The two knights visible behind him bristled, but neither of them said anything as Castor led his troops away.

As the knight exchanged words with the Radiant segreant, Y’shtola looked back to Marcus. Her head was swimming with questions, but she held her tongue at seeing his expression. He was looking somewhere very far away, lost in thought.

They made the return trip to Meghaduta in silence, which Marcus considered a minor miracle. He could almost feel the intensity of Y’shtola’s curiosity like a physical force, see the questions burning behind her eyes.

Not that he had many answers for her. At least not many he was willing to give. And he had more than a few questions of his own. Why would the Princeps call on him? He had not been joking before, Elarion had no shortage of enemies and no shortage of soldiers to face those enemies. What would prompt them to actually ask for help, let alone outside aid? Castor had been sent to find “Marcus Dorne” specifically. Was that significant? Maybe that was a signal that the Princeps was willing to look past the desertion? Castor certainly seemed to think securing his aid was worth not taking him to task. Marcus was already regretting not asking the Knight for more details about this looming threat before they parted.

Once they were back in the Meghaduta guest room, Marcus began to bustle around, gathering various odds and ends he thought he might need and beginning to pack. He was running through a mental list of what he could reasonably fit into his satchel when Y’shtola finally began to ask her inevitable questions.

“Who is the Princeps?”

Marcus turned to look at her, surprised. That was not a question he had been expecting, at least not for her first one. “The Princeps?”

“When you heard he was the one calling on you, you immediately changed your mind about going.” Y’shtola pointed out. “Which begs the question, who is he?”

A fair question. One he could answer with two words, or spend half an hour explaining. He tried to reach a happy medium. “He is… like the Master Louisoux of Elarion. If he thinks it is important I return, then I should. He wouldn’t have called me back if it wasn’t a dire situation.” Probably, anyway.

“And what situation could be so dire as to travel ‘halfway across the world’ for you?” Y’shtola asked, handing him the potion bottle he had been reaching for.

“I don’t know. It could be a number of things.” They were due for an Underground War shortly, maybe that was it?

“Do you believe this knight can be trusted?”

“I know Castor. By reputation, at least.” Now that Marcus was thinking on it, they had shared a battlefield more than once during the 89^th. By all accounts, the man was something of a paragon. Stolid, dependable, and honorable. Not the sort one would send on a mission of deception. “He’s telling the truth.”

Y’shtola absorbed that. “This ‘Harbinger’ he mentioned, it is a ship?”

“Airship.” Marcus clarified. He eyed Y’shtola.

“What is it?” She asked, laying out some of her own clothes.

“You aren’t going to ask about…” Somehow the words ‘my desertion’ wouldn’t form in his throat. He swallowed, coughed, and tried another tack “About my past.”

The topic had arisen several times when he had first joined the Scions. He had always steered conversations away from the subject and eventually the questions had stopped as the others realized he wasn’t going to speak on it. Minfilia had learned something thanks to a vision from her Echo, but he had never pressed her on what she had seen and she respected his desire to not speak of it.

Y’shtola continued stacking her robes, moving methodically. “You haven’t spoken about your history with anyone for, I assume, good reasons. Have these new arrivals invalidated those reasons?”

“Not really, no.” He owed it to her to at least explain enough that she was no longer confused, but he still didn't want to talk about it.

Y’shtola shrugged. “Then we stand as we did before. Your past is your own business to elaborate or obfuscate as you see fit.”

She turned to look at him with understanding eyes. “I hope you know that I love you, and that nothing you might have done will change that.”

“I know.” He couldn’t imagine Y’shtola would judge him, not once she knew the full story. “I’m just… not ready.”

She accepted that with a shrug. “Whenever you are, I’ll be waiting.” Her mouth quirked. “And I hope you are not fostering any absurd notions of leaving me behind.”

Marcus had been expecting some resistance. “You’re busy here.”

“Not with anything that cannot wait, or be given to others to complete.” She countered, her expression clear she was not going to budge. He sighed. His mind was too preoccupied to come up with a strong argument right now.

“This conversation is not over.” He warned, turning towards the door. He should probably inform Vrtra about his sudden departure and apologize for not being able to take part in the search for Azdaja.

Y’shtola’s narrowed eyes watched his retreating back as he left.

Marcus bolted up in bed, heart racing and chest heaving as he remembered where he was. He exhaled shakily. He hadn’t had that dream in a long time. But meeting other Elarians, seeing that armor again, brought the memories back with them. His false scar ached, just like it used to.

His breathing back under a semblance of control, he glanced out the window. It was still dark out, but the sky was brightening with the approaching dawn. He noted the empty space next to him and sighed. He and Y’shtola had argued fruitlessly for a long time last night about her accompanying him to his homeland before she elected to retire to her own room here in Meghaduta rather than stay with him as she usually did. Shaking his head, he got out of bed and got dressed.

Marcus reviewed everything he had packed into his knapsack. He had almost everything he needed and what he was missing he could easily obtain back home.

Home, hrm. Yesterday here was home. Here or at least Eorzea. How quickly he went back to thinking the way he used to. His scar throbbed on his cheek.

Marcus brushed the thoughts aside and stood, slinging his pack over his shoulder. Outside the window, the sun was barely poking over the horizon. It was early, far earlier than he needed to leave.

Y’shtola will understand. He told himself, trying to make himself believe it. Eventually, anyway. Probably.

Moving quietly, he eased the door open and stepped through. He took one step into the adjacent room, closed his eyes, and sighed.

“We’re ready to go then?” Alisaie asked, sitting between her brother and Krile on the couch. Thancred and Urianger were sitting at the table and Estinien and G’raha stood by the door. Y’shtola was over by the window, gazing at Marcus with a neutral expression.

“You’re not coming.” Marcus announced to the room sternly.

“We’ve already come all this way.” Thancred said. He leaned back in his chair, the gunblade strapped to his back softly clanking against the wood. “Would be a waste of a trip if we turned around and left now.”

“Vrtra’s already given his blessing to put the search for Azdaja on hold for now.” Estinien said from his spot leaning on the wall, arms folded across the dark blue armor of his chestplate.

“I’m serious.” Marcus insisted. “This is an Elarion matter.”

“Were the Primals and Empire an Elarion matter? Or the liberation of Doma and Ala Mhigo?” G’raha asked. He held out a hand in a questioning gesture. “You’ve made something of a habit of saving other people’s homelands, my friend. Tis past time we returned the favor.”

“Besides, as I understand it you don’t know what this matter actually is.” Alphinaud put in. “Your contact did not explain. Not to mention he didn’t even know you were from Elarion when he sought to recruit you.”

Marcus’ eyes flicked to Y’shtola. She was silently watching this unfold with a neutral expression, but he knew her well enough to see the hint of satisfaction in her eyes. “My people aren’t fond of receiving aid from outsiders. You won’t be welcome.”

“Prithee, forgive mine presumption, but as Master Alphinaud didst say, they were willing to seekth the aid of one whom they believed to be an outlander. Whatever travails beset your homeland, thy people are willing to swallow their distaste for those not of their kith and kin to quell it.”

“Exactly.” Marcus said. That the Princeps would call him back, after all this time… he could think of a number of possibilities and none of them were good. “It will be dangerous.”

There was a moment of silence as no one was willing to dignify that with a response. Marcus’ mouth quirked. That was a stupid thing to say. He cast about for another reason. “We can’t all be here together like this. People will figure out our disbanding was just a ploy.”

“Who says the Scions are reforming?” Estinien asked. “We’re comrades gathering to help a friend in need.”

“That, and we aren’t here.” Thancred said with a practiced casualness. “Urianger and I are in the midst of a sojourn on the Moon.”

“We are visiting our parents in Sharlayan.” Alisaie lied with a smile on her face.

“And Raha and I are engaged in a research expedition.” Krile chimed in.

Alphinaud interjected before Marcus could speak again. “To spare you the effort of coming up with any further objections, I should tell you that Tataru has agreed to place the Bonanza at our disposal should we require it.”

Alisaie pointed upward in a very definitive manner. “What my brother means to say is, we’re coming with you or coming after you.” She clapped her hands together. “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s be off.”

She and the others rose and began to file out without giving him a chance to say anything more. Marcus did not move until he and Y’shtola were the only ones left in the room. He glanced at her. “I just want to be clear; I was not planning on sneaking out of here without telling you. I was going to convince you to stay and I got ready early because I knew it would take a while.”

“I am uncertain whether I would be more offended by you trying to sneak off, or by you thinking you could convince me to stay.” She answered coolly.

 “Well, it doesn't matter now.” He said. “Oh, and uh… Thanks.”

Then he strode forth, following his friends once again.

The Harbinger was as impressive as Marcus remembered, even more so now that he was seeing it up close for the first time. A hundred and fifty fulms long, its chondrite hull glinted dully in the morning light. Elarion’s only airship of appreciable size, he had witnessed it ferrying the Princeps back and forth from afar before, but this would be the first time he would be boarding it himself. He had to admit it did not hold a candle to the Garlean juggernauts he has seen, but it was still quite large and capable of transporting a hundred people in relative comfort.

Castor was waiting on the embarkation ramp. Marcus greeted him with a nod as the Scion procession grew closer. “My friends are going to accompany us.”

Castor nodded, his gaze drifting over to Estinien. “Seeing as I was warned that our ship would be knocked from the sky if it left without them, they had better. Their impertinence is amusing enough that I would feel bad cutting them down for the attempt.”

He said it lightly, but Marcus could tell he was dead serious. Idly, he wondered if Castor might truly be a match for the dragoon or not. Castor gestured up the ramp. “If you are coming, then board. We will leave as soon as we are ready.”

Marcus ascended the ramp with only the slightest hesitation, his friends at his back. After all these years, he was finally going home.

Chapter Text

It took the Harbinger little over an hour to get underway after they boarded. The ship lifted from the Thavnairian soil with a roar of its engines, rising into the sky well before Castor’s noon deadline from yesterday. It seemed he was not exaggerating his desire to return to Elarion as soon as possible.

As the ship took to the sky for what they were told would be a three-day flight to Elarion, the Scions found themselves assembled in the vessel’s board room. After stowing their belongings in their respective two-man cabins, they were directed by one of the vessel’s crew to the meeting place and told to be seated around a large table covered with a map of what Y’shtola recognized as Elarion.

She eyed the map with some interest. Even with everything else that was unfolding, she always welcomed the chance to broaden her knowledge of the star and its peoples. The map depicted Elarion as a roughly oval shaped island, with markings that looked like regional dividers splitting it into five territories. Mountainous in the north and with what looked like flood plains in the south as mountain springs descended to become rivers. A star likely denoting the capital sat on the southern coast at the mouth of a river and the head of a bay that resembled a bite taken out of the bottom of the oval. If she was reading the lines correctly, this capital was at the intersection of four of the regions, with only the fifth, northernmost territory standing alone. The famed princedoms of Elarion, she presumed.

These geographical features notwithstanding, she knew precious little about the island nation beyond the basics. It resided far to the west of Eorzea, a midpoint between Aldenard and the New World. It was occasionally visited by Limsa Lominsan sailors, though treacherous seas made that it a dangerous voyage. No reliably safe route had ever been charted, resulting in only infrequent outside contact or trade with the island. By all accounts, Elarians preferred it that way.

Elarion’s people and princes were reputed to be warlike, proud, and insular. Despite the relative closeness to Sharlayan, geographically speaking it was the island nation’s closest neighbor, there was little information on Elarion available even in the land of scholars. There was enough traffic between Elarion and Eorzea that Marcus being from Elarion was merely unusual, not unique, but aside from that Y’shtola could infer little of what transpired to compel him to leave his home. To say nothing of what inspired him to desert the Elarion military, as he admitted to doing. If she had been asked two days ago, Y’shtola would have said he would never abandon that kind of obligation, but, apparently, he had.

Castor was sitting in the chair at the table’s head when they entered and regarded the Scions coolly as they took their seats. If he had any reluctance to being alone in a room filled with heavily armed foreigners, he didn’t show it. Krile quietly sat herself in the chair at his right hand and hopefully the Lalafell would seem a non-threatening presence. That it also put her in a prime position to get a read on his reactions was a nice perk. The other Scions took seats at random, Y’shtola ending up in the chair opposite Castor with Marcus on her left and G’raha on her right.

She wondered at the lack of any others present, the table being large enough to seat another half dozen. Did he find it unnecessary to be accompanied? Was it a show that he was not intimidated by them?

“I suppose,” Castor began without preamble. “You would like to know what we’re in for.”

Marcus nodded. Y’shtola spoke for the rest of them. “Now that we are safely aboard your ship with no choice to leave no matter what horrific threat is in store, you might as well share.”

Castor’s mouth quirked, in disapproval or amusement she could not say. She was not familiar enough with the Knight to gauge his emotions from his incorporeal aether, but between Krile’s sharp senses and eight pairs of eyes, she figured they could get a decent read on the man during this meeting. She had not forgotten the confrontational manner of their first encounter, nor that Marcus would be making this trip in the brig if Castor had had his way. Marcus may have extended his trust to his countryman, but she and the others were going to be more cautious.

“Very well.” Castor’s gaze landed on Marcus, speaking to him as if they were the only two men in the room. “We have a problem.”

“I still remember ‘Elarian problem-solving.’” Marcus remarked wryly. He leaned forward slightly, smirking. “Can it die?”

“It can.” Castor answered, his tone resigned.

“Then kill it.” Marcus waved his hand and chuckled at what Y’shtola assumed was the punchline of a common Elarian joke.

Castor frowned, not sharing in his countryman’s humor. “Gorrath has returned.”

The name meant nothing to Y’shtola. What meant a great deal was the way the humor on Marcus’s face withered. Fear on the Warrior of Light’s face was a rare and unwelcome sight. “Oh, shit.” He breathed.

Castor nodded. “I’m afraid so. Now you understand my urgency.”

“Yeah,” was all Marcus said, staring down at the map, his thoughts clearly malms away. “That’s why the Princeps called on me. The Blood Demon is back.”

“Pray forgive me.” Alphinaud said with his usual politeness. “But who, or what, is the ‘blood demon’?”

Castor paused, perhaps waiting for Marcus to explain. When the other man remained lost in thought, the knight turned to Alphinaud. “Gorrath. The ‘Demon of Blood and Fury,’ to use one of his titles. He bears that charming epithet because while all Demons are harbingers of death and destruction, Gorrath delights in slaughter and inflicts as much of carnage as he can.”

Y’shtola noted the particular verbal feat of pronouncing the capital letter in ‘Demon’ and drew the obvious conclusion. Krile frowned and voiced the same speculation. “I assume by ‘demon’ you are not referring to that particular breed of Voidsent?”

Castor’s brow furrowed, as if he wasn’t sure what she was referring to, before shaking his head. “No. Demons are beings born of obsession and zeal. They are summoned, spun out of the fevered madness of those who call on them and the aether offered to them into a physical form to devastate the realm. Not only do they drain the land of energy in their insatiable appetites, but they corrupt the minds of those who oppose them, turning even the staunchest foe into a hapless thrall. They are nightmares made real and you can thank the gods your people have never had to contend with them.”

“That sounds rather like a Primal.” Alisaie observed.

Castor blinked. “A what?”

“They are Primals.” Marcus said, focusing on the conversation again. “’Demon’ is the Elarion name for them. I hope everyone packed their warding scales.”

“Never leave home without it.” Thancred glanced at Marcus. “I remember you calling Ifrit a fire Demon, way back when.”

“Heh, yeah.” Marcus had a small smile at the memory. “Back then, I thought you guys were mistaking Demons for something else, then thought I was wrong and Primals were different from Demons, then realized they really were the same thing.”

And all of that without mentioning any of it to any of us, Y’shtola thought to herself. Marcus certainly kept his cards close to the chest when it came to his homeland.

“You are familiar with them, then.” Castor said, dragging the conversation back to the matter at hand.

Marcus nodded. “We Scions have a lot of experience studying and stopping Primals. You could say we are Demon slaying experts.”

Castor sat back in his chair, greeting the words with an expression that didn’t quite manage to not be skeptical. “Then it is indeed fortunate you were able to assemble so quickly.”

“So, what, I am to be the next Cassandra Silver-Hand? Is that why the Princeps called for me?” Marcus asked.

“He did not share his reasons with me.” Castor answered. “But if you are as proficient a Demon slayer as you say, then I would assume so.”

Marcus chuckled softly. “Heh. What kid doesn’t dream of being the hero who slays the Gorrath? I suppose I should thank the Princeps for the opportunity.”

“And who is this Princeps?” G’raha asked. Y’shtola had heard the term before, but only with enough detail to conclude the Princeps was a figure of importance in Elarion’s society, possibly even their ruler.

Castor glanced at Marcus. “What have you told them about our land?”

Marcus sheepishly looked back. “Um… nothing?”

Castor raised an eyebrow at that, a sentiment Y’shtola could fully agree with, then gestured to the map table. “Then perhaps, we should provide an overview. Elarion is divided into five independent princedoms. Cretos, Colchis, Agriphina, Minea, and Calydon. Each princedom is, naturally, ruled by a prince.”

“Of course you mention Calydon last.” Marcus said wryly. He leaned forward, truly looking at the map for the first time. He didn’t like what he saw. “Why are there so many battle markers in Calydon?” Y’shtola followed his gaze, noting the large number of red markings within the northernmost princedom.

“Because that is where Gorrath was summoned.” Castor answered evenly.

“Where, exactly?” Marcus asked intently. He had partially risen up out of his seat to see the map more clearly. It did not take an Archon to guess which princedom he hailed from. Castor pointed to one of the red marks.

“Here, in the western reaches of the Ferroc Mountains.”

“And then headed south.” Marcus guessed from the other signs.

Castor nodded. “His forces have launched strikes against Clenon, and have attempted to take the Ribbon’s fords.”

“If they take the fords, the entire western highlands opens up to them.” Marcus said half to himself. Y’shtola examined the map herself. Military strategy was not her forte, but she guessed the ‘Ribbon’ was the river with a trio of red markers on one bank. True to Marcus’ word, it looked as if getting across it would allow one to travel to most of western Elarion without encountering any other natural borders.

“Indeed.” Castor agreed. “Which is why we’ve been defending them nearly as fiercely as Clenon itself.”

Marcus snorted in disgust, a more unpleasant noise than Y’shtola was used to hearing from him. “Of course, we’re putting more effort into bottling a Demon up in Calydon than actually defending her people.”

Castor fixed him with a pointed stare. “Atreus is commanding the defense, boy. If you have objections, raise them with your prince.”

The two Elarion men locked eyes with one another. Y’shtola was not the only one looking on with some surprise. It was rare for Marcus to be combative in these kinds of meetings. She was struck by the similarities in them, the hard eyes, squared jaws. They wore the weight of war in their bearing, both of them. Their respective aethers, Marcus’s a vibrant blue, Castor’s an orange nearly crimson, had a sharpness to them. Two men from the same land. Shaped by the same upbringing and values.

She recalled the little factoid she had considered earlier. Elarians were a warlike people. She knew well how easily Marcus took to battle, and wondered what an entire nation of men like him would look like.

After a tense moment, Castor made an effort to soften his expression. “This is a Demon war; you know that demands certain sacrifices.”

Marcus looked away and sank back down into his chair. He sighed. “I know.”

“A ‘demon war’?” Y’shtola asked him. Marcus was not normally quick to accept ‘sacrifices’ when it came to fighting Primals. “Do you care to explain what that entails?”

Marcus addressed the table. “Most Primals we’ve dealt with are summoned to defend. To protect their summoners and worshipers. That’s not Gorrath’s approach. He… well, he’s out to slaughter every living creature larger than a Lalafell’s shoe. All the stories talk about him like he’s violence made manifest, a fiend of unrelenting aggression that strikes at anyone or anything in his vicinity.”

“Meaning he inflicts no small amount of damage.” Thancred noted grimly. The Archon’s arms folded. “I imagine there are few outposts or villages that can withstand a Primal’s fury.”

Alisaie nodded. “Potentially even worse, if the Primal is tempering those it attacks, it could quickly build up a large following of worshippers.”

And that would further increase the areas the Primal could attack, Y’shtola knew. It was fortunate indeed that for most Primals the passive danger of them draining the land of its aether was the bulk of the threat they posed. Even those like Leviathan that sent their thralls to round up others to be tempered were manageable. It was the Primals like Shinryu, that attacked themselves, that were truly the most dangerous.

“Bingo.” Marcus said. “In a Demon war, you have to abandon any positions that can’t throw back the Primal if he attacks. Otherwise, you’re just feeding him warm bodies to temper. Corrupt, that is.” He added for Castor’s benefit. He turned his gaze back to the map. “Which means… I’m guessing we’re down to Clenon, Keton, and Volos?”

Castor’s expression remained unreadable, but something shifted in his aether at the last sentence. Y’shtola knew gauging someone’s emotions by observing the changes in their incorporeal aether was more art than science. She knew better than to try to predict what such a movement might signify beyond that he had an emotional reaction at all. She had no time to ponder the implications of that either, as Castor spoke.

“A stroke of luck there. Gorrath has assaulted a number of entrenched positions, but the latest word is that he has withdrawn. His followers continue to assail us, but of the Demon himself there has been no sign for several days.”

Marcus looked incredulous. “What? The Prince of Battlefields is avoiding battle? You’re joking.”

“No. It is most concerning.” Castor answered.

Alphinaud raised an eyebrow. “You find it worrying you are not under attack?”

“Your enemy not behaving how you expect is always worrisome.” Estinien said. The dragoon folded his arms. “Makes one wonder what they are doing instead.”

Castor nodded in agreement at the dragoon. “Just so.”

“What does the Princeps have to say about that?” Marcus asked. Y’shtola was not the only one irked by the use of the unfamiliar term.

“Apologies for the interruption.” Krile said only somewhat sincerely. “But who is the Princeps?”

Castor took up his explanation again. “To understand the Princeps you must first understand Elarion’s history is marked by conflict. The Skalik were and remain our eternal enemies, of course, but a millennia ago, the princedoms were not united and fought constantly with one another. Squabbles for territory or petty grievances, often interrupted by Skalik invasions providing a more pressing enemy. A time came when the incursions ceased and, without a better foe, the princedoms descended into a full-blown war. It raged across the land for a year or so, no one claiming any decisive victories. Then a man appeared.

“He claimed he had been sent by our Lady to serve as Her oracle, and he urged the princes to stop their self-destructive conflict and look to their defenses. The pause in the Skalik attacks was merely a ploy, he warned. They were biding their time, building up their strength until they could overrun the surface and slaughter us all. He called for unity, for all Elarion to stand together to face this threat.”

“Let me guess. He was soundly ignored.” Y’shtola hazarded. Mysterious prophets appearing out of nowhere typically did not find very receptive audiences. Castor shook his head slightly.

“Not entirely, no. Though he claimed to be ‘of Elarion,’ the princes each suspected he was an agent of one of their enemies, working some scheme. But his Sight was impossible to deny, and that lent enough credence to his words that a ceasefire was agreed to, but not the alliance he urged. When the invasion came, as he predicted, Elarion nearly fell beneath the paws of the rats. It would have, were it not for the first Princeps. Time and again he used his Sight to guide the defenders, winning battle after battle. The threat proven, the princes did agree to ally with one another and with much bloodshed the invasion was beaten back.

“With the dangers of continued conflict amongst ourselves shown so starkly, the oracle was appealed to serve as a mediator between the princedoms. He served in that capacity and when the Skalik invaded again, he again lent his Sight to their defeat. He was dubbed the Princeps and, when his time came to pass from this world, his Sight awoke inside another. She replaced him as Princeps, as did her successor, and so on in an unbroken line that has served Elarion to this day.”

“Served and ruled.” Marcus clarified. Castor shot him a withering glance.

“The Princeps does not rule.”

“They don’t care about, or need to know about, the weird political pretense our people maintain.” Marcus said.

“Not to gainsay you, my friend, but I would fain appreciate a more robust explanation of this Princeps’ role in thine society.” The other Scions nodded in agreement with Urianger’s words.

Marcus sat back in his seat and waved in front of himself dismissively. “Fine. You can tell it, since apparently I’d just get it wrong.”

Y’shtola believed they’d get a more accurate description of the “pretense” from him, but Castor was already speaking. “The Princeps does not rule, but he holds a position of great respect and importance. To serve as the Lady’s Oracle, She blesses each one with the Sight.”

Y’shtola noted this was not the first time he had alluded to that “Lady” and “Sight.” “And this lady would be?”

“The Lady of Light.” Marcus chimed in. “Hydaelyn. The chief deity of our pantheon, who we worship instead of the Twelve. She provides various blessings and benefits to our people, including the Sight.” Y’shtola took the meaning of his usage of present tense. If Hydaelyn was their primary deity, informing them of her recent demise might not be welcome.

“And what is this ‘Sight?'” Alphinaud asked.

Castor took up the explanation again. “The power to see anything and everything. The Princeps sees all, past, present, and future. No matter what evils beset the realm or what horrors rise against us, he stares them down and finds a path through the darkness. That is his gift, and his burden.” 

“He can see everything that was, is, and will be?” Alisaie said with clear disbelief. “That must come in handy.”

“It does.” Marcus said, cutting off Castor’s likely more heated reply. The Warrior of Light folded his arms. “The Princeps can see anything he puts his mind to, no matter where, or when, it is.”

He rapped the table with his knuckles. “Take this airship. According to the tales, the Princeps had this technological marvel built by using his Sight to steal the secrets of airship construction from overseas. Garlemald, I'm guessing. Is that how it went?”

Castor answered the question with a nod. “More or less. The technologies used did not originate all in one nation and 'stealing' is a bit pejorative, but yes the Sight was used to gain the knowledge we required. Copying blueprints and such.”

Interesting. If Marcus was confident that power was real, then Y’shtola would take him at his word. She wondered exactly how that magick functioned. That they attributed it to a blessing from Hydaelyn made her think it was some variation of the Echo. There were those with the Echo who had visions of the future, she knew, but hardly to the degree of seeing ‘all.’

“How exactly is he ‘blessed’ with this power?” She asked.

“The man or woman who is to be the Princeps simply awakens the gift when the time is right. Usually immediately after the death of the preceding Princeps. The Lady would not leave us without Her guidance long.” Castor continued. “He uses that gift to guide our people, avoiding catastrophe, dispensing justice, and watching over us. He does not rule, he advises.”

“And no one ever disobeys his advice.” Marcus said. Castor looked at him and apparently decided not to acknowledge the sardonic comment. Alphinaud looked thoughtful.

“If the princedoms really are accustomed to squabbling, having such a figure would convey no small advantage to his homeland. I take it then that he is an independent figure, apart from each princedom?”

Castor shook his head. “The opposite. He is the Princeps of Elarion. He does not belong to no princedom, he belongs to all of them, serving all five evenly. He is every man’s brother, every parent’s son, every child’s father. Upon being chosen, he forgoes his previous identity to be impartial in all things. A man who lives for nothing more than to unerringly wield Hydaelyn’s blessing on behalf of all Elarion.”

“Awful noble of him.” Marcus said snidely. Y’shtola was beginning to wonder what was bothering him. This confrontational manner was most unlike him, and even she was beginning to get annoyed with his interruptions of what sounded like a fascinating phenomenon.

“As someone who knows the Princeps personally, I can say that, yes, he willingly embraced his duty despite the sacrifice it required.” Castor replied with a coldly quiet voice. Marcus met his look without flinching and hmphed.

“Right.” His voice dripped disbelief. “It takes a certain kind of man to forsake his home, his family, even his name all so he can ‘serve.’”

Castor eyed Marcus darkly. “You claim not to want for loyalty to our realm, but I am finding you awfully cynical towards it.”

“Maybe I have a different perspective of the Princeps than most.” Marcus said quietly.

Alphinaud diplomatically interjected. “So there are five princedoms ruled by princes who take advice from the Princeps. How… alliterative. And one of these princedoms is suffering from a rampaging Primal, who the Princeps would like us to destroy on behalf of the relevant prince?”

“On behalf of everyone.” Castor nodded. “Gorrath is a threat to all that lives on this star. His axe Blooddrinker will not be sated with just Calydon, or even all of Elarion.”

“I’m sorry.” Alisaie laid her hands on the table. “This ‘Demon of blood and fury’ that you are fighting is named ‘Gore Wrath’ and is armed with an axe called ‘Blood Drinker?’”

“We are not a poetic people.” Marcus commented wryly. Castor nodded in agreement at that.

“Indeed. To return to the topic of this briefing, Gorrath had already corrupted a sizable force before we could mobilize sufficient immune warriors against him. Now the northern reaches of Calydon are aflame with war.”

“Why were people who were not immune even deployed against him?” Marcus asked. “Where were the Knights?”

Castor folded his arms. “Gorrath was summoned in what should have been one of the last battles of the Underground War. We were too embroiled fighting the Skalik to respond immediately. There were a handful of Knights nearby, but not enough to prevent Gorrath from corrupting both our forces and the nearby Skalik.”

More terms Y’shtola did not recognize. ‘Corrupting’ was obviously tempering and the Skalik were most likely the enemy of this war, she assumed.

“The 90^th has happened already? That was quick.” Marcus said.

“It has been seven years since the last. A shorter reprieve than normal but hardly unprecedented.” Castor said. He continued. “The Wolf-touched have helped hold the line and Lupercal is on the hunt, but so far we are at a standstill. Once more forces are freed up from other warfronts and our Demon slayer has arrived,” he nodded at Marcus. “We hope to turn the tide.”

“So Lupercal has been summoned.” Marcus said soberly.

“We are facing a Demon.” Castor reminded him. “We need the power of an Avatar.”

“And an Avatar is?” Estinien asked, not alone in being annoyed at the way the Elarians kept talking past everyone else in the room.

“A Demon is an evil Primal that will destroy Elarion. An Avatar is a good Primal that will protect Elarion.” Marcus explained, his tone making it clear he recognized the hypocrisy.

“Summoned only in times of great need, and unmade once no longer needed.” Castor said pointedly. Marcus nodded in concession.

“Wolf-touched.” Y’shtola repeated with a quiet horror. “You temper your own people?”

“The Wolf’s influence is limited, by design.” Castor said. For all he was defending the practice, he still looked grim. “The affected are filled with a righteous fury to hunt Elarion’s foes. It’s not an ideal situation but I for one prefer my countrymen having a tendency to howl at the moon over them bathing in the blood of the innocent.”

“A thought does occur to me.” Thancred interjected, avoiding yet another potential argument. That was happening far too often in this conversation for Y’shtola’s tastes. “How was the Primal summoned on a battlefield? Were there loads of crystals lying around to be used as weapons somehow?”

Marcus straightened up in his seat in realization. “That’s a good question. Elarion is extremely poor in crystals.” He snorted. “My back-up retirement plan is still to make a fortune importing crystals; even just one crate would be worth a king’s ransom. Getting enough crystals to summon a Primal is almost impossible.”

“Then, how was Gorrath summoned?” G’raha asked.

“The summoner was a man named Aethon.” Castor said. “He had been dispatched to prevent the Skalik from summoning their own Demon, and it would seem he decided not to waste the opportunity.”

“The ratmen were using their usual method?” Marcus asked, then grimaced when Castor nodded. “Lovely.”

“We're not going to like what that method is, are we?” Thancred guessed. Marcus shook his head.

“Like I said, getting enough crystals to summon a Primal in Elarion is incredibly difficult. So the Skalik have a history of supplementing their aetheric supply via more… organic sources.” Marcus said hesitantly. Y’shtola had a sinking suspicion she knew the method that had been used. Marcus shook his head in disgust. “For a Demon to be summoned on a battlefield, no doubt the summoner did so by means of a blood sacrifice.”

“The aether of those freshly slain.” Krile repeated with the same subdued horror they all felt. “The very souls of the fallen used as fuel. Their lamentations and rage the devotion that birthed the Primal.”

“Like how Ilberd summoned Shinryu.” Marcus nodded. “Though at least this one will have only a small amount of crystals rather than the eyes of a great wyrm providing the bulk of his power.”

“Gorrath is powerful enough as it is.” Castor said darkly. The mood around the table was somber as everyone digested this sickening revelation.

“Gods be good, you didn’t…?” Alisaie asked, likely drawing the same conclusion Y’shtola had.

“No.” Castor replied emphatically. “Lupercal was summoned by means of a stockpile of crystals, supplemented by a large number of soldiers offering up their aether while devotedly praying, not an offering of lives. They did become the Wolf-touched, tempered I believe you put it, but no man was in that plaza who did not choose to be.”

The knight looked at their expressions not without sympathy. “You all now know the threat we face and I’m sure will have your own thoughts on how to confront it. We will adjourn for now to contemplate the situation. It is a long flight and we will have time to reconvene and discuss the matter further.” He rose. “For now, you know where your cabins are. An orderly will be around when it is time to eat. Until then.”

He left them to think on this new Primal, who Y’shtola now uncomfortably realized was indeed literally a creature of blood and fury.

By the time they were shown to their cabin, Y’shtola had managed to swallow the worst of her distaste for how Gorrath was summoned. She regarded their accommodations with a critical eye. Castor had implied he expected them to spend the voyage here, but not if she could help it. The room could be compared unfavorably to a closet in terms of size. She brushed off the petty concern.  With more important matters at hand, she glanced towards Marcus.

“Care to explain what that was all about? I have seen more agreeable Morbols than you were when the topic of the Princeps arose.”

He sighed. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know the Princeps carries a heavy burden. But that son of a…” He sighed. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Hmm.” Another secret. Who knew he had so many?

“Actually, good of you to bring that up.” Marcus continued. “Really shouldn’t talk about the Princeps like I was. That Castor didn’t punch me in the face was awful restrained of him.”

Y’shtola had said she would not push him, but her irrepressible curiosity would not be denied. She decided to compromise and ask about something hopefully inoffensive. “I take it you are from Calydon, and Calydon is not well respected.”

“Ha! No, no it is not. We, they are the smallest, poorest, and most remote of the princedoms.” Marcus shook his head as if to dislodge the memories. “We get invaded the most and no damned respect for fighting harder than any two other princedoms put together.”

“And that displeased you?” She guessed.

He eyed her. “Is this how you plan to learn my past? Get me talking about little details so I’ll be lured in to talking about something more important?”

“Is it working?” Y’shtola asked evenly. Marcus gave a small grin at the joke and she knew her attempt at subterfuge was forgiven. “You can divulge as much or as little as you like, but I am curious and will likely continue my inquiries.” In the tight confines of the room, their faces were close together.

Marcus held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve seen what you’ll do when you want to learn something, I’d be a fool to stand in your way.”

“It was not my intention to make you feel pressured,” Y’shtola began.

Marcus shrugged. “I should have told you a long time ago. This is long overdue.” He cocked his head in question. “Are you going to tell the others?”

“Not unless you would want me to.”

There was a long pause as he thought, punctured by a low sigh of resignation. “I guess it would be better to only have to tell the story once.”

“I will gather the others, if you would like some time to gather your thoughts.” Y’shtola offered. Marcus nodded his approval, his expression and aether darkening.

Ten minutes later, the Scions were back in the map room, this time with Marcus sitting at the head of the table. Y’shtola would have preferred a more informal or less public setting, but this was the only room they had access to large enough to accommodate the nine of them other than the mess hall, which would be even worse. As it was, the martial environment made it feel more like Marcus was about to give a war briefing, rather than divulge his past.

“So, you’re finally ready to share your secrets with us?” Estinien asked, his arms folded across his broad chest.

“I confess, I have long wondered exactly how you came to Eorzea.” G’raha said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “I imagine it must have been quite the adventure.”

Y’shtola could see Thancred struggle not to wince. Minfilia had been vague about what exactly she had seen in Marcus’s memories, on the grounds that it was not her story to tell, but the little she had hinted at suggested it was not a happy tale of adventure.

“Well, since you’ve all been dragged into this mess because of my past, I suppose you deserve to know about it.” Marcus began. That was wrong in several ways, but Y’shtola was not about to interrupt him now that he was finally talking.

“I’m from Elarion originally, obviously, specifically from Calydon. Even more specifically, the village of Theron, in the eastern Ferroc Mountains.” He raised himself up to tap an unmarked spot on the map in the middle of a mountainous region. Y’shtola noted that, mercifully, there were no battle markers anywhere near his finger.

“A nice little hamlet, really. It’s a peaceful place, as peaceful as anywhere in Elarion can be at least. The mountain air is crisp and clear and the view of the valley below, especially at sunset, is gorgeous. We raise chocobos there. The hardy mountain breed that stay surefooted even on the steepest slopes and can fight their way out of trouble. Ishgardian breeders could learn a thing or two from us.”

Y’shtola could hear the quiet pride in his voice. I suppose that explains how he trained his chocobo so well. The cloudkin he had been granted as part of his commission in the Immortal Flames was impressively adroit in combat, now she knew why. She couldn’t help a bittersweet feeling at the revelation. It was a reminder that he had an entire life he had told her precious little about, despite their long friendship that had blossomed into love.

She rebuked herself for the bout of self-pity. You are learning now. Marcus mistook the look on her face and continued with a begrudging air.

“It’s also a stereotypical no-name backwater, too small, remote, and unimportant for anyone to care about. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone in the village and no one knows anyone outside it. Where you have to be friends with everyone, because there’s sure as hell not room for you to be enemies.”

“Sounds like a place that appeals to eager young people with big dreams.” Thancred said. Marcus chuckled quietly.

“Exactly. Me and my friends, we couldn’t wait to leave. We were young and stupid and wanted to be heroes, legends.” Marcus had a half smile as memories resurfaced. “There were six of us. A little gang of kids that spent so much time together our parents called us ‘the Squad.’ We were always together; I can’t remember a day I didn’t spend with at least one of them. Hell, I knew them better than I knew my own brother.”

The reference to having a brother surprised Y’shtola. This was the first she had ever heard of Marcus having a sibling. Then again, his usage of the past tense was telling as to why he had never wished to speak on the topic.  

“What were they like?” She asked quietly. “Your friends?”

Marcus exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. “Where to even begin…?”

After a moment, he sat forward again. “I guess I’ll just go by age. Lucas was the oldest of the six of us, everyone’s older brother, and the biggest too. As tall and broad as an gigas, and he could probably pick one up and throw it too. He once ate an entire caradik, by himself, in one sitting. That’s a meal for a family of four. And he was strong. Stupidly so; when we fought, it took me and Niko together to tackle him. He could just about ignore the other three trying to bring him down.”

“Stronger than you?” Alisaie asked with faint disbelief.

“I know. Shocking, isn’t it?” Marcus smiled, slightly. His gaze drifted away, looking at memories rather than any of them. “Lucas was a simple guy. Not stupid, though being Theo’s brother I think he felt it sometimes.”

“This Theo, he was also part of your Squad?” Thancred asked.

“Yeah. He was our resident genius. A smarter guy you’d never meet.” Marcus saw something in their expressions that made him elaborate. “I’m not kidding. If Theo were here, he’d be the smartest person in this room.”

The other Scions exchanged looks at that. Marcus continued. “At times, it felt like he knew everything. We were always asking him questions, about this and that. He was the only one of us that really took to the combat training too. Skillwise, the guy could’ve been a swordsmanship instructor by the end of it while the rest of us were still just hacking away.”

Y’shtola digested that. Though it was an unbecoming impulse, her professional pride as a Sharlayan Archon rankled a little at being rated below an uneducated mountain peasant. She reminded herself that Marcus habitually underestimated his own intelligence and correspondingly overestimated hers. And Urianger’s, and Krile’s, and all of his more learned friends, in truth. He was likely doing the same for Theo, though the praise was still a testament to the other man’s intellect. He had just provided an example of such, claiming Theo became a master swordsman while he was still struggling when Y’shtola knew full well Marcus picked up new martial disciplines with an ease that bordered on the unnatural.

“He was a fighter then?” Estinien asked. Marcus snorted.

“We’re Elarians. We’re all fighters. Ah, but I’m getting out of order.” Marcus waved his hand in front of himself. “Lukas was the oldest, then me, then came Niko.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time, staring off into space. His expression slowly grew more morose.

“Marcus?” Y’shtola asked gently. He started a little at the sound of her voice.

“Right, Niko. She was… fiery. Always full of energy, always ready to fight. Not in a bad way though. She was protective too, the first to get involved whenever one of us was in trouble. She broke her arm when she was nine and didn’t shed a tear, but she started bawling when Lucas broke his a year later.” Marcus sighed. “That, uh, that kinda went away as she got older though. She grew into a hard woman, a little impatient, a little quick to anger. Sometimes, she was hard to get along with.”

“But you still did?” Alphianud offered. Marcus nodded.

“She was like our sister, so it didn’t matter to us. You know something about that yourself.”

Alphinaud pointedly did not meet the look Alisaie was giving him. “I shall decline to comment.”

Marcus laughed. “Either way, there was no one I’d rather have at my side in the heat of battle. She was a fighter, through and through. I know I said we were all fighters but fighting was what she was born for. When she could turn that smoldering anger on the enemy, all you had to do a lot of the time was stand back and watch. I think the training helped, the discipline. Near the end, she was a lot calmer. I thought…” He trailed off into uncomfortable silence. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“By my count, we are still short two.” Y’shtola said. She knew it had to come out sooner or later, but his broken expression made her want to put off talking about ‘the end’ at least a little while longer.

“Right.” Marcus blinked, his eyes regaining the focus they lost. “Niko was the third oldest, Theo the fourth. And after him was Alex. Alex was… Alex. He was always finding trouble, and dragging us into it. And always getting us out of it too. He always had something clever to say, a joke for every situation. Sometimes they were even funny. I wonder what he said when…”

Marcus’s hands clenched around one another. For once, Y’shtola did not know what to say. She glanced around the table at her fellow Scions, knowing she was not alone in thinking Marcus was no slouch himself when it came to making terrible jokes in inappropriate situations, but this was hardly the time or place for such comments.

A few moments later Marcus stirred, this time not needing prompting out of his reverie. “Katt was the youngest. If Lucas was everyone’s big brother, she was everyone’s little sister. A sensitive girl. She was always the first to notice when someone was upset and usually the first to figure out why. She was a real busybody too. Never could leave something alone when she knew there was a problem.”

“Reminds me of someone I know.” Alisaie commented. Marcus ignored the comment.

“Anyway, that’s who they were. As for what happened…” Marcus looked around the table. “You heard me and Castor mention the Underground War?” He paused, waiting for someone to speak. G’raha nobly volunteered to break the silence.

“You said there had been ninety of them?”

“Yeah, and that’s just since we started counting. The Skalik, the ratmen, they invade us every so often from their underground lairs. They try to kill us and take our land, we throw them back and make them pay for it. Over and over again going back millennia we’ve done this same song and dance, regularly enough that young, stupid kids who want to be heroes will think that fighting the Skalik is a great way to earn a name for ourselves.”

“Was there never any attempt at reconciliation?” Alphinaud asked. Marcus laughed.

“There are faster and easier ways to kill yourself than attempting diplomacy with Skalik. The only rats you can trust are dead ones. And even if you could, trying to appease those bastards is a fool’s errand.” Y’shtola was surprised to hear such vehemence in his words. Marcus was not one to often abide in anger.

“I understand that after centuries of conflict,” Y’shtola began.

“Try millennia.” Marcus interjected.

“After millennia of conflict,” Y’shtola continued, not letting the interruption throw her off. “there would no shortage of animosity. But surely there would also be war-weariness, and a desire to end the fighting?”

“Like Ishgard and the dragons.” Estinien put in.

Marcus’s expression hardened. “Skalik are not like dragons. It doesn’t matter what we want, they will never stop coming to kill us. We either fight or die. Or fight and die.”

The look on his face forestalled any thought of arguing further. He continued. “Anyway, my friends and I enlisted for the 89^th War. We were young, inexperienced, and had big dreams of claiming glory. So naturally, we quickly proved ourselves to be some of the finest soldiers in Elarion.”

He smiled, a thin, weak thing, at the surprised reactions. “I know. You’d think we would have had a rude awakening and cold, cruel reality would have shattered our dreams but no, we actually did become heroes. We won grand victories and triumphed over impossible odds. People did start to learn our names; we were becoming famous. All of us. Heh, I was actually the weak link of the group, if you can believe it.”

Y’shtola wasn’t sure she could. Granted, Marcus’ strength back when he first joined the Scions was a dim candle compared to the fount of power he was now, but he had still been formidable even then. To picture five others even more powerful, all from the same backwater village, was a struggle. She wondered exactly how much of that perception was driven by his pervasive and excessive humility rather than objective assessment.

“So, the thing with Underground Wars is, they go underground. Once we’ve routed the Skalik’s invasion of the surface, we follow after them. Both to remind them that invading us has consequences, and cripple them to delay the next invasion. We raze some of their tunnel cities closer to the surface, collapse some caves on them, all that. Then we go home, mission accomplished. Some of us, anyway.”

His voice took on a slight waver, barely noticeable. “It was going to be the final battle, everyone was saying. One last cavern city to take, then we’d start pulling out. We were fighting our way down, cutting through everything the Skalik could throw at us and then…”

He trailed off, staring at hands clenched so tightly around one another his knuckles were white. “Those rat bastards sent this… I got…” Whatever he was trying to say, he faltered as his eyes took on an unfocused, haunted stare. Unconsciously, he raised a hand to trace the scar on his cheek.

Y’shtola hated seeing him like this. She had come to depend on him, she knew. After all they had been through together, it was hard not to rely on him being a pillar of irrepressible strength and resilience. To see him looking so vulnerable, so… fragile, was heart wrenching. Her hand found his and she could not even begin to care when he squeezed it so hard it felt like her bones were grinding together.

“You can spare us the details.” Krile said gently, everyone at the table in full agreement of her true intent to spare him from them. Everyone but Marcus, who continued on.

“We were advancing, driving towards the city entrance. They were holding out, knowing once we took the gate we wouldn’t be held to the chokepoints of the tunnels. They sent ogres in, and Niko nearly got herself killed charging one like a maniac.” His voice was dead, devoid of inflection. He could have been reading aloud from a book. “I had to stand almost on top of her to keep the rats off her. I don’t remember how long we fought like that, but by the end of it I had this.” He ran a finger along the length of his scar. “And they sent me back to get it treated.”

His gaze dropped to the tabletop. “The Skalik flooded the tunnels with plague mist not long after. My friends, and everyone else, died. Poisoned by the air itself, choking on their own blood. All to take a stupid hole in the ground we didn’t even want. They were the best of the best, my family, and they died down in the darkness for nothing.”

You could have heard a feather hit the floor.

“After that, I fell into a dark place. For a time I thought I might… if I could without anyone seeing…” He trailed off. Y’shtola felt twin tendrils of sorrow and horror seize her heart. She knew what a lone survivor of a military unit would feel tempted to do, if only he had the chance.

Her normally quick mind failed her. For once, she was at a loss for words. The only thing she could think to do was give his hand another squeeze, paltry comfort in the face of the deep grief radiating off him. The action made Marcus’s eyes snap up from the table to meet hers. She saw the decision made behind his eyes and cursed herself for forgetting what he was like. This damned, self-sacrificing fool.

Marcus straighten out of his slump and gave what was probably intended to be a self-deprecating laugh. “But hey, we were heroes! We had earned honors, rewards, shiny medals to congratulate us, even if us was just me by then. So the war was over, but the army kept me on at least until I could be given my just rewards.” There was such bitterness in those last two words.

“But after everything, I just… couldn’t accept that. For reasons I don’t really recall,” Marcus lied, badly, though no one was about to call him on it. “I decided to leave Elarion. Hopped on a ship, and sailed away to Eorzea. But since I was still part of an active unit, that meant I was deserting my post. And in Elarion, desertion is treason. So once I left, I couldn’t exactly go back.” He pretended to brighten up, his smile painfully false. “So really, this is good for me. I can probably swing this whole Primal problem into getting a pardon. That'll be nice. Anyway, you know the rest. Took up adventuring to pay the bills, found my way to the Scions, and we saved the star together. So it all worked out, really.”

Y’shtola let her gaze stray to the other Scions. Estinien and Thancred had matching looks of somber understanding. G’raha looked positively aghast at his cavalier words earlier. Alphinaud and Alisaie had similar expressions of subdued horror. Urianger was, for once, at a loss for words. Krile’s eyes were closed and her head bowed, Y’shtola confident she could sense the sorrow radiating off Marcus. Y’shtola didn’t have the Echo and she could almost feel it herself. She was a minute or two away from throwing her arms around him in an attempt to comfort him, even a little, in hopes that it might stir some vitality into his aether, so laden with grief it almost looked dead.

“Thank you, my friend, for sharing the events of thine past with us.” Urianger said quietly into the silence. Marcus gave a dismissive wave. His attempts to feign nonchalance would be comically transparent, if this wasn’t one of the least funny situations Y’shtola had ever been in.

“I should be thanking you for listening to my boring old war story. In Elarion, everyone has a tale like mine. Nothing special.” His voice lowered. “Nothing to cry about.”

“Marcus.” Alphinaud’s voice was thick with restrained emotion. “You should not-”

He got no further before Marcus shot up out of his seat. “Boy, all this talking sure has tired me out.” He said loudly, ignoring Alphinaud’s words. His eyes glittered. “I’m going to go take a nap. We should all get plenty of rest now, I bet we’ll have a lot of fighting to do once we get there.”

Without waiting for anyone to respond, he headed for the door. Alisaie opened her mouth to say something, but Thancred laid a hand on her shoulder and answered her questioning look with a shake of his head. Y’shtola agreed with both sentiments. As much as it hurt to see him suffering, as much as she wanted to do something, anything to help him feel better, right now the best thing for him would be to give him some space.

As Marcus left, Y’shtola spotted a figure lurking in the doorway. Castor met her eyes for a second, then he was gone.

Chapter Text

The next morning, G’raha met with his fellow Scions and went down to the airships commissary to break their fast. The food on offer made some of them regret that decision.

“If this is what your people eat, I understand why you stayed in Eorzea.” Estinien commented to Marcus. G’raha nearly winced. That was not the delicate touch that bringing up Marcus’s history required, given what a sensitive subject he’d shown it was yesterday. But to the Miqo’te’s surprise, Marcus simply laughed.

“Nah, I recognize this taste. These are army rations, same as they’ve always been. They’re not bad.”

“Compared to what?” Thancred asked, hesitantly eyeing his meal. “A knife in the stomach?”

“The taste’ll grow on you.” Marcus said, bringing a laden fork to his mouth.

“Like a fungus, mayhaps.” Thancred said.

Marcus laughed around a mouthful of food. He gestured a question and Thancred answered by sliding his plate across the table so Marcus could help himself, which he did with gusto.

G’raha watched him eat. He seemed normal. No different than he usually did, despite what he had told them yesterday. Of course, G’raha reminded himself that though the past events of Marcus’s life had been a revelation, it wasn’t as though they were new to the man himself.  His current, genial demeanor felt like almost an entirely different person than the hollow, broken man in the briefing chamber last night, but if he was the type to wear that sorrow on his sleeve, G’raha or one of the others would have suspected what had happened before now. G’raha was not ashamed to admit he’d made something of a study of the Warrior of Light, yet never would have guessed at the darkness lurking in his past. Barring the one on his face, Marcus hid his scars well.

The mess hall was reasonably crowded. As G’raha understood it, the airship’s crew ran on three shifts while in transit and the vessel had a contingent of guards with nothing to do beyond stand at attention while they were currently soaring above an empty ocean. Though the Scions had a table to themselves, most of the other tables around them were populated by Elarians, a mix of Hyurs and Lalafell. The Elezens and Miqo’te in the Scions’ party were attracting no small amount of attention, their respective races largely unknown in Elarion. Even just walking down to the mess, G’raha had caught several of the crew giving him curious looks.

From behind him, G’raha heard a female voice say. “Good to see we flew all the way just to pick up a gaggle of Eorzeans.”

G’raha’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t turn around. The voice was angled like the woman was talking to her companion at her own table, but raised such that he knew she wanted the Eorzeans in question to hear.

“Mind what you say.” A male voice answered. “The Princeps wanted them, so they must be important.”

The woman scoffed. “He only wanted the one, we don’t need the others. Still, I’m sure they won’t be completely useless.” Her voice became slightly louder; G’raha guessed she turned around to address them directly. “Maybe they can give us some lessons on knitting.”

“If you knit as well as you fight, you’ll need them.” Alisaie fired back, looking over G’raha’s shoulder to lock eyes with the other woman.

“What was that?” The scrape of a chair on the floor got G’raha to turn around. The woman was a Hyur, with a shock of black hair and armed and armored with the usual Elarian plain mythril gear. The man sitting across the table from her was a Lalafell, watching the confrontation with some concern.

G’raha raise his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sure no offense was intended on either of–”

“Quiet, cat.” The Elarian cut him off. She was standing with feet apart and a fist held in front of her midriff, a moment away from stepping forward to confront them directly. “Make yourself useful and go hunt some rats.”

G’raha was not the only person at the table who bristled in response to the words. Marcus raised a hand, forestalling the others’ responses. “I’ll handle this.”

G’raha got a glimpse of his expression when he stood. A glimpse was enough to understand why his countrywoman took a step backward at the sight of it.

“My friends are calm, polite people who are big enough to brush things like this off.” Marcus said lightly. His voice hardened. “I am not. And if your hand gets any closer to that sword of yours, I will feed it to you.”

Silence reigned throughout the mess, everyone’s attention on the confrontation. It was punctured by the Lalafell cocking his head in question. “Which one, the sword or the hand?”

Marcus took a second to answer. “…Both? Not like either would taste worse than this army crap.”

The tension eased with the exchange. The Elarian woman started to breathe again. She gave them a disgusted shake of her head and stalked from the room without another word. Her companion stood to follow, but to G’raha’s surprise he sent a respectful nod their way.

“His gaze.” With those parting words, the Lalafell left after his companion.  Marcus sat back down and the hum of the background conversations slowly resumed.

Marcus returned to his meal, then saw how the others were looking at him. “What?”

“It’s just, I’ve never seen you so confrontational before.” G’raha told him. Marcus typically tended to be subdued in interpersonal interactions. He would make pertinent comments and joke often, but didn’t assert himself like that very much. For a man who regularly threw himself headfirst into the heart of combat, he usually stayed on the periphery of conversations.

Marcus sighed. “You have to be, in Elarion. You can’t avoid conflict when conflict is scurrying out of a hole in the ground trying to stab your kidneys.”

“But that’s not what’s troubling you.” Y’shtola observed from the other side of him as G’raha. Marcus shook his head.

“No but…” His furrowed brow cleared as he gave up on whatever he was pondering. “It’s nothing.”

“Unlikely. I can practically hear your brain working from here.” Estinien said. Marcus shrugged and tapped his right shoulder.

“Their rank markings. Those two were base privates. Line bladesmen, as low as the ranks go.”

“And you found such disrespect from individuals so lowly ranked particularly disagreeable?” Alphinaud asked. Marcus scoffed.

“Please. I’m a levy private. I’m one of the only grunts they do outrank. But that’s the thing. Why are they here?”

“Routine guard duty seems appropriate for such a rank.” G’raha said, not understanding his confusion.

“But this isn’t routine guard duty.” Marcus protested. “The Harbinger is the Princeps’ own vessel. It’s supposed to be protected by some of Elarion’s best. And not just those two, most of the soldiers abroad are footslogging grunts. That’s weird.”

G’raha heard the concern in his voice and understood where it was coming from. The most obvious answer the why such postings would be staffed by inferior troops was that Elarion did not have the superior troops to spare. That did not bode well, for the war the Scions were flying into.

“Mayhap without the Princeps in attendance, it was deemed appropriate to lessen the ship’s guard?” He offered as an alternative explanation.

“Maybe.” Marcus conceded. He still looked concerned as he helped himself to another bite of his meal.

“How do Eorzeans rank in the Elarian hierarchy?” Alisaie asked, still faintly glowering.

Marcus set his fork down and ignored his uneaten food while he addressed the group. “That reminds me, I didn’t really warn you guys about that.”

“About what?” Krile asked. Marcus took a moment to marshal his thoughts.

“I know the Elarian stereotype in Eorzea is that we’re a bunch of blade happy brutes who’ll fight you as soon as look at you.” G’raha shifted uncomfortably. That was indeed the stereotype, though given it was also the Sharlayan stereotype for other Eorzeans he’d personally never given it much credence. It certainly didn’t do justice to the kind of person Marcus was. G’raha was surprised when Marcus continued, “And I won’t deny there’s some truth to that, like we just saw. But you should know, the Eorzean stereotype in Elarion is that we’re all soft and weak and wouldn’t know ‘real’ fighting if it stabbed us.”

G’raha found himself oddly pleased that Marcus referred to the group collectively as Eorzeans, his Elarian self and the Corvosi Miqo’te included. “I imagine a land that is so constantly beset by conflict would hold combat prowess in high esteem, and those without it in contempt.”

Marcus looked uncomfortable at having it put so plainly, but he nodded. “More or less. Maybe not contempt, I mean, we just saw there’s some of that, but… yeah. We understand the importance of farmers and smiths but…”

“But there’s no glory in forging a blade, only in wielding one.” Estinien finished for him.

“You’re saying we can expect your countrymen to look down on us?” Alphinaud asked. Marcus nodded.

“Until they see us in action, yeah. After they see us in action, they’ll realize you all are better on the battlefield than most of them could ever be. That’ll change minds.” The uncomplicated confidence Marcus always had in his comrades’ abilities made G’raha’s face warm slightly. He was spared from embarrassment by Urianger drawing everyone’s eyes as he spoke up from his seat at the end of the table.

“A question arises. Thou concedes there is a kernel of truth at the heart of the commonly held opinions directed towards Elarians by those of other lands. Having experienced the culture and living conditions of both our respective lands of birth, doth thou believe that the generalizations your kin direct towards the peoples of Eorzea have a similar basis in fact?”

“Well… I mean…” Marcus hemmed and hawed before answering. “Eorzeans have never had to deal with a hunt pack coming over a wall at two in the morning, but Elarians have never had to fight magitek armor before. So… I’d call it even?”

G’raha suppressed a grin. The way he said that, it was clear Marcus was bending the truth a little. He did indeed think Elarians were in general more formidable, but didn’t want to say it. G’raha’s friend was many very admirable and impressive things, but a skilled liar wasn’t one of them.

“Perhaps it would behoove us to learn more about this realm we are going to be fighting for.” G’raha suggested, not entirely for the sake of their mission. Even with a Primal to face down, he was enjoying what the impromptu adventure had in store and was eager to broaden his horizons.

“There is precious little else for us to do at this juncture.” Y’shtola conceded. G’raha noted with some surprise that she did not seem as eager as he was. His fellow Miqo’te’s appetite for new knowledge far outstripped his own. She cast a glance towards Marcus, which was the clue G’raha needed. Perhaps forcing him to plumb the depths of his memories might not be such a good idea.

“We should split up then.” G’raha suggested in an attempt to correct his mistake. “We can question the various members of the crew and pool our findings to get a sense for Elarians as a whole.”

“A fine idea.” Alphinaud nodded. He glanced at Marcus. “I’m certain you could expand on our knowledge in general greatly, but you made it sound as though your upbringing was far removed from mainstream Elarian society. Not to mention, it has been several years since you dwelled there and matters might have changed in your absence.”

“Elarion doesn’t change.” Marcus glanced between his fellow Scions. He shrugged. “If you guys think that’s wise, then we can. If anyone gives you any grief like before, just smack em around a little. They’ll respect you more for it.”

G’raha chuckled at the joke, then noted the confusion on Marcus’s face at that reaction before the Hyur brushed it off. “Oh, and if anyone calls you a ‘rat bastard,’ punch em. They’ll be expecting that much, and everyone around will agree they deserve it.”

“I believe we will refrain from physically assaulting our hosts, if it’s all the same to you.” Y’shtola commented drily.

The Scions finished their meals, some more readily than others, then after quickly assigning areas of the ship to one another so they weren’t all interrogating the same individuals, they set off. The twins stayed together, Thancred and Urianger fell into stride as they set off, and Estinien had already left with Krile quickly hurrying after him. Y’shtola went with Marcus. She had been keeping close to him all morning, G’raha had noticed, and seemed more concerned than usual about him. Worried about his emotional state after yesterday, no doubt.

That left G’raha alone, which he was happy enough with. Investigating an unknown culture suited his desire for adventure, one reason he had agreed to come along was for the chance in visit mysterious Elarion in person. He was looking forward to learning more about his dear friend’s homeland.

Several hours later, that quest was not going very well. G’raha had tried speaking to several different members of the crew, with limited success. Even in the cramped airship corridors, there was a distance between him and the crew. In general, the Elarians treated him with a kind of strained politeness that came from it being obligated of them. Many of them gave him uncomfortably intense stares to begin with. Most of them answered his questions in brief, almost curt fashion and usually only endured his inquiries for a short period of time before making noise about having duties to attend to or other excuses.

From what G’raha was hearing when they crossed paths, the other Scions were meeting similar reactions. Only Marcus was able to make passably fruitful conversation with his fellow Elarians. G’raha was not one to put much stock in stereotypes, but so far the Elarians were living up (he was too polite to think ‘down’) to the popular opinion of them in Sharlayan and elsewhere. Standoffish, ar, and dismissive of anyone from outside their culture. Which did tempt G’raha to follow Marcus’s suggestion that he might find more acceptance if he simply started knocking people around.

G’raha was not about to throw in the towel with regards to peaceful dialogue just yet, and spotting someone not in the crew gave him hope for a more fruitful dialogue.

The knight was standing in one of the observation ports, a small nook with glass walls used by spotters help the airship navigate. With nothing to see but open ocean, it was unused at the moment and the large windows made for a good spot to look out over the water.

“Enjoying the view?” G’raha asked as he drew nearer.

The knight turned from her vigil to face him. She looked young, having seen more than twenty-five summers but not too many more, if he was any judge. Bright blue eyes set in a narrow face regarded him impassively. Her blond hair was long, something of a rarity from what he’d seen thus far of Elarians, and done up in a simple braid. She was clad in the same distinctive gilded plate that Castor wore, but had a staff slung on her back instead of the other knight’s sword and shield. G’raha took a moment to admire the artistry of her panoply. Where the other soldiers he talked to had armor that was unadorned to the point of it being a clear stylistic choice, these knights wore gear that was lovingly worked and ornate, though still minimalist in design.

“It is calming.” She said simply. “Ser Calista.”

G’raha could agree there was something soothing about the green-blue expense stretching out in every direction. He stuck out a hand. “G’raha Tia.”

He waited for her to complete the gesture, but the seconds tripped over themselves with his hand awkwardly hanging in the air. He was starting to wonder if Elarion did not have the custom of shaking hands when she finally spoke. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’ve been trying to speak to others aboard, in order to learn more about Elarion.” G’raha explained. “So far, people have been giving me the cold shoulder.” Present company included, he did not add.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Elarion is at war, Eorzean. We’ve been at war for a long time, and this one is shaping up to be one of the worst we’ve ever experienced. You’ll forgive my countrymen if they have greater concerns than indulging the curiosity of an uninvited outlander.”

“Then my fellow Scions and I can expect no better treatment than that of barely contained insults?” G’raha asked, trying not to let his annoyance bleed into his tone. His tail stiffened as he corralled his emotions. Something flickered in Calista’s eyes and her hard expression softened a hair.

“I heard about the altercation in the mess.” She answered. Her face twisted in disapproval. “A disgraceful display. A woman in the Princeps’ service ought to have more sense, or at least more decorum, no matter how recently she entered that service.”

G’raha couldn’t help but note that ‘in the Princeps’ service’ implied a higher standard than the norm. “Is that hostility something we should expect from Elarians in general?”

 He wasn’t exactly looking forward to fighting on behalf of a people that were going to spend the entire time treating him and his with naked disdain. He’d gotten quite enough of that in Garlemald. He felt a smidge of relief when the knight shook her head.

“I should hope not.” She sighed and turned back towards the expanse of water stretching out beneath them. “This entire mission has put everyone on edge. Elarians pride themselves on being self-sufficient. The protectors, rather than the protected. We do not like having to ask for help, Eorzean.”

G’raha nodded. He knew all too well the mindset of those that prided themselves on staving off the end for as long as possible. Even the simple fact that you need help could be seen as a stain on your honor. Too many had held such views in the early days of the Crystarium, and many had been lost rather than humble themselves to seek shelter in the burgeoning city. Equally unpleasant had been those who insisted the bounty of the Crystal Tower be denied to any who could not meaningfully contribute to the city. “If Marcus’s character is indicative of your people’s, then I suppose it does not surprise me that you balk at receiving assistance.”

She turned back to face him, her expression unreadable. “It’s not helping matters that you are irrelevant.”

G’raha didn’t know how to respond to that. “…I see.”

“I doubt that. The Princeps ordered us to bring back the Warrior of Light with all haste. Asking for help is always bitter, but when the Princeps tells us so we drink our medicine despite the taste. But you and the others were not asked for. If your help was needed, the Princeps would have had us retrieve you as well. Your presence is unnecessary and to some, insulting even.”

“And what do you think?” G’raha lightly challenged. The corners of Calista’s mouth twitched upwards, the first sign of amusement she’d shown thus far.

“I am no fool. You and all your Scion comrades are powerful, plainly so. The only exception is your Lalafell, and she has been Blessed by our Lady. I was not exaggerating when I said the situation is growing dire. Against a Demon like Gorrath, we’ll need all the help we can get, no matter how it makes the stubborn grumble. You and the other Miqo’te especially. Mages are not very common among my people. You will be especially helpful. As well as… well, I don’t think that can hurt your chances.”

G’raha was strongly tempted to ask about what she was referring to with that last sentence but her cheeks had a slight pink to them before she turned away again. Deciding not to press his luck, he ignored the comment. “For the Princeps to be held in such high esteem in this land of warriors, he must be formidable indeed.”

Calista turned back and gave G’raha a look as if he had suggested the man was made of cheese. “The Princeps Sees, he does not fight. That would be madness. He is far too precious to risk on the battlefield. Elarion is filled with fighters, but only one Princeps.”

“Then he must be far seeing indeed.” G’raha mused. The reverence in her voice when she spoke suggested the man was more than merely respected. Calista nodded.

“You speak without appreciating the power he wields. The Sight is divine.” Her voice was fervent. “The Princeps knows the future. He does not guess at it. He does not provide fumbling, vague prophecies. He sees the truth, always. There is a reason the slightest word from the Princeps is enough to move all of Elarion.”

G'raha was taken aback by her intensity. Faith in the Princeps ran deeper than he thought. He tried to deflect from his doubts. “Does this ship have the means to communicate with the Elarian mainland? If the Princeps approving of our presence would improve our standing, perhaps you should inform him that we are here and solicit his opinion.”

Calista looked faintly amused at the idea. “He is the Princeps. If he didn’t know all along that you were going to come, he certainly knows you’re here by now.”

“Then mayhap the reason he did not task you with finding my fellow Scions and I was that he knew you would not need to?” G’raha pointed out. Calista cocked her head slightly in acknowledgement.

“A fair point. To answer your question, communications from this far away are spotty but possible. The Princeps will send word if we need do anything besides bring you to Elarion at all speed.”

“And if the Princeps does declare we are unwelcome?” G’raha asked, trying to make the question sound casual.

Calista shrugged. “We can always throw you overboard into the sea.”

The two of them laughed, though G’raha got the impression Calista wasn’t entirely joking. Anything else they were going to say was interrupted by a third voice.

“Ser Calista?” G’raha turned to see a member of the crew watching them tentatively. “Your presence is requested on the bridge.”

“I’ll be there momentarily.” Calista looked back to G’raha as the man walked off. “We’ll have to postpone our talk. If you do wish to learn more about Elarion, feel free to seek me out later.”

“I may take you up on that.” G’raha stuck out a hand again.

“His gaze be on you.” She shook his hand with a firm but not hard grip, then followed after the crewman.

G’raha walked away in the opposite direction, heading towards the rear of the ship where the cabins and mess were. He held Marcus in the highest respect. From his ready willingness to face down danger, incredible prowess on the battlefield, and even his, admittedly frustrating, refusal to burden anyone else with any difficulties he encountered, he had many admirable traits. G’raha still wasn’t sure he was going to enjoy dealing with an entire nation’s worth of him.

He was no sociologist, but he was beginning to get a grasp on the character of the Elarian people. The hardships of their constant battles in defense of their homeland fed religious fervor, hence the reverence displayed towards the Princeps who stood as a representative of the divine. They also developed a fierce pride for withstanding that hardship and correspondingly contempt for those who did not have to endure such trials. If a sizable portion of the populace did not feel they were protecting the rest of the star from the Skalik, G’raha would be shocked.

As he walked, he could hear voices coming from up ahead. A group of soldiers were talking as they walked with a hurried pace. G’raha only made out a handful of words, but those words included ‘Ser Castor,’ ‘fight,’ and ‘Warrior.’ He increased his pace to match theirs.

They headed to the rear of the airship and climbed the narrow staircase there. Voices audible from up ahead preceded their arrival at what looked like an audience chamber. The room was a wide-open space, easily the largest room on the ship. A raised dais at one end had a highbacked chair seated on it, where the master of this vessel could look down at his supplicants. Right now, it sat empty and ignored, the attention of the twenty or so Elarians present, some soldiers, some crew, fixed on the center of the room. Marcus stood there, surrounded by a loose ring of his countrymen about twenty fulms across and with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

G’raha felt his hand stray towards his staff. Seeing Marcus surrounded by armed Elarians made the Miqo’te instantly suspicious. He had not forgotten Y’shtola’s warning that the Elarians had attempted to arrest Marcus during their first encounter. As excited as he was for a new adventure in a new land, G’raha had also come along just in case the request for help was a mask for a more sinister motive. He pushed forward into the crowd, Elarians turning to see who the newcomer was as G’raha tried to take in more of the situation.

As he surveyed the room, he noticed Y’shtola standing near the far wall. The Elarians nearby had made a gap in the crowd for her, standing what was likely intended to be taken as a respectful distance away. She met his gaze and, perhaps guessing at his thoughts from his expression, shook her head slightly.

G’raha relaxed. Y’shtola was the most protective of Marcus of all the Scions. If she saw no need to intervene, then he would follow her lead. The soldiers he had brushed past were eyeing him intently from either side and he realized that shoving them aside like he had was a little rude. Trying not to make relations between them and the Elarians worse, he nodded towards Marcus. “My apologies, but what is all this?”

The woman to his left, with fiery red hair and prominent biceps visible on her bare arms, answered first. “Ser Castor challenged your friend to a sparring match. And I’m not about to miss a chance to see a Knight in action.” She gestured to herself, then behind him. “I’m Myra, and that’s Samouel.”

G’raha turned around to see the man in question, who had a leaner frame, short, dark hair and blue eyes. He was giving G’raha an odd look. “Call me Sam.”

“Pleased to meet you.” G’raha said, stepping back slightly so he was not directly between them. He glanced at the crowd around them. “Is Ser Castor going to put on a bit of a show then?”

“Depends if the ‘Warrior of Light’ can hang with him.” Myra said, her tone making it clear she found that dubious.

“He will.” G’raha’s answer was preempted by Sam saying it for him. “We didn’t fly out for three days to pick up someone who can’t even face off against a Knight.”

“Even that Knight?” Myra asked as the crowd to their left parted and Castor walked through the opening made for him. G’raha could understand the sentiment. The bald man with his massive weapons cut an imposing figure. Standing opposite of Marcus, he positively dwarfed the Warrior of Light who was just as clearly not intimidated in the slightest. Marcus was alone in that, conversations around the ring dying down from the weight of Castor’s presence.

“You will be pleased to know that we have received word from the Princeps.” Castor said when the room was sufficiently quiet. “He is eager to meet you in person and extends his welcome to your Scion comrades.”

Murmurs erupted around the circle. Marcus merely nodded. “Good. I’d have hated to have to hurt you if you tried to get rid of them.”

Castor did not react to the jibe. “Yes, his exact words were that ‘Anyone foolish enough to run towards a Demon is the kind of fool we can use.’ He’s quite pleased to have several more of the Lady’s champions joining our cause.”

The quiet conversations grew noticeably louder.

“Eorzeans? Chosen to be champions of the Lady?”

“You heard the man, the Princeps himself said so.”

G’raha felt the animosity directed at him recede. Sam gave him an appraising look. “You’re a champion of the Lady?”

“I suppose I am.” The Scions had been charged with defeating Meteion by Hydaelyn, that more or less made them her champions in G’raha’s book.

Myra gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Didn’t realize we had a bona fide hero present. Maybe I should take a tumble with you, eh? See what our Lady’s champion is really made of?”

G’raha noticed that several of the hard glances he had been receiving were now more appraising. The crowd that had been pressing in around him backed off, creating space. One man who met his eyes for a moment even gave him an approving nod. G’raha felt safe in assuming his questions would go over much better in this crowd.

His attention was grabbed by Castor handing off his tower shield to a waiting soldier. He unslung the sword from his back with an effortless flourish, an impressive display given the weapon was nearly as tall as he was. G’raha noted no other weapon on him and had to conclude the knight wielded both his greatsword and shield at once in battle, which spoke to his strength. And the power that he could put into his strikes, now that he was wielding his greatsword with both hands. Castor planted the weapon on the deck before him lightly and held the hilt loosely in both hands. His stood stock still, his size and power nevertheless still conveying a clear sense of danger. Power contained like a rumbling volcano, dormant yet on the cusp of eruption.

For his part, Marcus looked unimpressed. He drew his own weapons with his usual lack of flair and stood in the relaxed yet ready stance, his legs shoulder length apart and his hands low, G’raha had seen him take countless times. He was in constant motion, swaying slightly, shoulders rolling, swordtip tracing circles through the air behind him as he waited for battle to begin. His mouth curled into a confident half-smile. G’raha was wholly unsurprised to see his eagerness.

The woman Castor had handed his shield to stepped forward. “At the request of Marcus…” she faltered for a moment. “of Eorzea, this duel is to be fought to first blood only. Is that agreeable?”

“Perfectly.” Castor replied, gaze unwavering from Marcus. He took up his greatsword, bringing it around in front of him. Marcus glanced at the herald and smirked slightly, but said nothing.

“Are both fighters prepared?” Both men answered in the affirmative. “Begin!”

Castor shot forward with startling speed for a man of his size, blade whipping around in a horizontal guillotine. Marcus smartly turned and caught the sword on his shield, sparks rising as the metal came together with a ringing clang. Castor followed up the slash with a stab, then a low cut, then another slash, circling left toward Marcus’s sword arm with each attack. Marcus turned to meet each strike with his shield, the movement keeping his sword arm behind him, away from his foe. He withdrew from the force of the onslaught, a step back for every step forward Castor took towards him. The duo’s turns made it a circular orbit around the cheering ring of spectators.

The watching Elarians erupted into shouts as the battle was joined, many calling for the knight’s victory while others demanded Marcus fight back. G’raha stayed silent and watched the dance of blades with an appraising eye. He was trained to fight with sword and shield, just as they were, and even the Miqo’te’s habitual humility could only downplay his abilities to claim he was ‘skilled’ with them. But he felt like a rank amateur watching these two.

Castor was frighteningly fast and relentless in attacking. He wielded the greatsword in a two-handed grip with the speed and fluidity one would only think possible with a weapon half its weight. His skill was plainly evident, flowing from stab to slash with the effortless grace of a master swordsman. By comparison, Marcus’s own swordplay was simple. Borderline pedestrian. A standard sword and board style used by many the world over. But Marcus turned simplicity into strength. Though he was steadily retreating before the knight’s aggression in a wide circle around the impromptu dueling ring, not a single one of Castor’s strikes came anywhere near hitting him.

G’raha was aware of the strategies at play here. Castor’s greatsword gave him the advantage in reach, and forgoing the use of his shield traded defense for increased offense. With the rule of first blood in place, his best approach was to overwhelm Marcus’s defense with relentless attacks to score even a minor hit. Marcus, on the other hand, would seek to weather the assault until Castor presented an opening he could exploit. Often, this could be done by tiring out one’s opponent, though from what G’raha was seeing if Marcus tried that with Castor they’d be here all day.

Castor knew this as well, and for all his ferocity he was keeping his distance. Using the length of his greatsword to full effect, he was staying well out of Marcus’s reach, requiring him to forgo defense and approach before he could attempt an attack of his own. That left him largely helpless to retaliate, while Castor only needed to be lucky once to claim victory. Amused by the irony that the man attacking without pause was playing it safe while the man focusing solely on defending was taking a risk, G’raha watched the duelists slowly circle each other.

They had been battling for several minutes before Marcus finally brought his sword to bear, parrying a stab away rather than blocking it. The move prompted a brief resurgence of the cheers, the onlookers excited by the departure from what had become monotonous combat, but they died back down when Marcus did not shift to going on the offensive and merely expanded his defensive options to include occasionally using his sword defensively instead of solely his shield.

“Maybe his shield arm is getting tired?” Sam suggested to Myra past G’raha. She didn’t reply, instead shouting yet again that Marcus ought to grow a pair and get in there already. She was slowly drifting closer to G’raha as the fight went on and he had already taken a slight step in the other direction, bringing himself closer to Sam.

Castor slowed the rate of his attacks a hair now, likely aware of the possibly of Marcus forcing an opening with a well-placed parry. His strikes themselves were now faster, more precise. Brilliant displays of technical swordsmanship that left G’raha convinced more than once that an attack must surely have landed home only for Marcus to unerringly deflect the blow at the last second.

It took the duelists another few circuits around the dueling ring for G’raha to notice, and several more for him to realize it was more than just his imagination.

Marcus was drawing closer.

Barely, imperceptibly closer with every exchange between them. Withdrawing an ilm, not even, a hair less from each attack than he had previously been. The shift was so subtle, Castor almost certainly had not noticed. G’raha himself had only registered the change in the fighters’ positions because he could see them from multiple angles as they went around the ring. From the occasional shouts and cheers he heard, it would not have surprised him to learn he was the only one who had noticed.

Amazing. G’raha knew Marcus was a skillful warrior, but this display was an astonishing show of his prowess. G’raha realized he was holding his breath, as if even the sound of him exhaling could alert Castor to the consummate subtlety of how he was being outmaneuvered.

It took another few minutes of exchanges for Marcus to inch closer. Soon, he would be close enough to begin negating the advantage of the greatsword’s length and turn it into a hindrance. Castor began attacking with increased ferocity, either because he noticed what was occurring or simply wanted to put an end to the long-lasting fight. Now he was the one who needed an opening, a chance to withdraw without leaving himself vulnerable to Marcus charging him.

Perhaps to give himself one, Castor’s blade flared with energy. The sword plunged down in an overhanded chop that Marcus met with a shield also alight with aether. The clashing energies burst outward in a shockwave that sent some of the onlookers reeling. Marcus weathered the blow without flinching, pushing back against the greatsword and not giving an ilm of hard-won ground.

What came next was a blur of motion, almost too fast for G’raha to see. Marcus shifted his shield and pressed forward, diverting the greatsword away from him as he closed the distance to be within reach with his own weapon. His sword was raised and drawn back for a stab to end this. But even as he began to move, Castor sprang backwards. He did not even attempt to contest the blow with his greatsword, instead relying on a bounding leap backwards to carry him clear of Marcus’s reach.

When Castor lunged backwards, Marcus lunged forwards, thrusting with a stab at the knight’s chest. But Castor’s leap was too quick and even with his arm fully extended Marcus was just a hair short of reaching his foe. Castor’s sword came around with blinding speed, slashing into the opening Marcus’s lunge had created.

Marcus loosened his fingers, flicked his wrist, and his sword left his hand in the instant before he needed to spin away from Castor’s blade.

Barely a second after the aetherically charged explosion, Castor and Marcus were standing on opposite sides of the dueling ring. Castor exhaled a deep breath and rose out of the crouch he landed in. Marcus stood up straight with his shield at his side and raised a hand to his cheek. His fingers came away red.

“What… just happened?” Myra asked.

“I believe my friend just won.” G’raha said with a sly smile. It had been by the slimmest of margins, but he'd seen whose blade had hit home first. Voices raised all around the ring. Most proclaimed Castor’s victory while some sharper-eyed onlookers tried in vain to explain what happened.

Castor examined a minuscule mark on his armor. His gauntleted finger traced the negligible divot before he looked up to Marcus. “An unorthodox move.”

Marcus shrugged. “If it works. Otherwise it’s just a dumb one.” He held out his bloody fingers in admission. “Looks like you win.”

“Don’t be dense.” Castor said. “’First blood’ does not require shedding it. The victory is yours.”

Objections were raised from some onlookers, then arguments from others. The crowd appeared divided in their opinions. Castor turning to regard them silenced most of the bickering before he looked back to Marcus.

“Well fought.” Castor said. G’raha was a little surprised to hear a note of admiration in his voice.

“It’s not enough to fight, you gotta fight with panache.” Marcus said, scooping his sword off the ground with a little flourish.

“Panache.” Castor repeated in a tone more arid than the average desert. “Something you learned in Eorzea, I take it.”

“More or less. Tell you what, we can call it a draw.” Marcus said. He grinned. “Or do you want more than a warm-up?”

G’raha both smiled and rolled his eyes. Of course. Ten minutes of some of the most brutal swordplay he had ever witnessed only rated as a warm-up to Marcus.

“Let’s not.” Castor slung his greatsword on his back. “This is the Princeps’ ship and he’d be rather cross if we damaged it.”

“Well, he does have so few nice things.” Marcus replied, sheathing his weapon as well. “Just didn’t want to disappoint the crowd.”

Castor glanced at the ring of onlookers and suddenly G’raha had the distinct impression that putting on a performance had somehow been the point of this all along. “I imagine most of you have duties you ought to be attending to?”

The show officially over, the crowd guiltily dispersed. Many of them were still muttering in confusion about how the duel had ended, though G’raha overheard a few voices excitedly explaining what Marcus had done. Castor collected his shield and approached Marcus. G’raha ignored the exodus and drifted close enough to hear the knight speak to his friend.

“My thanks, for indulging in my desire for exercise.”

“Don’t mention it. I needed a good fight to shake the rust off myself.” Marcus rapped his shield lightly with his armored knuckles. “Did I pass the test?”

Castor folded his arms, his expression unreadable. “The Princeps already told me of your prowess, why would I need to test you?” He let the pause between them last a bit too long to be natural. “But yes.”

Marcus smirked. “Good to hear I still meet Elarion’s standards.”

“Blood for Elarion, Marcus Dorne.” Castor gave a final nod to Marcus, then turned and departed as well. Marcus looked oddly touched at the grim sounding phrase and made a show of inspecting his shield as G’raha walked over.

“Nicked to all hell.” Marcus groused. G’raha gave the piece of armor a cursory once over.

“Nothing some armor polish and elbow grease won’t mend.”

Y’shtola joined them. “Mayhap you should have listened when I told you this was an unnecessary exertion?”

“And miss the chance to go toe-to-toe with a Knight? Never.” Marcus answered lightly.

Y’shtola sighed before mending the scratch across his cheek with a wave of her hand and a flurry of magic. Marcus blinked in surprise, likely having forgotten all about the shallow wound. “You are aware that most men would see the prospect of frenzied combat with a deadly foe as a problem, not an opportunity, are you not?”

“And what do you see it as?” Marcus asked.

Y’shtola’s narrow smile gave nothing away. “A way to get your shield nicked to all hell.”

Marcus chuckled as he spun his shield back around and slung it on his back as he turned to G’raha. “You’ve made some friends?”

G’raha turned to see Myra and Sam had not departed with the others. Myra came forward to stand next to him with Sam flanking her, forming a ring out of the five of them.

“So you’re the guy who got tapped to fight the biggest monster in Elarian history.” Myra said by way of greeting.

“Second biggest.” Sam put in. “The Plaguebringer was worse.”

“Not even the Skalik are dumb enough to summon that ever again.” Marcus mused, as if to himself. He straightened up a little and nodded in greeting to the two newcomers. “I take it you’ve met G’raha. I’m Marcus, and this is Y’shtola.”

The sorceress eyed them. “And you are…?”

“Myra.”

“Samouel.”

“Of?” Marcus asked. The two Elarians shared a surprised glance between themselves.

“Athenon.” Myra answered.

“Crytos.” Sam said.

Marcus turned toward him with sudden interest. “Really? I’m from Theron.”

Now Sam looked interested. “Truly? A brother from the Sixes?”

“Not buying it.” Myra interjected dismissively. She glanced at Sam. “I don’t know how you convinced this complete stranger to join in your performance, but you're still not going to trick me into believing anyone actually lives in the eastern Ferrocs.”

Sam gave a long-suffering sigh. “For the last time, the Sixes are real villages.”

“What are the Sixes?” G’raha asked curiously.

Marcus answered. “The region I’m from has only six villages in the area, and they’re small enough that the locals refer to them collectively as the Sixes. But even put together, there’s still so few people out that way that some idiots like to pretend we don’t exist.”

Myra matched his amused smile with a laugh of her own. “Not my fault you live in a fictional village rather than a real city like Athenon.”

“I prefer a home where I don’t run the risk of being stabbed for my pocket change.” Sam snarked back.

Marcus shrugged in a conciliatory manner. “I think we can all agree, at least we don’t come from some truly desolate, godsforsaken place. Like Colchis.”

All three of them burst into laughter. G’raha chuckled along, more from the infectious humor than any understanding of the joke.

“So you’re from Elarion.” Sam said. “But you were living as far abroad as Thavnair? What in the Lady’s name drew you that far from home?”

“That’s a long story.” Marcus replied.

“I’d say you can share it over lunch, but all we have is airship food.  It’s got to be giving you a terrible first impression of Elarian cuisine.” Myra apologized to G’raha.

G’raha smiled. One advantage of growing up Sharlayan was you developed remarkably low standards when it came to food. Archon Loaf was not a high bar to clear. “I’ve had far worse, I assure you.”

“You poor man.” Myra commiserated.

“You’d think the Princeps would be eating well.” Marcus observed.

“He probably does, when he’s on-board. They don’t give us grunts that though.” Sam replied. He shrugged. “The Knights might get better than the crap rations we get, I don’t know.”

“Speaking of, that was quite the show you put on.” Myra commented. “I’ve never seen anyone go toe-to-toe with an honest to Her Knight before.”

Y’shtola cocked her head in question towards Marcus. “You’ve spoken of these knights before. I gather they are something of prestigious elites in Elarion.”

Marcus nodded. “The Knights are the best of the best in Elarion. They are our heroes, our champions, the guys kids dream of growing up into. Kinda like us, if the Scions were part of the Grand Companies. In between the wars they scatter across the realm to solve problems much like we adventurers do, when a war is on they are the tip of the spear that drives back our foes. When I said my friends and I wanted to be heroes, what we were really after was enough acclaim to be named Knights.”

“These knights are appointed to the role? Through what qualifications?” Y’shtola asked, sounding as curious as G'raha felt. Sam answered her.

“General heroism and combat prowess, mostly. Each prince gets to select twenty Knights to serve under their command, never any more than that. The Princeps is the one to actually bestow the Knighthoods, so one prince can’t try to gain an advantage over the others by making more.”

Myra shook her head. “Not that they could. Only the Princeps knows the rite to bestow the Lady’s Blessing in the first place. Though with the Blood Demon on the loose, I’m guessing even he wishes we had more.”

Marcus hmmed. “A hundred Knights and one.” Both Myra and Sam gave rueful snorts of laughter.

“An Elarian saying, referring to a truly excessive amount of force?” G’raha hazarded. Marcus confirmed his guess with a nod. Y'shtola was knocking on her chin, deep in thought.

“You referred to Castor as one of the Princeps’ Knights, but that saying would imply the number of knights never exceeds one hundred and all of those are already accounted for in service to the princes."

Sam answered her. “Each prince assigns four of their Knights to serve the Princeps at a time. It gives him some muscle he can use to act on what he Sees immediately, rather than need to go through the princes every time. And since he’s the one who gives the blessings, they’re happy to keep him supplied.”

G’raha’s interest was piqued by the oblique reference. “He ‘blesses’ them?”

Marcus nodded. “Right. What makes a Knight a Knight is they are blessed by the Lady, that is, Hydaelyn, via the Princeps. The blessing gives them increased strength and immunity to demonic corruption. And I don’t know if it’s true or not, but rumor has it the best Knights can even… see the future… in battle.”  Marcus slapped a hand over his face. “By the Twelve, how did I not realize that was the Echo until now?”

Y’shtola raised an eyebrow. “You mean to say the Princeps has some means of artificially bestowing the Echo on others?”

“He must. The rite is a closely guarded secret, so I couldn’t tell you how. I know prospective Knights have to complete various trials, but beyond that your guess is as good as mine.”

Y’shtola leaned closer and spoke softly enough that G’raha could barely hear her murmur. “You do remember the Garlean Empire’s method?”

Marcus shook his head and murmured back. “No chance. The Princeps wouldn’t be party to something like that.”

“Are you certain? Mayhap that is why the process is a secret. Grim expedience can be used to justify a great deal.” Y’shtola pointed out. G’raha shared her doubts. On the one hand, it was hard to countenance someone performing such gruesome rituals as a matter of course, or being able to hide it for very long. On the other, from what he’d seen and heard thus far, the Elarians might very well be warlike and brutal enough to justify such extreme measures to themselves.

Perhaps sensing their thoughts, Marcus’s voice lowered. “I’m positive. The Princeps is a good man. Stronger than I am. He would never bow to ‘expedience.’ I'm certain of it.”

G’raha shared a glance with Y’shtola, taken aback by the conviction in his voice.

“Then I will defer to your judgment and say no more on the matter.” Y’shtola laid a hand on his arm, a message in her eyes G’raha was not close enough to them to understand.

“I might have to question the notion any could be stronger than you.” He said, trying to make light of the moment.

Their quiet conversation had not gone unnoticed. Myra cleared her throat. “Anything you care to share?”

“Nothing of note. Simply a point we needed clarification on.” G’raha said. “I confess, my knowledge of Elarion is quite limited. Would that this ship had an onboard library.” He facetiously lamented.

Sam held out a hand in offer. “I have some old books in my cabin, histories mainly. You can borrow them if you want.”

“That would be most welcome. Thank you.” G’raha said.

“And if you have any questions, I can help answer the–” Sam was cut off by Myra stepping closer towards G’raha. Tall for a Hyur woman, she stood over him and leaned forward to come closer.

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

“You just did.” G’raha smiled at his own bad joke. “But you can ask another.”

She laughed. “We don’t have any, what are you called, Miqo’te, in Elarion. So I’ve always been curious. Is that fur on your ears, or hair?”

A bit of an odd question, but G’raha did not know enough of the local cultural norms to know if he should be offended. “Fur. It has slightly different texture and thickness.”

“The same as your tail, I assume?” The way Myra was leaning forward, her shirt was not covering as much as it was intended to. G’raha nodded and Myra’s smile deepened. “Mind if I have a feel?”

She was already reaching out without waiting for an answer. Feeling his face warm slightly, G’raha leaned back a little away from the hand. He glanced over at Marcus, who appeared awfully amused but nevertheless raised an arm to block her. “Down, girl. A Miqo’te’s ears and tail are sensitive and grabbing them without permission is rude.”

“Oh, sorry. I had no idea.” Not looking very sorry, Myra leaned back to her full height. “Maybe I can get permission, I’d love to compare the two.”

G’raha had lived a very long life, but most of it had been spent in the largely aromantic realms of Sharlayan academia and reigning over a major metropolitan area as its mysterious benefactor. Very little of those fields had prepared him for flirting, and he still wasn’t sure if this was normal behavior in Elarion.

Fortunately, Sam answered that for him. “Merciful Lady, he’s not interested. How hard up are you?”

“You’re one to talk.” Myra snapped back. “’Call me Sam?’ I had to save your life before you’d let me call you Sam. Like you were only going to study when you invited him back to your room.”

Marcus headed off the argument. “Yes yes, my friend is a very beautiful man.” He patted G’raha’s shoulder, whose face flushed even more from both the contact and the compliment. “But sadly he is not on the market for a one pillow dance. Better luck next time.”

“Pity.” Myra said. Sam shook his head.

“That wasn’t what I–” He was cut off by the ringing of bells echoing from the nearby corridor. Three short chimes. “Ugh, now?”

“Midday shifters don’t get to complain about the time.” Marcus replied in mock reprimand. He gave a little shooing wave. “Off you get now.”

The duo turned and departed for their shift. Myra flashed G’raha a wink as they departed. He waited until they were out of earshot before turning to Marcus. “Are all Elarians that… forward?”

Marcus’s amused smile sobered. “No. They’re soldiers who think there’s a good chance they’ll be dead in a month’s time, so they don’t care about decorum.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” G’raha was ready to put the matter behind him but Marcus wasn’t finished.

“Although, I can’t speak for every Elarian, but I should say that I personally find Miqo’te ears to be awfully sexy.”

Once again, G’raha’s face went as red as his hair. He turned away to hide his burning cheeks and ignored Marcus’s good natured laughter at his embarrassment. Y’shtola rolled her eyes at the comment before her brow furrowed.

“Marcus, what’s troubling you?”

His laughter petered out awkwardly. He took a moment to answer her. “They think they’re going to die. Why? They have airship guard duty, it’s the safest posting in Elarion. But they’re acting like they’re living on borrowed time. Half this ship is.”

Recovering from his embarrassment, G’raha thought back. “They did not seem that way to me.”

Marcus shrugged. “Elarian fatalism is a subtle thing. It took me a while to recognize it in myself when I first came to Eorzea.”

“I recall you being a much more subdued and quieter individual when you first joined the Scions.” Y’shtola noted. “It took you some time to open up more and become more expressive.”

“Yeah…” Marcus’s expression darkened as he thought back. G’raha thought it best to not let him dwell on that.

“Perhaps they are concerned about the threat the Primal poses?”

Marcus gave a little shake of his head, dislodging the memories, and turned back to him. “I doubt it. Gorrath is supposed to be dangerous, but not so dangerous everyone in Elarion would be fearing for their lives.” His gaze drifted out the window, staring at the ocean passing by. “What the hell is happening back there?”

The look on Marcus’s face reminded G’raha that Elarion was indeed his homeland. “Nothing we cannot set right.” G’raha told him, feeling a little odd to be trying to reassure the man that was often a boundless well of optimism and confidence.

Y’shtola nodded, taking one of Marcus’s hands in hers. “Indeed. Between our own abilities in dealing with Primals and the strength of the knights you spoke of, I imagine we will settle this matter quickly.”

Marcus gave them both a relived smile. “Thanks.”

As Marcus turned away, G’raha couldn’t help but notice the smile vanish.

Chapter Text

The Ladonas River, colloquially known as the Blue Ribbon and often shortened to just the Ribbon, was one of the largest waterways in Elarion. Born of the joining of countless mountain streams, it surged southwest in a wide, rushing torrent that formed a natural border between the northern princedom of Calydon and the princedoms of Minea and Cretos to the south. The river’s swift current made it quite difficult for even experienced boatmen to make it across, making the river’s crossings vital lifelines into and out of Calydon that were made all the more important by there being only two of them.

The first was the Great Bridge, directly south of Calydon’s capital city of Clenon. Those from other nations with sizable architectural works of their own might disagree with that appellation, but it was a veritable highway in its own right and was so close to the Jewel of the North that it was in many ways an extension of the city. While not within the city’s high walls, the close proximity made it impossible for a group of any real number to make it to the bridge and cross without being contested by Clenon’s defenders.

The second was the Ribbon’s Fords. An area where the Ladonas grew wide, shallow, and sluggish, it allowed ready access to the south to anyone who was willing to get their feet wet. Farther west than Clenon, where the mountains shrank to become foothills, it allowed for more direct access to the plains of Cretos than the bridge, with the added benefit, for some, of neatly avoiding Clenon’s many fierce protectors and strong defenses. In times of war, which was to say in Elarion, most times, such access was a vulnerability as much as a boon.

The Elarians were not blind to the strategic significance of the location. Each bank had long been fortified, with two strongholds that stood vigil over the flowing waters on their respective sides. Arta Fort was the smaller of the two, situated in Cretos territory on the southern bank. Volos Castle was the larger, and defended the Calydonian side of the river, where it saw a good deal more action than its southern counterpart.

The castle consisted of three great towers, arranged in a triangle, connected by adjoining walls, and surrounded by a smaller wall to establish a perimeter. An imposing edifice with a sizable garrison, it was surpassed as a defensive holding in Calydon only by the princedom’s capital of Clenon and the northern fortress-town of Keton. Repeated millennia of war had produced in the Elarians considerable knowledge of siegecraft, particularly on the defensive side. The castle was well built, both in design and construction. It regularly weathered the worst that vicious and bloodthirsty Skalik warlords could bring to bear against it. A stone arrowhead that bit deep into attackers while remaining unmarred itself, the fortress was considered nearly impregnable.

Part of the castle’s impenetrable defenses was that the stone structure was built and maintained by druids. Their stone shaping magicks meant that even as the fortifications were damaged, they could be repaired. More than one attacking force had found themselves caught like rats in a trap as the breach in the wall they just charged through repaired itself and left them stranded at the mercy of the castle’s defenders.

Of course, that meant the castle also had what could be considered a glaring vulnerability. After all, a fortress that could quickly be built by druidic magic was also one that could just as easily be taken apart by druidic magic. This could be considered a weakness, but rarely was. And for good reason. The Skalik had no druids, only Elarians practiced that magic. When the supposed vulnerability was rarely acknowledged, it was in the realm of thought experiments, hypotheticals where the princedoms returned to warring with one another or Eorzean conjurers inexplicably arrived and were pitting their own Earth-aspected spellcraft against the druids manning the fortifications. That the attackers would have druids of their own was never even considered.

It really should have been, Cailia thought to herself as she crept through the rubble. Especially since we knew this attack was coming.

She froze as Sergeant Dimo held up a hand. The man himself and his two subordinates likewise went completely still. A pack of Skalik rushed past, a dozen of them or near to it, but they were too intent on joining the bloodshed to see the quartet of Elarians hiding amid the shattered remains of their fortress. Cailia didn’t dare to breathe until the ratmen were out of sight and didn’t move a muscle until Dimo waved the group on. Not for the first time, she wished she was in the air.

Her impromptu squad moved quietly through the ruins of the North Tower, trying to balance speed with stealth. The moon overhead lit the area brightly. The Skalik would have no trouble seeing them, if they weren’t careful, and that would only end one way.  They crept forward as quickly as they could, each one trying to ignore the sounds of the battle raging behind them.

Cailia was not blind to how all three of her companions wanted to return to stand with their comrades. She did too. But this hunt would decide the course of that battle, far more than their skill at arms could. She didn’t know if the corrupted druids who had brought the North Tower down had the strength to do the same to the East and West ones now, but they certainly could after recovering their energy if it came to that. That would end any hopes of the garrison holding the bank, almost as surely as if her true prey wasn’t caught.

She hadn’t expected the half-second glimpse she got while the tower was being pulled down around them to be taken very seriously. But the Skyhunter’s badge on her lapel vouched for the reliability of her eyes and the captain had agreed that even if she was wrong, the risk was too great to ignore. The castle could not be allowed to fall. Not just for its strategic value, but after the fall of Keton allowing another defeat was unthinkable.

And so while rallying every man she could to defend against the now unchecked Skalik attackers overrunning the rest of the castle, Captain Thea had ordered Sergeant Dimo to take what remained of his squad and see that Cailia reached her prey. He had not been thrilled by the order, but he and his two subordinates were unerringly escorting her to her target.

They were behind the Skalik lines by now, though calling the loose, disorganized mobs of attackers ‘lines’ was being generous. Just as well, the Elarians would have never gotten this close to the perimeter wall if they had to move through an army with a smidge of discipline. Even the Skalik’s normal cowardice would have left them with enough self-preservation instincts to have lookouts set, but their new master seemed to have curbed that kind of caution.

The squad reached the outer wall and sheltered in the deep shadows it cast. The mound of masonry from where the enemy had smashed through was not far. There had been several breaches knocked in the outer wall. It was a gamble that Cailia’s prey would enter this one, the closest to where it had been when she had seen it, but she didn’t have a better idea than hoping to beat it to the opening and catching it when it came through. The thought that it might have already passed through made her wish yet again that she was doing this from the air.

“What’s the plan?” Dimo asked in a hushed voice.

She whispered back. “Wait for it to come through, then I’ll shoot it.” She reached into the quiver on her back and had to scrabble for an arrow. An unwelcome reminder that she only had a few more shots before she’d be down to the knife sheathed at her waist. But if all went according to plan, she’d only need one.

“Is it going to come through?” Dimo asked. “Why not cast back where it’s safe?”

“The wards will block the spell. It has to come inside the walls.” Cailia reminded him.

“Are the wards even still up with the tower down?” Dimo pointed out.

Cailia swore under her breath. She had no idea, and from the look on Dimo’s face he didn’t either. She glanced at the other two of their party and both the man and the woman confirmed with shrugs that they also didn’t know. Which meant there was only one choice.

“We have to cross the breach.”

“They’ll see us!” The male soldier hissed. Dimo clapped him on the shoulder.

“They were always going to see us, Leander. We’ll just need to be fast.”

‘We’ meaning her, Cailia knew. “We will be. We’ll pop up and nail the target before they even know we’re there.”

Unless it had moved on and wasn’t with the host waiting outside the wall while the Skalik’s front lines died. Cailia pushed the thought away. Dimo and the soldiers were grimly nodding.

“On my go.” Dimo held out an arm as if to hold them back while he watched the breach. What he was looking for, the sharp-eyed Skyhunter did not see. At her side, Leander was muttering under his breath.

“Oh my Princeps, we could sure use some reinforcements right about now.”

Cailia’s mouth quirked. She used to do the same when she was younger, speaking to the empty air in hopes the Princeps’s gaze might land on her and she would divine some solution to whatever was troubling Cailia. That had never happened, but to be fair Cailia had never asked for anything worthy of the Princeps’ time to begin with. After the current Princeps was found, she kicked the habit but she knew many in Elarion still prayed regularly. She wasn’t about to judge anyone for praying, not at a time like this.

Not that it would do them any good. The Princeps’ gaze was undoubtedly already on this battle and he’d done all he could by now. Surely he had. They needed to win this battle on their own.

That suited Cailia just fine.

After what felt like an eternity, Dimo’s hand dropped. “Go!”

They rushed forward, still staying low, trying to avoid being spotted as long as possible. When they reached the ramp of sundered stones they scrabbled up it, moving quietly. They reached the crest of the hill and Cailia nearly ran into the Skalik coming the other way.

The arrow still in her hand was nocked, drawn, and loosed in less than a second. The speed one only obtained after tens of thousands of repetitions. And still too slow.

The Skalik’s screech was cut off by the arrow embedding in its throat, but it had been loud enough. Answering calls came both in front and behind them. Stealth abandoned, Cailia vaulted over the crest of the hill to stand at the top.

She saw an army of Skalik staring back at her, breaking into motion. The closest ones were already ascending the stone pile, Dimo and his men pushed past her to hold them off. Cailia quickly scanned the crowd, dreading that she might not see her target.

She was wrong. It was right there, illuminated in the moonlight, standing atop a small platform that had been erected. A plague wizard.

The walking pustule didn’t seem to notice its forces were under attack, all its attention fixated on the orb of grimy magic hovering above it. Sickly green energy flowed from its hands into the orb, which pulsed with filthy light. Dimo had been right. It was going to attack from here. Cailia didn’t know how large the bomb had to become before it could blight the entire castle, and she didn’t want to know.

She already had an arrow drawn to fire when a Taurhe with a massive broadshield stepped in front of the wizard, blocking her shot. Cailia had almost forgotten there were corrupted Elarians in this force too. She grit her teeth in frustration, sent a silent prayer to the Lady that she still had enough arrows for this, and fired.

The Taurhe’s shield was large, even for weapons wielded by the race of bull men, but in raising it to block incoming fire, he left his ankle unguarded. Her arrow bit deeply into his left leg, a few ilms above his hoof. He recoiled and roared in pain and the second arrow caught him in the head, just below one of his curved horns. He fell, and Cailia reached for one last arrow to put an end to her hunt.

By luck or the Lady’s favor, she had two arrows left. She put one in the plague wizard’s gut, breaking off the flow of magic to the orb as the monster staggered backwards. It was babbling something and clutching at the shaft of wood protruding from its stomach so she used her final arrow to put it down for good. As it fell off the back of the platform, the orb’s sick vibrancy dimmed and it dropped. When it hit, it exploded into a cloud of foul green mist that quickly enveloped everyone standing within twenty fulms of the platform.

Cailia tuned out the agonized screams of the dying, it was no more than the monsters deserved, and surveyed the situation. Dimo and his men were engaged with the Skalik in front of them, with more charging towards the fray with each passing moment. They’d be overrun if they stayed here. But behind them, on the other side of the wall, she could see large numbers of shadowy figures closing in. They were surrounded.

She dropped her now useless bow and drew her knife. It was time for the last part of the mission. They’d found the plague wizard and killed it, now all that was left was to take as many enemies with them as they could. For the first time today, she was glad that Lieutenant wasn’t with her.

She darted forward and slashed the Skalik attacking Dimo. He nodded in gratitude before barking to the others. “Form up! Back to back!”

Cailia did as she was bid, joining the four-man ring as the one looking back towards the castle. From here, she could just make out the lights of Fort Arta across the water. She didn’t blame the Cretans for hunkering down after Prince Minos was lost, but now that she was staring death in the face because they’d rather see the north bank fall rather than lend a hand, bitterness rose up inside her. It was so stupidly typical.

The Skalik ascending the hill knocked the thought out of her head and she focused on fighting. Her knife and lightweight leather armor were exceptionally ill suited to fighting as a line bladesman, but the squad had entrusted their lives to her mission and their backs to her protection and she would be damned if she let them down now by dying easily.

But as her mother liked to say, conviction made for poor armor. She managed to slay two Skalik in the frantic fighting before one slashed her leg while she was stabbing another. She fell hard onto the ground, her leg on fire, and desperately tried to recover her dropped knife. Dimo heard her and spun around to cut down the Skalik about to skewer her defenseless body. Leander was already dead and the female soldier was doing her best to hold off three Skalik at once.

She couldn’t manage it. As she fell, Cailia realized she didn’t know her name. That seemed profoundly wrong, though she couldn’t articulate why. She was aware her thoughts were filling with nonsense as death approached and tried to stand to keep fighting, but her leg could take no weight and she fell again. Dimo was falling now, toppling over backwards with a limpness that meant he was already dead. The air was filled with the sounds and shouts of battle. Cailia scrabbled for her knife. She could take at least one more Skalik into death with her.

A horn sounded. A familiar one, and close, echoing over the din of clashing blades. Dimly, she realized she shouldn’t still be able to hear fighting, if everyone was already dead. The horn blasted again, and now she could hear the shout from a thousand throats in answer.

“For Calydon! For the White Griffin!”

Reinforcements. The Princeps answered our prayer. Cailia thought, delirious with pain.

The Skalik were running, some trampling her but otherwise ignoring her in their haste. Cailia shielded her head from the stampede as best as possible. When the tide of bodies had slowed, she propped herself up to look.

He was here. Prince Atreus, Calydon’s White Griffin, was at the forefront of an army that was driving into the Skalik host.

It was beautiful. Glittering silver in the moonlight, the reinforcements cut through the ranks of unprepared Skalik. They were paying again for their lack of sentries, taken by surprise by the troops that must have force-marched in the dark to get here in time. The Skalik host in the plain was rallying around a warlord’s banner, the Calydonian advance stymieing as they met fiercer resistance.

Cailia looked back and saw the Skalik that had nearly trampled her had not been fleeing as she assumed, but instead were drawing back to form a defensive line to hold the breach in the wall. A taller specimen was screeching orders, arraying its fighters into something resembling lines. Their eyes met.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Cailia forced herself to move. She could hear the commander speaking behind her, and the clatter of armed someones drawing closer to her. Her only chance now was to reach the Calydonian lines, but being down a leg and far closer to the Skalik than her comrades, she knew that was a dream. Instead, she turned to meet the trio of Skalik approaching, raising her fists. She was determined to at least wound one with her bare hands before they killed her.

The Skalik lunged. She saw her death reflected in their grimy steel blades.

A gentle breeze stirred the air around her. A ball of compressed air shot past her and impacted the lead Skalik. That close, the explosion threw her backward.

Cailia rolled painfully down the stone slope. White fire flooded her veins from the repeated hits to her bleeding leg and she nearly blacked out from the pain. Her eyes scrunched up to hold onto consciousness, she felt hands take hold of her. The sounds of armed and armored men and women in motion surrounded her. Then came the din of clashing steel and battlecries. The pain receded enough for her to open her eyes and see who had arrested her fall.

She was stunned to see she was in the arms of none other than Prince Atreus himself.

“You still alive?” He asked intently.

She nodded. “Cailia of Theron, at your service, your highness.” Her voice sounded weaker than she wanted it to. She tried to salute. Atreus snorted.

“Not when you're bleeding out, you aren’t.” His hands leaned her against the slope again, then went to the cloak worn over his armor. She heard cloth ripping.

“Hold still.” He told her and though her leg sang with agony as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around it, she did not so much as twitch. She took her attention off the injury by focusing on the Knight standing nearby. He was watching the battle up the slope, spear drawn but held at his side.

Atreus noticed him standing there. “Godsdamnit, what are you doing Jason? Get in there!”

“My place is at your side, your highness.” Jason replied. His grip on his weapon tightened as he watched the fighting.

“Your place is fighting with our people, not standing around fondling your spear.” Atreus growled. “I don’t need protection, they do.”

Jason’s gratitude was quickly masked. “As you wish.” His spear whirled into a ready position as he ran up the slope. It flashed in the moonlight as he reached the fighting and Skalik began to die.

Atreus distracted Cailia from the spectacle of seeing a Knight in action by pulling her arm around his shoulder. “Can you stand?”

She nodded and the two stood as one. They made their way down the slope, past the steady stream of soldiers heading the other direction. She grimaced each time her leg was jostled by the treacherous footing. Perhaps to distract her, Atreus asked, “Why’s a Skyhunter fighting on the ground?”

“I didn’t forget how to fight on my own feet just because they gave me a griffin.” Cailia answered shortly.

“Not my question.” Atreus growled, and it occurred to Cailia she was backtalking her prince.

She tried to adopt a more deferential tone. “My Lieutenant took a hit to the wing and I’ve been grounded while he heals, your highness. I was stationed in the tower when it fell.” Her steed was in the stables near the West Tower, so he should be safe. If enough Skalik to threaten a full-grown griffin had gotten that far, the situation was far worse than she thought.

Atreus hrmmed. “If you weren’t wounded, I’d lend you my King. We need eyes in the sky.”

“Fill my quiver and I’m good to go.” Cailia said, knowing that wasn’t true. She’d need a replacement bow too.

Atreus laughed, rough and warm. “Ha! I bet you would be. But I’m not who you need to convince. Sloarn!”

They were at the bottom of the stone pile. A Taurhe druid rushed over. “Your highness.” He greeted in a deep baritone. With delicacy that was at odds with his hulking frame, he took Cailia’s arm from his prince and picked her up, careful not to agitate her wound. “I have her.”

“Good.” Atreus’ eyes were already back on the unfolding battle. “Patch her up. If she can ride a griffin without killing herself, get her in the air.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, drawing his sword and running back up the hill.

“Your highness!” Cailia called, to no response beyond Sloarn chuckling.

“He wasn’t in the thick of it for a full minute there. He was about to go mad.” He walked them over to where the wall was still standing and a convenient chunk of rubble made for a makeshift chair. Cailia sat, grateful to be off her feet and even more grateful when Sloarn reached out with those large hands wreathed in softly glowing light.

“Your wound is severe. Are you determined to return to the fray?” He asked. Atreus’ cloak scrap was already a vibrant red, but now the fire in her leg began to recede.

“Yes.” Sloarn did not answer that beyond fixing her with a steely gaze. She met it without blinking. The staring match continued for a long moment before Sloarn snorted.

“Why do I even bother?”

King was an unruly mount. That was to be expected for white griffins, let alone the White Griffin, and Cailia was experienced at wrangling one into compliance. Even with no previous experience with the griffin to build the bond that was essential to properly riding one of the massive cloudkin, King flew in the general direction she commanded. For aerial reconnaissance, that was all she needed.

That said, if she saw the druid that tore the tower down, or another plague wizard, she would force King into a combat dive, the odds of him bucking her off be damned. She had a new bow and a fresh quiver, and itched to put them to their proper use. But she was ordered to scout, so scout she did. She soared high above the battlefield, straining her eyes to make out every detail she could in the half-light of the moon and stars.

It was with no small amount of vicious pleasure that she watched the Skalik army break and flee. They put up a surprisingly good fight, but the battle-hardened Calydonians still drove through them. Atreus’s arriving army served as the hammer to the castle’s anvil to catch and slaughter the bulk of the enemy force. The remainder were driven back, up into the foothills. They left no small number of their corpses behind, a sight that raised Cailia’s spirit. She intentionally ignored how many Elarians lay among in the bodies.  

The druid’s warning about her leg wound reopening was unfounded, but it was still with no small amount of relief when she finally was able to land and slide off the griffin and even more when one of the prince’s guards gave her a shoulder to lean on while the others tended to their master’s steed. The duo limped their way into the West Tower, up an unfortunate number of stairs. Cailia expected to be shown to an officer, perhaps Captain Thea that she had spoken to earlier. She was surprised to be walked into the tower’s war room to see Prince Atreus and maybe a dozen of his top-ranking commanders and even moreso when the prince gestured wordlessly at a chair that his guard lowered her into.

She knew it was horribly impolite, to sit at the map table while her prince stood beside it. Everyone else in the room was indeed standing. But when she tried to rise, she couldn’t cover her grimace of pain.

“Merciful Lady, stay seated.” Sloarn snorted from his spot on the other side of the table. “You’re lucky I don’t have you reporting from a sickbed.”

“Aye.” Atreus confirmed, smirking slightly at his healer’s frustration. “No need to stand on ceremony, girl. Just tell us what you saw.”

“Yes, your highness.” Feeling her face color slightly, Cailia covered her embarrassment with an air of professionalism. “Those of the enemy force that were not trapped by your arrival are fleeing north, withdrawing in the direction of the forest.”

“We have them on the run. They are routing.” The tower captain said eagerly. Thea looked ready to avenge the insult done to the castle under her watch. “We should pursue now, while they are weak.”

Cailia frowned. The enemy had been retreating, but it had been a disciplined movement, at least relatively speaking. They weren’t running in a blind panic. She contemplated countermanding her superior before Atreus shook his head. “You can’t rout corrupted. They have no fear of death, no morale to break. If they are fleeing, it is with a purpose. How many were there?”

“Difficult to say in the darkness.” Cailia knew better than to speak with a certainty she did not have. “Mayhap a thousand, if not more. They did not look to be withdrawing heedlessly. More like marching, in good formation.”

“Did they have any siege?” A man whose armor with a gilded griffin emblem marked him as the prince’s equerry, Stavros of Clenon, asked.

Cailia nodded. The pain radiating up from her leg made the motion unsteady. “A few pieces, mostly some Skalik field guns.”

“Not that they need siege weapons if they can tear our walls down with a few spells.” Sloarn mused aloud darkly.

“And the leadership?” Atreus ignored the druid, his attention on Cailia. “How many banners could you make out?”

She answered a variety of questions about the enemy’s composition and dispersal, divulging everything she had seen during her flight. She felt distinctly uncomfortable, being at the center of so much official attention, but eventually the questions ceased and the discussion turned to matters of strategy. She expected to be shown out, but to her surprise no one said a word of objection about her attending a meeting that was clearly above her rank.

“We’ve done a quick head count of the enemy dead.” Stavros was saying. “Even counting the ones that escaped, it is far fewer than we anticipated.”

“Aethon’s tactics. He sent this force to probe us, while the bulk of his army was kept in reserve. And now that we are here, he will be planning to strike.” Jason mused darkly. He didn’t need to mention what was the only other target worth attacking.

“Can Clenon repel an offensive?” Captain Thea asked. “What is the garrison’s strength?”

“Not enough.” Atreus answered. He stared darkly at the map. “We thought to cut the head from the snake here but this was just a diversion. Now we are out here, as useless as a tin shovel while the capital is wide open.”

Cailia bristled in her chair. A diversion? That had crippled the castle and nearly overwhelmed them? She knew better than to speak up, but bile burned in her throat at the thought. Everyone who had died, from Dimo and his squad to the many bodies she’d seen from the air, all dead simply to be a distraction? She snapped back into focus, realizing she had drifted off.

“One druid?” Thea was protesting. “That’s impossible. More likely each person reporting such only saw one member of a team of a dozen of them.”

“How many Lalafell druids have we lost to the enemy?” A Knight whose name Cailia didn’t know asked in a tone that suggested he found the question absurd.

Sloarn made the snorting headshake that Taurhe often did. “Only one. But if there’s one druid in Elarion who could pull a tower down, it would be her.”

“Lilirana. Aethon gained himself a hell of a piece by targeting her.” Atreus growled. His knuckles rested on the lip of the table, looking like he wanted to smash it beneath his hands.

Jason glanced curiously at their master, unconcerned by the simmering anger. “You don’t think he planned this specifically when he went after her, do you?”

Atreus shook his head. “I’d say no, but who knows when it comes to him? He’s enough of a schemer to have thought of it.”

“More likely he knew the value of a druid as powerful as her and seized the opportunity before coming up with uses for her.” Stavros offered. He raised a placating hand towards the prince. “You’ve been proven right after all.”

“Fat lot of good that does us now. I’d rather have been wrong but she listened anyway.” Atreus visibly corralled his temper and looked to his replacement Grand Druid. “I want half your number repairing the castle. Focus on it being defensible, don’t waste time on looks. The other half are to be applying wards against druidic magic. This will not happen again.”

“It will be done.” Sloarn departed with his people’s heavy stride.

Atreus looked to his equerry. “We get any captives?”

“…Some.” Stavros answered hesitantly. “Those who were too injured to continue fighting.”

The prince turned to another man Cailia did not recognize, though his wolf’s head amulet made his role clear. “Ask the Wolf to see to them.”

“She will not.” The Wolf-touched man answered. He continued undaunted by Atreus’s glare. “She indulged you once, out of respect for the sentiment, but what you ask is impossible. An Avatar cannot override a Demon’s corruption any more than a Demon can override Her protection.”

For a long moment, Cailia thought Atreus might strike the man. Finally, the hard set of his shoulders shifted and his gaze dropped to the map table. “Ask her anyway. If she refuses, tell her I want to talk about hunting for the enemy forces in the Last Forest.”

“She is already hunting, and will be back before sunrise.” The Wolf-touched said. He shrugged at the look on Atreus’s face. “Such is Her prerogative, to hunt when and where She wishes.”

“Avatars.” There was a wealth of emotion in the word. Atreus sighed. “Merciful Lady, it's hard enough having to fight just our enemies.”

Cailia shifted uncomfortably. She knew the importance of coordinating their forces, but that was a god he was talking about. The Wolf that hunted at their Lady's side. It felt wrong in ways Cailia couldn't articulate to treat her like a mere soldier. The Wolf-touched's face reddened, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by Atreus addressing him. “Talk to your comrades, find out where she’s going and where she’s encountering resistance. If we can’t work with her, we’ll have to work around her.”

The Wolf-touched did not look pleased at the irreverent tone, but he complied and with a bow that was a little too short to be as respectful as it ought to be he left the room. Cailia was glad to watch him go. She knew they were different, of course, but there were more similarities between an Avatar’s blessing and demonic corruption than she liked. Small wonder the Lady commanded they only ever call forth Avatars in response to Demons.

“Anyone have any good news?” Atreus rhetorically asked the room at large.

“Ah, that’s it.” A soldier Cailia had seen enter the room out of the corner of her eye maybe ten minutes ago stepped forward and pulled out an envelope. “I have a letter from the Princeps.”

“At least his sense of dramatic timing still works.” Jason murmured to Atreus with a smirk. Atreus grunted, waved aside the comment, and gestured for Stavros to take the letter. The equerry unfolded the parchment and read quickly.

“There has been word from the Harbinger. The Princeps’ champion has been found and Ser Castor is bringing him to Elarion with all speed. This “Marcus Dorne” will be here in a few days.”

A wave of murmurs swept through the room. No one was terribly happy about needing to call on an outsider for aid, let alone a non-Elarian, but if the Princeps Saw it was necessary, well, he would know. Cailia had heard something of this before, but the rumors hadn’t included the champion’s name. Her musings were interrupted as Stavros continued.

“We are correct that Aethon’s next move is a strike against Clenon, and soon. The enemy here intends to harry us and prevent our forces here from returning to the capital in time to intervene.” More quiet mutterings at the confirmation. “The Princeps has also called a council tomorrow, to discuss the threat Gorrath poses. You have been asked to attend, at least by proxy.”

Atreus shook his head, a small grin emerging from behind his beard. “I can hardly leave now, so I hope you’ve overcome your distaste for southern food.”

From the look on Stavros’s face he had not, but he gamely nodded. “I serve as the princedom requires.”

Atreus’s face fell at the weak witticism and he stared down at the map table. He repeated the phrase thoughtfully. “As the princedom requires.”

 His brow furrowing in thought, he didn’t look up for a long time. The silence stretched out, no one present willing to intrude into their ruler’s reverie. Finally, he closed his eyes for a second and looked up, his decision made.

“When you meet with the Princeps and the other princes, you are to ask they send us reinforcements.”

“What?” Cailia’s shock at the words made her forget her decorum. Fortunately, everyone else in the room seemed to share her stunned feelings.

“That… seems premature.” Jason said tentatively. “We need more Knights, certainly, but with a Demon summoned they will already be gathering to join us. We do not need to ask for their help. And with them–”

“We need a hundred Knights and one.” Atreus dismissively cut him off with the old saying. “The Princeps has been urging this since Gorrath was summoned, and I’ve let pigheaded pride call the shots long enough. After what we’ve already lost from this war, we need the extra bodies. Past time the other princes did a little to defend Elarion for once.”

He tried to sound glib about it, but Cailia could see Atreus did not like the idea of begging for help from the other princedoms any more than she did. Which was to say, not at all. Gorrath had been summoned in Calydon, by a Calydonian man. The Demon was their problem to deal with. No one else’s. It was one thing to accept the Princeps’s words that the champion he was calling on was essential. If that was what the Princeps saw, then they had no choice but to accept this Marcus’s help. But turning and asking the other princedoms to help of their own volition? Expecting other people to fight and die to clean up their mess? They had been shamed enough in the war against Gorrath already, the loss of Prince Minos a debt they could never pay to Cretos.

Stavros looked like he was trying to find a way out, but he reluctantly agreed. “It will be as you command. I shall prepare for teleportation to Citadel City.” He bowed and left.

Atreus sighed again, sharing a look with Jason before his gaze landed on Cailia. “Skyhunter. My thanks for you treating my King to a walk, but if I keep you any longer Sloarn might come after me with a rusty hatchet. Get that leg healed properly, eh? We’ll need every pair of wings in the sky we have by the end of this.”

“You honor me, your highness.” Cailia replied, but the prince was already looking away and talking to Jason. The same guard who had brought her here helped her stand and walked her over to the door. Cailia grit her teeth from the way each step aggravated her leg. There were a lot of stairs between here and the castle infirmary.

To distract herself from the pain, her mind settled on the curious detail she had noted earlier. The Princeps’s champion, the man who was supposed to save them all from the Demon, was named Marcus.

A great warrior named Marcus. For a few self-indulgent moments she allowed herself to believe it might be true, before admitting to herself it was just a remarkable coincidence.

Then, her leg singing with pain, she limped her way to the infirmary.

Chapter Text

Estinien watched as their destination grew larger through the viewport.

The flight from Thavnair had been uneventful, aside from the almost comedic shift in the Scions’ treatment from the airship’s crew after word spread they had been welcomed by the Princeps. They went from being disdained for being Eorzeans to being honored guests almost instantly. The Princeps had said it, so that was how it was.

There had been some subdued gawking when they thought the Scions weren’t looking. Elezen were non-existent in Elarion, and the pointed ears of him and certain of his companions caught the Elarians’ eyes with some regularity. Still, it could have been worse. Miqo’te were in a similar situation, only their distinguishing features were seen less as a curiosity and more a charm point. G’raha Tia had all but fled into their shared cabin last night to escape the advances of a very forward soldier. Estinien chuckled at the memory.

His own efforts to find out more about their destination had met with some success. Soldiers were soldiers everywhere, and trading war stories was always popular. He’d picked up a few interesting tidbits, such as that the Elarian predilection for a simpler aesthetic in their arms and armor wasn’t entirely a stylistic choice. The limited amount of crystals available meant they were far too valuable to be used in routine crafting. As hard as it was to believe, in Elarion metal was worked with nothing but hammers and heat.

Estinien had thought the Elarian smiths did crude work, but they were more skilled than he’d realized.

In fact, from the way the one soldier he’d talked to spoke on the subject, Estinien got the impression it was the abundance of crystals and aether, more than their lack of open warfare, that was the source of the belief that Eorzeans were soft. The man in question, Dimitrios of Mykonos, was in disbelief at the idea that Eorzeans used crystals even in their cooking. He made his views on the ‘decadent extravagance’ of such a practice very clear. Multiple times.

Another thing that stood out to Estinien was the impact of the Final Days. Or rather, the lack of impact.

That in and of itself wasn’t terribly surprising. From his, admittedly small, exposure to Elarians, Estinien didn’t think them the sort to succumb to despair. An Elarian trapped in a hopeless situation would probably die taking a swing at whatever had trapped him in a final show of defiance. Or spite. It was little wonder that to hear Dimitrios tell it the number of Blasphemies that had appeared in Elarion could be counted on one hand.

No, what was surprising was that Dimitrios had clearly heard of the Final Days despite them being so minimal in Elarion. In fact, he was surprised to hear Estinien knew about them, as if he thought Elarion was more informed than the rest of the star. Estinien was tempted to press for more detail, but the mood of the conversation had soured when the topic arose and he knew better than to press his luck. Fury knew Alphinaud would be in a snit if they arrived in Elarion already having offended the locals overmuch.

The airship approaching the island from the south, due to some issue of prevailing winds Estinien didn’t care enough about to understand, and the bay spread out before them as the city drew closer. They were close enough now that he could start to make out some of its features. He was reminded of Ishgard, and not in entirely good ways. 

On the face of it, the cities were completely different. The white stone of the aptly named Citadel City positively shone in the afternoon light, a far cry from the shades of grey that made up Ishgard’s towers. And while Ishgard built up, with its grand spires that pierced the heavens, Citadel City sprawled outward and the only building of appreciable height was the Citadel itself. The spire of gleaming marble deserved the name, even if its unadorned faces didn’t quite measure up to the grandeur of buildings like the Vault.

But Estinien had a warrior’s eye, and he knew what to look for. Damage to the walls that was recent enough that even now it was still being mended. Damage to homes that was left unattended in lieu of repairing the walls. Narrow streets, easily barricaded. Fortifications placed with regularity even within the city walls, with wicked looking ballista and other weapons planted atop them.

This was a city built to withstand invasion, and it had. More than one, if Marcus’s tale was to be believed.

He had never thought to question the ease with which the Warrior of Light had become accustomed to life in Ishgard, but hearing about the Underground Wars had made a lot of sense. No wonder Marcus had little trouble embracing Ishgard in the midst of the Dragonsong War, being in the center of a seemingly endless conflict must have made him feel right at home.

“Quite the sight, isn’t it?” As if summoned by his thoughts, Marcus was there.

“Indeed.” Estinien’s misgivings aside, the city did look impressive from the air. “Are you pleased to be back?”

“I suppose so. I just wish it was under better circumstances.” Marcus replied. “We’re landing shortly. Castor wants us ready to disembark immediately.”

“He’s a serious one.” Estinien remarked. He got along well with the Knight, in the sense that the man treated him with professional courtesy and the dragoon returned it. Estinien had the impression that was as rosy as the Elarian man’s relations got. In Ishgard they spoke of knights who lived solely for duty as some sort of ideal to aspire to, but Estinien preferred someone who could hold a conversation.

He could see in his mind’s eye Marcus’s shrug. “The Princeps probably has the exact minute of our arrival predicted. Castor doesn’t want to keep him waiting.”

“I take it you’ve never met him before?” Estinien asked casually. There was a pause before Marcus answered.

“We’ve never been introduced, no. Should be interesting.” Marcus turned and walked away. “Can you let G’raha and the twins know? I have to track down Thancred.” The former spy had been putting his talents to good use investigating, just in case Castor had been less than truthful with them. So far, he had uncovered nothing to suggest otherwise.

Estinien nodded unnecessarily at Marcus’ retreating back. “Very well, I’ll see you at the disembarkation ramp.”

He took one more look at the city that reminded him of nothing more than a honed blade, shining in the light yet made for war, then left to find his companions.

The Harbinger touched down on a landing pad clearly built for it within the city walls, surrounded on all sides by fortifications and weaponry aimed inwards. Estinien recognized it instantly. A classic kill zone for a flying enemy that sought a convenient space to land.

The Scions gathered together and made their way to the rear of the ship. Castor was waiting for them at the disembarkation ramp with a squad of soldiers, but seemed surprised to see them. He glanced at Marcus. “We discussed this.”

“We disagreed.” Marcus replied. “And my decision has not changed.”

“You know we cannot bring a group of foreign warriors into the Princeps’ very sanctum. The-”

“They go, or I don’t.” Marcus cut him off. The two men stared each other down for a long moment.

“Very well.” Castor waved a hand, and the soldiers formed up around the Scions in an honor parade formation. Estinien raised an eyebrow at the exchange. Castor’s reluctance to let them near anything important did not surprise him, his almost immediate concession did.

Castor led them from the airship with little more than a perfunctory welcome to the capital of Elarion and directed them through the streets towards the Citadel. The throughways were clean and well maintained, the city as bustling with life as any other major metropolis the dragoon had visited despite its clearly martial aspect. The streets were crowded with people going about their business, the prospect of a rampaging primal clearly not enough to halt the flow of commerce in the city’s markets. The crowds consisted almost entirely of Hyurs, with some Lalafell scattered here and there. More than a few were wearing weapons and armor, even while merely going about their daily business.

The passerby took notice of the Scions’ appearances and attire much as the crew of the airship had, and murmurs followed the group as they made their way down the avenues. Whether the honor guard of soldiers surrounding the Scions was entirely necessary, Estinien couldn’t tell. The way people parted before Castor’s quick stride with an almost reverent haste suggested there didn’t need to be a line of armed soldiers to stop them from accosting his companions. Estinien couldn’t help but suspect the escort was as much to keep the Scions in as the crowds out.

Still, there was an undercurrent running through the people he didn’t like. The crowds were not quite tense, not quite anxious, but still felt ready to run for cover at a moment’s notice. They didn’t anticipate being attacked today, but they were ready if they were. There was that same hardness in the air that had pervaded Ishgard for most of his life, so subtle that it wasn’t until the war had ended that people had even realized it existed and by then it had been so omnipresent that there were people who balked at the tension being eased.

A battle scar left on the psyche of an entire people.

The landing field was not far from the looming tower. Estinien craned his head back to take in the full structure as they approached the massive gates of the Citadel.

As they drew closer, what from afar had looked plain now was revealed to be merely subdued. The stonework of the wall surrounding the tower and the tower itself was masterfully worked, if austere in aspect. The Scions and their escorts passed through a gate wide enough to admit two full grown dragons, waved through by the gate guards at the sight of Castor. Within was a courtyard, filled with bustling soldiery and supplies. Elarion’s troops were mobilizing, and in considerable force.

Castor paid the commotion no mind and led them to the tower doors. A line of guards barred their way, like the ones on the gate these bore a silver device in the shape of a tower on their shields. The man in the middle, the only one going helmless, stepped forward to greet Castor. “His gaze, ser.”

“His gaze.” Castor answered. With a slight wave he signalled their group to halt while he joined the tower guardian and quietly conferred with him. After a few words, the guard leader rapped the butt of his spear on flagstones thrice, and the door swung open from within. Feeling the suspicious gazes of the door guardians, Estinien followed the others inside. Within was a massive atrium, comparable in size to the great halls of the Congregation and outfitted in a similar style of subdued opulence. They came to a stop before a pair of doors, the people already standing before them quickly clearing the way.

“We will need to take trips.” Castor explained, as the doors opened to reveal a lift that was indeed too small for all of them. He led the way inside, followed by some of the Scions while Marcus, Estinien, the twins, and their escort remained outside. As they waited for the doors to open again, Alisaie turned to Marcus.

“I assume we’re not here to meet solely this Princeps of yours?”

“Probably not.” Marcus nodded. “I’d guess all the princes are going to take part in fighting back Gorrath.”

“And what are they like? These princes of Elarion? I’d hate to give inadvertently give offense.” Alphinaud had a calculating look, likely already planning what to say.

“Pft.” Marcus scoffed. “You think I know them?  I was a line bladesman when I left here. I didn’t move in such regal circles until after I became the Warrior of Light.” He folded his arms. “I met Atreus a couple of times, kinda, but I doubt he’s down here with Gorrath rampaging back home. The others are strangers to me.”

“Surely you have some inkling of what kind of people they are.” Alisaie insisted. “Even just rumors?”

Marcus shrugged. “They are royalty, so proud, and Elarian, so stubborn. They will not want our help and would probably try to send us away if the Princeps hadn’t asked for our presence. Or maybe because it’s not their lands being threatened they’ll be okay with us stepping in. I’d put gil on Atreus only calling on outsiders to join the fight because the Princeps told him to.”

Alphinaud had a hand on his chin, thinking. “So they are fiercely independent, and their reluctance to seek aid from other parties is because needing such support would be a sign of weakness?”

Why does that sound familiar? Estinien thought to himself. Alisaie was less circumspect.

“Stubborn and prone to refusing help no matter how dire their situation is? Reminds me of someone I know.”

Showing his usual lack of self-awareness, Marcus glanced at Estinien like she was referring to him. “We pride ourselves on being survivors.”

Estinien nodded in understanding. Centuries of near constant war would do that to a people, breed an intolerance for weakness and a distaste for the outsiders who did not share in their struggles. It certainly had in Ishgard.

A muffled clanking signaled the return of the lift and something occurred to Marcus. “Oh, that’s right, also don’t question the Princeps.”

“I imagine the all-seeing not-ruler of Elarion doesn’t take kindly to naysayers?” Alisaie hazarded. A few members of their escort visibly bristled at her.

Marcus continued. “Truth be told, he’d probably not have much of a problem. He’s the humble sort.” Marcus hesitated for a moment. “Well, that's what I’ve heard, anyway. But to everyone else, well, he’s Hydaelyn’s chosen oracle. Questioning him is questioning Hydaelyn. And we’re a pretty devout people, so that’s not going to go over well.” The doors opened and the quartet dutifully filed in, the escort staying behind.

When the doors opened again, revealing a similarly opulent landing, they reunited with the others and Castor led the group down the carpeted halls past pairs of tower-marked men and women standing guard, many of them squinting suspiciously at the new arrivals.

“Remember.” Castor said. “You are entering the presence of the Lady’s chosen. Show respect, or I cannot guarantee you will not be removed.”

“Though we are unfamiliar with your customs, we will not deliberately do anything to cause offense.” Alphinaud reassured him.

“I suppose that’s all I can ask.” Castor pulled up in front of a large, ornate doorway. Two men in the same armor as Castor stood before it, their spears held in what Estinien recognized as a grip that looked at ease, but was easily shifted into a striking stance. Above the closed doors were words writ in flowing silver script.

Let Her light illuminate our way.

“Brothers. I bring guests for the Princeps.” Castor announced to the Knights on duty.

“His Gaze, brother.” The Knight on the left replied while looking them over. “You are one short. You are to enter when all ten of you have gathered.”

Castor's mouth quirked in annoyance, perhaps the most emotion Estinien had seen from him. “These are all of them. Who are we waiting for?”

The rhythmic thumping of heavy footfalls intruded into the conversation and Estinien turned to see a minotaur.

Or at least, he looked like one. He certainly had upright bovine appearance of a minotaur, but Estinien had never heard of a minotaur wearing a richly detailed pugilist’s harness and carrying a scepter made of finely worked silver. He was smaller too, though still hulking, the difference in size comparable to that of the one between the Arkasodara and the Gajasura. The minotaur paused at the sight of the crowd outside the doors, surprise writ plain on his elongated face.

“Am I arrived too soon?” The minotaur asked, the deep rumble of his voice not hiding his uncertainty.

“Not at all, your Highness.” The talkative one of the Knights guarding the door reassured him. “You are just in time.”

He turned back to Castor. “Now, you may enter.”

The Knights each took a handle of one of the doors and pulled the heavy portals open. With one of the Knights leading the way, the Scions stepped inside and Estinien finally beheld the Princeps.

For all the insistence that the Princeps did not rule, there was no other way to interpret the room than it being a throne room. The long chamber terminated with a raised dais, and built into it was an immense seat of marble. Standing around it, fluttering like nervous birds, a gaggle of richly clad attendants waited on the man seated. Estinien recognized them at a glance. Courtiers. Third-born sons and daughters. Raised in nobility with the education and manners that came with such rarefied blood, but too removed from the line of succession to be of use to their house other than being sent to wait on someone more powerful to buy a little consideration for their family.

The Princeps sat on his chair that was definitely not a throne, sunk deep into the recesses of the chair while his hands laid flat on the arms. He gave no sign he noticed the Scions’ entry. His attention was… occupied.

The Princeps’ eyes blazed with silver light, shining even in the brightly lit room. Even from far away, Estinien could feel the power radiating from them. Eyes that could burn through a man, that made him want to move out of the way so he was no longer within their gaze. He hadn’t believed, Estinien realized. He had thought that the claims the Princeps could see everything were an exaggeration, if not an outright lie. But seeing those smoldering silver orbs destroyed his doubts. This man could see the warp and weave of destiny, he knew instinctively.

He realized he had stopped walking without meaning to. They all had, the entire group freezing at the sight of that piercing gaze. Estinien wasn’t sure he was even breathing, as if he was somehow afraid to make even the slightest noise that could somehow distract the Princeps. It seemed the height of sacrilege, to disturb this ritual while it was underway.

Castor, who along with the Knight escorting them had not paused, looked back with an arched eyebrow. The sight spurred Estinien into moving again, and his fellow Scions followed. The dragoon chided himself for his hesitation. The Princeps was just a man with a unique magic power, nothing more. That said power looked sublime and awe inspiring did not make him divine as the Elarians claimed. He told himself that, and made himself believe it. He still had to fight the impulse to flinch out of the shining silver gaze.

As they drew closer, one of the attendants broke from the crowd and rushed over to the approaching group with naked haste. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? The Princeps is Seeing.”

The door guard flashed an annoyed look at the man. “Enough, Telarchus. He Saw earlier today and commanded his guests be shown in when all of them had arrived.”

“I- did he?” The richly robed man looked torn between kicking them out and defying his master’s command.

They were close enough now that Estinien could see the rictus expression on the Princeps’ face and the way his hands gripped tightly at the arms of his throne. Whatever he was seeing, it strained him dearly.

Then he blinked, and the light vanished from his eyes. The tension in his body slacked and for a moment he simply slumped on his chair, taking slow, deep breaths. His attendants flocked around him, offering water, food, or just generally fretting over him. He waved them off languidly, straightened up in his seat, and peered at the Scions with interest.

Marcus stepped forward and in time with Castor placed a clenched fist over his heart and bowed at the waist. “Greetings, my Princeps.”

The Princeps closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of his throne. He took a deep breath before opening them again, his expression politely neutral. “Welcome, Warrior of Light, to Elarion. Welcome home.”

His voice was warm, smooth, and resonant, carrying easily to them. The kind of voice one instinctively wanted to listen to and trust what it said. “Thank you for responding to my summons.”

“I will always answer your call, my Princeps.” Marcus answered, straightening out of his bow. The Princeps absorbed that with a nod, then looked to the rest of them.

 “I am glad you have come. All of you.” He nodded to them. “The Scions of the Seventh Dawn will be welcome allies in our fight against Gorrath.”

Alphinaud stepped forward to join Marcus. “We will ever aid those who are threatened by Primals, your…?”

“Princeps.” The man replied wryly, a small smile playing at his lips.

With an effort he very nearly hid, he forced himself out of his chair and descended the dais. The flock of attendants moved to support him, but he waved them off as he descended from the dais. His first few steps were subtly unsteady, but his stride soon corrected itself. As he came closer, Estinien finally got a good look at the man who had called them halfway across the world to fight.

He looked astonishingly ordinary. He had sharp blue eyes, blond hair worn short in the usual Elarian style, and pointed, cleanshaven cheeks.  His features were much like Marcus’s, in that you could find dozens of Hyuran men that looked similar in any city on the face of the star. His robes too simple and unadorned. They looked appropriate attire for a public servant or minor functionary, as opposed to the de facto ruler of the realm. But then, perhaps that was the point. He had the look of a younger man, by Estinien’s estimate a few years younger than Marcus who was already several years the dragoon’s junior. The haggard lines in the Princeps’ face then were more likely from prolonged stress or exhaustion, though his expression showed neither.

He wore a slight smile, an almost coy expression. It resembled a smile one would put on to appear polite, but there was a sense of understanding in it as well. One that said he knew everything you were going to say but was polite enough to let you say it anyway. The smile didn’t quite manage to reach his eyes, the same color as a cloudless sky. Keen enough even without a mystical light in them that Estinien doubted the man missed much, those eyes roved over the Scions like a predator assessing his prey.

The Princeps turned to his knight. “Castor, excellent work getting them here.”

“It took more doing than I expected. I imagine you could have streamlined the process.” Castor remarked with mild reprove. Behind him, Telarchus bristled but the Princeps showed no sign of offense.

“Perhaps. You are to be commended for completing your task despite the hardship.”

“I live to serve.” Castor’s voice was drier than the Sagolii.

The Princeps’s gaze flicked over to the minotaur and bowed, less deeply than Marcus and Castor had. “Prince Asterion. My condolences on your coronation.”

“Thank you, my Princeps.” The minotaur rumbled, hands nervously working his scepter. He made as if to bow himself, then checked the motion.

The implications of the exchange were not lost on Marcus. “Minos is dead?”

“He was taken by the enemy.” Asterion replied, face downcast. “So we can only pray so.”

“You wish for your father’s death?” Alisaie asked in disbelief.

“Better that than being a Demon’s slave.” Asterion said darkly. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them for a moment. Y’shtola stepped forward into it.

“Before we go any further, there is a matter we need to address.” She stared down the Princeps. “Regarding one of us being wanted for treason.”

For the first time in the conversation, the Princeps’ smile dimmed slightly. He cocked his head in question. “Treason?”

“Via desertion.” Castor supplied.

The Princeps blinked, then closed his eyes while taking a deep breath through his nose. He turned to Marcus. “Is that why you never came back even after all these years? You thought you were charged with desertion?”

“I… um, yeah?” Marcus shifted awkwardly on his feet. The Princeps stared at him, unamused.

“You really thought that Prince Atreus would charge you with desertion for not attending an awards ceremony in your honor? The same Atreus who didn’t bother to attend his own coronation?”

Marcus hesitated. “Well when you say it like that it sounds dumb.”

The look of the Princeps’ face eloquently said it sounded like that because it was incredibly dumb. That knowing smile now feeling a bit exasperated, the Princeps turned to the rest of them. “You have my sympathies.”

“We’re used to it.” Estinien said, trying not to grin at Marcus’ clear embarrassment. Truth be told, he had expected something like this when Marcus told them his story. It was very much like him to fixate on how he had technically broken the law while completely ignoring he was an acclaimed war hero. The corners of the Princeps’s mouth quirked. The attendant that had challenged them came forward. “My Princeps, are you sure you would not rather rest?”

“I’ve been sitting all day, past time I earned my fancy chair.” His master replied wryly, jerking a thumb back at the mentioned throne. “Besides, our guests have come a very long way; it would be rude to keep them waiting further.”

“But surely at least a small reprieve is–”

“Later, Telarchus.” The Princeps interrupted, that pleasant smile still on his face, but enough firmness in his tone to make his refusal final. He turned back to the rest of them. “It is truly a boon that you have come.”

“Is it?” Estinien asked. He could see Alphinaud trying not to wince out of the corner of his eye and moderated his tone to sound less like a challenge, more to mollify the boy than out of any fear of giving offense. “Your land seems to have no shortage of fighters. Why exactly did you need to call on us?”

He half expected the Princeps to retort he hadn’t called on all of them, but the man let the comment pass.

“I have Seen the Warrior of Light will play a pivotal role in the battles to come. As for Elarion, we are well accustomed to battle, not unlike Ishgard only a short while ago, that is true.” Estinien raised an eyebrow at the, accurate, reference to his homeland. “We have many proud and skilled warriors. But they have been depleted already, by an Underground War more taxing than most in living memory.”

He turned to Marcus. “You likely realized this yourself, but the 89^th War was a relatively tame affair. All said, we had to contend with the forces of five Skalik clans. In the 90^th, which is still being fought in some places, we’ve fought against twelve. It is an occasional attempt at catching us unprepared the enemy employs, a long pause followed by a half-hearted war to tax our readiness, followed by a massive invasion after only a brief respite.”

“A fruitless effort I imagine, against a man who can see the future.” Y’shtola said, arms folded while she knocked on her chin. “Surely you would have seen such a stratagem coming?”

“Easily. But there is a difference in knowing what needs to be done and doing it. There’s only so much we can do to prepare for war, even when we know it is coming.” The Princeps nodded to Asterion. “Some princes did better to rally their people and gird them for battle than others. And even when fully prepared, it was an arduous, bloody business driving the enemy back into the holes that spawned them.”

“I should have been here.” Marcus muttered, staring down and away.

“It’s not as though you’ve been sitting on your hands.” Estinien reminded him. The Princeps nodded sagely.

“Indeed so. Your battle against the darkness lurking within the stars was of paramount importance.”

“The darkness lurking within the stars?” G’raha repeated thoughtfully. “You knew about the Endsinger then?”

“He is the Princeps. It is his duty to know of all threats to Elarion, whatever and wherever they are.” Castor reminded them.

“Truth be told, I considered sending aid even with the difficult situation here in Elarion.” The Princeps added. “But your group had the matter well in hand and we needed the blades here. We are indeed fortunate that there was an Elarian among you. Otherwise, our indebtedness to our saviors would be too great to bear.”

He turned to address Marcus. “Mayhap your bout of foolishness was inspired by our Lady, to set you on the path you needed to walk to save the entire star.”

“You mean it was my destiny?” Marcus asked, something Estinien couldn’t quite place in his voice. The Princeps’s eyes narrowed a shade.

“It just might have been.”

“Excuse me, my Princeps.” Estinien was surprised to hear the bass of Asterion’s voice. For such a large man, it was easy to forget he was here. “Are you saying these are the heroes that stood alongside our Lady at the end?”

“As I’ve said, it was not an ending, but a new beginning. But yes, these are them.” The Princeps answered. Asterion turned and stared at the Scions with awe.

“How much of what happened did you see?” Marcus asked, shifting uncomfortably from the newly minted prince’s reverence.

“I got the gist of it. A great darkness descended from the Sea of Stars to ravage our world, and the Lady rose to meet it. But this foe proved too formidable for even Her might and She was forced to abandon this world and ascend as a true deity to contest it. In the end, She empowered your order to destroy the darkness at its source.”  The Princeps’s expression turned somber for a moment. “We lament the Lady’s departure from the Sea of Souls, but take solace that even though gone, She continues to watch over us.”

“Amen.” Asterion said. He and the other Elarians briefly bowed their heads in prayer. The Princeps gave them a moment before continuing.

“As fascinating as it would be to hear of such events from those who were there, we have important matters to discuss and are pressed for time. Conveniently,” The Princeps said, in a tone that made it clear this was anything but a coincidence. “Representatives from the princedoms will be gathering in the Discourse Chamber for our council presently.”

The minotaur looked down at them. “Ah, you mean that was where we were to assemble?”

“Indeed so.” The Princeps nodded. “The Seeing Chamber is primarily for the private use of my Sight.”

Asterion blanched, an interesting expression on a bovine face. “I had no idea. A thousand apologies for my intrusion, my Princeps.”

“You didn’t exactly kick in the door. You are invited, not intruding.” The Princeps reassured him. “I wished to see you before the formal council. And now that you’ve indulged my desire for a casual conversation, it is time to begin. Castor, if you would show our guests to the proper chamber?”

“You’re not coming with us?” Estinien asked.

“In a moment.” The Princeps gestured and a trio of the waiting attendants came forward. Each of them was bearing sheafs of parchment along with quills and ink, setting up at a nearby table. “I prefer to transcribe my visions when they are fresh, rather than let time and distraction dilute them. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I will be with you shortly.”

Castor began to lead the group back towards the door. The Princeps lingered just long enough for Marcus to drift up close to him and murmur in a tone barely perceptible to the dragoon’s sharp ears. “You told them she ascended?”

“Can you even imagine the alternative?” The Princeps replied in the same volume, before walking away to his scribes.

Castor led the way through an adjoining hallway to a wide, high-ceilinged chamber. The room was dominated by a thick, wooden table in the middle large enough to seat nearly two dozen people. Judging by the crowd inside, the space would be needed. Over a dozen armed and armored Elarians waited at the far end of the room, quietly chatting amongst themselves. They stood in groups, organized by the emblems on their armor. Estinien noted one man, marked with a white griffin, stood alone.

“Who among these are the princes?” Alphinaud asked Castor, who was preempted by the minotaur leaning over.

“Those two there.” Asterion said, pointing at the only duo in the room made of people with different emblems. “That is Prince Helana of Minea and Prince Gabril of Agriphina. I do not see Calliphone of Colchis.”

An older woman and a younger man were discussing something with an intensity Estinien could see from here. They didn’t notice the new arrivals and their respective entourages didn’t seem inclined to interrupt them. A man from the third and final group did take notice of them, however, and strode over to them.

“Ser Castor.” The man wore the full panoply of a Knight, though his cloak bore the device of a red hawk rather than Castor’s golden bear. He had short cropped blond hair and sharp, aquiline features. “Blood for Elarion.”

“Blood for Elarion, Ser Diomedes.” Castor clasped the outstretched arm with a clatter of plate. The Knights shook each other’s wrists before letting go. “Is your prince not joining us?”

“Busy dealing with some Skalik too stupid to die properly. I’m afraid she sent me here more to get the Princeps’ help with that than to respond to the situation in the north.” Diomedes answered. He shrugged. “But I and the full complement of our brothers and sisters are here to join the battle against the Demon.”

“There are still fourteen of you left?” Castor asked, and folded his arms when Diomedes nodded. “Good. We’ll need every Knight we have for the coming battles.”

“One hundred Knights and one.” Asterion said with dark humor, stepping around the Leveilleur twins to stand beside the Knights. Diomedes snorted at the joke and Castor’s eyebrow cocked in what might have been amusement before addressing his brother again.

“Have you any news from the northern battlefields?”

Diomedes shook his head. “I’ve been buried deep in Ripper Gorge, cleansing the place ilm by ilm. You probably have more recent information than I do. Last bit of news I had from the north was about the slaughter at Keton, and that was the day before you left. Heard the Cataphractii...”

He trailed off, grimacing. Asterion exhaled heavily, shaking his horned head.

“You need not spare my feelings. I know my father was identified as a leader of the assault.” The minotaur’s voice was somber, but with unmistakable steel. “He has been turned and must die. I accept this.”

Diomedes shook his head. “Of all the people to lose to corruption…”

“We can defeat them.” Castor said firmly. Diomedes snorted.

“Of course we can, we can defeat anyone. Doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.”

“Should we assume we are going to be disregarded and ignored for much of our stay here?” Y’shtola asked Marcus loudly enough that the Elarians could clearly hear her.

“Sorry.” Diomedes said, hand grasping the back of his neck in genuine sheepishness. “Wanted to talk shop for a minute. You must be the famous Marcus Dorne I’ve heard so much praise for.”

It took Estinien a moment to realize the Knight was addressing him. “Not I, no.” Chuckling slightly, he stepped aside to reveal Marcus standing behind him. “This one’s your awaited hero.”

“You?” Diomedes looked Marcus up and down while the other man smiled and waved sheepishly. Brow furrowing, the Knight’s appraising eye turned to regard each of the Scions in turn. “Come to think of it, we have more guests than I was told we were expecting. Who are you all?”

“Allies.” Castor answered simply. He met the Y’shtola’s raised eyebrow with an unmoved look. “We’ll save the introductions for after the Princeps arrives.”

“He does prefer it that way.” Diomedes mirthfully shook his head. His grin withered as he caught something out of the corner of his eye. His gaze flicked back to Castor and his voice dropped to a murmur. “Time for knife-work, brother.”

Castor turned to see what caught the other Knight’s attention. Estinien followed their gazes to see the duo of princes making their way toward the group, their respective entourages trailing.

“Your Highnesses.” Castor greeted them. He stepped forward and minutely to the side, putting himself more directly in front of the Scions. “Thank you both for coming.”

“Of course, Ser.” The man, Gabril replied. He looked to be about Estinien’s age, with green, playful eyes set in the scarred face of a killer. “When the Princeps calls, what can we do but answer?”

“Who are these others?” Helena demanded. She was hard-faced, with grey hair and wrinkles that made Estinien estimate she was not a day younger than sixty summers. Like Gabril, she wore armor with enough gilded details to show wealth and enough knicks and wear to show it was used regularly. “I was told we were awaiting only one outlander. Now I see a gaggle of them.”

Estinien couldn’t help but notice the way every member of each prince’s party was armed and more than a few were eyeing the Scions as if sizing them up for a fight.

“It is an honor, your highness.” Ever the diplomat, Alphinaud greeted the older woman. He turned to Gabril. “Likewise to you. We are the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, come to Elarion at Ser Castor’s behest to aid in the fight against Gorrath.”

Helena pointedly ignored Alphinaud, whose pleasant smile curdled at the snub, and continued addressing Castor. “And there’s the troubling rumor I heard that they forced themselves onto the Harbinger with threats of destroying the ship if they were not aboard.”

Estinien felt the stares of his fellow Scions. He had made the threat blithely, and even at the time he did not take it all that seriously nor believe Castor did so. But now he could see how it might not have made the best first impression.

Diomedes scoffed. “You truly believe Ser Castor was cowed by threats?”

“I would, of course, never accuse any Knight of cowardice.” Helena said, unaffected by the scorn. “But you must concede, their presence bodes ill. Is the situation truly so dire we must turn to Eorzeans for help?”

Alphinaud began to say something, but Castor spoke first.

“They are here at the behest of the Princeps.” That was all he said. And yet, Helena appeared mollified by it.

“Then all is as the Princeps has foreseen, of course. I’m sure the vagaries of his plans will become clear in the fullness of time. When will he be joining us? Time is not a resource we have in great supply with the north aflame and demonic thralls creeping across the river.”

“They’ve crossed the Ribbon?” Marcus asked from behind Estinien. “At the fords or the bridge?”

Helena’s gaze narrowed as she regarded him. “Who exactly are you?”

“My Princeps!” Diomedes called loudly, instantly commanding everyone’s attention. He bowed low at the waist in the same way Marcus and Castor had earlier. “It is an honor to see you.”

The man in question had just entered the room, flanked by several of his servants, and was approaching the growing conversation circle. The Elarians in the chamber all bowed, with the exception of the three princes.

“Rise, please. The honor is mine, Ser Diomedes. As it always is when I stand before a champion of the realm.” The Princeps joined them. He bowed, a short and perfunctory thing, in the direction of the royals. “My princes, my apologies for the delay. If you would like to be seated, we can commence the day’s discussion.”

“First, who are these Eorzeans?” Helena asked. She eyed the Scions dismissively. “And why are they present for a war council of this magnitude?”

The Princeps gestured at each of them in turn. “In addition to our expected champion, allow me to introduce Thancred of Limsa Lominsa, Estinien of Fernadale, G’raha of Corvos, Krile of the Isle of Val, and Y’shtola, Urianger, Alphinaud, and Alisaie of Sharlayan. Collectively, they are the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, and our Lady’s champions in the battle among the stars.”

“How does he know that?” Alisaie asked quietly, not the only one nonplused from the lack of need for introductions. While he knew Castor had called ahead, Estinien had never told him or any other Elarian the name of his hometown, and imagined the same was true of the others.

“He’s the Princeps, knowing things is what he does.” Marcus replied in the same low tone, but a faint hint of humor was audible. “Though really, you’d be Alisaie of Idyllshire.”

“These are them?” Gabril asked, surprised. “These are the ones the Lady tasked with saving the entire star? I expected… more of them.”

“Which only shows how formidable each of them is. Eorzean, or not.” The Princeps put a shade of sternness in his tone for the last words before turning back to face the Scions. “These august personages are Prince Helena of Minea, Prince Gabril of Agriphina, Knight Diomedes of Coros, and Equerry Stavros of Clenon.” He gestured to the man who had been standing alone and even now was on the outskirts of the crowd of people. “Now that introductions are out of the way, perhaps we can begin?”

“As you say.” Gabril headed for the table, his retinue following. The dam broken, the others all moved over as well. Alphinaud was one of the first Scions to reach the table and paused, scanning the seats. Estinien was sure he was overthinking some matter of etiquette about where to sit and simply pulled out the nearest chair, approximately midway down the table, and sat in it without much aplomb. He ignored the hard looks some of the Elarians and even his fellow Scions gave him. Worrying about every possible faux pas they could make in a foreign culture would be an exercise in pointless frustration. Resigned, Alphinaud and the others settled into the seats around him, Alphinaud ending up on his right and Marcus his left.

The Elarians settled into various seats, staying in their groupings from before. The seat directly across from Marcus, that Estinien now realized was dead center of the table, was left open until the Princeps lowered himself into it. Castor sat at his left hand, opposite Estinien. Asterion almost seated himself directly next to the Princeps before catching himself and moving to a larger chair clearly built for those of his bulk. He set the silver scepter down with a quiet clang on the tabletop.

The Princeps leaned over. “A word of advice, my prince. You need not bring your princely scepter with you to this sort of meeting. Best to leave such a thing in your own castle, where it can be safely kept.”

“Ah, yes.” Even on the bovine snout, Asterion’s awkwardness was plain to see. “That is good advice, Princeps.”

The Princeps nodded, and waited until Stavros finished seating himself next to him before his expression sobered and he spoke to the table as a whole. “My friends, allow me to begin with an apology. That such evil could arise under my watch is inexcusable, yet I can only ask for your forgiveness nonetheless.”

“Put all such thoughts from your mind, my Princeps.” Helena said. “Far reaching though the Sight may be, we know it cannot counter every eventuality. The traitor summoner is to blame, not you.”

The Princeps smiled again as the other Elarians at the table voiced their agreement. Estinien had the cynical suspicion he had gotten exactly the answer he was fishing for.

The Princeps continued. “I thank you all for answering my call to arms. You have all fought long and hard recently, triumphing over terrible enemies and shedding your blood in service to Elarion, and to the star as a whole.” He punctuated the statement with a nod towards the Scions. “It grieves me that I must ask you to continue fighting when you have more than earned a chance for respite, but we live in dark times that demand much and more from each of us.”

“We will not balk at the demands of war.” Gabril said. He leaned forward with his hands flat on the tabletop. “If you see our blades are needed, then you have them.”

“It is reassuring to have such stalwart allies.” The Princeps replied. “I know that even now, your lands continue to be beset by Skalik invaders. It would be the height of hypocrisy to leave your people in harm’s way while asking you to defend elsewhere, so I have something to help ensure our enemies are defeated quickly.”

Recognizing their cue, the three scribes that had first entered the room with him moved from the wall where they had been waiting. Each of them carried a sheaf of parchment and placed it before a prince, one to Gabril and one to Helena. Diomedes however did not receive one, it instead being given to the Lalafell sitting at his right hand.

“Thank you, my Princeps.” The Knight said, echoed by the two princes.

“And what is that?” G’raha asked curiously.

“Reports containing the enemy’s exact locations, numbers, and movements over the next week.” The Princeps answered. “As well as what will be the most successful strategies for defeating them, and how they will attempt to counter such strategies.”

“These are your predictions then?” G’raha asked in amazement. “Your guesses as to the future based on your visions?”

Helena bristled. “They are not guesses. He is the Princeps of Elarion.” She glared at the Miqo’te and the rest of the Scions. “Did you truly come here so ignorant?”

The combative tone raised Estinien’s hackles. G’raha was looking for words to mollify the prince when the Princeps spoke. “My prince, please refrain from disrespecting my guests, if you would.”

The rebuke, if it even warranted the word, was delivered lightly but the large, battle-hardened prince still winced as if she had been shouted at. “My apologies, Princeps.” The Princeps continued to stare her down until Helena looked to G’raha. “And my apologies to you as well, Scion.”

“No offense was taken.” G’raha said uncertainly, looking between the two Elarians. The Princeps spoke before the silence could grow awkward.

“To answer your question, yes. My Sight is often used to guide the forces of Elarion in war. As for your particular wording, well, I cannot claim my projections are perfectly reliable. The future changes moment by moment, after all. They are… well educated guesses, shall we say?” He turned to the Elarian royals. “With these, you should be able to put an end to the 90^th war.”

Gabril was already paging through his. “And swiftly at that. Thank you, my Princeps. Your aid is, as always, invaluable.”

The Princeps' slight smile deepened a hair. “I am always eager to be of service to my countrymen. If you require any further assistance against the Skalik, you have but to ask.”

Estinien had quite deliberately stayed far away from the sort of circles where the High Houses struck deals and made alliances, but even he could hear the blades of sharpened politeness in the conversation.

Helena, recovering from the rebuke against her, leaned forward as well. “The same to you, my Princeps. My Knights have already gathered below and stand ready to be deployed to Calydon at your word.”

“On that subject…” The Princeps turned to the man next to him. “What is Calydon’s disposition?”

“We have been hard pressed.” Stavros admitted with clear reluctance. “But we have maintained our defense of the river and kept the Blood Demon’s forces from escaping Calydon. Now that Lupercal has joined us, my prince intends to begin going on the offensive.”

The Princeps nodded. “It is good to hear a warrior as seasoned as Prince Atreus is confident. However,” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “I confess that something of an occupational hazard for my position is a surfeit of caution. Would there be any objections if the other princes were to send reinforcements?”

There was a noticeable pause. “If you believe it wise.” Stavros ground the words out. “Then we will accept them without complaint.”

“My thanks.” The Princeps turned to the other side of the table. “The Scions have come a long way to join the battle against Gorrath, and I’m sure they would appreciate not making the trip for nothing.”

“Why have they come?” Asterion asked, confusion audible despite the deep tone of his voice. “I was told we were awaiting only this Warrior of Light. That he is some sort of grand Demon-slaying hero. Was that not so?”

“It’s true.” Alisaie said. She waved a hand towards their most stalwart comrade. “Marcus here has killed many of what you call Demons.”

“He doesn’t seem it.” Gabril didn’t even try to hide his skepticism.

The doubting words earned a stony look from Y’shtola. “Appearances can be deceiving. He has personally defeated over twenty Demons in battle.”

There was a strained silence around the table as the Elarians waited for the punchline. Estinien thought he heard someone snicker.

“By my count, twenty-five.” The Princeps added. Now the silence was much quieter. Estinien tried not to laugh at the stunned glances between the Elarians. Marcus’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Was it really that many?” He muttered to himself.

The Princeps continued. “The Scions are proof that our Lady’s departure from the Sea of Souls does not mean an end to Her protection. As a group, they are the greatest experts on Demons on the face of the star, and are honor-bound to oppose them whenever they arise.”

Estinien noted that where before there had been suspicion and hostility, even Helena seemed satisfied purely by the Princeps’ reassurance. Just like their treatment on the airship had improved after Castor relayed the Princeps’ welcome, the weight of his word seemed to be all any of them needed. Gabril and Asterion too both looked to be hanging off his every word.

“On that subject,” the Princeps turned back to the Scions. “We would benefit from hearing your knowledge. Could you explain all that you know about summoned beings? And I do mean all, spare no detail, if you would.”

Alphinaud nodded. “Very well. What you call Demons and Avatars we know as Primals. They are beings created out aetheric concentrations and given shape by the intense devotion or emotion of their summoner.”

As the young man spoke, the Princeps leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if suddenly bored of the conversation. Then he opened them. That blazing silver light was even more striking, and unsettling, when seen up close. Alphinaud faltered, his words trailing off.

“Please continue.” Castor prodded him.

“Er… right. A Primal can draw great power both from the worship of its followers, as well as-”

The Princeps blinked and the light was mercifully gone from his eyes. “You may stop.”

Alphinaud halted again, off balance. His sister was not. “You ask us to spare no detail then cut him off before he’s barely begun?”

The Princeps shook his head. “Hardly. It was an exhaustive explanation. My thanks, Master Alphinaud.”

“You looked into the future.” G’raha caught on, a hand on his chin as he thought. “You saw him speak before he actually could.”

“A fascinating little trick.” Y’shtola said contemplatively. “I imagine you can perceive information faster in your visions than in reality.”

The Princeps blinked. “Yes. That is exactly right.” That knowing smile of his returning, he nodded at Alphinaud. “It is rude to cut you off and I apologize. But it was an exhaustive, and therefore lengthy, explanation and time is something we do not have in great supply these days.”

He spoke to the table. “The Scions’ lore largely agrees with our own, barring different terminology, but they have a greater understanding in several areas. Of perhaps greatest significance is, they have developed a way to cure corruption, what they call tempering.”

The Elarians looked very interested in that. Several quiet conversations broke out on their side of the table. “We could deploy significantly more Wolf-touched.” Helena was saying to one of her aides before Asterion cut her off.

“My father.” The minotaur said, staring at the Scions. “He could be saved?”

“No.” Castor said firmly. The Knight’s normally stoic face was twisted with emotion. “No, it’s impossible. They are lying.”

“It’s true.” The Princeps said. Then, softer, “I’m sorry, Castor.”

Castor slammed his fist into the table, splintering the wooden surface under his gauntlet. He rose with a burst of movement and stalked away from them all towards the door. The other Scions had various expressions of surprise, but from the look on Marcus’ face Estinien knew he had guessed it too.

“Who did he lose?” The dragoon asked the Princeps.

The Princeps spoke quietly. “His brother.”

He raised his voice to return them to the matter at hand. “The Demon’s corruption is one of his best weapons against us. While we do not have the resources to employ the Scion’s cure indiscriminately, it will still be a vital tool in helping to turn the tide.”

He looked to Krile. “Mistress Krile, during Master Alphinaud’s explanation, you offered your expertise to supervise and implement our development of this cure. Will you accept this charge?”

If Krile was taken aback to be held to what her hypothetical future self had said, she did not show it. “I would be happy to assist in that manner. I should mention I am also quite the proficient healer. I would be happy to lend my services in that regard as well.”

“Let us hope we do not need them.” The Princeps answered evenly.

“What is the tactical situation in the north?” Diomedes asked. “I’ve heard plenty of rumors, but very little in the way of facts.”

The Princeps nodded. “Then allow me to summarize. Gorrath was summoned in the far reaches of the Ferroc Mountains by a man named Aethon of Crytos.”

“Aethon?” Diomedes repeated, his brow furrowing. “The Aethon of Crytos?”

“I’m afraid so.” The Princeps said, triggering murmurs on the Elarian side of the table. The Princeps addressed the Scions, “Aethon was a rising star in Calydon’s military. He’s a skilled tactician and an even more formidable swordsman. We are most unfortunate to have him as our enemy.”

He continued, speaking to the entire table again. “It was during a strike against the Skalik, ironically to prevent them from summoning a Demon of their own. Aethon drew upon the gathered aether and dying wishes of his slain comrades and summoned Gorrath in an act of furious hatred for the Skalik. The Demon proceeded to corrupt both sides of the battle, and turned them against Calydon. He has since corrupted a sizable portion of each of the clashing armies in the north and now lurks in the mountains while sending his new army to attack Calydon holdings.”

Helena folded her arms. “You mean to say that Gorrath is not attacking himself? That is more than passing strange. Why would he not be seeking to increase his power?”

Y’shtola spoke up. “A ‘Demon,’ or Primal as we know them, will grow in strength by draining the aether of the land and through receiving the devotion of its followers. If Gorrath is indeed building an army of enthralled soldiers, it stands to reason he is attempting the latter.”

The Princeps nodded. “Very true. However, historically speaking Gorrath has not been one to avoid conflict in this manner. According to our legends, the Blood Demon feeds on the blood of those he slays and uses that to grow in power.”

“I assume you mean the Primal absorbs the life force of his victims, rather than literally drinking their blood?” Krile asked.

“Quite, though there are tales of him doing the latter as well. There is also the fact that Gorrath is a Demon born of hate and bloodlust, not reverence for his being. Thus, it is not worship and prayer that empowers him, but battle and bloodshed. Every battle fought against him and his thralls will strengthen him further.”

“That is why you sought our friend.” G’raha concluded. “An army sent to fight Gorrath would provide him no shortage of hostility to fuel his power. But one champion could best him without risking only furthering his strength.”

“Just so. Even just sending an army to contest his corrupted thralls is risky.” The Princeps nodded. “Gorrath would draw power from the conflict regardless of who won and defeating he himself would become even more difficult. This is why he has been atypically keeping his distance and letting his minions assail us. But we can hardly let them attack and kill us with impunity, and no amount of warning can keep men from wanting to strike down their foes when they are embroiled in battle. The stalemate must end before it is too late.”

“That does not agree with our knowledge, however.” Y’shtola put in. She knocked a hand on her chin. “No other Primal we have ever encountered has been empowered by emotions that were not specifically directed at them in a beneficial manner. Summoning them, perhaps, but empowering them, no. Certainly not that the sheer act of opposing the Primal would strengthen it.”

“It is possible that the Primal could draw strength from its followers in such a fashion.” Krile offered, looking from their fellow Scion to the Princeps. “If their battles were mentally dedicated to their god, the act of fighting could generate the devotion Primals draw on. However, his foes, who have no connection to the Primal, certainly would not do the same.”

“You question the Princeps?” Helena demanded icily. Estinien noted the particular word choice there.

“That he said, ‘according to our legends,’ suggests a degree of uncertainty.” Alphinaud pointed out. “Could you simply be mistaken on the matter?”

Alisaie folded her arms. “I imagine it would be easy to check. When you look into the future, does Gorrath grow stronger after big battles or not?”

The Princeps hesitated for a long moment. “I don’t know.”

A dragon crashing through the ceiling would have been less startling to the Elarians. They stared in shock at the Princeps, whose calm expression was unruffled. After a moment of stunned silence, a chorus of protests and skepticisms issued from their side of the table.

“What!?”

“Impossible!”

Even Marcus was gaping in slack jawed amazement at the Princeps. Only the Equerry took the admission in stride, his mouth hardening into a taut line as he watched the others react. Estinien shared a bemused glance with Thancred while Asterion looked at the Princeps like he had grown a second head.

“So the legends are true.” Marcus recovered enough to say. “He does have the power to block the Sight.”

The Princeps nodded stoically. “Indeed. Gorrath possesses a foul, blasphemous imitation of our Lady’s gift. Her light illuminates the future, his shadow enshrouds it. He hides within that shadow, where my Sight cannot perceive him.”

“So, you are blind when it comes to him?” Estinien asked pointedly. The Princeps didn't rise to the jibe.

“Not entirely. The shadow emanates from his power, so he cannot hide his presence from me, nor that of any of his followers. With that, I know when and where they will be. But the finer details of his plans, or his exact strength, are hidden from me.” The Princeps affected a rueful grin. “It’s been an uncomfortable reminder of my limitations. I will continue to pierce the shadow when and where I can, but his strength is great and such openings are rare.”

He spoke with a composed, confident demeanor but the Elarians at the table still looked uncomfortable, clearly unaccustomed to their Princeps not having all the answers. Krile spoke into the tense silence. “In any event, we are in agreement that he will grow stronger both from draining the land’s aether and the worship of his followers, whatever form that worship takes.”

It might have been Estinien’s imagination, but the Princeps looked a little relieved to be back in safer territory. “Just so. Whichever means are in use, Gorrath is most likely intending to grow in strength before forcing a confrontation. Thus, we must go on the offensive, and attack before he is ready. When I am closer, I will be more able to reliably pierce his shadow and glean more information.”

“Closer?” Marcus repeated. He leaned forward. “You’re leaving the Citadel? You never leave the Citadel.”

The Princeps nodded. “Only rarely, true, but this situation warrants it. Lupercal will only obey the commands of the Lady’s oracle and we will need her collaboration to hunt the Demon effectively. My presence in Calydon is required for that if nothing else.”

“You should stay here, where it is safe.” Helena urged. “Orders can be relayed to the Wolf.”

“I will not cower in this tower while our people suffer from this monster’s predations.” The Princeps said firmly. “I will use every available resource, including my own person, to see this threat expunged as quickly as possible.”

He spoke with a quiet but unshakeable conviction that reminded Estinien of the rare times Ayermic would put his foot down. “I have already foreseen Gorrath’s next attack. It will be soon, but not so soon we will not be able to meet it at the time and place of our choosing.”

“Pray forgive mine interjection, but if our foe is familiar with thine powers of foresight, wouldst he not anticipate such a prediction and arrange to counter it?” Urianger asked.

“He will.” The Princeps conceded lightly. “But I am not some star gazer with a deck of cards. I am the Princeps of Elarion. I have already seen through his feints and attempts to outmaneuver us.”

Urianger had the grace not to react to the words. Marcus cleared his throat. The Princeps glanced at him and something in his expression caused the Princeps to look back at Urianger more closely. “No offense intended to any astrologians skilled at tarot reading, of course.”

“Naturally not.” Urianger replied, not quite without sarcasm.

“My Princeps.” Asterion said suddenly. He hesitated, as if he hadn’t meant to speak, but after a moment continued. “Forgive me for an impertinent question.”

“Of course, my prince.” The Princeps looked utterly unperturbed by the interjection, but Estinien noted the other Elarians glancing at one another. “It is my pleasure to enlighten you on any subject you desire.”

Asterion placed his large palms flat on the tabletop. “I count my swords as the finest in Elarion.” Murmurs of disagreement muttered around the table. The minotaur ignored them. “But our strength has been gutted by our battles with the Grimetail Clan, battles that rage even now. And we are not alone in that.” He glanced at each of his fellow princes, daring them to contradict him. Neither did. “All of Elarion is depleted from the 90^th War. And now we must face a foe whose might is even greater than our Lady’s?”

“Blasphemy!” Helena growled, rising out of her seat. A gesture from the Princeps made her sit, though her glare towards Asterion did not waver.

The minotaur glared back. “I am no coward. I stand ready to fight as my Princeps directs.” His eyes returned to the man in question. “But the enemy has bested and corrupted my father and his elite Cataphractii. He has set the northlands aflame, torn down the walls of Volos Castle, and is blocking even your divine Sight. With our Lady gone… how can we defeat such an enemy?”

For a moment, the Princeps did not reply. His gaze panned over the table and those sitting at it. Estinien felt himself involuntarily straighten up when it passed over him. Finally, the Princeps answered.

“With our blood and our blades. With our fury and our faith. Never has a united Elarion been defeated, and it never shall. That was our Lady’s promise to me, and my vow to you.” His eyes returned to Asterion. “So the question is yours to answer. How will we triumph against this Demon?”

Asterion slammed a fist into the table and stood. “Together. Cretos will stand alongside our Calydonian brothers and slay the Demon of Blood and War.”

The rumbled declaration opened the floodgates. The others at the table began to stand.

“The might of Minea is at your service, my Princeps.” Helena announced.

“Calydon will not fall to any invader.” Stavros said. “Be it Demon or Skalik, we will drive back them all, alone if we must.”

“My prince may be embroiled in fighting against the Ripperclaw Clan, but our Knights have assembled.” Diomedes said. “And the chivalry of the other princedoms is gathering.”

“I will happily take the Demon’s head personally.” Gabril smirked as he boasted. “But I’m willing to share the honor with those present here.”

Alphinaud had risen as well, his fellow Scions now joining him on their feet. “All our knowledge and expertise, as well as our skills in battle, are at your disposal.”

“You’ve called me home.” Marcus said, looking the Princeps in the eye. “And my sword is yours.”

“Thank you.” The Princeps regarded them all. “Thank you all, for your bravery and your valor. With such heroes arrayed on our side, we cannot fail.”

“For the Princeps! For Elarion!” Diomedes cheered. The call was taken up by the rest of the room.

“For the Princeps! For Elarion!”

It was a stirring moment, Estinien thought as the conversation turned to battle lines and deployments. But he couldn’t help but notice the faintest hints of uncertainty lurking in expressions, shadows lurking behind eyes. They all knew, even if no one wanted to say it.

This ‘Demon’ would not die so easily.

Castor was leaning on the parapet of the tower’s highest balcony when the Princeps found him. He was, unusually but not surprisingly, alone. The Guardian Knight was one of the rare few who had a right to privacy with the Lady’s Oracle.

“I suppose,” his master began. “I owe you an apology.”

Castor waved the words aside. It was tempting to blame what happened on the other man, but Castor knew better than most the limitations of the Sight. And he had already shamed himself enough with his disgraceful behavior earlier.

“We have more important matters to discuss, I think. Did everyone play their parts properly?”

“Helena picking a fight with the Scions that I could defend them from wasn’t exactly something I needed to See in advance.” The Princeps answered, mouth curling into a sardonic smile. He shrugged. “Your departure was unexpected, true, but nothing came of that in any case. Asterion used a different wording for the question he put to me, so I had to change the speech I prepared slightly but I think it actually went over better than it would have. The Scions played the polite guests admirably; they are well positioned to start winning our people over on the battlefield.”

Castor wondered how many people in that room properly realized they were acting out a scripted performance. “And the princes? How are they behaving outside the Discourse Chamber?”

The Princeps sighed and folded his arms. “Gabril is ignoring how his lands require their prince more than the realm needs his blade. The glory of being a demonslayer blinds him. The same is true for Helena, though in her case she’s jumping on the chance to show up Atreus. By now they’ll both be reading the reports I’ve prepared for them and will be deciding they must return home. Gabril is going to find less of Gutbiter Clan than I predicted, but the men he’ll assemble to face them will be useful fixing some infrastructure problems that will demand his attention.”

Castor nodded. Marcus had called the notion that the Princeps did not rule a pretense. Accurately, Castor could admit in the privacy of his own mind. But what Marcus, and other, more cynical Elarians who thought the same, did not realize is the pretense was important.

The princes were willing to obey the Princeps’ every command only under the premise that he would never give any. Both parties benefited from this. The Princeps did not rule because he could not rule. His duties were far more important than mere governance. Having no official power kept him from having to waste his time on the trivialities that came with such duties. As for the princes, their authority remained sacrosanct and was not undermined by the Princeps publicly overruling them.

The princes had to make their own decisions and, almost more important, had to be seen making them. The Princeps’ rebuke to Helena today had been toeing the line, and a testament to how important he believed keeping the cooperation of the Scions was.

Though most of Elarion believed the Princeps truly infallible, those that worked with him more closely like the princes knew he was only human and could, on occasion, miss important information or misinterpret his visions. This allowed for convenient mistakes to steer those princes along lines they would otherwise not necessarily choose to walk, without forcing the matter between them.

Castor sighed. He had little patience for the refined art of lying that was politics, but his master was a master of the craft. By necessity, unfortunately.

“Calliaphone does have a tough nut to crack, clearing Ripper Gorge is never easy, but she’s insisting on using a sledgehammer to do it. I’ve urged an immediate attack that should settle the matter, but I’ll need to spare some attention on checking the outcomes the eve before the battle just to be sure. I’ll have to put a little pressure on her to get her to send troops north after that, and being actively helpful will grease that wheel.”

“The usual mix of egos and insular thinking then.” Castor remarked. Typical, really. “You had no luck in encouraging them to remember their civic spirit?”

The Princeps folded his arms. “Minos did us no favors there. Falling into the Demon’s hands because he was fighting on behalf of another princedom was not the example I hoped the Cataphractii would set. Falling in defeat made it even worse.”

“What is the situation in Calydon?”

“Bad. Atreus still holds the Ladonas, barely, but only at the cost of abandoning most of the highlands. Without reinforcement, Clenon could fall even just to the demonic thralls. Atreus actually called for help, if you can believe it.”

Castor almost couldn’t. Atreus was a skilled commander and his people fierce fighters, and there was an equally fierce pride in being the Shield of the North that burned in their hearts. To hear that the White Griffin had actually been willing to lower himself to asking the other princes for help…

“I pushed through an offer before Stavros could make the request, to help them save face. They’ve earned that much.” Calydon had taken the brunt of the Skalik invasions in the most recent war and had bled greatly in driving them off. They had acquitted themselves well, by all accounts, but there was good reason why Minos had marched north of the Ladonas and why it had taken only a quiet word from the Princeps to convince Atreus to allow the intrusion. Which reminded Castor.

“How will our newest prince fare?”

“Asterion will fill his father’s breeches the second he stops obsessing about how big they are.”

“Assuming we can’t get Minos back.” Castor hoped they could. The prince of Cretos was the only one of the five who could be counted on to aid other princedoms without ulterior motives or the Princeps having to ask. His Cataphractii, an armed company comprised of warriors from all over Elarion, had been the closest thing to a true Elarion army, fighting not for princedom or pride, but wherever there was need. Knights without the knighthood, they had been described. And naturally, that selflessness had meant they had been fighting in Calydon, directly in Gorrath’s path when he was summoned. The fates were cruel bastards sometimes.

“Maybe you can put a priority on that.” The Princeps replied. “I put your name forward and no one objected. Sorry to say it, but you’ve got the job, Knight-Captain.”

Castor greeted the news with a minute shrug. He was unsurprised to be chosen as the overall commander for the coming battles. Those from Calydon would balk at serving someone from another princedom in their own home and those from outside Calydon would balk at taking orders from the people they were coming to the aid of. Castor was inoffensively neutral and had experience commanding armies on the Princeps’ behalf. He was the obvious choice.

“Minos will be hard to take alive.” He conceded, having seen the man fight on several occasions. “But we’ll get him. Then it will be up to whether the Scions’ cure works as advertised.”

The Princeps gave Castor an inquisitive look. “What do you make of them?”

When Castor had first entered this man’s, in truth this boy’s service over a decade ago, he had been surprised by the Princeps’ willingness to ask others for their input. Surely, the Princeps would know all, he had thought, and made the unflattering assumption it was the boy’s youth that made him uncertain and seek validation. And perhaps that had even been true, after a fashion, but by now Castor appreciated the wisdom in the question. No matter how much the Princeps could see, he had only his own perspective.

“I believe the Scions may be useful.” Castor answered.

The Princeps mouth formed a hard line, unamused. “‘May be useful?’ That’s your assessment of them after a three-day flight together?”

“I think they are suspicious of some hidden trap in our requesting their aid.” Castor elaborated. A suspicion his gambit of ‘arresting’ Marcus had kindled, he knew. The conversation he had with the young, idealistic twins had also illuminated some important cultural differences. “They find our warlike culture unpalatable and the disdain the rank and file showed to Eorzeans did not endear them.”

The Princeps said nothing, lip curling slightly. He had sent word what Castor needed to do to head off such displays of hostility, but the damage had been done by then. Why he hadn’t warned of that danger in advance, Castor did not know and knew better than to ask.

“They disapprove of the Underground Wars on principle and look down on us for participating in them. In their ignorance of the Skalik and Elarion history, they think themselves above us. Marcus is Elarian, of course, but he has been influenced by his new comrades and might be convinced to act against us, if it comes to it.

“But that being said, their desire to destroy Gorrath is genuine and they have the skills and knowledge to aid in that regard.” After the conversation they had, unless Alisaie was a masterful liar the Scions had more experience with summoned beings, Demon and Avatar, than everyone in Elarion put together. “Taking all of that together, I would say that yes, they may be useful.”

“Hmm.” The Princeps digested that while staring off into the distance. Castor took the time to regard his master. He looked tired. He frequently was tired, given the demands of his role, but he rarely looked it. That he could no longer maintain the façade was concerning. Castor did not mention it. Let the gaggle of busybodies that surrounded the Princeps badger him on his health for all the good it would do.

Instead, Castor wondered about the contradictions in some of the Princeps’ recent proclamations. “Did you truly See that we need Marcus?”

 The Princeps took a moment to answer. “The Warrior of Light is strong.”

“I could tell that by standing next to him.” That Marcus could radiate such lethal power while standing at rest was almost frightening. Sparring with him to take his measure had been largely perfunctory. “But we delayed out counterattack for a week to bring him here. And the first rule of warfare is not to give your enemy time.”

“And Gorrath has given us plenty.” The Princeps pointed out. “That doesn’t worry you?”

The Princeps turned his gaze north. From this elevated perch, one could make out the foothills that began the slow but steady rise into the Ferroc Mountains. “Gorrath is expending no small amount of his strength in weaving the shadow that blocks my Sight. That means he has something to hide. He’s plotting something, and I want us to be ready before we face it.”

“It’s that shadow that worries me. If you cannot see what is to come, how can we know we are ready?”

The Princeps took a long time to answer. “A study of history will tell you, armies arrayed against Gorrath do more harm than good. It takes a hero to defeat him.”

“Is Marcus truly so capable that he can best Gorrath, plots and all?”

The Princeps’ usual mask of a smile adorned his face. “Elarion has many heroes. This star has many more. But there are none finer than the Warrior of Light.”

The Princeps turned back to face Castor. “You are not wrong that bringing the Warrior of Light here presents challenges, some of which you have no idea of. The Scions may require careful handling, and he himself most of all, but I will see to that.  Bringing them here was a wise decision. Trust me.”

Castor couldn’t. He had seen his master lie too often and too skillfully to ever truly trust the man. But he also knew of no other who was as devoted to Elarion and dedicated to her protection. Castor could not trust the Princeps, but he did have faith in him.

“I do.” He reassured the younger man and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We will not fail. No matter what scheme Gorrath has in store.”

“Thank you, Castor.” They lingered on the balcony, both men’s thoughts darkening as they considered the war to come.

When their captors came for them, Diana had resolved herself to show no fear.

She did not turn to look when the cell door screeched open, nor react when the rough hands grabbed her bound arms and forced her to her feet despite the stab of pain from her still-healing wounds. Daphne cursed their captors and was clubbed across the face in response. She answered with a suggestion of something they could do with their master that was likely not anatomically possible and got a fist in the gut for her trouble.

“Enough.” One of the men holding Diana said coolly in a voice that sounded oddly familiar.

“This filth dares to mock-” The other man began over Daphne’s hacking coughs.

“Of course she does.” The voice cut him off. “Were you expecting gratitude and a complimentary gift? Now move.”

Following his own order, Diana was half-marched, half-dragged to the cell door. She caught the flash of a grin on her best friend’s face as they were pulled on and dared to hope that maybe her plan might work.

They passed through the winding stone corridors. Skalik were everywhere, their beady, hateful eyes glinting in the dim light. Diana couldn’t find it in her to be afraid of them anymore. Her fear was reserved for something far worse.

She kept her eyes down as they were dragged into a large chamber and pushed to their knees. She caught a glimpse of the titanic figure seated on a roughly hewn throne, but kept her gaze aimed at the floor. They said even looking at a Demon could taint your soul.

“Traitor.” Daphne spat at one of the escorts, her spittle spattering on his boot. Belatedly, Diana recognized him. Aethon said nothing in response, simply walking away to stand by the wall of this parody of an audience chamber.

Daphne began to play her role. “So, here he is at last, the master of vermin cowering in his hole. What’s the matter, afraid of facing anything more dangerous than some rodents? I don’t know why, but I expected you to have more courage than a prepubescent milkmaid! Or is it that you are too ashamed to show your ugly face in daylight? I don’t blame you, it’s grotesque enough as it is!”

Along the wall, men stirred angrily. Chains rattled as Daphne forced herself to her feet. “Or mayhap you are too feeble to lift your ugly bulk out of your chair? Perhaps you don’t have the stones to do your own killing, and need to beg others for help? Is that it, you worthless maggot?”

A voice spoke. It was a deep, brass rumble that reverberated through Diana’s bones. The sound of boulders tumbling over one another. Of echoing warhorns and clashing armies.

“I think I’m insulted.”

The coolness of it shocked Diana as the Demon continued. “You are far from the first to prefer death rather than serving me. Or think that provoking me is the best way to claim it. Most, however, have the decency to put on a passable performance. You are not only acting; you are acting poorly.”

The voice sounded wrong. Something that guttural, that brutal had no business sounding so bored. That voice should be roaring battle cries and screaming bloody murder, not sound like a disappointed critic condemning an underwhelming play.

Gorrath was a monster, a destroyer. A being of uncontrollable fury. Diana never thought she’d be so terrified to hear him sounding conversational.

Oh Blessed Lady, he can think.

Their reprieve had not been some capricious whim, they had been held for a purpose. Tears of fear started to fall as Diana shook despite herself.

Daphne started to shout more insults, but Diana could hear the tremor in her voice now. Gorrath cut her off with a snort like the crack of a falling tree.

“Let’s skip the rest of your painfully hollow bravado and come to the reason you are here.”

Someone was behind Diana, the chains binding her wrists behind her loosened and dropped to the ground. Even with her lowered gaze, she could see hands placing weapons before them. Daphne’s sword and Diana’s bow and quiver were mere fulms away.

“I would like some sport.” The Demon rumbled. “You’d rather die than serve, but would you kill? If either of you slays your companion… I think you can grasp the rest.”

Diana knew what Daphne’s answer would be even as the Demon spoke. “I’ll kill.” She stood, walked forward, took up her sword. Despite Diana’s terror, she raised her eyes to meet Daphne’s face, smiling despite everything. “I’ll kill YOU, you BASTARD!!”

Her charge lasted a handful of steps before the Demon lazily raised a hand and blue flames enveloped her. Daphne dropped to her knees, sword clattering on the stones as the fire invaded her.

“As expected.” Gorrath growled. “Still, it is important to confirm these things. Barking dogs are not always the fiercest.”

He rose out of his throne, an avalanche in reverse. Diana couldn’t look away. Mercifully, the shadows near the chamber’s ceiling obscured the monster’s terrifying visage, but his sheer size and the dread power that pulsed through his blood red flesh was enough to shred Diana’s last remnants of composure.

Blessed Lady, guard my soul. She prayed desperately. Then she remembered the Lady was gone, and a hysterical sob forced its way between her lips. She forced herself to glare at the Demon. She was an Elarian, a daughter of Hydaelyn, and she would face the end with pride, not disgracing Daphne’s own courage by begging.

“I-” She hated herself for the stammer and took some small measure of strength from that anger. “I will not serve you.”

“I am not going to corrupt you.” The Demon answered. Despite knowing it wasn’t true with every fiber of her being, Diana felt the poisonous stirring of hope.

“You lie.” She told herself as much as him.

“No.” Daphne was standing over her now, sword in hand and a bloodthirsty madness in her eyes. “I have another use for you.”

Chapter Text

Marcus paused at the gates of Clenon, just like he had seven years ago.

He was back in Calydon’s capital, the Jewel of the North, after all this time. The city sat at the mouth of the High Pass, the gateway into the mountains proper. The High Pass was a natural highway through the surrounding mountains, many other lesser pathways branching out from it to connect the various scattered settlements of Calydon. One such path he had taken from Theron, what felt like a lifetime ago.

 Back then, he had been awed by the size of the city and of the prince’s castle rising up in the distance. Now he was older and wiser, wise enough to know the city’s nickname had a tongue in cheek air to it he hadn’t noticed back when this was the grandest city he knew. But after seeing metropolises like Ishgard and Ul’dah, he recognized the provincial city for what it was. The slightly meaner construction, the narrower streets, the capital of Calydon was not a wealthy or powerful city. Even so, he was glad to be back.

The Harbinger had dropped them off a little less than half a malm east of the city, the closest the airship could land. It felt awful extravagant to Marcus, it was said that flying the airship a malm cost about as much as a man could make in his entire lifetime, but it was the Princeps' personal conveyance and no one was about to deny him when he urged a quick voyage. Marcus certainly wasn’t about to complain over the two-hour flight replacing the several day march. He did feel some sympathy for the soldiers that weren’t selected to ride with the Princeps, which given the ship’s size amounted to the Scions, Knights, and a handful of others. It was a hard march over rough terrain, and he was grateful he didn’t have to make it again.

He shook himself from his reverie when G’raha stepped up beside him and he noticed the Miqo’te’s expression. “What is it?”

The Miqo’te’s face was scrunched up as he sniffed the air. “That smell, what is that?”

Marcus took a deep breath himself, noticing it now that he was looking for it. That distinctive mix of meat both cooking and rotting at once. “A corpse pyre. We flew past a couple on the way here.” The wind must have shifted for them to be able to smell it now.

“Is that what those fires were?” G’raha asked. Marcus was unsurprised to hear the nausea in his voice. The putrid fumes from hundreds of burning Skalik corpses weren’t exactly a pleasant bouquet.

“You’ll get used to it.” He nodded down the city’s main throughway and started to lead the way down it. “The aetheryte is over there, you guys should attune to it.”

Himself long since attuned to Clenon’s aetheryte, another innovation the Princeps had obtained from foreign lands, he had offered to teleport ahead, but the others had politely insisted he stay with the group. They were worried about him, he realized. After his little display when explaining his past, the other Scions had been giving him sympathetic looks when they thought he wasn’t looking. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone. Their pity only made interactions uncomfortable and remind him of what happened. He put the thoughts aside by thinking on the upcoming battle.

The Princeps and princes’ strategy was straightforward enough. Though Gorrath was atypically refraining from taking the field, his tempered minions were numerous and launching frequent strikes against Elarian forces. Using the Sight, the Princeps could reliably predict the next incoming attack. Which would make it easy enough to ambush that attack and weaken Gorrath’s forces. Between that and the reinforcements coming from Citadel City, fresh troops that could now be freely tempered by Lupercal without fear thanks to the porxies Krile was teaching the Citadel’s artisans to craft, they should be able to take a clear advantage and go on the offensive. Drive into the territory held by the Demon until he either showed himself or was cornered, and then Marcus would slay him.

There had been some discussion of Marcus staying back from the battlefield until Gorrath was brought to heel so he could conserve his strength. The Princeps had settled the matter by saying Marcus was needed on the front lines. Whether he had Seen that, or simply knew Marcus was not about to stand back and watch as others fought and decided to spare them all the debate Marcus didn’t know, but he appreciated it either way.

The aetheryte plaza had been fortified since Marcus was last here, a hastily constructed wall surrounding the plaza pointing inwards. An understandable precaution, given how many of Gorrath’s new servants had attuned to the aetheryte before being tempered. It was too useful as an avenue of retreat for their soldiers to be disabled, so the aetheryte had to be kept functioning despite the risk. Though, from what Marcus knew of Prince Atreus, he likely welcomed any of Gorrath’s minions teleporting in to be easily dispatched.

Marcus stood back, letting the other Scions join the queue of newly arrived soldiers waiting their turn to pass through the wall and attune. As he looked at the slowly rotating crystal poking over the top of the wall, the memories came flooding back.

Marcus closed his eyes to picture it better. He could still hear, as clearly as if the man was standing next to him, Lucas refusing to attune, convinced the aetheryte was somehow dangerous.

“It’s floating!” He insisted. “It’s unnatural!”

The rest of them were not sympathetic. “Big strong man afraid of a glowing rock.” Theo mocked, enjoying the rare moment he was braver than his brother.

“Just touch the damn crystal.” Niko demanded, and when Lucas finally caved to the pressure and tentatively laid his hand on the softly humming surface the rest of them gave him mocking applause, followed by good natured laughter that left even Lucas chuckling.

Laughter that turned into screams of pain and terror as the poisonous mist rolled in, the choking haze strangling them down in the darkness of the tunnels as they screamed for Marcus to help them.

Y’shtola found him in an alleyway sitting on a crate, the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes.

“Marcus?” He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

She sat next to him, saying nothing. Unseen behind the hands covering his eyes in a vain attempt to stopper his tears, Thancred stepped into the alleyway. Y’shtola wordlessly shook her head. Thancred gave an understanding nod and withdrew to ward the others away.

Marcus didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but it was long enough for him to get his breathing mostly back under control and for the tears to stop streaming down his face.

“I thought I was past this.” He admitted with shaky words. “But I was just away from it.”

His scar was throbbing, aching like it used to. A small, soft hand was on his shoulder. He had to resist the urge to pull away, to hide his weakness, and some vicious little part of him hated that she was here to witness it. That only left a much greater part of him hating himself even more.

Finally, he made himself stand and forced some levity into his voice. “Okay, I’m alright now.”

Arms encircled his torso and he felt her warmth on his back. “No, you are not.”

“Y’shtola…” Marcus began.

“Just, indulge me for a moment, would you? For my sake, if not your own.”

Hands that were raised to untangle them lowered to hang awkwardly by his side as she pulled the two of them closer. After a long moment he pulled away, resisting her for the second he needed to turn around and return the hug. Her head pressed against his chest and he buried his face in her hair and her softly twitching ears.

When they did finally part he realized that, despite himself, he felt better.

“Sorry.” He murmured.

“Do not apologize.” She replied sternly. “Not for this, not to me. It is not shameful or beneath you to mourn. You are a man, not a sword.”

Marcus floundered for a reply in the face of her intensity and gracelessly changed the subject.

“Would you like me to show you around the city? I can tell you what I know about the magic we use here while we walk.” He offered, knowing how much Y’shtola loved to broaden her knowledge. But she surprised him by hesitating.

“Mayhap not. We have to prepare for the battle tomorrow.”

“We have plenty of time. The city isn’t big enough to take too long to explore.”

“No, I do not believe that a wise use of our time.” The reluctance in her voice finally clued him in. She was trying to keep him from seeing anything else that might stir old memories and trigger another flashback. He felt a rush of appreciation she was trying to look out for him and, despite her words, lingering shame that she needed to.

“Warrior of Light.”

They both turned to the voice. The Princeps stood at the end of the alleyway, an awkward looking Thancred visible over his shoulder. “We are to discuss the plans for the coming battle. As a key figure, you should take part.”

“As my Princeps commands.” Marcus said, not quite keeping the sardonic edge out of his voice as he separated from Y’shtola to join the others. Some things never changed.

They emerged from the alley and fell in to the crowd that surrounded the Princeps. Various attendants and guards that inevitably accompanied the not-ruler of Elarion on his exceedingly rare forays from the Citadel. The other Scions joined them and the group began to make its way through the city to Clenon Castle.

Marcus used the time to take in the familiar scenery. Partly to prove he could without embarrassing himself further, but mostly because he was enjoying the nostalgia after so long away. The flow of traffic resulted in him walking beside the Princeps at the head of the pack. The other man seemed to have no interest in the sights, but then again he could See them whenever he wanted.

Not that there was much to see. Clenon was small, as far as national capitals went. True to Elarian form, precious little had changed since Marcus was last here years ago. The stone buildings were clustered together lining narrow streets, designed to funnel enemies into chokepoints. The group passed through the gate in one of the numerous inner walls that crisscrossed the city, a web of walls and towers that made taking the city a matter of fighting almost street by street. Clenon had so many built in defenses Marcus had been taken aback when he first saw cities like Limsa Lominsa and Ul’dah, which hadn’t been constructed to repel numerous armies at once. Even the prince’s castle was a pile of stone squatting on the rise, almost like one dug a bunker out of the ground wholesale and placed it atop a hill.

Marcus looked up at the outer wall, looming over the houses. He spotted a handful of men up there, a patrol manning the defenses.

“The walls! They’re coming over the walls!”

“There’s too many!”

“Hold the line, damn you! And don’t you dare embarrass me by dying!”

Their first real battle. A dark night, made darker by the pouring rain. Hundreds of Skalik scaling the battlements. Hours of brutal fighting on stones made slick by equal parts rainwater and blood. Sergeant Darius kept screaming at them to keep fighting, somehow being heard over the both the combat and the downpour. Levy Squad Theron stood nearly alone, and when the Skalik broke as dawn did, they still stood.

It had taken all six of them to defend this city once, Marcus mused. Could he defend it again alone?

The Princeps caught his eye and in their moment of shared gaze he cocked an eyebrow as if he knew Marcus’s thoughts. Marcus’s mouth quirked and he half turned over his shoulder to see his fellow Scions following him.

Right. He wasn’t alone.  

As they approached the castle, something new caught Marcus’ eye. A large wooden pillar, standing in an empty square that had once been a mustering zone. The pillar was about ten fulms tall and covered in scrawlings and etchings.

The Princeps answered the unasked question. “A memorial, to honor those slain by the Demon. We’ll erect something more permanent once we no longer need to add names.”

At a gesture, the crowd of attendants halted at the edge of the square and the Princeps and Marcus approached the memorial alone. There were many names, too many. Marcus felt guilt coil in his gut. If he had been here, how many of these names would still be a living person?

He rebuked himself for the thought. That was a trap far too easy to fall into. Unwarranted guilt was an offshoot of arrogance, and just as poisonous. Next to him, the Princeps had his eyes closed and his head bowed. Praying to whom, Marcus could not say.

His fallen friends deserved something like this, some way of honoring them, he thought. But Elarians did not make memorials for those who died fighting the Skalik. They’d have run out of room centuries ago.

The moment of silence over, the two were on their way back to rejoin their companions when a voice called out.

“Markos!? Markos, is that you!?” Marcus turned towards the noise and felt his heart leap into his throat.

Niko was sprinting towards him.

She looked like not so much as a day had passed. The same nearly shoulder length blonde hair, same flashing green eyes, same sharp, angled cheekbones. She was alive.

It took his mind a second to catch up and point out the details his heart had missed. A wide smile instead of her near perpetual glower. Dyed blue leather armor instead of her plate. No scar on her chin. This wasn’t Niko. But he still knew her.

Recognition came just before she hit him with a hug that was more akin to a flying tackle.

“Gah! Cailia!?” Marcus wasn’t bowled over, though it was a near thing. He straightened up and awkwardly tried to untangle himself from the arms suctioned around him.

“We thought you were dead!” Cailia said, still clinging to him. “I mean, we heard you hadn’t, you know, but you were gone for so long we were sure you had died overseas!” She finally pulled away and looked up at him with a teary smile. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too.” Marcus replied, smiling despite his sudden misgivings. They had thought he was dead? Maybe he hadn’t entirely thought through the whole ‘disappear unexpectedly and never send word about where he was’ idea. His gaze drifted over to the Princeps, who returned a carefully neutral look.

Cailia finally noticed the third person present. “Ah!” She hurriedly jumped apart from Marcus. “It’s you! Um, uh, your Princeps!” She knelt.

The Princeps waved her up, with a half-smile that likely meant be reassuring. “Please, do not trouble yourself on my account. It is good for long lost friends to reunite, is it not?” He turned to Marcus. “Catch up as much as you wish, you can join us after.”

He left, returning to his retinue and leading them away. Marcus watched him go, wondering if there had been any hidden meaning in his words. Cailia overcame her nerves with the Princeps’ departure and began to badger him with questions.

“Where have you been? What were you doing? Are you the Princeps’ champion we’ve been waiting for? Is that why you’re back? Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

Marcus held out his hands placatingly. “Okay, take a deep breath.”

“Right, sorry.” Cailia did as he bid, and collected herself. “I’m just so glad you’re back home.”

That word again. Home. Marcus moved past it. “I’ve been in Eorzea since I left, working with a group called the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.”

“Speaking of,” Thancred cut in as he and the others joined the duo. “I believe introductions are in order.”

Cailia snapped a fist to her chest in the Elarion salute. “Cailia of Theron, 1^st Skyhunter Squad. And you are?”

Marcus marveled at that, finally recognizing the armor. Little Cailia, the tagalong kid who trailed after her sister everywhere, was a Skyhunter? He had been gone a long time. He stepped forward. “These are my fellow Scions.” He rattled off their names as he pointed at each of them. Cailia seemed nonplussed, presumably from meeting such a large number of foreigners. That more than half of them were Elezen and Miqo’te probably wasn’t helping. Marcus elected to keep talking. “We grew up together, she and I. We go way back, about as far as I can remember.”

He looked back to Cailia “How are things in Theron? Is everyone okay? Last I heard Gorrath hasn’t come near, but that was from a week ago. Is that still right?”

For a moment, Cailia looked at him like he’d grown a second head. She snapped out of it. “Everyone is fine, none of the Sixes have been attacked. As for Theron, it’s how it’s always been. Nothing’s really changed since you left, even Crassus has managed to stick around.”

“That old man is too stubborn to die.” Marcus chuckled.

“Are you quite alright, Cailia?” Alphinaud asked. “You’re looking a little under the weather.”

Marcus wouldn’t have said that, both because it was fairly tactless and because she seemed more confused than sick to him. Cailia was spared from having to answer by a shout across the square.

“Cailia!” A voice called. Marcus turned to see a woman also in Skyhunter garb whose insignia marked her as a sergeant. “Stop jawing, we’re airborne in five!”

Cailia winced. “Uh oh. I gotta go.”

Marcus nodded. “We’ll talk later. Go give that winged bastard hell for me, alright?”

She looked back at him and hesitated. “You’ve changed, Markos.”

He didn’t know what to make of that. “For the better, right?”

“I… yeah. Yes, for the better.”

“I owe it all to them.” Marcus said, putting a hand on Y’shtola’s shoulder and gesturing at the rest of the Scions.

Cailia winced at another, louder shout directed at her and ran off. “We’ll talk more soon! Bye!”

Marcus watched her go, then turned back to his other friends. “Alright, someone say it.”

“She seemed nice.” Y’shtola said evenly. She had the best poker face among them. “A childhood friend, I take it?”

“Can we get this over with?” Marcus ignored her question and stared them down. None of them were doing a great job hiding their grins.

Thancred was the one speak up. “If I heard that young lady correctly, your real name-”

“Former name.” Marcus interrupted. Thancred accepted the correction with a shrug.

“Your former name was Markos. Meaning that when you adopted a pseudonym to go on the run… Your idea of a cover identity was to change the pronunciation of your name?”

“The pronunciation of half his name.” Alisaie helpfully supplied. This was the final straw, and their laughter burst out. Marcus rolled his eyes at the gentle mockery, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards despite himself.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. It wasn’t my brightest moment.” Ardbert had been quite confused why he had not laughed at the Warrior of Darkness’s ‘Arbert’ pseudonym, though that at least proved Marcus had come by it honestly. “Can we get back to dealing with the Primal of death and destruction?”

“As you wish, Mercus.” Urianger replied, to more laughter.

Now I know I’ve hit rock bottom. Marcus thought. Even Urianger is riffing on me.

Y’shtola was laughing the least, more from her temperament than a lack of humor. “Come now, we do indeed have more important matters to attend to.” Still quietly chuckling to herself, she began to lead the way to the castle rising above the nearby buildings.

Marcus sighed. I’m not living that down any time soon. With a rueful shake of his head, he set off after them.

Castor waited until the square was empty. His presence would be required at the castle before long, but he had some time. He approached the wooden monument, scanning it for one name in particular. He found it about halfway down.

Pollux of Cenopylae.

Castor could still remember that night, over a decade ago. He had returned home for the first and only time after being awarded his Knighthood. The entire family had turned out to celebrate his accomplishment. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, everyone was there. Including his brother. Who had vowed to become a Knight, who had strived harder than any man to be worthy of the honor, and who had been found wanting all the same.

It was a cruel irony. That a man who had so fervently sought Knighthood could not have it, and a man who had never wanted it was given it.

The gathering had been a loud and energetic affair. The evening was as much an excuse to throw a raucous party as it was about Castor. He spent much of it preoccupied with both the procession of relatives congratulating him and his own reservations. He saw little of Pollux. Had he been paying attention, would he have seen the signs? Impossible to know now.

The party had lasted well into the night. By the time it wound down, only the brothers were still awake. They tidied about, putting the house to rights and making idle talk as they transported their sleeping family members into whatever beds were available. Castor avoided the topic, trying not to think about how his new duty might demand he never return home again. That this might be the last time he ever saw them. He never even thought about why Pollux was avoiding it too.

Castor didn’t remember why they had stepped outside. Perhaps one of them had simply wanted some air. Perhaps on some level he sensed the question that had been churning in his brother’s mind and sought privacy for it. Perhaps Pollux had been thinking the same thing, or maybe he simply couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Don’t you think it should have been me, not you?”

Silence had followed.

With the words finally out in the air between them, Pollux immediately tried to recant them. “Because I don’t. You deserve it, definitely. More than I do.”

“No, no.” Castor insisted. “I think you’re right. You should be a Knight alongside me. I was just lucky to get one of the available spots.”

They lied to each other, and they both knew it, because that was easier that admitting the bitter truth.

Castor was stronger than Pollux. Faster too. He understood strategy and tactics easier, kept his cool longer, and had greater skill at arms. He was simply… better. And now not just he and Pollux but everyone knew it.

Castor knew what was waiting for him. He had heard about Knights and the kind of battles they fought. Even if he hadn’t, Knight-Captain Tarkus had taken him aside to lay the facts out to him so there was no chance he didn’t understand what he was signing on for.

Castor was going to die on a battlefield. He’d be lucky if he made it to forty summers before it happened. Knights did not retire. When he accepted his Knighthood, he was signing on to fight for Elarion until it killed him. He accepted that was part of his service to the realm, but that didn’t mean he wanted his less capable brother, who would only die faster, in his place. Pollux coveted a prize that would kill him and Castor was happy to deny him it.

But now, as his fingers slowly trailed across the name etched in wood, Castor wished it had been otherwise. That Pollux had been elevated and he had not. That Pollux had been protected. That he had not been left vulnerable to a power that could not even touch a Knight. That Castor had never had to see his brother with demonic madness in his eyes.

His hands curled into fists. They shook. He wanted it. More than anything, he craved a reckoning with the Demon that had taken so many. He wanted to hack apart Gorrath, to drench his sword in that monster’s blood and, maybe, wash away his brother’s. But even that was to be denied him, a pleasure reserved for the Warrior of Light.

He let out a deep breath. The Princeps had spoken, and Castor knew his master well enough to know it was not lightly. If he said Marcus would prove to be essential to slaying the Demon, then that was so. Castor would serve as he was called to, as a commander who saved lives rather than a champion who took them. But he still hoped that when the reckoning came, he was there to see it.

He left the dead to their rest.

The war meeting had been largely a waste of time, Y’shtola thought. Mostly they went over the strategies and information already discussed at the Citadel. Admittedly, important information for the various Calydon officers, but there was not much reason for the Scions to attend. The only thing she took from the experience was getting to see another usage of the Sight. The Princeps had spent maybe ten seconds staring into space with blazing silver eyes before proceeding to apply several dozen markers to a map of the area, showing the locations of all of Gorrath’s tempered for the battle tomorrow.

Y’shtola knew enough about planning battles to know that many commanders of the Eorzean Alliance would kill for that kind of advance intelligence. Countless scouts have died trying to procure it. Yet, the Princeps seemed almost sheepish about the entire affair.

“It’s not terribly detailed, I concede.” He had said after admitting that with Gorrath blocking him from directly seeing their enemies he could only provide their exact positions and general approximations of their numbers.

“It will suffice.” Castor said, in a tone that boded ill for anyone who desired to disagree. Which, judging from the expressions of some of the officers at meeting, there were several.

It was an interesting look into a culture that had reliable access to foresight, having built an expectation if not outright dependency on having advance knowledge. But the societal observation was about all of value the meeting contained. The only new strategic information of note was the news that Calydon’s prince had begun making his way back to the capital from the Ribbon’s fords to the south and would not be back before they would be attacked in the battle tomorrow. They could have simply been told as much while being shown to their rooms.

As the prince’s honored guests, they were given lodgings within the castle itself. Or more accurately, the Princeps had ‘suggested’ they be quartered in the castle and no one was going to countermand him. Y’shtola didn’t mind, it was certainly preferable to being out in tents like the rest of the newly arriving army. And the room she and Marcus had been given was on one of the castle’s upper levels and had a lovely view of the surrounding mountains. For those with the eyes to see it, anyway.

Marcus had thrown open the windows and was drinking in the impressive vista of the sun setting through the peaks. Y’shtola took a moment to simply observe him.

One benefit of the spell she used to replace her sight was that seeing a person’s aether meant also seeing their incorporeal aether. Their emotions made manifest in small, but perceptible ways. She had learned very quickly not to rely too heavily on this insight; everyone’s aether reacted differently to the same emotions. A sharp tightening in Alphinaud and Alisaie’s aethers indicated anger, in Thancred, joy. Her gift was only useful when it came to people she spent a good amount of time with, enough that she became familiar with their reaction to various stimuli.

With Marcus, she had long since gone beyond familiarity. Reading his aether was as easy as his expression. And she did not like what she saw now.

He had always been a rock. A steadfast pillar of support to those around him, who never wavered no matter how grave the danger, how dreadful the circumstances. Her rock. Someone she could always lean on when she needed to. She prided herself on almost never needing to, but even the knowledge that she could was a comfort.

But now that pillar had cracks running through it. The brilliant blue bonfire of power that was his aether had become… erratic. His moods changed more quickly, he was more prone to emotional extremes. She had never seen such sorrow in him before this morning, never seen him lose his composure in such a painfully raw way. Were those cracks present all along and simply unseen, or were they newly widened with his old trauma resurfacing? Did the distinction matter?

Y’shtola joined Marcus by the window and he wordlessly put his arm around her shoulders. “I wish I could show you these. Let you see mountains.”

“I have seen mountains before.” She reminded him. She had grown up in Dravania.

“None like these. These are real mountains.”

“And what, pray tell, is the difference?”

He feigned a sigh. “If you could see them, you’d know.” His aether shifted, changing in time with his thoughts. It was not as shrunken as it had been earlier, but she noted a dimness that was the beginning of sorrow.

“Theo could name all of them. The rest of us, we only knew the big ones. High Peak, Low Peak. The Brothers. First, Second, Third, and so on.”

“Creative.” Y’shtola remarked. “I imagine they are neighbors of Mountains A, B, and C?”

Marcus chuckled. “Like I said, we’re not a poetic people.”

She was relieved to hear him laugh and concerned it did not touch the melancholy within him. “He’d always make a show of telling us things like that, stuff we didn’t know. At times he seemed like he knew everything. Of course, since we didn’t know the things he told us, sometimes he’d lie. Amuse himself by trying to get us to believe something false. Lucas always knew though. It’s hard to trick your own brother.”

His voice had gone low and soft. It was not wracked with grief, for a mercy, merely quiet. “I tried to be like him. Like all of them. If I could be as smart as Theo, as strong as Lucas, as funny as Alex, as compassionate as Katt, and as bold as Niko, then… I don’t know. It’s not like it would have been like they hadn’t died. That I hadn’t…” He trailed off and after a moment sighed. “It would have been something.”

He laughed quietly to himself. “But I couldn’t even do that much.”

“Is that so terrible?” Y’shtola asked him. She turned to look at him. “You have done so much good in your time with us. And there are many who admire you, who aspire to be like you, just as you aspired to emulate your friends. Is it truly horrible that you think you fell short of the standard they set?”

“That’s not the point.” Marcus looked away. He stared out at the ‘real’ mountains as if they contained the answers to his discontent.

Y’shtola believed that was entirely the point. In his guilt and his grief, he had elevated his deceased companions to a near mythic status. It was impossible for him to live up to that standard, because he would always set himself below it. He could never be as smart as Theo because in his mind Theo existed as someone smarter than him. If Y’shtola could get him to realize as much…

Small chance of that. She’d been trying unsuccessfully to put a dent in his pervasive humility for a long time now. She doubted she would have any more success when that humility was laced with heart-rending sadness.

“Did you ever stop?” She asked.

“Hmm?”

“You sought to emulate the admirable qualities of your friends. Did you ever give up those attempts?”

Marcus exhaled deeply. “No. How could I?”

His aether churned with turmoil, flickering in colors Y’shtola did not like to see. Normally the brilliant blue of the sky, now it was a dark indigo. She took his hand in hers. His gaze turned back to her and she gave him a gentle smile.

“You were inspired by their example. Even if you ultimately did not surpass them, you bettered yourself by striving to. In that way, you honored their memory. And they, in turn, continued to benefit the world by being the impetus for your growth. I do not doubt there are many who would not still live today, were it not for that.”

“Maybe.” Marcus did not look entirely convinced, but his aether did brighten somewhat. Y’shtola decided to take that minor victory and changed the subject.

“So, your ‘former name’ was Markos.”

He sighed in exasperation, but good naturedly. “I get it already.”

“I mean no offence or humor,” she explained. “I merely seek clarity. Do you not wish to be called that anymore?”

“It sounds weird when you say it.” Marcus replied glibly. He sobered. “Markos of Theron was the man who failed his friends and fled his homeland. Marcus Dorne is the hero who saved the entire star from destruction. I know who I’d rather be.”

She wove her fingers through his. “You cannot hide from your past.” She said gently.

“I’ve done a pretty good job of it these past few years.” He countered, giving her hand a squeeze nevertheless.

“And yet destiny has brought you back here, where you cannot escape it.”

“There’s no such thing as destiny.” He nitpicked.

“Call it what you will, destiny or coincidence. Nevertheless, here you are.” She thought carefully about how to make her point without re-opening his wound. “It is not in your nature to shy away from something just because it is hard or painful. The man you are will confront this sooner or later, I know it. All I ask is that you not shut me out when you do. We are in this together, you and I.”

He did not answer for a long moment. Finally, he gave her a small smile. “I know I’m a handful sometimes. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“There are so few who would put up with me,” Y’shtola joked. “I cannot afford to lose one when I have him.”

Marcus chuckled. “If you want a more practical reason, I’ve gotten used to being called Marcus. And… well, can you say it again?”

“Markos.” She complied.

His mouth quirked. “Yeah, your pronunciation is off. It should be Markos.”

“Markos.” She repeated. He shook his head.

“No, Markos.”

“Markos?” She could hear the difference, but his accent was hard to imitate.

“Let’s just stick to Marcus, shall we?”

“I do have a certain fondness for him.” Y’shtola admitted. She tilted her head up and he responded to her invitation by pressing their lips together in a kiss that filled her with warmth from head to toe.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Alisaie said, poking her head through the doorway. Y’shtola quickly pulled away. She was still not quite comfortable with letting other people witness her displays of affection, the product of, she knew, misguided pride.

“Nothing of importance.” She replied. Marcus made an exaggerated expression of indignation which she answered with an obvious roll of her eyes, but he got the corners of her mouth to twitch upwards. She returned her attention to Alisaie. “Was there something you needed?”

The young Elezen nodded. “A man named Bucephalus is demanding we surrender our weapons into the castle armory for safe-keeping. I think Estinien might be about to come to blows with him.”

“Bucephalus is still captain of the guard, huh?” Marcus said to himself. He addressed Alisaie. “Have Estinien tell him our weapons are fine and he should gnaw a rock.”

“Is ‘gnaw a rock’ some sort of colorful local slang that implies his teeth are too weak to bite through the rock and he will likely attack Estinien for the insult?” Alisaie guessed. Marcus looked surprised, as if his attempt to amuse himself at the dragoon’s expense hadn’t been transparent. Y’shtola took him by the hand and pulled him towards the door.

“Come along. We have enough fighting ahead of us without you stirring up more.”

“Fine, fine.” Marcus complained. “Excuse me for trying to have a little fun.”

Y’shtola held back her smile, knowing it would only encourage him, but she couldn’t help the relief as she saw his aether shining with humor once again, the heavy weight of sorrow that had been darkening it earlier gone, at least for now.

Chapter Text

Marcus waited in the woods. He crouched low, making sure he was obscured by the surrounding foliage. His armor was roughly equivalent in value to that of a small house and was durable enough to be entirely worth that price, but it was also very shiny. The overcast sky reduced the chance of errant sunbeams making the polished metal glint, but it was better to be cautious. He shifted again, the two hours already spent waiting having worn down his patience.

It was a widely held truism of war that the worst part of a battle was waiting for it to begin. Marcus himself had never agreed with the sentiment. The anxious tension that he felt before the battle was joined was nothing compared to the screaming, the coppery reek of freshly spilled blood, and the frantic struggles to avoid death that came when combat did break out. That didn’t mean he particularly liked the wait, however.

Eventually, a soft chime in his ear heralded the call he had been waiting for. The composed voice he recognized as belonging to the Skyhunter lieutenant came over the linkpearl.

“Darkness flows south.”

Marcus frowned. As someone who lived in the far north, he’d never much liked the saying. Still, he couldn’t deny it was apt.

Darkness flows south, and breaks on the shield of the north.

May we be equal to the burden. Marcus added his own embellishment. He put the thought aside as the Skyhunter continued.

“The enemy approaches at some speed. The main host is advancing south down the highway, numbering three thousand, maybe slightly less. Mostly Skalik, but I count several hundred Elarians as well. Packs have broken off to move through the woods on both east and west of the road, around a thousand all told. They have twelve artillery pieces remaining, five Skalik guns and seven of our cannons. We’ve blooded them, but they are advancing quickly and will be reaching our lines within thirty minutes.”

Marcus glanced over, meeting the gaze of the grizzled veteran crouched next to him. Giannis’ face bore scars from three Undergrounds Wars, something Marcus had to respect. That face was currently wearing a frown that pulled those scars taunt. “Frustratingly vague.”

Marcus fought down a grin, though he certainly understood the sentiment. He’d had the privilege of fighting a few battles directed by the Princeps before, and they had been meticulously planned down to the most minute detail. His squad had been informed of every enemy they would face, when, and how. They knew exactly how the battle would unfold and had a lengthy list of orders already waiting on when to advance, fall back, hold their ground, and so on. And similar list of orders had been sent to every squad in the army. To be stuck relying on a scout’s approximations even though the Princeps was watching over the coming fight was indeed frustrating.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten spoiled.” He joked. He caught the flash of humor from the tempered man as they both turned to relay the report to their respective comrades. Alphinaud and Alisaie listened closely as he repeated the Skyhunter’s words to them, hearing Giannis inform his squad of eight Wolf-touched at the same time. Despite their tempering, the Wolf-touched were little different from the soldiers he served with both in Elarion before his self-imposed exile and in the Immortal Flames after. For all Marcus considered each and every Scion a dear and irreplaceable friend, he did enjoy being in the company of men-at-arms once again.

 Marcus assessed the coming battle in his head as he spoke. The Princeps’ limited predictions thus far had been borne out. Elarion’s forces had already been arrayed to counter this sort of incoming battle, with their main host entrenched on Rubicon’s Highway leading down from the High Pass to Clenon ready to meet the enemy. Cutting through the Last Forest, the Highway was the only way to march an army on the capital with any speed. Which made it obvious they were going to be defending it, and that any halfway competent commander would force march some of his men through the woods anyway to flank those defenders. Thus, their position here, along with a dozen other small squads led by Scions and knights ready to ambush those flankers and hopefully flank the enemy column themselves.

Due to the possibility that Gorrath might descend to join the battle, Marcus had been sent with one of the nearer outlying units. Separate so he wouldn’t be embroiled in the main fighting and have the freedom to react as necessary, while still being close enough to respond in time if Gorrath attacked the most tempting target of the main force. He didn’t like being removed from the fiercest fighting, but also couldn’t come up with a solid objection to the idea. It wasn’t like he would want for foes even out here.

Four thousand enemies. The Elarians were severely outnumbered, but that was nothing new. The Skalik usually outnumbered the Elarians in battles, and this force was mostly Skalik. Marcus remembered the rule of three. For every three Skalik you fight, at least two of them were going to be dreg fodder. Discipline, skill, and superior equipment made up for the difference in numbers. Even with this enemy army including no few Elarians themselves, that should still apply. They had fifty Knights with them, and that was worth a thousand Skalik or more right there. Castor had the bulk of them with him at the vanguard of the main host, enough to throw the enemy back until the ambush units could join the fray and throw the enemy’s column into disarray.

Satisfied with the plan, Marcus settled in to continue his wait, now a vigil watching for their foes. He was not left waiting long.

Furtive movement visible through the trees ahead signaled the approach of a mob of Skalik. From his vantage point, Marcus could not make out how exactly many of the ratmen there were, somewhere between one dozen and two. The moniker ‘ratmen’ was apt, each Skalik standing between four to five fulms tall, with a pointed snout, coarse black or brown fur, and a long hairless tail that made them resemble nothing so much as a bipedal, man-sized rat. This group had the usual assortment of jagged blades and mismatched, piecemeal armor and looked wirier than normal. More feral, if that was even possible.

Marcus felt the old, familiar anger rise at seeing these ratmen, these vermin trespass on Elarion land, but he checked himself. As tempting as it was to charge the second the enemy was in sight, this ambush relied on precise timing. It could easily fall apart if some hothead charged in before all the picket forces were ready to strike. Speaking of, he stuck an arm out to block Niko behind him, knowing that if he felt the urge to attack, she would be a second away from rushing in.

Alphinaud glanced at the outstretched arm and gave Marcus a confused look. Marcus tried to play it off with a shake of his head. Focus! He chided himself. This was no time to get distracted by long dead memories.

The lead Skalik had just started to sniff the air and Marcus knew they would have to attack now or lose the element of surprise when his linkpearl chimed. The familiar voice of the Princeps came over the device.

“My brothers and sisters of Elarion. The enemy approaches. We will send them back to the hell their master crawled out of. Strike fast, strike true, and we will be victorious.”

Fine if not terribly original words, Marcus thought before he saw the effect they had on the soldiers. To a man the group of tempered straightened up, their expressions shedding any hint of doubts. The unease he’d expect to see on the eve of battle was gone, the words filling them with conviction.

No, not the words, Marcus corrected himself. It was his words. Their faith in the Princeps, even knowing that his Sight was being blocked, and their desire not to fail him. It was a reminder of just who he was, what he meant to Elarion. The Princeps truly was every man’s brother.

Castor’s clipped voice replaced the Princeps’ in his ear. “We are engaging the enemy. Ambush units, begin the attack.”

With a quick glance to confirm the twins and the Wolf-touched had gotten the message, Marcus rose from his crouch into a run. The Skalik point-man spotted him immediately and shouted orders to the rest. They tried to form up and meet him, but his advance was too fast and he was already among them.

Then he was killing them.

His sword passed through their ill-made armor with barely a tug to slow his slashes. Their blades clattered off his bright plate and his shield went unused rather than waste time blocking. They encircled him so he pointed his sword into the sky and blasted them away in a surge of magic. They fell in droves around him, helpless against the sudden fury of his onslaught.

There were eighteen of the Skalik in total, and after slaying ten of them in as many seconds he expected the rest to break and flee. But these ones simply howled and rushed him, their tempering having apparently done wonders for their courage. He rewarded it with a golden blade bursting from the ground, carving through the ones at the center of the group and searing the outliers.

The whole exchange, from the order to strike to the last Skalik laying dead, took less than half a minute. Marcus stood over the corpses and let out a deep breath. That had been perhaps a touch unhealthily cathartic. It felt good to fight a foe he could hate.

“Save some for the rest of us, hey?” Giannis said as the others approached.

“You gotta to be fast enough to keep up if you want to play.” Marcus answered. He turned back and paused at the expressions on Alphinaud and Alisaie’s faces.

“They… they were tempered.” Alisaie said quietly, staring at the bodies.

“And it likely improved their disposition.” Marcus answered. He turned away, so he didn’t have to see the look in their eyes. “Come on, we need to press up.”

They advanced through the trees, making sure there weren’t other groups of enemies that might flank the main force that should even now be carving its way through the bulk of the enemy column. After nearly ten minutes of walking, they were nearing the edge of the woods. Once they exited. Marcus should be able to see other groups coming out as well, a splintered line that had swept Gorrath’s thralls before them. They would then link up with the others and flank the enemy column themselves.

He stopped midstride. He could feel it, that sudden premonition of danger trickling in from his Echo that had saved his life countless times before. Something was coming. Several somethings. He could feel where they would hit as clearly as if impact markers were painted on the ground.

“Get back!”

Putting his words into action, he grabbed each of the twins by the arm and hauled them out of where the nearest attack would land.

A second later, explosions rocked the world.

“What was that?” Alisaie asked, quickly getting to her feet. Her rapier was held at the ready as she scanned for enemies. Alphinaud was already healing Giannis, who had been clipped by the blast.

“Airbursters.” Marcus answered. “Tightly compacted air released to create a shockwave. It’s a druid spell.”

He had seen these before, many times, as his squad had stood in support of druid units. He didn’t much enjoy being on the receiving end. A well drilled group of druids could devastate an entire formation with well-placed airbursters; Marcus feared for the other flanking units. Then his brain caught up and he asked himself how did the enemy druids know to be waiting for the advancing Elarians to cast their spells from concealment like that. He drew the obvious conclusion.

Gorrath had planned his own ambush.

A line of silver held firm against the surging tide of enemies. By Estinien’s count, the projection of thousands of Skalik was accurate. The tide of enemies marched down the highway with a reckless pace. They met a smaller group of Elarian soldiers already waiting and broke against them. The bright steel of the Hyurs, Lalafells, and Taurhe, as Estinien had been told the minotaurs were called, carved into the Skalik that had charged them. Though the press of enemies was too much for them to drive forward, neither had they been driven back and the ranks of the rat men fell before them. The din of clashing armies filled the air with shouts, screams, and the clamor of metal striking metal.

The Elarian disdain for Eorzeans as fighters had rankled Estinien, but now that he was seeing them in action he had to admit it wasn’t entirely groundless. They fought brilliantly, with both fervor and skill. Estinien knew that out of Eorzea’s city states, only Ishgard’s hardened ranks of knights would prove the Elarians’ equal and ignored how his nationalistic pride factored into that evaluation. At any rate, the Elarians’ impressive capabilities were clear to see, even this far in the air. He soared over the battlefield on griffinback, looking for targets as he had been instructed.

“You are not a warrior.” Castor said.

“I beg to differ.” Estinien replied shortly. The knight had approached him while the army was preparing to issue forth from Clenon’s gates and ignored his attempt at a rebuttal.

“According to Marcus, you are more a hunter. One skilled in aerial maneuvers at that. Your skills would be wasted as another blade in the line when your specialty is moving quickly and hitting targets of opportunity. The enemy has few cannons, but enough. They will be bringing them to assault the walls, but will undoubtedly turn them on our position once they see us. The Skyhunters will work to deny the bombardment by destroying their artillery, but they could use someone who can hit hard and fast.”

Destroying cannons from the sky to stop them from raining fiery death on his comrades was something Estinien was familiar with, and so far his repeated forays into the air had been successful. He spotted another target and without a word leapt from the back of his steed. He dove out of the sky again, wreathed in flames, and Niddhog bit deeply into the cannon. The explosion of fire emanating outwards drove away those crewing the weapon, and Estinien was already back in the air before they could recover enough to avenge their crippled weapon.

Mindful of the tempering, he was trying to avoid landing fatal blows. However, a spear is not usually a nonlethal weapon and pulling one’s punches in a pitched battle was a good way to get yourself killed. He knew the grim necessities of war, and his body count was one of them.

Still, at least he was trying. From what he could glean as he leapt, the Elarians had few such compunctions. The silver armored warriors only even tried to subdue their own tempered with nonlethal strikes. The Skalik were killed outright. And given they made up the bulk of the enemy attack force, there were a great deal of corpses littering the road’s cobbles. Even knowing the Princeps’ warning about bloodshed fueling Gorrath’s strength, the Elarians didn’t seem to be inclined not to cut through the ranks of their foes.

The nearest griffin to him swooped in to meet his jump. Estinien easily caught hold of the offered hand and slid into the saddle. There were a dozen of the great cloudkin darting above the battlefield, their riders looking for targets of opportunity and picking them off with precise arrows. Along with giving rides to passing dragoons.

“Any others?” He told the Skyhunter, who looked oddly familiar. It took him a moment to place her, Marcus’s old friend.

“That was the last.” Cailia replied, her previous exuberance replaced by a warrior’s steely composure. Her hand was on her ear and she received word via linkpearl. “We’re pulling out. Our griffs are tiring and it’s a ground battle from here on out.”

 “Understood.” The empty quiver slung on her back was a testament to how she and her comrades had already done their part. “I’m staying.”

“Say where, I’ll drop you off.” The griffin banked and swung around back towards their lines, its fellows making similar turns.

Mindful of the risk of catching an arrow or spell by getting too low, Estinien directed her to stay high above the clashing forces as they flew over the front lines. He sprang from the griffin. Wreathed in energy, he slammed into the Skalik’s front ranks, throwing them into a disarray the Elarians were quick to take advantage of. The Knights surged forward into the opening the stardiver had cleared just as the Skalik surged forward over the broken bodies of their own.

Asterion, who had insisted on accompanying the group despite the risk of tempering, nodded a greeting before returning to face the onrushing enemy. The two stood together to meet the counterattack head on. Between Niddhog’s strikes and the Taurhe’s gauntleted fists, the duo formed an almost literal tip of the spear that carved into the enemy lines without slowing. Castor and the Knights that stood with him were proving the praise Marcus had heaped on them was not exaggerated. Not since Estinien had fought alongside his fellow dragoons had he stood with such a large group of deadly warriors.

They not only were fierce fighters, they were well coordinated too. With his understanding that they spent most of their time scattered and fighting in small groups, he assumed they would have little in the way of teamwork. Instead, they fought as if they drilled together daily. An armored shieldbearer left himself exposed to attack, and the next man over instantly covered the opening. A mage would ready a spell, and the front line fighter would clear the firing line with no discernable signal given. Estinien himself was seamlessly folded into the line, the Knights flowing and fighting around him in a manner that made it simple for him to narrow his focus to the enemies before him. They cut down row after row of Skalik, forming the only part of the Elarian line that was advancing.

Estinien caught his newest assailant’s sword on Niddhog’s haft. He smartly swung the spear around and slammed the butt into her head as Asterion beside him drove a hooved kick into his own foe’s chest. The duo stepped over the prone bodies and left them to be properly captured by the following troops. Maintaining their momentum was key to this battle.

Then the air shook with the sound of rolling thunder, echoing in from the woods east of the battlefield. For a moment he tried to convince himself it came from the cloudy sky but Estinien knew something had gone wrong. A deep, guttural bellow filled the air as if in answer and a Taurhe whose fur had a reddish tint rather than the usual brown pushed through the crowd of enemy troops ahead and charged them.

Asterion grimaced even as he took a fighting stance. “Father.”

Estinien readied his spear, making a mental note to take extra care not to kill this one. Then Minos was upon them and he found that resolution tested.

Minos was fast. Seeing his bulk and his maddened charge towards their lines, Estinien had been expecting a hulking berserker with slow but powerful strikes. He instead nearly got clobbered by possibly the finest pugilist he had ever seen.  He knew fistfighters were typically light on their feet, but for a minotaur three yalms tall and nearly half as broad to gracefully weave around his spear seemed almost ridiculous. Minos dodged or blocked all of Estinien and Asterion’s attacks with what he made look like ease, darting in close to land a hammering punch into his son’s head.

Estinien moved to assist, but had to pull away as a silver blur shot at his face. He deflected the spear strike with one of his own, and saw his new assailant. A Hyur with flushed skin and a deranged grin came at him with a spear that danced in his hands like a living thing. It was all Estinien could do to ward off the flurry of thrusts and he was helpless to aid Asterion as blows rained down on him.

Finally, a powerful punch sent the younger Taurhe flying backward. Mindful of his exposed flank, Estinien took to the air a second before Minos’ fist could connect with his head. He aimed his jump well, landing beside the prone Asterion and taking up a stance to guard his ally while he recovered. But the fearsome duo opposite him did not press the attack.

“Pathetic.” Minos snorted. “I trained you better than that, boy!”

Asterion rose with a pained snarl. He slammed his gauntlets together. “Even if I have to beat you black and blue, I will save you father. I swear it.”

“Hah!” The Hyur with the spear barked. “We’re already ‘saved,’ fool.”

The clatter of armor at his back told Estinien the Knights had moved up to join them. Castor stepped out in front, between Estinien and the enemies. What surprised Estinien was the way his sword was held loosely, pointed at the ground instead of held at the ready.

“It cannot be.” The Knight murmured, staring at their opponents like he couldn’t believe his eyes. His voice wavered. “You’re dead. I killed you myself.”

“Indeed you did.” Pollux answered agreeably, a manic smile plastered on his face. “Taking my chance at Knighthood was not enough for you, it seems. Well, you’ll find my life harder to take, brother.”

Now Estinien felt the same surprise as Castor did. “Your brother? Are you sure he was dead?”

“I took his head off.” Castor bit out. He pointed his sword at Pollux. “How are you alive?”

“The same reason you killed me.” Pollux replied, leaning on his planted spear. “The power of the Blood God.” Behind him, ranks of Hyur and Taurhe formed up. Each of them had the same redness in their skin or fur that Pollux and Minos did. They stared down the line of Knights opposite them, weapons held eagerly at the ready, but they did not attack just yet. Around them, the battle continued to rage, but there was a deadly calm around the two lines of staring foes.

“We have been chosen. Death cannot claim us.” Pollux said conversationally, as if they were discussing the matter over afternoon tea. “He’s burned away our weakness and left nothing but fire and fury. Now, I am so much stronger. So strong even a little thing like losing my head can’t stop me. Which means you certainly won’t, brother.”

Castor ground his teeth. He looked wound as tightly as a mainspring, the tension in him perilously close to an explosive release.

“You said you wished to save me?” Minos asked his son. “I hope to save you. Fight us, prove your strength and worth. Earn a place at the Blood God’s side.” He had a sickeningly dreamy expression. “He can tear away that worthless sense of honor, the shackles of mercy and fear that bind you. Then you will truly know the rush of battle, the joy of slaughter. It is my dearest hope that I can share that gift with you, and your sister, before long.”

“Me, I know you’re a lost cause, Castor.” Pollux put in. “You wouldn’t serve the Blood God even if you could, so I’ll settle for making him an offering of your skull.”

“Enough!” Asterion slammed his armored fists together with a loud clang. “I will not stand here and listen to you defile the memories of the men you erased to become that Demon’s slaves!”

Snarling, he almost charged them before Estinien could put out a warding arm. “Calm yourself!” He urged. “They seek to provoke you!”

Asterion whirled on him, but begrudgingly nodded and visibly tried to calm himself. The line of Knights behind him were tense, about to charge in themselves.

“That’s right, listen to the outlander.” Pollux mocked. “I suppose you need someone to follow now that your useless goddess is dead.”

“Calm!” Estinien yelled, too little and too late.

With a shouted battlecry, the Knights rushed forward as one. “Blood for Elarion!”

With a matching roar the tempered charged to meet them. “Blood for Gorrath!”

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Estinien threw himself into the battle.

That familiar whisper of danger from his Echo was all the warning Marcus got. He raised his shield just in time to deflect the arrow. Alphinaud reacted immediately, and with a whir of rotating nouliths barriers shimmered into existence around each of them. Through the trees, Marcus caught a glimpse of the archer, a woman whose only recognizable trait from this distance was her flowing dark hair. But he had no time to engage her.

Crashing through the foliage, an axeman rushed Alphinaud still kneeling next to Giannis. Marcus intercepted the man and caught the axe on his shield. He threw back the attacker and chopped at his legs, but the man slipped away from the slash. He raised his axe to hack at Marcus again but a bolt of lightning drove him from his feet. Alisaie returned her sword to at the ready just in time to meet another man running at them with a spear.

Suddenly the woods were full of enemies. These ones were Elarian, though the silvery sheen of their armor had been crudely defaced and blackened. Marcus threw himself forward into them, bowling a spearman over with his shield and catching a woman with a pair of knives in the temple with his sword’s pommel. Even this many foes would not be too difficult for him, were he willing to slay the attackers. Having to preserve their lives made his task far more difficult. A noulith flew past his head and blasted a Taurhe woman reaching for him and Marcus plunged into a knot of enemies. Taking a bit of a risk, he let loose a pulse of light magic and the exploding star above his head knocked his surrounding foes from their feet.

A scream of pain that cut off midway immediately commanded his attention. Marcus turned to see two Wolf-touched lying dead at the feet of a tempered swordsman and watched as the man sliced apart three more in as many seconds with flowing, gracefully lethal swordplay. The tempered’s gaze landed on the Leveilleurs and he rushed towards them with startling speed.

Marcus was already moving. He needed to face this man himself. Such a clearly deadly foe would carve through their ranks unless stopped and Marcus was under no delusions the twins could stand up to that kind of brilliant swordsmanship. It had to be him who fought this superlative warrior.

His heart quickened at the prospect.

He sprinted up behind the running tempered leading with his shield in a charge that would knock the man clean off his feet. His attack didn’t land. Perhaps hearing his charge, the tempered swordsman smartly spun out of his path and slashed out.

Marcus caught the sword strike on his shield, feeling it reverberate up his arm. His foe punched with his shield. Marcus blocked the attack with his sword, noting the shield rim had been sharpened to a razor edge. Their weapons locked together, the two men pressed against each other with the grind of metal on metal.

This one is strong. It was rare these days for someone to be able to match him arm against arm. Marcus looked his opponent in the eye. A face with blue eyes and framed with short black hair seemed just as surprised to see Marcus matching him as Marcus felt. He slowly pushed back the tempered man, gaining ground by ilms.

The other man abandoned the losing struggle, stepping back quickly and trying to slash Marcus down while he was off balance. Marcus deflected the blow and slashed out with his own sword. They traded strikes back and forth in a deadly dance while the battle raged around them. Marcus ignored the fighting, even the worrying sound of Alisaie grunting in pain. He knew instinctively if he looked away from this duel even for a moment, he was a dead man. He may be the stronger of the two, but his enemy was blindingly fast and had superb swordsmanship besides. Marcus was almost immediately forced on the defensive and despite his skill in that area he found himself hard pressed. After barely a minute of combat, he already had an oscillating collection of cuts, acquiring a new set after each of his surges of holy magic healed the previous batch.

Despite everything, Marcus could feel the corners of his mouth turn up. What an enemy this was. He felt the usual sting of guilt for enjoying himself in this desperate, life-or-death battle. For his part the tempered’s smile was so wide he looked to be having the time of his life.

“Finally.” Marcus’s opponent said around his grin. “Prey that doesn’t bore me.”

He punched with his shield and Marcus batted away the sharpened edge with his sword. He followed the movement into a spin and poured his aether into his blade. His opponent dodged low and avoided the vibrant slash that cut through the air and, unnoticed by either man, one of the tempered running at Alphinaud. The other man recovered and sent a pair of slashes into Marcus’ shield. He countered with a strong stab that was narrowly side-stepped. His enemy launched a heavy chop down just as Marcus slashed up, and again they locked together with swords pressuring against shields.

Marcus tried again to overpower his slippery adversary with sheer strength, but before he could bring his full might to bear he felt a familiar headache bloom behind his eyes. Oh no, not now.

But, as ever, the Echo would not be denied and Marcus was dragged into his foe’s memories.

He was down in a familiar darkness. The oppressive murk of a Skalik tunnel. This one stank like a charnel pit, and with good reason. Bodies littered the floor, Skalik and Elarian, and far too many of the latter.

Agora, the last of his friends to survive, reached a trembling hand towards him. Her other was pressed against the gash in her stomach as she bled out on the ground. A bad wound, but he knew she’d survive if he got her to the healers fast enough. Her mouth opened, but whatever she was going to say became a choked gurgle as the Skalik spear punched down through her throat.  The vermin holding it looked over and he could see its sadistic grin, even across the distance.

The world went red. That was not a poetic metaphor, his sight was stained with a crimson tint by rage so powerful it stole his reason. Anger surged through him, a fury so potent and all-encompassing his body seized up from the force of it. There was a roaring in his ears that echoed off the tunnel walls and came from every direction.

He was barely aware that he was running forward. He reached the rat bastard that killed Agora and returned the favor with such speed the vermin had no chance to react. More of that filth surrounded him, though he couldn’t see them well through the red haze that shrouded his vision. He could see clear enough to kill them, and that was all that mattered.

Skalik died. They died in droves, faster and faster, coming apart in showers of gore under his blades as he killed ever quicker but never quick enough. They stopped trying to fight and simply ran, but he refused to let a single one escape. He lost count of the corpses left in his wake, only knowing it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

He hated them. With every fiber of his being. He wanted to murder them. To slaughter them. To butcher them. To destroy every trace they had ever existed. To shed their blood and rend their flesh and kill them kill them KILL THEM ALL!!!

Around him, unnoticed through the haze of hatred and sprays of blood that coated him, energy sparked and grew. The crystals arrayed in their arcane formations shone. Streams of filthy crimson light rose from the bodies surrounding him and coalesced above his head. An orb formed, growing steadily larger as more corpses and crystals began to spew energy into the air.

He became dimly aware that the roaring he heard was a scream, one that seemed louder and longer than anyone’s throat could produce. It broke into coughing as he dropped to his knees, only then realizing it had been his voice. It felt like he had screamed out all of his strength, he could barely raise his head to finally notice the pulsing sphere above him. The fighting stopped, every combatant staring in equal parts fascination and horror as the orb the color of putrid blood continued to grow.

A tiny crack appeared in the side. That was the only warning before the orb burst outward. The violence of the sudden explosion sent everyone present reeling. Everyone but him. He was untouched, as if the shockwave had chosen to pass over him.

A figure was where the orb had been, impossibly larger than what could have fit inside it. His mind rebelled at the sight of it even as he couldn’t help but drink in the details. Ruddy skin covered in dark iron armor. A two headed axe marked with a snarling face. Wings, fleshy and curled like a bat’s against the creature’s back. And a nightmarish, bloodthirsty grin that would be seared into his memory until his dying day.

His jaw dropped open and he breathed a single word as horror and awe at what he’d done washed over him.

“Gorrath.”

The vision faded and reality returned.

Marcus fought through the disorientation to find himself, amazingly, still locked blade to shield with his enemy. He knew Echo visions passed faster than they seemed on the inside, but that seemed remarkably fortunate. Their eyes met and Marcus finally realized who he was facing.

There was a similar dawning comprehension in Aethon’s eyes that vanished as he threw himself backwards to avoid the laser blasts that scythed through the air at him. Alphinaud moved to Marcus’ side and with a nod Marcus confirmed he was unharmed. He stamped down on the swell of sympathy he felt and regarded his enemy. 

Aethon raised a finger to his ear in the unmistakable gesture of a man making a linkpearl call. Whatever he said was drowned out by the din of the fighting around them, but Marcus could hazard a guess from the way his men started to disengage and fall back. But not all of them. New attackers were charging into the clearing as well, coming from a variety of different directions. Marcus felt a sudden sense of misgiving, something about these newcomers seemed wrong somehow. He had no time to dwell on it beyond noting they all had flushed red skin before Aethon pounced again.

For all their fury as they were provoked into battle, the Knights did not abandon their flawless discipline and fought as seamlessly coordinated as before. Neither did they succumb to bloodlust and try to slay rather than subdue their adversaries. It was a reluctance the tempered did not share, making what was already a fierce fight that much harder. Even with the advantage of numbers, Estinien and his allies had only managed to take down three of the tempered, binding them in magical chains to keep them down.

For his part, Estinien sorely wished he could simply kill Minos. Niddhog’s length was proving vital in staying out of the Taurhe’s reach; anyone who entered it so far had swiftly regretted it. Minos was bleeding from a dozen shallow wounds Estinien had inflicted in the hopes they might slow him down. Thus far, they only seemed to be encouraging him.

Another lightning-fast lunge at him and Estinien took to the air, soaring over the battlefield and out of the reach of those hammerlike fists. Below, Minos was tackled by his remarkably tenacious son. Deciding that was under control for the time being, Estinien looked for a better target. He spotted one, a tempered moving in on the Ser Calista, intent on freeing his comrades bound in her chains.

Estinien landed before the man with enough force to give him pause. Taking advantage of the opening, he swung Nidhogg and slammed the wing shaped flanges into the tempered’s head. He hit with enough force that, on an ordinary man, the blow would have reliably snapped his neck. Instead as Estinien expected, the tempered got knocked off his feet but was already rising a second later. He didn’t get far before silver chains wrapped around him and pinned him to the ground. Calista nodded her gratitude to Estinien and he turned to find another foe. Not far away, Castor and another Knight fought fiercely against Pollux. Blades flashed and clanged against one another.

“What’s the matter, brother? Lost your nerve?” Pollux mocked. Seeing Castor pass up a perfect opening to skewer his opponent in favor of a nonfatal and therefore minor cut that Pollux powered through, Estinien grimaced. The tempered were too deadly of foes to treat with kid gloves and they were beginning to exploit the Knights’ restraint.

Pollux made good use of that advantage. He stabbed forward with a lunge that left him exposed to Castor’s blade. It would have been child’s play for the Knight to slash through the man’s throat, but Castor hesitated. Unimpeded, the spear tore a red line into the other Knight’s side, who fell to his knees as his sword slipped through limp fingers.

“Enough of this!” Castor growled. He struck with enough force that even though Pollux blocked it with the haft of his spear, he still staggered backwards. His brother snarled a grin.

“Finally. Knew you’d find your stones eventually!” The tip of his spear caught fire that burned red as blood. Pollux lunged forward, but now Castor’s own weapon glowed with power too. Shining with light, his sword met the stabbing spear with a flare of aether that sent both men recoiling. Castor recovered faster, but Estinien’s attention was dragged back to his own fighting by a Taurhe woman slashing at him with a handaxe. Her strength was incredible; even as he blocked her chops she was driving him backwards. Soon he had nowhere to go, any further and he’d be backing into Calista. The Taurhe’s swings were wild and, with a modicum of remorse, Estinien took his opening.

Nidhogg’s bladed edge took her arm off at the elbow. Estinien slammed the haft into her stomach and bowled her over backwards, but before he could press his advantage a sudden blaze by his feet caught his eye.

The severed arm was burning. To his shock, it combusted of its own accord and burned to ash within seconds. Nonplused, Estinien looked up at the woman. Blood poured from her wound, but even as it spilled it caught fire. She herself did not show any surprise at this impossibility, but reached down to recover her axe and continue fighting.

A silver blur flew past Estinien. An aetherial sword impaled the Taurhe, conjured and fired by a wide-eyed Calista. And now the woman’s entire body was aflame as she died, amazingly still trying to take up her weapon even as her very flesh was burning from the inside out.

Castor had not missed the exchange. His voice rang out over the sounds of fighting. “They are not human anymore! They’re demonspawn! Kill them!”

Their true strength finally unleashed, the Knights began to drive their foes back. The tempered fought back even fiercer than before, but the difference in numbers began to tell the tale. Estinien skewered a Lalafell with a diving jump and Minos actually laughed raucously at the sight of his comrade’s bodies bursting into flame.

“At last! A real battle!” Looking pleased as a child before a buffet of sweets, he charged in and laid about with his fists. Estinien had to leap backward to avoid his head being caved in. One of the Knights was not as nimble and he fell from the punch with his neck angled in a fatal manner. Estinien was ready to end this and gathered his strength for a leap into the sky when Pollux was driven back to the Taurhe prince’s side by his brother’s relentless advance. He lashed out with his spear in a wide, sweeping slash that threw back Castor and two other attacking Knights.

“Now that’s more like it!” Pollux looked ecstatic. “Kill or be killed! Let our weapons sing and our blood boil! Knights against the Chosen, as it should be!”

The dragoon tuned out the ranting and bided his time. He could end this now if he could get them all in one dive. The Knights just needed to drive them a little closer together. But before the battle could be rejoined, Minos’ ear twitched and Pollux turned his head slightly. The spearman clicked his tongue in frustration.

“Tch! Just when it was getting good.”

Minos looked past the line of Knights to his son, struggling to rise even as healers tended to him. “We will have another chance.” He grumbled, not sounding any happier than his companion.

Pollux sighed and met Castor’s eyes. “Next time, brother.” He and his fellow ‘Chosen’ turned to leave.

“You are not getting away!” Castor roared. He and his fellow Knights moved to run after them, but a fresh tide of Skalik descended on them even as the Chosen withdrew. Realizing he’d missed his chance, Estinien shot into the air and his Stardiver blasted away the reinforcements, but more simply charged in. The dragoon found himself hard pressed, fighting shoulder to shoulder with Castor as they tried to struggle ‘upstream.’

“Get after them!” The Knight commanded and with a final sweep of Nidhogg to get some breathing room Estinien took to the skies.

Marcus fought on fiercely. As much as he might have liked testing himself against Aethon’s skill, this was no time for indulging himself. The battle raging in this area was rapidly intensifying. The initial forces that had accompanied Aethon had almost all retreated beyond the clearing by now and been replaced by the dozen new fighters he had called in. More were regularly arriving, another quartet of the tempered were charging into the clearing even now. Thankfully, it wasn’t only the enemy receiving reinforcements. Two fresh squads of Wolf-touched had also joined, Thancred among them, and challenged the crimson-skinned foes.

They were proving more than a match for Marcus’ comrades. Alphinaud, Alisaie, and Thancred were able to hold their own, but many of the Wolf-touched had fallen before Giannis had managed to draw the remainder into a shield ring. The textbook defensive formation was holding, but only just. The new attackers were relentless and capable of ignoring wounds that should be bringing them down. Marcus was having to aggressively lay about with his holy magic to keep the ring from being overwhelmed.

With preternatural agility, Aethon slipped through the fireworks to again slash at Marcus. His sword clanged against one of the sheltron Marcus had conjured to defend himself with enough force to crack it. With no time for subtlety, Marcus lashed out with an aether charged strike that Aethon leapt back to avoid rather than try to meet. Before Marcus could press the advantage, a strong overhead chop to Giannis’ shield knocked him from his feet and Marcus had to shoulder check his assailant away while the man regained his footing. He slashed at the tempered, stitching a cut along the man’s sword arm that, though shallow, should have disabled the limb. He turned and hacked at Marcus like he didn’t even notice the wound.

They couldn’t keep fighting like this. This was not a pace he could maintain indefinitely, and despite their fierce attacks these enemies showed no sign of tiring. They were too strong and too resilient to be brought down by pulled punches. If this continued for much longer, they’d lose enough momentum that even starting to fight to kill would not save them.

Marcus had just resigned himself to begin killing his opponents when he heard a roar.

“Blood for Gorrath!”

Yet more enemies had arrived. A pained shout from a familiar voice caught his attention. He whirled about to see Alphinaud down, his somanoutic barrier shattering under the armored fists of a newly arrived Taurhe. Marcus raced to his friend’s side, but he was blocked by a spearman whose lightning-fast thrusts forced Marcus on the defensive.

“Don’t try to cut in, you already have a dance partner.” The spearman mocked. His speartip was a blur of deadly motion. “Two at once, and you still want a third. Awful greedy, aren’t we?”

Marcus fought frantically, knocking back his foe with a slash made powerful by desperation, but his Echo hissed a warning and he had to twist away from Aethon’s sword, nearly losing an ear in the process. The attacks were too fast for him to fend them from both sides and he instinctively dropped back so they couldn’t bracket him. Which only served to position both of them between him and the stricken Alphinaud. He could see Alisaie try to protect her brother, but she was knocked aside with a single surprisingly fast swipe.

He grit his teeth and abandoned fighting defensively. He rushed forward against his foes, knowing as the gauntlets rose that he was already too late.

Blood sprayed into the air.

The Taurhe stared dumbfounded at the lance that had run him through. Estinien had landed with such force he knocked the behemoth of a man over onto his back. Nearly sagging with relief, Marcus lashed out with a spinning slash that forced both Aethon and the spearman to withdraw. He looked back to see the dragoon twisting his spear into his downed foe, who Marcus belatedly recognized as Prince Minos. To his shock, the prince burst into crimson flames, burning blood pouring out of his wounds as he died. Estinien looked up and met Marcus’ shocked eyes.

“They aren't human anymore! End this!”

Marcus turned back to his two opponents. Aethon juked to the side, but the spearman made to attack rather than try to dodge. The golden sword that burst from the ground nearly tore him in two. Amazingly, he continued to attack, trying to heft his spear with his sole remaining arm.

Marcus planted his sword in the ground and aetherial blades rained from the sky. The magical swords slashed through some of the berserk tempered, the explosions they made as they impacted the ground seared those that remained. By the time Marcus’s last blade was loosed, the spearman and a half dozen or so of his crimson-skinned contemporaries were pyres of balefire. The remainder were falling back to rally around their leader.

Somehow, impossibly, Aethon had escaped the barrage unscathed. The man had either insane luck or exceptional speed, likely both. But with both former Azure Dragoons moving to either side of him with weapons drawn, even that probably wouldn’t be enough to save him. The man was no coward, even after seeing the tide turn against him so quickly he merely raised his shield and took up a defensive stance in front of his few remaining soldiers.

A horn sounded through the air. Marcus knew the note well; it was the call of the White Griffin. If there was any doubt, the screech of an actual griffin quelled it as the majestic beast swooped down from the sky. Aethon scowled and whistled a piercing note.

An arrow shot from the trees behind Aethon and unerringly punched into the griffin’s wing. The screech became a pained cry as the creature dropped but it managed to right itself enough to land hard on its feet. Its rider pointed his sword at Aethon.

“Traitor!” Prince Atreus roared. “Face me!” Behind him, squads of soldiers were rushing into the clearing.

Aethon readied his weapons. “Gladly.”

His legs were bracing for a lunge forward when a howl split the air.

It seemed to come from everywhere at once, a piercing call that cut through all other sound. The Wolf-touched surged forward with renewed vigor, swarming the enemy line as if to overwhelm them with sheer force of will. They roared a name. “Lupercal!”

Marcus felt his lips pull back of their own volition into a predator’s smile. The Wolf was close. This battle was over.

The scowl on Aethon’s face showed he knew it too. His sword surged with power and he slashed outward. His aether took flight, forming a vibrant blade that lashed outward and struck down several of the charging Wolf-touched. Marucs caught the strike on his shield and was moving to attack when Aethon glanced behind him. “Do it, now!”

Marcus spotted a Lalafell previously hidden within the trees with a druid’s staff in her arms and a huge amount of magic swirling around her. The Echo whispered an entirely unneeded warning and Marcus ran forward, planted his sword and raised his shield. Wings of light just barely managed to form over his allies when the mother of all airbursters slammed into his shield.

Marcus grit his teeth and did his best not to be blown back by the explosion. His shield held back the worst of it, but the blast of wind still dug a crater and threw no small amount of dirt and dust into the air. Likely, Marcus realized, the true aim of the spell. By the time the air cleared, Aethon and his druid were gone. The ten remaining tempered seemed unconcerned for their commander’s retreat and rejoined the fray with fanatic fury.

“Blood for Gorrath!” A Taurhe with a wickedly hooked axe leapt forward. Marcus lowered his sword to his side and did not move. The Taurhe raised his axe to strike his defenseless opponent, but before the blade could fall a brilliant golden-blue blur flashed.

The Taurhe rose into the air held in massive jaws. Teeth bit down, and he fell in two burning pieces. A paw wreathed in azure flames raked across the ground, incinerating another five tempered. The remaining four turned to face the new threat and quickly fell to Estinien and Marcus’ blades. The last one died in a burst of unnatural flames and it was over.

Marcus panted, fatigue finally making itself felt as his battle high left him. He felt breath like a blast furnace on the back of his neck and turned. He looked up into the face of a god.

The Elarian pantheon had five members. Hydaelyn stood at the summit, with four lesser gods supporting Her. There was Rubicon, Her Builder. Azedias, Her Student. Hythlocrates, Her Scholar. And Lupercal, Her Wolf.

Lupercal was as majestic as all the tales described. She towered over them, a golden furred wolf perhaps thirty fulms tall and radiating aether in the form of blue flames. Long fangs filled a mouth large enough to swallow a man whole, while her eyes were wellsprings of fire that somehow looked as comforting as a campfire and as dangerous as an inferno. Knowing what he did now, Marcus knew her to be a product of men’s imagination and even had a pretty good guess as to exactly who was the inspiration of her myth.

But looking at her now, all he could think of was the time he visited the temple in Keton and prayed before the shrine to this goddess. He’d asked for strength, ferocity, and… and protection for his friends.

He supposed he couldn’t complain about getting two out three.

Atreus had dismounted and was shouting orders to his freshly arrived troops.

“Bring them down, but spare your blades! I want them alive!” His men obeyed, racing into the trees in pursuit of the fleeing tempered. He glanced down at Alphinaud. “You a healer, boy? My griffin could use a sawbones.”

“I am, your highness.” Though still a little shaken up from the hits he took, Alphinaud attended to the prince’s steed. The griffin was cooing softly in pain, blood welling around the arrow in its wing, and squawked as healing magic washed over it.

Finally, Atreus rounded on Marcus, Estinien and their new companion. He glared, Marcus impressed he was capable of it. Lupercal looked down at them, impetuous and divine. Atreus stared up at her without flinching. “You killed them.” He growled. “With your power it should have been easy to capture them so we could cure them.”

Lupercal spoke softly, but Marcus could still feel the words in his bones. “They were rotten from the inside out with the demon’s power. Beyond saving.”

Atreus met her gaze for another long moment before he sighed and removed his helm. Aside from a bit more gray in his hair, he seemed much as Marcus remembered him, the same bushy beard and boisterous vitality. He spat in the direction Aethon fled. “Damn him. Always was quick on his feet, that one. Can we pursue?”

Lupercal sniffed the air. “He is gone.” She intoned in a deep, resonant voice. “Teleported back to his master’s side. I will hunt down his remaining men and end this battle.”

She turned to leave, but paused when she spotted Marcus. She stared at him intently enough to give him goosebumps. “You there.”

“Yes, Great Wolf?” Marcus tried to remember what was the properly polite address.

“You are my Lady’s champion?” Lupercal’s head cocked slightly in question.

“I am.” Lupercal stalked over to him with steps that faintly shook the ground. She leaned down and stared into his eyes. Seeking what, he didn’t know, but he met the look with a level gaze of his own. He felt the weight of her scrutiny press down upon him. The moment stretched out long enough that he began to look for something to say when she smiled, an appropriately wolfish grin.

“A sheathed blade of light.” Whatever she saw, she liked it. “I will eliminate all that remains of the Demon’s forces, especially his new abominations.”

A flex of powerful legs and she was gone, soaring away in a bounding leap.

Atreus was supervising the transportation of the captured tempered when Marcus glanced at Estinien.

“They called themselves chosen by Gorrath.” The dragoon answered the unsaid question. “And I doubt they were tempered; they were something else.”

Marcus watched the last balefire pyre gut out and leave not even ashes behind. This was not just something else, this was something decidedly more sinister than mere tempering. He glanced back the direction Aethon had fled, hearing his howl of anguish and rage echo through the tunnel again.

He banished it with a shake of his head and went to aid his friends.

Chapter Text

There was always much to do in the wake of a battle. The clearing outside the walls of Clenon hummed with activity, armored men and women rushing about in vaguely ordered bedlam. Casualties needed treatment, prisoners needed processing, and the tempered needed both. Alisaie was still trying to come to terms with how few of them there were.

She was not naïve. She knew that taking an entire army prisoner was not feasible, let alone practical, when it was fighting against them to the death. Alisaie’s temple still throbbed from when that Hyuran woman managed to club her in the head with the haft of a spear because she passed up a chance at a killing strike. The Elarians also had understandably no desire to risk their lives trying to take their enemies alive when even if they were cured of tempering they would simply continue trying to attack. But the sheer relish they showed when fighting the Skalik took her aback.

“We should follow Alphinaud over to the medical tents. I’m sure they could use the help.” She said to Marcus, who nodded and followed after her towards the bustling pavilion erected in the shadow of the walls.

The brutality he had shown earlier still shocked her. She had always known he was capable of great violence, but to see him cut down dozens who had no chance of killing him, while clearly enjoying himself, was an unpleasant reminder. She had known of his hatred for the Skalik from how he spoke of them, but had not guessed how deeply that anger went. She remembered the words of the Princeps, about Gorrath feeding on their hatred and bloodlust as they fought. If most Elarians shared Marcus’ fury, Gorrath would be eating well.

“Boy!” A deep, bellicose voice called out. Prince Atreus was stalking towards them, a scowl on his face. “Let me see you.”

Marcus dutifully waited while the man studied his face. “So it is you. The deserter.”

The aggressive sound of the last word got Alisaie sizing him up in anticipation of violence. A thick and heavyset man, Atreus resembled a bear clad in armor. His bushy brown beard and squat nose that looked like it had been broken and healed incorrectly only enhanced the effect and made him seem more like a grizzled sailor than a royal.

“Can you give me one reason why I should not clap you in irons for your treason?” Atreus challenged, stepping forward menacingly. Alisaie opened her mouth to reply, but Marcus preempted her by stepping forward himself. Nearly chest to chest with Atreus, he wordlessly patted the hilt of his sword. Atreus held his scowl for another few seconds, before breaking into a grin. Chuckling with deep, full-throated mirth, he clapped Marcus on the shoulder.

“Well said, boy. It is good to have you back, and even better to see you haven’t gone soft in your time abroad. To hear my men tell it, you kept our lines from buckling all on their own.”

“Good to see Calydon soldiers still gossip like miners and exaggerate like merchants.” Marcus replied. Atreus blinked in surprise, then laughed.

“Ha! Rumors aside, I saw you face down Aethon. That’s all the proof I need you’re as strong as ever.”

“Excuse me, but do you two know each other?” Alisaie interjected. Atreus turned to her, his grin shrinking a little at the sight of her.

“We met a few times during the 89^th. I requested his squad for a couple of missions. And every one a success. Hah, if only all six were still with us, Gorrath would be dead by now.” Atreus said, missing the flash of emotion across Marcus’ face. “Him and the traitor Aethon. Both are long overdue for a meeting with the sharp end of a blade.”

“Aethon is one of Gorrath’s corrupted. That makes him the Demon’s victim, not his ally.” Alisaie’s objection was arid. Atreus’ eyes narrowed slightly at her.

“Were he anyone else, I’d agree. But not the man who summoned the bastard in the first place.” Atreus almost growled the words. “That’s a crime that can only be forgiven with death. It’s just a pity that sentence is so hard to deliver.”

“He’s a hell of a swordsman. Nearly did me in a couple times there.” Marcus said. Alisaie would never come to understand how he could sound so approving at the thought. Atreus nodded.

“Aye, the man was the finest blade in Calydon, possibly even all of Elarion. I even had him as the first of my new Knights after the war ended, but now all that skill has been turned against us.”

“You are willing to forgive my friend of his ‘treason’ in deserting, why does Aethon not deserve a second chance?” Alisaie asked. Maybe it was driven by her disapproval of their ruthlessness on the battlefield, but she didn’t care for the Elarians habit of wishing death on anyone against them, especially someone whose only crime was likely done in a place of despair. The sound of Ga Bu’s cries as he summoned Titan echoed in her ears as Atreus looked disapprovingly down at her.

“He ‘deserted’ an awards ceremony, and those are so pompous and stuffy I don’t blame him. And even if not, the Princeps has explained he was following the Lady’s will to save us all from a greater evil. Aethon’s betrayal was unleashing a greater evil on us. They are hardly the same.” He folded his arms across his barrel of a chest. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Alisaie Leveilleur.” Marcus said, shifting just slightly to stand more between Atreus and her. “The inventor of the cure for corruption.”

“Aye?” Atreus looked back to her with new and somewhat begrudging respect. “Then we owe you one. To be able to cleanse the corrupted, both theirs and ours, that’s a true gift. You have my thanks.”

He actually bowed to her, even if it was a shallow one. “You’re welcome.” Alisaie answered, for lack of a better thing to say. “I hope the cure is put to good use on all of Gorrath’s victims. I will be happy to help administer it.”

Atreus either didn’t notice her emphasis or he was ignoring it. “That does make me wonder, why were you on the battlefield? Such purifying magicks, to be able to cleanse our kinsman’s souls, is worth more than a small army of blades. You should have stayed away from the fighting, to apply your spells in safety.”

“I am perfectly capable of both fighting and healing.” Alisaie said.

“And are only needed to do one.” Atreus retorted archly. “Calydon fights its own battles. Bad enough we’ve needed to ask the other princedoms for aid, to have to turn to foreigners? Children, at that?”

“Her appearance is misleading.” Marcus said. “Alisaie is an adult Elezen and has proven herself on the battlefield countless times.”

Atreus was not mollified, continuing in a low growl. “If it weren’t for the Princeps asking it, I would have your group confined to the castle and concentrating solely on healing my men. To have Eorzeans fighting on the field of battle in their place? He shames all of Calydon by asking that.”

“You were just saying how my magicks were a great boon, now you act like our aid is a disgrace?” Alisaie didn’t even try to keep the edge out of her voice. She had little patience for arrogant hypocrites. Atreus shook his head.

“Don’t mistake me. Your healing is appreciated, your sword is not. Calydon may not have much of magic, but we are strong fighters. We have held the north for centuries and we do not need outsiders to protect us. Am I wrong?” He looked to Marcus for support.

Marcus did not provide it. “If our pride costs us even a single life, it’s not worth keeping.”

Atreus blinked at him in surprise before his expression hardened. “And if swallowing our pride costs the lives of others? Can your honor bear that weight?”

“There’s no dishonor in needing help.” Marcus answered evenly. “And Elarion doesn’t have a monopoly on self-sacrifice.”

Atreus glowered. “When did you learn how to talk back?”

The conversation was interrupted by a Knight stepping up to the Atreus and saying something quietly in his ear. While she waited for the interruption to pass, Alisaie again noted the similarities between Marcus’ armor and those of the Knights. The style and detailing resembled each other only enough that it could be coincidental, but the griffins embroidered on Marcus’s cloak were a near match for Calydon’s emblem.

Alisaie knew the origin of that armor. When preparing to fight for the sake of all worlds, Marcus had wanted to do so as a Knight.

Atreus dismissed the Knight with a nod and a grunt. “Duty calls, I am afraid.”

“I’m sure.” Alisaie said shortly. Atreus’ eyes narrowed and Marcus hastily spoke between them.

“We have won a victory today and I for one don’t intend to let a trivial argument spoil that.”

Atreus gave him an odd look. “You have changed.” He took a deep breath and let it out explosively. “But you are not wrong. My apologies, Alisaie, if it sounded like I was doubting your courage or honor.”

Alisaie tried to marshal her temper and held down a more caustic reply. More bickering would not help her and certainly wouldn’t help those poor souls she should have already been helping cure of their tempering. “Apology accepted.”

Atreus nodded, then followed his Knight away. Not sparing him another glance, Alisaie headed toward the pavilion that already sounded with the familiar oinks of porxies.

Several hours later, Alphinaud found her sitting with her most recent patient. She watched the steady rise and fall of the young woman’s chest, feeling the kind of satisfying exhaustion she felt after exerting herself helping others.

“I don’t know about you, but I think we’ve earned ourselves a hot meal and some rest.”

Alisaie stood and stretched, feeling her muscles pop. “Only if you are buying.”

“In that case, no thank you.” Her brother answered. “I’ve seen how much you can eat.”

She answered that with a punch to the arm and ignored his exaggerated wincing as she made her way between the cots filled with wounded soldiers. It was already twilight outside, the sun drooping below the mountains that surrounded them. A passing soldier gave them directions and they set off through the camp. Clenon being too small to support the army sent to fight Gorrath, most of the troops were encamped outside the walls near the city’s northern gate. The Leveilleur twins walked past the gate to find a knot of men surrounding a fully laden supply wagon.

“Hi guys.” Marcus said lightly, with none of the strain one might expect from a man currently lifting what was easily at least a tonze of weight. He had the wagon braced in his arms, keeping it off the ground while porters in rough, workman’s outfits stripped off a broken wheel and replaced it with another one. “What’s up?”

“We thought it a good time for a repast.” Alphinaud supplied. “Are you interested?”

“Maybe later.” At a signal from one porter, Marcus lowered the wagon gently onto its new wheels. He turned to his fellow workers. “What’s next?”

The others groaned. A Lalafell glanced at Alisaie with a pleading expression. “Please get him out of here.”

“Is there any trouble?”

“We’ve been telling him for hours, he’s the Princeps’ champion and the Lady’s own Knight, he should not be doing menial labor with us.”

“And I’ve been telling you, if something needs doing I might as well do it.” Marcus folded his arms, annoyed.

Alisaie sighed. This was sadly typical behavior from the Warrior of Light. Slayer of gods and Eorzea’s errand boy. She grabbed him by the hand and tugged, pulling him after her as she walked away.

“Hey! Alisaie!”

She spoke over his protests. “Right now, what needs doing is we need someone to show us where the food is and you need to get something to eat. So come on already.” If they left him to his own devices, he’d happily work through the night, or at least until he collapsed from exhaustion. Marcus was notoriously resistant to taking needed rests.

Resigned, Marcus fell into step between her and her brother, adjusting his pace to match their shorter legs. He spared a glance back the way they came. “You’d think they’d be more grateful.”

“Some people are unaccustomed to your holistic approach to heroism.” Alphinaud supplied diplomatically. Marcus shrugged and led the way through the labyrinth of tents. Alisaie watched him carefully. Something was troubling him, she could tell. But what, she wasn’t sure.

Guided by Marcus’s experience with Elarion army logistics, they shortly arrived at a crowded mess hall. They found Urianger in the line waiting outside who greeted them with a wave. The Scions made small talk as they waited, idle conversation about what they had done after the battle. When the line ahead of them cleared, they received plates of food, but with all the seats occupied they had to move on. Marcus led the way past several campfires surrounded by soldiers, looking for something in particular. Eventually, he found it and the quartet stopped by a fire loosely ringed with men and women bearing the griffin emblem of Calydon. A face Alisaie recognized turned and beamed at the sight of them.

“Think you want to be over there.” One woman said, jerking her head back the way they had come. Cailia started to say something before Marcus responded.

“Have a heart. I haven’t had any Brangle in years.” Marcus answered. Several of the soldiers eyed the group with renewed interest.

“Oho, a man with fine taste.” The woman said, her scowl vanishing. “Make some room, eh?”

The group complied, shifting around on their benches so there was space for the four Scions. Marcus sat next to Cailia, then Urianger, Alphinaud and finally Alisaie herself. Alisaie contemplated her meal of unappetizing looking stew with a smattering of vegetables, a return of the airship’s unappealing fare. But after fighting half the day and healing the other half, she was far too hungry to worry about taste and began to dig in. Marcus was ignoring his meal in favor of introducing Cailia to Urianger, who greeted her in his usual flowery fashion. Cailia looked a bit off-balance, a normal reaction to one’s first exposure to Urianger’s manner of speaking, Alisaie knew.

One soldier poured a clear liquid into cups of rough earthenware and passed them along the circle until each Scion had been given one. Marcus drank from his immediately and made a noise of approval. Alisaie’s nose wrinkled from the smell of the drink that she assumed was the Brangle that he mentioned. It smelled rather strongly of ceruleum mixed with soap. Alphinaud and Urianger had similar looks of veiled disgust at the beverage. The older man bravely took a deep sniff and even more bravely managed not to retch from it.

“Well? Drink up.” The man sitting next to Alisaie said. “This is our finest Brangle, the good stuff.”

She became aware that the conversation around the ring had died down and most of the Elarians were trying not to look like they were paying attention to the Scions. Even Marcus was watching the other three with a gleam of interest in his eye.

Alisaie stuck out a hand to stop Alphinaud from taking a tentative sip. “I don’t think we’re stupid enough to drink this.” She said, meeting the soldier’s gaze. The other conversations stopped and the Elarians were staring at her. The silence stretched for several seconds until laughter broke the tension.

“Sorry boys.” Marcus said, chuckling. “These ones are a little too smart for us.”

The other Elarians joined in the laughter, the tension dissipating. The soldier next to her held out a hand for her cup and replaced it with another one full of wine. “Well played. Been a while since someone caught us out.”

“So, a game of ‘trick the foreigners into drinking the gross liquid’ was it?” She asked, sipping on her wine which was quite good, if a little bitter. To her surprise, the soldier knocked back her Brangle with no hesitation.

“Not quite. We like Brangle, but it’s, ah, an acquired taste. And a lot of fun to watch people drink for the first time. Cetus of Keton.” He said, sticking out his hand.

“Alisaie Leveilleur.” She took the hand and gave it a firm shake.

“I’m guessing you’re the one Verius was talking about.” Cetus jerked his head at a man across the way, who was in the midst of saying something to Marcus. “There can’t be that many ‘little red swordmaidens’ around.”

Alisaie shot an unamused glare at Verius, who remained blissfully unaware of her ire. Cetus chuckled at her expression. “He was singing your praises, mind. Said your blade ‘shone like a jewel of the battlefield.’”

“Well, at least he can appreciate talent.” She said, returning to her meal. Cetus started to question her about Eorzea and she answered in between bites, mixing in her own questions about him and Elarion as they talked.

Cetus was a miner’s son and a miner himself by trade, working the mythril mines of Keton. He had dreams of becoming a scribe, however, and had already applied himself to learning his letters. Alisaie felt a surge of entirely unbecoming superiority when he spoke proudly of his ability to read and had to remind herself most people do not grow up in the lap of luxury in the most educated nation on the face of the star. Cetus was very interested in the notion of her familiars and wondered if those were something druids could create before admitting he knew precious little of druidic magic. He had a girl in the city, who he was intensely grateful had escaped the “slaughter” at Keton. And, of course, he had enlisted in the Calydon army because it was his duty as a son of Elarion to kill as many Skalik as was physically possible.

Alisaie found herself with mixed feelings when it came to Elarians. They seemed like agreeable enough people. They were standoffish when it came to outsiders, true, but that came from a place of wounded pride rather than genuine disdain. They prided themselves on their hardiness, their ability to survive whatever came their way, and most carried themselves with the easy confidence she had always found inspiring in Marcus. But they were also warlike to the point of thinking nothing of slaughtering their enemies mercilessly and lived down to the Sharlayan stereotype of the ‘violent foreign savages.’

She understood that the frequency and consistency of the wars against the Skalik meant that on some levels Elarion had always been at war, going back centuries. Naturally, that would predispose a people to more martial mindsets. But she was uncomfortably reminded of her original objections to the Eorzeans when she had first arrived there following her grandfather’s footsteps. Still, she had been proven wrong about them and was willing to wait to be proven wrong about the Elarians.

After her plate was cleared and she was nursing her second cup of wine, someone spoken across the circle, cutting through the conversations.

“Hey, are you the Princeps’ champion?” A Lalafell with a face flushed from drink asked Marcus, who nodded. “I knew it. You’re the bloody hero who’s gonna kill Gorrath and save us all, hey?”

“That’s the plan.” Marcus replied.

“S’good, that’s all.” The Lalafell murmured. “That you’re from here. Last thing we need is one’a those Colchis bastards looking down his nose at us.”

“Is it true you fought by the Lady’s side?” One soldier asked.

“Is it true that the Lady is gone?” Another asked. The flood gates opened, and all the troops were now asking questions, increasingly loud as they talked over each other.

“Alright, enough!” The woman from before shouted, and the tide of questions stopped. “The man’s not here to get badgered into confirming or denying every rumor we’ve heard.”

“Sorry Sarge.” Several voices said.

“Good.” She nodded before looking to Marcus. “Now for my question.” A chorus of boos and laughter greeted the words.

“Shoot.” Marcus invited her.

“Is it true that Blooddrinker is cursed and can drain all your blood even if it only scratches you? Even if the wound gets healed in the meantime?”

Marcus shrugged. “I’ve never fought Gorrath before, so I can’t say. I’ve seen Demons do crazier things, so it’s possible. Maybe it could be blocked by a magic barrier, if it came to that. It doesn’t really matter though.”

“I kinda feel like it matters.” One soldier raised a hand.

“Are you planning on letting Gorrath hit you?” Marcus asked. There was something odd about his voice. It took Alisaie a minute to place it. His intonation was off, speaking with longer vowels and harder consonants than normal. It was the same way the soldiers were talking. He was imitating the Calydon accent, or more likely his own accent was resurfacing after being surrounded by others like it. “If not, then why worry about it? You’ll probably die if he hits you anyway.”

“He’s got you there, Caro. Though knowing you, I’m not sure you wouldn’t let Gorrath have a swing at ya.” The soldiers laughed at Sarge’s words.

Marcus rose and walked over to his fellow Scions. “Does anyone know where Y’shtola might be?”

Alphinaud nodded. “She was called up to the Castle just before we met up with you.”

“Thanks.” Marcus left them, receding into the gathering darkness.

Y’shtola followed the liveried footman through the halls of Clenon Castle. Said halls were, for a royal palace, shockingly unadorned. Not even in the sense that the décor had a severe aesthetic, but that there was precious little in the way of décor at all. Granted, this did match what she had seen of the city outside. Calydon was a hard place, even in its halls of power.

The servant she was following bore the griffin of Calydon on his breast, yet carried a summons from the Princeps. The man had said that her presence to answer some questions was only requested, but she knew the weight a ‘request’ from the Princeps had here. Tired after a day of fighting and healing, a small part of her had wanted to refuse just to see what the messenger would do. Mayhap he would inform the Princeps he would have to call on her rather than the reverse. More likely, he would get deeply offended at her disrespect while remaining blind to his own.

As they walked, she considered exactly why the Princeps had sent word for her to join him. His display with Alphinaud in the Citadel had shown he had no need to actually ask questions or listen to the answers, when he could simply pull the knowledge out of the future. From how she’d seen him use his power already, proximity in neither time nor distance would impede him from doing the same with his questions to her. He did not seem the sort to want to avoid using his abilities either, if anything he almost seemed to flaunt them before others.

It was not until she was shown into the small sitting room where the Princeps awaited her that she considered the possibility that he physically could not use his Sight.

The Princeps sat in a highbacked chair opposite a low table, with a trio of similar chairs around it. The room was richly appointed, at least relatively speaking, with thick carpet on the floor and colorful tapestries lining the walls. Y’shtola got the distinct impression this was the lap of luxury in Calydon. The man she was here to meet was sitting up and alert, impassively watching her cross the room to stand before him. Telarchus hovered protectively over his shoulder. Every ilm the dutiful, fretting servant. But as she drew closer Y’shtola could see the way his eyes roved over her, especially lingering on her hands, and the earth-aspected aether of more than one blade tucked inside his robes.

So, more than a mere manservant then.

As for the Princeps himself, physically he appeared in perfect health beyond the lines in his face having grown minutely deeper since she last saw him.

But Y’shtola had more refined senses not bound to physicality. Seen through the aether, his was positively threadbare. He looked as though not only had he taken part in the battle today but that he’d fought fiercer than any two men had during it. He was in no state to perform complex magicks. She would not be surprised to learn he could barely stand.

That knowing smile of his slid onto his face like a mask at the sight of them. “You may leave us.”

The footman bowed, turned, and left. The Princeps eyed Y’shtola, standing at the edge of the ring of chairs. “Please, be seated.”

“No thank you, I will stand.” Y’shtola said. The smile dimmed a hair at her tone. He leaned back slightly.

“And how did you find your first experience with war in Elarion?”

“Bloody.” She was no stranger to armed conflict, but even on the periphery she could tell today’s battle would not be inaccurately labeled as a massacre.

“As it should be.” Her disapproval must have shown in her expression, as the Princeps continued. “The bloodier the fight, the quicker it is over.”

“And so you trade lives for the sake of expedience? Many who fell in the fighting today could have been saved.” Y’shtola said in a tone that was just shy of accusing. Telarchus was glaring at her now, but his master’s slight smile remained unchanged.

“An unfortunate reality of battle. I have no doubt the fighting men of Elarion did their best to take their opponents alive, but battle is by nature chaotic and sadly not all of our countrymen could be saved.”

There was the slightest emphasis on the word ‘countrymen.’ Enough that Y’shtola knew the Princeps realized what she was getting at and neither agreed nor was about to argue the point. He turned his head to Telarchus standing behind the chair and eyeing Y’shtola darkly. “Please go down to the kitchens and bring me some refreshments in an hour’s time.”

“As you say, my Princeps.” After a moment of hesitation as he looked at Y’shtola, Telarchus followed the departed footman out and closed the door behind him.

“Mmh.” The Princeps hummed, a hint of tiredness peeking through. “With any luck, he’ll actually get himself something to eat while he waits.”

“An odd sentiment, to hear a man who knows the path of destiny rely on luck.” Y’shtola observed.

“Ha. There is no such thing as destiny.” The Princeps leaned to the side, supporting his head on a hand propped up on the chair’s arm in a motion that looked natural. “The future is an endless skein of possibility and probability. Nothing is set in stone, events are shaped every instant by every act done by everyone.” He saw her expression. “What is it?”

“Nothing of significance.” She told him truthfully. “I was reminded of Marcus saying something similar to me about destiny recently.”

The Princeps closed his eyes for a moment. The corners of his mouth quirked. “Well, he was right. For once.” 

“If you do not mind me asking, how does your Sight function?” Y’shtola asked, her curiosity warring with both decorum and her distaste for his earlier words. She half expected him to refuse to answer, but instead he straightened up in his seat.

“It is… difficult to explain. You don’t have the sense to truly understand it.”

“You think I am lacking in sense?” She asked archly.

He tiredly ran a hand over his face and she regretted goading him. He was masking it well, but he was in no state for such verbal sport.

“That came out wrong.” The Princeps said. “What I meant was even though we call it the ‘Sight’ it is not analogous to what we can actually see with our eyes. It is an entirely different sensation, and one that I couldn’t even imagine before I awoke the Sight myself. It is like… living that future, not just sight but sound and smell and touch too. Not like I’m actually there, but I can still somewhat feel it and…” He sighed. “I simply don’t have the words to explain it better. It would be like trying to describe colors to the blind.”

Y’shtola decided to let that one go. “I take your meaning, but surely you can describe the functional mechanics, even if it requires heavy use of metaphor.”

 The Princeps thought for a moment, then nodded. “In simple terms, I perceive all of existence within my line of sight, if you will. Not just everywhere, but every when too. When I See this room, I can see every moment that has ever or will ever take place in it.”

“If the future is not set, as you said, how can you see it?”

“I don’t see the future, I see every future. Every possible action and their outcomes, then every possible action in response to those outcomes, and so on.”

Y’shtola’s quickly grasped the exponential growth he was alluding to. “To be able to witness all potentialities… That is the realm of omniscience.”

The Princeps snorted. “Hardly. While my gift helps me to process information, I can’t even begin to comprehend the slightest fraction of everything I can perceive. It’s like… reading a street sign in the distance. There may be several signs within your field of vision, but you can only read one at a time. To correct my previous statement, it would be more apt to say I could see any future, but only do see the ones I look for. And not all futures are equally apparent. Distance from me in both space and time is a factor, as is probability.”

“Which is why you asked Alphinaud to speak of our knowledge of Primals, to make that future more probable and thus easier to see.” Y’shtola hazarded. It did not sound like any Echo manifestation she knew of, but the lore on that particular power had always been incomplete. There were apocryphal tales of Mercydian war sages who could perform similar feats for individual battles, but guessing at what if any connection there would be fruitless speculation. “If you ever desire a change in career, you can come to Sharlayan. There are academics there that would happily kill for access to your gift.”

“And here I thought we were the violent people.” He joked with a rueful smile. “Princeps is not a position you can resign from, I’m afraid. It is my privilege to use my gift in service to my people. For the rest of my days.”

“Power begets obligation.” Y’shtola said. Master Louisoux had taught her that, in as dramatic a fashion as possible. And Marcus reinforced the notion almost every day of his life. The Princeps nodded, grateful for her understanding.

“Just so.”

Still, his life of service seemed a rather bleak one from where she was standing. “If using the Sight taxes you so drastically, I can understand a desire to employ it for less frivolous matters than seeing the outcome of an experiment before undertaking it.”

The Princeps made no outward reaction to the revelation she could see through his front of nonchalance, but his aether spasmed in a manner that she suspected signaled either surprise or dismay. Likely both. He sighed. “It’s normally not this bad, at least.” He shifted his shoulders and sat up straighter in an attempt to hide his weariness. “The Sight is always an exertion, but Gorrath’s shadow makes what used to be a swim through clear water into a slog through mud.”

“This shadow, it obscures Gorrath’s actions from you? Preventing you from seeing the potential futures that involve him?”

“Close. Everything is interconnected, if he only hid himself I could still ‘see’ him by finding the Gorrath shaped holes in the future. Instead, he prevents me from seeing any possibilities related to him and his minions. That is why I can still predict his attacks; when your future become shrouded, I know you will be in contact with one of them.”

“And only that.” Y’shtola began to absently knock on her chin as she thought. “If the Sight is driven by witnessing actions and their resulting outcomes, then would not coming into contact with such ‘shrouded’ beings obscure all possible futures for a person? As their every action following that encounter will be influenced, no matter how tangentially, by the encounter?”

The Princeps raised an eyebrow slightly at her, impressed. “Exactly right. Even when one does not encounter Gorrath or his servants directly, I cannot foresee events that result from his actions without piercing the veil cast around them. And that is a taxing effort at the best of times. I do what I can, of course, but having to fight tooth and nail to perceive the details, I still miss things like the ambush today.”

He closed his eyes. “Yet another thing I failed to see.”

A long moment of silence stretched between them. Y’shtola wasn’t sure what to say to him. A quiet guilt radiated off him, the same sorrow she witnessed far too many times on Minfilia’s face when Scion missions ended in dead comrades no matter what victory was achieved. Y’shtola was not callous enough to dismiss it, knowledgeable enough about him to speak on it in an informed manner, or foolish enough to try to address it with trite platitudes. But that left her standing there awkwardly while he composed himself.

The Princeps dismissed his bleak thoughts with a small shake of his head and looked back to her. “My apologies. I called you to me, yet I remain seated while you stand. If you prefer not to sit, then as your host I should oblige that wish.”

“That is unnecessary.” Y’shtola quickly reassured him. Even if she was the sort to care about such social niceties, and she was not, the obvious effort it took for him to stand would have been reason enough to let him stay seated. Nevertheless, he forced himself to his feet and stepped around his chair so he was standing outside the ring of furniture just as she was.

 “It isn’t.” He told her, leaning against the back of his chair while trying not to show how he was supporting himself by doing so. “I’ll not have it said my manners were lacking.”

Some steel bled into his voice, enough that Y’shtola understood trying to argue or insist they both be seated would be futile. His standing was less about her and more about proving that he could.

“Anyway, on to business.” The Princeps cocked his head at her. “I understand you are an expert in more esoteric matters?”

“That would depend on the subject in question.” Y’shtola replied evenly. She liked to think she possessed a wide breadth of knowledge, but an ‘esoteric matter’ in a completely foreign land was probably beyond her experience.

“Well, according to our mutual friend in the Warrior of Light, ‘if she doesn’t know it, no one does’ so I am going to try my luck regardless.” The Princeps said with a wry smile. “Have you heard about the so called ‘Chosen’ that we faced today?”

“I have heard rumors only. They ranged from the unlikely, to the downright outlandish.”

“Outlandish, but true.” The Princeps nodded and swayed on his feet ever so slightly. Y’shtola was tempted to insist he sit down before he collapsed on the spot, but he continued before she had the chance. “There were enough reports of men seeing the dead walk again as Gorrath’s servants that I am forced to believe it. What’s more, they were noticeably stronger and fiercer than when they were in life.”

“And when slain they burst into flames.” Y’shtola finished. She had not encountered any on the battlefield herself, but the medical tents had been full of talk about these seemingly undead warriors.

“Not just slain. Even the ones we managed to capture immolated in their bonds once the battle ended.” The Princeps supplied. “Have you encountered or heard of anything like these Chosen in your studies of Primals? Perhaps something similar, even?”

Y’shtola began to knock on her chin as she thought. She knew of tempered whose aether had been so comprehensively overridden by their Primal that they mutated into new forms that were often stronger, but that required a lengthy exposure to the Primal's influence to make their body’s aether too polluted to retain its shape. She had already inquired as to the timing of events, and Gorrath had not been summoned long enough for this to happen naturally. He would have had to force such transformations on his followers. And even if that was the case, it would not explain how these men had returned from death.

“I am not familiar with anything similar to the Chosen, and would only be speculating.” She warned. The Princeps cocked his head in agreement.

“I’ll take a theory if you have one.”

Y’shtola took a moment to get her thoughts in order. “If the men who were killed previously have returned now, it stands to reason their souls were prevented from moving on to the Aetherial Sea after their first death. Thus, Gorrath did something to anchor their souls to the material plane. Mayhap the foes faced today had already shed their bodies before as part of this anchoring, and instead of living men were souls manifested into corporeal forms.”

“Physical spirits?” The Princeps said dubiously. “Is that even possible?”

As someone who had spent several years as exactly that, Y’shtola held back the laugh that she knew would only confuse him. “I have witnessed such things before. I do not know Gorrath’s capabilities, but this magic is certainly possible.”

The Princeps’s knowing smile turned down into a not-so-knowing frown. “Could these spirits be manifested repeatedly? Will we have to contend with the same Chosen we fought today again?”

“If Gorrath has manifested them in physical forms before, I can only assume he could do so again.”

“Great. So not only does he have his army of corrupted Skalik and our own troops, he also has a smaller army of immortal champions. Or perhaps not.” He sighed. “I hope you take no offense that I dearly hope you are wrong.” 

“It is far from a pleasant prospect, so I can hardly blame you.” Y’shtola acknowledged.

The Princeps closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His shoulders drooped like a weight had been laid across them. “D’you know some people enjoy uncertainty? Experiencing it for myself, I can’t say I care for it.”

Y’shtola regarded him for a moment. Between the gravitas he carried himself with and his haggard appearance, it was easy to forget he was a young man, almost certainly several years younger than Y’shtola herself. Nothing quite made her feel her age like younger people acting old.

She sympathized with the weight on his shoulders. She truly did. They had ‘disbanded’ the Scions precisely to shed such burdens of responsibility for a time, and she understood that his position did not allow even for breaks like that. But she would be remiss if she allowed feelings of sympathy to sway her.

“Though prophecy is denied us, deduction is not.” She began to knock on her chin as she thought. “These Chosen could explain Gorrath’s uncharacteristic reluctance to take the field. Mayhap his time and energies are fully devoted to the creation of these aberrations, and maintaining their presence precludes him from joining the fray himself?”

“No.” The word was contemplative, not challenging. The Princeps was deep in thought. “Perhaps for a time, long enough to create the Chosen, but not indefinitely. Permanently recusing himself from the battlefield goes against everything we know about Gorrath.”

“You spoke highly of Aethon’s capabilities as a strategist.” Y’shtola reminded him. Her arms folded. “Primals are shaped by their summoners. They are not real creatures with set personalities.”

That sly, almost smug expression on the Princeps’ face that said he knew more than her was starting to annoy her. In a flash of self-awareness, she wondered if other people felt that way about talking to her. “Maybe. In Elarion we’ve long known that summoned beings aren’t truly summoned at all, but created from the minds of the summoners. But we have long maintained the belief that the gods we invoke are incarnations of real beings, much like how Louisoux summoned Primal versions of your Twelve. Hence the name ‘Avatars.’

“As for Gorrath, according to legend he was a creature of this world once. But our Lady bested him in battle and threw him into the depths of the Aetherial Sea.” The Princeps shrugged in the face of her dubious expression and continued. “Of course, legends are hardly reliable sources of information. But they are often built on a bedrock of truth. Whether that truth is that there was once a living God of Blood and Battle who Hydaelyn imprisoned forever in the Lifestream, or the truth is nothing more than that She fought some enemy in the far distant past and all the rest is fiction is part of that wonderful uncertainty I mentioned.”

Y’shtola highly doubted there was any truth at all to the story, but the Princeps alluded to something more interesting. “An uncertainty that I should think would be easy to disprove. I gather that Gorrath’s shadow over your Sight applies retroactively, else you could see him simply by looking one second into the past. But in times when he did not exist, surely the Sight could have been used to verify those legends, unless his shadow persists between summonings?”

The Princeps shook his head. “For a mercy, no. The shadow is something Gorrath actively creates. In truth, many of his summonings have not bothered with the exertion. There was little need to hide plans of ‘march forward and kill all in your path.’ No, the truth is simpler. I cannot disprove the legend because I cannot see that far back.”

Y’shtola raised an eyebrow. “And here I was under the impression you could see all that had ever been.” The seeming admission that the basis of his veiled, informal authority was a deception only made her suspect that was itself the deception.

The Princeps’ sheepish smile did not reach his eyes. “The clash occurred before the world began. Even my Sight cannot see past that.”

He looked away from her for a moment. “To return to the topic at hand, whether there is a real Gorrath or not is irrelevant. The summoned incarnation is indeed modeled after its creator. And Aethon was a cunning warrior, but also a vicious one.” The corners of the Princeps’ mouth twitched in suppressed good humor. “He lived for being in the thickest fighting. He would never devise a plan that permanently removed himself from the battlefield. And neither would his summon.”

Y’shtola noted the use of the past tense. It rankled. “May I ask a question?”

The Princeps rubbed the back of his neck. “Shoot.”

“You speak of Aethon as though you know him personally. Were you well acquainted with him?” She suspected she already knew the answer to that. If Aethon wasn’t the Princeps’ friend, the oracle was at least fond of him. Was he, the Traitor as Y’shtola heard him referred to with varying amounts of vehemence, going to be another sacrifice for expedience?

“I turned to him on occasion, to eliminate various problems. A good man to have around when you need something dead as fast as possible. He was much like the Warrior of Light, really. Strong. Dependable. Inspiring.” The Princeps broke eye contact to look past her. “A useful instrument.”

Is that all Marcus is to him, Y’shtola wondered. An instrument? Is that what we all are?

The Princeps’ gaze returned to her. Perhaps he sensed her defiance of his phrasing. “Ah, I almost forgot. As compensation for your knowledge, I can offer some knowledge of my own. You are curious about our Knights, aren’t you?”

Y’shtola blinked, thrown by the sudden change in topic. Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”

The Princeps just gave her that sly, slight smile of his. Y’shtola sighed to herself. That was a foolish question. And she couldn’t deny she was more than merely curious.

“What is the process for bestowing Hydaelyn’s blessing onto would-be Knights?” Marcus had reassured her that Elarion did not practice the Garleans’ grisly method for granting the Echo to others, but given he did not truly know she had her suspicions that might only be wishful thinking on his part.

The Princeps’ head turned slightly at the question. “So long as you agree not to tell anyone, I suppose I can give you a board overview. Various rituals are performed to imbue what we call a Reliquary with the required power, which is then transferred into the man in question after he completes the trials of Knighthood.”

“And what are these rituals?”

“Those particulars must needs remain secret. What I can tell you is our augurs, experts in divining the depths of the Aetherial Sea, draw on a particular type of energy from the Lifestream. It is a painstaking process, as this energy can only be harvested with great care, and little more than a drop at a time. My part in the process is looking forward to see if our candidate is going to misuse the powers we are granting him.”

His reluctance to go into detail was unsurprising, but Y’shtola could fill in some of the blanks herself. To draw on the Lifestream meant they were obtaining this ‘particular energy’ from souls. Given that imbued one with the Echo, those souls were undoubtedly those of the sundered Ancients, and the gathering of energy from a multitude could in theory imbue a man with the power of the Echo. It was similar to the Garlean method in that regard, but taking small pieces off of unborn souls was at least better than murdering scores of people, even if it still didn’t quite sit right with her. “If this ritual does not require Hydaelyn’s involvement, why do you refer to it as her blessing?”

“Because She showed us how to perform the ritual. And because it imitates the effects of when She does personally bestow Her blessing on someone.” The Princeps explained. “Between you and me, many of those that are selected for Knighthood already have the Lady’s Blessing. We select them from the ranks of our finest warriors, and those with Her Blessing do tend to rise to the top. It is also a very time consuming and difficult process; if you are thinking about training your own knights for your homeland, you may find that a lofty goal.”

“That was not my intent.” Y’shtola reassured him. She was not about to admit she suspected him guilty of mass murder, but there was another true answer she could turn to. “I merely sought to broaden my knowledge regarding the magicks of your land.”

“Mmm.” The Princeps hummed agreeably. “Tell you what, kill Gorrath for us and I’ll gift you volumes of tomes covering every discipline of Elarion spellcraft.”

“We do not fight for rewards.” Y’shtola demurred.

 “Well you’re getting one anyway, so too bad.” The Princeps spoke bluntly, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes.

Y’shtola resisted the urge to smile. He was likeable, she could admit that. It was enough to make her almost want to trust him, even knowing he’d lied to her.

After all, as he recently confirmed, he could not see the events of futures where Gorrath was involved. Yet, he claimed he foresaw Gorrath being slain by Marcus. Per his own words, that was not possible. A likely explanation is he saw Marcus’ strength and reasoned he would make for a good warrior to pit against the Primal, but the deception left Y’shtola feeling cautious about the Princeps’ true intentions for calling them to Elarion. Even in this conversation, she sensed he was hiding something.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter.” The Princeps called.

 The door opened behind her. Y’shtola turned to see the same Calydon footman that had brought her here in the doorway. Marcus was visible over his shoulder.

“The Warrior of Light was inquiring after your guest, my Princeps, and Prince Atreus wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

“Tell the prince I will be with him within the hour.” The Princeps came forward and sank back into his chair with well-masked relief to be off his feet. “Well, it appears I’ve been keeping you. Thank you for your time, Lady Y’shtola, and for your wisdom. I trust I can seek your counsel again should the need arise?”

“Of course, Princeps.” Y’shtola gave her best approximation of a bow in the Elarian style and joined Marcus by the door. He was looking past her.

“Is there anything you need of me, my Princeps?”

“I…” The Princeps paused, mouth pressing into a thin line. His eyes flicked over to Y’shtola and there was some emotion contorting his aether, though Y’shtola was far from familiar enough with him to determine what it was. “No, it’s nothing. Thank you, Warrior of Light, but I am fine.”

Marcus frowned and from him she could read a sense of… not quite regret. Disappointment, mayhaps? “As you wish.”

He fell in beside Y’shtola as they walked away. The footman closed the door behind him, leaving the Princeps alone.

The oracle steepled his fingers together, flesh eyes turned meaninglessly towards the closed door. He spoke aloud, knowing he had nothing to fear of eavesdroppers.

“That one will indeed be trouble.” At times there the sorceress had nearly seen through him. He would need to be careful with her, at least until Gorrath was defeated. After that, the Scions could be dealt with should the façade fail. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that; it would be a poor reward for their service. But he was no stranger to doing things he’d rather not as Princeps.

The only question was, would Markos let him? Or would he need to dealt with too?

Castor slowly paced the barracks. To another’s eyes he would seem contemplative, perhaps mildly concerned. Those who knew him knew even that minor display was a testament to his agitation.

He was acutely aware of the weight of his armor. Normally he wore it as effortlessly as a second skin. Now it pressed down on him.

The space had been assigned to quarter the assembled Knights for their time in Calydon prosecuting this war. The long room lined with bunks was empty, all the other Knights out seeing to the myriad tasks related to dealing with the many prisoners and casualties taken during the fighting. Castor would be leading that effort, were it not for Diomedes having wordlessly taken charge of their brothers and sisters following the battle after giving Castor a pointed look.

The look surprised Castor. He thought he’d had his emotions controlled better. Even with the bond between Knights at its most potent in the heat of battle, it rankled to know he’d let his turmoil bleed through enough to be visible. Rankled enough that Castor’s kneejerk reaction would have been to brush off Diomedes unspoken offer, were it not that the offer itself was proof his composure was already unacceptably frayed.

Freed from his command responsibilities, Castor made his way quickly to the castle to attend to his other responsibilities. Though the Princeps had faced no physical danger today, Castor had long since learned those were not the only threats he needed protection from. It took only a glance at his master’s slumped form to know those threats had visited again.

Castor made no mention of the Princeps’ exhaustion, that was not a subject either man preferred to discuss, and simply focused on the question if his most recent exertion had gained aught of value.

“What did you see?”

The Princeps had exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. “Death.”

A useless answer. He always saw death. Castor mouth was opening to ask for more detail when he was forestalled by a raised hand.

“You have fought hard today, my Guardian Knight. Pray retire to your quarters and rest. Take some time to recuperate from the arduous trials you faced.”

Castor’s brow furrowed at the dismissal, but he was one of the scant few who the Princeps could give outright orders to. He was honorbound to obey, even if the orders were absurd. Castor needed no time to recover from today’s fighting, he was still fit enough to fight on for several more hours. But even so, he obeyed and removed himself to the barracks. Where he could try to obey the Princeps’ real order.

The Princeps had the grace not to say it outright, but he knew what was weighing on Castor’s mind.

Pollux.

The scene kept playing through Castor’s mind. The battle nearly two weeks ago, where he first saw what the Demon had done to his brother. Pollux screamed hateful challenges and charged to meet Castor with a berserk fury, not unlike today. Castor fought back, knowing it was meaningless to try to reason with a demonic thrall. He focused on the fight and when the spear clanged against his shield he took the opening, and his brother’s head, in a single stroke.

He had kept moving, kept fighting, hadn’t spared a single look back. His brother’s corpse was not something he wanted to see. He’d thought that was the end of it. That killing his brother was the worst this war would demand of him.

He was wrong.

Pollux returned and doubtless would return again. And again, and again. As many times as the Demon saw use in him, for as long as this war lasted.

Castor was no fool. His brother may never have reached the level of power required to be chosen for Knighthood, but he was far from weak. He’d earned his place as the Cataphractii’s first officer through his strength and skill. And their battle today had shown his new master was supplying him with new, demonic power on top of that. When he returned from death once again, how many people could best him?

How many times would the duty of killing his brother fall to Castor?

His gaze hardened and his pacing stopped. As many times as it took. He was a Knight of Elarion, a defender of their people, and he would not shirk his duty. If that meant committing fratricide, then so be it. He would bear the weight of a guilty conscience just as he bore the weight of every other hardship of this war.

He heard the sound of the door opening and heavy footsteps. Castor turned to see Prince Asterion, who looked surprised to see him.

“Your Highness.” Castor said. “How may I serve?”

“Ah, no, nothing.” Asterion mumbled. The young royal glanced around the room. “I was looking for a place to collect my thoughts and thought you Knights were otherwise engaged.”

“My brothers and sisters are. And if you’ll excuse me, I must join them.” Castor turned and walked away. His hand was on the door handle when Asterion’s voice made him pause.

“I wanted a moment of solitude. I needed time to think.” Castor slowly turned back to see the young man fretting. But despite his obvious discomfort, Asterion continued. “I know my father. The man I saw today was not him. He would never delight in slaughter the way that creature did. I know that, in my heart. I just need some time to convince my mind.”

He is not only trying to convince his mind. Castor knew.

“You will be a fine prince, Your Highness.” Castor closed the door behind him to give the younger man his requested solitude. He headed to where he knew his brothers and sisters would be gathered.

Asterion was right, he told himself. There was little to feel guilty over. The creature that wore his brother’s face was merely a demonspawn. An abomination born of the Blood Demon’s hateful, corrupting magicks. The real Pollux had died weeks ago, all that was left was a demonic thing wearing his face.

Castor’s fist slowly clenched, the only outward sign of his steadily mounting anger. Gorrath would pay for defiling the memory of his brother. He and the traitor that summoned him. Aethon had escaped them today, but Castor vowed to himself that soon, very soon, there would be a reckoning.

Aethon did not flinch as his god’s baleful gaze raked over him. “You quit the field?”

“My military prowess may pale in comparison to yours, oh great god of blood and battle,” Aethon replied. His fingers absently played with the hunk of crystal in his pocket, a reminder of his status before his god. “But I am fairly certain it is hard to win a war when all of your troops are dead.”

“There are always more vermin to harvest.” Gorrath shook His head dismissively. Aethon had already seen the ranks of freshly ‘recruited’ Skalik and knew that for every one corrupted, another three or four had been slaughtered. The thought warmed his heart. His new god was certainly more proactive than his old, dead one.

Gorrath snorted. “You’d best have a better reason for retreating.”

 He sounded perilously close to violence. Aethon would have been more concerned, but ‘perilously close to violence’ described Gorrath on a good day. The Blood God was a mercurial one, as prone to charm as to belligerence, but there was one constant in His demeanor. He always hungered for bloodshed. Even fresh off an entire day slaughtering Skalik down in the deep tunnels, there was still that simmering bloodlust lurking behind every word.

Not that Aethon was anyone to judge. He felt the same bloodlust, and had ever since that day in the tunnels. He could corral it for the sake of the war effort and it could be briefly sated with a proper battle, but it never went away. It was a part of him now.

“How about because staying would be foolish?” Aethon said boldly. Challenging Gorrath was ironically a way to stay in His good graces. Cowering before Him He saw as a kind of surrender, and any form of that disgusted Him. “Even ignoring the imminent arrival of the Wolf, once Atreus and his men reinforced the enemy, victory became impossible. I could have stayed and killed many before I died, maybe even Atreus himself, but to what end? Why waste myself, my men, and theirs in futile defiance?”

“Do I detect a hint of lingering attachment to your former lord and comrades?” The Blood God leaned back in His makeshift throne, the amusement in His voice no sign that He wouldn’t butcher Aethon in a second if he answered in the affirmative.

“Please.” Aethon scoffed. “The more followers you have, the stronger you become. I’ll save the bloodbaths for the Wolf’s pack and the Knights, and not waste our own supply of potential recruits. I’d rather fight alongside as few Skalik as possible.”

“A fair answer.” Gorrath rose from His throne, triggering again the disconcerting sense Aethon felt on seeing something so large move so fluidly. “Far be it for me to judge you for keeping the greater war in mind. But were you not tempted to stay and fight at all?”

“Business before pleasure.” Aethon said. Truth be told, he’d have loved a chance to keep testing himself against that swordsman. But the war came first, and he had news his god would want to hear. “Besides, I thought you would like to know. He’s here.”

Gorrath’s gaze snapped back to him. “You are certain?”

Aethon weathered the pressure of that stare without quailing. “I crossed swords with him myself and he killed half a dozen Chosen in as many seconds. It’s him, no question.”

Gorrath grinned, a wicked thing dripping with malice. “Finally. He’s here at last.” The Blood God almost started pacing, malevolent eagerness in every word. “A foe worthy of my time.”

Aethon had changed more than he had thought possible after summoning Gorrath, likely more than he even realized, but the excitement he felt at the prospect of seeing the Blood God battle Elarion’s champion was entirely his own.

Chapter Text

Marcus took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air and couldn’t help a grin. He was enjoying himself more than he really ought to, on a mission to hunt down a Primal. But even so, a long hike through the mountains, real mountains, with Y’shtola by his side made him smile. 

The Ferroc Mountains formed the bulk of Calydon’s territory, malm after malm of towering stone edifices that were crisscrossed by innumerable narrow canyons. The highlands were inhospitable country. There were precious few settlements dotting the mountainous region and the notion of agriculture would have been a joke were it not for the hardy breed of mountain Chocobos that a few isolated villages maintained small flocks of, Theron among them. It was little wonder then that despite being the largest princedom by area, Calydon was also the smallest in population and wealth.

Not that there was no wealth to be found in the mountains. Indeed, the Ferroc Mountains were rich in ore and most of its towns were devoted to mining the seams of iron, mythril, and chondrite that ran deep into the mountains. But mining is a perilous business when your people’s hated enemy lives underground.

For no reason Elarion scholars could discern or the Princeps felt willing to share, the Skalik seemed drawn to the region. Maybe it was the same mineral wealth that the Calydonians sought that drew them, or maybe they felt some kind of claim to the place. Whatever the reason, the Skalik attacked here more frequently than anywhere else in Elarion. The residents of Calydon prided themselves on being a bulwark between those attacks and the rest of Elarion, not that the other princedoms appreciated it.

We’re always fighting. Marcus mused. Whenever they weren’t at war with the Skalik, they were butting heads with each other. Rarely as far as outright violence, the Princeps intervened whenever that was likely, but the squabbling only stopped in times of crisis like these. Having seen more of the world than he’d ever expected, returning home and being immersed in his people’s warlike ways was shocking. He had forgotten just how pervasive it was.

The other Scions didn’t like it, he knew. He didn’t need to be able to see emotions like Y’shtola could to witness the displeasure she and their fellow Scions felt about how Elarion treated the Skalik. They didn't understand.

Marcus knew his friends thought of Elarion’s subterranean neighbors as akin to the Beast Tribes. A group marginalized through no fault of their own with a culture and values that could easily align with society to live in peace if only an olive branch was extended.

The problem with that view was, firstly, the Skalik were less an outcast tribe and more an enemy nation. The Skalik’s massive network of underground tunnels went far deeper than the Elarians had ever penetrated and sprawled across more territory than anyone but the Princeps knew. It was a fact not often acknowledged in polite society that, collectively, the Skalik clans were as numerous populous and powerful as Elarion was. If not more so, the infighting amongst the clans was well known and yet they still had ample manpower to spend on endlessly invading the surface.

The other problem was, well, the Skalik are genuine monsters. Marcus had seen enough atrocities in his war alone to prove that beyond the shadow of a doubt, to say nothing of what he’d heard of other invasions. He knew from personal experience that it took seeing exactly one person eaten by the Skalik to curb any sort of sympathy towards them.

It was possibly the best trait of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn that they were, to a man, admittedly deep down in some cases, idealists. Marcus had no intention of trying to quash that idealism. If that meant he’d have to endure the looks and pointed comments from his comrades, he’d bear that burden.

Just like how they were bearing the burden of the mountain march, he thought as he glanced back at Alisaie. The young Elezen and her brother were clearly struggling with the demands of the trek through the rugged terrain and she just as clearly did not want that difficulty to be acknowledged. It was hard to blame her, the mountain slopes were not gentle on shorter legs. Just as well then that the army, a group of mainly Calydonian and Cretan tempered soldiers, wasn’t moving very quickly.

They’d just recently passed through the town of Acaria on their way north. The word ‘town’ was being generous, the place was little more than an inn squatting on one side of Rubicon’s Highway and a smithy sitting on the other, but Acaria was noteworthy as marking the informal end of the Highway. The road itself went on, but as far as most of Elarion was concerned there was nothing north of Acaria.

Marcus had visited the town a few times before setting off to war, on the rare occasions his family had business that far south. He’d been relieved to see the town’s buildings largely undamaged; fortunately, the residents had evacuated before Gorrath’s forces came this far south. Unfortunately, they had evacuated to Keton.

Keton. Marcus’s grin faltered at the reminder. He wondered if any of Acaria’s residents survived Gorrath putting the fortress-city to the sword. How many would never be returning to their undamaged homes?

How many would be returning determined to slaughter their former neighbors?

In the people’s absence, Gorrath’s thralls had moved in. That said, the town was only lightly held with a ‘garrison’ of a handful of Skalik. Even just the Elarian army’s van was overkill. The fight, if it even could be called that, lasted five minutes, then they pressed on.

All things considered, they were making decent time, Marcus knew. While he personally could have traveled at a much faster pace, an army couldn’t move through the highlands with anything resembling speed. As the saying went, an army marched on its stomach. Which, if one extended the metaphor, meant that it crawled. As easy as it would be to outpace the beasts of burden carrying their many supplies, Marcus was rather fond of not starving. So he matched the pace of the wains pulled by Lalafell led Aurochs and tried not to grumble too much.

Still, the slowness of their advance grated on him. He could feel it, that anticipatory sense of imminent battle. A slowly but surely rising tension as his body unconsciously prepared for combat. He didn’t know if it was from the Echo or simply instinct ingrained from his experiences in war, but he could feel in his bones he’d be fighting before the day is out. The tension ground on him. The regular changes in direction weren’t helping either.

As if triggered by the thought, Giannis stopped in his tracks ahead of Marcus and turned to stare south at nothing. Most of the men in the army echoed the motion, the only exceptions being the Scions and the Knights.

“She calls.” Giannis said, face scrunched up in concentration.

“And what new report does Lupercal have for us?” Y’shtola asked. The Wolf Primal was on the hunt for Gorrath, roaming the mountains far faster than their army could move. Marcus had caught a quick glimpse of the lupine form flitting through one canyon, but that had been the only sign Lupercal was nearby. The only sign he had, anyway. The Primal’s tempered, members of her ‘pack,’ were capable of hearing the Wolf’s regular howls. As one of the more tempered of the bunch, Giannis was close enough to his new god that he could interpret the howls as full reports on the enemy’s whereabouts.

“Dozen Skalik, down the track to our south.” Giannis relayed. The Giant’s Run, if Marcus remembered the names of the western passes correctly. Giannis grinned savagely. “They were angling up the cliffs. No survivors.”

Marcus decided discretion was the better part of valor and elected not to see the disapproving look on Y’shtola’s face at the relish in those words. Castor had a hand on his ear, conversing via linkpearl. He nodded, broke the link. “We will turn back north at the next opportunity.”

Marcus nodded. The more of Gorrath’s minions that were eliminated, the more the region became visible to the Princeps. And the more clearly he could see, the better he could lead them directly to Gorrath’s doorstep. Based on what the Princeps could discern, he was almost certainly lurking in a Skalik tunnel out of sight of the Skyhunter scouts. But going down into the labyrinth before they were almost on top of him was just begging to be flanked and outmaneuvered. They had to get close aboveground, then they could find a nearby entrance to descend and attack. As this was the most heavily Skalik infested region of Elarion, that was easier said than done.

“Marcus?” He turned to Castor. “A word, please.”

Marcus glanced at Y’shtola, who nodded in agreement and Castor walked ahead with a brisk pace. Marcus matched it and the two emerged from the head of the army, passing the Knights who formed the vanguard. The elites had been scattered throughout the force, to prevent any obvious weak points for an ambush to target, but a full dozen of the eighty or so Knights with the army were at the front for obvious reasons.

Eighty Knights. Marcus had barely ever even heard of that many in one place. And it would have been more, had the Demon’s summoning not occurred at the tail end of an Underground War with the Knights’ ranks already depleted. Only the Princeps could have called together such a force, and even he couldn’t do it easily. And even despite the amount of force already brought to bear, he still saw fit to call Marcus back to join the battle. Not for the first time, Marcus wondered if the Princeps didn’t have an ulterior motive for seeking his involvement after all.

They climbed up the gradually sloping upward path. As they crested the hill, Marcus took a look back at the army arrayed below him. Nearly a thousand Hyur, Lalafells, and Taurhe. Mostly the former, given the force was primarily Calydonian, and the northernmost princedom had comparatively few of Elarion’s other two races. Atreus had mainly entrusted this mission to his own soldiers, even if he himself could not join the battle because of his vulnerability to corruption. It was an impressive sight, the silver armored host one Marcus was proud to stand beside.

Castor was not interested in the view. The older man’s eyes were relentlessly scanning their surroundings as they walked. Despite having asked for a word, he did not seem inclined to speak. Marcus decided to begin the conversation himself.

“Are you going to try to convince me to strike out on my own again?”

“I might as well.” Castor replied. He glanced sidelong at Marcus while they walked. “We have three forces at our disposal that could defeat Gorrath. Lupercal, yourself, and our army without you. Keeping two of those three together is unwise, especially since you’ve proven you’re nimble enough to escape should the Demon bring an overwhelming force against you.”

Marcus was aware of the tactical thinking there. Strategically, moving separately would give them a better chance of flanking and pinning down Gorrath whenever they did run him to ground. Going completely alone would be a bad idea, but he and Estinien could cover ground much faster than the army could. Two groups of hunters instead of just Lupercal would speed up the search considerably. But there was a downside to splitting their forces as well.

“I’m not worried for myself. If Gorrath attacks the main army while I’m away, the casualties would be enormous even if you did win in the end.”

“Sacrifices are necessary in war.” Castor did not say that harshly, or gently. He was simply pointing out a fact. A fact Marcus knew to be true. Even so…

“Not if I can help it.”

Castor gave him a look. “You Calydonians are supposed to be as hard as mountain stone. Has your time abroad softened you?”

“What do you mean?” Marcus asked. “The battle plan that saves as many of our men as possible is a lot harder to pull off than the ones where we let them die.”

“From a certain perspective.” Castor said. Marcus couldn’t tell if that was agreement or not, so he changed the subject.

“I’m surprised we even need to hunt the Demon down. I never imagined this would happen.”

He had imagined fighting the Demon, to be sure. Gorrath was the greatest and most dreadful monster in Elarion’s legends. Every child in the realm had daydreamed of being the hero who slayed him. But in all those legends, Gorrath was an engine of destruction. He rampaged across the land, killing and corrupting without pause. He did not skulk in Skalik tunnels and send out tempered minions to harass them.

A normal summoning of Gorrath would have seen the demon almost immediately assault Clenon himself. He would have laid waste to the city, again, and likely been killed while fighting his way south towards Citadel City. Marcus would not have been called on, because by the time Castor had made it to Radz-at-Han to recruit him, Gorrath would already be dead. The battles against Gorrath, historically, lasted several days at most, not the several weeks this most recent struggle has been ongoing.

“Indeed.” Castor nodded. “The Demon’s behavior has been most atypical. If only the Princeps could tell us more about the reason for his unusual actions.”

Marcus suspected he knew the cause. Primals were shaped by the emotions of the summoner, and he had felt the seething hatred in Aethon when he had performed the summoning. This Gorrath may very well still harbor a joy for battle and desire to cross blades with fierce warriors, but the core of his being was that urge to murder. It gave him patience and a willingness to plan rather than simply rage across the land, and made him all the more dangerous for it. Marcus tried to stay optimistic. Maybe Gorrath was ignoring the Elarians because he was simply slaughtering Skalik day in and day out. A man could dream, after all.

He hadn’t told anyone but Y’shtola about the glimpse he had gotten into Aethon’s memories. He didn’t think it important to understanding Gorrath; it aligned with what the Princeps had already said about the summoning. No, the significance of that vision hit a little closer to home.

Y’shtola had known before needing to be told what was troubling him. “You are not Aethon. You did not summon a Primal when you lost your friends because of more than a lack of crystals. It is not in your nature to be hateful and vindictive, certainly not enough to perform a summoning from the sheer intensity of your fury.”

Marcus wasn’t entirely sure about that, but her words had been reassuring. But right or wrong, Marcus couldn’t help but sympathize with Aethon. He imagined that sentiment would not go over very well, so he resolved to keep it to himself. Castor was looking at him and Marcus realized he’d been quiet for too long.

“I’m sure the Princeps is telling us all he knows.” Marcus said in lieu of anything more insightful. Castor eyed him strangely after the comment. “What is it?”

The Knight paused for a moment. “In the Citadel, after the Princeps described your grand battle alongside the Lady, you said something to him.”

Marcus kicked himself. That had hardly been discrete of him. He answered guardedly. “I did.”

“I have wondered, ever since he first relayed those events to me.” Castor began slowly, continuing his quick march that kept them out of earshot from the main army. “If events unfolded exactly as he said.”

“Are you saying the Princeps might've lied?” Marcus asked. Castor made an amused noise that from him was the equivalent of a laugh.

“Heretical, isn’t it? Everyone knows the Princeps only ever speaks the Lady’s divinely ordained truth.” That was the common belief of Elarians, indeed the basis for the Princeps’ nebulous authority. It was understood that he was only mortal and could be wrong on occasion, but suggesting it was particularly uncouth. Knowing what he did after his adventures, Marcus very much doubted Hydaelyn had been personally responsible for what the Princeps saw.

Castor glanced at Marcus as if he could see the doubt on his face. “But you are not the only one with a unique perspective on the Princeps. I have served as his Guardian Knight for over ten years.”

Marcus immediately revised his estimation of the man. He should have guessed. While the Princeps had twenty Knights assigned to his service at all times, these were typically rotated in and out after terms of a year or two. The Guardian Knight was the exception, one Knight each Princeps selected to serve as his protector for life. And if he had been in the position for over ten years, Castor had been selected as the Princeps’ first and therefore only Guardian. In theory this meant he was best suited to defending the Princeps, in practice it meant he was the one of if not the strongest Knight in Elarion. That would explain why he was overseeing the war against Gorrath.

It also meant he was close to the Princeps, perhaps closer than anyone else. The Princeps did not have friends, shedding such alongside his family and all other personal attachments, but his Guardian Knight was at least a trusted agent and confidant. If anyone was to see the Princeps as a man rather than Hydaelyn’s Holy Oracle, it would be him, Marcus supposed.

Castor continued. “In that time, I have come to appreciate that the Princeps always acts in the best interests of Elarion. When he Sees, he speaks what will guide our people to the brightest path forward. That isn’t always what’s true, however.”

“Sure, but what reason would he have to lie?”

Castor didn’t answer the question immediately, his gaze panning over the rocks rising around them. “Recently, there has been something of a crisis of faith in Elarion. The news that our Lady had departed this world for the next was disquieting. Though the Princeps stressed that She will continue to watch over us, the fact that we can no longer count on Her intervention on our behalf has distressed many.”

If they ever could, Marcus thought darkly to himself. Somehow he doubted much of Hydaelyn’s dwindling power in recent days had been spent on answering prayers in Elarion. Still, he knew many and more were comforted simply by the thought that She might. Faith had a solace and strength of its own.

“And it has not escaped some,” Castor continued. “That if She cannot be seen by the augurs and cannot reach out to aid us, the Lady is functionally dead. There have been whispers that the Princeps has sought to soften the blow, that our Lady did not ascend anywhere. That She died, resolving some crisis we never even noticed.

“I do not doubt the Princeps. If he lied, I am certain it was for good reason. But not everyone shares my faith. Among those that doubt his story, many assign less benevolent motives to the hypothetical deception. Of course, that is of no concern if he was telling the truth. But when he tells the tale in front of a man who both knows the truth and feels a need for a quiet word with him after hearing it, I do find that suspicious. And more importantly, so will others.”

“So you got me away from everyone to get the truth out of me?” Marcus tried to make his tone light, with little success. “And you’re asking me instead of him so he won’t know you’re doubting him?”

Castor turned to him, surprised at the question. “What makes you think he would be unaware of this conversation?”

The soft chime of a linkpearl echoed in Marcus’s ear. He raised a hand to his ear, noting Castor doing the same.

“I suppose that’s my cue.” The Princeps said.

“You’re welcome to chime in, of course.” Castor commented. The words had a slight mocking edge to them, that of a friendly ribbing. Marcus couldn’t help but feel relieved the Princeps had at least one friend.

“I would, but you have about forty-five seconds.”

Castor’s gaze went back to roaming the hillsides around them. “You could have given us a bit more advance notice.”

“And interrupt the scintillating repartee between you gossiping miners?” The Princeps answered drily. His voice sobered. “Fight well, brothers.”

When the call broke, Marcus was already reaching for his sword and shield. Beside him, Castor was doing the same. Marcus let out a sigh that was half a chuckle. “I get it. We’re bait.”

There was no way they could have heard his words, but the enemy burst from concealment with a timing that seemed too good to be coincidence. Figures emerged from the rocks dotting the hillsides around the duo, the chittering and screeching of Skalik led by a coterie of Elarians with crimson skin. More of Gorrath’s “Chosen,” no doubt.

“Should’ve let Y’shtola come with.” Marcus drew his sword and shield. Castor moved to his side so they could fight back to back as the enemies encircling them closed in.

“We wanted to lure them in, not scare them off.” Castor replied. Then the attackers were on them and there was no more time for quips.

A pack of Chosen led the charge, encircling the duo. A Taurhe with a massive axe hacked at Marcus while a Hyur swordswoman frantically slashed at him. He conjured a wall of magical shields around him and weathered the onslaught. The impacts clanged against the materialized metal; he knew the barrier wouldn’t hold for long. But it stood long enough for him to slash the swordswoman’s waist. A glancing hit, but enough to open up a nasty gash and knock the woman off balance. His second slash was aimed at the Taurhe’s leg, but the man stepped back and Marcus’ sword cut only empty air.

Marcus often had difficulties judging his strength. He was by nature a humble man and his instinct was to downplay his abilities. His mind recoiled from the notion that he was uniquely powerful, surely there were many others who could match him. But he was also an intensely accomplished man, and the more glorious victories and heroic triumphs he accumulated, the less believable it was even to himself that his victories were solely the result of him being in the right place at the right time. So he accepted, begrudgingly, that he was one of the finest fighters in the realm.

All of which was to say, that these Chosen were able to keep pace with him meant they were deadly foes indeed.

The Taurhe retaliated with a hammering strike that broke through the sheltron. From over his shoulder, a blast of fire flew in and spattered off Marcus’s quickly raised shield. He resisted the urge to stagger backwards, wary of backing into Castor and knocking the other man off balance. At his feet, the swordswoman recovered her footing and rose attacking just as fiercely as before with it. Reminded that these Chosen could ignore wounds that would cripple others from the shock and pain, Marcus fended off the flurry of slashes as best he could. His next strike caught her in the neck and her head burst into flames as it flew through the air.

He had no reprieve, as the Taurhe struck back viciously and already another Chosen, this one a Skalik armed with daggers, stepped up to replace the slain one. Marcus looked past them to see a milling mob of maybe a dozen the crimson fiends surrounding them just waiting for their turn. A grim sight, but reassuring in that it meant the Chosen weren’t attacking the others. So long as he and Castor held out here, they were protecting the rest of the army.

As if spurred by the thought, a familiar voice rang out. “Leave them! Slaughter the others!”

Damnit. Marcus fought back now, no longer sheltering within the ring of enemies but trying to break through it as the outer Chosen obeyed Minos’s order and broke off to follow the Skalik down the pass towards the army. “Castor!”

“I know.” The Knight’s voice was clipped and composed despite the raging battle. “Break, I’ll screen. On three.”

Marcus poured his power into a slash that drove the Chosen on him back. Behind him, he heard the sound of Castor doing the same. One. Both men moved together, breaking out of the ring that encircled them. Two. Castor took up position opposite the already recovering Chosen as Marcus slipped behind him. Three.

“Go!” Castor yelled. Marcus spared a second of concern as his companion stood alone against a tide of foes, before obeying the command and turning away. He broke into a run, chasing after the receding Chosen and racing towards the sounds of battle already echoing up the pass.

“We are under attack!”

Voices were raised in alarm around Alisaie. Men and women were moving with hurried purpose as they readied to meet the incoming attack. She drew her rapier and pushed through the press of bodies to scrabble up a large stone to get a view of the battlefield.

“They come to die! Ready arms! Meet them!” The Elarian soldiers were well drilled, and already taking up positions and forming a defensive line to meet the Skalik rushing down the hillside at them like a black and brown tide. Spears lowered and men braced for the impact. The air filled with the ringing of steel as the forces clashed. The sounds of men dying began shortly after.

It was brutal. Alisaie was no stranger to combat, but the ferocity of the fighting was still astounding. Neither side seemed inclined to give the other any quarter as they came to grips with each other. The Skalik were cut down as they charged into the line of silver spears, yet here and there they were pulling down struggling Elarians and hacking them to pieces. She raised her focus to begin lending her magic to the fray when a deep bellow caught her attention.

Descending down the mountain slope was a group of what looked like giant Skalik. They had the same general body shape as the Skalik, but had the size and musculature of minotaurs, dwarfing even the bovine creatures’ cousins in the Taurhe. Those muscles were misshapen and grotesque, bulging and swelling in ways that did not look natural. Naked but for a few scraps of cloth and unarmed, they nevertheless trampled the smaller Skalik darting around them as they charged towards the Elarian army, slavering as they came.

“Ogres!” Giannis’ voice rang out, the Wolf-touched commander barking orders to his men. “Take them down before they can close!”

Alisaie did not need the encouragement. Her fireball shot out ahead of the barrage of arrows and magic that peppered the lumbering ogres. It didn’t seem to have much effect, the creatures barely slowing under the weight of the incoming fire. The front two caught the worst of the barrage and staggered. They were run down by the ones behind them, trampled as easily as they had the Skalik in front of them. Shrugging off blasts of wind and fire, arrows sticking out of them to no effect, the surviving ogres smashed into the spear line and sent men flying.

The carefully organized defensive formation fell apart. Soldiers scattered to avoid swinging arms the size of lampposts and the Skalik that had been held at bay rushed into the new opening. The army was in danger of routing here, Alisaie realized, as she sent a lightning bolt into the head of one ogre that finally brought the monstrous beast down.

“Rally! To me!” Giannis was doing his best to reform the line in the face of this onslaught, but his cries were cut off by a choked gurgle. Alisaie saw him fall to his knees, an arrow jutting from his throat. The familiar feel of one of Alphinaud’s barriers shimmered into existence around her. An instant later, her head slammed back as she was hit by an arrow. The shell of aether deflected the barbed head, but the hit still made her see stars. She hurried slipped down off the rock, landing next to her worried brother.

“They have a sniper.” He supplied, nouliths whirring as they fired at an ogre and provoked a roar.

“I noticed.” Alisaie rubbed her temple where the arrow hit. Likely the same archer they had contended with in the previous battle, she thought as a woman near them dropped with an arrow in her forehead. Staying in cover behind the rock, she sent a sextuplet of crystal swords at an ogre and watched with satisfaction as it reeled. The lumbering brutes were suffering from the weight of fire directed at them, their huge size making them easy targets. But even as a freshly arrived Knight cleaved through one with a sword that burned with silver light and brought the number of ogres down to three, Alisaie realized the creatures had already done their job. The formation was in shambles and the enemy had fresh reinforcements arriving.

The new arrivals were not just more Skalik, but also a handful of blood-skinned Elarians. The first of them to reach the disintegrating Elarion lines was the massive Taurhe that had nearly killed Alphinaud in the last battle. Prince Minos, Alisaie had been told. He smashed through the knot of spearmen that tried to stop him and his gauntlets reaped a grim toll as he punched down the men before him. It had been barely a few seconds after his arrival and already nearly a dozen bodies lay at his feet.

Minos stood atop the corpses of his victims, threw back his head, and bellowed. “Blood for the Blood God!”

“Fine. How about yours?” Channeling her aether, Alisaie sent a large blast of fire that forced him to stagger backwards. The Knight darted forward and traded blows with the hulking pugilist. Nouliths flew over them both and laser blasts scythed down into the Chosen, who only laughed at the attack. Alisaie added crystalline blades to the barrage, but even as the aetheric weapons bit deeply into his body, the Taurhe only seemed to move faster. The Knight was being driven back by relentless blows. Without Alphinaud’s shields, she would have fallen already.

“Hahaha yes!” The Chosen roared. “More blood! More battle!”

Alisaie lunged forward. With a perfect fencing thrust, her sword lanced clean through the Chosen’s leg. The Taurhe retaliated with a backhanded blow that she barely managed to raise her sword to block in time. Even then, the force behind the blow was enough to send her flying backwards and she painfully skidded across the ground.

“Alisaie!” Alphinaud called out. His nouliths hovered over her and a soothing sensation eased the flare in her back. Alisaie looked up to see the Knight taking a hooved kick in the chest strong enough to throw her back as well. She recovered from her flight well enough to keep her footing, but after skidding to a stop she nevertheless slumped over, taking desperate, hacking breaths. Elarians ran up to support her, hacking through the remaining Skalik to confront the Chosen. Alisaie was dismayed to see the flow of burning blood from his wounded leg had already ceased. Seems Chosen didn’t just feel no pain, they also healed quickly.

Alisaie forced herself to her feet. This was no time for laying down on the job. Several of their reinforcements were already dead, broken bodies laying at the feet of the Chosen. Alisaie tried to help, but a pair of Skalik rushed her and it took some hurried swordplay to cut them down. Most of the Skalik in the initial charge had already fallen, corpses laying amongst the Elarian bodies. The Taurhe laughed, delighting in the carnage.

“Forward!” He roared. An answering bellow came from an ogre. There was only one remaining, the others falling to the slowly rallying Elarion forces, but it seemed determined to make them pay in blood for its life. It lay about with meaty fists, smashing men aside. Behind it, she could see lines of Skalik running down the slope in answer of the prince’s call.

Something in how the Skalik were rushing to join the battle caught Alisaie’s attention. Their movements seemed almost frantic. Like they were running from something rather than towards something. She had no time to dwell on the thought, Minos was coming.

The Knight busy dealing with the ogre and Alphinaud occupied with healing a dozen men at once, it fell to Alisaie alone to deal with the tempered prince. Minos was fast, faster than any man with his bulk had any right to be, but Alisaie was plenty quick herself. She stayed ahead of the lightning-fast punches and kicks and managed to trace a burning line in the Taurhe’s side as she danced away from him.

Minos snarled a grin at the injury. He made to advance on her again, before both of their attentions were grabbed by several Skalik flying through the air. Alisaie caught a glimpse of white and grinned.

“Minos!” Marcus shouted as he hacked his way through the Skalik trying to flee before him. “Come get some!”

Really? Alisaie asked herself. But Minos apparently found the challenge compelling and promptly ignored her in favor of charging back up the hillside. An armored fist met Marcus’s shield with enough force that Alisaie felt the impact from where she stood. Marcus weathered the hit like he didn’t even notice it, to Minos’s audible enthusiasm.

“Yes! Let us fight and bleed and kill one another! More glorious combat in the Blood God’s name!” Skalik around them, emboldened by their commander holding Marcus’s attention, surrounded them with hungry blades.

“Nah.” Marcus looked past the stunned Chosen and caught Alisaie’s eye. A shimmering barrier formed around him as he shouted. “Light him up!”

Alisaie grinned. That certainly was a Marcus plan. She released the spell she was charging, firing a large beam of magical energy and curving rose vines straight into Minos’s back. The explosion her blast created was joined by a barrage of lasers from Alphinaud’s nouliths and a slash of aether leaping from the Knight’s blade, then a bevy of other spells as mages around them joined in. Skalik screeched as they were blown apart by the barrage. Minos’s roars of defiance became ones of pain and quickly cut out entirely.

When the magical onslaught halted, Marcus was the only one left, standing in an untouched circle amid the scorched earth. “Nice one.”

“If you’d like, we can try again. See if we can actually hurt you this time.” Alisaie offered. He might have joked back, but the battle around them demanded both of their attentions.

Behind Marcus, the Skalik lines he had cut through on his way to Minos reformed. The ratmen filled the hole in their line his passage had carved and surged like a wave of death.

“Forward!” A voice urged. “Cut them down!”

Alisaie joined the charge as a battered but not broken Elarian army struck back against their attackers, Alphinaud at her back.

The fight was short lived. Without the Chosen or their ogres, the Skalik were cut down in droves by the more disciplined Elarians. Especially with the Warrior of Light cleaving through them. It took less than a minute for them to break, retreating back up the slopes they came.

“After them!” The Elarians pursued, hot on their heels. Alisaie knew it was important to eliminate the Primal’s minions, but such fervor shown while chasing a fleeing enemy, a tempered enemy, no less, left a bad taste in her mouth. She ran alongside the Elarians as they scattered up the mountainside after the disintegrating mob of Skalik, but her blade was held at her side and her magic stilled. There was enough bloodshed without her adding to it.

Most of the Skalik were making for a tunnel revealed by their emergence. Some of the swifter Elarians had gotten there to contest their entrance, with more flowing in to engaged their stalled enemy. Having no interest in participating in that abattoir, Alisaie half-heartedly chased after some of the others she saw trying to vanish into the stones of the craggy hillside.

She rounded one large outcropping and was about to turn around and go back when the clatter of falling stones warned her. She spun, rapier rising as a Skalik leapt down at her. It was only her reflexive parry that kept the jagged sword from finding her throat. She threw her assailant back with a burst of wind and after he found his footing again, he began to pace a slow circle around her several yalms away, waiting for an opening.

Seen up close, the Skalik looked ragged. His clothes, a grimy grey leather tunic and matching pants, were degrading into rags. There were patches of bald skin where his fur had fallen or been ripped off. The body beneath was wiry, almost emaciated. Like the fiery madness in his eyes was slowly consuming his body as tinder.

Alisaie combined her focus and sword into her staff and prepared a spell. The Skalik lunged forward to exploit the opening, as she expected.

When casting magic, there was a consistent tradeoff between speed and power. The stronger the spell, the longer it took to cast. And conversely, the quicker the casting time, the weaker the spell. But when she already wanted a weaker spell, that became not a flaw, but a feature.

Her lightning spell was ready in a second, with more than enough time to fire before his sword hacked into her. The bolt caught him in the chest and electricity arced through him. The grimy blade slipped through limp fingers to clatter on the ground as he convulsed. Alisaie darted forward and kicked the weapon spinning off into the distance and down the slope. The Skalik recovered and hopped back, hunched low and eyeing her warily.

A clatter of armor announced a new arrival. “Alisaie!” Marcus reached her side. “I’ve got it.” He advanced with sword in hand. The Skalik hissed a challenge and lunged to meet him. Something in her rebelled at the sight of Marcus, a dear friend that had proven many times to be a compassionate man, about to cut down an unarmed, defenseless foe.

She knew they needed to eliminate all of Gorrath’s tempered, but “eliminate” did not mean “kill.”

“Restrain him!” Alisaie shouted. Marcus glanced back askance at her, but nevertheless he smacked aside the Skalik with his shield, sheathed his sword, and caught the Skalik by the neck to slam him into the ground. His new captive writhed and clawed beneath him, but Marcus did not flinch from the hands that scrabbled at his armored arm. He ignored the struggling Skalik and fixed Alisaie with a look of clear disapproval.

She was already shaping her magick and the porxie burst into being beyond her outstretched hand. She fed Angelo her aether and after a moment it was ready.

“This is a waste.” Marcus nevertheless shifted his grip and raised the Skalik so Angelo had a clean shot. The beam of purifying light washed over the writhing Skalik, washing away the Primal’s corruption. The Skalik went still and Marcus dropped him on the ground none to gently. Radiating distaste, he joined Alisaie while her patient slowly recovered his wits.

The Skalik rose unsteadily to his feet and looked at his hands, turning them over and flexing his fingers as if surprised to see them doing what he bid them to. He looked up, but Alisaie was not familiar enough with his kind to tell what emotion contorted his long snout before the sounds of others approaching replaced it with clear wariness. Y’shtola and a handful of Elarian soldiers came into view around the rock wall and the Skalik bolted, dropping to all fours to flee faster. The newly arrived Hyurs and Lalafell shouted and made to pursue, but Alisaie stepped into their path.

“Let him go. He’s no longer Gorrath’s servant.”

“You wasted the purifying magick on one of the rats?” The Lalafell demanded. Before any of them could say any more, Marcus stepped between her and them.

“Yes. We did. Do you have a problem with that?” Y’shtola stepped around the quartet to join her fellow Scions. Whether the Elarians properly knew who they were or were just intimidated by the imposing glares, they caved and stomped away without any further objection beyond the Lalafell glancing back at them and shaking his head in disgust. Y’shtola turned to Marcus and pointed to a nearby rock.

“Sit.” Only now did Alisaie see the broken shaft of an arrow, about an ilm long, jutting out from under the armor plate on Marcus’ shoulder and the discoloration of the fabric beneath the metal. Marcus dutifully sat and with a sucked breath and a hiss of pain, ripped the arrow out himself and stiffened until Y’shtola’s healing magick soaked into the wound. Alisaie’s gaze was drawn in the direction the Skalik had vanished. It was now occurring to her that even if cured of tempering, he was alone in a region filled with enemies.

“Do you think he’ll make it?”

“He will.” Marcus said, his tone bitter instead of reassuring. “Rats always find ways to survive. It’s why it’s best to kill them when you have the chance.”

Alisaie glared at him. As did Y’shtola, though her healing energies did not slow. “After everything we’ve been through, the peace we helped forge between man and dragon and the beast tribes, I’d think you would appreciate that no race is irredeemably evil.”

“You say that because you don’t know the Skalik.” Marcus retorted. “Trust me, if you’d seen what I’ve seen, you wouldn’t think them poor, mistreated souls.”

“I know you’ve suffered at their hands, that your people have suffered.” Alisaie tried to reason with him. “And there’s nothing that can undo the pain they’ve inflicted on you and your friends and your people. But don’t you and yours do much the same to them? Battles leave casualties on both sides, both with loved ones lost and vengeance kindled. The only way forward is to break the cycle, you know that.”

Marcus shook his head. “You know nothing about Elarion or our wars.”

“Perhaps that is to our benefit.” Y’shtola put in. “Mayhap you are too immersed in the conflict, too invested in your side to see the situation clearly.”

“You think I’m, what, blinded by hate but you see clearly?” Marcus’ voice dripped disbelief. “Everything you know about Elarion, I’ve told you. But you understand my homeland better than me?”

Y’shtola did not rise to his anger. “If someone killed those I loved, I would hate them. I would not, could not, remain objective. Can you?”

“You may be right.” Alisaie admitted to Marcus. “Maybe the Skalik truly are pure evil monsters all the way through. But how can we know if they are only ever treated with violence? Maybe attempting to make peace will see our hands slapped away, but maybe not. Even if it’s the longest of long shots, isn’t it worth a try?”

Marcus looked like he wanted to continue arguing, but only sighed.

“I hope you’re right. Truly, I do.” The healing finished, Marcus stood. He walked past the two women back in the direction of the army. “I just don’t think you are.”

Alisaie looked past him to the bodies littering the slope, then back in the direction the Skalik she had cured had fled. It was a futile gesture, she knew. One life saved hardly outweighed dozens dead. But even so, she was glad she did it.

You had to start somewhere.

Chapter Text

Alisaie stopped to take in the view, and a quick breath, on the mountain path she was walking. Stone spires rose all around her, largely devoid of greenery. White caps dotted the peaks, and the air was crisp enough her breath was beginnings to mist.

A hard land, with constant hardships, would breed a hard people, Alisaie knew. They had to be resilient, to survive out here. The only Elarian she’d known before the past week was Marcus, a man who might know frailty by reputation but had certainly never been acquainted. And his various countrymen that she had met since all seemed if not as indomitable then at least trying to be.

All of which was to say, if she started to complain about the long march, she did not expect much sympathy.

 The Elarian offensive had spent the last two days trekking deeper and deeper into the mountains. The going was slow, due to the difficult terrain, their meandering course, and the attacks against them. This region of the mountains was absolutely riddled with Skalik tunnels and Gorrath seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of the rat men under his thrall. Three more times already they had been attacked and all three times the Skalik had been utterly slaughtered. Alisaie thought on the single Skalik she had freed. It was a paltry display of mercy in the face of how many dead were left behind and it aroused the ire of her new comrades, but she was glad she did it all the same.

Marcus made it clear she could expect some hostility from his fellow Elarians for helping a Skalik, and that he’d deal with anyone who tried to confront her, but she did not notice any ill will directed at her. A conversation Thancred had chanced to overhear suggested the Princeps had foreseen trouble and headed it off with commands relayed via Castor to squash the spreading of any rumors. Even so, every so often she’d cross paths with someone who would inexplicably glare at her, a burden she was happy to bear over having blood on her hands.

Of greater concern than Elarian bloodthirstiness was the Skalik tunnels themselves. Between griffin rider reconnaissance and the Princeps’ divinations, it was a certainty Gorrath was based out of those tunnels and his forces had spread themselves out to veritably infest the region. If they wanted to bring the fight to the Primal, they would have to go underground sooner or later. And they did intend to kick Gorrath’s door in, the Elarian army having left behind all those not immune to tempering (or didn’t possess a warding scale) so any and every man in the force could face the Primal in battle, if it came to that.

However, thus far Castor had been reluctant to lead them into the tunnels. This entire region may have been enemy territory, but the underground was what actually belonged to them. The Princeps had identified a particular set of caverns that was likely Gorrath’s base of operations and they were approaching as much as they could above ground. The risk of being outmaneuvered while trying to march through the maze of interconnected tunnels was too high for them to go down before they were close to Gorrath’s position, or so Castor said. As Marcus agreed, Alisaie elected to defer to their experience. She certainly was in no hurry to plunge into the dark, dank caves.

There was also the unspoken idea that, if they loitered outside his lair long enough, Gorrath wouldn’t be able to resist the fight they offered.

Alisaie had volunteered to lead a scouting party, and was currently hiking up yet another rocky slope to get a better view of the land. With her was Urianger and a squad of ten Wolf-touched, keeping a sharp eye out for movement that might betray another incoming attack.

“See anything?” She asked the leader of the Wolf-touched squad, as much to excuse her pause as a genuine question. Tobias frowned and glanced north.

“I don’t care for those clouds.” He pointed to a rolling cloudbank that was a medley of ominous shades of gray. “Rare to get those this far up.”

Alisaie was not overly concerned about the weather, but Tobias was a local and she knew better than to dismiss his words out of hand. “Looks like a storm brewing.”

“Some new devilry of Gorrath’s, I reckon.”

“Is he reputed to have power over the weather?” She asked. She had also been warned that one of the effects of the Wolf-touched’s tempering was that they tended to see their enemy in everything, so she was not about to believe him without question.

“Tis possible that such inclement weather hath been sired by the aetheric currents in this area being disturbed by the presence of a being of sufficient might.” Urianger hazarded as he joined the two of them.

“If that were true, wouldn’t Marcus be followed by storm clouds wherever he went?”

Urianger pointed a finger upwards and Alisaie realized she had erred by encouraging him to elaborate.

“T’would be true if our puissant comrade did not shackle and control his considerable power. If he allowed it to run rampant, as one might assume a rampaging Primal is inclined to, then we would indeed see fluctuations in the ambient-”

Urianger was mercifully cut off when all ten of the Wolf-touched turned in perfect unison to face west. Alisaie turned, seeing nothing as she expected.

“Lupercal?” She asked. Tobias nodded.

Alisaie had yet to see the wolf Primal during this trek, but she had been scouring the mountains hunting Gorrath’s ‘scent,’ whatever that meant. In practice it seemed to be running down the Primal’s minions that stuck their heads above ground. Even unseen, Lupercal had been guiding the army on their march, with their path changing direction frequently and usually for no reason that Alisaie could divine. Once they had marched down one passage for half an hour, then turned around and doubled back without having encountered anything.

“Did she say anything?” Tobias wasn’t close enough to his god to hear actual words in the howls, but he got the gist of it.

“Caution.” He said, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. “No, a warning?”

Back down the slope below them, a horn sounded.

Alisaie rushed to a precipice and looked down. She saw the glittering silver of the main host, and the darker figures rushing down out of other canyons, some even seemingly emerging from solid rock, charging at them.

“An attack!” The Wolf-touched made as if to run back to assist, but Alisaie barked an order to hold.

“The others can handle themselves.” And if the army truly couldn’t win even with Marcus and the other Scions and all the Knights, the dozen of their party weren’t going to make a difference.

“We do not abandon our comrades in battle.” One Wolf-touched protested, but Alisaie shushed him. Something was wrong. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Her instincts were shouting for her attention, but whatever sign of danger her subconscious had picked up on remained elusively out of her sight.

“My lady? What dost occupy thine attentions?” Urianger asked. Alisaie turned to him and found her answer in the billowing of his robe in the chilly mountain winds.

“The wind, it’s coming out of the west.” She said, hand already straying toward her rapier.

“So?” Tobias demanded, eyes still fixed on the battle raging below.

“So it should be blowing those clouds to the east.” Alisaie pointed to the rolling dark shapes approaching. “Why are they headed south?”

South towards us, she did not need to say. Tobias and his fellows immediately diverted their attention from the battle and back towards the sky. The churning clouds were coming up fast. Growing in size the closer they came, the air darkening as they overtook more and more of the sky.

Distracted by the clouds, Alisaie almost didn’t hear the soft thump and would have ignored it were it not for the quiet gurgle that followed. She turned and for a moment was perplexed as to why there was a shaft of wood embedded between Tobias’s eyes. The man dropped, dead before he hit the ground. Alisaie instinctively reached out with a restorative spell forming in her hands before her sense returned and she went low, looking for the archer. Another soldier fell, this one with an arrow in his throat, and a third was screaming from the hit to her shoulder.

Alisaie left the wounded woman to Urianger. Her eyes followed the path of the arrows up the slope to a woman perched on a rock, bow in hand. Either the sniper that had menaced them previously, or someone just as good.

“For Elarion!”

Instead of taking cover behind the rocks, the remaining Wolf-touched charged up the slope. It was too far. Alisaie could see that plainly. With an elevated shooting position, and them with no cover, this fight favored their attacker. The archer would shoot them down before they could close. But maybe, if they were quick, one of them would close the distance before the Chosen could target them all.

Each of them charged into death for only the hope that the man behind them might live. Alisaie couldn’t help but be impressed. Say what you will about Elarians, but they were no cowards.

Alisaie joined the charge up the slope with her rapier held at the ready. The archer nocked and fired again with lightning speed, downing another Wolf-touched. Alisaie preempted a second arrow with a bolt of lightning forcing the archer to duck away. Their eyes met.

Alisaie had just enough time to realize she was going to die before an arrow was flying toward her. But it didn’t reach her. The Wolf-touched in front of her, a man whose name she hadn’t learned and never would, dove in front of her. The shaft embedded in his heart and he fell with a shuddering gasp. Alisaie wondered, was he trying to take the arrow for her or merely dodging a shot he believed aimed at himself and chose the worst direction possible?

She’d never know. But she wouldn’t let the sacrifice go to waste.

Alisaie shot forward. Her blade flashed out in a perfect fencing lunge. But still, too slow. The archer was impossibly fast, another arrow already drawn before Alisaie crossed half the distance. She was just close enough to see the vicious triumph in the Chosen’s eyes before they flicked away to a new threat.

The surviving Wolf-touched had not wasted the distraction, charging up the slope with blades drawn. The woman nearest to the Chosen wasn’t close enough to strike, so she threw her sword instead. The blade clumsily turned end-over-end as it flew. The archer immediately shifted her aim; her nocked arrow deflected the incoming projectile. The bow turned back to Alisaie, another arrow being fitted to the string as the Chosen turned.

Alisaie used the opening to gather aether into her legs and propelled herself forward even faster, closing the remaining distance in a blink. Her aether sheened rapier smashed through the bow. The Archer didn’t even blink at her weapon shattering, instead dropping the pieces and pulling a dagger from her belt while howling. “Your blood for Gorrath!”

Alisaie parried the clumsy but powerful slash. This close, she could see her enemy’s reddened skin, the berserk madness in her eyes. This was one of the Chosen, and she knew that meant there was no point to trying to take her prisoner.

Alisaie’s riposte stabbed through the heart, a clean and hopefully quick kill. Amazingly, the Chosen grabbed her sword by the blade and yanked on it, impaling herself further in an attempt to get closer. Even as the wound in her chest burned, she was screaming in anger, not pain, and Alisaie had to drop her weapon and step backwards to stay out of reach of the combusting hands. It wasn’t until the Chosen was completely subsumed by the flames that she felt it safe to retrieve her weapon from the dying embers that mere moments ago were another person.

Alisaie ran back down the slope to her comrades. The butcher’s bill was high. One wounded and five dead, from a fight that had lasted less than a minute. And it likely would have been worse had that one Wolf-touched not inexplicably taken that arrow for Alisaie. These Chosen were not to be underestimated.

Alisaie thought to lend a hand to Urianger healing the wounded soldier when she felt a shiver run down her spine. Something was coming. Directed by some instinct, her primitive hindbrain sensing danger, she looked into the sky.

The dark clouds had reached them. The daylight was swallowed in the ever-spreading gloom they cast. A blur of red burst from the murk, dropping out of the air to land with a thunderous crash and an even louder roar. Her ears ringing as she drew her sword, Alisaie got her first look at Gorrath.

He looked principally like a Taurhe, though larger than even the largest of their minotaur cousins. Cloven hooves, a bovine snout, and horns that looked like they had been deliberately sculpted to gore enemies. Instead of brown fur, his bare flesh was the red of exposed meat and faintly glistened as if he had been flayed only moments ago. Bands of black iron welded together into armor plates covered his torso, legs, and wrists, the crudely worked sigils on them too defaced to make out any detail. Wings the size of sails slowly furled against his broad back as he stood to his full height, towering over the scouting party despite his landing downslope of them. In his right hand was a massive double-headed battleaxe, as tall as the Primal himself with each blade being larger than Alisaie. Coiled around his left wrist was a length of chain ending in a barbed hook that swung below his hand. A flask of some sort made from the same metal as his armor hung from his belt. Black eyes like chips of obsidian bored into her and she felt the pressure of his will weigh down on her.

She had felt similar pressure before, when she had stood before Titan and Susano and more recently when she had fought the Magus Sisters. The immense power, the feeling of standing before something beyond mortal comprehension. But this was different. Harsher. Fiercer. This was no protector deity or guardian god; this was a monster, a destroyer of nations and slaughterer of entire peoples. In those eyes she saw the death of every living being on the star simmering in a sea of rage. A thirst for blood no amount of slaughter could ever slake.

She hadn’t even thought to draw her sword, but it was in her hand. Her lips were drawn into a snarl, her muscles tensed like a drawn bowstring. She was a second away from charging him, her eyes already tracing a spot between armor plates she could stab, when a shout broke into her thoughts.

“For Calydon! For Elarion!” The four Wolf-touched that could still stand raced towards Gorrath, yelling battle cries.

“No! Wait!” Alisaie shouted, to no avail.

The axe rose and with a speed that seemed impossible for something so large it struck.

The woman and two of the men were hacked clean in two. The last man was luckier, and only lost his sword hand. Gorrath raised his axe and twitched it, like he was trying to flick the blood off. The man screamed as a cloud of red flew out of him and his fallen comrades into the axe head. Like the soldiers had said, Blooddrinker had done what it was named for.

No, Alisaie caught herself. It had not drained their blood; in fact she could see it pooling beneath the corpses. The Primal had absorbed red tinted aether that looked like blood. Because like all Primals he drained aether from his surroundings and had some twisted magick art to draw it from people as well.

She calmed herself. Gorrath was large, intimidating, and likely the most powerful Primal she would ever face, but he was no god. Or even a Demon. He was just another Primal. She had nearly let herself get swept up in the fury and dread the creature seemed to exude and see him as something more than he was.

Thinking more clearly, Alisaie quickly assessed the situation. Urianger would need a few more minutes at least to stabilize his patient, time Gorrath was unlikely to give him. Alisaie doubted she could singlehandedly bring this behemoth down, but his arrival had not been subtle and he was even now in plain sight of the army below. Reinforcements were almost certainly on their way. All she had to do was keep everyone alive until they got here.

And so, as Gorrath took a step towards Urianger and his patient that shook the mountain, Alisaie hit him in the face with a fireball.

The Primal’s gaze swung towards her, looking less pained from the spell than she would have liked. Yellowing fangs bared as the monster growled. Wings spread with the crack of filling sails and one beat of them lifted the massive body into the air towards her. The axe swung down but she was already flipping away. As Gorrath’s strike shattered where she had been standing, she landed farther across the mountainside. She fired a sextet of crystalline swords but the Primal’s axe, now wreathed in the same unnaturally red flames that consumed the dying Chosen, smashed them aside.

Alisaie was surprised to see the snarl had turned into a smile, even if it was a decidedly psychotic one.

“Good.” Gorrath said, his voice the rumble of a volcano. “A foe with teeth.”

Alisaie raised her sword into a ready position, and prepared for the fight of her life.

The attack launched against the Elarian army made the previous assaults look like the probing attacks they were. The enemy did not consist solely of Skalik, many of the attackers were corrupted Elarians. Judging by their numbers, Gorrath had set his entire army against them. The ferocity of the corrupted was unlike anything they had faced thus far. They fought with a berserk fury, not even trying to protect themselves in lieu of charging in as fast as possible and attacking without relenting. They could have been easily cut down in droves but with the soldiers trying to subdue them without killing them, that made this fight far more desperate than it might have been.

Marcus was where he wanted to be, embroiled in the thickest fighting. More than a few of the Elarian attackers had the distinctive red skin and fanatical fury of the Chosen and they were powerful enough to easily cut down the Wolf-touched. Only the Knights seemed capable of going toe-to-toe with one of them. Marcus had dispatched five already and was currently facing three at once.

He blocked a spear thrust, batting it away with his shield to get in the way of the axeman trying to hack at him. His sword glimmering with aether, he stabbed the shrieking swordswoman in the stomach. Marcus let his energy loose, the resulting pulse of aether sending both of his other assailants reeling. The axeman recovered quicker, hacking at him with a pair of handaxes. The axes bounced off the shield barriers Marcus erected and he used the opening to slash his enemy across the chest from hip to shoulder. He turned to face the spearman, and saw Castor cutting the man’s throat as the Knights moved up to support him.

With a brief lull in the fighting, Marcus’ eyes were drawn to the cliffside above them, where Gorrath was attacking. Unless Marcus had gotten profoundly turned around, that was where Alisaie and Urianger were. The flares of magic that flashed across the cliffside showed they were giving a good accounting of themselves, but he didn’t like their odds in a protracted duel. That was going to be too close and brutal combat for either magic-focused Elezen to last long.

“I need to get up there!” He shouted to Castor over the din of the battle as the two of them each faced off against a tempered Taurhe.

“Not yet.” Castor called, blocking a sword slash with his shield.

“What do you mean not yet?” Marcus slashed through the haft of his opponent’s hammer. “This is why I’m here!”

“Something’s not right.” Castor explained as he stitched a thin red line across the Taurhe’s arm, disabling it. “Why would Gorrath ignore us in favor of picking off stragglers? It doesn’t make sense.”

Marcus slammed his shield in his enemy’s face, knocking the Taurhe senseless. The towering man toppled backwards to squash an unfortunate Skalik beneath him. “So he’s up to something? We already knew that.”

“Uncovering a trap by springing it is a terrible idea!”

“Well, good thing I’m an idiot!”

“What?” Castor turned. Marcus was already gone. Looking into the sky showed a rapidly receding figure, soaring from one of the leaps he had used to evade them in Radz-at-Han. Diomedes quickly stepped forward to fill the empty spot in the line and the two Knights weathered a renewed assault. Castor’s armor turned a Skalik’s blade and he instinctively cut down the ratman, mind on other matters. “How many Knights can we spare to reinforce him?”

Diomedes laughed breathlessly as he blocked Pollux’s spear thrust and ignored the mocking threats. “That’s easy. None.”

Castor’s eyes narrowed as Aethon stepped from the teeming mass of enemies. He barely managed to catch a blindingly fast slash on his shield and the impact almost drove him back a step. He put all other thoughts beyond the battle out of his head, aware he couldn’t afford the luxury of distraction.

His final thought before his focus narrowed to the deadly dance of swordplay was the hope that this was indeed what the Princeps had seen.

Alisaie ducked under the hook as it scythed through the air. She sent a blast of wind flying that the Primal easily side-stepped. He lunged forward and brought his axe down in another hammer blow that tore a gash into the mountainside and would have obliterated her had she stood to meet it.

She tried to dodge, but even though she avoided a direct hit the force of the impact kicked up an explosion of rocks and dust that sent her skidding down the slope. She ignored the pain in her hands, legs, back, and everywhere else, and rose, breathing heavily as she raised her sword into her ready position.

They had only been fighting for a few minutes, but they might have been the longest minutes of Alisaie’s life. It was taking every last ilm of her strength and skill to stay alive, let alone fight back. And that was while, like now, the Primal was giving her ample opportunities to recover and rally instead of pressing his attack while she was vulnerable. Even his attacks were often well telegraphed and slower than the blinding fast strike that had killed the others, as if he wanted her to dodge them.

It was taking everything she had to hold out against an enemy that was toying with her. The only silver lining was that her anger from Gorrath looking down on her both figuratively and at the moment literally was valuable fuel for her weary limbs.

“What’s the matter?” She challenged. “Feeling tired?”

Gorrath sighed, the sound managing to come off as indulgent despite being reminiscent of an avalanche.

“I confess, I had hoped for more from you.” Unnatural crimson flames tinged with black lightning burst into life around the axe blades. “Alas, I think you’ve shown me everything you have.”

“I may surprise you yet.” Alisaie retorted, his words more accurate than she cared to admit.

Gorrath took a heavy step forward that shook the mountain beneath them, then hesitated.

A silver blur dropped out of the sky, landing between them. Even exhausted and facing the most dangerous Primal she had ever seen, Alisaie grinned.

“Having fun?” Marcus asked as casually as if they were meeting for tea.

“What took you? Did you stop for lunch on the way?” Alisaie joked back.

“Finally.” Gorrath planted the base of his axe’s haft on the ground and straightened up to his full height. The bloodthirsty eagerness in his voice curdled some of Alisaie’s relief. “Elarion’s champion, I presume. I was beginning to think I was being too subtle.”

“We have very different definitions of the word ‘subtle,’ Blood Demon.” Marcus’ sword and shield were drawn, but held loosely at his sides in a mirror of Gorrath’s own relaxed posture.

“I prefer ‘Blood God,’ though I understand the distinction is largely a matter of perspective.” There was something decidedly unsettling and just downright wrong to seeing and hearing a creature that radiated violence lightly speaking on matters of semantics. The nonchalance an ill-fitting mask over the brutality beneath. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

“You were expecting me?”

Gorrath bared his teeth in a smile with cruel mirth. “My children have become predictable. Each time I return, they cower together and call on a champion to deliver them. A singularly formidable warrior to vanquish me, or die trying. No, my only surprise is that you are one of mine.”

“I am not your child.” Marcus said. His voice had the kind of even tone that only came from being forced. Gorrath merely laughed at the rejection.

“I have watched over this land since before your people were squabbling tribes bashing each other’s skulls in with rocks. I know an Elarian when I see one.”

“We are children of our Lady. Not you.” Marcus retorted. Gorrath scoffed.

“Yes, I am aware of this delusion. I am the God of War. Blood and battle are my domain. Do you truly believe that your people, who are born, raised, and die with blades in hand, are not of my lineage? Hydaelyn is your mother, yes. And I am your sire.”

Marcus said nothing. Alisaie could see his grip tightening around his sword’s hilt. Gorrath looked down at Marcus with indulgent patience. “You may believe what wish, my son. Like your kin before you, it changes nothing.”

“Did you give this same speech to Cassandra Silver-Hand?” Marcus asked with a challenging smirk in his voice. “It didn't stop her from killing you.”

“Cassandra.” Gorrath growled the name. “She was a worthy foe, a better hero than this dying wreck of a realm deserved. Still, I had been distracted, my strength spent on other battles before I faced her. This time around, I am prepared for our contest, not caught by surprise.” He raised his axe and pointed the monstrously large weapon at Marcus. “This time, I am ready for you, champion of Elarion.”

Marcus matched the motion with his sword. “You may have been waiting for me, but you definitely aren’t ready for me.”

Gorrath barked a laugh that set Alisaie’s teeth on edge. “Ha! Good! Exactly what I wanted to hear from you.” His wings spread wide as he raised his hands, grasping for the heavens. “Enough talk! Now we decide the fate of this land with our battle, you and I! Shall its hero preserve its stagnant ruination, or shall it be cleansed in glorious slaughter!?”

With a roar, he charged forward. Marcus set his feet, his sword and shield raised in defiance of the monster bearing down on him. The dark iron axe met the silver shield with a clash that Alisaie felt reverberate in her bones.

Marcus withstood the blow, though it forced him to grit his teeth. The Demon’s strength was insane. He stabbed with his sword, his aether flowing along the blade to become an extension of it forged from blue light. It was one of the first tricks he had learned to fighting Primals and as expected Gorrath was wise to it. The Demon stepped back out of the range of the aetherial blade and whipped out with his hooked chain. Marcus side-stepped the line of links, only for the hook to arc through the air of its own accord to dive back towards him. This time he knocked it away but again it curved around to come for him again.

Almost too late, he realized the true threat was not the hook, but the chain that had now encircled him. He leapt into the sky a second before the ring of metal snapped shut. Gorrath leapt forward, Blooddrinker swinging towards Marcus. Suspended in the air he had no way to evade, Marcus quickly conjured a ring of shields around himself.

The hit smashed him into the mountainside and shattered it beneath him. Marcus fared better, his shield blunting the axe’s hit and keeping its edge from tasting him. He ignored the pain and forced himself to his feet in time to see Gorrath land and fire the hook at him again. This time, when he dodged and it shot past him, he caught the rattling length in his shield hand and gave it a sharp yank.

Even Marcus’s chakra fueled muscles were not enough to pull the Demon’s massive bulk over to him, but it was enough to make Gorrath stagger forward. Marcus rushed forward to meet him and, off balance, Gorrath could not evade his powerful upward slash. The Demon’s armor turned the worst of the strike, but the aetherically lengthened blade drew blood where it cut above and below the dark plates.

The rattling chain wound itself around Gorrath’s wrist of its own accord as he took his axe in both hands. He had a vicious grin on his face, as if he felt as pleased Marcus managed to wound him as Marcus did. The flames running along the axe surged and Marcus poured his power into his sword and shield.

They clashed again and again, dark iron and balefire pitted against silver steel and azure light. A titanic battle that became as much a contest of wills as of weapons. Neither escaped the exchanges unharmed. Even fighting defensively to avoid even the slightest nick from Blooddrinker’s edge, Marcus could not avoid the searing balefire that enveloped the Demon’s weapons. He grit his teeth and healed the resulting burns with the same holy spells that he attacked with. For his part, Gorrath didn’t even seem to notice the cuts that steadily dotted his massive frame. Alisaie lent her spells to Marcus’ aid, but the speed with which the dueling warriors circled one another and the fireworks of their clashing magicks meant she only rarely had a clear shot to take.

Gorrath swung Blooddrinker in a heavy, two-handed cross slash that Marcus only barely managed to duck under. The force of the swing left Gorrath open until he could bring his weapon back between them, but he had used his greater size and the long haft of weapon to stay safely out of Marcus’ reach for the solitary second he would be vulnerable. It was the opening Marcus had been waiting for.

He threw his arms wide and a golden blade burst from the ground at Gorrath’s feet. The Demon’s roar as he was slashed from beneath was finally one of pain rather than bloodlust, and Marcus followed up his attack by pointing his sword. A barrage of blades materialized in the air and descended in a glittering rain. But they were too slow; Gorrath recovered from the first strike fast enough to smash them out of the air with an overhand swing of his axe. That again left him open, and a trio of crossed swords bit deeply into his crimson flesh. Marcus intended the final sword, as large of an aetherial blade as he could shape, to be the finishing blow, but Gorrath wasn’t slowed by his wounds and met the silvery blade with Blooddrinker’s flame-wreathed edge. The explosion threw Marcus backwards and lit the mountainside like a second sun.

Wincing from the brightness and panting from his exertions, Marcus quickly looked across the ruined cliffside to his opponent. The slope looked as though it had experienced an artillery barrage, craters and impacts carved out of the rock. Gorrath was leaning on his axe as blood dripped down and pooled beneath him, the fluid steaming and boiling away. Marcus would have been lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed the battle, the thrill of combat spiced with the fun of vanquishing the monster of countless childhood stories. But he could feel in his gut, an insidious instinctive sense that Gorrath was holding something back.

Marcus didn’t know why the Blood Demon who lived for carnage wouldn’t be using his full strength, nor did he care. He was not about to give Gorrath enough time to decide otherwise. Or to recover. Already the Demon was rising, his wounds closing. Being made of aether, Primals could restore their forms if given the chance and they had the aether to do so. Marcus started forward to land a decisive blow.

“Magnificent.” The relish in the Demon’s voice made him hesitate. “I see that silver eyed aberration chose his champion well.”

The insult flared Marcus’ temper and he charged, ready to end this. Gorrath grabbed the bottle off his belt and popped the lid off. Wisps of something emerged from the mouth and Marcus paused his advance. He didn’t need the Echo to tell him whatever was inside was dangerous.

“As much as I’d love to continue our dance, I must admit you are strong. And while I doubt you might actually win, I’m not going to take chances.” Gorrath crushed the flask in his hand. A sickly cloud of murky energy was inside, a dirty white against the Demon’s red fingers. “I do wish it hadn’t come to this, but I have obligations of my own to uphold.”

Marcus braced himself, ready to move. The distance between them was enough that he felt confident he could dodge the attack when it came. The way Gorrath cradled the mass of aether, he only had the one shot.

Black eyes jumped from Marcus, and he followed the gaze to Alisaie, running over to support him. Even as his mouth opened to warn of the danger, Gorrath thrust out his free hand and his hook shot towards the young Elezen. She reacted well, juking out of the path of the incoming metal, but it hit the ground where she had been standing with the force of a cannonball and the explosion knocked her off her feet. With a murderer’s smile, Gorrath drew back his arm and threw.

“Alisaie!” Marcus darted in the path of the energy ball, raised his shield, and projected his aether in the strongest barrier he could create.

The sickly, poisonous aether burned like ice as it bled through barrier, shield, and armor like they weren’t there. For an instant, Marcus heard the shrieking of a hundred agonized voices.

The darkness took him so fast he didn’t even feel hitting the ground.

“Marcus!!!”

Alisaie felt a dagger of ice in her gut as Marcus fell. The normally indomitable Warrior of Light crumbled without a noise, as if he had fallen asleep standing. Or had…

Without any sort of conscious thought, she was on her feet and running to his side in an instant. The sight of his open but unseeing eyes was a second icy stab to her stomach. Trembling fingers found his neck and the dull beat of his pulse made her wilt from the sheer relief.

“He’s alive.” She breathed to herself.

“For now.”

Her head snapped up. Gorrath stood over them, axe held in both hands. Somehow, it looked even more deadly with its flames extinguished, blade glinting wickedly in the dim light. “Easily remedied.”

She rose with sword in hand, ready to fight a final and, she knew, futile defense of her friend. The axe rose and Gorrath grinned maliciously, savoring the kill. But before he could swing the axe down as a guillotine to end both Scions’ lives, the sky fell in on him.

Alisaie’s head snapped around to see Urianger, his astrolabe pulsing with energy as he unleashed a gravity spell potent enough to drive the Primal to his knees. Gorrath snarled, struggling to rise against the pressure forcing him down.

“Deliver our friend to the safety of our allies below!” Urianger shouted, arm trembling from the force of his exertions. “I shall hold our foe back here!”

Alisaie knew how that would end. “Urianger! No!”

He did not insult her intelligence by claiming he would be fine and right behind her. “Go now!”

Cursing cruel fate and her own weakness, she bent down and lifted Marcus’ body. The Hyur man being nearly twice her size made him an awkward burden, but she strengthened her limbs with some of the last scraps of her aether and hoisted him regardless.

“I’ll be right back, you hear!” She called, already running down the slope. “You’d better stay alive, damn you!”

“You will not escape!” Gorrath rose out of his crouch, his chain snaking out towards her. With another spell, Urianger drove him down again and pinned the chain to the ground.

“Thou will not pursue mine comrades. The radiance of the heavens shall rend even thine darkness.” The Elezen stared the Primal down, who barked a laugh.

“Hah! Bold words, little man, but do you have the strength for them?” The red skinned behemoth burst upward against the force dragging him down and lunged forward, only for another, stronger spell to slam him back down again.

“Rrrgh!” Gorrath growled, straining to not be crushed against the ground. His remaining wounds flared. “Damn that bastard!”

Alisaie descended the mountainside as fast as she could without pitching forward and rolling her way down. At some point in all this Marcus’s eyes had closed and it was only Gorrath’s belief that he would need to finish the job that kept Alisaie from stopping to see if Marcus had already expired. The roars of fury behind her signaled that Urianger was making good on his promise, but he could only hold out so long and any delay might prove fatal.

As she drew closer to her destination, she spotted the clashing armies. Elarion’s forces appeared to be winning the day, such as it was, and what remained of Gorrath’s army was being driven back into the hills. But there were far too many bodies left on the field, and far too many of them wearing silver armor. The battle had been won, but clearly at a cost. She dropped her view from the scenery and concentrated on her path forward.

So intent was she on descending as fast as her legs could carry her, she didn’t see the advancing soldiers until she was almost upon them.

“Eorzean!” A Hyuran man stopped her. “What happ–”

“I need a healer.” She cut him off. “Now!”

Between the burden on her back and the urgency in her voice, he didn’t ask anything further. “Follow me. Make way!”

Soldiers hurried to clear a path as the duo pushed through the crowd that was trying to move the other direction. This was some kind of advance party, Alisaie quickly realized, moving to intercept Gorrath. The healers were almost certainly back with the main force. She nearly attacked the Taurhe that wordlessly plucked Marcus off her back before reason fought through the cloud of frantic worry fogging her mind. Her weary muscles were relieved to lay down their burden even as she resisted the urge to refuse to let go of him.

The trio made quick time, and before long reached the edge of the crowd. A shout pulled them up short.

“Alisaie!” Castor called out to her. Flanked by a number of his fellow Knights, he took in her exhausted appearance and her companion’s burden at a glance and turned to one of his compatriots. “Help them.”

Calista was already drawing her staff. “Lay him down here.” She moved over to a relatively flat patch of ground. The Taurhe dutifully complied. Alisaie crouched next to Marcus, wishing she still had the strength for restorative magicks. The mage knelt beside her and reached out with her own healing magicks. The gentle light washed over Marcus, to no effect.

“Where is Gorrath?” Castor demanded. Alisaie pointed over her shoulder back the way she had come.

“There, fighting with Urianger. You must help him!”

“In a moment.” Castor replied, infuriatingly calm. He looked to his healer. “Can you get him up and fighting?”

Her brow was furrowed as she ran her hands along Marcus’ torso. “There’s nothing wrong with him, Knight-Captain. Some bruises and minor burns, that’s all.”

“Gorrath did something.” Alisaie explained, as best as she could anyway. “Some kind of spell or curse.”

“Hrm.” Castor looked up the mountain, thinking. He swore.

Alisaie followed his gaze and saw the massive figure descending through the air towards them on heavy beats of his wings. Alisaie bowed her head in grief, knowing what his presence here meant for Urianger. Then she drew her sword, ready to fight to the last.

Gorrath landed with a heavy crash on the other side of the crowd of men, axe held at the ready.

“In the Lady’s name! Attack!” The order rang out. A crowd of what was easily fifty men charged up the slope, shouting battlecries and waving their weapons.

“Damnit, no! Fall back!” Castor shouted, to no avail. The tempered fighters’ blood was up and they fearlessly rushed Gorrath.

The axe rose and fell. A dozen men were sent flying, their broken bodies batted aside. Red aether poured from them and vanished down Blooddrinker’s maw. The chain wiped out and the hook knocked another knot of soldiers off their feet. One woman managed to weather the onslaught enough to throw her spear. It clattered off the Primal’s breastplate and he raised a hand in answer. The fireball that shot from it engulfed not just the spearwoman, but several others around her. The entire group fell with agonizing screams. And Gorrath laughed.

Raucously. Gleefully. He slaughtered dozens in mere seconds and gorged himself on those he had hewn apart, delighting in the carnage. The vicious, sadistic, yet still genuine joy sent a shiver down Alisaie’s spine. This beast would murder the world for the pleasure of watching it die.

Castor drew his sword and rushed forward as more Elarians died and fed the burning axe their life force.

“Timon! Get them out of here! The rest of you, with me! Blood for Elarion!” Castor called as he charged forward. The Knights echoed him as they ran towards their enemy. All except a Taurhe, who with arms the width of Alisaie’s torso effortlessly slung Marcus over his shoulder.

“No escape, mortals!” The Primal’s roar preceded a wall of crimson fire ten fulms tall bursting from the ground around them. It expanded, encircling them and trapping them between it and Gorrath, who was gorily hacking his way through the men between him and them. Alisaie raised her sword and moved to join the fray, but a large hand grabbed her by the shoulder. She tried to struggle free of Timon’s grip to join the battle, but he held her tight.

“We need to go!” Timon shouted to be heard over the roars, screams, and other sounds of battle. “Can you use your spells to get us through these flames?”

Alisaie nodded, turning to face the wall of fire. Protecting Marcus was more important than vengeance, no matter how tempting the latter was. Unfortunately, her wind spell did little to snuff the flames. She struggled to remember how to cast a water spell, exhaustion clouding her mind more with each passing exertion.

“Hurry!” Timon urged. Alisaie risked a glance back to see a Knight falling to the ground in two pieces. Gorrath’s axe shattered a barrier thrown up to block him and a hoof stamped on another’s chest, caving it in. She turned back to her task and desperately tried to dredge up more aether for what might be last spell she could cast before slipping into unconsciousness.

A howl pierced the air. More than the air, it felt like it stabbed into Alisaie’s ears. Her weariness vanished and she felt a renewed strength course through her veins. Her lips pulled back into an unconscious snarl. She felt an immediate urge to hunt and kill and sink her teeth into Gorrath’s throat. She recoiled from the feeling, aware that these weren’t her thoughts. The howl triggered her primeval instincts, taking her back to a time when man had yet to rise above the beasts and waking the hunter inside humanity’s collective subconscious.

And through the flames came its source. A massive, gold furred wolf, wreathed in the crimson fire she dove through and the azure fire emanating from her fur, pouncing on Gorrath with bared fangs. The Primal moved whip-fast and his arm warded the teeth away from his neck but they sank deep into the limb, puncturing the armor on his wrist with ease. Gorrath roared in pain and lashed out, but the wolf withdrew outside his axe’s reach. Growling fiercely, Lupercal stared him down.

Whether he was afraid of his fellow Primal, or simply too spent from fighting the Scions to face another powerful foe, Alisaie could not say, but Gorrath clearly did not like his odds anymore. With a final wave of red fire that forced Lupercal to counter with her own blue flames to shield the mortals present, wings snapped and beat and Gorrath launched into the sky.

“Coward!” The wolf called after him.

“Another time, lapdog.” Gorrath answered. He whirled his axe around and fire erupted around him. Another swing of the axe and a figure in midnight blue armor was batted away from him. Estinien landed gracefully as Gorrath rapidly ascended into the dark cloud bank.

“He’s running.” A Hyuran Knight said eagerly. “The Warrior of Light must have weakened him. If we can follow, strike before he can recover, we can end this.”

“He’ll scurry back to his tunnels. We’ll need the Lady’s luck to find him.” Castor replied.

“Her luck, or Her hound.” The Knight answered. Said hound was currently looming over Alisaie and Timon, staring with piercing blue eyes and sniffing the air above them.

“This one.” The Wolf Primal’s voice was deep and half a growl, but was still noticeably feminine. “My Lady’s champion?”

“Yes, he is!” Alisaie said, her concerns about a Primal’s aid pushed aside by desperation. “Gorrath struck him down, can you help?”

Lupercal shook her head. “I have no healing arts, but my Lady’s favored is nearby, is he not? He will see a solution, when the patient is before him.”

She knelt down, her lowered back an obvious invitation.

“Lupercal, wait!” The Hyuran Knight called, while Castor sighed and shook his head. At a nod from his captain, Timon draped Marcus onto the Primal’s back.

“Please!” Alisaie called, pushing forward. “Take me with you.”

Blue eyes narrowed at her and a nose the size of a buckler flared as the Primal sniffed her. Whatever she smelled, she nodded. Not stopping to question her good fortune, Alisaie clambered on. The ground fell away as Lupercal stood again. “I am not a beast of burden, so be thankful you are light enough.”

Alisaie took tufts of golden fur in each hand. She looked for Estinien, looking down at him for once. “Urianger was fighting above. Please…” She trailed off, unwilling to make his fate more real by saying the words.

Estinien nodded, understanding. “We’ll find him.”

“Hold tight, child, or my forbearance will be the last thing you regret!” Lupercal sprang into motion. Alisaie did as instructed and held the fur firmly, the wind nearly throwing her off before she had a chance to solidify her grip. As the malms fell away under the Primal’s loping stride, Alisaie looked down at the unconscious face of her friend and prayed she hadn’t gotten him killed.

Chapter Text

Alphinaud made his way down the road to the castle ignoring the glances that came his way. By now he was used to Elarians gawking at him for being visibly not from this land, and with everything that had happened he could not bring himself to care about the attention he received.

The Scions had done what they could to assist the army as it limped back to the city after the catastrophic fiasco in the mountain pass. Some in the city tried to hail it as a victory in that they forced Gorrath and his forces to retreat. But the infirmary tents were full to bursting, many more had been left dead behind them, and the Primal had escaped to continue plotting his next move while the only man capable of stopping him was now in a coma. A pall of defeat hung over the city and Alphinaud had no idea how to lift it.

Lacking any better ideas, he provided his services at the infirmary tents, the overworked chirurgeons grateful for any assistance they could get. Alisaie had been lending a hand too, until her exhaustion became so self-evident that the chief chirurgeon, an elderly Hyur who commanded his staff like a military unit, had told her she could either go get some rest or be admitted as a patient herself. Alphinaud had only stayed a few hours longer himself. Long enough that he used up most of his aether, but not so much that he would feel the pangs of aetheric depletion. There was still much he had to do.

First and foremost, he had to look in on his sister. She had not said it, when she was recounting what had happened to Marcus, but he knew her well enough to guess what the intensity with which she had thrown herself into her healing signaled. 

She blamed herself for what happened to Marcus. If Alphinaud was a betting man, he’d put his money on the irrepressibly heroic Warrior of Light intentionally taking the attack that laid him low to protect Alisaie from it. That kind of sacrifice, on her behalf, would be eating her alive inside.

And what came after would have been even worse. Urianger had been a common figure around the Leveilleur household, he was almost family. To think that he was… no. Alphinaud wouldn’t even let himself think it, not until they had confirmation.

Alphinaud paused at the entrance to the castle courtyard, finding it full of kneeling soldiers. At the far end, towering over them, a massive aetheric creature sat on her haunches.

Lupercal looked more like a wolf than actual wolves. Even with the golden fur and vibrant azure eyes, the lupine Primal was akin to the platonic ideal of wolves. She was what you would see in your imagination when you pictured one of those lupine creatures, a wolf without any of the little imperfections that would mar a real being of flesh and blood. She radiated a primeval vitality; he had felt it when hearing her howl during the battle and could feel it now looking at her. Alphinaud could see why men would worship such a being as a god, when its mere presence filled one with vigor.

“I’d stand back, if I were you.” Estinien was leaning on the wall beside the gate, watching the Primal. “Our warding scales should be proof against this, but no sense in tempting fate.”

Alphinaud took his meaning and joined him by the wall just in time to see Lupercal throw back her head and howl. The cry split the air and made him wince from the strength of it. A blue fire rippled out from the Primal, washing over the ranks of kneeling men and women. Their bodies drew in the flame as it passed and for a moment each of them were haloed with its light as they absorbed Lupercal’s power. For a moment, as the wave of fire petered out in the final row, they were still beyond the twitching of minds and bodies being overridden.

A man stood, then another. Fists thrust into the air, feet stamped, and a chant rapidly spread across the newly tempered group.

“Lupercal! Lupercal! Lupercal!”

Alphinaud understood that these men could and would be cured of their new condition once the protection from another Primal’s influence was no longer required. He also knew that part of the concept worshipped to summon Lupercal was that she would not distort or enslave the minds of her followers when tempering them. And it was interesting from a purely academic perspective to be able to witness a mass Primal tempering from this close and with no fear of being affected himself. He still found the display decidedly unsettling.

It was, he had to admit, a clever idea. Primals took form based on the image the summoner or summoners were fixated on. So the Elarians had, seemingly deliberately, cultivated a series of images based on needs they might have and worshiped them as gods. The Wolf, the Scholar, the Forger, and so on, as Marcus had explained the pantheon. Each one had abilities that would be useful for a particular kind of crisis as well as personalities that led them to be loyal servants of the realm rather than domineering gods, and so each one could be and was summoned as a Primal when the need arose. But no matter how clever it was, it didn’t obligate Alphinaud to approve of Elarion normalizing the summoning of Primals, no matter how infrequently such summonings were performed.

Putting his reservations, and the chanting, out of his mind for now, Alphinaud looked to Estinien and relayed the news that had spurred him to leave the infirmary. “I saw the griffin return.”

“Aye, they landed a few minutes ago.” Estinien nodded. “I was on my way over when I stopped to watch the show. Shall we?”

The two Elezen made their way to the castle’s landing zone and griffin stables. Calydon’s prince kept a contingent of his princedom’s signature animal on hand and used them for both aerial transportation and reconnaissance. The one they were to meet had just returned from doing both.

It was with no surprise that Alphinaud found Alisaie already waiting outside the stable doors. She barely acknowledged their presence when they joined her. A bad sign, Alphinaud knew. But before he had time to ruminate on his sister’s state of mind, Thancred emerged from the double doors and parted ways with the rider that had flown him. He nodded a greeting to them, looking tired. Small wonder, after what he had been doing.

“Do you have any word?” Alisaie asked intently.

“Good news. We found neither hide nor hair of Urianger himself, but I did manage to spot this.” He held up a bejeweled golden slate.

“Urianger’s warding scale.” Alphinaud said. “So he was taken.”

“Impossible to say for certain.” Thancred warned, likely wary of giving them false hope. “But with how many other bodies were left as they lay, it seems a reasonable guess.”

Alphinaud nodded grimly. It may only be good news because of the alternative, but he was still relieved to see a sign that their friend was still alive. Alive, and under Gorrath’s thrall, which created all new problems for them to deal with, but the chance to save him was worth all of them. Thancred turned to Alisaie. “How is he?”

She shook her head despondently, even the news of Urianger’s survival failing to lift her spirits. “There’s been no change since you left.”

“I was going to check in on them. Would you care to join me?” Alphinaud offered.

Thancred shook his head. “Since I doubt you’ll have any use for me, I’m going to get something to eat.” His gaze fell on Alisaie. “Care to show me where the food is kept in this place?”

She spent a moment looking torn, clearly wanting to return to Marcus’s side as soon as possible, but she acquiesced. “This way.”

Alphinaud sent a silent thanks at Thancred’s departing back. Giving Alisaie something to do beside brooding was the best thing for her right now and his request would likely end with her actually eating something, probably for the first time today.

Alphinaud and Estinien made their way across the courtyard. It was crowded, the castle too, filled with soldiers moving from one barracks to another and servants carrying baskets of food or weapons and armor in need of repairs. The bustle of the crowd gave the place a lively air, if one did not look too closely at the dark expressions or hear the low undertones pervasive in the conversations. The home of Calydon’s prince was less a seat of royal power, more a military base and even in defeat, it retained that same energy.

As Alphinaud and Estinien entered the castle proper as part of the river of people flowing in and out of its doors, a voice rang out across the foyer. “Scions!”

Alphinaud turned to the source of the boisterous bellow. Atreus was positively fuming, enough that even Asterion beside him seemed pensive. The crowds parted way before the princes, people having no desire to stand between their ruler and the subject of his ire. “Do you have any idea what you cost us?”

“I beg your pardon, your highness?”

“You quit the field.” Atreus bit the words out accusingly. “Gorrath could have been hunted down and finished if you hadn’t lost your nerve.”

“Our retreat saved dozens of lives.” Estinien retorted, undaunted by the wave of royal hostility. “We escorted the many wounded back here, or would you rather we left them for dead on the mountainside?”

The diplomat in Alphinaud winced at the dragoon’s tone. The Scion in him cheered the sentiment.

“Lives that may be lost anyway, once the Demon returns.” Atreus challenged. Asterion glanced at the passerby stopping to watch the confrontation.

“Perhaps this conversation should be held elsewhere.” The Taurhe suggested. Atreus brushed him off.

“You had the Demon right where we wanted him, wounded and fleeing, but you retreated rather than finish the job. And don’t insult me by pretending you did it to save my men, you were only protecting your Warrior of Light.”

“Lupercal had already conveyed our friend to safety before we left.” Alphinaud pointed out. He attempted to defuse the situation, this argument was a bit too public for his liking. “With Gorrath’s retreat back into the tunnels under his control, and without the Wolf’s aid, we would have been hard pressed to both find Gorrath and even fight through his remaining followers to engage him in battle again.”

“That is so.” Asterion conceded. “The Lady’s Wolf is notoriously uncontrollable. If she chose to quit the field to convey the Princeps’ champion back here, no one could have gainsaid her.”

Atreus was not mollified. “You heard what Knight-Captain Castor said. If the Scions had stood and fought, there was a chance the Demon could have been slain even without Lupercal. Instead, we sacrificed how many lives and gained nothing from it?”

“A chance we could have won is also a chance we could have lost.” Estinien replied, folded his arms. His eyes narrowed at the prince. “Then we would have lost how many more lives and still have nothing to show for it.”

“That is not untrue.” Asterion said, looking between the two men uncomfortably.

“War is risk. I’m not surprised to hear this from soft outlanders, but has Cretos forgotten how to fight?” Atreus glared at the Taurhe who now glared back. Before the argument could go any further, a commanding voice cut across the hall.

“My princes.” The Princeps walked towards them, flanked by Telarchus and Castor. “I appreciate that dismay from recent events may cause you to speak harshly, but this argument is unbecoming.”

He did not need to glance at the others in the entrance hall, many of whom were now kneeling in his presence, to make his point. Atreus visibly corralled his anger. “You are right, my Princeps. But to pay so much to come so close to killing that bastard, only to fall short…”

“Castor is a confident man and overstated their chances of success.” The Princeps said calmly. “Without Lupercal, there was no a realistic chance of our forces overcoming the Demon in his own lair.” Alphinaud could not help but notice the quick blink of surprise from the Knight, but he held his tongue.

“As you say, my Princeps.” Atreus visibly deflated as he turned back to the Scions and bowed his head. “My apologies. Pray forgive my words.”

Alphinaud got the impression his contrition was genuine as his anger. “No offense was taken, I assure you. We too found the battle’s outcome highly unsatisfactory.”

With another nod, Atreus walked past them to the doors. Asterion watched him go. “A profoundly disagreeable man.”

“Do not be too harsh.” The Princeps advised. “He is willing to spend the lives of his subjects because he must, but he still counts them dearly. And losing that which he holds dearly inflames his temper, which we can all appreciate.”

Alphinaud was not entirely sure about that, but he was hardly about to start another debate. “Thank you for your insight, Princeps, but we were on our way to see Marcus.”

“Please, allow me to accompany you.” The Princeps replied. “I wish to see him myself.”

Alphinaud shrugged and allowed the other man to lead the way. They could hardly refuse.

Y’shtola had to admit, on some level she hated Marcus.

He knew full well that to her, his life was one of the most precious things in existence. Even so, he had the temerity to try throwing that life away with depressing regularity. Every time she stood over his sickbed, watching him die by ilms, she felt a pain she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. A pain he knowingly inflicted on her time and time again.

Why did he have always have to charge in, protecting everyone but himself?

She was not being entirely fair, she knew. She’d known the kind of man he was and she’d given him her heart anyway. She had only herself to blame for him not taking better care of it.

Marcus could have been asleep. Not sleeping well, Y’shtola knew. His pained grimace reminded her of a night when his tossing in the throes of a nightmare had shaken her awake. She had awoken him then, calmed his fears, eased him back into a peaceful slumber. Would that she could do the same now.

She’d tried everything she could think of, with an increasing urgency that began to border on the frantic. She sought Krile’s input, and those of several Elarian healers. Tried combining their restorative magicks, utilized different methodologies, even resorted to one man’s suggestion of inflicting physical harm instead of healing to jolt him awake.

Nothing worked. Marcus remained asleep.

She had personally confirmed several times that he had no injuries or illness. Physically, Marcus was as hale and healthy as he had ever been. Spiritually? That was another matter entirely.

His soul writhed in pain. Whatever magick Gorrath used on him, it had thrown his aether into such turmoil that if Y’shtola did not know it was Marcus lying before her, she would think her patient was someone else. The normal vibrancy of his sky-blue aether was almost completely subsumed by a riotous whirl of sickly colors that turned her stomach to look at.  Foreign aether, crudely injected into his soul. Poisoning him from the inside and crushing him under the weight of their intrusion. A simple problem, easily identified with her aetheric sight.

Y’shtola had no idea what to do.

She’d never seen any affliction like this before. The closest comparison she could draw was again to Marcus’s soul after his absorbing the Lightwardens’ aether. Then the danger had come from his soul being filled to bursting, cracking from the strain of carrying that much energy. Such overloading was again a factor, and Y’shtola was as incapable of treating it as she had been before. Now, they didn’t even have Ryne to reduce the effects.

Worse, that problem was entirely secondary to how the foreign aether was acting as a pseudo-infection. It was almost actively trying to weaken Marcus’s soul, invading his aether circulatory systems like a true sickness might. If Y’shtola didn’t know any better, she might have assigned active malice to the aether. An absurd notion, that she even contemplated it was a signal of how her judgement was beginning to be affected.

She had worked through the night trying to save Marcus. Her need for sleep easily brushed aside, her need for food even moreso. Her empty stomach and sluggish thoughts were already reminding her that she could not ignore hunger and fatigue indefinitely. Stress and frustration likewise frayed her patience and inflamed her temper. Anxiety and grief made her blink away tears more times than she cared to admit. And the icy dagger of fear inched closer and closer to piercing her heart with every minute Marcus remained asleep.

Y’shtola was grateful Krile was here. For her own copious talents as a healer, certainly, but also for how her presence triggered long ingrained reflexes for Y’shtola to maintain her composure. Y’shtola had long been devoted to preserving her dignified reserve. Excessively so, she was willing to admit. Having a witness to her mental state forced her not to become overwhelmed with emotion. No matter how her heart wrenched to see the man she loved dying before her very eyes, she strove to affect a focused and professional air.

Not because she was concerned about her image, Y’shtola doubted she would fool even a casual observer, let alone one with Krile’s hyper-sensitive Echo. But pretending to be calm helped her remain calm in truth. She needed to keep a clear mind. Now was no time to become distraught. Hysterics could wait until after Marcus was whole once more.

“Mayhap we could attempt transferring his spirit into an external vessel.” Y’shtola voiced her most recent idea. “Separated from his bodily aether, it may prove easier to excise the contaminants.”

Solon, a man with graying hair who was one of Calydon’s finest healers, frowned over his folded arms. “The problem remains that we lack the means to perform the kind of soul manipulation delicate enough to get at the contaminants in the first place.”

Y’shtola nearly snapped at him. She reined her temper in through no small amount of effort and said nothing. Krile spoke into the tense silence.

“What concerns me is that Marcus’s bodily aether is bearing much of the strain. If that was removed from the equation, the speed of his spiritual deterioration would almost certainly increase rapidly. We need a viable method of curing him before we take such a step, lest we kill him rather than save him.”

Y’shtola took a deep breath through her nose. She knew that. They could not afford to be rash. But their inactivity grated on her. Every minute spent not healing Marcus wore more heavily on her nerves.

Solon was about to say something when the door opened. At the sight of who was entering, he knelt. His fellow Elarian healer did so as well. So it was with no surprise that Y’shtola turned around to see the Princeps entering, Alphinaud at his heels. The Princeps ignored how Solon and the other healer cleared out of his way and walked forward until he was standing before Y’shtola and Krile. Alphinaud kept walking, going slightly past them to stand at Marcus’s bedside. Estinien, Castor, and Telarchus followed the duo into the room, the dragoon copying Alphinaud in approaching the sickbed to get a look at Marcus alongside Alphinaud and the Princeps while Castor took us station at the door and Telarchus trailed a respectful distance behind his master.

“What is wrong with him?” Estinien asked, brow furrowing. “I see no injury that might have laid him low.”

“And you won’t.” The Princeps told him. Again he wore that slight smile of his, waving a hand languidly towards Y’shtola and Krile. “He is crippled by an attack on his spirit, the details of which I will leave for our experts to explain.”

“I imagine you already know.” Y’shtola said, shorter than she intended.

The Princeps nodded, showing no offense at her tone. “I do. But it’s best for explanations to come from those with firsthand knowledge, as it were.”

“Very well.” Krile took a moment to square her shoulders, Y’shtola not the only one feeling the weight of exhaustion, and launched into a description of Marcus’s malady. Already painfully aware of the details, Y’shtola tuned out the explanation and returned to watching Marcus slumber. After a few seconds, the Princeps joined her. They both stood in silence for a long moment.

“He looks so fragile.” The Princeps finally offered. He scoffed ruefully. “So much for my hopes he’d save us all.”

He spoke in a flat tone of voice. Y’shtola looked away from Marcus for long enough to glance at the Princeps’ face, but his expression was just as unreadable.

She looked back to Marcus. He would save us all. The more his legend grew, the more people thought the same. Including Marcus himself. For all his humility, he always thought he could save everyone. And that any time he did not was a failure on his part. Despite her best efforts, she'd never been able to convince Marcus of the simple fact that no matter how strong he was, sometimes casualties were inevitable. No, he always castigated himself over every life lost, always believed there was something he could have done differently, done better. Such a profound arrogance, from a man who normally made humility seem almost a vice.

Estinien’s voice intruded into her thoughts.

“How can his soul be corrupted? I thought the Echo made him proof against such things.”

“And it does.” Y’shtola said, turning back to the conversation. The Princeps matched the motion and took a few steps closer to form a ring of conversation. “Marcus cannot be tempered. But this is not tempering.”

“This magic is unlike anything I have seen.” Krile added. “His soul is fully intact. Gorrath’s magick is not an attempt to take away, but to add. The closest thing I have seen to it is the Empire’s experiments in bestowing the Echo on Fordola and Zenos. But instead of empowering him, the purpose was to cripple him.”

She shrugged, her tiredness writ plain in the slump of her shoulders.

Alphinaud looked between the two women. “Do you have any idea how this happened?”

“We have a theory, only.” Krile hesitantly offered.

“At this point, even your guesswork would be appreciated.” Alphinaud said. Y’shtola and Krile shared a look. The Miqo’te nodded. They might as well share what they knew even if what they knew was speculation. She stayed quiet and allowed Krile to addressed the group.

“We believe Gorrath crafted some sort of deliberately debilitating essence and infused Marcus’ aether with it. The resulting shock of his very soul being invaded by such foreign, hostile elements knocked him unconscious.”

“If it is the shock that laid him low, why does he still sleep?” Estinien asked, genuinely curious.

“I can hear his soul’s voice.” Krile said somberly. “He’s screaming.”

Silence greeted her words. “Endlessly. Without pause. Marcus’s soul is being tortured by this magick, subsumed by a tide of pain and fear and despair. A hundred jagged edges slashing at him, holding him trapped within the depths of his own mind. And that overloading of his soul will erode his physical body until… it will simply give out.”

Y’shtola felt her ears wilt against her hair. They had consistently used the clinical, dispassionate terminology of healers at work when describing Marcus’s condition up until now. Hearing that condition being put so bluntly tore at her. She could only imagine the torment occurring beneath the surface of that grimace on his face. He was fighting for his life and she was powerless to help him. She looked away, back towards the others. Alphinaud wore an expression of sorrow and horror similar to how she felt, even Estinien’s usual stoic face bore a look of concern.

The Princeps did not seem as moved by Marcus’ plight, folding his arms. “And what can we do to aid him?” Even as Krile began to answer, he closed his eyes and his aether spiked. When he reopened them, they blazed with silver light.

“There is little that can be done from the outside, I am afraid.” Krile shook her head helplessly. “This… soul poison is woven tightly within the fabric of his aether. We might be able to influence his aether and extract it, but there are no known techniques to do that with the degree of subtlety we require. If we attempt it, we will tear off pieces of our friend’s soul in the process, doing irreparable damage.

“We are not without options, however. Y’shtola has noted the similarities between this malady and the knightly blessing rituals you told her about, so even now Raha searches the castle library looking for tomes covering the process that may contain insights we can use.”

Not that Y’shtola had much hope riding on his success. She’d seen the castle library, a vast trove of knowledge it was not. Nevertheless, Castor stirred from his post by the wall. “You told them our lore?”

The Princeps blinked and, his eyes back to blue rather than molten silver, sighed. “Not now, Castor.”

He looked to Krile. “G’raha will not find any such lore here, or anywhere else in Elarion beyond the Citadel’s archives. It is, as my captain just alluded, a tightly guarded secret. Telarchus?”

“Yes, my Princeps.” The attendant answered smartly and snapped to attention.

“Send word to the Citadel. Inform the priests of our champion’s malady and that they are to devote themselves to finding a remedy. Tell the archivists I want copies of Mato’s Musings and Songs of Cyrene delivered here as quickly as they can. Also, extend my apologies but inform them they are to search the lower stacks the hard way.”

“As you will.” Telarchus wasted no time in exiting the room to carry out his master’s commands. Y’shtola was beginning to get used to the Princeps’ habit of skipping ahead. The man turned back to Krile, who’s head was cocked in confusion. 

“The High Priestess is very apologetic, but she has no solution. There are potential remedies she is willing to try, but the chances of crippling or killing Marcus are greater than curing him. And after five days of trawling the archives, those are the only two tomes the Master Archivist believes may be of some help. He does still counsel caution, as they mainly pertain to theoretical notions of removing unwanted elements of a single man’s soul, rather than exorcising external elements hooked into one like burrs.”

“These lower stacks you mentioned, might there be something we could use there?” Y’shtola asked and was not surprised when the Princeps shook his head.

“I asked them to look to be thorough, but those are predominantly fiction. Fables, apocryphal legends. We will need to rely on the solution Mistress Krile was not yet able to voice. That Marcus manages to drive this malignant soul poison from himself and awakens on his own.”

“Indeed.” Krile elaborated. “There’s a good chance Marcus’ own aether will fight off and repulse the invading aether, much like how a body can overcome a disease.”

Y’shtola frowned. That was indeed the only potential ‘treatment’ they had identified that was not liable to leave Marcus worse off than before they tried it. It still rankled that the only thing they could do for Marcus was to do nothing.

With a swirl of his robe, the Princeps turned from the bed and began to walk to the door. “Then I suggest we return our attention to the Demon and focus on more practical matters rather than wringing our hands over his sickbed.”

Y’shtola felt a flash of anger, so sudden and hot the intensity of it stole her voice, lest she say something unbecoming. Alphinaud lacked her discretion.  

“You mean to abandon him? To discard him, just like that?” Alphinaud’s usual decorum was trampled by his outrage. “He’s no more use to you so that’s it, you’ll leave him to suffer without even trying to help him? Is that all he is to you, just some resource that only mattered because he could fight your battles!?”

Krile looked shocked at the uncharacteristic outburst, Castor took a step forward as if preparing to charge him, and Estinien moved to block the Knight if it came to it.

The Princeps glared back and for the first time Y’shtola saw genuine anger in him. He nearly shouted at the young Elezen. “You think I don’t care about–!”

He caught himself, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then glared at Alphinaud. “If you insist on seeing me as callous, then know that he remains our best chance of defeating Gorrath. If there was anything I could do to help him, I would spare no effort. But there isn’t. The only thing we can do now is ensure his sacrifice wasn’t in vain and we do not waste the time he has bought us.”

The Princeps sighed, clearly trying to marshal his temper. “I cannot command you. Do as you see fit, whether it be continuing the fight with us, or devoting your time to finding a solution to his aliment. If you wish it, I will even grant you access to the Citadel’s library. Who knows, you might find something the archivists didn’t. If you uncover a promising lead, I will do all in my power to help you follow it. But when the men and women who know the place like the back of their hands looked, I did not see them finding anything useful.”

“You’ll forgive me if I am not inclined to take your word for it.” Y’shtola replied. “As you said, reviving Marcus remains our best chance of success even disregarding any personal feelings we have towards him. I see no reason for us to put all our faith in your visions when you yourself have admitted they are being interfered with.”

“I see clearly in this, at least.” The Princeps’ gaze drifted back to her, then the bed. “In some futures he succumbs to the weight of the Demon’s curse and dies, in some he triumphs over it and returns to us. Do you trust in him?”

“Without reservation.” Y’shtola replied immediately.

“Then have faith that he will survive and come back to us. In the meantime, we must carry on without him, to ensure there is something left for him to come back to. And you, who know him better than I, know that if he wakes to hear that men and women died that we could have saved but didn’t because we were laboring on his behalf, he will blame himself.”

Y’shtola wanted to argue. She wanted to yell and rage and accuse this man who dragged Marcus into another life-and-death battle, who was the reason he was once again on his deathbed. But something in his quiet words cut through her anger. She knew that anger for what it was, her fears and frustration and helplessness curdling into rage and seeking a target, any target, for release. She saw Alphinaud and Estinien’s faces contort and knew they were looking for their own target to vent on. She took a calming breath.

“He’s right.” Everyone looked to Y’shtola as she spoke. “Marcus is not the only man facing death in the coming days. The others who stand against this Primal are just as deserving of our aid.”

“Y’shtola…” Alphinaud hesitated, out of concern for her she realized, but that only spurred her to continue.

“Warrior of Light or no, our duty remains.” Y’shtola spoke resolutely, her eyes slowly panning over her fellow Scions. “To stand against Primals and defend the people from their predations. Let us leave the search for answers to those more knowledgeable on this subject rather than flailing blindly in the dark while this war rages.”

She looked back at her slumbering partner. “He will wake and when he does we will not be found wanting.”

“Agreed.” Estinien stepped forward. “I mean to test my lance against this Demon before this war is done. Next time, I’ll not be so easily batted aside.”

“I will stay, to keep the deterioration of Marcus’ health at bay as best I can but that will hardly take all my time.” Krile nodded. “And if I heard that howl correctly, we have a fresh need for more porxies.”

Alphinaud looked between his fellow Scions, anxious and uncertain. He looked the young man he truly was in that moment. And a moment later, he was again the tactician Y’shtola relied on. He turned to the Princeps. “There you have it. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn will continue to stand with Elarion. Until the end, if it comes to that.”

“I should hope so.” The Princeps said wryly. “Because Gorrath will be attacking the city tomorrow. Which reminds me, your presence would be appreciated at a war council to discuss the coming battle.”

“When?” Estinien asked. The Princeps grinned, though the lines around his eyes remained tight.

“How fast can you walk?” His eyes flicked over to Y’shtola for the slightest moment. “Actually, we’ll wait till this evening. I’ll send someone to find you when it’s time.”

He departed, followed by Castor and, after a moment, Estinien. Alphinaud exchanged a quiet word with Krile, both of them drawing away from the bed toward the far end of the room. Y’shtola lingered.

She gave Marcus’s pained face another long look. She did not want to leave him. She knew the importance of doing so, of allowing herself to rest and recharge and prepare for the battles to come. She also did not much care.

There were so many things she wanted to tell him and so many more she wanted to hear from him. And yet, all she could picture in her mind’s eye was him waking up, rubbing his eyes, and giving some quip about having overslept.

For the first time in days, the corners of her mouth turned up.

She leaned in close to press a kiss to his forehead. “Try not to keep me waiting too long, will you?”

Aethon paused at the threshold. Even now, he needed a moment to center himself before meeting the gaze of the Blood God. When he was as ready as he was going to be, he entered the audience chamber.

Even in the cavernous space, Gorrath seemed crammed in. The sheer presence of Aethon’s god made the air feel close and as Aethon approached the throne he found it harder to breathe. The room dimmed the closer he drew and deeper shadows than there should have been lurked against the walls, as if even the light itself feared approaching his master.

“My captain.” Gorrath greeted him with a brass rumble. “How is my army?”

Mildly relieved to see his deity in a good mood, Aethon relayed the results of a day spent personally cataloging what remained. “We lost a sizable portion of our soldiers, we’re down to maybe half our starting force. Most of the rats are dead too, a few dozen or so are all that’s left. We have a smattering of wounded, but even when they recover enough to fight again we’ll be woefully under-strength.”

His assessments were all estimates; the idea of logistics in the Blood God’s army was a bad joke. Some took to Gorrath’s influence better than others, but all of them were filled with insatiable bloodlust. There were some Aethon could count on to be clearheaded enough to lead their forces in battle, like himself, but taking an inventory? Forget about it. Why do that when they could fight? Things had gotten so bad Aethon had needed Gorrath to make it a divine commandment that ‘sparring duels’ were not to be to the death, lest they become the first army in history to kill itself out of existence.

The casualty rates from recent battles were on the wrong side of hilariously bad, particularly among the Skalik. Not that Aethon would ever shed a tear for the rats, but the tactician in him balked at the number of loses purely on principle. But it was hard to preserve your forces when most of them only cared about closing with the enemy as soon as possible.

“Our losses mean the looming problem of our food stores can be kicked down the road a few more weeks, but we’re fast approaching the point where our weapons’ll be reduced to fists and harsh language if we keep fighting without resupply. A few more battles like this and we’ll be down to the Chosen alone.”

“They will be sufficient, if it comes to that.” Gorrath sounded about as concerned for their losses as Aethon expected him to be. The Blood God sprawled languidly on his throne and Aethon knew even as they spoke he was drawing power from his creations, fueling himself on their fury and the blood they shed.

It was a potent source of power, the fervor of a hundred souls with nothing left in them but hatred and bloodlust. Enough to return them from death with plenty left over to restore the power the Blood God had spent on both the battle and healing his wounds afterwards. The so-called Warrior of Light had lived up to his reputation and veritably thrashed the warlike deity, not that Aethon was fool enough to say so.

Balefire sparked and grew before them, taking the shape of a man. Pollux reformed, shaking off the few remaining embers and adjusting his spear slung across his back. Aethon briefly wondered if Gorrath had summoned him here or if the man himself had chosen to materialize.

Pollux greeted him with a sarcastic grin. “Ah, the rabbit.”

Aethon rolled his eyes. He was a ‘rabbit’ to Pollux because he had the temerity to order withdrawals and retreats and not march his entire army into a meatgrinder purely because they might kill a few enemies along the way. In the spearman’s eyes, that was no different than turning and bolting like a rabbit at the first sign of danger. As if dying for nothing advanced their god’s cause any.

“Pollux.” Aethon returned the greeting coolly. “I don’t suppose you’re here to offer the Guardian Knight’s head to our master?”

The grin wavered. “Castor is a tough bastard, its why he was picked for the job in the first place. But I’ll get him.” Looking more enthusiastic than a man ought to when discussing killing his brother, Pollux turned to face their god and knelt in obeisance. “The next time I face him, I’ll have his skull as your trophy, master.”

“Those were bold words the first time you said them.” Aethon retorted. “They are not terribly convincing now.”

Pollux whirled around back to face him, hand going for his weapon as he did so. Aethon found himself staring down the length of the Chosen’s spear.

“I only failed because of your orders, captain.” Pollux spat. “If you had not commanded I cover your sorry ass, I would have killed my brother then and there.”

“So you’ve said. What’s your excuse this time?” Aethon asked simply. Pollux’s face twisted in fury.

“I think it’s past time you were replaced, rabbit. The master and I will enjoy drinking your blood to celebrate my promotion, won’t we master?”

“If you can take my head, you’re welcome to my job. If.” The Blood God’s army had a simple but effective idea of meritocracy. Aethon’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. “Do you enjoy being in your coffin so much that you’re volunteering to be sent back?”

“Enough.” Gorrath rumbled. Clearly enjoying the squabble, he nevertheless intervened. “You are not his equal yet. Your hate needs more time to ripen before you can match the boundless strength my captain draws from his. Until then, I hope you don’t expect me to revive you from the consequences of your own stupidity.”

Not my equal yet, Aethon reminded himself. As the Blood God grew in might, so to would his Chosen. And Pollux grew bolder the more his strength flourished. But that was a problem for another day.

“Of course not, master.” Pollux knelt again before the makeshift throne. Aethon ignored him and continued speaking with the Blood God as if the Chosen hadn’t interrupted them.

“Are you certain Elarion’s champion is no longer a threat?”

Gorrath snorted dismissively. “The champion was a worthy foe. Perhaps greater than any other I have ever faced. To lay him low without truly settling our duel… such a waste.”

Gorrath sounded genuinely mournful. The sound of it made Aethon’s skin crawl. “But I am a beneficent god. I did not forget our pact, nor jeopardize its fulfillment with indulging in such a battle. I used the soul poison. With it in his veins, if he’s still alive, he wishes he wasn’t.”

So Gorrath had needed to use it after all. Aethon actually felt sorry for the poor bastard. “Then we can finally turn our focus to the war below.” 

“Not yet.” Aethon looked sharply at his god. He can’t have heard that right. But apparently he had, as Gorrath continued “The hound still remains.”

“I thought Lupercal was no threat.” Aethon retorted.

“To me?” Gorrath sounded amused at the thought. “She isn’t. But she will continue to harass our forces until we deal with her.”

“Then why didn’t you, when she was right before you?” Aethon challenged. “She wasn’t too much to handle, was she?”

“How dare you!?” Pollux sprang to his feet, spear held ready to skewer Aethon.

Gorrath’s hand on His axe tightened and the air crackled with incipient violence. Black eyes bored into Aethon’s, the weight of the will behind them nearly a physical force enough to crush him to his knees. Aethon’s hand itched for his blade, the air so thick with murderous desire he had to struggle not to get drunk on it. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt if he actually drew his sword, his life would end less than a minute later. But even so, he hungered for that battle.

His deity’s voice was a low growl of barely restrained fury. “Careful, boy.”

Aethon met the gaze for a moment, before looking down and away in a clear signal of submission. “My apologies, master. I merely wish us to commit to our war in earnest.”

“Soon, my friend, soon.” The tension already dissipating in one of Gorrath’s mercurial mood swings. “We shall exterminate the vermin, as I promised. But to fight our war properly, we cannot ignore our other enemies.”

“I know. Lupercal’s hunt will not end until she does.” All the legends on the Lady’s wolf agreed on that. “At least she is the last real obstacle.”

“Possibly.” Aethon looked up in surprise. Gorrath gestured and from the shadows along the wall a man emerged. Aethon had never seen him before, yet recognized him at a glance.

“You took one of the Warrior of Light’s companions?” Aethon regarded the tall, pointy-eared outlander. An Elezen, he believed they were called. “To what end?”

“Weren’t you complaining about our losses?” His god reminded him. “We ought to avail ourselves of recruits when we find them. And this one is strong enough to stand against even me, if only briefly.”

The Elezen bowed deeply at the foot of the throne. “Mine most glorious divine master, tis truly the grandest and most ennobling honor of my ephemeral existence to pledge my deepest devotion to thine service. I do humbly swear on mine name as Urianger Augurelt that thou has my eternal obeisance.”

Aethon raised an eyebrow and felt a rare moment of kinship with Pollux, who had a similar expression. That would take some getting used to. Apparently Gorrath agreed, His brow furrowing as He stared down at the kneeling man. Urianger’s face contorted. His hands clenched involuntarily. Even as he trembled from the deity’s will brutalizing his own, he did not rise from his bow nor give voice to the pain that must have been raging inside his head.

Aethon said nothing as he watched his new god bend and snap a loyal servant’s mind like a bundle of twigs because he found the man’s diction annoying.

Finally, Gorrath’s glare lightened. Urianger nearly fell forward, gasping. He tried to steady himself without rising out of his kneeling posture. “I…” He panted. “I’m honored to serve, Blood God.”

“Better.” Gorrath rumbled pleasantly, as if He hadn’t just tortured the man.

“Why is this man here, rather than in the line?” Aethon asked. Despite Gorrath’s claims, he knew there was more to this recruitment than Urianger being a skilled fighter. A mage most likely, given his filthy, battle-stained robes and the odd-looking implement on his back.

“We have dealt with Elarion’s champion, and know how to deal with its wolf.” Gorrath leaned back in His throne, looking down at His lessers imperiously. “But these Eorzeans are an unknown quantity. We need intelligence on their capabilities and motives, and where better to get it than from the source?”

Where better indeed? Aethon turned to Urianger and listened as he outlined who the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were and how they intended to slay him and his god.

Markos did not know where he was. All he saw was grey fog, in every direction. The monotonous greyness limited his field of vision to a few yalms, but it felt like he was in a larger space. The ground was dry, craggy dirt, through the fog he could barely make out the shape of some large boulders and short, scraggly trees surrounding him. There were no sounds he could hear coming within the mists, and even the noises he made felt muted by the oppressive environment. With nothing to see or hear, it was impossible to tell where this was, though it did somehow feel familiar.

He tried to remember how he got here, but it was all a blur. He had been fighting, he recalled that much, but who and where and why? He had been fighting with someone, a friend, but who had they been against? How did the fight end? How could it have ended for him to wake up here, wherever here is, without arms or armor?

A sharp stab of pain brought his hand to his face. Fingers gingerly traced a fresh cut that bisected his left cheek, bleeding freely. But that was no big deal, head wounds always bled a lot. That didn’t mean it was serious. Markos ignored the wound for now, peering through the murk around him looking for anything he could recognize.

Niko emerged from the fog in full battle dress and suddenly he remembered. He and the others had been fighting down in the tunnels, the final battle to end the war. He opened his mouth to ask her what was going on when her armored fist crashed into the side of his head. He fell to the ground and she kicked him in the gut. Even as pain blossomed from the powerful blows, he was more surprised than anything. Niko had always been a hothead, but never a violent one. Not to them, anyway.

He quickly got to his feet and ducked under another punch. “Niko! Stop! It’s me!”

“Oh, I know exactly what you are, Markos.” Niko snarled and threw another punch.

Hands raised to ward off more blows, he backed away until he ran up against something. Risking a glance back, he saw the wall he’d run into was Lucas’ broad figure. Marcus was just about to ask for help with Niko when he was shoved forward. A fist slammed into his stomach, doubling him over from the force of it. Another caught him with a ringing blow to the head. Through eyes narrowed in pain Marcus saw Theo had joined his brother.

He tried to break out of the encirclement, but Katt and Alex were there to block him. His friends surrounded him, inexplicably hateful glares on each of their faces. Marcus held his hands out placatingly. He began to ask what he had done to deserve this, and Niko cut him off with another punch.

“Shut up, traitor.” Marcus blanched at the bitter loathing in her voice, more unpleasant than he had ever heard from her before. Wounded more by Niko being that furious with him than the beating she was giving him, he tried to explain.

“I didn’t betray you, I wouldn’t!” It had only seemed like he had betrayed them, there were good reasons why he had– His train of thought was derailed by another fist cracking against his skull.

“You abandoned us.” Theo spat.

“You left us to die.” Alex stepped forward and drove a knee into Marcus’ gut, knocking the wind out of him.

Marcus tried to suppress a guilty wince. “No, never!” He hadn’t left them to die. He had left because… why had he left? His memories were so hazy, he knew there was a reason but why did he leave with them?

“Because you’re a coward.” Katt raked his face with her gauntleted fist.

“Because you were jealous.” Lucas hammered him in the back with his absurd strength, knocking Marcus off his feet. Blows rained down at him while he lay on the ground. He twisted, trying to avoid the worst of them.

“Please!” He cried out plaintively. They ignored his pleading and continued to beat him with armored fists and hateful accusations.

“You were the pathetic weakling that always held us back!”

“We knew you were useless, but we let you tag along with us anyway!”

“And you repaid us by letting the rats murder us!”

Marcus managed to get to his feet and broke free of the circle. He ran heedlessly into the fog, desperate to escape. Their voices followed him.

“Running away again, coward!”

“Just like before, you can’t desert us fast enough!”

Looking behind him in his headlong flight, Marcus ran into Niko. She shoved him back and he ran in another direction but her words followed him like they were in his ear.

“Did you enjoy it? Finding us dead, knowing you’d get to steal everything that should have been ours?”

The sheer monstrousness of this accusation pulled him up short. Wide eyed from disbelief, he stared at his friends as they surrounded him again. His voice wavered as he protested. “You– you can’t possibly believe I wanted that.”

“You took everything from us!” Alex shouted. “Our lives, our glory, everything!”

“It should have been us!” Katt screamed.

Lucas roared and raised a clenched fist. “We should have been the Warriors of Light!”

“We would have been better than you, Markos, we would have saved everyone!” Theo shoved Marcus back.

“We were always better than you!” It was Niko’s turn again. “You let us die rather than save us so you could steal our future!”

“No. No! That’s not what happened!” But even as he protested, an insidious voice inside Marcus whispered that wasn’t true. He had left them behind while he escaped, been awarded the praise and honors that should have gone to the five of them.

“Liar! We trusted you with our lives and you failed us! Just like you failed everyone we wouldn’t have!”

Even as Katt shouted at him, Marcus could see it. Theo uncovering Ilberd’s betrayal before it could happen. Alex pulling Haurchefant out of the path of that deadly bolt. Niko slaying Zenos in Rhalgr’s Reach. Lucas holding the line in the sewers while Y’shtola and Thancred escaped unharmed. Katt stopping Livia from invading the Waking Sands.

They would have been better. Why didn’t he save them? Why hadn’t he seen it coming? It was so hard to think, his thoughts feeling as clouded as the fog pressing in around him.

“You should have known, Markos.” Theo mocked. “A blind man could have seen what the rats intended.”

“How could I have known!?” But he could have. He knew of the plague wizards; he knew how far the Skalik could go. He should have anticipated the attack, warned everyone they were walking into danger.

“You could have stopped it!” He should have been there at the Waking Sands.

“You should have stopped it!” He should have been the one to hold off the Crystal Braves.

“It was your fault!” The magic spear that bored through the Fortemps shield had been aimed at him.

Marcus fell to his knees. The angry shouts and vicious accusations from the men and women he loved like family tore into him.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He screamed, trying to get his friends to stop, but they only grew louder. The voices blended together into an overwhelming cacophony of condemnation. He covered his ears with his hands but the voices were inside his head and he could not ignore the simple truth of them.

They were right. It was his fault they died. All of them. He didn’t know why he even tried to deny it. He deserved their hatred, the blows they had given him. He pitched forward onto his hands, the weight of his guilt crushing down on him.

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry. Please, just… please forgive me.”

Steel rang as five swords were drawn. “You’re not sorry.” Niko’s voice was low and deadly. “But you will be.”

Determined to atone for his failure, his betrayal, Markos did not resist as the swords slashed down at him.

Chapter Text

They gathered in the stands of a small arena, the only place outside with enough seating for all the various officers and warriors attending the council. Y’shtola sat with her fellow Scions, observing the crowd. There were over two dozen attendees, from Knights to army officers to a few civilian officials.  One didn’t need to be capable of reading incorporeal aethers to see the dark cloud that hung over the gathering. The defeat two days ago, even if no one was using the word, weighed heavily on everyone sitting in the circular stands.

Curiously, under the circumstances of a recent defeat at the hands of a seemingly indomitable foe, Y’shtola would have expected the prevailing emotion to be nervousness or anxiety. Fear, even. Instead, the air nearly hummed with a pent-up energy. Far from being cowed by their losses, the Elarians were eager to avenge them.

The Princeps, flanked by Prince Atreus and Castor, stood on an announcer’s platform raised slightly from the arena floor. He raised a hand and the low hum of conversations around the ring ceased. His position standing in the middle of a semi-circle of tiered seats on the lowest level, put Y’shtola in mind of watching a play.

“Thank you all for coming.” The Princeps’ voice was strong and pitched such that even the farthest seats could hear him clearly. “We have much to discuss.”

He glanced at Atreus, who stepped forward. As if it could be any more obvious who was truly in charge here. The bearded prince folded his arms as he regarded the crowd.

“We’ve won the recent battles and beaten down the bulk of Gorrath’s army. But that doesn’t mean much when he has whatever foul magick that allows him to resurrect his minions, these damned ‘Chosen.’ And as far as we can tell, he can keep crapping them out as often as he wants. That means crushing Gorrath’s army is not going to work. And with our own losses in recent days, we can’t continue to trade losses with him.”

“Indeed.” Castor said, joining him. “Knights are in short supply, and many of our other soldiers, brave as they are, can’t face such foes as Gorrath and the Chosen.”

In the front row of the crowd, farther along the ring from the Scions, Asterion stood. “Then perhaps we should make an effort to Wolf-touch more formidable fighters.” He took a step forward. “I would be happy to–”

“No.” A deep, resonant voice cut him off. Y’shtola turned to the speaker and tried not to wince. Lupercal was the reason this meeting needed to be held outside, the Primal being too large to fit inside the castle. She sat behind the stands and still towered over them, her aether so radiant that seen from this close she was hard for Y’shtola to look directly at.

“Those who join my pack forsake caution and perspective.” The wolf primal’s oddly melodious voice explained. “That is fine for a soldier, but commanders must retain such traits.”

Asterion’s fists clenched at his sides. With clear reluctance, he stiffly replied. “I will defer to your judgement.”

“I understand the desire to take the field, to fight our foes with your own hands.” The canine head the size of a chocobo nodded. “But you must be strong enough to quell such wishes. Your people do not require another blade, they require their prince.” Her gaze shifted to the Princeps. “Matters of logistics can wait until the enemy is driven back, can they not?”

If the Princeps was annoyed at being dictated to, he hid it well. “They can.” He looked out at the crowd watching him, eyes panning over the crowd. “Let’s turn our focus to the coming battle. Gorrath will be here by midday tomorrow and the city will come under attack.”

“Do we know the size of the force he is bringing?” A man with the griffin of Calydon emblazoned on his chest asked.

The Princeps nodded. “From the speed of his approach, he is coming alone. Perhaps he could be carrying one or two of his servants with him, but he will not be coming in force.”

Castor spoke up again. “Gorrath has shown a reluctance to commit to battle on our terms and a willingness to flee should he feel outmatched. The heart of our strength is here, and even he could not hope to raze the city alone.” Y’shtola noted the word choice, challenging the Princeps’ statement while carefully avoiding contradicting it.

“Mayhap he has a plan.” She entered the conversation, raising her voice to be heard by all. “Either he does not intend to fight, or he has a scheme in mind to trick or trap us.”

The Princeps acknowledged her contribution with a nod. “A good point. This iteration of the Blood Demon has proven more cunning than we anticipated. Judging from the trap he set for us in the north, I agree with the Scion that he has more in store for us than a straightforward attack.” 

Y’shtola rather strongly believed that trap had not been set for them, but for one man in particular. Pockets of discussion broke out as different people put forth ideas to their neighbors. Including among the Scions, G’raha theorizing with Alisaie about magicks the primal might bring to bear. Y’shtola knew too little about Gorrath’s capabilities to meaningfully contribute.

What stood out to her as she listened was the mood around the circle. Voices were a little too loud, tensions a hair too sharp. Anger simmered, boiling under the surface. Understandable, given the circumstances. Defeat had sharpened the sting of their wounded pride. But she had been in Elarion long enough to appreciate its people’s stubbornness and did not wish to see what would happen should it mix with anger.

“We should evacuate the city.”

“That may be your way down south, but Calydonians don’t run and hide. We should take the fight to the enemy.”

“With what army? The one that was just routed?”

“We’d have more than enough strength if the south would send more than a handful of troops.”

Y’shtola could feel the mood starting to turn. Her hackles raised in anticipation of violence.

“So now we need to fight your battles for you?” The speaker, a large man with the Cretos Bull emblazoned on his chestplate, stood. His fist clenched near the hilt of his sword.

“Can you bastards even fight at all?” Opposite him was a woman wearing the Calydonian Griffin. She was similarly standing, and similarly about to draw her weapon. “Or are you going to run for the river again?”

“You bitch!” Metal sang as the man drew his sword. The note echoed as several more followed suit. Y’shtola shot up, others around her doing the same. Asterion was saying something, but he could not be heard over the clamor. Shouts to stand down competed with yelled jeers. Some bystanders were trying to hold the duo apart, while others egged them on. More weapons were being drawn every second, to halt the impending brawl or join it Y’shtola could not tell. Her staff was in her hands, but she hesitated, wary that a blast of wind meant to separate the duo and prevent the fight might serve to start it.

“Enough!” The barked command cut through the noise. The would-be combatants froze, as did everyone around them. Atreus glared at the group.

“Save it for the battlefield, both of you! We’re not about to start doing the Demon’s work for him.” He jerked a thumb at the man behind him. “If you shame us before the Princeps and the Lady’s Wolf any more, I’ll knock your heads together myself and clap you in irons together until you cool off. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Both fighters said quickly, as did several people standing near them. The tension abated slightly but still remained, hovering over the arena like a cloud. Mutters and murmurs abounded, a hundred different arguments and quiet insults being passed around. Through the glare of the Primal’s aether, Y’shtola saw that Lupercal looked faintly entertained by the show.

“My friends.” The Princeps had the politician’s trick of projecting his voice to cut through the clamor without raising into a shout. The crowd quieted and harkened to him. “I am afraid I owe you an apology.”

This prompted a return of the murmurs, these ones confused rather than agitated. The Princeps ignored them and continued.

“You survived a grueling war and with no chance to rest were called on to again fight against an even more terrible foe. And you answered. You have stood bravely against the evil that assails us and showed exceptional valor in subduing and rescuing many of our countrymen from the demon’s grasp. You have given more than anyone has the right to ask. That I must ask yet more of you is a gross injustice to your heroism.”

He bowed his head solemnly. “But when it comes to my duty, I have been deficient. I have not delivered the illumination we so desperately need now. My ‘guidance’ has led us into ambushes and traps. I have allowed the demon to blind me and been rendered useless by the shadow he casts over the future. I have failed you all, and I am sorry.”

He bowed in apology. The arena fell into a tense quiet.

“My Princeps, please.” Asterion looked positively rattled at the frank display. “Raise your head.”

Atreus joined his voice to his fellow prince. “Yes, don’t blame yourself. We’ve all been stymied by the Demon’s power. You’re hardly alone there.”

“Your words are generous.” The Princeps answered. “But they do not change the truth. The blame for our defeats rests on my shoulders, and no other.”

He turned, his gaze landing on the two still standing squabblers. “Fervor and fury make for fine blades, but let us not turn those blades on one another. As His Highness said, that only serves Gorrath’s ends. If you must turn your anger on someone other than the Demon, let it be me. You will not find a more deserving target.”

“N-no.” The man said, rattled. He looked at his former adversary for support. “I would never- My Princeps, please, I should be asking for your forgiveness.”

“Aye.” The woman quickly chimed in. “A thousand pardons for my outburst, my Princeps. It won’t happen again.”

The Princeps spread his hands magnanimously. “What need is there for forgiveness between friends and allies who stand together? Are we not one in our Lady’s Light?”

He tilted his head upward to nod respectfully to Lupercal. “Now, I believe we’ve wasted enough of the Great Wolf’s time as it is.”

“Don’t mind me.” Lupercal said, deep voice amused. “I’m enjoying the show, mortals.”

Muttering sheepish apologies, both the sqaubblers sank down into their seats like they wanted to sink through them. With the animosity Y’shtola felt around the arena aimed at them, she did not blame them.

“Those fools make asses of themselves, and he’s asks them to forgive him?”  A man sitting behind Y’shtola said. “Unbelievable.”

“I know.” His neighbor replied. “Our Princeps practically makes humility a vice.”

Y’shtola said nothing. Interpreting someone’s emotions from how their aether behaved required a considerable familiarity with the person, and a memorization of their reactions to various stimuli. Which was to say, she knew better than to believe she could reliably tell the Princeps’ emotions from the movements of his aether. But she could not help the tendril of suspicion when she saw his aether curl in on itself in the exact same manner Marcus’s aether did when he thought he was being duplicitous.

“If we could return to the topic at hand.” Castor’s granite voice silenced any remaining voices. “We have a demonic invasion to prepare for.”

“Indeed.” Lupercal growled, amusement gone. “I have faced Gorrath. He is strong, but not so strong he could raze this city single-handedly.” The mammoth snout swung towards Y’shtola. “The Scion is right; he has some scheme in mind.”

“Almost certainly.” Castor agreed. Armor plates clanked softly as he folded his arms. “The Warrior of Light proved nearly enough to defeat Gorrath alone. The Demon only laid him low with some treacherous magick, clearly prepared with no small amount of effort in anticipation of facing such a dangerous foe. This Gorrath is cunning and cautious both.”

“We will meet him regardless.” Y’shtola said. Faces turned in her direction as she continued. “Through his sacrifice, Marcus has bought us precious time and Gorrath will be weakened from their battle. His advance on us represents perhaps our best chance of victory. We must seize the opportunity, and strike him down now.”

“Well said.” Estinien said from a few seats down. Several Elarians sitting around the Scions likewise nodded approvingly.

“Hear hear.” Atreus said, stamping a fist to his chest.

Castor looked less enthused about their chances. “If only we knew how weakened Gorrath is. My Princeps is not wrong, we are hamstrung by a lack of useful intelligence.”

For all his protestations of copping to his failures in that regard, the Princeps still looked a hair miffed at the words. “When the battle is joined, I will search the shadow cast over the future once again. With Gorrath’s strength needed for fighting, he will have less to spare on denying me. I’ll rip his secrets from him, if you don’t kill him first that is.”

The relish in those words surprised Y’shtola. With all his smooth, pleasantly polite smiles, she did not expect the Princeps to be, in his way, as much a warrior as the other Elarians.

“If I may.” Heads swung Thancred’s direction. “I may have another idea on how we can obtain useful intelligence.”

“What did you have in mind?” Castor asked.

Thancred smirked. “A little bit of turnabout seems only fair, don’t you think?”

The wind was dying as the dark cloudbank drew closer.

Seen through Y’shtola’s eyes, the aether of the churning clouds had a sickly, oily look to it. Not a natural weather formation, but a corruption of the local ambient wind-aspect aether that happened to imitate actual clouds. She could call it a cloud of tangible darkness, but not even actual dark-aspected aether looked so tainted, so wrong.

She stood atop Clenon’s wall, with Castor and other Knights beside her as they waited. The Primal’s approach was swift, and the ominously grey and black cloudbank had come down from the mountains far faster than it could have been blown by any sort of wind. It was close enough now that Y’shtola could see him within, the figure in the heart of the roiling maelstrom. The beacon of his sinister power made him stand out despite the enshrouding murk he generated around him.

“He approaches. At this speed, he’ll reach us in a few minutes and unless he changes course, he will arrive here.” She told Castor. The Knight-Captain had requested her presence after learning that she could see through the aether for just this reason. He nodded and turned to Calista, quietly conversing while Y’shtola looked past them down the walls. The other Knights, and Y’shtola’s fellow Scions, were spread out along the length of the defensive fortification.

There were scores of tempered soldiers ready to fight as well, but they were to hang back unless needed to engage. Precious few of them would stand any chance against Gorrath, everyone knew, and they were only to fight if the other defenders should fall first. To that end, Castor had taken up station here, at the mid-point of the walls and assigned Estinien to the gates, deemed the two most likely points Gorrath would attack first. It would seem they had won the coin toss. Y’shtola readied her staff and rolled her shoulders to loosen up in preparation.

The linkpearl in her ear chimed and Castor’s steely voice issued from it. “As predicted, the Demon approaches. All troops, prepare for combat. In the Lady's name, this monster dies today. We will meet this attack with all the valor the Princeps attributes to us. We will not prove his faith in us undeserved, no matter our foe.”

His voice raised. “The light cannot be carried on one pair of shoulders. It must be borne by all of us. We will not falter simply because our enemy is strong. We are strong, and we shall prove it by driving this monster back into the hell that spawned it!”

Other voices were raised and shouts agreeing with the Knight began to sound from along the wall.

“For Elarion! For the Princeps!” A voice called out. Others echoed the call and the cheers reverberated through the air. Castor lowered his hand from his ear, apparently satisfied with the speech and its impact.

“Appropriately stirring.” Y’shtola said quietly under the shouting around them.

“It seemed the occasion for it.” Castor replied with a touch of sardonic humor. He turned and her gaze followed his to the steadily growing stormclouds.

As she predicted, Gorrath dropped out of the turbulent sky a few minutes later. He landed outside the walls, just out of ideal spellcasting range, kicking up dust clouds as wings the size of sails beat to arrest his plunging descent. The area had been cleared of the tents and any other obstructions, leaving a flat killing ground between them and Gorrath. Seeing him now without the shroud of his diseased clouds, Y’shtola believed him unique. She had never before seen a being with such a violent, hateful aether. Even ignoring the Primal’s bellicose physical features, his power was brutality made manifest. Just looking at it felt like being punched in the face and punching someone else at the same time.

The Primal slowly raised himself to his full height, wings furling behind him as he planted his axe on the ground. His voice easily carried over to the walls, borne by a magic that let everyone on them hear him clearly.

“Greetings, warriors of Elarion.” The voice sounded impassive, but the undercurrent of bloodlust was unmistakable. “My children of battle.”

The men and women around Y’shtola bristled. Castor remained composed, and spoke in a conversational tone. “We are not kin, Demon.”

It should have been impossible for Gorrath to hear the words from so far away, but he responded. “I am kin to all who walk the path of war. All who shed the blood of their enemies. We are the same, no matter what excuses you tell yourselves. And you kill well, with many corpses to your name. You are among my dearest sons and daughters.”

Y’shtola’s grip on her staff tightened. She had killed before, and in all likelihood would kill again in the course of her duties as a Scion, but only ever reluctantly and when there was no other choice. This monster equating that to his gleeful slaughter was infuriating. She checked her anger, knowing it was poisonous. Whether Gorrath was being genuine or it was an attempt to bait them, succumbing to fury would only impair their judgement.

“If you wish to pretend you are not mine, I give you the chance to prove it.” Gorrath continued. “Stand aside. I am here for the wolf and the seer. Deliver them to me, and I will leave this city be. Refuse, and I will kill as many of you as I must to claim them.

“Reject battle or embrace it. The choice is yours.”

Castor leaned over to Calista. “Answer him.”

The Knight raised her staff. Energies coalesced around it, taking shape, and she fired a sword of forged aether. Despite the distance, her aim was true and would have struck Gorrath in the chest had he not lazily shifted his axe into its path. As the spell shattered on the black metal, Gorrath grinned wickedly.

“Splendid. And so I keep my word.”

He raised his weapon and power surged from him. Flames and crackling dark lightning, the same sort of unnatural, corrupted aether as had made the clouds, began to burst into life in the plain between him and the wall. There was power in each of the dotted fires, considerable magic as something began to twist into being within each one.

“Castor!” Y’shtola warned, already readying a spell.

“Open fire! Stop him!” The Knight shouted.

Y’shtola’s fireball was joined by a barrage of other spells and even a few cannonballs, but they were too late. Most of the magicks petered out into uselessness before they made it across the distance. The few that did get far enough were intercepted when some of the fires leapt up into the air. Y’shtola’s own spell was slashed apart by a burning spear that whirled around to slice a cannonball out of the air. The Chosen finished coalescing as he landed, he and his fellows fully formed and ready to defend their master.

In a handful of seconds, Gorrath had materialized what looked to be a hundred Chosen. Y’shtola tightened her grip on her staff. This battle had just taken a turn for the worst.

Gorrath planted his axe back on the ground again and gestured indolently at the wall. “Kill them all.”

The Chosen wasted no time in attacking, warriors rushing forward while aether swirled and surged around the mages in their ranks. Y’shtola opened her mouth to warn Castor, but he already recognized the danger.

“Wards!” The enemy magicks reached out, trying to tear apart the wall beneath their feet.

Nothing happened. At least, not outwardly. Seen through the aether, the stones of the wall were a battleground of spells. The Chosen’s spells tried to pull the masonry apart to disassemble the fortification, or grind the stones themselves to dust, while the druids and mages atop the wall and within it poured their power into maintaining the structure. The energies clashed in a vicious display of power, but not one those without her sight or at least a sense for magic would have noticed.

Y’shtola knew better than to lend her hand in bolstering the defense. With such coordinated spellcasting, she was more likely to disrupt their efforts than aid them. Instead, she readied a spell aimed at one of the enemy mages to help on the other side of the affair. The deep gut boom of cannons sounded as the Elarian artillery joined the fray. Explosions both magical and mundane filled the air.

A surge of aether from the Primal caught her eye. Gorrath swept his hand before him almost lazily, trailing unnatural fire and lightning. The aether remained after the immense limb passed, a mass of pure power hanging in the air. As she watched, it concentrated around points, gathering into a battery of wickedly gleaming aetheric blades. With a vicious smile, Gorrath thrust his hand forward and his weapons shot out. Y’shtola shot one down with a quick bolt of lightning, but many found their targets. Cannons exploded and the screams of those manning them filled the air. Y’shtola grit her teeth and drew together aether for an attack. They couldn’t leave the Primal free to bombard them with impunity.

Her spell faltered as she saw an immense build-up of aether coming from Gorrath. Power gathered in the head of his axe, a far greater amount than his previous attack and she dismissed her burgeoning spell in favor of preparing a shield. Gorrath raised his weapon wreathed in fire and crackling lightning and she readied herself for whatever spell or blast he was going to shoot.

Instead, he drew back his arm and threw.

The barriers surrounding the wall were robust and well crafted. They could well withstand the malignant spells trying to tear them down. They could not resist the massive battleaxe that hit like the Destroyer’s own fist.

The impact shook the wall beneath them and knocked Y’shtola and the others off their feet as the barrier shattered with a crack of thunder. It was a testament to both the stonemasons who had built the wall and the mages defending it that even after such a devastating hit, the wall still stood. But with its defensive enchantments broken and those that cast them struggling to their feet, there was nothing to stop the spells of the Chosen.

Even as Y’shtola stood, the grinding of stone on stone announced this section of the wall was coming down. She felt an armored arm snake around her waist and hoist her up. Castor, with Calista slung over his other shoulder, nimbly leapt into the air as the wall collapsed beneath them. Stones and screaming bodies fell with a great crash that the airborne trio only barely avoided. More than a few unfortunate souls ended up under the rubble that was quickly obscured by a thick cloud of dust.

The Knight landed atop the pile of broken stones with his impromptu cargo and none too gently set the two of them down. Y’shtola picked herself up quickly and blew away the cloud of choking dust with a gust of wind. She quickly turned to the heap of stones beneath her feet, using her aetheric sight to search for those trapped within the pile of broken wall. She could hear faint moans coming from with the rubble as Castor issued orders into his linkpearl.

“All druids, concentrate on maintaining the rest of the wall. Diomedes, lead your squads to the breach. Everyone else, prevent any enemies from scaling the wall.”

An azure blur passed overhead with a suddenness that nearly made Y’shtola flinch. Lupercal, the wolf primal having been within the city in case Gorrath flew over the walls entirely, apparently took the collapse as a sign to engage. Y’shtola saw her lunge at Gorrath’s throat, but she could spare no attention for the titanic clash of Primals when the bulk of the Chosen army was charging towards the breach. She wavered for half a second between turning her spells on the advancing enemy, or using them to unearth the survivors within the rubble whose lives were even now ebbing away.

Castor decided for her. “Y’shtola, use your sight to find those buried. Calista, help her unearth them. I will hold the breach.”

“But brother!” Calista protested. “You’ll–”

“Blood for Elarion, Ser Calista.” Castor said sternly.

Calista grimaced, but made no further protest. “Blood for Elarion, Ser Castor.”

Castor drew his sword and untrammeled his power in the same moment. Seen through the aether, his orange aether flared up like a burning fire as he stepped forward to hold back an army alone. It was an impressive sight, but one that couldn’t compare to the tide of hateful crimson as dozens of Chosen charged towards them, shrugging off fire from the troops still on the wall as they ran. Y’shtola was well aware of the need for haste. As formidable as Castor was, the odds were well against him if he were forced to fight alone for long.

Then she focused on the task before her and began directing Calista, taking care that the rocks they moved did not shift and collapse the few pockets of space yet filled with living aether. 

Castor readied himself at the edge of the rubble pile as the enemy approached.

My blood for Elarion. My soul for the Lady. He recited the chivalric vow to himself, the oath helping center himself. A horde descended on him, a disorganized mob advancing not in formation, but as fast as each man’s legs could carry him. Castor settled into his stance, shield at the ready before him, and waited.

The first Chosen was on him a few seconds later. As expected, the demonspawn didn’t even try to get past him and instead jumped at the first chance for violence available. Castor blocked the powerful overhead slash and with cut him down a counterstroke that could have been easily intercepted if the man had not discarded his shield somewhere. Castor’s sword blazed with power and carved through the Chosen’s torso, killing him in an instant. This was not the time or place to hold back.

The next to reach him was a familiar face.

“Brother! So nice of you to volunteer to die!” Pollux stabbed ferociously at him. Castor withdrew a step as they furiously exchanged blows. The demon’s power had given Pollux a strength he did not have in life. A reddened Taurhe came at Castor from the side and swung a large axe at his head. Castor had to duck the blow while still guarding against Pollux’s spear.

Off balance, he couldn’t evade when a third Chosen slashed at him. The armor plate parted like paper before the corrupted man’s strength, a shallow gash opening on his shoulder. Swallowing a hiss of pain, Castor recoiled backwards with a wide sweeping slash charged with enough to send all three reeling. And behind them, yet more Chosen rapidly approached.

“Aren’t you so glad you were ‘chosen’ to be a Knight? Stealing what should have been mine?” The beast wearing his brother’s face asked. The mocking question was followed by a furious flurry of spear thrusts. Castor managed to block them all and thrust with his shield. Pollux was shoved backward, giving Castor enough breathing room to cut down the Hyur man as he tried to rush past him. The Taurhe launched a fresh attack, hacking sweeps of his axe that Castor only barely managed to turn aside with his sword.

“You’re forgetting something, Pollux.” Castor answered.

“Let me guess. Honor? Courage? Loyalty?” Each word was punctuated with a powerful jab. “Some other moralist tripe so you can pretend you haven’t been surpassed?”

“No.” Castor stabbed. His blade, charged with aether, punched clean through the axe’s haft and impaled the Taurhe. He slashed sideways, tearing his sizzling sword through the Chosen’s side and nearly beheading Pollux. His brother only barely managed to deflect the slash and was knocked spinning back by the force of it.

Castor stood alone as Gorrath’s army descended on him and did not blink. “There’s a reason I was chosen.”

Thancred scanned the corridor quickly, noting no approaching enemies before silently slipping into the walkway himself.

He prowled through the tunnels of Gorrath’s mountain stronghold, taking care to keep his movements quiet. The stone corridors were hewn into the rock with surprising skill, including proper ventilation and airflow. Sound carried far. He had already been able to avoid two groups of guards because he’d heard their footsteps and voices coming well in advance.

For a man who grew up skulking the back alleys of Limsa Lominsa and later refined his craft with Sharlayan’s more advanced techniques, moving silently was almost effortless. The greater concern was visibility. The passages were dimly lit, the softly glowing green rocks used as light fixtures were few and far between. Thancred knew better than to count on the darkness hiding him. The Skalik that dug these tunnels used such minimal illumination because they could see better in the dark than most races.

The lights were a trap and he avoided them as best he could. All they would do was foul his night vision. The patches of deep shadows would hide Thancred’s enemies, but not he himself, he needed his eyes to adapt to low light levels as much as possible. There were torches and additional light sources in areas frequented by Gorrath’s non-Skalik tempered but those were also the places where he was most likely to find his target. It was risky, but he had little choice but to proceed carefully.

So far his infiltration had not encountered any hiccups, but it would only take one to bring the mountain’s entire garrison down on him.

Not that there seemed much of a garrison to bring. Thancred had seen precious little in the way of guards as he made his way into the deeper recesses of the mountain. There had been some tempered Skalik skulking just inside the exit to outside that Thancred had used to get in, but only a handful that he had easily slipped past. The place certainly wasn’t defended enough that Thancred would have expected them to believe there was no need for security patrols within the stronghold itself.

The mountain was clearly carved out as a warbase, with little to no facilities or features he had seen that weren’t related to the housing of troops and supplies, but there was precious little of either. He hadn’t seen any Chosen at all, and only precious few of the more conventional tempered. While it was possible these upper levels were simply sparsely populated with most of the enemy’s forces in the deep tunnels he had yet to penetrate, something still didn’t seem right to him.

He noted a tunnel mouth branching off from the one he was on and took a look. Like many of the chambers and corridors in this maze of tunnels, it had no door and he could see down a passage that angled slightly upward and curved off to the right. No good. He wanted to be heading down if possible, so he made a mental note of the offshoot and moved on.

This place was a labyrinth. Thancred had a pretty good internal compass and memory for his path, but he could easily see how someone could become hopelessly lost very quickly. Annoyingly, the maze of interconnected passageways that often doubled back or took sudden turns also made it hard for him to navigate in the directions he wanted, down and deeper into the base.

He came upon another opening. This one led into a room rather than another corridor, which was promising. Even more promising, this looked to be a barracks. Rows of bunks were carved out of the walls and there was a large, open space in the middle for sparring, if he was any judge. Thancred slipped inside. The place was empty, but it had signs of recent use. There might still be something for him here.

Unfortunately, after a few minutes of searching Thancred found nothing. He wasn’t exactly expecting one of the tempered to be keeping a detailed journal, but there was nothing written down at all. No notes or schedules or even graffiti. He might have at least expected some religious scribblings about their new deity. He sighed and prepared to move on.

“You must be Thancred.”

Thancred resisted the temptation to spin around hurriedly. If the speaker was going to attack, he would have instead of announcing himself. Instead Thancred slowly and casually turned to see the speaker. A Hyur man, with dark hair worn short in the Elarion style and a vertical scar on his right cheek. Thancred knew of someone who met that description.

“I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted.” He had a pretty good guess, however.

“Ah, my mistake.” The newcomer laid a hand on his heart in an exaggerated show of regret. “I am Aethon of Crytos, formerly of 3^rd Clenon Regiment, now Captain of the Blood God’s army.”

“Pleased to meet you, though I gather you already know who I am.” Thancred sized the man up, keeping his arms folded.

Aethon was armed with a sword and shield, both of which looked well used and well maintained. His armor too was in good condition, its stripped-down state a choice of form rather than a result of neglect. He stood about six fulms tall, with the muscular yet lean build that suggested quickness rather than brute strength. He was about fifteen fulms away, sword sheathed and shield in hand. Both arms hung down his sides but Thancred could tell at a glance that he hadn’t let his guard down.

So, a warrior seasoned enough that he not only cared for but customized his equipment and was neither too cautious or too bold. It agreed with what Thancred had heard of the man, but it was good to confirm with his own eyes.

It was Aethon’s eyes that sent a chill running down Thancred’s spine. They were the eyes of a predator, keen, calculating, and cold. And behind that dispassionate assessment, hate. Boiling, seething hate. Raging like the flames of a blast furnace. Yet he stood there calmly, that overwhelming hatred held in check. Thancred couldn’t help but be impressed.

“I imagine we have a mutual friend in Urianger?” Thancred offered lightly, fishing.

“We do indeed.” Aethon answered. “He said we could expect you.”

Thancred’s mouth quirked at the confirmation Urianger was indeed the Primal’s tempered minion. “Good to hear of Urianger. We’ve all been worried. He’s been out past curfew and we’re afraid he might fall in with the wrong crowd.” He started to pace to the left, slowly drifting closer to the wall.

Aethon matched his movement by turning to keep facing him, but otherwise keeping his position by the door. “Then you’ll be happy to hear he shares your concerns. In fact, he insists you join him here with us to better watch over him.”

“You don’t seem to have nearly a large enough welcoming party for that.” Thancred observed, unfolding his arms to point in what looked a natural movement.

Aethon shrugged. “If I thought my men would do anything but die messily against you, I might have brought some.” He didn’t so much smile as bare his teeth while his hand dropped to his sword hilt. “And I wouldn’t want anyone to interrupt our intimate moment.”

“Sorry, but I prefer my admirers to be a bit more feminine.” Thancred had almost reached the wall now. His hand itched to grab for his gunblade, but he wanted to pull Aethon away from the door more if he could. He was nonplussed to see Aethon laugh.

“That’s it, almost word for word. That’s almost spooky.”

“What is?” Thancred asked, genuinely thrown off. Now Aethon did smile, the grin of a hunting predator.

“You must be close to Urianger. He predicted everything you’ve done so far, down to your reaction to that line.” Aethon gestured at the room around them. “You didn’t think that after you got in virtually unopposed I just happened to find you here in a room with this nice little arena for us?”

Thancred ignored the sudden swell of misgiving. His heartrate spiked as he prepared for imminent combat. “I was willing to chalk it up to a coincidence. Your forces haven’t exactly impressed me thus far, captain.”

“Fair enough.” Aethon conceded with a nod. “It’s been hard to find quality recruits. But that’s why we want you. A man of your talents would be a welcome addition.”

“I think I’ll pass. You couldn’t afford my services anyway.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Our, uh, coffers are… um…” Aethon trailed off and to Thancred's surprise looked at him a tad sheepishly. “Alright, I’ll be honest, I don't have much taste for pre-fight banter. You’re not going to agree to come quietly, so can we skip the part where we pretend I’m trying to convince you to join up?”

“Fine with me.” Thancred drew his gunblade with a little flourish, resting it on his shoulder in his ready position. Aethon didn’t copy the motion, his blade still sheathed as he looked at Thancred curiously.

“Before we dance, mind if I ask a question?”

“I reserve the right not to answer, but if you want.” Thancred replied, curious despite himself. Aethon’s tone had a seriousness to it now that it didn’t before. This might actually be a legitimate inquiry.

“Why are you here?” Aethon asked. He cut off Thancred’s response. “And not you personally here in these tunnels, I mean why did you Scions come to Elarion? To fight on behalf of a people that don’t want you, for a land that can’t be saved?”

He sounded genuinely interested in the answer, but it was an odd question. “Urianger couldn’t answer that for you?”

Aethon shook his head. “He had an answer, but I found it uncompelling. Maybe you can give me a better one.”

He probably wasn’t going to find Thancred’s answer all that convincing either then. Trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, Thancred replied. “You can’t wrap your head around the notion that we wish to prevent an entire nation’s worth of people being slaughtered for sheer bloodlust?”

“You can’t.” Aethon sighed. Thancred was watching carefully for an opening, but Aethon’s hand remained in a position where his sword could be drawn before Thancred could cross the gap between them to attack. “Even if you could defeat Gorrath, and you can’t, that won’t save anyone. Do you intend to stay here for the rest of your lives to defend Elarion? Can the, what, nine of you stop the armies of Skalik from descending on us every few years? Or do you intend to eliminate the problem at the source? My god and I have that well in hand, but here you are trying to stop us.”

Eliminate the problem. Such a tidy way to refer to genocide. “Mayhap we prefer a less bloody solution.”

Aethon scoffed. “Yes, I heard about that delusion. I thought you’d have learned by now. In Elarion, it always ends in blood. This whole land is drowning in it, and nothing and no one is going to pull us out of it. At least Gorrath will put an end to the endless war. I figured you, outlanders, would be the first to see how broken this realm is, yet you fight so hard to deny Elarion its salvation.”

Salvation? Thancred thought of his search for Urianger the day prior, his rooting though the piles of corpses Gorrath had left in his wake, and shook his head. There was no point trying to reason with a tempered man. “I’m afraid Urianger is the eloquent one. If he couldn’t explain it to you, I certainly won’t.”

Aethon shrugged. “I see. I’d hoped for an unaltered answer, but I’ll have to content myself with asking again once the Blood God’s had a word with you.”

Aethon drew his sword and raised it in salute before settling into a fighting stance. He smirked. “If you like, we can make a wager where if I best you, you agree to serve willingly and if I can’t you get to go free?”

“Let’s not insult each other with cheap lies.” Thancred settled into his opening stance, senses sharpening as his body prepared for combat. Adrenaline filled his limbs with energy as Aethon laughed, shifting his grip on his sword slightly.

Both men lunged forward in the same moment, their blades clashing with a ring of steel.

Chapter Text

The Princeps tensed as he readied himself to activate his Sight. Atreus had provided a comfortable chair, Telarchus stood by to assist should he need water or sustenance, everything was ready. Everything but him.

He sighed. The temptation to only pretend he was using his power against Gorrath grew by the day, at approximately the same rate as the pain that came with such contests. He banished the thought. The hardship of duty is nothing compared to the shame of failure. The platitude was only half convincing, but that was enough.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

He was bombarded by sensations as usual and ran through his exercises to center himself despite the cacophony of information. Once he had his footing, he stared once again into the shadow cast across his Sight. A roiling murk, obscuring everything behind it but for the faintest hints and impressions of information. Just enough to entice him to challenge it. It wouldn’t be a creation of Gorrath if it didn’t court combat.

He hated it. Hated how it blocked him. Hated how it hurt him. Hated how it represented his failure.

The anger helped him overcome his reservations and he plunged in. Were he doing this in flesh rather than spirit he would have gasped in pain as it instantly seared him upon entering. The weight of the Demon’s malice pressed down on him, trying to drag him under and tear him to pieces.

Castor had asked, when they first learned of the shadow, if there was any danger of the Princeps being consumed by it. The advantages of prying nuggets of information from the Demon and forcing him to expend his strength in defending them were not worth the risk of losing the Princeps, the Guardian Knight had declared. The Princeps had reassured him that while taxing and strenuous, there was no risk of permanent damage while piercing the shadow. Escaping it was as easy as opening his eyes.

Castor believed he could tell when the Princeps was lying. It was a perception the man in question had no intention of correcting.

The shadow enveloped him as he plunged deeper. He was searching for answers, yes, but more than anything he was dangling himself before Gorrath as bait.

Here I am, Demon. Round fourteen, can you kill me this time?

The shadow surged around him as Gorrath set his will against the Princeps’ again. The fury of it scourged his aetheric form. The thin silver membrane of protection he wove around himself was already fraying.

Do I detect a hint of cunning, boy? The Demon’s voice buffeted him.  Challenging me while sending your bitch against me? Are you the distraction, or is she?

Figure it out yourself. The Princeps parted the shadow before him, looking for paths into the future. The pressure intensified, proof he was heading in the right direction.

This again? Daggers of hate stabbed him. I’d have thought you’d learned by now. You are too weak to wrest the future from me.

And I thought you’d have learned, we Elarians are a stubborn bunch.

Stubborn is just another word for stagnant. And predictable. You must think me a grand fool that I wouldn’t see your champion coming.

The reminder of what had happened to Markos jarred him, and in the moment of inattention he was battered by a sudden swell of Gorrath’s power and nearly submerged. He had no choice but to claw his way free and withdraw, to the Demon’s mocking laughter.

Pathetic. I hoped my opponent in battling for Elarion’s soul would have more spine.

Recovering from his lapse, the Princeps dove in again. Accusations of cowardice would hurt more coming from someone who hasn’t been hiding in a hole for most of this war.

You think I have been hiding? The shadow blazed with a deeper darkness. Gorrath had been amused, now it was angry. I have been doing what you refuse to. Taking the fight to the enemy. Destroying them utterly, rather than being satisfied with a fleeting sense of safety.

The Princeps fled the intensifying fury and punched through the shadow along a sequence of events that was less defended. There was no information of value along it, but it made Gorrath exert more energy trying to block him than it would have otherwise.  The Demon was not wrong, but neither was it right. Like every one of his predecessors, the Princeps had looked into what would happen should he command the Skalik be defeated once and for all.

In many futures, it was indeed possible to claim victory. Not a certainty, but good odds if you were a gambling man. But the cost… It would destroy Elarion. Every industry turned to solely fueling the war effort, every man and woman of fighting fitness sent off to die. The princes would need to be dethroned and he would become a king reigning from the Citadel. The people would become slaves to the grinding march of war and when it ended, they would have nothing left.

Of course, Gorrath had no concern for such a fate. You hide in your tower and send real warriors to die so you can lie to your people that you are keeping them safe. Not just a coward, but a hypocrite as well.

The Princeps did not respond to the accusation, but he did turn his attention back to the deepest parts of the shadow, made from the bulk of Gorrath’s power. He ignored the future and focused on the present, trying to punch through. For all Gorrath’s bluster, it was hiding something in those caves. Something important. But fighting through the shadow was like trying to push back the tide with his hands.

He spent more power than he should have trying to break through and nearly didn’t see the darkness closing in around him in time. It surrounded him, cutting him off from himself, but before the Demon could shred his soul he made himself a blade of light and stabbed through back to safety.

His aetheric form was already ragged, his barrier in tatters, and he’d had his fill of Gorrath’s condescension. He could and probably should withdraw now rather than risk any more close calls. An errant image floated before him unbidden. Markos laying in his sickbed, face screwed up in a rictus grimace.

The Princeps sighed, so fervently his real body likely did too, and threw himself into the shadow again. His last thought before he became fully focused on survival was the hope that Thancred was having a better time of this than he was.

Thancred hissed in pain as a sword traced a red line across his side. He brought his gunblade up with barely enough time to parry the shield punching at him. He pulled the trigger as he struck.

The explosive cartridge hit nothing but air. Aethon had darted backwards with his blinding swiftness even as Thancred began to swing. He spent another shell on a flying slash that Aethon twisted away from and Thancred backed up nearly to the wall just to have some breathing room. He needed it.

“Come on, is that it?” For his part, Aethon wasn’t even breathing hard. He looked almost bored. As if their frantic duel was little more than a warm up for him.

Thancred couldn’t help but think of the warning Castor had given him before he set out on this mission. “If you encounter Aethon, flee. You’re no match for him.”

“I like to think I can handle myself in a fight.”

“As you should. But Aethon is death in a suit of armor.”

Hyperbole notwithstanding, Thancred had to admit Aethon was quite the duelist. The man had exceptional swordsmanship and even better reflexes. His swordplay was both swift and relentless, lightning-fast attacks without pause. Though armed with a shield, he rarely used it to defend, instead wielding it more like a second sword and attacking with its sharpened edge. Thancred’s slower, heavier gunbreaker style was remarkably ill suited to countering such speed. He was having to burn most of his cartridges on barriers. It still wasn’t enough.

He had several shallow wounds on his arms and torso from slashes he hadn’t been able to defend against in time, as well as a cut on his cheek that imitated Aethon’s scar. Even his newest wound, though deeper than the rest, took what Thancred knew to be exacting precision all Aethon’s part to not have been a mortal wound.

Thancred was getting the decidedly unpleasant impression that the only reason he was still alive was Aethon was trying not to kill him.

He needed to escape. Even if he did defeat Aethon, and that was seeming increasingly unlikely and borderline impossible without killing him, it would exhaust him and get him no closer to his goal. Fighting here served no purpose. But so far Aethon had been smart enough to keep himself between Thancred and the chamber entrance and did not enter the room deeply enough to create an opening. One good Shukuchi could see Thancred safely to the door, if he could guarantee Aethon wouldn’t impale him from behind when he tried it.

Thancred took advantage of the brief lull in combat to reload his gunblade. He was running low on cartridges and it hurt to have to discard a leftover shell before slotting a fresh set in, but he needed the full functionality of his weapon more than he needed to conserve ammo.

Aethon stood near the door, a playful smirk on his face. He was enjoying himself; somehow that was the worst part of this fight. He paced but didn’t enter the room any further, waiting for Thancred to make his next move. If Thancred could just lure him in, then get around him. The mission was still possible, but the longer he spent fighting here and the more strength he wasted on this fight, the less likely it became. He needed to bait him somehow.

“You seem rather desperate to get new friends.” Thancred panted, trying in vain to slow his breathing. “If you need to beg Urianger to share some of his. I take it you lost all of yours already?”

He meant to spin that into some witticism about the defeats Gorrath’s army had taken and their related losses, but before he got the chance Aethon was lunging across the room. The captain’s confident demeanor replaced by a furious snarl, he punched with his sharpened shield. Thancred caught the attack on his gunblade but the force of it nearly drove him back against the wall. A fiery brand seared his side. Aethon’s sword bit again into his unguarded torso. Thancred grit his teeth and thrust his free arm down.

The smoke bomb hit the floor. A thick cloud of choking smoke enveloped both men instantly. Aethon danced backward, ready for the impending attack. It took him less than a second to realize no such attack was coming, but by then Thancred had reached the chamber entrance and darted into the corridor.

Aethon was after him within moments but paused at the threshold. He glanced left down the tunnel deeper in and right along the passage that led back up to the surface, seeing no one. “Damnit.”

He raised a hand to his ear. “The intruder has escaped. Put everyone on alert, secure all aboveground entrances, and inform Urianger he will need to be bait after all.”

He turned and ran down the left path. Not until thirty seconds after his footsteps were no longer audible did Thancred feel it safe to breathe. He discarded the empty bottle that held his invisibility tonic and pulled out the more conventional potion he saved for emergencies. He drank all of it in several gulps and pondered his next moved while his wounds uncomfortably closed up.

Aethon’s words suggested Urianger was somewhere along the left path. Which, though he didn’t like it, meant Thancred should go right. As much as he wanted to rescue his long-time traveling companion, he had entirely realistic views on his chances should he not only have to fight Urianger, but Aethon and whoever else were part of the waiting trap.

Reluctantly, Thancred took the right passage. His course was clear now. He’d overstayed his welcome and needed to find an exit. Heading straight back the way he came would be too obvious and the most likely spot for heavy resistance, so he took the first connecting tunnel and slipped through the half-darkness.  

Taking care to keep his steps quiet, he moved through the maze of tunnels as fast as he dared. More than once, he had to stop to let patrols pass him by. There were too many in each party to fight, not while he was this deep and was at least trying not to kill anyone. He kept moving, staying out of sight as he slowly ascended.

It was surprisingly easy. Even with the place supposedly turned out to prevent his escape, he saw remarkably few people after an initial flurry of activity. It would seem his infiltration hadn’t been easy entirely because they were trying to lure him in. No wonder his jibe about how the Primal’s army was hurting for bodies hit closer to home than he expected.

After a time, he was near the level he had entered. Perhaps a few stories higher, if his internal sense of direction was any judge. He paused as he approached a relatively brighter lit chamber. This one was wider, walls lined with various crates and containers, and had several other passages connect to it. A supply depot, most likely, and an obvious place for an ambush. The figure standing in the middle of the room made it a certainty.

Thancred weighed his options for a moment then sighed. It was foolish, but he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t. He straightened out of his crouch and strode into the chamber.

“Greetings, my friend.” Urianger said as Thancred approached him. He looked closely for signs of redness, but mercifully the Elezen’s skin was the same color as he remembered. The astrologian smirked. “Surprised to see me?”

“A little.” Thancred replied lightly, watching the shadows around the stacks of crates and the other tunnel mouths. “I thought you were waiting farther in.”

“Such were Aethon’s orders, but he’s used to Elarians that prefer fighting to the death. I knew you weren’t fool enough not to escape when your cover was blown. Twas simply a matter of choosing a path to safety and trying my luck waiting for you.” Urianger idly examined a fan of tarot cards. “I knew you wouldn’t pass up a chance to ‘rescue’ me if given one.”

Did he just use contractions? Thancred’s eyes narrowed as he braced himself for imminent battle, but he couldn’t help a quietly horrified question. “What have they done to you?

There was a disturbingly ecstatic expression on Urianger’s normal stoic features. “I have been uplifted, blessed by the holy power of the Blood God and shown the truth of–”

“I’ve heard the recruitment pitch already.” Thancred cut him off. “I doubt you’ll make a more persuasive case.”

Urianger shrugged. “A shame. Aethon is on his way, and he is eager for another chance to convince you.”

“And you are to delay me until he arrives?”

Urianger unhooked the astrolabe from his back, the delicate metal rings whirring into motion. “Who better?”

Thancred laughed with a dismissiveness he did not feel and drew his gunblade. “Well, someone’s high on his newly forced faith. Care to put that bravado to the test?”

As if on cue, squads of soldiers emerged from each of the five tunnel mouths in this chamber, aside from the one Thancred had emerged from. They formed a ring around the Scions, cutting off Thancred’s avenues of escape.

“I know my odds against you. I’m not a complete fool.” Urianger tutted. His expression curdled into a glare. “You’re not leaving this place. One way, or another.”

“We’ll see about that.”  Thancred spent a shell forming a barrier around himself and charged forward.

The tempered soldiers rushed to meet him, attacking from all sides. Thancred chopped left and right, firing off explosions to ward them back and pressed forward. He swung for Urianger, but his slash was caught by the crossed swords of a Skalik that darted into his path. Wreathed with the telltale shimmer of magical empowerment, he pushed Thancred back. The gunbreaker could feel the pinpricks as attacks bounced off his shield, knowing from long experience how many more it could take before it failed. He spun and slashed, clearing some room around him. Already those he had cut down were getting back on their feet, restored by Urianger’s spells.

Outnumbered at least thirty to one, with an astrologian of Urianger’s caliber supporting his enemies? This was not a battle Thancred could win. He fought on regardless, throwing himself against his foes and relying on both his strength and roguelike swiftness to keep them at bay. He slowly fought through them, subtly drawing closer and closer to his goal.

It was a testament to Aethon’s cunning that he realized Thancred’s intent the moment he arrived. “Encircle him!”

Too late. Thancred fired his last shell and bowled over the three men still between him and the tunnel mouth. Then he was sprinting away, reloading as he ran. Deadly stars rained down around him as Urianger abandoned the idea of capturing him. Thancred evaded and shrugged off the stellar impacts until he reached the tunnel. With a final, regretful, look back, he leapt up and discharged his entire magazine into the tunnel ceiling.

Rock splintered under the force of the explosion. Thancred didn’t stop running, racing the cracks that traced the walls and ceiling. The stone quickly gave, heavy boulders crashing down and sealing the path behind him.

Thancred took a moment to catch his breath, wounds singing as adrenaline wore off. He slotted the final cartridge he held onto just in case and forced himself to keep moving. It likely wouldn’t take them long to clear the way and he could still be surrounded from another direction. He ran on until he saw the bright light of day around a corner. He emerged in a wide, tall entrance chamber, an opening in the rock inviting him to safety. Only four soldiers were standing guard, drawing their weapons at the sight of him. More importantly, they were led by a woman with a staff and robes that looked like they had once been ornately woven. Perfect.

Thancred rushed them, noting as he ran forward two other tunnels that led into this room. The soldiers charged him in a cluster, making it easy to drop them with the explosion of his final cartridge. Then it was a simple matter to dodge the mage’s fireball and slam her in the face with the flat of his gunblade. She dropped to the ground unconscious. He sheathed his gunblade and bent down to sling her over his shoulder.

Some instinct prompted him to duck. The shield whirled past his head with enough force to embed in the wall behind him. Aethon was racing across the room from one of the other tunnel openings.

Well, he’s determined. Thancred drew one of the throwing knives he kept on him and whipped it at Aethon while breaking outside. The other man dove to the side to evade, as Thancred hoped, buying him a few precious seconds as Aethon recovered his stride.

Thancred already had the whistle in his mouth, blowing on it for all he was worth as he ran down the mountainside. It produced a tinny, barely audible chime one, two, three times before he dropped it to concentrate on his descent. He looked back to see Aethon emerge into the daylight, sword in hand, and knew the tempered captain’s agility left the gunbreaker with no chance of outrunning him on the treacherous slope. Not while encumbered by a body’s worth of dead weight.

A shrill cry echoed through the air. Aethon looked up, realization dawning. Thancred wasted no time, racing for a nearby precipice. He didn’t slow as he approached the edge, spotting a white blur out of the corner of his eye. Out of ground, he jumped for all he was worth.

For a brief, exhilarating second he hung in the air. Then he slammed into a feathered wall that knocked the wind out of him. He scrabbled for purchase with one hand, the other holding tightly onto his captive, and felt himself slipping until a hand grabbed the back of his jacket and held him in place.

“Up! Up!” Cailia urged. Lieutenant beat his wings strongly in response and the mountain fell away from them as the griffin shot into the sky. From his awkward perch, Thancred could see Aethon watching them escape. Once they were high enough to be relatively safe, he and Calia worked together to deposit his cargo between them and help him up so he was sitting on the griffin rather than draped across it.

“Was that him? The traitor?” Cailia asked. She gave the giddy laugh of cooling adrenaline. “You cut it close.”

“I like to keep things interesting.” Thancred replied, wilting as the stress and excitement of combat drained out of him.

“Hey, live as dangerously as you want, so long as you win.” Cailia patted the unconscious woman between them. “And you got her, so mission accomplished.”

Thancred leaned back as they flew south with his prize. He was exhausted, bleeding from a dozen places, and one of his best friends had done his level best to kill him. He didn't feel like he’d won.

The most basic form of offensive conjury was lifting a stone and throwing it. It was a spell Y’shtola had completely mastered; she could cast it while asleep. It was trivially easy for her to repurpose the spell to lift stones heaped atop trapped and bleeding men. Y’shtola uncovered the next survivor, careful to keep the rest of the rubble pile suspended until arms could reach in and pull the Knight to safety. She let the stones settle back onto each other with a grinding crunch. That was the last person she could see in the remains of the broken wall. The last one alive, anyway.

She threw a quick healing spell on the newly rescued man, supported on the shoulders of his fellows. It was a weaker spell, just enough to keep him stable until he could be taken to receive proper healing from the group gathered at the other end of the rubble ramp below. She needed to conserve her aether for the battle, which was even now raging behind her. Staff in hand, she made her way up the rock pile to the summit to survey the battlefield. It was not an encouraging sight.

Fighting as brilliantly as almost anyone she had ever seen, Castor had managed to keep the Chosen from overrunning the breach long enough for his reinforcements to arrive. The freshly arrived squads of Knights fought with their preternatural synchronization to hold their own despite being outnumbered. Knights would shield each other, line up attacks for one another, moving together in a dance of swords and shields with such seamless fluidity it went beyond mere teamwork. The analytical part of Y’shtola’s mind wondered if this was a result of all of them having the Echo, before banishing the thought to focus on more important matters.

Whatever its source, the Knights’ ability to fight in perfect sync with one another gave them an edge that let them fight off three times as many enemies. Unfortunately, they were outnumbered four to one. Castor had started holding the line at the end of the rubble pile, he and his fellow Knights were now desperately fighting to not be driven back over the crest of it. Of the fourteen Knights that had come to Castor’s aid, five had already fallen and nowhere near enough Chosen had been slain to make that a fair trade.

The servants of Gorrath were monstrous. Y’shtola had seen people tempered by Primals before. Their aethers became tainted, stained in the color of the Primal’s own aether. The Chosen were different. They were barely recognizable as human. Some of them she could barely make out glimmers of their original aether beneath Gorrath’s corrupting power, others were so warped that they looked like nothing more than masses of the Primal’s own aether. It was little wonder their bodies were beginning to mutate. The most twisted even looked to have budding scutes or bulges on their backs, the beginnings of growing Gorrath’s horns and wings.

They were beyond saving. Y’shtola readied her staff. Her elevated position at the top of the hill gave her an angle to launch her spells, but the constantly shifting melee made it hard to guarantee her attack wouldn’t strike one of her allies in the back. She sent a surge of water arcing up and over the clashing front line and splashing down on the rear ranks with enough force to stagger the Chosen. Knocked off balance, they slipped and fell on the newly slick stones.

An aetherial blade fired past her and unerringly pierced a Hyur woman that was trying to regain her footing. Calista stepped up to join Y’shtola and the two mages began to use their spells collaboratively. Y’shtola used farther reaching elemental spells to disrupt the enemy’s back line while Calista’s faster, more precise blades targeted those in front she could without hitting their own.

The barrage of magic helped turn the tide and the frontline of Knights stopped giving ground. Y’shtola would have liked to pushed harder and begin driving the Chosen back, but the enemy’s own spellcasters had abandoned trying to attack the other sections of the wall and were joining the push against the breach.

Y’shtola was no stranger to magic duels, and the Chosen mages were formidable. Their spells were nothing truly intricate, but the raw power behind them meant they didn’t need to be skillful. Even with the caveat that she was pacing herself for a protracted battle, Y’shtola had to devote more of her aether to warding off enemy attacks than she preferred.

She shot a bolt of lightning that detonated a large orb of flame heading her way safely over the heads of the clashing warriors. She followed it up with a blast of wind that caught a Lalafell and threw her end over end down the ramp. Calista conjured a shield of water that protected them both from spears of flame. When the shield dropped Y’shtola was already ready with her own fire spell, which she dropped in the midst of the Chosen mages.

Something punched her in the back. She turned to see a crimson furred Skalik snarling maliciously at her. It died a second later, impaled by multiple aetherial blades from the front and back. Even as it burst into flames, there was a triumphant note to its cry.

It was only after the impromptu balefire pyre gutted out that Y’shtola felt the warm wetness pouring down her front and back. She looked down to see the tip of a knife protruding from her midriff. She stared uncomprehendingly at the bit of metal, wondering where the rest of it was. As the pain ripped through her, her mind finally caught up.

She’d been stabbed in the back.

Her legs gave way and she sat down hard. It was difficult to breathe. She had to force each breath down and they each came with a pulse of agony. A bad sign, she knew. Numb fingers grasped behind her looking for the other end of the weapon. Three Wolf-touched mages were hastily scrambling up the slope in her direction when she felt Calista take her by the shoulder.

“This will hurt.” The Knight said grimly. “Ready?”

Y’shtola nodded and tried to swallow her scream from the explosion of agony when Calista pulled the blade free. The sorceress wasted no time and immediately began casting healing magic on herself. This was not a wound one could heal on the spot, but she had to at least stop the bleeding or she’d never last long enough to receive proper medical attention.

Calista joined her hands to Y’shtola’s and the pain began ebb a little. More importantly, the wound closed up. Y’shtola let out a sigh of relief. She was lightheaded from blood loss and her insides were still a mess, but at least she wouldn’t bleed out in the next minute.

“Get her down and to the healers.” Calista commanded the trio of Wolf-touched that were joining them. “It was a Night Knife, so check for poison.”

She turned back and quickly resumed casting spells into the fray. The Chosen had taken advantage of the pause in magical attacks to retake the initiative and were sorely pressing the line of Knights again. A Knight went down, his body falling one way and his head another.

Y’shtola forced herself to her feet, despite the protests of her new minders.

“Easy!” One urged. “You’ll open the wound again.”

Another held out an arm. “Take my hand and watch your footing.”

“No.” Y’shtola spat. Her voice was hoarse, as much from rage as pain. She ignored the hands stretched out to help her and turned back to the fight.

She was angry. The heat of it burned through her pain and made her need for healing a distant thing. She had been angry for a while now, and this latest injury done to her had finally broken the dam of her composure.

They were supposed to be done with these endless struggles against Primals. With dealing with the fallout of petty racial wars of peoples that found bloodshed easier than diplomacy. With carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. After saving the entire star, the Scions were supposed to get a break from this lunacy.

Instead, they were pulled into a war against a Primal that seemed intent on corrupting everything it touched and who only existed because some fool sought a god to enact his spiteful vengeance. And once again it was the Scions paying the price for standing against this evil. Marcus was dying. Urianger might already be dead. And she was now in serious danger of bleeding to death if she sneezed too hard. She’d had enough. She was going to make someone pay. Fortunately, she could see plenty of deserving targets.

“I will not hold back.” She said through gritted teeth.

The most basic form of offensive conjury was lifting a rock and throwing it. It was a spell Y’shtola had completely mastered; she could cast it while asleep. Being stabbed was similarly no impediment. She raised her staff, power surging through it as she gathered her aether. No point in conserving her strength now.

The rubble mound began to shake beneath her feet. On the other side of the slope, the effect was more pronounced. Huge blocks of sundered masonry began to rise, throwing themselves into the air with violent force. Y’shtola couldn’t focus her spell clearly enough through the haze of pain to avoid grabbing the rocks under the Knights’ feet, but they were on the outskirts of the affected area and Echo-driven reflexes helped them avoid the worst of the updraft. The Chosen were not as fortunate.

“Back! Get clear!”

“Kill her!”

The Chosen roared as the ground beneath their feet erupted, brutally batting them into the air and dumping them on the rocks below that were themselves hurled aloft moments later. Some few found their footing and spells and other missiles streaked toward Y’shtola. A twitch of her fingers and some rising chunks shifted, intercepting the incoming attacks. She continued her spell, grabbing every last decently sized stone she could until she had them all and all of the Chosen had been thrown back to the ground.

What had once been a hill of piled rubble was now a towering edifice, a facsimile of the wall these stones had once been. Knights looked up in awe from the half of the mound that had been untouched. The Chosen were getting back up and rallying, already surging towards their foes again. Y’shtola swayed on her feet. Her wound was screaming with pain in addition to the throbbing behind her eyes that came with channeling such immense aether all at once. The rocks trembled in the air, about to fall. She panted from the exertion and hung on to consciousness with sheer willpower.

She forced herself to call up even more aether while her wound sang. Lightheaded from the pain, she thrust her hands outward and sent the stones crashing down and outward. An artificial rockslide rained down.

This time it was the Primal’s forces that were hit by a barrage of boulders. Shrieks of fury echoed as the Chosen began to fall. Remarkably few attempted to flee, driven by the Primal’s hateful aether to advance and attack even in the face of certain death. The heavy chunks of masonry crushed some of the abominations and buried others. Some of the stronger Chosen were able to deflect or outright pulverize the falling rocks. But many of those still only managed to survive one or two of the missiles before being overwhelmed. When the last stones landed, precious few of the crimson devils were left standing.

Y’shtola dropped to her knees as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. One hand clutching her staff and the other pressed into her still excruciating wound, she surveyed her handiwork while gasping for breath. There were survivors here and there rising to their feet once more, but she had dispatched at least half of the attacking Chosen. The stones beneath her feet shuddered. She had dug out half of this hill of rubble and gravity was asserting itself on what was now a ramp of unstably stacked rocks.

Before she could do more than recognize the danger, aether rushed into the stones and held them together. Y’shtola followed the energy back to the trio of druids before Calista and Castor were around her.

“Did she do all this?” Castor asked like he didn’t quite believe what he had just seen, taking Y’shtola’s staff from limp fingers and slinging her arm around his shoulder. He rose slowly, gently bringing her back to her feet without further stressing her wound.

“By herself.” Calista answered, hands stretched out wreathed in restorative magicks. Y’shtola let out a hiss as her abused flesh was first aggravated by the healing, relief from the pain coming swiftly after.

She forced a chuckle through her pained grimace. “My apologies… for stealing your fun.”

“We’ll live.” Castor replied with deliberate irony. To Calista, he continued. “Let’s get her to safety before they counter attack.”

As if on cue, a cry rang out. “Captain!”

The trio turned as one to see Gorrath airborne. His massive wings beat, sending a gale before him as he flew towards them. His immense aether had not diminished during his duel, if anything it seemed to have grown. Lupercal was giving chase but the wolf was bleeding aether in a rush of blue fire from a gash in her side and even Y’shtola’s exhausted senses could tell she would not catch him in time. Castor was shouting orders to his men, the Knights forming up and readying their swords and shields.

Y’shtola ignored them, shrugging out of Castor’s grip and brushing off his reflexive attempt to grab her back. She dredged up every scrap of aether she had and more than a few she didn’t. She thrust her hands out and poured out every last onze of her power into a barrier, a shimmering sphere that enveloped herself and the Elarians.

The axe descended, wreathed in balefire. Enough concentrated aether to raze a small town. It struck the shield directly and discharged all that power into it.

The impact felt like a warhammer smashing into her skull. Y’shtola felt something inside her burst.  Blood spilled down her waist and legs as her wound opened from the exertion. She had no more aether left to spare on sight, putting it all into her barrier. Trapped in darkness, she could hear the roaring of flame as Gorrath’s unnatural fire scoured the surface of her shield, covering every ilm of it searching for a weak point. It found none.

The axehead pressed harder and there was no more room in Y’shtola’s mind for any thought beyond forcing her barrier to hold. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Her limbs trembled. Her entire being was devoted to repelling the Primal’s fury.

It wasn’t enough. She could feel her shield cracking. With the last of her strength, Y’shtola pulsed the barrier outward, so the flames would be repelled away rather than surge in and incinerate them.

Y’shtola collapsed painfully onto the uneven ground, utterly spent. She could hear snarling, the thrashing of massive figures battling, voices shouting.

The noises slipped away. The only sound she could hear was her heart pounding, every beat pumping out her lifeblood. She retained just enough awareness to know she was dying.

It was funny. Your life was supposed to flash before your eyes, but all she saw was his face.

Marcus.

The darkness claimed her.

Estinien ran along the wall as fast as his legs could carry him.

Castor’s wisdom in deploying him to defend the city’s gate had been proven, with Minos nearly caving in the fortification singlehandedly and almost throttling Estinien in the process. But once the former prince had finally succumbed to the dozen blades impaling him, Estinien had left the handful of remaining Chosen to the gate’s other defenders in favor of racing towards the breach. That was the real battle.

Drawing close, he bent his legs and launched himself skyward to take in the situation. He saw a familiar shield, a shimmering bubble at the center of a raging maelstrom of balefire surging against it. And he saw it burst, repelling the fire and lightning in a final effort. Gorrath roared in triumph, stepping forward with his axe raised for a killing blow. Estinien leapt off the air, hurtling towards the clash, knowing he was too far away to intervene.

“You will go no farther, Demon!” Castor’s voice roared. “And you will take nothing more from us!”

White fire ignited, enveloping him as he stepped forward to challenge the monster descending upon them. The flames surged along the knight’s sword, gathering into an immense blade of burning light. Castor held the sword with both hands and met the descending axe with a weapon of comparable size.

The explosion of clashing energies threw Estinien backwards through the air. He arrested his tumbling fall and reclaimed some height with a pair of quick jumps. With his aerial vantage, he could see the result of the clash. It wasn’t good. Gorrath had been staggered and driven back a few steps, but already embers of balefire were smoldering to life along Blooddrinker’s edge. Castor’s magical blade had shattered from the impact and while he still stood defiant the white fire shrouding him was gutting out. Gorrath advanced, a murderer’s smile on his face.

But by now, Estinien was close enough.

He fell from the sky like a bolt of divine retribution, Nidhogg’s point surging with the dragon’s power. Gorrath was as insanely fast as before and spun to catch the dragoon’s dive with the face of his axe. It was not enough to stop the aether exploding from the spear at the point of contact.

Gorrath roared in pain this time, reeling backwards while Estinien landed expertly beside Castor. While the Demon may have blocked being impaled by the Stardiver, he had been badly scorched by the blast. His crimson flesh and dark armor were now blackened and he recoiled from the injury, but barely a second later the fiendish grin had returned and he was bearing down on them again. Estinien raised his spear, Castor taking up his shield again to stand ready beside him as they squared off against the monster.

Gold flashed.

Lupercal’s fangs sank deep into the base of Gorrath's wing. Gorrath roared again, flailing backwards at his new attacker. The wolf Primal wrenched with her jaws, trying to rip the limb off. Estinien leapt forward to join the attack, but Blooddrinker lashed out and he had to flip backwards to avoid the swell of balefire. Gorrath’s other arm rose, the chain links wound round his wrist rattling as they uncoiled. The hook bit deep into the wolf’s neck, pulling taunt into a leash. Lupercal’s jaws loosened for only half a second from the pain, but it was enough time for a yank to pull her teeth from Gorrath’s flesh.

Lupercal recovered quickly and caught the chain in her mouth. With a yank of her own, she pulled Gorrath back from the wall and created slack in the leash binding her, allowing her to slip free. Gorrath rounded on her, but she leapt over the swinging axe and arced through the air towards the wall. Her feet found purchase in the air above the breach and azure fire surged as she growled, standing defiantly over them. Gorrath snarled as he turned back to face them and Estinien readied to jump to meet the charge.

The charge did not come. Gorrath’s snarl died, replaced with ominous chuckling. “A stout defense even without your champion. What a joy to see I still have worthy foes.”

Lupercal growled but did not move. The flames radiating off her fur intensified, fanning from her as if to ward the city behind her from her foe. “Come then, and I will prove my worth by tearing out your throat.”

Gorrath lazily rested his axe on his shoulder and shook his head. “And end our fun so soon? No. I am satisfied for now. And the fruits of this war need time to ripen before I bring it to an end.”

To Estinien’s astonishment and fury, he turned to leave.

“You will not escape!” The dragoon leapt forward, only for the world to explode around him. He fell against the ground hard, recovering enough to see a flurry of wind spells slam into Lupercal and detonate like cannonballs, staggering the Primal. There was an inarticulate scream as Estinien rose to his feet, revealed to be a Chosen charging at him with a sword held over her head. He caught the slash on Nidhogg’s haft but, still rattled from the airburster, was pushed backwards by it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castor grappling with a Chosen of his own before his attention was grabbed by one with a spear descending on him. He tried to fight his way free, but the enemy was too strong. “Coward!”

Gorrath's fangs bared in a promise of blood. Flames surged up and engulfed his form. “Hone that fury, mortal. I will be back for you.”

They fought fiercely, but by the time the dragoon, Knight and Primal managed to cut down the last of the dozen Chosen that had rushed them, a Lalafell spellcaster bursting into flames while in Lupercal’s maw, nothing of Gorrath was left but a strip of scorched earth.

“What was that? How did he flee?” Castor demanded, looking at his deity. Lupercal tiredly shook her head, wounds on her throat and haunch steadily venting aether.

“Yet another twisted magick in his arsenal.”

All thoughts of Gorrath and his magicks were driven from Estinien’s head when he saw Calista, kneeling on the ground wreathed in a similar white fire to what had adorned Castor.

And before Calista’s outstretched hands, the Miqo’te who lay pale and still as a corpse.

Chapter Text

Markos heard something. A woman’s voice. It was faint, indistinct. Clearly different from the furious cries that surrounded him. There was something… comforting to it. It almost sounded familiar. But who could it be? He strained to hear it again.

He heard nothing but the angry shouts of his friends as they cursed him, spat on him and slashed at him.

He was still being punished. He was standing in the middle of them, chest on fire as Alex’s sword bit deeply into the side of his torso. Marcus couldn’t help the grunt of pain, but otherwise did not react to the attack. He accepted their anger, let them vent their fury into his battered and abused flesh; it was the least he could do to make up for his failing them. And after such a monstrous betrayal, it was little wonder they were still angry even… hmm. How long had they been like this?

The thought was interrupted by an explosion of pain in his back that drove him to his knees.

“Agh! Rrgh!” Panting from the pain, he tried to stand but Niko ran him through as he rose. Markos fell back onto the ground.

He wanted to rise, but his body wouldn’t obey him. The endless beatings had drained all strength from him. His nerves were aflame with agony so constant he thought they’d be numb by now, but each new marring of his flesh burned as much as the first. Sweat sheeted off him and his breath came in hacking shudders, throat choked with the coppery taste of blood. His limbs were weak, held tense for so long as he braced for each successive blow that by now they trembled uncontrollably. It was all he could do to keep standing to receive the next injury and continue paying his debt one pound of flesh at a time.

He tried to raise himself again, but he was so tired. The sword in his gut burned like a brand and he lacked the strength to even try to remove it. The voices continued to bombard him.

“Get up, coward!”

“You owe us this you traitor!”

“Pathetic. I knew you were worthless.”

He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see their faces twisted in fury. He desperately tried to tune out their mocking, hateful shouts. He just needed a moment’s rest, just a few seconds of not being tortured by those he loved like family.

He heard it. Sneaking through the cacophony of angry noise, he heard a voice. It wasn’t the same one as before, he had no sense of familiarity from it. It was so faint, he couldn’t make out any words. In fact, it sounded an awful lot like a scream.

He didn’t realize he’d gotten to his feet, but he must have. Otherwise, how could he be running towards the scream?

It was hard to run with a sword in his gut, but Markos managed. His pain and fatigue still threatened to overwhelm him, Markos staggered as he charged through the fog in the direction of the voice, but he did not let them slow him. He forced his body to move through the pain and ignored the screams of protest from his battered flesh just like the outraged howls behind him as his friends gave chase.

The grey mists continued to surround him as he ran and looked for any sign of the person who had screamed. It was impossible to see anything through fog so dense it nearly formed a physical wall. Markos heard another wail, followed by angry shouting. He sprinted towards the sound of it.

He burst into a clearing in the fog to see two women. Both were wearing Elarian soldier armor. One stood with a sword in a raised hand, the other lay on the ground with bleeding from several wounds.

“Please, Daphne.” The prone woman moaned feebly, a trembling hand raised in vain to ward off the next blow. “I beg you! No more!”

“Ha! You haven’t even begun to–” Whatever the other woman was to say would remain a mystery when Markos cut her off by catching her sword arm as it began to descend.

“Stop!” He had to grab her other wrist to prevent her from clawing at his face.

“Do you know what she did to me?” The woman screeched, features twisted with fury.

He held the struggling limbs firm. “It doesn’t matter. No one deserves– Argh!”

Niko had reached them and recovered her sword by ripping it out of him. His limbs spasmed from the excruciating pain and he lost his grip on the Daphne’s sword arm. She twisted in his grip, bringing her now free hand around to again hack at her victim. Behind him, Niko drew back her sword to stab him again.

“Not now!” Markos hauled on the wrist he still held and spun. He pulled Daphne along with him, her blade striking nothing but air, and yanked her off her feet. He slammed her into Niko and sent both women falling backwards in a jumble of tangled limbs. Niko screamed his name in a vengeful howl.

“MARKOS!!!”

“We’ll get back to me in a minute.” Markos told her, moving to stand between the pile of bodies and the bleeding woman. He half turned his head so she could hear him easier. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”

“Don’t.” A small voice said. Markos looked down to see the woman on the ground, her long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, staring up at him with tear filled eyes. “Don’t. I… I need this. It’s what I deserve.”

“What? No.” Marcus was dumbfounded. “Hold on, who even are you?”

“W-w-what? Me?”

“Yes. You. Name.” Marcus took a second look at her face. He tried to soften his expression. “Please.”

“D-Diana, Ser.” She answered, some small measure of her terror and pain changing into confusion.

“Diana, that’s stupid.” He caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye and turned to meet it. “I gotta take care of something, but then we’re going to have words about that, okay?”

Alex entered the clearing, Katt close behind him, and lunged forward. With no better option, Markos caught the slash on his bare arm. The blade bit deeply and Markos hissed from the fresh surge of agony. With Katt stepping around Alex and her sword at the ready, he raised his other arm to meet it. He grit his teeth, wishing dearly he had his shield.

Metal clanged against metal. Instead of bitter steel marring his flesh, Markos felt a familiar weight on his arm. He did not stop to question how he was now wearing his shield, instead using it to knock Katt back and pivoting to punch Alex in the chest with it. He instinctively snatched the sword that slipped from Alex’s limp fingers with his free hand. It was only as he shifted into his ready stance that something occurred to him.

That cut felt like it went down to the bone, how do I still have use of my hand? And on that subject, a more pressing matter came to mind. Niko impaled me, I should be bleeding to death. Yet when he glanced down, there wasn’t even a mark on his shirt. How was that possible? Come to think of it, they’d been torturing him for hours. He shouldn’t even be able to stand, let alone fight. But the only wound he had was the scar on his face, bleeding freely. Hang on, scars don’t bleed.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Niko and Daphne were both back on their feet and attacking again, while Lucas and Theo emerged from the fog. Markos blocked Niko’s sword with his own, but Daphne wasn’t attacking him. She ran past him to again assault Diana, still lying on the ground and watching the conflict with wide eyes. Markos slammed his shield into her head from behind, knocking her off balance.

Fire blossomed across his back as a sword tore through it. Another errant thought that it would be nice to have his armor, and the next strike was turned by the metal plates. Markos side-stepped around the dazed Daphne and lashed out with enough aether charging his blade to send all six attackers staggering backwards. They recovered quickly, but he stood ready to meet them.

His mind was still clouded, like the fog that surrounded them was also inside his head. It was so hard to think. But he didn’t need to think. Things were simple now.

He had a sword, a shield, and armor. There was someone behind him who needed to be protected. That was all that mattered.

He would continue making amends to his friends after, but right now he couldn’t let them resume his punishment. Once Daphne was dealt with, he could get things back on track.

His friends didn’t care about his newfound resolution. As one, they rushed him.

Even if he hadn’t been outnumbered five to one, Markos knew he couldn’t defeat them. He wasn’t anywhere near the swordsman the rest of them were. His swordplay lacked the relentless ferocity of Niko’s. He didn’t have Lucas’ hammering strength or Alex’s subtle quickness. And he couldn’t begin to imitate either Theo’s technical perfection or Katt’s graceful elan. But he did have one advantage, his specialty among the Squad’s members.

He was the only one who could take a hit worth a damn.

He made himself a wall, standing firm against every attack that came toward him. His shield absorbed each hit without faltering while his sword became a blur that parried away slashes and stabs. He stopped trying to think and let his instincts take over, only his reflexive defenses fast enough to respond to the onslaught of five on one.

It was working. But it shouldn’t be. Even with his concentration solely on defending, if they attacked together he couldn’t hope to keep up. His sword and shield could only be in one place at a time each, and his armor could only weather so many direct hits. All they needed to do was time and aim their strikes to exploit the openings he made when blocking another. That should have been easy for a team that had fought together so much.

But instead, they didn’t show any teamwork. They attacked like a disorganized mob; it was easy to parry Niko so she got in Lucas’ way or block both Alex and Theo’s attacks with his shield at once. He met their fury head on and brushed it aside, keeping all five blades at bay.

But even with the advantage of the Squad’s shockingly haphazard tactics, there were still too many of them. A now familiar scream from behind him immediately commanded his attention. He whirled around, deploying a barrier of sheltron to protect himself momentarily.  Though haphazard, the Squad’s attacks were enough distraction that Daphne got past him and returned to abusing her victim. Her sword dripped with blood, a fresh wound across the kneeling Diana’s face.

Daphne’s sword rose, angled for another stab. Markos lunged forward and took her hand off at the wrist. She rounded on him, screaming more from fury than pain and he booted her away with a solid kick. The sheltron guarding his back shattered and he had the uncomfortably familiar feeling of blades plunging into his back. He spun, a burning blade of aether lashing out and giving him a few vital seconds of breathing room.

Niko’s sword clanged against his own. The two matched each other in strength and their blades ground together. In the depths of her eyes, Markos saw only hate staring back.

“What is this?” She spat. “Some pathetic attempt at redemption? You think you can save her and it will make up for murdering us?”

No. Markos thought to himself. I can’t atone for what I’ve done.

“You can’t save her! You can’t save anyone!”

It’s true. I already failed her. Why am I even pretending otherwise?

His arm started to bend, his sword driven back towards his chest. Did he really think he could redeem himself doing this?

There was a noise, from behind him. From Diana cowering on the ground. Something soft, indistinct. It might have been a whimper. Or a sob.

Marcus’ arm extended fully, overpowering Niko. With a flourish, he shifted his grip on his sword and plunged it into the ground. Beams of light rained down, searing the Squad. He ignored them as they recoiled, turning and kneeling before the girl. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay. She won’t hurt you again. I won’t let her.”

He had forgotten something important. This wasn’t about him. Daphne was already charging again, sword held in both hands for an overhead chop. He didn’t give her the chance to strike, slashing her shoulder to hip and cutting her down midstride. He stared down his friends, already recovered from his attack.

“Why?” They demanded. “Why won’t you just give up!?”

“I don’t know how.” Someone was in danger before his very eyes, how could he not protect them?

The five of them snarled and rushed him again. He weathered the onslaught, sword and shield moving independently of one another to deflect the flurry of slashes aimed at him. Their ferocious barrage of attacks was too much for him to defend every attack and pain blossomed from his arms or legs where hits got past his defenses. He ignored them. Somehow, in this place his wounds healed themselves. And pain was just a word.

Daphne’s angry shout commanded his attention. She’d gone around him again. Another aether fueled strike forced his assailants back then he launched himself forward to slam into her, shield first, and drove her back from her intended victim. A few seconds of swordplay later and Daphne was on the ground again. Marcus turned, ready to meet his friends again. But Niko’s charge towards him was interrupted when she reached the woman still huddled on the ground.

As Marcus watched, Niko stabbed Diana with a smile on her face. She laughed at the scream of pain and raised her blade again.

Marcus caught Niko’s sword on his shield. Then he cut the throat of the lie wearing his friend’s face without a second thought.

“MARKOS!!!” The others frauds roared furiously, nearly as angry as Marcus felt.

How dare they!? How DARE they pretend to be his friends!? To dishonor their memories by pretending for even one second that they were the kind of people who’d torture an innocent, no matter how much they rightfully hated him? He didn’t know who or what these things were, but the monstrousness of their crime stole his reason in a blinding fury.

He threw himself against them with as much ferocity as they charged him. His anger lent weight to his strikes and without a shield between them, they began to fall. They rose just as quickly, which was good. It let him kill them again.

He could have hacked them apart for hours, but a scream penetrated the red haze. Daphne was coming again, Diana scrabbling backwards away from her. Marcus sent a parting surge of magic around him to blast the frauds away, then ran to her side. This wasn’t good. Six on one and none of them seemed inclined to stay dead. He couldn’t keep up with all of them.

He wove a quick bit of magic to form a barrier around his protectorate, just in time to turn Daphne’s blade. With little time for subtlety, Marcus hacked through her torso with raw strength. He stood over the prone Diana, the only way to shield her from the attacks incoming from every direction. The false Squad surrounded him and he fought as fiercely as he ever had before.

He didn’t know how long he fought on. Just like the mist enshrouded them, his attention narrowed to his foes, their incoming attacks and the openings he could use to counterattack. Their features blurred, becoming indistinct. As if his realization they were only pretending to be his friends meant they were no longer bothering to maintain their disguise.

His anger steadily mounted. His righteous fury towards these things, these monsters that existed only to mock and hurt and kill that he could not destroy no matter how he struck them down. It infuriated him that they existed at all, whatever they were, let alone how they continued to slash at the girl he was defending. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep every blade from reaching her. He fought on regardless, letting anger fuel his limbs. Channeling his ferocity the way he remembered Niko did in battle, loosing her shimmering rage on the enemy.

Marcus blocked the shadowy Niko’s sword with his own, her snarling, him nearly, in rage. And another sword slashed through her neck.

As the false Niko fell, Marcus found himself staring into the eyes of the real Niko.

It was her. Unmistakably so. The same emerald eyes narrowed into a glare. The same glowering grin on her face. The same little flourish at the end of her stroke as she hacked through her doppelganger’s throat. And when the doppelganger exploded into wisps of shadow and dark smoke, Niko snapped at him exactly how he remembered. “Eyes up!”

Marcus snapped to attention. In his stupefaction, he’d let the enemies behind him get in close. He spun and hit the shadowy Alex with his shield hard enough to throw the man off his feet. Daphne, the only one of the frauds whose features remained distinct, lunged forward with a howl. He silenced her by putting his sword down her opened mouth, enraged at himself that his moment of distraction let her stab the girl beneath him again. He felt a back press against his.

He and Niko fought seamlessly back-to-back, as they had a dozen times before. His elation at having her back warred with the confusion he felt at seeing her now, but he had no time to question. Five on two was more manageable, but he still had little time for idle thoughts.

Niko grated at being on the defensive, as usual. “We need to go on the attack!” She shouted over the ringing of blades.

“We can’t! Press on one side, we leave the other vulnerable!” Marcus wracked his brain, trying to think despite the distraction of combat. He tried to wrap his head around the strangeness of this place, to find a strategy that could make it work for them. If they tried to break out in any single direction, that would leave Diana exposed from the other side. Marcus could shield her, but his barriers weren’t strong enough to hold for more than a hit or two. He thought of the sword, shield, and armor that appeared as he wished for them. The ghost of a memory surfaced, and he smiled.

His barriers weren’t strong enough.

“I shall handle this.” Y’shtola announced, appearing at his side as if out of thin air.

She thrust her hands out and a wall of blue light expanded outward. The spherical energy had enough force behind it to bodily throw back the attackers, yet passed over Marcus, Niko, and Diana without so much as ruffling their clothes.

Niko started in surprise at the barrier forming and tapped the wall with her sword. She frowned as it repelled her, annoyed at being separated from her enemies. The four false Squad members and Daphne, pushed back on the other side of the barrier, paced outside the shimmering wall of aether, snarling. They tested its strength with a few blows, but when the deceptively thin aetheric shell didn’t so much as tremble they resigned themselves to waiting.

Marcus glanced at Diana. Without the threat of imminent death, he could take a closer look at her. She had long dark hair and green eyes, was on the slender side but with some noticeable muscle. She wore a variation of Elarian soldier armor, lighter than that of a frontline bladesman but of better make than that of the usual serviceman. Something about her seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Her wounds were gone and she wasn’t crying any more. She looked frightened, when before she had been terrified. Progress, of a sort.

The girl was staring at the barrier in awe. “A-amazing.” She breathed.

“Yeah, she is.” He answered. He ignored the confused look, turning to look at Y’shtola. It was amazing how, despite everything, seeing her face was all it took for him to be sure that everything would turn out okay. He still had no idea what was happening, but he was no longer worried about it.

“It was your voice, wasn’t it? That snapped me out of it.”

“Mayhaps.” Y’shtola answered. Marcus felt his relief wilt a smidge. That was uncharacteristic uncertainty from the woman whose fierce intellect he always relied on. She looked at him with concern. “Your face…”

Marcus raised a hand to his cheek, wincing slightly as his fingers touched a no longer bleeding, but still raw cut across his face. Y’shtola’s concern shifted to sternness. “I see you are ignoring my advice about taking better care of yourself.”

Marcus shrugged. “Have I ever been good at that?”

He was rewarded with the slight smile she wore so well. “Indeed not. Have you awoken from your comforting delusions yet?”

Marucs smiled, memories surfacing. “Doing my best. You know me, I’ve got an ego.”

Y’shtola laughed at that, the musical sound doing wonders to lift his spirits. Those spirits wilted at the sight of Diana, staring petrified through the barrier at a snarling Daphne grinding her swordpoint against the aetheric wall.

Marcus stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on Diana’s shoulder. She flinched, rearing away from him like his touch burned and whirling around to look at him with wide, terrified eyes. The fear in her eyes stung a little, though Marcus reminded himself she had been tortured for gods only know how long. He tried for a reassuring smile.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so, ser.” She answered. She didn’t seem to want to meet his eyes.

Ser? Marcus nearly chuckled. He supposed he couldn’t fault her for the mistake, not when he’d had his armor made to resemble a Knight’s as a private joke.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I just look the part.” He extended a hand. “Here, can you stand?”

She hesitated, regarding the outstretched limb with trepidation. “I’ll try.” She clasped his arm with both hands and he hauled her up. He was ready to catch her if she started to fall, but after a couple seconds to find her feet she stood on her own and he could let go. Her head turned as if pulled by a lodestone to look back at Daphne, who was continuing to hammer blows against the shield with no signs of tiring.

“Don’t worry.” He reassured her. “You’re safe inside this shield.”

“I-if you say so.” She didn’t sound very convinced. She wouldn’t look away from her tormentor, still trying her luck against the barrier. Keeping his voice low and steady, like he was speaking to a skittish chocobo, he got her attention.

“Hey.” She jumped at his voice. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Diana blanched. She hugged herself and shivered. Concerned, he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. This time, she didn’t recoil. “I know it’s hard, but this might be important. Can you help me?”

“M-me? Help you?” She asked incredulously. She took a deep breath, then another. Slowly, her trembling stilled. She opened her eyes, and he was relieved to see a firmness to them. “I’ll try.”

She took a deep breath before beginning in a shaky voice.

“I was being held prisoner. Me and Daphne both. We were taken and… she was broken. And then, then she…” He could feel her start to shake again through his hand on her shoulder.

“And then you woke up here.” He finished for her. “With someone who looked like your friend tormenting you as punishment for your failure.”

“Y-yeah.” She agreed, confirming his suspicions. That tracked with what happened to him, but how did he get here? What was happening before he woke up here? He’d been fighting… something. Not a someone. But what? The fog in his head was still maddeningly impenetrable.

Diana slowly looked around them, gaze landing on where Daphne now stood, still fruitlessly trying to break through Y’shtola’s barrier. “I’ve been here a long time. With her. Daphne. She’s my friend. And she… she hurt me. And I deserved it.” Her voice rose and he could feel her starting to crack again.

“That’s what you said.” He reminded her gently. “But think back. You’re a soldier, assess the situation tactically. Was there anything you could have done?”

Diana looked startled by the question, then considered it. She breathed out, long and slow, and he saw her clenched shoulderblades slacken.

“No. No, there was nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do. Not against him.”

Him? Marcus put that aside for a moment. “If there’s nothing you could have done, then what did you do wrong?”

“I… I…” Diana looked up him pleadingly. “I should have done something! Even if it didn’t help, I should have fought back!”

Marcus kept his voice gentle. “Would it have made a difference?”

“That doesn’t matter!” Diana insisted, anguish writ plain on her face. “I didn’t fight to the end! I didn’t fight at all. That’s what I did wrong!”

Marcus glanced briefly Y’shtola’s direction. “A wise woman once told me–”

“Only once?” Y’shtola interrupted. Marcus grimaced.

“Alright, more than once. A lot more. Anyway, she told me that what you’re doing right now, blaming yourself because bad things happened to those you care about? That’s arrogant.”

“What?” For the first time, Diana no longer looked afraid. She was too busy gaping in confusion. Marcus felt the corner of his mouth quirk; he’d felt the same way the first time he heard this idea.

“Losing someone hurts like a knife to the gut. Believe me, I know. I’ve done both. It hurts, so bad you can’t stand it, so bad all you want is to make the pain go away. Find someone to push that pain on. And it’s so easy to take all the blame yourself. You’d rather tell yourself that since you’re so great and strong, surely you could have prevented what happened if only you’d done the right thing. Which means, them dying must be your own fault. Admitting there was nothing you could do, that you have all this pain inside and you can’t push it on anyone, you just have to carry it with you the rest of your life, that’s hard. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do.

“You hide behind your pride to escape the pain, but that pride just tortures you even worse.”

“Just in case it wasn’t clear, he’s speaking from experience.” Niko said, looking over the two of them with folded arms. Y’shtola sighed without a waver in her outstretched arms.

“Believe you me, I am well aware. I have tried to get that point through to him, but so far it has been a futile effort.” The Miqo’te lamented. She fixed him with one of her looks. The kind that never failed to make him feel stupid. Usually because he was. “For all his talents, he’s never been good at listening.”

“No surprise there.” Niko commiserated. “This idiot could headbutt a rock and the rock would give first. Words just bounce right off.”

Oh good, there’s two of them now. Marcus thought to himself. Diana stared at them.

“Who are you two?”

Marcus pointed to each of them in turn. “That’s Y’shtola Rhul, my fiancée.”

“Not entirely accurate, but I am pleased to make your acquaintance all the same.” Y’shtola said. Marcus turned to the other.

“And this is Nikophrene of Theron.”

“Niko, if you don’t want me to smack you.”

“Niko.” Marcus amended. “And she’s, well, she’s my Daphne.”

He turned to look at the others. “So are they.”

He started towards the edge of the barrier. Behind him, Niko made to follow but pulled up short at a glance from Y’shtola.

Marcus reached the shield and took a moment to fortify himself before raising his eyes. He looked at the shadowy figures that even now still wore the distorted faces of his friends, twisted in snarls of hate.

“What, come to give us another useless apology?” Katt spat. Even knowing she was a fake, hearing her voice laden with such venom stung. The others added their own vicious condemnations, cursing him out and blaming him for their deaths.

I did nothing wrong. Easy words to say.

Marcus’s hands clenched at his sides as he concentrated on driving away the haze clouding his mind. He forced himself to remember. Remember who they really were. Their voices full of warmth and encouragement and good-natured ribbing, not spewing hateful bile. Their faces smiling and laughing and crying, not locked in snarls of fury. The concern in their eyes as they told him to leave, when they sent him away that fateful day in the tunnels.

Finally, he let himself meet their glares. “That day.” He began, haltingly. He closed his eyes, feeling the tightness in his chest. “I didn’t save you. But… that doesn’t mean I could have. When you died it… It wasn’t my fault.”

He opened his eyes. The shadows were gone.

His friends stood in their place. It was the four of them in truth, now. Marcus could tell, just by looking, and wondered how he could possibly have mistaken the hate twisted features from before as belonging to them.

Alex rolled his eyes. “Finally, he remembers. Took you long enough.” Despite the words, he was smiling. They all were.

“Be nice.” Katt admonished lightly. “This place is messing with him. We weren’t exactly helping.”

“Yeah, sorry about that by the way.” Lucas shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Though even so, I have to admit it’s kind of shitty of you to think we’d ever treat you like that.”

“Guilt is a heady drug. It can be easy to forget.” Marcus admitted. The pain from his cheek was gone; his fingers traced a line that was once again hardened scar tissue.

Theo shrugged. “Well, next time you do, talk to that girl of yours. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“Yeah she does.” Alex leaned to look past him and waggled his eyebrows at Y’shtola. He continued grinning even after Lucas punched him in the shoulder.

Marcus couldn’t help a grin himself. “While we’re on the subject, why were you doing that?”

“We were us, but we weren’t ourselves.” Lucas answered sagely. Marcus sighed.

“Right, what was I thinking?” He turned to Theo. “Can you make that make sense?”

Theo grinned at his brother. “What I think he means is, for me it was like I was trapped in my own head and someone else was controlling my words and actions.”

“That’s how it was for me too.” Niko said from behind Marcus. “Then it was like I blinked and was standing behind myself.”

“And immediately killed yourself with remarkable relish, I must say.” Alex said.

“Let’s not lose focus.” Katt put in as Niko shot a look at Alex. “That’s what we were doing, but it doesn’t answer the bigger question of what we are.”

“Souls of the dead?” Alex hazarded. “Returned from death to haunt someone and all that?”

“You know, that’s not how the afterlife works.” Marcus said.

“We did know that, which is interesting.” Theo said, thinking.

“Interesting how?” Niko asked shortly. Marcus could tell she was already getting tired of the conversation.

“I should think that’s obvious.” Theo pointed a finger up in his usual ‘explaining’ pose. “We ‘remember’ the nature of the Aetherial Sea. Something Marcus knows but we never did.” He turned to Marcus. “We must be either manifestations of your memories of us or our own displaced souls. Our physical bodies are some sort of mindy souly thingies influenced by how you think of us. Your guilt over surviving when we perished was somehow amplified into a belief that we wanted to punish you for it, so we did. Now you’re remembering us more clearly, so we’re closer to our actual selves.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “’Mindy, souly thingies?’ Really?”

“Cut me some slack.” Theo chided. “I’m running off your brain here.”

“If that’s the case, then can we even know anything Marcus doesn’t already know?” Lucas asked.

Katt nodded. “I doubt it. Makes you wonder why we’re even having this conversation.”

“Don’t tell me you still prefer to let everyone else do the talking for you?” Alex asked.

Marcus shrugged. “Sometimes, but I’ve gotten better about that.” He looked at each of them. “I think I just wanted to hear your voices again.”

“You don’t need some nightmare mind world for that.” Katt gently rebuked him. She tapped her chest. “We’re always right here.”

“I know.” He closed his eyes before the tears could fall. “Thank you.” When he opened them again, all four were smiling back.

“Thank us once we get you out of here.” Lucas said, tapping a meaty fist to his chest. “Though I’m not sure how we’ll do that.”

“Yeah.” Marcus turned back to look at Y’shtola but his gaze landed on Diana, still staring in mute horror as Daphne tried to batter her way through Y’shtola’s barrier. Marcus glanced back. “So could you…?”

“On it.” Lucas nodded and took off at a jog around the shield, the others following. Niko exchanged nods with Y’shtola, who much to Diana’s alarm lowered her arms. Daphne lunged forward as the barrier dissolved, laughing viciously, but she only took a few steps before Niko was on her.

“Don’t hurt her!” Diana screamed.

Even with her head turned, Marcus could see in his mind's eye Niko scowl at having to restrain herself, but she complied. Even with the handicap, the duel between the two women was one-sided, and that was before the others descended on Daphne. Now moving with their usual flawless teamwork, it only took them a few seconds to disarm Daphne and restrain her, Lucas and Niko each taking an arm and forcing her onto her knees where she struggled furiously in a vain attempt to break free.

Diana watched the struggle with wide eyes. Marcus’s brow furrowed. He knew she’d been through hell lately, but this kind of persistent fear seemed excessive. She even flinched when Alex gave her one of his easy smiles. Marcus clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“They’re on our side now. They’ll help us get out of here.”

Diana looked around them. “Get out of… Where even are we?”

A good question. Instinctively he turned to Y’shtola for answers, but a sudden thought gave him pause. It was possible the others were here because they were dead, which would mean… No. He wouldn’t even begin to think that.

He forced himself to focus on the topic at hand. This place was filled with fog, and from the dirt he stood on he’d think they were outside, but there was no wind or change in light levels from the sun rising or setting. So maybe a cave, but one this large and brightly lit?

And that was far from the only oddity. He’d been slashed and stabbed enough to kill a man a thousand times over, but the wounds simply faded after mere seconds. Things, even people, were appearing from him merely thinking of them. Magic, clearly. But what kind of magic could do all this? Were they dead after all? This sure didn’t seem like the Aetherial Sea but it wasn’t like he’d explored much of it during his brief trip through the Aitiascope.

His head hurt, and not just from the way this place seemed to press down on his thoughts. Deep thinking was not his specialty, it’s why he surrounded himself with scholars. What he wouldn’t give to have the real Y’shtola or Urianger with him right now.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Diana flinch at a particularly vehement curse from Daphne. Marcus put his thoughts aside. As important as it was they understand what was going on here, that wasn’t his top priority right now.

“You okay?”

“It’s weird.” Diana’s voice was small. “She tortured me. She was my friend and she tortured me for days. I should be angry. Why am I not angry?”

Another good question. And again, Marcus had no answer. He’d been the same way, and looking back that was odd. He knew he wasn’t the most assertive fellow, but being that passive felt like excessive.  

“My friends were hurting me too. But it wasn’t really them. Just… my own guilt torturing me. Try to think back, to before we ended up here. Wherever here is. Remember her as she was. Is that really the Daphne you know?” 

Diana looked startled by the question, then considered it. Helplessly pinned, Daphne raged impotently.

“You worthless coward! Traitor! You stood back and watched as he broke me, didn’t even try to help! Why didn’t you fight back? You should have died with me!”

Diana flinched at the words. She looked helplessly at Marcus, who could only help by offering a reassuring smile. This was something she had to do herself.

The smile seemed to help. Tentatively, Diana approached her restrained friend, who hurled a renewed set of obscenities at her. Marcus followed, ready to spring into action if necessary, but to his relief the other woman’s features began to blur and her form grew indistinct.

“I…” Diana began, hesitant. “I was so sure that it was you. That I had failed you, so your anger was only natural. But… no."

She glanced back at Marcus and he could see a bit of fire in her eyes. Again, he was struck with the nagging sense that he'd met her before.

Diana kept talking, her voice growing stronger with each word. "Daphne always had a temper, but she never held a grudge. She was moody, snappish, and she never paid for anything. But she had a bigger heart than anyone, and always felt terrible when she hurt someone. You... you’re not Daphne at all!”

‘Daphne’ snarled wordlessly and struggled in vain against Lucas’s iron grip. To Marcus’s surprise, instead of returning to normal like his friends had she continued to fade, becoming more and more of a shadow. The process unsettled Marcus; Diana was staring in unabashed horror. He was about to pull both of their attention away to something else, anything else, when he heard a noise that chilled him.

Daphne was laughing.

His eyes snapped over to her, still held tightly by Niko and Lucas. She’d faded so much she no longer resembled a person at all. She’d become an oily mass of darkness, laughing with a deep voice entirely unlike how she’d spoken before.

“Foolish, feeble mortals. Wracking your brains trying to understand. To escape. But there is no escape from here. From me.”

“We’ll see about that.” Marcus replied evenly. The dark creature just smiled, all teeth.

“By all means, try. Try your very hardest. And when you fail, you will belong to me again.” She, no, it laughed again. “This will end as everything does. In blood.”

As if to prove its words, the creature burst. Lucas grimaced and he and Niko recoiled as the shadow-thing dissolved, body melting into a dark sludge that formed a spreading pool on the ground. Just as quickly, the pool melted away into nothingness. Somehow, the sight didn’t reassure Marcus.

Something moved in the fog. Something big.

Streamers of mist trailing off it, a horned, red-skinned monster emerged opposite them. Marcus felt an unpleasant tinge of fear in his gut. He knew this creature, heard about it in hundreds of stories from when he was a boy.

Gorrath, the Demon of Blood and War.

Chapter Text

From the mist, a monster emerged.

It approached them on cloven hooves with an unhurried, almost leisurely stride. A Taurhe grown to gargantuan size, a behemoth of a bull-man. Under its crudely forged black armor, its crimson flesh was freshly flayed. Blood seeped out around and between the armor plates to mingle with the traceries of fog still clinging to its form. Fleshy wings unfurled from its back, each pinion ending in a razor-sharp talon. Curved horns meant for goring framed a bellicose face whose features promised pitiless brutality to all who witnessed it.

And its eyes. Black, bottomless pools of crushing darkness, an infinite wellspring of hate. Hatred so potent no mortal soul could contain it. Hatred that promised the end of all that existed, simply because destroying everything in creation was the only thing that might sate it.

Marcus knew this monster. He’d heard so many stories of this beast it was impossible not to know him.

This was Gorrath, the Blood Demon. The God of War. The Prince of Battlefields. The Harbinger of Slaughter.

He was smaller than Marcus expected.

The oddity of that thought distracted Marcus, even as the Demon descended on them. Why would I think that?

Like a door being thrown open, memories rushed back to him. He’d been fighting Gorrath and been struck down by the Primal’s attack.

Fury flooded his limbs. That spell or curse or whatever it was, it had brought him here. It had forced him to suffer through being tortured at his “friend’s” hands. It seemed only fair Marcus return the favor.

He took up his sword and shield, nearly snarling as he pushed his way past the Squad. It was hard to tell, but the approaching Gorrath might have grinned at the sight of him. He heard something faint, like ringing in his ears. Marcus’s limbs braced in anticipation of his charge, only for the memory of a voice to slip through his anger.

Y’know Mark, that’s your problem. You never look before you leap, and you think you have to do everything yourself.

Marcus exhaled. Years later, and he hadn’t learned a thing. So he looked instead of leaping, and what he saw surprised him.

Gorrath wasn’t just smaller than before, the foreboding feeling he gave off was missing as well. Primals all had a pressure to them, as if the world itself was weighed down by their presence. When they’d fought in the mountains, Gorrath’s pressure was one of the strongest Marcus had ever felt. Now it wasn’t just reduced, it was gone. Whatever was approaching, it wasn’t a Primal.

His eyes, trained through years of warfare, drank in other details. The way Gorrath walked, how easily he moved, how he carried his axe. A second’s glance was all it took for his accumulated battle experience and honed combat instincts to reach the same conclusion. This Gorrath was weaker than the one he fought. Much weaker.

This Gorrath. Marcus thought that without meaning anything by it, but it was too apt to ignore. This was not the Primal he fought. It was some kind of lesser, weaker copy. Gorrath halted, stamping on the ground hard enough Marcus felt the tremor. Right, he reminded himself. Weaker did not mean weak.

“You pitiful creature.” Gorrath growled, the words oddly sibilant. He looked down at Marcus, his calm demeanor doing little to hide his cruelty. “You are strong enough you can’t die easily, but too weak to survive. Especially with your baggage.”

The Primal nearly spat the last word. Marcus didn’t know what he was referring to, and was prevented from figuring it out by the terrified muttering coming from behind him.

“No. Please merciful Lady no.” Diana was holding herself tightly as she pleaded with the empty air, eyes fixed on Gorrath in a wide, horrified stare. “Not him. Not again.”

Marcus moved immediately, long ingrained teamwork spurring the Squad into action alongside him. They took up a defensive formation and formed a wall between Diana and Gorrath. It did little to reassure her. She kept mumbling to herself, a terrified babble.

“It’s him it’s him it’s him he’s back he’s going to do it again.”

“Do what? Diana!” Marcus called out to her, trying to calm her. She didn’t seem to see or hear him, all her attention fixed on Gorrath.

“Rip us apart, take the pieces, make us strong, shed the weak.” Her faced twisted and she cradled it in her hands. “Pain. It hurt so much. Tear it all out. We need to be stronger. But I can’t. I’m too weak. Just make it end. It won’t stop. It’ll never stop.”

“What is she talking about?” Niko asked. Marcus wavered, torn between keeping an eye on the looming enemy and his terror-stricken companion.

“The fire!” Diana cried out, as if desperate for them to understand. “The fire burns away weakness but all of me is weak! That’s why it won’t end! That’s why it should have been me! I should have been the one to fall! That’s why I deserve to burn!”

For half a second, Marcus saw Daphne’s image overlaid on Gorrath’s.

Marcus thrust his sword into the sky. His aether flowed along its length, leaping into the air and bursting like a firework. For a moment, the mist around them was blown away and the sun shone in this murk-filled hellhole.

“Blades of Elarion!” Marcus cried out in his most commanding voice. “In the Lady’s name!”

“In the Lady’s name!” His squad members echoed. Diana’s terror fled for a moment, driven away by the light and suddenly raised voices.

“Attack!” Marcus shouted. The Squad sprang into action, Niko moving even before he spoke. They charged Gorrath, who whirled his axe around to meet them. Five of Marcus’s dearest friends engaged the greatest monster they had ever known. Marcus turned away. He would trust their strength, and devote himself to looking carefully before acting. Just like he did.

Y’shtola had a hand on Diana’s shoulder, trying to comfort her. Diana looked as though she would never be comforted again. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I can’t… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” Marcus got her to look at him, if only out of surprise. “Of course you aren’t standing with us. I called on ‘blades’ to fight. You don’t have a blade. Or bow, if that’s your preference.” He added on impulse. His mouth quirked in amusement. “What, you think you ought to take on that thing with just your bare hands? You’re a braver soul than I.”

“Me? Brave?” Diana stared at him. Her mouth opened with what he could already tell was a denial.

“Besides.” He cut her off. “They don’t need the help. There’s not a Demon dark enough to take on the five of them.”

He turned back to check the fight’s progress. Alex had stabbed Gorrath the back of the leg and brought him down onto one knee. Lucas was grappling with Blooddrinker, holding the axe back while Niko stabbed the beast in the throat. The Demon died, collapsing into wisps of balefire and shadow. His friends jogged back over to them, patting themselves on the back.

All except Niko. “Was that disappointingly easy for anyone else?”

“Give it a second.” Theo said, looking over his shoulder.

For half a second Marcus thought that might be the end of it. But then the mists parted, and another Gorrath emerged.

“Good, mortals! Fight! Surrender to the savagery!” He roared a bloodthirsty howl and started towards them, axe held before him ready to strike.

It seemed humans weren’t the only ones continuously reborn in this place. Another point in favor of this being some strange corner of the Aetherial Sea. Marcus was pretty sure you couldn’t die while already being dead.

“Look, I gotta have a chat, can you guys go sort that out?” Marcus asked, pointing at the incoming incarnation of violence.

“Of course.” Niko drew her sword with the slithery hiss of steel on cloth and pointed at their rapidly approaching adversary. “He’s the one who twisted us into monsters and tortured you. Dying just once is too good for him.”

“Don’t think you can hog all the fun.” Lucas copied the motion. The two of them began to run towards the Demon. Alex jumped and ran after them.

“Hey! Wait up!”

Theo made to join them, then checked himself. “You gonna figure things out?”

Marcus nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Ha! Attaboy.” He raced after the others, who were already attacking the Demon. Katt paused and held out a hand in a ‘stop’ gesture.

“You take a break and rest up. You’ve been through hell already, we’ll handle this until you’ve recovered.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “We’ve known each other how long and you still think I’ll waste time resting?”

She rolled her eyes. “Why do I even bother?” Smiling despite herself, she ran to join the others. Marcus looked back to Diana, who was watching Gorrath try to fight off the Squad. With it being five on one, and each of those five being Marcus’s equal, the second fight didn’t last much longer than the first.

And, as before, a new Gorrath stomped out of the mist. The Squad engaged this one with as much relish as the first. Marcus turned away, confident the situation was under control.

“See?” He told Diana. “It’s all good.”

“All good?” She asked incredulously, a hint of fire returning to her demeanor. “You saw! Even if you kill him, he won’t stay dead!”

Marcus gave the only answer to that he had. “Then we’ll keep killing him until he does.”

“Now I see where you get your uncommon enthusiasm for tangling with Primals.” Y’shtola observed, watching the battle unfold with faint amusement. “T’would seem it is not so uncommon after all.”

“Yeah, see? No big deal if you’re not feeling up to dancing with a Demon. We’ve got it. Could probably take on more than one.”

Over the sounds of fighting, they could faintly hear Niko scream.

“Back off! This is my kill!”

Marcus felt Y’shtola’s stare. “You’d like her if you got to know her.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” His partner replied with her usual bone-dry humor. Marcus noticed that despite his words, Diana was ignoring the banter in favor of staring wide-eyed at the fight. He grabbed her attention by raising his voice for one word.

“Anyway! Let’s put our heads together and think about something more practical.” He glanced around them. “Like where the hell we are.”

He surveyed their surroundings. Beyond the little clearing they were in, the fog was as thick and impenetrable as ever. All he could make out were the faintest impressions of rock formations, dotted about here and there.

It was impossible to tell where this was, so he tried to think of how he had gotten here. His memories were still cloudy, but he tried his best to remember. He was fighting Gorrath, then got hit by that… whatever it was in the bottle, that mass of sick-looking aether. Then he woke up here, surrounded by people who’d passed away years ago.

He looked at Y’shtola, heart seizing up in terror. No, she couldn’t be. She couldn’t. He wouldn’t believe it. She met his gaze with a patient expression.

“Think, Marcus. What do you know about the situation and how can you learn more?”

Marcus took a deep breath to calm himself. “What we always do. Ask around. So, Y’shtola, what do you know about this place?”

“I know what you know.” Y’shtola answered. She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to get whatever was eluding him. “I remember the battle in the mountains, then I materialized in this space when you thought of me.”

Marcus waited for more, but that was all she gave him. He pondered what he was supposed to be taking away from that, his head turning to idly watch the Squad fight Gorrath. They were handling the Demon fairly easy, between Gorrath’s reduced power and it being five on one, the only problem they were facing was that kill Gorrath just seemed to summon another from the mist. Almost like… like he was the mist given form.

He looked at Diana, trying not to get ahead of himself. “What’s the last thing you remember before you were here? Specifically, I mean.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. Marcus’s enthusiasm dimmed at her obvious distress, but he knew he was on to something. “I was in darkness. Daphne was corrupted and Gorr…” She broke off, took another slow breath to steady herself. “The Demon. He was having her beat me, blaming me for us being captured. I knew he was forcing her to say it but… I also knew it was true. It was my fault, because I was weak, I was useless and–”

“Yeah yeah, you said all that nonsense already.” Marcus interrupted. For both their sakes, he wasn’t going to let her go off on that tangent. “Gorrath himself though. He did something to you, right? Some kind of white colored magic?”

Diana looked up in surprise. “Y-yes. And no. The very last thing I remember was him using magic on me, but it was red, not white. Balefire.”

Marcus brushed aside the discrepancy, turning to his partner. “And what’s the last thing you remember?”

Y’shtola smiled and he knew he had it. “The battle in the mountains, where I was casting my spells alongside Alphinaud.”

The last time and place he saw her. And if that was all she remembered then… Marcus nearly wilted from relief. “You’re not dead. You’re just my memories of you, right?”

Y’shtola nodded. “You created me in this space much like you did your weapons and armor, yes.” She shrugged. “I am afraid that also means I cannot answer any of your questions, as, by my nature as your creation, I do not have any knowledge you do not.”

Marcus nodded. That made sense, though he didn’t like it. As relieved as he was to know her presence here didn’t mean anything had happened to the real Y’shtola, he was still disappointed that he didn’t have the real deal with him.

Diana looked between the two of them, trying to follow along. “Wait, so you’re saying that you’re just a figment of his imagination?”

“Rather like Daphne was a figment of yours, yes.” Y’shtola confirmed. She folded her arms, one hand knocking on her chin. “I can only speculate as to why she transformed into the Primal that trapped us here while myself and the others did not. The difference in Gorrath’s magicks, I should think.”

Marcus hummed to himself as he thought aloud. “Hmm. Those spells… maybe they killed us.”

Diana’s head snapped around to gape at him. “We’re dead!?”

Marcus could feel Y’shtola’s disapproving glare on his back. He hurriedly continued. “I mean, if we are dead then that’s alright then, right? The worst is behind us. Can’t die again, that’s not how it works.”

That perspective did not seem to be reassuring Diana. Marcus tried another tack. “But I don’t think we are dead. I mean, I’ve died before. It was not like this at all.”

Diana’s fear had, at least momentarily, been eclipsed by sheer bewilderment. “You’ve died before?”

Marcus folded his arms. His mind went back to the battle amongst the flames of the destroyed Castrum Meridianum and the vicious magic that shredded his body cast by a monster wearing the face of a friend. He sighed. “Hoo boy. Let me tell you about Lahabrea. He was a real bastard. Possessed my good friend Thancred, then–”

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?” Marcus turned as Thancred put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think the young lady really needs to hear that story right now.”

“Of course you don’t want her to hear that.” Marcus said drily. He nearly returned his attention to Diana before his head snapped back around. The roguish gunbreaker was here now, wearing one of his easy smiles. “Wait, you’re here too now? How?”

“I suspect the answer is rather straight forward.” Thancred said with a shrug. “Just as you conjured up Y’shtola by remembering her, remembering me did the same.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Really? Are you all going to be popping up in here? What, are the twins next?”

“We’re made from your memories, so that’s up to you.” Alphinaud commented. Marcus just sighed.

“Okay, I walked right into that one.”

“Oh no, you ran headfirst into it.” Alisaie told him, standing next to her twin smirking. Marcus pinched the bridge of his noise and took a deep breath through it.

“Alright, alright. Let’s focus here.” He looked back to Diana, who was watching all this with a bemused expression on her face. She eyed the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and nervousness.

“This is Thancred, Alphinaud, and Alisaie.” Marcus introduced each of the newcomers, now standing in a semicircle around the two of them. Between them and Gorrath, Marcus observed.

“More friends of yours?” Diana asked, her shoulders slumping. Defeat tinged her voice. “So that settles it. We are dead. We can’t be in a real, physical place. Not if things are just appearing out of our imaginations.”

Marcus thought back to Ultmia Thule, what felt like a lifetime ago. “Not necessarily. I’ve been to places where that can happen. And even if this isn’t a physical place, that doesn’t mean we’re dead. Could be some sort of shared dream, or a digital space.”

Diana cocked her head in question. “What does digital mean?”

His memory drifted to his fights against Omega. “It’s an area where everything is simulated. Created by a machine.” Diana was staring at him. “What?”

She chose her words pensively, like she was afraid he’d take offense. “You’ve lived… an interesting life, haven’t you?”

“It’s had its ups and downs.” Marcus found himself staring at her again. He’d seen her before, he knew it. But where? That ringing from before was back.

Marcus put the thought out of his head. It was probably just his mind playing tricks on him. He wracked his brain. So far, all he’d managed on figuring things out was coming up with a bunch of different possible answers rather than getting any closer to the actual truth. He didn’t know how to get any closer. Gorrath knew, maybe with the ten of them they could overpower, restrain, and interrogate him. But would that get them any answers, or just more bile from the Demon’s mouth? And could they trust the answers even if they got any? Maybe what they should do is see if Diana could conjure up any of her friends like he was doing and see if any of them had some insights.

“You are overthinking it.” Y’shtola interrupted his jumbled thoughts.

“He’s never done that and we all know it.” Alisaie said, to a chuckle from Thancred and a sheepish shrug from Alphinaud. Y’shtola ignored them, her silver eyes fixed on Marcus’s.

“You chase your thoughts around in circles because you are not asking yourself a simple question.”

“And that is?”

“Does it matter?”

Despite everything, Marcus felt himself smile. “How are you still smarter than me even when you’re a figment of my imagination?”

“Your pervasive overinflation of my positive qualities, I presume.” His fiancée replied with deadpan humor. Marcus turned back to Diana and stepped up to her.

“It doesn’t matter whether we’re alive, dead, or somewhere in-between.”

“How do our lives not matter?” She demanded. She jabbed an accusing finger into his shoulder, hitting the small gap left between the armor plates. Marcus shook his head.

“Because we’re here now, and we need to make the most of it. That means…”

He trailed off. Between the poke to the shoulder and Diana’s heated face, something finally clicked. He remembered. He had seen her before. She’d put an arrow in his shoulder, right before his sword cleaved through her crimson body.

Suddenly everything fell into place. This murky, impossible space. The imposters of their loved ones torturing them. Him being with one of Gorrath’s Chosen, whose personality seemed as far away from one of the Blood Demon’s champions as could be. There were still a lot of unanswered questions, but like his image of Y’shtola said he didn’t need to overthink it. He knew what they needed to do.

Marcus closed his eyes, held his breath, and listened. He found the faint ringing in his ears again and focused on it. As if in response to him seeking it, the sound grew louder, more distinct. Becoming what he expected it to be. The sound wasn’t ringing, it was a voice. Out there in the fog, someone was calling for help.

Diana’s eyes were fixated on the quintet bringing Gorrath down. “By ‘making the most of it,’ you mean we need to stay safe, right? Let your friends keep the Demon at bay?”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. She wasn’t going to want to hear this. “We could. I don’t think they’re having too much trouble.” He raised his voice. “How’re you doing over there?”

“Doing great, thanks!” Katt called back.

The relief on Diana’s face was almost painful. Marcus continued, gently. “But we’re not the only people Gorrath did this to. There are others, out there.”

He gestured at the fog around them. He could hear one voice relatively strongly, but there were others he was only noticing now that he was listening for them. The faintest whispers of cries for help, the same way he had heard Diana before. “Held captive by Gorrath, suffering the way we were suffering. We have to help them.”

“I… I don’t know if I can do that.” Diana admitted. She clutched at her arms as she shook, trying to hold herself together. “He… he shredded me, took me apart, and put me back together but, but not all of me. I can feel this… this gaping wound inside me and it hurts. So. Much.” Her gaze drifted back to Gorrath and her head bowed in shame. “I know I should want to stop him from hurting other people like he did me but I… I just can’t face him.”

“I get it. I do.” Marcus replied gently. He couldn't fault her for being afraid of Gorrath after having been at his non-existent mercy once before. She looked up at him with desperately pleading eyes. Marcus wilted before those eyes. He didn’t know what to say to banish that fear, to replace her broken will with hope and determination. He wondered what the Princeps would say.

“We’re trapped in the dark. So much darkness that it’s impossible to even see.” He gestured at the dark gray fog enshrouding everything around them. “But the light each of us has inside, that never goes out. Not unless we let it. Then you drown in the dark, but sometimes all you need is someone to remind you that there is light waiting for you if only you reach for it.” He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You did that for me, now we need to do the same for the others.”

“It’s easy for Knights like you to be brave.” Diana stared down at her feet, her words bitter. Her eyes snapped up in an accusatory glare. “You’re invincible.”

Marcus could only sigh and drop his gaze. “I’m not brave. When I faced the dark, I ran and hid from it. I stood and fought against things that didn’t frighten me and thought that was courage. But I was just in denial about how scared and hurt I was.”

The words poured out, loosened by the flood of memories. His first days in Eorzea, when fighting any enemy held no terror for him. How could it, when no small part of him wanted to die and join his friends? And his time at the Waking Sands, rebuffing the attempts to get to know him from the Scions, his new comrades. If his heart stayed walled off, enclosed in a suit of armor, it couldn’t be wounded again. Or so he thought. The Garleans proved that wrong. The slaughter of the Scions had been another failure on his part. Another time he’d been too late and his comrades had paid the price. Another wound that bled, despite his attempts to keep them at arm’s length.

“But I met people who were brave, not because they had never been hurt before, but because they rose above it.”  For as long as he lived, he would never forget the look on Minfilia’s face after the Garlean attack. Stricken, wounded beyond words at the loss of so many friends and allies but resolute nevertheless. A strength he could only marvel at as she shouldered her grief and kept forging ahead. “They refused to succumb to their pain, because people were counting on them. And because they were counting on me, I had to find a way to stand up myself.”

Marcus met Diana’s gaze again, seeing her watching him with rapt attention. “It was easier, I think, to need to fight for someone else. I didn’t have time to fixate on my grief, they needed me. And I needed them.”

After the Bloody Banquet and the flight through the sewers, when all the friends he had made despite himself were gone, lost in another tunnel while he fled like a coward rather than stand with them. If it hadn’t been for Alphinaud and Tataru, two people who were counting on him to protect them, the black gulf of despair would have swallowed him whole. But he weathered it. He withstood it because he had to. He had to be strong, for them.

“That’s why I’m here now.” He admitted with a mirthless chuckle. “This place made me forget all of that. I would have let them torture me forever if I hadn’t heard you calling for help. You and me, we’re soldiers, fighters. We protect those who need our help.”

“We are not alike.” Diana said. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m not a hero like you. I never was. And even if I was… He tore that part of me away. I can’t be brave anymore.”

Marcus scoffed. “You think I’m doing this because I’m brave? I’m not. I’m doing this because I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid?” Diana stared at him in shock.

“I almost completely lost myself in here. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have. And that’s what scares me the most. That I might let this monster turn me back into the person I used to be.”

He turned to look out into the fog, in the direction of the nearest voice he could hear crying out for deliverance. “I was trapped in my darkest, lowest moment. It took me a long time, and the help of people I’m proud to call friends, to become the man you're calling a hero. And with or without this Demon, this Primal’s magick, I’m faced with a choice every day. Do I go forward, or back?”

He smiled sheepishly at Diana. “At the end of the day, I want to be better. I want to live up to the example set by my friends. I don’t want to be found lacking compared to them. I’m proud to stand alongside them and I want to be the kind of person they are proud to know too.”

“Well said.” Alphinaud’s voice came from behind him. Marcus turned to see the young man faintly blushing. “I fear my head has gotten somewhat swollen from your compliments.”

“Too right.” Alisaie said, hands on her hips. “After all that praise, we’d best get on with earning it, shouldn’t we?”

Grinning, Marcus turned back to Diana. “Look, if you’re scared, or hurting, or you just can’t fight anymore, that’s fine. Really, it’s not a problem. We can protect you. Thancred is an expert bodyguard, he’ll keep you safe.”

“It would be my pleasure to monopolize the time of a beauty such as yourself.” Thancred said with his roguish charm. Marcus had to grin at the bemused expression on Diana’s face along with the beginnings of a blush. Some things never changed.

“But if you can stand with us, you will make a difference and you will save people who are suffering just like you are.”

The bow that he had last seen putting an arrow in his shoulder materialized in his hand. He held it out for her. “The choice is yours. Stay safe, or fight?”

She looked between him and the bow for a long moment. Slowly, tentatively, she took it from him. She turned it over in her hands, tested the string, hugged it close to herself. “Do you really think I can help you?”

“I know you can.”

Diana started at the feel of a quiver on her back. With slow, measured movements she drew an arrow and regarded its razor-tipped head. She nodded.

“I’m ready.” And she was.

“Now remember, you’re our rearguard.” Marcus said to Niko as they both watched the mists part and yet another Gorrath step through. Marcus had already lost count of how many this was.  A magical barrage from Y’shtola, Alphinaud, and Alisaie, with his own blades of light thrown in for good measure, had dropped Gorrath after Gorrath until there was a slight break in the endless chain of Primals. It was enough of a reprieve for the Squad to withdraw and have the plan explained to them.

It wasn’t a complicated plan. They were going to set off in the direction of the screams Marcus could hear, find whoever was being held captive and tortured, and rescue them. Repeat until they had all the captives, then find a way out of here. Surprising absolutely no one, Niko volunteered for the enemy-facing job. “That means you don’t stay and fight, you break off and follow us once we’re gone.”

“I know. I will.” Niko replied. Her eyes glittered as she sized up Gorrath.

Marcus and Alex exchanged looks. The other man shrugged. “She lies so readily, but also so badly.”

“Har har.” Niko snarked. She brandished her sword and charged. “Get moving!”

Gorrath roared in answer to her challenge and charged himself. He took three steps before his head exploded. Marcus, Alex, and Niko all turned to see Y’shtola lowering her staff, faint wisps of smoke still issuing from the gem. She eyed the three of them levelly.

“If a cooler head is required, then I shall volunteer mine.”

Niko scoffed, her gaze already landing on the next Gorrath. “If you think I’m letting you have all the fun…”

“I intend to stand with you, not replace you.” Y’shtola reassured. She turned to Marcus. “Do try not to throw yourself into harm’s way while you are out of my sight.”

Marcus grinned. “I was just about to tell you not to teleport the both of you into the Lifestream. We don’t have an Ascian to fish you back out in a false show of loyalty.”

“Don’t you still think we might be in the Lifestream?” Y’shtola asked with that half-smile of hers he loved so much. Struck by sudden impulse, Marcus took her into his arms and kissed her. The kiss lasted longer than he expected, neither he nor Y’shtola wanting to pull away. Finally, Katt cleared her throat and they pulled apart. Y’shtola was blushing slightly, from the kiss or being seen doing it Marcus could never tell.

“For luck?” Y’shtola asked, smirking to hide her embarrassment. Marcus shook his head slightly.

“Nah, that was for me. Stay safe, Shtola.” They both turned at the clang of Gorrath’s axe striking Niko’s sword. “I should get going.”

“Try not to keep us waiting, though I imagine we will find some way to keep occupied.” Y’shtola brandished her staff, already charging a blast of magic.

Marcus led the group as they jogged through the fog. Through some unspoken agreement, Lucas, Theo, and Thancred had formed up around Diana as they ran, centering her in a ring of defenders. For all she’d been emboldened by Marcus’s words, she did seem relieved at having the extra protection.

Marcus wasn’t really sure where they were going. They traveled through monotonously similar terrain, all craggy rocks and scraggly shrubbery. They could have been in the Ferroc mountains or the Thanalan scrublands. The mist pressed in around them, so heavy it felt like a physical weight. It was nigh impossible for Marcus to keep a sense of direction. For all he knew they could have been running in circles, if they weren’t drawing steadily closer to the screams.

They reached a clearing. Stone spikes surrounded them and towered over them like the grasping fingers of a clenching fist. There were several openings in spikes, each one leading to a canyon. The voice was near, louder than before. Marcus looked this way and that, trying to determine the source but it echoed off the spikes, sounding like it was coming all around them. He grit his teeth in frustration. This close, he could hear the pain and desperation in the cries, yet he couldn’t see the right path.

If you can’t see what you’re looking for, try another perspective.

Good advice, though it probably hadn’t been meant quite so literally. Marcus bent his legs, drawing aether into them. On impulse, his sword and shield shifted, the shield melting away and the sword elongating to become a spear. His armor lightened, changed shape.

“Go! We’ll catch up!” Alphinaud said, seeing his intent. Marcus released the mounting tension in his legs, shooting into the air. The mist swallowed him as he plunged into it, his hopes of getting above the clouds quickly dashed. Still, when he reached the apex of his jump and hung in the air for that moment when his momentum petered out, he could see a faint light moving in the distance below him. Marcus reoriented his body as gravity began to assert itself and used his fall to propel his downward angled leap. As he got closer, he saw the light was a burning sword, held over the head of one man and about to be brought down on another man lying on the ground, arms feebly raised in a futile effort to ward off the blow.

Marcus landed with just enough time to bring his spear around and catch the blazing greatsword on its haft. He held his spear in both hands to hold off the weapon that was even now straining to reach him and looked up with some surprise at the familiar face on the other end.

He recovered from the shock quickly. “The real Castor is stronger.”

The false Guardian Knight glared daggers at him. “Why are you defending this worm? Who the hell are you?”

“And he knows who I am.” Marcus added. He risked a glance behind him at the man lying bloody on the ground. Another familiar face, with a resemblance to Castor Marcus hadn’t noticed when they had danced before. “You must be Pollux.”

“W-what?” The older, dark-skinned man asked. He sat up slightly as his wounds faded.

“Hold that thought, I need to deal with this copy.” The fake Castor certainly looked the part, standing tall and proud with his armor polished to a mirror shine. Head to toe the very picture of a perfect Knight. But his stoic face was twisted in emotion, marred by naked hatred and scorn. Even without the benefit of seeing his friends similarly twisted, Marcus would have known him a fake in an instant.

The fraud abandoned the match of pure strength and pulled back his greatsword. The white fire in the blade flared brighter as it swung in a deadly arc. Marcus batted the slash aside with the head of his spear and used its length to drive ‘Castor’ back. The Knight snarled and attacked again and again but the relentless strikes were all knocked aside by Marcus’s precise spearwork. Still, that he could hold off such an all-out assault at all with only his spear proved his words. The real Castor would have killed him already.

They circled each other, trading blows. Even with the imposter being weaker, Marcus couldn’t manage to hold off the onslaught enough to create an opening for an attack of his own. Particularly not with him having to make sure to keep himself between Castor and Pollux. The downed man watched the duel with wide eyes, trembling.

“D– don’t!” He shouted in a tremulous voice. “Run away! You can’t beat Castor! No one can! He’s not just a Knight, he’s the greatest Knight there is!”

“The hell I can’t!” Marcus yelled over the ringing of clashing blades. “I’ve beaten the real Castor. This sad imposter doesn’t even come close!”

“Imposter?” Pollux stared at Castor with a new light in his eyes. That light vanished with his flinch when Castor laughed mockingly.

“Lies! The Princeps himself chose me to be his shield. I am the greatest warrior in Elarion! No one can match me! Not my pathetic brother, and not YOU!”

At the last word, the flames enveloping his sword surged. The force behind the accompanying slash was enough to drive Marcus back. Even so, he laughed. “The Princeps chose you because he wanted someone humble. To keep him honest.”

Castor laughed scornfully again, renewing the attack. “That’s it. That’s the pathetic story you weaklings tell one another. That things like honor matter, when only strength does. That’s why I became a Knight and scum like my brother didn’t. The two of you belong together. You’re both worthless!”

Castor’s strength was building with every word, every swing of his sword. Marcus was being pressured back, weathering the storm, until Castor committed a little too far on a slash. Marcus saw his opening. It was about an ilm wide and would exist for less than a second. Marcus put his spearhead through it.

His aether shined speartip tore through Castor’s side, marring his immaculate armor and drawing a spray of blood. Castor staggered back and Marcus followed, not letting up. The wound itself was irrelevant, and already closed. What was not irrelevant was the change in momentum. Now Castor was on the defensive, trying to hold Marcus off rather than the other way around. 

Marcus was about to say something hopefully witty about Castor being wounded by someone ‘worthless’ but he was surprised to hear Pollux shout.

“You wrote to me!”

Marcus and the fake Castor found the only common ground they ever would. “Huh?”

Pollux found his feet, rising in time with his voice. “When I was promoted, you sent me a letter. You told me how proud you were and how much I deserved it! I never wrote back because I was ashamed of myself. My brother never looked down me. And I won’t let you pretend he would!”

Castor dimmed, features blurring into shadow. His strength dwindled and Marcus was able to knock him back with a strong thrust. The shade made to resume his attack, but his head snapped back and he toppled backwards. Marcus noted with approval the arrow in Castor’s forehead. He turned to greet the new arrivals, spilling from the fog into the clearing.

“What took you?”

Alisaie huffed. “It’s not like you left directions for us to follow. We can’t all jump into the stratosphere.”

Diana stared at the downed shadow in amazement. “I… I got him.”

“It was a good shot.” Marcus commented. Pollux stepped beside him and pensively regarded the shade.

“What in the Lady’s name is this thing?”

“Give it a second.” Marcus watched the shadowy form dissolve. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye raised his gaze to see another Gorrath copy emerge from the fog to his right. The Blood Demon roared.

“There is no escape, mortals! You will suffer for eternity!”

“Ah, damnit. Another one?” Marcus groused. Thancred stepped in front of him, gunblade already slung over his shoulder.

“My turn.”

He launched himself forward in a blur of white, meeting the charging Primal with an explosion. Lucas watched the fireworks with Marcus, smirking at his expression. “Look me in the eye and tell me you weren’t expecting more of them.”

Marcus sighed. “Yeah, yeah I was.” He glanced up at the bigger man. “But I was really hoping not, y’know?”

Pollux stared in naked terror. “It’s him. The Demon. He’s going to break us. To shatter our souls again.” He fell to his knees in despair. “There’s nothing we can do. Not even Castor could face such a monster.”

“Pft.” Marcus scoffed. “If we let little things like giant monsters get in our way, we’d never get anything done.”

All they needed was a monster hunter. Marcus lazily swung his fist up and out to the side. As expected, his knuckles rapped on an azure breastplate. “Estinien. You see that big ole bastard?”

“Aye.” The dragoon answered, voice laden with his usual sardonic humor. “A bit hard to miss, that.”

“I don’t want to anymore.”

“Easily done.” Estinien took hold of his spear and crouched for a leap. Marcus turned away, hearing the distinctive whoosh of a Stardiver and a guttural roar of pain.

“See? Easy.”

Pollux looked around, dumbfounded, at the group of them. “Who are you people?”

“I’m Marcus, that’s Lucas, Alisaie, Alphinaud, Katt, Diana, Alex, and Theo.” Marcus pointed to each of them in turn. An explosion echoed through the fog behind them, prompting Katt and Alex to jog that direction to fetch their missing comrades. “And that’s Y’shtola and Niko.”

Pollux focused on one of them. “Diana? You’re here too?”

The archer had a relieved smile. “It’s been a hell of a week, sir. I’m glad we found you.”

Marcus glanced between the two. “Sir?”

With what seemed like great effort, Pollux drew himself up to his full height. “I’m Pollux of Cenopylae, first officer of the Cretan Cataphractii.”

Marcus felt himself involuntarily straighten up, long ingrained military discipline coming to the fore. He snapped a fist to his chest in an Elarian salute.

“Sir.” He took care to pronounce the ‘I.’ “Marcus Dorne of Theron, Theron Levy Squad.”

“You’re a levy private?” Diana asked in disbelief. Marcus ignored the question and focused on Pollux.

“What are your orders?”

“You’re asking me for orders?” Pollux repeated. He looked Marcus up and down, took in the people behind him. “You?”

“You are the ranking officer present.” Marcus reminded him, confused. Suddenly uncertain, he glanced at Diana who was wearing a similar look of incredulity as her commander. Unless, his assumption of Diana’s rank was off and she was the actual ranking officer here…

“Ignore him, he does this all the time.” Alisaie said. She looked at each Elarian with bemused understanding. “We’ll be here all day if you wait for him to get it.”

“All day? We’d tried to make him get it for years.” Theo added. His brother nodded sagely, arms folded over his tree trunk-like torso. Marcus’s brow furrowed. What were they talking about?

“In any case, we need our next course of action.” Alphinaud diplomatically interjected. He stepped forward slightly to address Pollux directly. “Our current plan is to assemble all of the captives and rescue them from their tormentors, does that meet with your approval?”

The mention of other captives stirred Pollux’s memory. “His Highness. He was taken as well. He’ll know what to do. We have to find him, if he’s trapped like we were.”

“He is.” Marcus said grimly. Meeting Pollux confirmed his suspicions. This place was populated by the Chosen. Weirdly passive, frightened, weak-willed Chosen. He had a dark guess as to what they meant when they talked about being ‘ripped apart’ and ‘broken.’ “Then that settles it. We keep moving through the fog, looking for the others.”

“Hold on.” Pollux held up his hands. “What are you talking about? What others?” He pointed. “Why is there Gorrath over there, dying to a pair of outlanders and just coming back to life? What the hell is going on?”

Marcus thought of the best way to explain convoluted magical shenanigans he didn’t really understand himself.

“It would be my pleasure to endeavor to elucidate you and shine illumination through the shroud of befuddlement that afflicts thee.”

Marcus grinned and waved a hand at the new arrival. “This is Urianger. He’ll explain everything.”

Pollux looked mystified at the scholarly Elezen appearing out of nowhere. “He can make this nightmare make sense?”

“Oh gods no.” Marcus almost laughed. The very thought of any of this making sense... “No, you’ll still be confused. But you’ll feel smarter, y’know?”

“Tis unfortunate that thou hast derived so little from our conversations in the past that you see my words as inscrutable.” Urianger said. If Marcus didn’t know any better, he’d say the other man was miffed. “I shall endeavor to ‘dumb down’ my vocabulary, as you would say, for the purpose of greater understanding among my audience.”

“Thanks pal.” Marcus lightly punched the astrologian’s arm and turned towards the next closest voice he could hear in the fog. Something occurred to him. He turned back. “Oh, and you might want this.”

Pollux caught the tossed spear easily, his hands automatically moving to position it so he was holding it at the ready. Something in his eyes flashed as he handled the familiar weapon.

“Wait.” Marcus obliged as Pollux worked up the nerve to say what he wanted. He held down a grin as he saw the decision made in the other man’s eyes. “You can explain it to me as we go. I’m coming with you.”

“You sure?” Pollux hesitated for long enough that Marcus knew he was tempted, but he overcame that temptation.

“Yes. I’ve always led from the front and I’m not about to stop now. And if my men are in danger, I can’t hang back getting a briefing. Let’s move out. Now.”

“Yes sir.” Despite the words Marcus set off at the head of the group, Pollux falling into step behind him, heading for another trapped comrade. With any luck, Prince Minos would be the first one they found.

Minos was not the first one they found. He was the fifteenth.

The fog parted before Marcus to reveal Minos cowering before Asterion and a female Taurhe Marcus could only assume was Princeling Lilia. From the blood on their gauntleted hands and his battered face, the duo were in the process of beating their father to death with their own hands. By now, the only thing that surprised Marcus was that Minos got two tormentors instead of one. Royalty really did get special treatment everywhere.

Marcus darted forward, diving between Asterion in time to catch the punch aimed at the Old Bull. He was long past trying to talk to the imposters, so he just threw the young prince back on his ass, ducked the punch from his sister, and drove his elbow into her stomach. A quick flurry of punches and kicks made both of the hulking Taurhe fly backwards and Marcus once again glad that chakra trumped muscle any day.

“Stop!” Minos pleaded at Marcus’s feet. “Whatever I’ve done to deserve this, please, spare my children. Hurt me! Let me take the punishment!”

Even after over a dozen go arounds of this, the sheer desperation in the other man’s voice hurt. Marcus tried for a calm, reassuring tone. “Don’t worry, your highness. The situation is under control.”

Minos noticed the crowd following Marcus into the clearing and began to stand. Up to thirty of them now, they were a motley crew of terminally depressed defeatists. Thankfully, a century’s worth of experience wrangling such people meant G’raha was keeping them largely functional.

"Keep moving! Stay together!" The younger Miqo'te called in his 'Exarch' voice. An explosion and a Demon's laughter from the rear made them turn en masse, but didn't rattle his composure. "Form ranks! Stand ready!"

Minos stared. “What? What is going on?”

“We’ve been imprisoned in a purgatorial shithole. This is a jailbreak.” Marcus answered while driving an uppercut into Asterion’s chin. He spared a glance back to see Diana near the front of the quartet that were taking up defensive positions around their commander. “Where’s Pollux?”

“He fell back to guard the rear, sir.” She fired an arrow over his shoulder that drew a feminine grunt. Marcus rolled his eyes at the ‘sir.’ That joke had started several prisoners ago and apparently hadn’t lost its humor yet.

“Fine. You explain things to his highness.” Marcus didn’t confirm she’d do so, needing to divert his attention to dealing with the very angry Taurhe pugilist descending on him.

“You fools!” The false Asterion bellowed. “Why do you stand with this failure of a princ–”

“Yeah, yeah.” Marcus cut him off with a kick to the gut. “I’ve heard it all before.”

The shades all tended to say the same thing, harping on weakness and failure and shame. Marcus was over it. He tuned out words, conjured his sword and shield again, and let the pair of young royals break their hands against his armor until their bodies turned to dark smoke and blew away. Marcus took a glance back and saw Diana and Minos talking animatedly. He turned to watch the fog, wondering if Minos having two ghostly tormentors meant there would be two Gorraths this time. But when the shape emerged from the fog there was only one not-Primal, who roared and brandished his axe before charging. Unlike the shades, the Gorrath copies had gotten less chatty as things had gone on, a fact Marcus was grateful for.

A brown blur exploded shrieking out of the mist behind him. It narrowly avoided being impaled on Gorrath’s horn as it flew into his face, viciously hacking away at the Demon’s face with a serrated blade. Marcus made sure to aim carefully; his aetherial blade seared through the distracted demon’s flesh without touching the fur-covered figure savaging him. Said figure hopped off the disintegrating monster and bounded over to him. Marcus nodded a greeting.

“Hragal, how’s the rear?”

“Hnng, holding. Enemy presses, packleader.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” The enemy was always pressing. With a new Gorrath emerging for each captive they liberated, the fight to keep the Demons at bay was continually escalating.

Hragal stared at him for a few moments before offering “Have twelve brothers, packleader.”

Marcus couldn’t tell if the ratman honestly thought he wanted an answer or was just being cheeky. “Go get Pollux and take his place in the line.”

“Hssk. I obey.” The Skalik slunk off and Marcus turned to meet the next Gorrath coming striding out of the mist.

He was surprised at how he wasn’t conflicted, welcoming a Skalik into their ranks. In this fog-filled hell, they were all in this together. Holding onto old grudges just felt incredibly petty. The other prisoners had also been surprisingly accepting, only the Squad taking exception. Niko had threatened to gut Hragal the moment he put a foot out of line. Then he tore out a downed Gorrath’s throat with his teeth and now she’d gut anyone who raised a hand against him. She was a refreshingly simple woman.

He struck down the incoming Gorrath with a single blow, in the form of an immense blade of light. Another one emerged from the fog and he struck it down in the same way. Their seeming inability to tire in this place was quite the boon. Knowing any exhaustion would vanish as quickly as their wounds did, Marcus had no need to pace himself. Normally he’d never chain such huge attacks together so closely, to avoid running out of stamina. With fatigue no longer a factor, he was free to cut loose. And he did. He needed to.

Three Gorraths charged roaring out of the fog at him. Marcus was no longer taken by surprise by this tactic; the Gorraths had taken to circling the group in the mist to attack from different angles and flank them. He spun his sword in his hand, readying himself. Though these false Primals were nothing compared to the original, they were still fearsome opponents. Three on one would be a challenge.

Niko, Katt, and Theo joining him killed that idea. Niko jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “You’re wanted for a strategy meeting.”

“You sure you’re good?” Niko shot him an annoyed glare at the question.

“One for each of us? No problem.” Katt said. She smirked. “Especially with how it’s gotten easier recently. I’m not sure if they’re getting weaker or we’re getting better at killing them.”

Theo hummed thoughtfully “There’s experiments we can run to test that, you know.”

“Shut up and fight.” Niko barked. She put the words into action by charging in, the others following on her flanks. Marcus spent a few seconds making sure they had everything under control, then did as he was bid. He joined Pollux and the prince in the midst of a discussion.

“Your highness. First officer. What are your orders?”

Minos and Pollux shared a long look. Pollux nodded and shrugged microscopically at the same time. Minos turned back to Marcus. His deep voice was laden with royal formality. “Young Diana and my first officer have explained the gist of the situation. I understand we have you to thank for our release. For that, as a prince, commander, and simply as a man, you have my thanks.”

Marcus shuffled awkwardly on his feet. “I got things started, but it’s been a group effort since then.” Minos and Pollux shared another look. “And anyway, we’re not freed yet.”

“Which begs the question, my prince. What now?” Pollux asked, looking between the two of them. Minos snorted and shook his head.

“As you planned. We find and liberate all of the Blood Demon’s captives and bring them under our force’s protection. Then we find a way out of here.”

“And if we can’t?” Pollux asked. Marcus rolled his shoulders, not wanting to tighten up before he could return to the fray.

“Then we wait for rescue. The Princeps will be trying to save us, I know it. And if he can’t find a way, my friends, the real ones, will get us out of here.”

“You have a high degree of faith in them.” Pollux observed as he watched Alphinaud throw barriers over a dozen men at once. Marcus glanced at him.

“You’ve fought alongside them for a couple of hours now. You don’t?”

“What if we fail?” Minos asked suddenly. There was a waver in his voice that from everything Marcus knew of the man was highly uncharacteristic. The prince looked at him, despair etched into his features. “What if we can’t find a way out, and neither the Princeps nor your friends can either? What if there is no way out, and we are trapped here forever?”

“Then we do what our kind have always done.” Marcus said with a shrug. “Fight until the enemy is dead, or we are.”

Chapter Text

Y’shtola awoke in agony. A dull ache pervaded her body, apart from her torso, which she could not feel at all. Her limbs felt leaden, so heavy that she could not move them. There was a pounding behind her eyes and her reflexive attempt to activate her seeing spell was immediately halted when it triggered a knifeblade of discomfort into her brain. Her body throbbed in time with her pulse, each beat of her heart sending a fresh wave of subdued pain through her.

She dearly hoped she was not dead. It would be grossly unfair to hurt this badly even after you had already died.

She groaned without opening her mouth as her attempts to sit up amounted to nothing. She heard unfamiliar voices echoing as if from far away.

“She’s awake, Master.”

“I have ears. Fetch the boy, would you?”

Y’shtola lay there motionless, taking slow, deep breaths. As she grew accustomed to the pain, lucidity slowly returned. She was experiencing the regrettably familiar feeling of being under treatment for grievous wounds. The mixture of exhaustion as her body’s energies were turned to healing, numbness from the anesthesia she had been given, and the pain that was too much to be fully suppressed. Trapped in the darkness of her damaged eyes, it was impossible to determine where she was. She tried to gather up her aether for another attempt at sight when chilling numbness swept along her body.

One of the voices spoke again. “None of that now. You’re staying put.”

Before she could try again, she heard another voice, this one mercifully familiar.

“Y’shtola!” G’raha’s relief was palpable. “Full glad am I to see you awake.” A softly restraining hand was placed on her shoulder. “Try not to move or exert yourself. Your condition is still quite dire.”

“Nnghh.” Her parched throat rendered her question little more than a raspy rattle. A hand gently raised her head upright.

“I have some water here for you.” G’raha offered. “Can you drink?”

She answered by opening her mouth. A cup was placed to her lips and she gulped down the small sips of cold water he allowed her. Even that little of fluid stung as it went down her ragged throat, but the next few gulps soothed the pain and before she knew it she had drank the entire glass. Still hurting all over, but now at least capable of speech, she tried again.

“The battle?” She croaked.

“We were victorious, thanks in no small part to you.” G’raha answered. “Gorrath was bested, but his Chosen sacrificed themselves to allow him to escape.”

“Thancred?” She was lowered back onto the pillow.

“He’s returned safely and with a tempered captive he believes can tell us much about Gorrath’s operations.”

Still groggy with pain and tiredness, she didn’t understand the implications of the words beyond that this was a good thing. Already feeling herself slipping back into unconsciousness, she asked about the most important topic. “Marcus?

She could hear the reluctance in G’raha’s voice. “There has been no change. I’m sorry.”

Y’shtola made to rise, ignoring G’raha’s protests. There was no point to her continuing to lay here when there was work to be done. But before she could move much, the chill from before pervaded her again.

“That’s enough.” The voice from before said. “You need to leave. I’m putting her back under.”

Y’shtola tried to fight it, but the chill sapped what little strength she had and she plunged back into unconsciousness.

G’raha waited outside the recovery room until Asclepius emerged. “How is she?” He had no small amount of skill when it came to battlefield healing, but chirurgery of this complexity was beyond him.

Asclepius folded his arms. He was over seventy summers old and his lined face looked every hour of that age. Spectacled eyes regarded G’raha over a hooked nose that sat atop a neatly styled beard. “Her aetheric reserves are dangerously low, she required several infusions to simply survive the initial healing. Blood loss was considerable, and is worsening her aether deficiency. Her body’s physical stamina was pushed to its absolute limit by the healing and we can’t risk stronger anesthetics without potentially triggering cardiac arrest. Her intestines have been mangled and will need no small amount of careful reconstruction. And she seems intent on worsening all of these problems by pushing herself to move the instant she has the strength to do so.”

A grim tally. “But she will live?”

Asclepius looked faintly offended by the question. “Heroes of Elarion do not die in my care. And for all her injuries, her recovery has been remarkable. She should have died three times over by now, but she’s clung to life with startling tenacity.” He eyed G’raha curiously. “Miqo’te do need their blood to live, right?”

“Of course.”

The chirurgeon grunted. “She was making me start to wonder.”

G’raha couldn’t help but grin. His relief at hearing Y’shtola’s life was not still in danger made the joke funnier than it should have been. “I should warn you that Y’shtola has a historical tendency to ignore aliments and shoulder on through injury and exhaustion.”

“How very Elarian of her.” Asclepius commented drily. “And unsurprising, given how she entered my care.” He shrugged. “I’m still unclear whether she was trying to earn a knighthood all in one go, or kill herself in spectacular fashion.”

G’raha raised an eyebrow in confusion. “I thought only Elarians were eligible for knighthood.”

“So did I.” The chirurgeon nodded. “Then an Eorzean routed Gorrath’s entire army and matched him strength for strength all while preoccupied with bleeding to death. The only reason Atreus isn’t lurking out here with a medal in hand is he hasn’t forgotten my rule on layabouts cluttering my medicae.”

G’raha himself was well familiar with the rule. Initially, all of the Scions wanted to wait on Y’shtola’s recovery, and possibly would have barged in to assist had she not been being tended to by the Princeps’ own Master Chirurgeon. The man in question had wanted to expel them all and nearly did before G’raha and G’raha alone being allowed to stay was deemed an acceptable compromise. But the statement roused his curiosity. “Could you really deny him entry to a wing of his own castle?”

His understanding of Elarion politics was that the Princeps’ power was predicated on at least the appearance of being subject to the authority of the princes. While they weren’t about to go against the Princeps’ wishes, being pushed around by one of his servants seemed a bit too far outside the bounds of the pretense.

Asclepius smirked. “Doctors outrank everyone. More to the point, I used to work as his chief of medicine and… impressed upon him the importance of listening to the chirurgeon’s orders.”

“Then, you are from Clenon, not Citadel City?” G’raha asked politely. Asclepius nodded. 

“When the current Princeps was found, it was my privilege to follow him to the Citadel. A bit unexpected, really, for him to select any of his retainers from his home princedom. Whatever he saw in me, I’ve tried not to disappoint.”

He shook his head a little. “Ach, listen to me jawing away like a fishwife while there are patients to attend to. This is why I don’t let bystanders into my medicae.” He made a shooing motion. “Go on now. Your friend will make a full recovery, rest assured of that. She won’t even have a scar to show for this, unless,” His voice took on a questioning air. “We ought to let her wound heal into one?”

“Why would you do that?” G’raha asked reflexively before his brain kicked in. “Some sort of custom around the importance of scars?”

“Aye. Since scars don’t form on wounds that receive prompt healing, in Elarion they are seen as a mark of bravery. A badge of honor that you were wounded but stayed in the fight, which she’s more than earned. But I don’t think Eorzea has the same custom.”

“It does not.” G’raha confirmed with a nod. “She would appreciate your consideration, but also prefer proper healing.”

“As you say, then. His gaze.” Asclepius made to leave him but paused. “Eorzean?”

“Yes?”

“Extend my gratitude to your comrades, will you? You’ve all been keeping the work on my plate mercifully low.”

 “I will.” G’raha made his way out of the crowded infirmary alone. Passing between the cots filled with battlefield casualties that were not injured enough to require full-fledged chirurgery, he reflected that his and Asclepius’s views on what constitutes a low amount of work for a chirurgeon differed wildly. He gave a nod to Alphinaud, who returned it before resuming his work. As he exited the medicae proper, he tried to dismiss the nagging feeling of guilt.

He took no pleasure in deceiving Y’shtola, but when even the comforting lie spurred her to action he couldn’t say he regretted doing it. At a time when her own life hung by a thread, the news that Marcus’s condition had taken a turn for the worse would do naught but distress her. Especially when there was no reason for the sudden downturn that they could discern. As Krile put it, all of the sudden it was like his soul was at war with itself.

G’raha put the matter out of his thoughts as he neared the chamber reserved for curing tempering. He caught pieces of an argument as he approached.

“They barely even sting. Save your time and aether.” Thancred insisted. G’raha entered the small room, lined with bookshelves and containing a writing desk that had been pressed against the wall and a couch that Thancred had draped himself on. A small reading room, converted to a private space with which to free people from the primal’s influence.

“It would take hardly any at all to fix you up.” Alisaie was protesting. “This debate is taking entirely longer.”

“There wouldn’t be a debate if you would let it drop.” Estinien pointed out as G’raha stepped inside. The dragoon stood next to the gunbreaker, who was rebuffing the younger Elezen’s attempt to heal the smattering of shallow cuts and wounds that dotted his frame.

“Can’t you just stop being stubborn?” Alisaie insisted. Her hands were already glimmering with a restorative spell. G’raha decided to play peacemaker.

“Thank you, Thancred, for prioritizing our curing the mage you rescued over your injuries. I am sure that, once she has been freed from Gorrath’s control, you will have no objections to our using aether to mend your wounds?” He spoke with a pointed tone of voice he had honed as the Exarch, one that sounded pleasant but brooked no argument.

Thancred maintained his nonchalant façade. “If you feel it that important, how can I refuse?”

G’raha looked around the room, noting the floating porxie ready to go but no patient to use it on. “Where is she?”

“The Elarians took possession of her when we landed. They’re bringing her up now.” Thancred explained.

As if on cue, a trio entered the chamber. Two armored soldiers, as much dragging as escorting the bound figure between them. Chains were wrapped around rags of what had once been a mage’s robe.

Alisaie frowned. “Is the gag truly necessary?”

“She bites.” The female soldier answered, holding up a hand that bore a set of bite marks as proof. They set the struggling figure into the desk’s chair, turned around to be accessible, and held her in place. It was entirely necessary, as the tempered woman strained against their hands, trying to lunge forward at the Scions.

“Ready.” Alisaie raised a hand and began feeding her aether into the porcine familiar. Wordlessly, G’raha and Estinien joined in. They continued for long enough that when the three streams of energy stopped, the porxie’s clay flesh positively rippled with power. “Now, Angelo!”

The familiar obeyed its mistress’ command, unleashing a beam of purifying light into the restrained woman. She bucked and writhed, forcing her captors to tighten their grip on her. Eventually her struggles ceased and the beam cut off shortly after.

“It’s done. You can untie her.” Alisaie said, breathing heavily. G’raha was feeling tired from the amount of aether he had given as well. The prisoner had been thoroughly tempered, which hopefully meant she was as important to Gorrath as they believed.

The Elarians did as Alisaie bade, though with enough trepidation to suggest they were ready to restrain their captive again at a moment’s notice should it prove necessary. The woman herself did not indicate that would be the case, sitting leaned back into her chair motionless.

“Free.” She breathed. Her eyes were closed. “Finally, quiet.” Her eyes slammed open. “The Princeps!”

She tried to stand and make for the door. At least, G’raha assumed it had not been her intention to pitch herself forward out of the chair and fall face first onto the floor.

“Easy. You’ve only just been cured.” Alisaie warned, moving forward to assist. Tempering often bestowed a foul strength on its victims and having it peeled away left them feeling weak.

“No time.” The ex-tempered mage panted. “I must, hah, speak to him.”

“You need rest. Whatever it is can wait.”

“No!” She was becoming agitated now. “All, hah, of Elarion, hah, is in danger. I need to speak with him.” Her breathing was getting more flustered and her eyes jumped frantically from one person to the next. She looked like nothing more than a cornered animal. “Now!”

“This could be a trick.” The soldier who had been bitten said darkly. Her hand was on her sword hilt. “It doesn’t always work, right? She could only be pretending to be cured.”

“No!” Now fear was mixing with the desperation as the woman continued to struggle to rise. Moving quickly, G’raha signaled Estinien to block the Elarians while he knelt before the frantic woman.

“Take a deep breath.” He told her with all the reassuring authority he could inject into his voice. At least momentarily soothed out of her desperation, she complied. He resisted the urge to give her a comforting pat on the shoulders and instead smiled. “What’s your name?”

She looked uncomprehendingly at him. “Mera.”

“Mera.” He repeated slowly, not breaking eye contact. “We know you do not serve the demon anymore.”

“Then please.” She pleaded with him. “I know about Gorrath’s plans. I must tell the Princeps everything.”

“He is indisposed right now.” G’raha said, knowing nothing about the Princeps’ current status. He recognized the mix of determination and dread in her eyes and knew she wasn’t going to stop until she delivered her report. “But you can tell us and we will make sure he hears everything.”

“You.” Recognition bloomed in her eyes. “The Scions. Gorrath’s enemy. But… The Princeps must be told!”

“We will tell him.” G’raha soothed, to no avail.

“No, I must make sure…!” Trembling limbs tried to support her again. G’raha and Alisaie both had to come forward to stop her from toppling onto the ground when her arms gave way.

“Tell them.” A commanding voice came from the doorway. Castor entered. “Better yet, tell me.”

“Guardian.” Mera breathed and the fight went out of her. She allowed G’raha and Alisaie to sit her up back into the chair. She took another deep breath and began. “It’s the Chosen.”

“What is?” Castor asked.

“All of it.” Mera insisted. “They are his secret, his power. His plan. He creates them and they fuel him. They cannot die because they are already dead. We must kill them.”

Even though they are already dead? G’raha wondered at the contradiction. He brushed it off. In her condition, it was a wonder she was even lucid.

“How do we kill them?” Castor remained impassive.

“We have to find them.” Mera urged. “But we can’t find them because they are hidden. His darkest secret, hidden from even the Princeps. I don’t know!” She wailed, suddenly on the verge of tears. “I don’t know where they are. He never told. No one knows, except the Chosen. I should know!” Her voice was rising, angry now. “I should know because I saw! I made them! But he reached inside me, twisted and took out the memory. Now they are safe and hidden and it’s all my fault!”

“It is not your fault.” G’raha said firmly. “He tried to take away your memories, but you resisted. You remembered enough to warn us and now that we know, we will find them.”

“You have done well.” Castor said. G’raha wasn’t sure if the Knight was trying to do as he was and give her a victory to help settle her nerves or if he truly meant it, but either would work. “I am going to the Princeps directly, and will tell him what you have said. Rest now, and try to remember more. Any detail may prove valuable.”

Putting his words into action, he turned and left the room immediately.

G’raha left Alisaie with Mera, issuing soothing words and a gentle touch to help calm the older woman down. He fulfilled his earlier promise and set about mending Thancred’s wounds. “You’re a mess.”

“You should see the other guy.” Thancred snarked before stiffening as his injuries were briefly aggravated by the healing magic. G’raha ran his hands along the other man’s limbs, stopping as needed to provide concentrated doses of restorative energies. Thankfully Thancred’s earlier words were not entirely bluster and the various cuts and bruises were nothing serious. “How is Y’shtola?” He asked to fill the quiet.

“She’s in dreadful shape.” G’raha admitted, seeing the sorceress’ pale and emaciated form in his mind’s eye. “But I have been assured she will make a full recovery.”

Thancred chuckled. “Assuming we can get her to sit still long enough, you mean? I’ve never met a woman more allergic to bed rest, admittedly only because Marcus does not qualify.”

“It seems to be a common affliction.” G’raha mused, gaze drifting back to Mera. An Elarian quality indeed.

Castor moved hurriedly through Clenon Castle’s halls. The battle may be over, but there was still much and more to do. He came upon a door with a pair of hard-faced guards. He did not so much as hesitate, passing between them into the room without even a break in his stride. The recovery room was small, barely large enough to contain a bed for the patient. Castor squeezed in beside Calista at the bedside and examined the man laying before them.

The Princeps of Elarion, the man Castor had sworn to give his life to defend, lay supine in a medical bed. He looked bad, as bad as Castor had ever seen him. He was noticeably pale and haggard, and seeing as his master had already been looking pale and haggard going back to when Gorrath was summoned, that gave Castor some cause for alarm.

“Asclepius says it’s nothing more than profound exhaustion.” Calista explained. The slump in her shoulders spoke to her own tiredness, but her green eyes were still bright. “His contest with the Demon proved exceptionally draining, resulting in an aetheric deficiency that must needs be remedied by food and bed rest.”

Castor nodded, relieved. He had not truly expected anything worse, but it was good to have confirmation. “Did you hear that from Asclepius himself?”

“I did not.” Calista had served the Princeps long enough to be aware of the man’s proclivities, particularly his tendency to ‘foresee’ rather understated diagnoses whenever he could get away with it. “Telarchus did and I examined him myself on my arrival.”

“And where is Telarchus?”

“He left for the kitchens when I arrived to bring food once the Princeps wakes. Knowing him, he’s probably badgering the kitchen staff into preparing something light to eat yet high in aetheric energy.”

Which would be akin to asking for dried soup, Castor knew. He ignored the disdain in Calista’s voice. She was not alone is disliking the Princeps’ chief attendant. The man fussed over the Princeps like a mother hen and took every opportunity to stonewall the Princeps’ other servants rather than let them bring to his attention matters that would require his action. Taking care of the Princeps was his job, so Castor did not hold it against him. For all that he still found the man annoying notwithstanding.

 “Mmgh.” With a faint groan, the Princeps’ eyes opened. After a moment, they focused on Castor. The Princeps propped himself up on his arms. “Has Thancred returned?”

Castor frowned. The Princeps’ voice had a tremulous quality to it he did not like. Even now, the younger man’s arms trembled with the strain of merely supporting his upper body. How much energy did he pour into challenging the Demon this time?

“He has, with a captive in tow. My Princeps…” He wasn’t sure how to phrase this. “Did you learn aught of value from peering into the shadow?”

“A few things of note.” The Princeps was not put off by the change in subject. “Atreus?”

“He will be evacuating Clenon of noncombatants as you suggest. Asterion has agreed to shelter the refugees in Cretos.” With how close they came to losing the city, Atreus likely would have ordered it even without the Princeps’ suggestion. With it, and the assurance that the refugees would be safe on the road, the prince’s decision was obvious. “Other towns and holdings that yet remain are being prepared to flee as soon as their safety can be guaranteed.”

The Princeps closed his eyes briefly at the knowledge that Calydon would very soon be unpopulated by any but soldiers. Princeps he may be, he was still a man and Castor knew the failure to keep his home princedom from being consumed by war would weigh on him. The Princeps’ gaze returned to his Knight. “Is Thancred’s prisoner being cleansed?”

“She already has been. We will perform a full interrogation as soon as she recovers.” He realized his mistake even as he said it.

The Princeps closed his eyes, leaned his head back onto the pillow, and took a familiar deep, slow breath. Castor was already reaching for him. “Don’t you dare–”

Silver light blazing forth from the man’s eyes cut him off. Castor froze with his hand an ilm from his master’s shoulder and reluctantly withdrew. Not even he was willing to interrupt a full-blown vision. The seconds trickled by, the light in the Princeps’ eyes flickering alarmingly before he finally blinked again and slumped backwards. The tension bled out of him and he panted, his eyes closed in exhaustion. Calista came forward and tended to him with softly aglow hands. Castor flicked her an annoyed look.

“You are only encouraging this.” She ignored him and continued the gentle stream of energy that seeped into the Princeps’ body. The younger man’s eyes fluttered open, mercifully their normal blue. He blearily looked up at Calista.

“Save your aether for someone who needs it.” He murmured.

“Your mind is one of our greatest weapons, my Princeps.” Calista replied, not quite admonishing him. “It must be kept honed.” Nevertheless, she cut off the flow of magic and straightened up. She masked it better, but she was exhausted as well. Not that Castor was in much better shape. It had been a long day for everyone.

 Apparently feeling the same, the Princeps attempted to rise. On some level, it was almost comical. In all likelihood he would have rolled out of the bed onto the floor had Castor not gently but firmly pushed him back into the pillows.

“Blessed Lady, you are like child balking at having the flu. Stay put and rest for once.” Castor wondered if previous Guardian Knights had to deal with this from their own Princeps. “Elarion won’t end even if you do lower yourself to following the chirurgeon’s orders for once.”

The Princeps did not try to rise again, though Castor knew it was more likely he physically couldn’t move than that he was actually listening to the advice. “I need to brief everyone…hah… on what Mera said.” He said around pants. One would think his inability to get through a sentence would clue him in.

“You are in no shape to be seen by anyone, let alone to give formal briefings.” Castor told him imperiously. The look on the Princeps’ face prompted a sigh. There was no sense in making his master’s most recent exertion a complete waste. “Very well.”

Castor squeezed past Calista and seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Tell me what you saw. I will carry your words to the others.”

For a moment the Princeps’ gaze jumped to Calista. Castor had enough time to wonder if they were going to see exactly how much common sense the younger Knight applied when following orders before the Princeps looked back to him. “Very well.”

Castor listened closely, asking the occasional question when finer details were unclear. By the time he had disclosed everything, the Princeps was fighting to stay conscious. “We must find them, Castor.”

Castor stood. “I will relay this news to the princes and the Scions at once. We will develop a plan of attack, so rest up. We will need your Sight to see this through.”

The Princeps was too tired to laugh at the unintentional pun, though Castor got something of a smile out of him as he slipped away into unconsciousness. The Knight ran a hand over his shaven head. He supposed Mera’s information should be considered promising, but he was a pessimist by nature and saw only the many obstacles in their way to acting on it. Calista joined him as he exited the room.

“Get some rest, Calista. You need it.” Castor told her, feeling his own tiredness weighing down his shoulders.

“And you don’t?” She countered. “I heard the Princeps’ words too. How about you rest and I’ll go talk to the Scions?”

“I’ve worked with them more closely.” He explained. “Do I need to order you to get some sleep?”

“I’ll rest when you do.” She folded her arms and gazed sternly at him.

Castor was in no mood to be lectured by a girl ten years his junior. “You are dangerously close to insubordination.”

“How does that rank against hypocrisy?” She asked, head cocked slightly.

Castor turned away, unwilling to argue further. “Do as you will then.” He should have known better. The Princeps was far from the only one unwilling to take rest when it was needed, after all. And hypocrisy was a sin he could live with.

It was a somber gathering that assembled in the Levellieur twins’ chamber. The six remaining Scions had met in the small apartment ostensibly to plan their next move, but were not making much headway. While the news that Y’shtola was expected to make a full recovery was more than welcome, even the temporary loss of another of their number was putting a damper on everyone’s spirits.

“I confess,” Alphinaud began. “I keep hoping that Urianger somehow escaped being tempered. That his apparent service to Gorrath is just another round of him pretending to join our enemies to betray them from within.”

“A pleasant notion.” G’raha, who at one point had played the part of one such enemy, acknowledged. “An unlikely one, however.”

“If it is just a scheme, he put rather more faith in my survival abilities than I would like.” Thancred groused. He was wearing light underclothes, having stripped out of his battered armor so it could be repaired. “That trap he sprung came far too close to catching me.”

Alphinaud shook his head. “It was an errant thought, nothing more. Even Urianger’s acting skills would be hard-pressed to convince a Primal he was tempered. And that’s if he had his warding scale to protect him.”

“First him and Marcus, now Y’shtola.” Alisaie said morosely. She sat at the table opposite Alphinaud, slumped over so that her head rested on the wooden surface. “Makes you wonder which of us will be next.”

G’raha noted the defeatist thought with some concern. Alisaie had a fiery personality, and like any flame that meant she could burn out as well. She cared so intensely that when her friends experienced hardships, she also suffered. He knew he needed to push back against the depressing thoughts. “I do believe Thancred has already taken his turn at being injured.”

“I certainly don’t intend to do it again.” Thancred said with his roguish smile. He turned to Krile next to him on the couch. “Speaking of our incapacitated comrades, how is Marcus doing?”

“I haven’t checked in on him since the battle began.” G’raha’s fellow Student said. “But his condition has only continued to deteriorate.” Seeing the alarmed looks on the others’ faces, she elaborated. “He is still in fine health, aside from his coma, but his vitality is slowly weakening. He could maintain this state for several weeks, several months if I use the methods I developed to treat the three of you during your sojourn to the First.”

“But not forever.” Estinien said. The dragoon leaned against the wall with his arms folded. “Meaning we need a solution sooner or later.”

“Mayhap Mera will be able to shed some light on what Gorrath did to him.” G’raha guessed.

“We can only hope.” Castor entered the room, Calista behind him.

“Ser Castor.” Estinien greeted them with a nod. G’raha rose from his chair to greet them as well.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, Ser Calista. I understand we owe Y’shtola’s life to your prompt and skillful healing.” G’raha said. The way he heard it told, Calista had been healing Y’shtola seconds after she collapsed and had continued doing so the entire way to the castle until the sorceress was placed in Asclepius’s hands.

“Seeing as we owe her for the lives of at least a dozen Knights, I’d rather we not keep debts.” Calista replied drily and favored him with a tired smile.

G’raha chuckled. “Fair enough. So what brings you to us?” He gestured to his chair, but both Knights declined the wordless offer and remained standing.

Castor spoke. “The Princeps, in his wisdom,” G’raha guessed he didn’t intend that word to sound as sarcastic as it did. “Has looked forward to see the full extent of what information Mera can give us about the Blood Demon and his plans.”

The Scions perked up and began paying closer attention. Alisaie rose off the tabletop. “She seemed to think the Chosen were more important than we realized.”

“Yes.” Castor folded his arms. “We believed the Chosen’s purpose was to be the Demon’s elite troops as well as an inexhaustible corps of endlessly reviving soldiers. In truth, that is the least of their value to him.”

“Then what is their true purpose?” G’raha asked, getting a sinking feeling.

“His tools for ascension.” Castor closed his eyes for a moment. “His path to true godhood.”

Silence greeted the ominous, yet confusing, proclamation. “Perhaps we should start at the beginning.” Alphinaud suggested. “Exactly what are the Chosen to begin with?”

Castor glanced at Calista, who took over the explanation. “The Blood Demon took one hundred of his original captives and instead of corrupting, or as you say tempering them, he ritualistically executed them. He took each of their souls and instead of the normal process of overwriting his or her aether with his own, he tore them apart. He sifted through the shattered soul to remove elements he considered limiting or not useful for his purposes, things like compassion, fear, doubt, and so on. He then reassembled the remaining fragments into a patchwork soul that he infused with his power to restore to full, fighting strength.”

“And it’s these souls that are the Chosen we’ve been facing.” G’raha concluded. Estinien looked up from his place on the wall.

“That would explain what Pollux meant when he said Gorrath stripped away their weaknesses.”

G'raha nodded grimly. He had seen much in his surprisingly long life, but the idea they had been fighting and killing soul-tortured slaves to the Primal’s will still made his stomach turn. In one sense, the Chosen were Gorrath’s greatest victims. “That would explain why they have shown attributes of not being flesh and blood, but not why they are capable of continuously reviving.”

Calista shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know the mechanics of the ritual, but the execution was more of a forcible soul extraction than a physical murder. The bodies of the Chosen still yet live, which anchors their souls to our world. When we kill a Chosen, or more accurately destroy the physical manifestation of their soul, the now disembodied spirit is drawn back to its body rather than to the Aetherial Sea. As the bodies are kept in suspended animation, in what Mera called a ‘coffin,’ the soul simply waits within until Gorrath’s power creates a new form for it.”

“So unless we destroy those bodies, the Chosen will be reborn indefinitely.” Estinien cut to the heart of the matter with his usual bluntness.

Thancred’s brow furrowed. “Could we free them from the stasis they are trapped in? Would that liberate them from Gorrath’s control as well?”

“Not if their souls have been cleaved into pieces by the Primal.” Krile told him. “Even if we could restrain them long enough to attempt to cure their tempering, the porxies don’t have the power to restore a soul that has been outright sundered.” For all she was rejecting the idea, she still looked grim pronouncing what they all knew to be a death sentence on a hundred people. She perked up a little as something occurred to her. “If we recovered the portions of the soul that had been discarded and merged them back into the Chosen, then we could theoretically cure their tempering.”

“Does Mera know what became of the sundered pieces of the souls after Gorrath removed them?” Alisaie asked.

Castor frowned, shaking his head. “She did not. I presume Gorrath simply devoured them to fuel his own power.”

“Presume, but do not know.” Alphinaud said. He glanced between his fellow Scions. “So our first course of action should be to learn what became of them. If we can find them, then–”

“When the Demon was summoned,” Castor cut him off. “There were 84 Knights remaining after the losses from the 90^th Underground War. Now there are 55.”

“With nearly a dozen bedridden with injury.” Calista added darkly.

“And my brothers and sisters are hard to kill.” Castor continued. “Would you like to take a trip down to the memorial plaza so you can count exactly how many people Gorrath has taken from us?”

Silence reigned.

“We have already lost much and it will only worsen as more of our best and brightest fall in this war.” Castor’s voice was low. “We do not have the luxury of devoting ourselves to the off chance that we might be able to save a scant hundred who are even now one of the greatest threats we face. We must destroy them, rather than prolong the carnage while dreaming of a perfect solution.”

“I’m afraid he’s right.” G’raha said. He had grown used to the realities of grim necessity, even if he never liked them. “We can’t justify the risk of leaving them to run amok. Not if we don’t even have a concrete plan of how to save them.”

Estinien nodded. He was the only one of the Scions to show approval, even if the others didn’t vocally object.

“Marcus wouldn’t approve.” Alisaie sullenly said.

G’raha steered them back to the topic at hand. “You said the Chosen were more dangerous than merely being Gorrath’s soldiers. How so?”

Castor’s tired eyes turned to him. He looked old, aged beyond his years. “Though they have a sort of immortality, they remain his mortal worshippers. Meaning they are a constant, steady source of power for him, heighted when they fight in his name.”

“Right.” Estinien said. “They pray through battle and devote their killing to him.”

“Indeed. The Demon need do nothing but send them against us, again and again, weakening our forces slowly but surely while he grows ever stronger. And Mera believes that power a two way street. There’s nothing stopping Gorrath from sending that gathered power back into them to make them more formidable. Which from what we’ve seen, he is.”

G’raha understood the danger immediately. “Between Gorrath’s own drawing power from those he kills, and the Chosen generating devotion through battle, our enemies will steadily grow in power simply from engaging us in battle.”

“That does beg the question of why Gorrath has been so unusually passive.” Thancred mused. 

Calista shifted. “Well, no. He hasn’t been passive at all, as it turns out.”

Castor nodded. “According to Mera, Gorrath has been busy assaulting the Skalik territories underground. Killing and corrupting in equal measure, he has been feeding on the carnage while adding to his forces, and we’ve been none the wiser. Aethon’s influence, I assume. Even before he summoned Gorrath, that man hated the Skalik with a passion.”

He shook his head, banishing whatever thoughts he was entertaining. “So, that is our situation. The Blood Demon has arranged several ways to steadily increase his power and left unchecked will continue to grow in might indefinitely until any distinction between him and a god in truth becomes purely academic. We’ve been hard pressed to face him as it is. With that said, what course of action do the Scions of the Seventh Dawn recommend?”

No one answered immediately, everyone turning over the conundrum in their heads. Estinien finally spoke up. “From a purely tactical perspective, we cannot defeat him while he retains the ability to call a small army to his side at any moment.”

G’raha nodded. He had only reached the battle at the end, in time to see the dragoon, Castor, and Lupercal fighting together had inflicted wounds on Gorrath, but the Demon had been able to escape thanks to the timely intervention of his Chosen occupying his attackers long enough for him to take to the sky. Even if it was only by enabling his escape, the Primal would be impossible to kill so long as his Chosen fought alongside him. “With what we now know, destroying the coffins seems the fastest way to eliminate the Chosen.”

Krile raised a hand to cradle her chin, thinking. “Would eliminating them truly end the threat? Did Gorrath only create one hundred Chosen because it was too difficult to create more, or for the symbolic insult?”

“Mera believed it was a case of both.” Calista answered. “Creating them was difficult, but he could have exceeded a hundred by some small amount. He could replenish his ranks after we deplete them, but it would take time and no small amount of his strength to do so.”

“A reprieve that weakens him is a good enough place to start.” Castor said.

“Can Mera tell us where the coffins are?” G’raha asked, already having a good guess to the answer.

He was disappointed to be proven right when Castor shook his head. “She cannot. According to her, that is Gorrath’s most tightly guarded secret, known only to his top lieutenants. Possibly the sole reason he wove the shadow that blocks the Princeps’ sight. He is determined to brave the shadow again once his strength returns to seek them out, but the chances of his success are slim.”

“So we’ll have to infiltrate his lair again.” Thancred said. He idly cracked his knuckles while he thought. “And go much deeper than I managed. I never saw anything that might be these coffins.”

He eyed Castor curiously. “There may be another way, however.”

“Do tell.”

“Aethon. He introduced himself as Gorrath’s captain and certainly doesn’t appear to be Chosen.”

“He wasn’t part of the Chosen summoned to today’s battle, and he commanded the Chosen in our first encounter.” Alisaie observed. “If there’s anyone who might know the coffins’ location that we could free from Gorrath’s control, it would likely be him.”

“Short of hoping he takes the field again and waiting for a good opportunity, that still requires a trip to the tunnels again.” Castor pointed out.

“I have one idea.” Alphinaud said. He didn’t seem inclined to share that idea, however, glancing cautiously at Castor.

“Well? Out with it.” The Knight demanded.

“The Skalik dug those tunnels.” Alphinaud said slowly. “They would know them well. And if they are at war with Gorrath just as we are, they might have intelligence we lack. Such as where to find the coffins, or Aethon. If we could make contact with them–”

“Absolutely not.” Castor said bluntly and unsurprisingly.

“I realize they are no friends of yours.” Alisaie began. “But with us sharing a mutual enemy, surely–”

“No friends of mine?” Castor repeated in disbelief. “Is that some kind of jest? The Skalik are not friends to anyone, including you. If you approached them, they would kill you on the spot. And if they didn’t, it’s because they intend to deceive you, betray you, and then kill you.”

The vehemence in his voice surprised G’raha. He had become accustomed to Castor being largely unflappable. The Knight looked at each Scion in turn. “You continue to look down on us, so confident that you know better. Sure that we could make peace with the Skalik if only we were willing to extend a hand in friendship. But that is your stubbornness, not ours. Let me tell you what the Skalik think, as a man with decades of experience dealing with them.

“They blame us. For the Demon’s summoning, and every misfortune that has followed. That Gorrath is our enemy, they do not know. And if they know, they do not care. If you go before them and ask for their help, they will murder you for the pleasure of watching you die. They will not care that you are not Elarian. They will not care that you seek to fight their enemy. They will not care that killing you will result in countless more deaths of their kind at Gorrath’s hands that you could have prevented. They will only want to murder you for the momentary satisfaction of spilling your blood.”

“If they attack us, we’ll defend ourselves.” Estinien countered. “We’re not so helpless we’d just roll over and die. And even if the chances are slim, what have we to lose?”

Castor turned to the dragoon. “If you want another reason, the idea of negotiating with them is too like you. It did not surprise me, which means Urianger will expect it as well. And if there’s one thing you shouldn’t do in war, it’s do what the enemy expects.”

“Even if he does expect it, if we approach Skalik territory from tunnels the Primal’s forces don’t control, how can he stop us?” Alisaie asked.

“By waiting for you to go down into the dark, then striking. Either by killing you, or attacking us while your departure leaves us vulnerable.” Castor’s already stony face hardened. “You are not going. I won’t allow it.”

“Allow it?” Estinien repeated. “We don’t answer to you or are required to follow your orders, captain.”

Calista looked between the Scions to her fellow Knight, her expression unreadable.

G’raha tried to think of a persuasive argument to win over Castor, but before he could the Knight spoke. “It is my duty to protect the Princeps’ guests. That includes from themselves, if they intend on committing a remarkably inefficient form of suicide.”

He turned and headed for the door, pausing in the entryway. “If you attempt to leave Clenon without permission, I will have you restrained. Elarion owes Marcus that much, at least.”

He left with Calista awkwardly following. The six Scions glanced between each other.

Krile broke the silence. “You’re still going?”

“Of course.” Alisaie answered like it was obvious. “We just need to sneak out now.”

Chapter Text

The day after the battle, the Scions made several attempts to leave Castle Clenon and carry out their new mission. They were turned away at every door, the guards politely yet firmly informing them that Prince Atreus had issued orders that they were not to leave the Castle grounds under any circumstances. One of the more apologetic of the Calydon soldiers explained that said order had indeed been prompted by Castor’s urging, the Knight-Captain making good on his threat to keep them here.

Alphinaud might have gone to appeal the decision, but both Atreus and Castor were cloistered in a strategy room, discussing the evacuation of Clenon and their own ways of finding and destroying the Chosen Coffins. It was made quite clear the Scions were not welcome in that meeting. Attempts to go over the two men’s heads also met with failure, as the Princeps was still indisposed from his exertions the previous day. His chambers were guarded by steely eyed Knights who told Alphinaud that if his presence had been welcome the Princeps would have preceded him with orders that he could be let in. And the only other individual with potentially enough authority to sanction their mission, Prince Asterion, proved unhelpful.

“This is Atreus’ castle and his domain. I cannot command his men to disobey his orders.” The Taurhe had rumbled. “And when that order came from the Guardian Knight’s advisement, I don’t think I should.”

Unsurprising, but still frustrating. Thancred and G’raha made their displeasure clear and retired to their rooms early. Alphinaud, Alisaie, and Estinien paid Marcus a visit instead, spending their time chatting with Krile. Their slumbering friend’s grimace had lessened, though the aetheric disturbance ravaging his body was if anything only intensifying.

One of the room’s amenities was a large balcony, furnished with a table and chairs that the conscious Scions could sit around and talk while enjoying the crisp mountain air. Crisp turned to cold when night fell and it became time to turn in. Krile wished them luck and ducked inside.

Something Alphinaud had learned from his varied life experiences was that guards, and people in general really, so rarely looked up. And so, even though both the castle and the wall of the city were densely manned by defenders, their torches forming chains of lights in the darkness, not one caught sight of the dragoon soaring through the air with a twin tucked under each arm. The trio landed lightly, safely outside the walls, and through a series of loping jumps Estinien carried his companions to the cover of the trees in the nearby forest.

Thancred and G’raha were already waiting for them, the duo having used their respective methods of stealth to escape the castle’s confinement earlier. Both of them were polite enough not to acknowledge Alphinaud’s deep breathing, the soaring flight through the air supported only by Estinien’s arm having been rather unnerving. That he had not screamed aloud when they had plummeted towards the hard ground with nothing to break their fall was a display of self-control he was rather proud of. In what passed as a show of concern from her, Alisaie helpfully thumped him on the back several times as he got his breath under control.

“I’m fine.” Alphinaud said, more out of desire to move on than actually having settled his nerves. “Shall we?”

The group struck out, heading west through the woods to where it thinned as the mountains rose up. The maps of Skalik held territories were surprisingly detailed, though perhaps not too surprising given the Princeps’ Sight. There were enough known Skalik holdings noted to give Alphinaud a rough idea of where to at least start looking. They needed to get farther north, and while heading up Rubicon’s Highway would have been the fastest way, it would also have left them exposed to either Gorrath’s forces or any Elarians that came after them. But not too far from the edge of the woods was a tracking path that meandered through the mountains on its way north. A harder trek, but a safer one.

After they got to the northern reaches, however, things would become less simple. There were various Skalik tunnels marked on the maps, but the simple fact that Elarians knew of them meant that they had almost certainly been scoured of Skalik. There were a few places indicated to potentially connect to deeper tunnels that might lead to Skalik dwellings, and those would make for a place to start. It would still take no small amount of luck to actually find their quarry.

After about an hour of walking, the Scions slipped from the trees and headed towards where the hills rose sharply around them. They moved quickly and quietly, mindful of how sound could carry through the still night air and how the stars and the near-full moon illuminated the area well. But when they had entered the steadily climbing maze of canyons and the distant lights of Clenon were blocked by walls of stone, they relaxed some.

“How long do you think we’ll have to walk?” Alisaie asked. The group settled into a comfortable pace for the long trip ahead through the shadowy stone corridors. Alphinaud shifted how the pack full of supplies sat on his shoulders as he thought.

“We will cover ground faster than when moving in convoy like with the army and we are heading directly there. We may be able to complete the journey in perhaps two days.”

“We could do it in one assuming we march through the night, which I doubt anyone here wants to do.” Estinien amended. Not entirely honestly, if Alphinaud was any judge the dragoon would have happily trudged forward without stopping until he found the Skalik.

“Given the dangers, it would also behoove us to be well-rested when we enter the tunnels.” G’raha pointed out as they rounded a corner. “There’s a good chance we will be ambushed along the route. We’ll need to spot such an attack coming and be ready to respond before we can convince the Skalik to hear us out.”

“A good point.” Alphinaud conceded. “If we intend to rest before we enter the tunnels, then mayhap we should press on for longer tonight.”

In the dim light of the stars, Alisaie looked about as pleased with that as he felt, but she didn’t argue. The Scions passed over the lip of one slope to see the path descend and widen into a basin before turning again to the left. Alphinaud nearly ran into Estinien when the dragoon suddenly halted.

“Something’s not right.” The older Elezen said. His hand strayed towards his spear. Alphinaud leaned around him to peer at the path ahead. Even in the low light, the basin was unmistakably empty. There was nothing in it beyond a smattering of squat shrubs. But at the same time, there was unquestionably something there. He could feel it, some instinct born of his battle experience warning him of danger. He deployed his nouliths, seeing the others drawing their own weapons.

Lupercal growled.

Alphinaud jumped in surprise. The Primal appeared out of thin air, the azure flames that enshrouded her bursting into life and revealing her form. What had been an empty basin was now filled with her smoldering body. This close, she towered over them and Alphinaud could feel the air stir from her growled breathing.

“The prince and Guardian Knight’s orders were clear. You were not permitted to leave the castle.” The massive wolf growled, low and deadly. “But I understand the desire for a late-night stroll. Since that is all this is, you will have no objections to returning with me now, hmm?”

Alphinaud stepped forward, resisting the urge to back away from the wolf’s bared fangs glinting in the moonlight. “We will not go back. Elarion’s fate hangs in the balance, and we must act to save it even if others disapprove of our methods.”

Lupercal shifted her stance, getting lower and bracing for a lunge. The pressure of her presence buffeted Alphinaud like a strong wind. “You will walk back to Clenon, or be dragged there.”

“I think we’d prefer the third option.” Thancred snarked, gunblade resting on his shoulder. The wolf chuckled dangerously.

“The third option is you fall trying to force your way past me. It would be a great waste, for you to die for your delusions.”

“A greater waste would be sending more men and women to their deaths rather than unbending enough to ask for help.” Alphinaud countered, thinking quickly. Whether they could defeat the Primal or not, the battle would not be subtle and would draw enough attention that their chances of slipping away would be miniscule. They had to reason with her if possible. “War is risk, is it not? Despite what Castor claims, this risk is worth the danger.”

“Arrogant children.” The wolf’s head drew closer, almost near enough to touch if he reached his arm out. He could feel her growl vibrate his limbs. “You would throw your lives away rather than admit you are mistaken?”

“The same could be said of Atreus and Castor.” Alphinaud retorted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Estinien casually shift his grip on his spear so that it moved into a striking position. The immense yellow eyes flicked, following the motion before returning to bore into Alphinaud, and her growl became deeper. More dangerous.

“I will not ask again.”

Alphinaud heard the quiet but distinctive sounds of weapons being readied. He did not dare move. He stared the primal down, unwavering in his conviction. The air crackled with tension.

Alphinaud was about to resign himself to his life ending in a flash of teeth when Lupercal reared back. “Come.” 

Much to Alphinaud’s surprise, instead of directing them back the way they came, Lupercal instead went on, lithely padding around the narrow corner at the far end of the basin. Sharing cautious glances between themselves, the Scions tentatively followed. Alphinaud was just coming around the corner when he heard a familiar, and unsurprising, voice.

“So you approve?” The Princeps asked. The oracle came into view, seated on a rock up the craggy slope and clearly waiting for them. A pair of women were with him, one standing on either side of him. Calista had her arms folded and was watching the Scions closely. Cailia was wearing a stripped-down version of Elarian soldier armor and had a bow slung on his back. Her gaze was drawn to Lupercal. The primal stalked past the trio up the path and looked back and down at the Eorzeans.

“They have fire and faith. I have no objections.” There might have been the beginnings of a smile in the primal’s voice. The Princeps nodded in agreement.

“Good enough for me.” He glanced up at the bowwoman. “Cailia, if you would?”

Cailia nodded and raised a hand to her mouth. Alphinaud stepped forward along with his companions. “I am surprised to see you here, Princeps. I had heard you were bedridden.”

“And I was. But I was told a matter of import required my attention.” The Princeps’ head turned slightly in Calista’s direction before returning to Alphinaud. “It would appear that was indeed true.”

“I suppose this was some sort of test of our nerve?” Alisaie hazarded, folding her arms and fixing him with a decidedly unamused look. “I would have thought we’d proven our resolve by now.”

Towering over them, Lupercal answered. “When one’s comrades fall, then they start extolling the virtues of avoiding battle, it is easy to suspect their resolve has suffered.”

“For what it’s worth, I told her you would not be found wanting.” The Princeps offered. Lupercal snorted and shook her head.

“So you did, but I wanted to see that courage with my own eyes.” Whatever else she might have said was caught off when they were plunged into darkness.

The feathery clamor of wings preceded the arrival of four griffins, the airborne beasts blocking out the moon and stars as they descended towards the group. Those on foot quickly shifted to make space as the cloudkin landed at the direction of their riders, with the exception of one who was unmounted and landed closest to the Scions. Cailia pushed through them in the now cramped passageway to coo softly at the steed and ruffle its feathers. The others dismounted, and set to work adjusting straps on their mounts’ harnesses.

“Alright, let’s get those packs loaded up.” A deep voiced rider commanded, waving over G’raha and Alisaie. Thancred was handing off his satchel to another, who outstretched a hand for Alphinaud’s own burden.

Alphinaud handed it off and turned back to the Princeps. “Mounts to speed our way?”

“No. The Skyhunters will be dispatched to arrest you.” The other answered.

“That is not ideal.” Alphinaud said. He eyed the archers that appeared to have no interest in apprehending them. He noted the use of future tense. “I imagine they will be unsuccessful in finding us until after we have Aethon in hand?”

“More or less.” The Princeps agreed. “I am but a humble advisor, I cannot countermand a prince’s orders. In his own domain, no less. Had you waited until morning, I might have had time to advise him to rescind those orders, but now we must needs engage in some theater.”

Estinien folded his arms. “Will we at least be spared the indignity of being clapped in irons?” He asked sardonically.

“You defied Atreus’ command. He will have you caught and tried and found guilty. Of course, he will be advised that under the circumstances your punishment should not be too arduous. Perhaps a bit of civic service?”

“Mayhap he will also be advised that prior performed service could be considered part of our sentence?” Alphinaud suggested.

“He just might.” The Princeps said with a straight face.

This was an unexpected boon. Alphinaud had been anticipating the Scions becoming decidedly unwelcome in Elarion after this, possibly even facing actual imprisonment. Having to put on a bit of a performance to help Atreus save face was a far preferable outcome. “We will, of course, accept the judgement of the prince when it is handed down.”

“Assuming we get that far.” The Princeps commented darkly. His expression sobered as he regarded the two Elezen. “I will be upfront with you; Castor was not wrong that seeking help from the Skalik is a fool’s errand. I wouldn’t bet pocket change on this mission, much less your lives.”

Estinien raised an eyebrow. “Tis a shame we do not have someone who can tell us exactly what we need to do to avoid a grisly end.”

The Princeps shook his head at the naked sarcasm. “You don’t. In most potential futures, you’ll be encountering Gorrath’s minions. And even if I could see what is to come, telling you would be a mistake. If you know too much of the future, the Skalik will realize I sent you. And then you die.”

“Surely you can provide some general advice?” Alphinaud pushed. He had a hard time believing any forewarning would lead to their deaths.

“You mean other than ‘don’t try to negotiate with the Skalik?’” Calista deadpanned. The Princeps waved her off.

“Be cynical. The Skalik will find altruism suspicious. Do not associate yourselves with Elarion. Be mindful that they will want you dead even before you do anything to antagonize them. If you do antagonize them, make no apologies. If they sense weakness they’ll pounce. If they pounce, strike hard and fast and show no mercy. They won’t appreciate it if you do and they certainly won’t reciprocate.”

Alphinaud would not have said he felt terribly optimistic to begin with, but his spirits weren’t exactly bolstered by the litany of advice. “You make them sound right terrors.”

“They are.” Calista stressed. “If you go in thinking the Skalik will be reasonable, you are already dead.”

The Princeps added on. “Your chances of survival aren’t zero, but they are exceedingly low. Your chances of successfully negotiating, even worse.”

“If they were any lower, I would not have tested you, but rather stopped you.” Lupercal leaned over them. “Be comforted that your victory is possible. All else is down to your strength and wits.”

Something in the words kindled a fire in Alphinaud. A warm, comforting flare of assurance, rather than a burning pyre of energy or drive.

“That’s all we need.” Estinien said. The words were delivered evenly, not as a boast but a statement of fact. “We Scions have made a habit of beating the odds.”

“Indeed.” Alisaie, Thancred, and G’raha joined the group. Alphinaud’s sister had her hands on her hips. “With that said, I assume you have a plan for us?”

“The Skyhunters will fly you as close as they can to the Skalik base most likely to not kill you on sight. They will remain in the area to carry you home while Cailia guides you through the tunnels until you make contact. From there, it will be down to your skills at diplomacy.”

Cailia walked up. “Our griffs can carry two, plus supplies for the journey. With what we have packed, they’ll be able to stay for about four days. If we need longer, one could possibly be sent back for more, though I doubt time will become a factor.”

“You intend to accompany us then?” Alphinaud had his reservations. With how vehement the hatred of the Skalik ran in Elarians, he wasn’t sure one of them would be a good person to come with them.

“I know those tunnels and I know the Skalik.” Cailia said firmly. It was difficult to read her expression in the light, but she did not sound very enthused about the mission. “You’ll be thankful to have me.”

“A question of arithmetic occurs to me.” Thancred was counting the waiting cloudkin. “You said we’d be riding two to a griffin, but we are nine and there are only four.”

It occurred to Alphinaud that Estinien’s knapsack remained slung over his shoulder. “You intend for me to stay behind, is that it?” The dragoon asked. The Princeps nodded.

“I would ask that you remain here, rather than accompany your comrades.  You will do little down in the tunnels, but your presence may make the difference between victory and defeat should we have to face Gorrath again.”

“I can match the Demon alone, but together we can kill him.” Lupercal intoned with an appropriately wolfish grin. “Will you stand with me?”

Even in the dim light, Alphinaud could read the disapproval radiating off Estinien’s body. “I am not in the habit of letting my friends face danger without me. Especially not, as you say, for something so liable to end in battle.”

The Princeps held up a hand in appeal. “Your staying in Clenon is the price for our assistance. The travel time alone makes it a worthy trade.”

“We can manage without you.” Alisaie reassured the older Elezen. “Certainly better than they can.”

Cailia and Calista both bristled slightly at that, but they wisely said nothing. After a moment of contemplation, Estinien nodded his agreement.

“Very well.”

The segreant hastened over. “My Princeps, we are ready to depart. If we delay much longer then we won’t be able to reach our destination and get under cover before daybreak.”

“Which will greatly increase your chances of being spotted.” The Princeps finished. He looked to the four Scions. “Are you ready?”

Alphinaud looked at each of his companions in turn for confirmation. “We are.”

“Then let’s mount up.” Cailia said, punching a fist into her hand. She pointed to Alphinaud. “You’re with me.”

The Princeps stood and held up a hand. “Before that, I would like a private word with you, Cailia.”

“With me?” She stared at him in confusion. Her segreant recovered faster.

“We’ll get the Scions squared away while we wait.”

“Thank you. This will be quick.” The Princeps reassured them while directing Cailia away from the group. Alphinaud let himself be led to one of the imposing cloudkin, who knelt patiently to let him scrabble onto its back. A set of stirrups had been cinched up for his shorter legs and he tried to settle his nerves as he settled into the seat. It was just like riding a chocobo. Except bigger. And meaner. And it flew. Meaning if he was bucked off, like the first time he had ridden a chocobo, he would end up with a lot more than a bruise.

He glanced at the two Elarians speaking in low voices off by themselves to take his mind off that encouraging thought by distracting himself with pondering exactly what they were talking about.

“What did you wish to discuss, my Princeps?” Cailia asked, standing at attention with her hands behind her back. She reminded herself to be as respectful as possible, that she was standing before the Lady’s Oracle.

“Do you have any questions for me?” He asked simply, as if he knew. She kicked herself, of course he already knew.

“If they’re trying to seek the aid of the Skalik, won’t the presence of an Elarian like me only make things worse?” Cailia asked, trying not to sound skeptical. She did not doubt the Princeps’ wisdom, but it still seemed like a bad idea.

“The Scions will not be wary enough of ambushes. You will.” He answered.

Cailia didn’t bother asking if they were likely to be ambushed. “Then I’m coming along to save them from their own idealism.”

“Mmm.” He answered her with an affirmative hum. For a long moment he said nothing, looking beyond her up the pass to the north. “Are you okay with this?”

“I won’t shirk my duty.” She told him.

He looked back to her. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

There was a long pause between them as she tried to think of how to respond. Every reply she was coming up with felt horribly impolite to say to one such as him. He sighed at the turmoil in her expression. “I am not asking as the Princeps, just as… a citizen of Elarion. Are you okay with asking the Skalik for help?”

“Are you kidding me?” She asked hotly. The absurdity of the question overrode her concerns about being rude. “They murdered my sister in the same moment they slaughtered hundreds of their own kind. Did you forget that?”

“I have witnessed more suffering and death inflicted by Skalik hands than can actually physically happen.” The other’s expression did not twitch. “I have not forgotten.”

Cailia winced. Of course he hadn’t. “I didn’t mean-” He waved off the apology and she awkwardly continued. “But that’s my point. The Skalik are monsters and the world will be a better place when the last one dies. No, I don’t want their help. Even if it’s not completely impossible for us to get it, I know the reality is we won’t and we’re all going to our deaths for nothing.”

“And yet, you came when I asked.” The Princeps pointed out.

Cailia shrugged. “Would anyone refuse the Princeps’ call?”

It was a rhetorical question, so he surprised her by nodding.

“Some did. There’s a reason I handpicked the four of you. People’s faith in me only goes so far, it seems.” The Princeps made it sound like a joke. His voice softened. “If this goes against your conscience, then I can find another person to guide them.”

The temptation to agree, to not have to go begging for help from those rat bastards, kept her from answering immediately. She knew there were others who could do the job just as well, heck both Sarge and Gammy knew the tunnels as well as she did so they wouldn’t even need to waste time going back to Clenon for someone else. But the Princeps would have known that, certainly. And yet, he’d put his faith in her.

“I believe in Markos.” She finally said. “And he believes in his friends. He said they were the ones who do the impossible, he was just the guy who got the credit.”

“How very like him.”

“Then…” Cailia hesitated as her misgivings made a valiant final stand. “I’ll believe in them too. Maybe we’ll just die, but then at least I won’t have to look him in the eye and tell him I let his friends march to their deaths without doing anything. And who knows? They’ve done the impossible before, maybe they can do it again.”

“Thank you.” The Princeps said. There was a wealth of unspoken emotion in those words and Cailia felt her own feelings rise up in a tide, confident that, despite her words, this was the last time she’d ever see him. Before she could talk herself out of it, she stepped forward and hugged him.

He froze, and instantly she knew she had made a mistake. Hurriedly she let go. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“No.” His hand rose to where her arm had been around his. “It was just… unexpected, that’s all.”

Right, she reminded herself. Who would hug the Princeps, after all? She was thankful for the darkness that hid her flushing face.

“We should get moving. Time’s a wastin’.” She said to hide her embarrassment.

“Indeed so.” She took the words as permission to flee to Lieutenant and the relative safety of her suicide mission.

Cailia easily hoisted herself up the side of the griffin to join Alphinaud. The sturdy creature bore the extra weight with no sign of strain. His name was Lieutenant, something Alphinaud would have rather not learned given the context that he had been told so he could scream it to catch the griffin’s attention should he fall off and be plummeting to his death. The name was something of a local custom, he gathered, given the other three cloudkin were Sergeant, another Lieutenant, and Captain.

“Ready to fly, Sarge.” Cailia called to the leadmost griffin, bearing Alisaie and the hardfaced sergeant.

“Alright Scions!” The woman called out. “Last chance to pick a less stupid way to die!”

She gave them several seconds to reply. “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s get airborne, hunters!”

She put the words into action, spurring her griffin into the air. Cailia kicked their stead and Lieutenant leapt upward as well.

“Lady’s favor be with you.” Lupercal said solemnly as they began to climb. Alphinaud looked down at her and Estienien standing next to her until the receding ground made the view unwelcome. He looked ahead into the darkened landscape spreading out before him as the griffin shot forward, flying in formation with its fellows.

“Might as well grab some shut-eye, if you can.” Cailia yelled over the wind rushing past them.

Not bloody likely. Alphinaud thought, gripping the saddle straps tightly as they raced forward through the darkness.

Chapter Text

As generations of Skalik warlords have learned to their detriment, there was an art to waging guerilla warfare in Elarion. The twin weapons of stealth and cunning, honed into a way of life by the endless struggle against rivals, underlings, and other clans, were useless in the Princeps’ realm. Silver Eyes saw through every scheme and caught every hidden threat that reached above ground. Centuries of experience taught the Skalik well, and they learned new methods of making war to be deployed against their neighbors. Namely, making their forces easy to find, but hard to kill.

If a Skalik commander was ever unfortunate enough to be significantly outnumbered, which for them included facing an Elarian force of comparable size, and was cut off from the safety of the tunnels either by distance, enemy forces, or the orders of their superiors, there was only one recourse. To die fighting. Preferably only after surviving for as long as they could.

Stranded Skalik forces would thus scatter into small, roving bands of raiders. They would keep ahead of Elarian retribution by staying constantly on the move and kept themselves fed by ravaging the countryside, raiding any poorly defended villages or hamlets they came across for meat and other supplies until the Elarians eventually managed to run them down. With Skalik being well accustomed to privation and death marches at the whims of capricious masters, a particularly determined and crafty band of marauders could make trouble for weeks until the last of them were finally cornered and slain.

One might have expected Vshik of Clan Gnashfang, commanding a few hundred tempered Skalik left behind after Gorrath’s offensive south petered out by virtue of killing all other contenders for the position, to adopt such a similar strategy. Particularly given their god’s ‘blessing’ made stealth an at least somewhat viable tactic. But such skulking is not the Blood God’s way. Vshik had no interest in picking over the bones of abandoned villages and staying one step ahead of Elarian hunters. He, and all those under his command hungered for blood.

He just needed a target. The thought of his band scaling the walls of Clenon was laughable. Vshik sought battle, not suicide. And so they lurked in the fringes of the Last Forest, close enough to strike should the opportunity present itself but far enough away that they could melt away into the trees should their enemy respond to their presence with overwhelming force.

When a convoy of refugees emerged from the safety of Clenon’s walls and began to march along the Ribbon’s bank towards the crossing at the fords, the tempered saw their chance. The caravan was not defenseless, the Elarians were no fools, but recent battles had thinned their numbers and the slow-moving column of elderly, infirm, and children had precious few escorts, most of them with battered armor and tired slumps in their shoulders.

Vshik ordered the attack immediately. He demonstrated the tactical cunning of the packsleader he had once been, before his conscription into an army that shunned Skalik ranks, by splitting his force into two and sending them into the front and end of the column. Attacked on each end and with the river at their backs, the refugees were hemmed in with nowhere to run as the Skalik descended on them.

And yet, there was remarkably little panic among the Elarians as the attack came. Even with Elarians being well used to being under attack, one wouldn’t expect the prevailing attitude among them as the Skalik poured out of the woods to be one of relief. Vshik was alert enough to notice this, but too blood-maddened to care as he led the charge, eager to spill blood in offering to his new deity.

Then the two dozen huddled refugees standing between his force and the rest of the column threw off their cloaks to reveal the gleaming crystal forged mythril of Knightly armor and one suit of azure mail. Vshik had just enough time to scream a battlecry before the greatsword cleaved him in two.

The ambush had been executed perfectly, Estinien thought. He’d expected the tempered to break and run after seeing the Knights waiting for them, but the prospect of bloodshed seemed too tempting for them to break off now after committing to the fray. They were hopelessly outmatched, dying in droves against the Knights perfectly placed to meet their charge. At Estinien’s side, Castor fought with ruthless efficiency of movement. A life ended with every swing of his blade.

“This almost seems unfair, fighting like this.” Estinien commented after knocking aside a shrieking Skalik’s spear and running the ratman through. The attack had been predicted and the column’s formation planned, down to the placement of specific Knights, by the Princeps’ foretelling. All while the man was supposedly bedridden from exhaustion. From what he’d seen so far, Estinien doubted they would lose a single man today. “Having such advanced knowledge doesn’t feel very sporting.”

“This is a paltry showing.” Castor answered, cutting down one Skalik while bashing another with his greatshield. Estinien had thought there would be some tension after the Scions went behind his back, but he treated the other four’s departure as phlegmatically as he did everything else. The result of a quiet word from the Princeps, or the Knight’s own stoicism Estinien didn’t know or particularly care. “That we needed to bait this trap with our children speaks to how limited the Princeps still is.”

Estinien couldn’t disagree with that. He grit his teeth as he caught another sword on Nidhogg’s haft. Being forced to stay on the ground was grating, but theycouldn't allow any openings for the Skalik to reach the genuine refugees behind them. “That could have been avoided had we taken the bridge.”

Castor shook his head while somehow making the act of beheading a berserk bipedal rat look routine. “We cannot march across Minean land without the consent of Prince Helena. As she was out of contact yesterday, we have no choice but to go directly to Cretos.”

“Pity we couldn’t see a way around that.” Estinien said with enough deliberate irony Castor briefly turned from the battle to look at him.

“Acting on foreseen agreement to his advice is a step too far, even for the Princeps.”

Estinien shrugged, not caring in the slightest about the nuances of Elarion’s political situation. The battle was almost over already, the tempered’s ferocious attack and their relatively small numbers meaning they were being quickly wiped out. The pressure cleared enough to allow for a quick leap, Estinien bounded into the sky and saw the fight at the front of the column was similarly well in hand. Horns from the west signaled reinforcements, and the bull banner of Cretos flew as chocobo cavalry rode in to smash the Skalik against the anvil of the Knights holding the line.

Estinien turned his attention back below and saw a conveniently grouped up knot of tempered that just begged for a stardiver into the middle of them. He fulfilled the need, then finished off a few remaining stragglers. The last Skalik died twitching on the end of Estinien’s spear, spitting blood at him in a final act of spite. Estinien wiped the blood off his cheek with a gauntlet, grimacing. Tempered or not, he could see how even good-natured Marcus had come to loathe these creatures.

The drumbeat of taloned feet heralded the arrival of the cavalry, who fanned out to encircle the convoy in a reassuring wall of yellow feathers. A truly gargantuan cloudkin strode up to Estinien bearing the young Taurhe prince on its back.

“Dragoon.” Asterion greeted after dismounting. His head turned slightly and Estinien followed his gaze to see Castor join them. “Guardian Knight.”

“Your highness.” Castor answered. At a look, he tossed the bloody rag in his hand to Estinien, who used it to likewise wipe the blood off his blade. “Thank you for your timely arrival, and your willingness to shelter those not of your land while this war rages.”

Asterion snorted and shook his head. “Elarion will never move forward while we see each other as potential enemies.”

“Fine words.” Estinien said. Castor inclined his head slightly in question.

“Your father’s?”

“No, they are mine.” Asterion shifted awkwardly on his feet, made uncertain by the admission. He looked at each of them, almost embarrassed. His tone made his words a question. “By true nonetheless, I think?”

“They are indeed.” Estinien favored him with an approving nod. Asterion nearly blushed and quickly excused himself to see about getting the convoy moving again. Castor moved on as well, to coordinate his fellow Knights and left Estinien alone. He stared north at the mountains that rose up, his mind on the darkness beneath them that even now his friends descended into. He hoped their task went as smoothly as his did.

After hours down in the muted half-light of the green crystals, Alphinaud had largely adjusted to the poor visibility. His night vision may not be as sharp as Thancred’s or Cailia’s, but he was no longer stumbling over himself or bumping into people. Progress, of a sort.

The Skyhunter pulled them up short with a raised hand. The light ahead of them was brighter than usual, marking an intersection. Cailia waited at the head of their group, listening for something. Not just her eyes, but her senses in general were better than any of the Scions. More than once already she had heard or in one case smelled trouble before the Scions did.

And she didn’t like whatever she was hearing now. The raised hand chopped down and to the left. Alphinaud and the other Scions followed her motion and ducked low against the tunnel’s left wall, just in time for him to hear the clatter of approaching footsteps. Perhaps a dozen Skalik ran through the intersection, thankfully not turning off down the tunnel the Scions were hiding in.

Alphinaud waited a full minute after the echoes of their passing had faded before standing again. He glanced at Cailia. “Anything promising?”

She shook her head. “Grunts and thralls, all of them.”

Alphinaud frowned. No point in pursuing them then. Skalik society was rigid and xenophobic. Lower ranked troops could be counted on to have orders to kill any non-Skalik they see, and punishments for defiance were harsh enough none could be expected to go against those orders and hear the Scions out. They needed to find an officer or a commander, someone with the personal initiative and the latitude to be open to and able to negotiate.

Or so Cailia claimed. Alphinaud was mindful of the deep enmity between Elarians and the Skalik and knew not to necessarily take her at her word about how inherently hostile they were. But the assessment did agree to his own preconceptions. The Skalik were at war, and the Scions were strangers trespassing in their territory. It made sense to expect that line troopers would attack first and ask questions later, plus the negotiations for their aid would go smoother if Alphinaud was speaking to someone with the authority to agree, rather than needing to check with his superiors.

This left them carefully navigating the web of tunnels, evading the Skalik patrols marching through them until they could reach Rhuskrak. It was a ‘cavern-city,’ located close enough to Gorrath’s claimed territory that its defenders might have useful intelligence and an appreciation of the threat the primal posed. The building blocks for finding common cause between them, Alphinaud hoped. The city’s defenders would likely have someone of rank supervising them, at least enough to call off the troops while the Scions made their case.

They had been making their way through the tunnels for nearly half a day now, if he was any judge of time this deep underground, and had evaded almost a dozen different groups of defenders as they slipped closer to their destination. Cailia led the way, which Alphinaud had reservations about. She was Marcus’ friend, Alphinaud trusted her not to intentionally sabotage the mission. However, though she’d ditched her distinctive blue Skyhunter armor for plainer, nondescript gear, there was still the possibility she’d be recognized as Elarian. And seeing an Elarian leading their group might prompt the Skalik to make damning, if understandable, assumptions about the Scions’ purpose in their caves.

But it couldn’t be helped. Cailia knew these tunnels and the path to their destination, and was the most skilled at spotting signs of Skalik ahead or the traps they liked to litter their holdings with. She’d already disarmed two, well hidden dart launchers Alphinaud would have never seen before the poisoned barbs were fired into him. He stayed close behind her, ready to step in whether his tongue or his shields be called on when they made contact.

They crept forward until they reached the intersection the Skalik had rushed through. Cailia glanced down the tunnel the pack had entered. She stood there for a long moment, fingering her bowstring and frowning.

“Is aught amiss?” Alphinaud asked, waiting for her to select a direction for them.

“Something’s wrong.” The Skyhunter answered. “The patrols we’ve seen… what are the Skalik doing?”

“Defending their territory?” Alisaie hazarded. “I would imagine they are no more keen on Gorrath’s incursions than you are.”

Cailia looked back and snapped. “Then how have we gotten this far? We should have seen twice as many guard patrols as we have. And this close, there should be permanent sentries posted to watch for intruders.” She gestured at a pair of indentations in the wall Alphinaud now saw were nooks carved for watchmen to stand sentry over the intersection. Cailia turned towards the tunnel the Skalik had come from, still absently plucking at her bowstring, and Alphinaud realized her frustration was aimed at the situation rather than them. “We’re all but on their doorstep and we got here virtually unopposed.”

“You believe the Skalik have some plot in motion?” G’raha asked carefully.

Cailia scoffed. “Skalik are always scheming. But this… it makes no sense. If they were foolish enough to leave themselves this unguarded, the wars would have been over by now.”

“Gorrath is unlikely to attack from this direction.” Alphinaud offered, thinking on the positions of the Primal’s forces. “Mayhap the Skalik have pulled forces from this region to reinforce more urgent areas?”

“Perhaps.” Cailia conceded, though she didn’t look convinced. Thancred, holding up the rear of their group, spoke up.

“In any case, we should keep moving. Thin or not, there are enough patrols to catch us if we stand around chatting.”

Cailia straightened up, chastened. “Right. This way.” She set off the direction the Skalik had come from in the half jog of someone trying to move swiftly and silently. Alphinaud fell in behind her, worried. Though his own explanation made sense, if they truly were as close as Cailia made them sound then it was strange they were seeing so little in the way of defenses. Cailia calling a stop so she could disarm another hidden dart launcher prompted a question.

“Are we encountering an excess of traps laid out?”

She shook her head. “If anything, fewer than normal.”

That did not reassure him. If this area was sparsely guarded by necessity, one would think the Skalik would increase the number of traps to compensate for the deficit. A sinking suspicion began to curdle in his mind, one that Cailia’s comment two intersections on only fed.

She held up a hand for a halt and stood still for a long moment. “Hear that?”

Alphinaud craned his pointy ears. “I hear nothing.”

“So do I. And the city is right around this next bend.” She didn’t need to finish the thought.

They slowly approached the corner and Cailia cautiously eased her head past the edge to look. She swore. Alphinaud leaned out past her to see a massive metal barrier. Clearly fortified, it was effectively a giant metal hatch built into the rock to seal the tunnel behind it. It would take an invading army no small amount of time to pry the immense door open or force their way through the thick metal and slits near the top would allow for defenders to counterattack while they tried either method.

Except neither method was needed, as the gate currently hung half open without a guard in sight.

Cailia stared murderously at the open gate while the others moved up to join them. “To think I’d ever be angry about not finding Skalik.” She groused to herself before leading them on.

They passed through the open portal, and the tunnel opened up into a massive space that was lit brighter than the tunnel. Alphinaud surveyed the area. Buildings rose up around them carved out of the solid rock of the floors, walls, and ceiling in haphazard fashion. The structures were closely packed in, casting long shadows where they blocked the light sources and the streets between them were narrow and winding. Rising up in the distance, visible over the buildings surrounding them, was a large spire topped with a massive version of the glowing green rocks that served as primary source of lighting for the city. The buildings themselves looked crude, barely distinctive habitations with cobbled together metalworks to augment or replace areas where the stone had crumbled, perhaps from battle damage.

There was plenty of that, anywhere you looked. Scorch marks on a nearby wall, a house with the front wall and part of the roof caved in, a number of shattered or missing light rocks set in the nearby walls. Even the gate, seen from this side, was hanging open because the latches to hold it shut had been destroyed by what looked like deliberate effort. There were no bodies to be found, thank goodness for that, but the unmistakable smell of corpses lingered on the air.

The Scions and Cailia surveyed the damage. “This is not unexpected.” Alphinaud reminded everyone. “We knew Gorrath has been attacking the Skalik, it makes sense that one of their cities near to his holdings would have been attacked and evacuated.”

“It would have been nice to have known that before we came here.” Alisaie said pointedly. Cailia glanced disapprovingly at her.

“He had his reasons for omitting the information. He always does.” The Skyhunter defended her absent Princeps.

G’raha moved them past the subject. “In any event, the presence of the patrols we saw on the way here means the Skalik still contest the area. And the absence of bodies suggests that they did not evacuate far away. One doesn’t haul corpses malms away in wartime, no matter how determined you are to give them a proper burial.”

“Burial?” Cailia scoffed. “The Skalik probably took them to eat them.”

“Enough of your xenophobic chauvinism, please.” Alisaie groaned, folding her arms. “It is not remotely helpful.”

“Our next course of action should be to spread out and scout the area.” G’raha advised, glancing between the women. “We can look for signs of where the Skalik have gone.”

Thancred was shaking his head. “We don’t know the lay of the land, and this is a warzone. We should stick together.”

Cailia nodded. “He’s right. Any Skalik still here will try to ambush us.” She saw the look Alisaie was giving her and continued. “They’ll assume we’re part of Gorrath’s army, what other reason would non-Skalik have to be down here?”

“Fair enough.” Alphinaud agreed. “Do you have any ideas where we should begin our search?”

Cailia led them in the approximate direction of the central spire, reasoning it would give them a vantage point to gain the lay of the land and potentially spot any survivors in the city. The dimly lit and deserted streets of the city had a cryptlike stillness to them. The group moved quietly and spoke softly, driven as much by the desire to avoid detection as by some instinctive aversion to disturbing the silence.

Because of that, the soft sound of rocks clattering ahead was plainly audible. Cailia gestured to be silent and she and Alphinaud crept to the corner the noise had come around. Seeing the arrow already fitted to her bowstring, he glanced around the corner first and in the shadows cast by the building towering over them he spotted a Skalik rooting in a pile of detritus. Scavenging the ruins of his home, no doubt. He looked up, spotted Alphinaud, and let out a cry. Alphinaud opened his mouth to speak, but the twang of a bowstring preceded him. The Skalik jerked backward and fell down dead, an arrow jutting from his chest.

Alphinaud whirled on the archer. “Cailia!”

“Corrupted.” She answered tersely, already drawing another arrow. “Eyes up, Scions!”

Alphinaud turned back around, deploying his nouliths as he did so. Movement ahead helped him see the others the Elarian had already noticed. In the gloom, a group of Hyurs and Skalik were taking up weapons and moving towards them. It looked like a dozen, perhaps more. Too many for the five of them to fight without having to cut them down. He thrust out his hands and pulsed out a wave of aether that wrapped itself around his companions, becoming defensive barriers. Cailia drew back to fire again and he raised an arm to block her.

“If uncorrupted Skalik are nearby, killing their kind will turn them against us!”

Cailia visibly bit down her first reply before responding. “Then what would you have us do? Die?”

“Run!” Alphinaud called out to both her and the others. “We’ll lose them in the city!”

The Scions took off running, Cailia putting up her bow with clear reluctance. They raced through the city, pursued by the tempered and their calls of cowardice and demands that the Eorzeans stand and fight. They did not oblige, but kept moving through the shadowy streets of the city. G’raha and Alisaie dropped to the rear of the group, firing off wind spells to throw back any tempered that drew too close. Alphinaud craned his eyes as he ran, looking for a place they could hide from their pursuers. But between the speed of their flight and the poor visibility from the lack of light, the buildings passing around them were little more than indistinct blurs.

They were running along a narrow street lined with tall buildings on both sides, the tempered closing in behind them, when a piercing cry split the air.

“Ambush!” Cailia called. Alphinaud followed her gaze upwards to see the Skalik attack.

They jumped out of the windows, falling on both groups. Alphinaud raised his arms and his nouliths snapped into place. A square of energy formed above the Scions, the quartet of Skalik that had attempted to leap onto them bouncing off and falling to the ground. The tempered were not so fortunate.

The Skalik descended on them with swords drawn. They stabbed, cut throats, some Alphinaud even saw biting the tempered. The Primal’s slaves died quickly, the few that managed to avoid the leapers being cut down by more Skalik that charged into the street from the direction the group had run down. It was gruesomely bloody work, several of the tempered nearly hacked to pieces by several blades tearing into them at once.

When the last of the tempered died with a choked scream, the Skalik rounded on the Scions. Thancred moved to stand between the rest of them and the new threat, gunblade held at the ready on his shoulder. Cailia stood behind him with an arrow nocked and tracking for a target. The drawn bow served to keep the Skalik at bay for a few seconds, each member of the front row slinking back whenever it pointed their direction but Alphinaud knew it wouldn’t last long. Already the rear ranks were pushing forward, collective courage bolstering the ones in front.

Alphinaud knew it was now or never. “We are not your enemies! We are here to help you fight the Demon!”

They did not listen. The Skalik in front lunged forward with blades drawn. Thancred swung his gunblade, detonating an explosive shell to ward them back. The threat of her bow no longer a sufficient deterrent, Cailia slipped back to let G’raha take her place. The second charge of Skalik was thrown back by a wind spell.

“We do not wish to harm you!” Alphinaud tried again. “We only seek to destroy the Demon!”

“Elarian lies!” One of the Skalik insisted. “Kill them!”

Another lunge forward, thrown back again by Thancred and G’raha’s quick actions. Alphinaud could see that the Skalik in the rear were running off, either down the street or into the buildings on either side. Circling around to surround them, no doubt. When that happened, the Scions would have no choice but to cut their way free. And killing Skalik who were only defending their city would also kill any hope of joining forces with them.

“Please listen! We wish to aid you, not to fight!”

The Skalik that had answered before hissed, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the sound of a horn. A deep, strident note, it echoed through the city and down the street such that they all heard it clearly. The Skalik broke off the rapidly materializing fourth attack, looking up and at each other in alarm. The speaker barked quick orders to the rest and they began to fall back down the street.

He paused to look back at the Scions. “You help? You follow.” Then he was running after his men.

The Scions glanced between each other. Cailia looked surprised when Alphinaud turned to her. “Do you think we should?”

“You’re asking me?” She sounded incredulous.

“You are our expert.” Alphinaud pointed out. “Do we have a chance to reason with that group?”

Her brow furrowed. She spoke begrudgingly. “That they gave up on killing us is promising. But we should be ready for treachery.”

“Then we need to hurry.” Alisaie pointed at the rapidly receding Skalik. The Scions set off after them.

For all they had said to follow, the Skalik clearly didn’t intend to wait for them. Driven by whatever sounded the horn, they raced along the winding streets of the city, dropping onto all fours to run faster. The Scions had to make haste not to lose them, sometimes only barely seeing the tail end of the Skalik group rounding a corner ahead. Cursed with shorter legs than their companions, the Leveilleur twins were forced to sprint just to keep the pace. An exertion Alisaie managed a good deal more gracefully than her brother.

It was with sizable relief that Alphinaud noticed them approaching the cavern’s walls. As he hoped, the Skalik ducked into a nearby opening. A bolt hole they had taken refuge in once their city was attacked, he guessed. The Scions followed them in, but to Alphinaud’s dismay the Skalik showed no sign of slowing, continuing to run along the tunnel. Resigning himself to burning lungs and stinging legs, he kept up the pursuit. After what felt like far longer than it probably was, lights ahead signaled they were nearing their destination.

It was an opening in the rock with another, smaller gate to the one they passed to enter Rhuskrak. The Skalik darted inside and the Scions gamely followed. They passed through a short tunnel and entered a large and empty circular room with high walls, with Skalik visible moving through slats in the walls ten fulms above the ground level. A ring of light stones in the ceiling brightly illuminated the space and Alphinaud could see better than he had since entering the tunnels. The room put Alphinaud in mind of the Bloodsands arena, though much smaller in scope.

The Skalik patrol kept moving, running through metal doors set into the wall at certain intervals. Alphinaud thought to follow, but the doors slammed shut behind them and were tightly sealed. Once closed, they were nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding wall, with no openings one could use to find purchase. Mere seconds after they had arrived, and all the Skalik had exited the chamber. A heavy gate slammed down to block the way they had come, trapping the Scions in this room.

Warning bells began to sound in Alphinaud’s mind. He tried to reassure himself that the Skalik were just being cautious. He stepped forward, putting a hand out to stop Cailia from drawing an arrow.

“We are the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, and we have come to destroy the Demon and end his rampage! We are not Elarian and have no quarrel with you! Will you speak with us?”

A slat slid open on the upper level. A Skalik stepped through it. He, probably, though Alphinaud found it hard to tell, looked paler than the typical shades of brown the Elezen was used to seeing. He carried a staff in one hand, its gnarled head was wreathed in a murky green energy the sight of which made Alphinaud’s stomach turn. The Skalik raised the staff and his other hand, also pulsing with that sickly light, and opened his mouth wide in a wordless cry.

The cry cut off into an inarticulate gurgle. The Skalik choked on the arrow jutting from his mouth, before jerking backward when another slammed into his chest. He staggered forward off the ledge, looking almost like he had been pushed off by those behind him, and slammed down onto the stone floor. The energies he had been holding exploded outward and filled the air around him with a murky mist.

Despite knowing the injuries were surely fatal, Alphinaud instinctively moved forward to attempt to heal only to be pulled up short by an iron grip on his arm. He whirled on the archer.

“What have you done!?”

She looked nearly as angry as he felt. “Saved our lives! That’s a plague wizard! This was only ever a trap!”

Now that the Skalik was closer and more in the light, Alphinaud saw that what he took as pale fur were actually tumorous growths that covered the wizard’s skin, making him resemble a bloated pustule. And the remnants of his magic, slowly vanishing from the air, did look decidedly lethal. That didn’t prove he intended to use it on them rather than as a show of force or being held at the ready, but it was enough to give Alphinaud pause.

Whether Cailia was right or they were incensed by the death of their comrade, the Skalik responded. The metal doors slammed open and warriors poured out with weapons drawn. Coming from all sides, with others moving around to the direction of the gate, the Skalik waved their jagged swords, spears, and daggers while the air filled with curses.

“Elarian scum!”

“Gut them!”

His anger towards Cailia undiminished but superseded by the new threat, Alphinaud deployed his nouliths as the Skalik rushed to surround them with more of them charging into the chamber by the second. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the others, Cailia on his left and Alisaie on his right, forming a ring to keep the attackers at bay. As before, none seemed inclined to be the first to try the Scions’ blades, which gave them a few precious seconds to strategize.

“We can’t stay in this killzone and can’t try the gate, it’s too heavy.” Thancred was saying. “We’ll have to push into the base and find another way out.”

“I have a spell that could lift it, if you can keep them off me.” G’raha replied. Alphinaud stayed out of the discussion, too preoccupied with regret. Blood had been shed already and the Skalik were too many for any escape to be possible without shedding more. His grand hopes of an alliance with them, of possibly even paving the way for peace with Elarion, withered and died. All because these people were too bloodthirsty to even consider another way.

He snapped out of the unbecoming self-pity. The Skalik were inching closer, hands tightening around the variety of wickedly serrated weapons they wielded. The anticipatory sense for violence settled over him, knowing the attack was seconds away. He resigned himself to the battle and starting drawing targets with his eyes, planning how to best use his floating weapons to cover his allies.

The Skalik opposite him tensed for a lunge. A shout split the air.

“Wait! Wait!”

A wiry Skalik pushed his way through the crowd surrounding the Scions, pointing at Alisaie. The other Skalik paused, glancing at him and her in confusion. The bloodthirsty air in the chamber dissolved into a tense hesitancy, at least for the moment. The interrupting Skalik came closer, his sword hooked into his belt instead of held at the ready. He squinted at Alisaie, sniffed the air, and turned back to one of the doors.

“It her! The healer!”

There was a motion behind the lines of tightly packed Skalik. The crowd pushed and shoved against one another as they hastened to clear the path of the newcomer who strode through the newly created opening with an unhurried stride.

He was tall, for a Skalik, reaching five and a half fulms. His fur was a striking black, and largely covered by a black metal armor that, while Alphinaud would still call it crude, was of higher quality make and better maintained than the gear of the Skalik around him. He had two swords, one a typical Skalik serrated edge blade made from the same dark metal as his armor that hung from his belt. The other was a straight-edged blade of Elarian make that was drawn and held at a loose grip by his side. He strode forward slowly but confidently, the walk of a man used to obstacles in his way not being there by the time he arrived.

He stepped into the no man’s land between the ring of Scions and the surrounding Skalik without pausing to stand by the one pointing to Alisaie, about half a dozen fulms away. He turned his head to slowly pan his gaze over the outsiders and Alphinaud saw his eyes. Or rather, his eye. The left socket was closed and the scar running over it suggesting a violent end to that particular organ.

The Skalik leader gestured at them. “Nrack. This her?”

The other, Nrack presumably, glanced between Alisaie and Alphinaud for a second with his nose wrinkling in confusion. His gaze landed on Alisaie and he nodded. “Yes warlord. This her. The healer. Cleansed Demon’s taint.”

The warlord’s eye narrowed, examining Alisaie, before turning to look at Alphinaud. The young sage weighed his options. This was probably the best chance they were going to get for peaceful negotiations, but intruding into the man’s deliberations might turn him against them. After a moment’s consideration, Alphinaud decided to risk it. He opened his mouth and froze.

The cold touch of metal against his throat killed his words before they could form. The Skalik had lunged forward across the space separating them and put his sword to Alphinaud's neck before he could blink. More than the threat, sheer shock jammed Alphinaud’s mind. The warlord was so fast, Alphinaud didn’t even see him move. And so precise, if his lunge had gone another ilm farther he would have opened Alphinaud’s throat in a way even healing magic couldn’t fix.

Alisaie stirred beside him, breaking Alphinaud out of his stupor. He signaled that she stay still, barely moving his hand an ilm to do avoid any sudden movements the Skalik leader might object to. Forget negotiating with the man, if he twitched his wrist he could part Alphinaud’s head from his shoulders with the ease of opening a letter. The warlord’s eye dropped, tracking the motion, but did nothing as he resumed examining his sudden hostage.

“Honest eyes.” He finally said, in a gravelly drawl. “But a liar.”

Alphinaud ignored the impulse to object. He’d done more than enough diplomacy in his time to recognize a bit of theater.

“Not Elarian, he says.” The warlord’s eye roved over Alphinaud’s pointed ears and floating nouliths. “Truth, perhaps. But that one.” His snout nodded in the direction of Cailia. Alphinaud didn’t dare turn his head to follow the motion. “Elarian bow. Elarian arrows. Knew to shoot Rotgut before his spell. She is Elarian.”

The warlord paused and Alphinaud took the invitation. “She is. The Elarians seek the Demon’s demise and she is aiding us just as we seek to aid you.”

“Hsssk. Elarian.” The warlord hissed and made the word a curse. “We cut her throat, then talk, yes?”

The Skalik surrounding them brandished their weapons toward Cailia who, to her credit, did not move.

“No.” Alphinaud said firmly. He met the warlord’s gaze sternly. “She is our ally and under our protection. Kill her, and we will have nothing to talk about.”

The warlord’s eye pointedly went to the blade at Alphinaud’s throat. The Elezen ignored it, continuing to stare him down. “She killed Rotgut. Life for life, Scion of the Seventh Dawn.”

“Rotgut intended to kill us. That made his life forfeit.”

“Hrmm.” The warlord’s thoughts on that were not clear, but he didn’t order the attack or kill Alphinaud on the spot, which was something. He drew back a little, keeping his sword against Alphinaud’s neck but no longer having his arm flexed to take his head off at a moment’s notice. “Uplanders, but not Elarian. Who are you, Scion of the Seventh Dawn?”

“We are Eorzeans, from across the sea. We learned of the Demon’s emergence and seek to destroy him.”

“Why?” The warlord asked bluntly.

To save lives from a Primal’s wrath, Alphinaud could have said. But he had not forgotten the Princeps’ warning about altruism. Nor needed it, the look in the warlord’s eye was warning enough. He settled for a still true but far more cynical answer than he would normally prefer.

“Should the Demon take your lands, he will become a threat to us. Better to fight him here, before he grows in strength and where our land will not be ravaged by the conflict.”

The warlord hissed again, but this time with a note of approval. “Wise. But only words.”

“Only lies!” Another Skalik emerged from the circle. The higher pitched voice led Alphinaud to guess this one was female, though he could hardly tell from looking at her. “We waste our time, Warlord Skraal!

“Oh?” Skraal asked with the kind of threatening indulgence that even Alphinaud, a complete stranger to this culture, could recognize. “Vilsrich knows best?”

Vilsrich quailed a hair at the unspoken warning, but continued. “Hrak! The Demon advances! These Elarian pawns, or Demon slaves! Trickery! Treachery! Even if true, too weak to fight!”

“Hmnh, perhaps.” Skraal turned back to Alphinaud. “Caller has many schemes.”

“We are not tainted!” Alisaie protested. “We can cure the taint, just like I did for you!”

Nrack looked decidedly unhappy about being drawn to both Skraal’s and Vilsrich’s attention, but nodded in agreement. “They not Demon slaves.”

“Were not.” Vilsrich retorted. “Fallen and taken after, yes? And they fight with Elarians. Hsssk. Another Silver Eyed scheme!”

“We fight alongside the Elarians solely against Gorrath’s servants.” Alphianud tried to keep his voice level. This could still all go very badly. “We have no interest in the wars between the Skalik and Elarians.”

Vilsrich opened her mouth to shout some denial, but wisely shut it at a gesture from Skraal. The warlord spent several seconds in contemplation, seconds in which Alphinaud was uncomfortably aware of the blade pressing against his skin slightly harder. The Skalik surrounding them shifted on their feet, eagerness for violence obvious in their mien. Finally, Skraal nodded.

“Proof, then. The Demon’s army comes. Go. Fight. Prove you will, can, help.”

“Very well.” Alphinaud couldn’t help a small shudder of relief when the sword was finally removed from his neck. He turned to his companions, getting nods of agreement before looking back to Skraal. “We will join the battle. Though, if you expect us to rout an entire army ourselves, you will be disappointed.”

Another hiss, this one with a note of amusement. “Hsssk, no. My packs go to fight. Fight with them, prove you are allies.”

“They betray us!” Vilsrich hissed.

Skraal did not acknowledge the warning, but continued. “If you are slaves, bent on treachery, you will die like the others. And you.” He pointed at Alisaie. “You stay. With me.”

“Absolutely not.” Alphinaud said immediately, barely getting the words out before Cailia echoed them. “She stays with us.”

“No. Bit of… insurance, yes?” Skraal gestured at Alisaie with his sword. “If you betray, one traitor dies for sure.”

“Or you betray us, and keep the ‘healer’ for yourself.” Alphinaud did not need Cailia’s input to see the obvious scheme there. “We stay together.”

Skraal straightened up to his full height, nearly six fulms tall. “You have word of Warlord Skraal of Clan Gnashfang, no harm come to her should you be true. Even if you fail and fall.”

Alisaie preempted another objection by putting a hand on Alphinaud’s arm. “It’s all right. If we can’t trust them, then this was all meaningless. And we have to trust them so they’ll trust us. If this is what it takes, then so be it.”

Alphinaud knew the look in her eye meant arguing would be futile. G’raha and Thancred didn’t look any happier about it than he did and Cailia was positively fuming, but Alisaie was right. They didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“All go! To battle! Voshgat!” The Skalik surrounding them burst into motion and began streaming back into the base, others working on raising the gate. Another Skalik came to join the group.

“Warlord.” The newcomer eyed the Scions cautiously.

“Take them. Watch them. See they fight. They run, they turn, gut them.”

“Yes, Warlord.” Voshgat answered. Alphinaud was not familiar enough with Skalik to be a good judge of the expressions on their long snouts, but the eagerness he saw was not encouraging. Skraal’s eye narrowed.

“They die if false, Voshgat. I watch.”

Some of Voshgat’s eagerness curdled. “Hssk. I obey.”

Skraal turned to Vilsrich, watching with a murderous expression.

“Something to say? Or you not part of ‘all?’”

“Hng. I go.” Vilsrich stalked away. Behind her, the gate opened. Voshgat started for it.

“Come Scions. Demon slaves to kill.”

With a look at his sister that he reassured himself would not be for the last time, Alphinaud followed.

Chapter Text

The halls of Castle Clenon were quiet. The members of the castle’s soldier comportment that were not on active guard duty were out in the city assisting with the evacuation and many of the castle’s serving men and women were joining the exodus. Even those who remained were walking and speaking quietly, almost furtively. The silent halls had an eerie stillness to them, devoid of life where they were once bustling. Cryptlike.

An ominous thought. Y’shtola admitted to herself, and one she knew she ought to keep to herself. The mood in Clenon was grim enough without her adding to it. Not only were the Elarians forced to leave their homes, the evacuation convoy had been attacked on the way. Mercifully the attack was easily dispatched, but it was enough to remind everyone this was no strategic retreat. They were fleeing before Gorrath’s forces in bitter, galling defeat.

This was no time for her to lay about convalescing. She had donned her robe, the gashes in both the front and back from the assassin’s knife mended with surprising expertise so as to be unnoticeable, took up her staff, and made her way out of the infirmary, careful to avoid Asclepius’s watchful eye. She would not play the fool and insist that she was fit for combat yet, she was beathing heavily and leaning on her staff more than she would like even from the meager exertion of climbing a flight of stairs. But with her friends either comatose, captured, or engaged in what she had heard described as a suicide mission if they were lucky, she refused to idle away any more precious time.

There had to be something she could do, other than let inactivity gnaw at her. As it stood, uncovering the location of the Chosen Coffins seemed pivotal for the course of the war. The power expenditure of one hundred such aetheric devices had to be substantial, even on the scale Primals operated on.

She had a theory. Gorrath did not seem the sort to want an active drain on his personal stores of energy and according to what Y’shtola had gleaned the Coffins were meant as a source of power, rather than an expenditure. They were almost certainly drawing aether from the land, and as such would be best situated atop a confluence of ley lines. Thus, if she could find such confluences, that would a least give them a list of places to start looking.

She knew the castle’s library was small, even by the standards of the less-than-scholarly Elarians, but there could be a map of the region’s ley lines within. And if not, mayhap there was else something useful she could glean from the shelves of books. Some nugget of information that the Elarians had overlooked, or one that they could not see any value in but she, with an outsider’s perspective, could. Admittedly, her brief perusal of the library upon their initial arrival in the castle had not been promising. But there was one place in it she had not checked.

The forbidden archives. Because apparently having such a section is a requisite for any sort of official repository of knowledge, even a collection of tomes as meager as this. Y’shtola mused to herself wryly. She had not been permitted entry her first evening in the castle, but she had been informed later that on the Princeps’s advisement she and her companions had been granted access. A pity events had conspired to prevent her from making use of it until now.

She reached the top of the stairs and paused on the landing, leaning on her staff while she caught her breath. She was mature enough to concede the chirurgeon’s warnings about exerting herself were not entirely unfounded.

“My lady Rhul!” A familiar voice punctured the quiet.

Startled at the raised voice, Y’shtola turned at the call to see the Princeps step out from behind a corner. He seemed undaunted by the gloomy atmosphere, wearing his usual knowing smile and carrying a pair of tomes tucked under one arm. She had the distinct impression he had been waiting there for her arrival. Or, she reminded herself, with his foresight he could have predicted the situation and timed his arrival to coincide with hers.

“Princeps.” Y’shtola greeted, not quite willing to preface the title with ‘my’. She straightened up out of her slump and controlled her breathing down to normal levels, instinctively trying to mask her weakness despite knowing it was a futile gesture. She doubted she was fooling anyone, much less someone as perceptive as him.

“I wanted to express my gratitude for your actions on the field. You saved many lives with your valor.” The Princeps came up to stand before her. Physically, he looked fine, apart from the signs of prolonged stress and exertion she had noted in him when they had first met. But seen through Y’shtola’s eyes, his aether was worn ragged. Dangerously depleted, in her medical opinion.

“You should be abed.” She murmured to him, mindful of the passerby crossing the corridor farther down.

He blinked and in that instant Y’shtola saw his aether flicker. The change was there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. He replied in a similar low tone. “There’s an Eorzean saying about pots and kettles.”

He had her there. He favored her with a winning smile that she was sure served him well with other women. He stepped closer. “Would you mind if I accompanied you? I should like to avail myself of the pleasure of your company.”

“Truly?” Y’shtola said drily, letting a not entirely affected doubt inflect her words. “I did not think I came across as a particularly scintillating conversationalist.”

He cocked his head in question and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “And if I admitted my true intent is that when Asclepius comes after us with manacles to chain us to our sickbeds, I mean to trip you as a distraction while I escape?”

Y’shtola felt the corners of her mouth quirk. “In such an eventuality, I would trip you first.”

The Princeps chuckled softly to himself. “Then I will stick with my previous answer, if it’s all the same to you.”

Her reprieve had been long enough to catch her breath by now and Y’shtola was eager to keep moving. “I do not mind, so long as you are willing to talk while we walk.”

She put her words into action and started off down the corridor. The Princeps dutifully followed, but despite his words he did not say anything. After a minute or so, Y’shtola realized he wasn’t going to and they walked in comfortable silence until a man rounding the corner nearly ran into them. He nearly snapped at them, until he saw who he was speaking to.

“Watch where you’re– oh, my Princeps!” He knelt immediately. At her side, Y’shtola saw the Princeps blink. Again, his aether seemed to surge, rising and falling so fast she still couldn’t tell if her seeing spell was playing tricks on her.

“Please rise, Cleo.” The Princeps beckoned upward with his hand. Showing clear reluctance, Cleo stood. He wore the garb of a soldier out of his armor, a bundle of swords tucked under his arm. Y’shtola wondered how the Princeps came to know him personally, and was answered a moment later.

“I am honored you know of me, my Princeps.” Cleo nearly stammered, not making eye contact. He glanced at her, looking her up and down and focusing on her ears. Y’shtola resisted the urge to sigh. She was battered, weary, and there was a war on, but men were still eying her up. Marcus’s prediction about his people finding her ears attractive was proven true.

Cleo saw her meet his gaze and hurriedly looked away. He fidgeted, wanting to leave but not wanting to do so without permission. “Please, do not let me detain you. His gaze be on– ah.”

Cleo cringed at the gaffe, but the Princeps merely smiled. “It usually is.” The smile dimmed a hair as he regarded the uncomfortable soldier. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem troubled.”

Y’shtola looked closer. There was indeed more than mere awkwardness in the other man’s bearing. Something was weighing on Cleo beyond mere embarrassment. The man himself hurriedly waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing, my Princeps. I… Not to say you are mistaken, but my problems are trivial and not worth your time.”

“As Princeps, I serve all Elarion. Not just her princes.” The Princeps lightly chided. Once again, he blinked and his aether shot up and down. By now Y’shtola was sure she wasn’t imagining it.

The Princeps continued. “And the matter of your mother’s illness is hardly trivial. I shall send word, to ensure the medicine she needs is waiting for her in Cretos.”

Cleo looked ready to fall to his knees again, this time out of awe. “Thank you, my Princeps.”

The other dismissed the words of gratitude with a wave of his hand. “A simple matter, hardly worthy of praise. Now, if you’ll please excuse us.”

Cleo hurriedly moved out of their way, his previous anxiety replaced with reverence. “Of course. Her favor be with you, my Princeps.”

“You as well.” The Princeps said, walking past with Y’shtola following. They didn’t get very far before they came upon another Elarian, this one a Lalafell woman fretting as she swept the stone floor. By now, Y’shtola wasn’t surprised to see the Princeps’ aether surge for an instant.

“Kassia.” The Princeps called ahead. The Lalafell turned, her surprise at being addressed by name plain even from here. As they drew closer, Y’shtola could see concern behind the startlement.

The Princeps did too. “Worrying about the children?”

Kassia’s eyes widened before her composure reasserted itself. “Merely hoping they are behaving themselves on the road.”

“Now, why would they let a little thing like a Skalik attack interrupt their bickering?” The Princeps asked lightly. He rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Although, at present they have for once found common ground in agreeing that Volos Castle is,” he cleared his throat and continued in an overly dignified voice, “awesome.”

Even from here, Y’shtola could see the fear melt off Kassia’s face. “Thank the Lady for small miracles. And thank you, my Princeps.”

The Princeps nodded and acknowledgment and the duo kept walking, Y’shtola’s brow furrowing.

Something similar happened half a dozen more times on their way to the library. They would come upon some Elarian who seemed distressed, the Princeps would both greet them by name and know what was troubling them without ever once asking, and had some reassuringly insightful words or some promise of assistance on his part. Every time, the person he spoke to would leave the conversation visibly emboldened. The grim mood of the castle was lifting, one person at a time.

And each such exchange was preceded by him blinking and his aether flaring up. Each flare burned up a little more aether, the blue fire that was his soul dying down to a miniscule amount less than it had been. His aether had looked ragged when she first saw him. By the time they reached the library, it was threadbare. If Y'shtola's estimations were correct, another dozen such people in need of reassurance would leave him collapsed on the floor.

The Library itself was mercifully devoid of any passerby to delay them further. Y’shtola rounded the corner of the row of books they were walking down and spotted the unassuming door that led to the forbidden archives. Unassuming except for the armed, hard-faced guard standing before it.

Y’shtola suppressed a frown with the ease of long practice. With all the castle’s men called away on other, more essential duties, she had half-hoped that this place would now be unguarded. She had heard of the dispute between her fellow Scions and the Elarian leadership and knew there was a decent chance her permission inside a sensitive area had been revoked. The guard was watching her alertly, already risen out of her chair, no doubt having heard Y’shtola coming from the tapping of her staff on the stone floor.

Well, there was little else for it but to make her way over to the door. Her companion would be good for this, at least.

“I would like to enter.” Y’shtola told the guard once she drew near.

“I have been told I should deny you.” The guard replied.

Y’shtola’s eyes narrowed. “If Prince Atreus truly intends to waste–”

“I was told,” the guard cut her off, expression hardening. “By Ser Thancred. He warned that you would come here when you were still unwell and insisted I deny you entry. You are to ‘go back to bed for pity’s sake.’”

Y’shtola’s amusement at the woman’s surprisingly good imitation of Thancred did little to offset her anger, both at herself for her presumption and at Thancred for his busy-bodying.

The Princeps spoke. “But, officially, Prince Atreus has granted the Scions the right to visit the archives and has not rescinded it, has he not? Or am I mistaken?”

“No!” The guard burst out. “I… no, I have received no word from my prince that the Scion is no longer permitted entry. But…” She trailed off, looking at Y’shtola. With more concern than hostility, the Miqo’te realized.

The Princeps sighed. Again he blinked and again his aether flared up and quieted down in half-a-second. By now, Y’shtola was expecting it. “But you have the right to restrict access based on your better judgement.”

“I do.” The guard confirmed, not quite looking him in the eye.

“Ana.” Her head snapped around to meet his gaze. “That is a wise precaution. It would not be meet to let a man who is blind drunk or in a furious rage into this place with its sensitive and valuable reading materials. I applaud your dedication to your duty.”

Ana looked so overwhelmed and starstruck Y’shtola found herself feeling a little sorry for her as the Princeps continued. “I can assure you that Ser Y’shtola is a trusted ally and what she will learn inside will aid us all greatly. Will that mollify your concerns?”

“Yes, my Princeps.” Ana looked like she would have agreed even if he said Y’shtola was a griffin who needed to get inside to study for her flight to the moon. “Please, enter.”

Putting deeds to her words, she quickly unlocked the door and held it open for them. Y’shtola let the Princeps lead the way and surveyed the room as the heavy door closed and locked behind them. She turned to her companion. “I owe you my thanks.”

He waved the words away. His gaze turned to the books surrounding them. “I hope you find what you are looking for. For all the good my hopes will do you.”

She had to admit the sentiment did not seem unfounded. The ‘archive’ was in truth a small, closetlike space with three floor to ceiling shelves of tomes, a single writing desk, and room for precious little else. A collection of tomes on esoteric or potentially dangerous spellcraft with perhaps, if she was lucky, a primer on summoning that she could probably have written herself. Y’shtola had not had high hopes, but she could feel them sinking nonetheless. The Princeps stepped forward to pull what seemed a random volume off a shelf, if Y’shtola was willing to believe anything he did was random.

“It will have to suffice.” She told herself as much as him. “It is certainly better than nothing. As certain people seem to wish I had.”

“You have protective friends. That is a blessing, in these times.” The Princeps nodded sagely. He continued, with mild reprove, “You could stand to be a bit less confrontational.”

Y’shtola decided to test her hypothesis. “We do not all have the option of glancing into the future to learn someone’s name and troubles before she tells them to us.”

For a moment she thought she saw surprise on his face, before the smile reasserted itself. Again he blinked, and again his aether momentarily surged. The process was almost routine to Y’shtola at this point.

“Impressive. It took Castor over a year to realize I do that.”

“You close your eyes before each usage of the Sight.” Y’shtola seated herself at the writing desk, relieved to be off her feet. The Princeps set his trio of books down on the desk before stepping back. The two books he started with were both thick, heavy volumes each with a series of tabs sticking out at various points to denote pages of interest. The one he’d grabbed here was a thinner, slender volume. She continued, curious. “That is a requirement of its activation?”

“Not a requirement, no. It helps me to concentrate on the visions if I limit external stimuli.”

“Yet you often have your eyes open when you are seeing.” Y’shtola pointed out. “I must admit, I am surprised to see you even can utilize your ability with your eyes closed.”

“A common assumption, though one that never made sense to me.” He leaned against one of the shelf walls with his arms folded. “I can see through a stone wall, on another continent, a century ago. What do people think my eyelids are going to do?”

“Your eyes alight with power make for a striking visual. It is only natural for people to associate that image with your usage of your Sight. And conversely, believe that if they cannot see that visual, your Sight is not in use.” Y’shtola kept her voice neutral as she continued. “And I very much doubt you are unaware of that fact and are not entirely willing to exploit it. I suspect you open your eyes when seeing so that the impressive sight of your Sight reinforces the awe surrounding it and you. And that awe further reinforces the belief that such a power is not easily invoked for mundane matters.”

“You are dangerous.” The Princeps said, his voice begrudgingly impressed. “You've only been around a few weeks and you’re already figuring out my tricks. It’s true, the Sight is much easier to use than people think. So much so that when I overtly use it without difficulty, people assume I am displaying how skilled I am by making my visions look easy. I do indeed use it far more frequently than I let on.”

“I imagine that helps to cement an air of casual omniscience that maintains your reputation as an infallible oracle.” Y’shtola commented, hiding her misgivings.

He was lying. Previously, he'd let her and others think using the Sight was extremely difficult. Now that she knew otherwise, he pretended it was effortless. But she could tell, his last uses of the Sight had each resulted in a sizable chunk of his aether expending itself in an instant. Whether it was through a single usage that told him all or by gleaning whatever knowledge he required on the spot, he wanted everyone to believe he knew everything without issue. And certainly without constant effort such a facade required to maintain. She was reminded of Marcus. Gods forbid these Elarians ever admit to weakness.

A particular word choice of his stood out to her. “Dangerous, am I?”

“Heh.” The Princeps chuckled. “You’ve been around Elarians long enough to know; we have a need for dangerous people. I’d offer you a job, if I thought you’d take it. Your prowess on the battlefield or your mind and knowledge would be useful by themselves. Both in one package? I can see why Markos was fond of you.”

“Is fond.” Y’shtola said firmly. The Princeps met her gaze for a moment, his aether churning, before he glanced away.

“Right. Is.”

Y’shtola elected not to begin a fruitless argument. She nodded at the books he had set down. “Do you intend to do a bit of reading yourself? Or can you use your Sight to render that unnecessary too?”

“In a manner of speaking. Those books are for you.”

“Me?” Y’shtola picked up one of the tomes. She read the title, Mato’s Musings. She’d heard that name before. She looked at the other. Songs of Cyrene. “These are…”

“The books the Citadel Archivists believed may contain a way to help Markos out of his coma. Or at least something to point us in the right direction.”

“These tabs.” Y’shtola flipped open Mato’s to the page indicated by one. “They were marked out as points of interest by the archivists?”

“Not by them, no. By you.” Y’shtola gave the Princeps a look. He shrugged in response. “After skimming through each of them for an hour or so, you designated those sections as warranting further investigation. All I had to do was mark them down myself. The other one is what you found after searching the shelves for information to help your attempt to map our ley lines.”

Y’shtola was indeed going to start by scanning the shelves for useful texts, then skimming through the volumes looking for passages of note for deeper inspection. She certainly wasn’t about to complain about him saving her the time and effort but… “Has anyone ever told you you abuse the power of your Sight?”

“Most people are overjoyed when I witness their future for them.” He replied mock-petulantly, before sobering slightly. “Getting information out from under Gorrath’s shadow is like pulling teeth. Grabbing some details from an hour in the future is refreshingly easy.”

Y’shtola hummed in response. That did provide an obvious answer as to why he seemed so spent now. She could admit to herself she was still more than a little interested in the nuances of his abilities. His expression was as hard to read as always, but he seemed surprisingly eager to talk about his powers given the layers of secrecy he draped them in. “You told me before that seeing an event was akin to living it yourself. When you see the shadow, what does that feel like?”

The Princeps took a moment to answer. “Have you ever been set on fire?”

Y’shtola hid an incredulous laugh behind a quickly raised hand. “What? No. Have you?”

“Never personally, but I’ve Seen it happen so I know how it feels.” The Princeps rolled his shoulders, stretching. “Seeing through the shadow is like that, but you’re trying to read a book at the same time.”

Y’shtola looked at him. He spoke of experiencing burning alive with complete nonchalance, and she could tell from his expression that he was not exaggerating. “That sounds like quite the trial.”

The Princeps shrugged. “No more arduous than what you and the other fighters experience in actual combat.”

Y’shtola was not so sure about that. Even assuming the sensation in one of his visions wasn’t quite as intense as experiencing it live, she could tell just from the look of him that he had been through harrowing experiences lately. She recalled for a moment just how many times since her arrival he had tried to see through the shadow, willingly lighting himself aflame. “It is still no small ordeal. Your duty seems a harsh one.”

The Princeps shifted slightly, as if acknowledging his efforts made him uncomfortable. “All part of the job. It may be more difficult than normal, but I’m managing it.”

Something else occurred to Y’shtola. “Normally your primary task is to perform readings of the future to aid in planning battles?”

“Pretty much. I look out ahead and scan for impending attacks or plots the Skalik are preparing. When I find points of interest or danger, I observe them more closely to find the best way to resolve whatever the problem it. Typically, this does take the form of finding the right tactics to defeat the enemy, yes.”

Y’shtola considered that. He watched, and therefore experienced, every battle fought in a war. Likely at least several times each, if he had to assess how well various strategies fared. And not from a far, abstract sense either. If the stories she heard about how closely he managed some battles, his observations were detailed enough that he had to be watching squads and individuals fighting. He did that over and over again, battle after bloody battle, and despite the carnage he witnessed he maintained enough reserve to assess them analytically.

Y’shtola knew she was made of stern stuff. She had done more than her share of hard things in her life. But she wasn’t sure she could do his job.

“You’ve seen quite a lot, haven’t you?” Y’shtola asked him quietly. “You witness every possible horror one can imagine, so you can ensure they never come to pass.”

“For all the good me Seeing them does when I let them happen anyway.” The Princeps muttered. His eyes snapped over to her and he winced. Minutely, but enough to tell her he had not meant to say that aloud.

“What do you mean? Why would you not prevent every evil you could?”

He sighed and his gaze dropped to the floor. “When I See, I see everything that might happen, no matter how unlikely. If I looked forward for this conversation, I could see you murdering me. Because I might attack you, or say just the right thing to provoke you. It’s not impossible, so I can See it happening.”

He stayed still, but his aether was in constant motion. It roiled and churned, even if she couldn’t tell what emotions these were it was clear he felt them strongly. “I’ve learned to look for these things. Their improbability makes them easy to prevent, and since they can happen why take the risk? But sometimes, it’s not that simple. Sometimes, preventing an unlikely disaster means making other misfortune more likely. What then, but to roll the dice?”

He looked up, back to her, with hooded eyes. “I’ve never been much of a gambler.”

“What happened?” Y’shtola asked, transfixed. The Princeps did not answer, just grimaced and turned away again.

Y’shtola thought quickly. His clear emotion meant he was referring to some specific event. His refusal to mention it to her implied she already knew of it. Inspired by his words of improbable disasters, her racing thoughts landed on the worst case scenario.

“The summoning.” She breathed. “You saw Gorrath summoned before he was.”

The Princeps closed his eyes. For a moment the mask slipped and she could see the bone-deep weariness etched into the lines of his face. “Not just saw. I ordered it.”

“Elaborate.” Y’shtola demanded. The Princeps sighed and reluctantly complied.

“I foresaw the Skalik descending on a raging battle and summoning a Demon of their own. The Plaguebringer, of all things. We had to stop them. Aethon’s unit was the only realistic choice to send, no one else was both close and strong enough to do the job. And I saw, if I had Aethon send his unit on without him, almost all of them would die for sure, and likely many more of the already embattled forces would be killed. If he went with them, most of them would live. And there was a small, negligible chance that Aethon would summon the Blood Demon.

“A threat to all of Elarion, and I could dismiss it at the cost of a dozen lives. An easy choice.” The Princeps laughed slightly. Y’shtola could hear the bitterness in it. “But I chose wrong.”

Several things crystalized in Y’shtola’s mind. First, the Princeps was using her for a form of confession. She was not one of his people, with an entrenched reverence for him and his decisions. She was also an outsider who could be easily dismissed should she attempt to bring these damning admissions to the public.

Second, the Princeps was important both as a political ally to the Scions and as a rallying figure to the Elarian people. It behooved her to both stay in his good graces and tell him whatever he needed to hear to remain an effective leader and seer.

Third, and while objectively not as important as the other points this was the one that mattered the most to Y’shtola, the Princeps was a guilt-ridden young man, with a hand in creating a terrible situation that he was largely powerless to resolve. He was running himself ragged trying to fix this crisis and had little to show for it. Every death at Gorrath’s hands, the Princeps saw as his fault.

She let her gaze harden, her voice taking on the sharpness that had cowed heads of state in the past.

“I expected better from you than wallowing in self-pity.”

The Princeps’s eyes widened at her words. Y’shtola held back her amusement at finally catching him off-guard and continued. “This self-recrimination is beneath you. You made a sensible choice, prioritizing saving lives over cowering before every potential danger. That a freak occurrence has resulted in dire consequences does not make you to blame. I am rather disappointed to see that you are wasting your time and energies on castigating yourself over something that was not your fault when there are much more pressing matters at hand. I believed you to be more sensible.”

The Princeps stared at her for a few seconds, then took a deep breath in and out through his nose. His normal smile returned, but there was a light in his eyes there hadn’t been previously. “You are right. My apologies, I’ve shown you an unbecoming side of myself.”

“All is forgiven.” Y’shtola replied, relieved she had read him correctly. He was, in his own way, similar to Marcus. And like Marcus, he responded better to a verbal boot to the rear than soft words of comfort at times. As she’d hoped, this was one of those times. Something else did stand out to her. And while it may not be terribly polite to ask, her curiosity demanded an answer. “What is your connection to Marcus?”

He took a moment to answer. “What makes you think I have a connection to him?”

“You refer to him as ‘Markos.’” Y’shtola pointed out. “He bore that name only while he lived in Elarion. And when you sent Castor to recruit him, you gave Castor the name ‘Marcus,’ so you are aware he changed names.”

“Hmm, perceptive of you.” The Princeps answered, his face and tone neutral. He shrugged. “The answer is nothing truly interesting. He earned a name for himself during the 89^th Underground War and came to my attention as a person of interest. I’ve kept an occasional eye on him ever since. I could say that’s because he seems drawn to events of great import it would be useful to know about, but truth be told his exploits have made for interesting viewing.” His slight smile deepened a hair. “He’s quite the hero, your man.”

Y’shtola felt her face warm ever so slightly. Her man indeed. She changed the subject. “While I have your ear, there are a few things I wished to bring to someone’s attention.”

“I happen to have some influential acquaintances.” The Princeps commented wryly. “You could tell me, and I’ll pass the information along to more important people.”

She rolled her eyes at his poor attempt at humor before sobering. “Those tempered by a Primal will, if subjected to a sufficient amount of the Primal’s power, become transformed by it. Their bodies will mutate, taking on aspects of the Primal’s elemental nature. Those enthralled by a Primal aspected to water will grow to resemble, if not outright become, aquatic creatures themselves, for example.”

“And those exposed to the power of a Demon fixated on battle would develop forms more suited to combat?” The Princeps suggested. Y’shtola nodded.

“Just so. Gorrath does not strike me as the sort to restrain his power, especially when it would benefit him by strengthening his forces. But to my knowledge, we have yet to encounter any such transformed tempered. Given what we now know about the focus of his campaign, it seems a logical conclusion where he is deploying such forces.”

The Princeps nodded. “Indeed. And moreso than you realize. There are many Skalik warbeasts the likes of which Gorrath has not sent against us. I thought he might not have any under his command, but now it seems likely he was pitting them against the Skalik instead of us.”

“Which raises the point that, once the Skalik are defeated, he will loose such monstrosities on us.” Y’shtola concluded. His expression indicated her took her meaning; she elected not to push him on the topic. At least, not right now. “Another fact that concerns me is the projected growth of the Chosen.”

“How so?”

“To hear Mera tell it, the longer the Chosen exist the more power they will feed to their master and absorb from him in turn. And the more power they receive from him, the more they will come to resemble him.” Mera had been unclear on the exact mechanics of this process, but the principle was enough to worry Y’shtola. “How long until they develop the ability to temper others themselves?”

The Princeps absorbed the idea stoically. “Is that possible?”

“I have never witnessed or heard of it occurring.” She told him. “But it is theoretically possible.”

“Meaning each and every Chosen could become a Demon in their own right.” The Princeps concluded evenly. “If the enemy Primal will continue to grow in power, we must counter it. Are there ways to bolster the strength of our own Primal?”

Y’shtola thought for a moment. “Regarding the conventional methods, I know of no way to increase the rate a Primal drains aether from the land, and would be reluctant to recommend such even if I did. Increasing the Primal’s power gained by devotion is as simple as increasing the number of its enthralled followers. As for other means… providing external sources of aether for the Primal to absorb would be the only other option. Crystals, for instance.”

“I suppose feeding crystals to Lupercal will be a better use for them than attempting to summon another Avatar that would only be weaker than her anyway. Our crystal stores are dangerously low as it is, but I’ll send for what we have.” The Princeps told her.

Y’shtola raised an eyebrow. The way he said that… “Which you already did, when you foresaw this conversation. Did you not?”

He nodded, a little sheepishly. “I like to let people have their moments and get to voice their ideas or discoveries themselves, but… yes, I did. Which is my cue to make my departure. You are right, Castor needs to hear of this.” He stopped leaning against the wall and stepped closer to the door.

“What do you suppose he’ll do?” Y’shtola asked. “Will he change his mind about sending aid to my fellow Scions and the Skalik?”

The Princeps sighed. “It’s not as simple as that. Even if we were willing to reinforce the Skalik, we’d need a way to do so that wouldn’t just result in the Skalik attacking those reinforcements. That will be a task for me, once I’ve recovered enough to use my Sight on more than parlor tricks. And even then, I can only see what’s possible. The impossible is beyond me.”

“Of course.” Y’shtola said darkly. The Princeps paused, his hand raised to knock on the door.

“I may not agree with your reasons, but I do agree with your end conclusion. Letting the Skalik fall to Gorrath would be quite the problem for us, no matter how tempting the prospect is. For that reason alone, we will work to prevent that fate.”

“I hope you are successful.” Y’shtola said with a pointed edge in her voice. The Princeps’s blue eyes narrowed slightly as he knocked.

“Good luck in your search.” He said as the door swung open.

“You as well.” She told him. The door closed behind him with a muted boom and she put all thoughts of Skalik from her head. She settled in to peruse her awaited tomes very carefully, knowing above all else, restoring Marcus was her top priority.

The iron gate slammed down with a heavy thud. Alisaie ignored how ominously final that sounded and faced her new ‘host.’ Warlord Skraal gave orders to his men with clipped statements and curt gestures. Each Skalik departed after receiving their instructions, most heading deeper into the tunnel complex. Some of them eyed her as they left, the expressions on their long snouts difficult to read but the looks in their eyes were not reassuring. Finally the last of Skraal’s subordinates were dispatched and he returned his attention to her.

“Sorry.” Alisaie gestured towards the slain plague wizard. “About your man, I mean. We’d have rather not killed him.”

Skraal growled. “Hnng, should thank you. Spared us his stench.” He turned and barked at the pair of Skalik making to pick up the wizard’s body. “Fools! Want die too!?” He swept his hand through the air like he was slapping them from a distance. “Burn that!”

Skraal faced her again. “Come.”

Without waiting for her answer, he headed off towards one of the passages out of the chamber. With little other choice, Alisaie followed.

Skraal moved quickly and she had to hurry to keep up. They made their way through winding, featureless shafts carved out of the rock. The walls were unadorned beyond the occasional metal framework and there were many doorways leading to branching paths that they took or ignored seemingly at random. Alisaie quickly lost her sense of direction as they moved fast and turned frequently. Less than a minute after they left, she doubted she could find her way back to the chamber they started from. Trying to make the motion look natural, she adjusted her sword so it was ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. She may have chosen to stay with the Skalik as a show of faith, but if they chose not to reciprocate that faith she wouldn’t make it easy for them.

Skraal finally led them to a wider, open room, albeit still with the lower ceiling the Skalik seemed to prefer. It was rare for Alisaie to be grateful she had yet to experience her growth spurt, but a full grown Elezen would have to bend over double to fit through the Skalik base. The chamber appeared to be a war room, dominated by a large table decorated with a map etched into the stone. The oval shape of the area depicted loosely matched the Elarian map she had glanced at depicting Rhuskrak, though the Skalik’s map was naturally more detailed and included several smaller caverns adjacent to the main city that the Elarian map did not show at all. Totems denoting troop positions dotted the map, though Alisaie could not tell what they signified. She guessed that a large cluster of markers in one of the side caverns was their current location, nearly opposite a large X dabbed onto the map in what she hoped was red paint.

Several Skalik were waiting for the two of them, with one in particular turning to greet them. Alisaie noted the similar armor to the ones Skraal had spoken to below and guessed this was an officer of some sort. The Skalik’s eyes widened at the sight of her and his hand dropped to the sword hooked into his belt. Skraal shook his head and the other reluctantly took his hand off the weapon. The other Skalik in the room quailed at the new arrival and slunk away from the table to stand by the wall. These were clad in rags, not the patchwork armor all the others had. They were also the first Skalik Alisaie had seen that were unarmed.

“Report.” Skraal commanded.

“Warlord.” The Skalik answered. She, judging from the sound of her voice, gestured towards the far edge of the map. “Enemies come.”

Skraal stepped up to the map. “Demon sighted?”

“No. Bull leads charge.” The officer pointed at a cluster of markers. “Broke through northern defensive line, driving into city. Madclaws slowing him down. What’s left of them.”

“Gorsik wants Bull’s head.” Skraal said darkly. He examined the map closely, beady eye roving over every ilm of it.

The officer shook her head with wry amusement. “Hng. Mad Gorsik mad enough, eat Demon-flesh.” Alisaie had enough time to wonder what she meant by that when the officer spoke again. “Caller seen.”

Skraal’s eye snapped to her. “Where?”

She pointed at another marker, one Alisaie was coming to understand signified enemy forces. This one was on the west side of the city, far from the grouping that denoted the main host and close to their current position. “Small force, making for refuge camps.” A trio of the offshoot caverns were huddled together in close proximity also close to the “Caller’s” location. Alisaie backtracked that to the X she guessed denoted Gorrath's holdings, the Caller was making a beeline for them.

“No.” Skraal intoned gravelly. “Too simple, too easy. Caller no fool.”

He paced around the table, looking at the map from another angle. “Knows I protect camps, shows his teeth. We move, show our belly elsewhere, he bites.” He eyed the map for a long moment, then pointed at the central spire. “Here. Caller blinds us, watches. Waits, our neck exposed, he strikes.”

“You go?” The officer asked, in a tone that suggested she already knew the answer.

“I go. Council wants Caller. Who else take him?” Skraal folded his arms and shook his snout slightly. “Ready hunt pack. Small, fast, deadly.”

The officer made an abbreviated bow and turned to leave, barking orders at the Skalik by the walls even as she strode from the room. Another of the Skalik crept forward. Staying low, as if trying to avoid being seen, he carefully grabbed the marker for the Caller and moved it to the spire. Still bowing, he slunk back to the wall. Skraal ignored him, his gaze unfocused from being deep in thought. He snapped out of his reverie and his beady red eye landed on Alisaie.

With the battle plans drawn, Alisaie expected to need to insist, at swordpoint if need be, to be allowed to join the battle. She was not expecting Skraal to gesture at her sword and ask her “Can you use that blade?”

“Better than most.” She answered.

Skraal's sole eye glinted viciously. “Then come. War calls.”

Surprised, but hardly about to object, Alisaie fell in beside the warlord as he strode from the war room. She didn’t even try to keep track of their path through the twisting labyrinth of the Skalik tunnels, her mind on other matters. Namely, the aether-charged porixe she had ready to summon to her side at a moment’s notice. If this Caller was who she thought he was, then this was an opportunity she was not going to waste.

Voshgat led the trio of Scions and Cailia back through the tunnels they came from, turning off into a small, almost hidden side passage halfway down. It was a narrow, low tunnel they had to scrabble through, and for the first time in a long while G’raha was pleased about Miqo’tes having a lower height than many races. He could hear a muffled curse from behind him as Thancred cracked his head against the low ceiling. In front of him, Cailia was having to bend over low to avoid a similar mishap.

They emerged into a larger, more open space. At least, it would have been more open had it not been filled with what might have been a hundred Skalik warriors, armed to the teeth and clearly spoiling for a fight. Some of the ones in front nearly jumped the group as they emerged from the tunnel, only Voshgat’s raised hands forestalling them.

“Guests of the warlord!” He called out over the aggressive chatter. “Claim not Elarian. Claim fight Demon. They fight with us, prove true. Unharmed, unless I say! Kill them without orders, I feed you to wolves alive!”

G’raha heard mutterings of disapproval, but no one seemed inclined to defy their commander’s order. Voshgat turned to the Scions. “Hunt pack moves, face the enemy head on. Objections?”

G’raha knew when he was being baited. “None whatsoever.”

“Hnng.” Voshgat snarled slightly. “Then we move.”

He faced his men again. “Demon thralls come. Not leave! We go! Gnashfang!”

“Gnashfang!” A hundred or so voices cried out. The hunt pack began streaming towards an opening in the far wall. G’raha moved to follow, but was held up by Cailia’s hand on his shoulder.

“We stay with our guide.” She jerked her head towards Voshgat, watching his men crowd and shove each other as the doorway became a scrum. “He’s the only one here who doesn’t want us dead. At least, not yet.”

G’raha thought of Voshgat trying to trick him into admitting he didn't want to fight less than a minute ago. “You’re certain of that?”

She nodded. “That order from Skraal? If we die without it being undeniable we were shirking combat, Voshgat’s lieutenants will say he killed us without cause in defiance of the order. Voshgat dies for disobedience, and the pack has a new leader. He’ll keep us alive for that reason if nothing else. Am I wrong?”

Cailia’s last words were pitched to Voshgat, who scowled at them. “Lucky Elarians, meet warlord like Skraal.”

“Like Skraal?” Cailia asked, her voice oddly raised. G’raha noticed some of the Skalik near the rear of the pack were turning to listen in. “How so?”

Voshgat noticed the listeners too. “Wise warlord. Not waste useful Elarians.” His words too were louder than they needed to be. “Enough talk. We go.”

Without further words, he marched over to the crowd and began spurring them forward with harsh words and the occasional blow. Smirking, Cailia gestured for the Scions to follow.

The traffic jam cleared eventually and the Skalik warriors rushed through the passageway. Directed by Voshgat, the Scions were near the back of the pack. Voshgat himself, with a coterie of hard eyed, deadly looking Skalik, brought up the rear. They emerged from the claustrophobic confines of the Skalik war-base back into the slightly less claustrophobic confines of the cavern-city. The pack seemed to know where to go, moving through the shadowy city streets at a jog. The occasional shouted order from Voshgat prompted a turn down one street or another, but the overall direction of their course did not change. They were heading northeast, deeper into the city.

As they moved, G’raha became aware of a soft sound, on the edge of his range of hearing. He could barely make it out over the sounds of the pack in motion, the drumbeat of their footsteps and rattle of their weapons and armor, and what he could hear was indistinct noise that didn’t sound like anything in particular. Nevertheless, he recognized it from the countless times he had had to rush to defend the Crystarium and its people. The chaotic mix of sounds that was the din of battle in the distance. And judging from what he was hearing, it was a big one.

G’raha loosened his staff in its holder on his back. Cailia had already drawn her bow, holding it loosely in one hand as they jogged towards the increasingly loud sounds of combat. When the noise reached a fever pitch, he drew the staff and held it at the ready before him. Thancred and Alphinaud readied their own weapons as the pack began to stream around a corner. Then it was their turn, and as he rounded the building G’raha finally saw the conflict they were wading into.

The street they were on sloped down slightly, allowing him to see above the heads of the pack’s front ranks, which were already engaging the enemy. They had approached from the side of the clashing forces, allowing them to flank their already distracted enemy who were now turning to meet them. The ongoing battle was between two clashing lines of Skalik, with only a few dotted Hyurs and Taurhe visible on one side to denote which side was the tempered. And there were other creatures embroiled in the fighting too, ones G’raha had never seen before.

Bestial ogres rampaged, flattening the smaller combatants with single swipes of their massive, meaty fists. Rats the size of hunting hounds pounced, dragging down their prey with savage bites. Even larger rats standing a dozen fulms tall waded through the fighting, tails slapping aside the enemies that crowded around them and crude armor plates protecting their hairless bodies as enormous jaws bit off heads and limbs. Even as he watched, G’raha saw one devour a Skalik whole. And towering above them all was Minos.

The crimson furred Taurhe was half again as tall as he had been when G’raha saw him during the attack against Clenon, mere days ago. His body had grown in more than height, his musculature now disproportionately swollen. But he was still as deadly quick as ever, his fists blurs of motion felling every foe that came within reach and some of his own men as well. His gauntlets were caked in gore, blood sheeting from them into the air with every blindingly fast swing of his arms. He was laughing as he killed, heedless of the arrows and slung stones that pelted him in what should have been a deadly rain.

The pack roared as one, their voices mingling into a wordless battlecry as they charged into the churning melee. Their blades flashed in the dim light as they laid into the tempered, caught off guard by the sudden attack and now facing foes from two sides. Even so, they fought back with unparalleled ferocity, the first few ranks of the pack being cut down in seconds. The colliding lines added a new element to the cacophony of noise filling the air, screams of fury and dying men heard over the clashing of weapons.

The line of pack flattened as they came to grips with the enemy, newly arriving members flowing along the line of tempered until what had been a column was closer to a wave lapping at a shoreline of foes. The Scions were not close enough to the front to come to grips with the enemy themselves, but G’raha began casting spells over the heads of the Skalik in front of him. Cailia was firing, arrows picking off some of the larger creatures visible above the crowd. One such beast, a rat that could be compared favorably in size to that of a bull aurochs, took exception to the arrow in its eye. Instead of dying, the monster charged them. It trampled half a dozen of the tempered Skalik and bashed aside half a dozen members of the pack before G’raha and Alphinaud’s combined magical barrage brought it down.

Even as the fiend died, however, the damage had been done. The hole it ripped in the front line allowed the tempered through. With little choice, G’raha put up his staff and conjured the glimmering white sword and shield he used in melee combat. As a sword clattered against the aetherial shield, he finally got his first proper look at the tempered fighting here. What he saw repulsed him.

The Skalik was grossly overmuscled, skin bulging as if it could only barely contain the creature within. Unlike Minos, who was at least proportionate, the Skalik was misshapen, his left arm larger than his right. His fur was coming off in places, several patches of bare skin visible on his snout and bare chest. Teeth had elongated and grown into fangs, now so pronounced the Skalik’s mouth could not close and was forced into a permanent murderous grin. That mouth opened wide, to roar at him or to take a bite out of him G’raha was not sure. He stuck his sword down the maw before he could find out. With a mercifully short gurgle, the tempered Skalik fell backwards. The corpse lay at his feet, proving this was no Chosen. And another Skalik just as twisted stepped up to replace the fallen in hacking at him.

There was no time or room for anything fancy. G’raha fought shoulder to shoulder with Thancred, Alphinaud and Cailia firing into the seemingly endless crowd of enemies beyond them. Loud cries beyond the ranks of foes signaled the arrival of another attacking Skalik force, and for a moment G’raha dared to hope the tempered might break under that weight of the multiple-pronged assault.

Instead, the tempered only seemed to be emboldened by being attacked on three sides. The wicked gleam of delight in the faces of the tempered he was dueling grew more pronounced; Minos’s roaring laughter only got louder.

“Yes! More!” He bellowed. “More carnage! More blood for Gorrath!”

For a single moment, G’raha’s eyes drifted away from his current adversary to the thing that was once a Taurhe. Their eyes met.

“You!” The roar was directed at him, but G’raha couldn’t acknowledge it. His moment of inattention nearly let the Skalik he was fighting take his head off. He only barely got his shield up in time to intercept the blow. He strained against his enemy’s monstrous strength. All of these tempered were strong, insanely so. Their malignant, magical mutations may be visibly unappealing, but undeniably made them more deadly in battle. A noulith dropped to just over his shoulder. Its beam struck the Skalik in the face and the creature recoiled, more from shock than pain. But whatever its source, the opening was enough for G’raha to cut the beast down.

“Scions!” This shout was harder to ignore. Minos was advancing on them. The tempered in his path withdrew to clear the way. The Skalik whose minds are still their own likewise vacated the area, for obvious reasons. “Face me!”

Minos leapt into the air, an act that looked impossibly surreal for something so large to take flight so gracefully. Then he landed, and the world shattered.

Alisaie ran with the hunt pack, her sword drawn. Ahead of her, she heard screams. She ignored them. As before, by the time she reached the source of the sound, the speakers were already dead.

The pack had been assembled according to Skraal’s request. Small and deadly. A force to hunt in the city, rather than fight to retake it. Only eight of them, but they were an imposing eight. Each of them bore blades of black metal similar to Skraal’s Skalik sword with the exception of one, who carried an Elarian sword. They all carried themselves with the quiet confidence and lethal grace of seasoned killers that reminded her of Marcus. Alisaie would have put good money on them being the eight most skilled warriors in the entire Skalik warcamp. Natural picks to bodyguard the camp’s leader.

They were proving redundant in that role. Skraal needed no protection.

One of the unarmored Skalik had carefully strapped a wicked looking blade to the end of the warlord’s tail before the hunt pack had set off. Armed with that and a sword in each hand, Skraal proved a fearsome swordsman indeed. Though he ran at the unhurried pace that soldiers everywhere adopted when they needed to move quickly but not exhaust themselves, that vanished when they came upon enemies. Then, Skraal displayed the same speed he’d shown when threatening Alphinaud and exploded into motion.

The first group of tempered they encountered numbered half a dozen Skalik. Skraal cut them down so quickly half of them were dead before the others could even react. And the others were dying on the ground by the time the first of his bodyguards reached the fight.

The sight of one pulled Alisaie up short. “By the gods, what is that?”

Skraal spat. “Demon slave. Twisted. More and more of them, lately.”

The spire loomed ever larger before them as the pack made its way through the city. Skraal was picking off targets of opportunity along the way, scattered groups and lone patrols of the tempered that could be dispatched quickly and without them calling on reinforcements. They would spot one such group, Skraal would descend on them like some black clad harbinger of death, and if it was a larger or fiercer group a few of the enthralled would live long enough for Skraal’s bodyguards to engage them. The more sizable hosts of tempered the pack caught sight of, they snuck past.

For all he’d asked if Alisaie could use her weapon, she hadn’t needed to once so far.

When they’d set off into the city, the pack had flowed into surrounding her as they ran. It had seemed a natural movement as each warrior set their pace, but the formation remained no matter how their path twisted and turned and what enemies they encountered. Alisaie always had a Skalik warrior on every side of her. To protect her? To stop her from escaping? She wasn’t sure.

The pack pulled up near the foot of the spire. Skraal led them into an abandoned building and up a flight of crumbling stairs to the second floor, giving them a vantage point of the base of the spire. Skraal crouched low near the window and the ring of guards was loose enough Alisaie could dart forward to duck down next to him. Skraal growled.

“Hnng, proven right.”

Alisaie followed his gaze. They were overlooking a plaza that surrounded the spire. A group of tempered were milling around a large doorway into the spire. Most of them were ‘twisted’ and they paced incessantly, as if agitated. An ogre stood on one side of the doorway, on the other there was an armored rat the size of an aurochs. And standing sentry in the doorway itself was a Hyur man. Even from here, Alisaie could make out the blood-red skin of a Chosen.

A guard force, and one protecting something important to Gorrath. Alisaie’s grip on her sword tightened slightly.

“Caller here.” Skraal said quietly back to his men. “We punch through, get inside. Hold stairwell. I take him.”

Skraal slipped back from the window and stood. That appeared to be all the orders he felt necessary. He gestured and the pack began to creep back downstairs. When they were back in the alley outside, with a clear run on the plaza, Skraal raised a hand. With a weight of finality to it, he swept it down and the pack burst into motion.

This time, it was his guards that led the charge, bursting into the plaza and sprinting across it towards their enemies. They were noticed almost immediately; a cry went up among the tempered. Less one of alarm, more of eagerness. Instead of staying on guard, the tempered charged the pack. The two groups met with an eruption of screams and clashing metal. For all Skraal had not relied on them to fight on the way here, his guards lived up to their fearsome appearances and quickly cut down the tempered that rushed them. They fought with an eerie quiet, no battlecries or shouts. Just grim efficiency.

The ogre and the giant rat descended on them. Alisaie shot a fireball into the head of the former while Skraal slipped past his guards to engage the latter. The ogre rounded on Alisaie, bellowing in pain and rage. She darted to the side to dodge the immense fist that tried to hammer her into the ground. A pair of the pack ran around the beast and sank their blades deep into the back of its knees. With a keening cry, the monster staggered on legs that could no longer support it. Alisaie encouraged it to fall with a blast of wind to the chest, knocking it off balance and onto the ground. With its head now in a more accessible location, the pack members wasted little time in savaging the creature’s neck and head until the bellowing stopped and the ogre lay still.

Skraal had already dispatched his foe and scrabbled over the still twitching corpse for the door where the Chosen, alone among all Gorrath’s minions, remained at his post. The Hyur swung a large battleaxe remarkably quickly, but not so quick Skraal couldn’t catch the blow with his swords in an X. Alisaie ran up to assist the warlord, noting with a detached sense of horror that the Chosen had horns curling out of his forehead, in the same shape as Gorrath’s own. With the two men locked together, Alisaie did not risk a spell. A lunging stab to the Chosen’s thigh provided ample distraction for Skraal to take his head off.

Alisaie surveyed the battlefield as she caught her breath. The last of the tempered was being cut down now, and the pack was assembling at the door. Alisaie noted their number with a mild degree of surprise. Seven of them. Two dozen tempered and a pair of fiends dead, and it cost the pack only one of their number. She had to admit, that was impressive.

Already voices raised into shouts could be heard coming from around the plaza outskirts. Tempered were rushing into the open space sporadically, no attempt at cohesion beyond a shared desire to engage the enemies that had now revealed themselves. A large mob was coming down one of the main streets into the plaza, with what looked to be another Chosen at its head.

“Inside!” Skraal commanded. The pack and Alisaie withdrew into the spire, taking up positions to defend the doorway. The chokepoint would at least let them negate the tempered’s advantage in numbers.

“Fight well.” With that parting order, Skraal bolted up the stairs. Alisaie watched him go. The defensive formation the pack had taken had her at the back, so she was higher up the stairs and could send her spells down over the heads of the others. But with no one behind her…

She took the stairs two at a time. She felt a twinge of guilt leaving the pack to fight alone, but she was not about to waste this opportunity.

A truly ridiculous number of stairs later, she was at the top of the spire. She emerged from the stairwell into a flat, open platform where one could look down on the entire city. Numerous Skalik corpses dotted the space, killed where they stood and the bodies left to lie there. Skraal noted her arrival at his side with a hiss but did not object to it, his attention focused on the Hyur man standing on the edge of the platform looking down into the chaos of the unfolding war. The Hyur turned to regard the new arrivals, hand on the hilt of his sword, and Alisaie’s eyes narrowed. He was the “Caller” after all.

“Ah. Skraal.” Aethon said.

Minos landed with the weight of a falling star. The ground buckled and broke. Even having turned and run, G’raha was close enough that the upheaval flung him into the air. He landed hard, the wind knocked out of him, Skalik and rocks falling around him. He lifted his throbbing head from the ground. It took him a moment to get his bearings again.

Minos’s arrival had shattered the battle lines. The hunt pack was scattered and the tempered weren’t much better. Skalik ran this way and that in complete disarray. Some were still fighting, others trying to group up with their comrades, and still others simply running for the hills.

A voice cut through the clamor, echoed by many more a moment later. “Flee! Flee!”

“No!” Voshgat roared. He pointed with his sword, trying to rally his troops. “Kill him! Kill him!”

It was in vain. Any semblance of battle cohesion collapsed. The Skalik were running for their lives, streaming back up the road they had come. Minos laughed again, deep and brassy and brutal.

“Run, run, little rats!” He roared and flames emerged from his mouth to incinerate the few Skalik who had remained to face him. Black, blood drunk eyes landed on G’raha. He forced himself to his feet, drew his staff. His aetherial sword and shield had dispelled when he was knocked askew, and he was not insane enough to think he could challenge this monstrosity in a contest of arms.

Another man was. A blur of white shot into the air towards Minos. Whipcrack quick, the Chosen threw a punch to meet it and did with an explosion. Thancred’s leap continued and he flipped past Minos to land on a low building. He shot a blade of energy at the Taurhe who again punched the attack out of the air.

“Finally.” Minos said with clear relish. “A fight.”

With a smirk G’raha could see from here, Thancred hopped backwards off the building and dropped out of sight. Minos’s smile vanished, replaced by blind rage. “Get back here!”

The hulking bull-man, more minotaur than Taurhe at this point, smashed through the building with a furious roar. Another lightning shot licked out, this one impacted Minos in the chest and provoked a roar. Minos charged down the street in the direction the shot came from. He too quickly passed out of sight, the crashing noises echoing back to them suggesting he was having no luck in coming to terms with his prey.

G’raha had entirely reasonable expectations about how long Thancred could evade his pursuer. He rounded on Voshgat. “We will lure him away. Rally your men and continue the fight.”

He didn’t wait to hear an objection, already running in the direction the duo had departed. Alphinaud and Cailia fell in beside him and they set off in pursuit of their comrade.

Following Minos was easy. The Chosen left a trail of destruction behind him and his roars of frustration could be heard echoing back to them. Even so, they were hard pressed to close the distance. Thancred was moving quickly, as he undoubtedly needed to in order to stay ahead of Minos. The chase led them far from the battlefield, closer to the wall of the cavern where the ground sloped upward to meet the descending curtain of rock.

They finally ran the duo down in a small clearing near the wall, the buildings nearby having already been razed by the Chosen’s fury. They were just in time. Thancred had been backed into a small recess in the cavern wall large enough to admit a few men. It would not have been a bad defensive position had he been facing a more conventional enemy. Against a powerful monster like Minos, it was about as safe as the inside of a noose.

Minos’s fist was drawn back for a punch that would turn Thancred into a smear on the wall. G’raha raised his staff. “Break!”

The binding magic seized the Chosen in place. G’raha immediately felt the exertion slam into him. Holding Minos still felt like trying to arrest the fall of an avalanche. He managed it for only a few seconds before he had to loosen his grip and let the Taurhe smash free of his bonds, but that was ample time for the gunbreaker to flash step out of the corner he was trapped in.

Minos rounded on the group and just as G’raha was evaluating whether they should stand and fight or flee their enemy did something that stunned him.

Minos just stood there. No roars of fury, no mocking challenge, no ferocious charge, nothing. Nothing but gesture at them in greeting with a self-satisfied smile. “Welcome, Scions. Welcome to the true war.”

“What?” G’raha asked, before a familiar voice behind him made him whirl around.

“You are too predictable, my friends.” Urianger was there, alone. “Far too easy to lure where we wish.”

Alphinaud started forward towards Urianger. Behind them, Minos leapt again, showing that reality defying agility that let him soar over their heads to land impossibly lightly beside Urianger. Alphinaud pulled up, fists clenching at his sides.

“Was all this for our sake then?” G’raha asked. “This battle, all this death?”

“Hardly.” Minos answered. “This is the true war. Not some feeble, aborted Underground War, but the final war.”

“I knew you would seek out an alliance with the Skalik.” Urianger shook his head dismissively. “That foolish belief in peace will see you dead one day.”

Thancred noted the implication there. “Not today then?”

“No. This invitation was merely for a talk.” Urianger smiled. The expression had a nasty edge to it that made it look unnatural on the Elezen’s normally friendly face.

“You had the chance to talk before.” Thancred shifted his gunblade to his shoulder in his ready position. “I’m afraid you wasted it.”

“You are mistaken. It is our master who wants a word.” Minos rumbled.

“We do not intend to wait for you to fetch him.” G’raha told them, readying his staff. Urianger simply smiled again.

“You still don’t understand what the Chosen are, do you?” The confidence in his voice gave G’raha pause. “The Blood God has imbued them not just with his power, but his very soul. They are fragments of the divine, each and every one of them. He sees with their eyes, hears with their ears.”

“And speaks with their mouths?” G’raha finished.

“In a manner of speaking.”

G’raha may not have Y’shtola’s aetheric senses, but even he could feel the Chosen’s power surge. “Stop him!” G’raha shouted to his companions, shaping a spell as fast as he could. It wasn’t fast enough.

Minos threw back his head and screamed, vanishing into a pillar of balefire that erupted from within him. The crimson flames billowed upward, black lightning bent and took shape.

Gorrath emerged from the flames, his axe dripping with fresh blood.

“Greetings, my blood-soaked children.”

Chapter Text

For a single moment, Alisaie, Skraal, and Aethon stood completely still. This close to the light rocks embedded in the ceiling, Alisaie could see Aethon clearly. His sharpened shield was held at his side, the other hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Tension crackled like the air before a storm.

“Don’t kill him.” She murmured to the Skalik. “I need him alive.” Skraal gave no indication he heard her, staring intently at his adversary. Far in the distance came the faint boom of an explosion.

Both men lunged at each other, faster than Alisaie could see. Their blades came together with a clang that echoed around the spire’s summit and down it. Rolling, like thunder.

Aethon’s sword and shield ground against Skraal’s swords. The duo were locked together, straining against one another. Neither gained any ground. They were evenly matched.

“Are you so eager to lose your other eye?” Aethon asked. Skraal hissed.

“I replace. With yours!”

His tail whipped around, its affixed blade glinting as it swung in a deadly crescent. Aethon pushed against Skraal and leapt backward, the tail-blade tasting only empty air. Aethon darted forward after it passed him by to punch at Skraal with his shield. Skraal blocked the bladed edge with one of his swords and attacked with the other. Aethon parried the strike and flowed into a slash of his own.

The entire exchange happened blindingly quick, while Alisaie watched. There was little else she could do. Aethon and Skraal whirled and slashed at each other in a viciously graceful dance. They circled one another, Aethon moving to the left to be on Skraal’s blind side and Skraal turning to deny him. Their movements, the flurry of footwork that kept each man moving as their blades clanged against other so quickly it reminded Alisaie of rain on a metal roof, made the duel oddly reminiscent of an actual dance.

They were too fast and too close together. Alisaie couldn’t risk casting any magic into the fray, she might hit Skraal. She may not even want to hit Aethon, if disrupting him might give Skraal an opening to land a fatal blow. The barrage of slashes aimed at Aethon’s neck and other vitals didn’t give her a great degree of confidence Skraal had any intention of following her instruction to spare Aethon, though she couldn’t deny than any swordplay less swift would only mean his own death. She was tempted to conjure Angelo and try her luck at curing Aethon’s tempering on the spot, but knew that would be folly. With his speed, she couldn’t guarantee the purifying beam would connect for long enough to cleanse his soul and she only had one chance.

Driven by impulse to do something, she readied her sword and ran forward to join the battle. All she needed was to land a single hit on Aethon, enough to slow him down. She lunged forward, sword extended in a perfect fencing thrust. Time seemed to slow as her blade drew closer and Aethon turned.

His speed rendered dreamlike slow, Aethon knocked aside a slash from Skraal. His sword continued its swing arcing behind him before a flick of his wrist snapped it down, catching the point of Alisaie’s rapier and forcing it down. Instead of being aimed at his leg, her rapier was angled harmlessly towards the ground. Committed to her leap forward, Alisaie could not correct her course to compensate. Aethon continued to turn, stepping back and raising his hand as he did so. The pommel of his sword caught Alisaie in the temple with a hammer blow.

Alisaie came to on the ground, blinking back the darkness that threatened to swallow her. Her thoughts were sluggish, likely from a concussion but also from sheer disbelief.

It had all happened in an instant, so quick that she had been falling back from the hit before the blindingly fast Skraal could attack again. She knew Aethon was fast, but that beggared belief. How did he, how could anyone see her coming out of the corner of his eye, devise a perfect defense and counter-attack in a split second, execute it in a single, fluid motion without an ilm of wasted movement, and do all that while engaged in a duel without giving the slightest opening to his intensely skilled opponent? Even Marcus, blessed with both the Echo and copious amounts of combat experience, would have been hard pressed to have done that.

Alisaie wasn’t quite willing to concede Aethon was the finest swordsman on the face of the star, but he was certainly making a good argument for himself.

She forced herself to focus, aware that her wandering thoughts were probably a sign of the concussion that blow to the head gave her. She tried to make herself stand, but a sudden wave of nausea throttled that attempt before she could do more than lift her head off the ground. She tried to take stock, regardless. Her rapier was lying on the ground a good distance away. Farther than it could have fallen after slipping out of her limp fingers. Had one of the dueling warriors kicked it aside?

The duel itself was continuing unabated. Aethon was no longer circling, he was simply advancing. His weapons were silver blurs that struck again and again and again, lightning fast, without pause. Skraal was forced onto the defensive, doing little more than desperately blocking and parrying the onslaught, giving ground steadily. Even from her lower perspective, Alisaie could see he was rapidly running out of room to do so. The rhythm of combat was taking both men closer and closer to the edge of the spire.

Perhaps sensing this, Skraal rallied and tried to go back on the offensive. He lashed out ferociously, slashing from both sides with his swords while his tail swept low, aiming for Aethon’s legs. Aethon intercepted the swords with his sword and shield and jumped his legs up to avoid the tail blade. He hung in the air for an instant and Alisaie could sense, even through the fog in her mind, exactly what was going to happen.

Aethon kicked outward. Both of his feet connected solidly with Skraal’s chest. The Skalik staggered backwards from the force of the hit while Aethon landed roughly and quickly rolled to his feet. He lunged forward, punching with his shield. Skraal blocked the strike with his swords crossed before him but, already off-balance, the attack drove him farther backwards. Backwards while he was already teetering on the lip of the spire.

With a final, receding shout of mingled outrage and defiance, Skraal plummeted from the spire’s roof.

“Skraal!” Alisaie cried, forcing herself to her feet. Aethon scoffed.

“Ha! I wish that was enough to kill him. He’s the worst kind of rat. One that won’t die.” The Elarian turned back to face her. He pointedly glanced at her rapier on the ground, roughly equidistant from each of them, before turning back to her. “Can I trust you not do something stupid, or do I have to humble you again?”

Alisaie’s teeth clenched at his choice of words, but she could not deny it. After being bested so easily, she couldn’t deny she was no match for him. If she hadn’t already been disarmed, and they were on a battlefield where the terrain favored her magical prowess rather than his swordplay, she could make a fight of it. But right now, she knew she was beaten. She made no attempt to move as Aethon, carefully watching her the whole way, slowly walked over to and picked up her rapier.

“A sword made of crystal.” He examined the weapon, lightly rapping on it with his armored knuckles. His voice was curiously soft with wonderment. “It’s like a suit of armor made of solid gold.”

Alisaie used his distraction to consider her next move. She still had her spell focus and her unsummoned porxie, but could not think of a way to use either that didn’t involve several fulms of sharp metal being inserted into her body. She risked a quick healing spell to help clear the fog out of her mind. Aethon's eyes flicked over to her at the sight of magic being cast, before returning to marveling at her weapon when he saw she meant no threat. She comforted herself with the fact that at the very least he didn’t seem intent on slaying her on the spot, before the worrying thought that might be because he intended for her to be tempered like Urianger occurred to her. Playing for time might work in her favor; if Skraal was indeed still alive he would undoubtedly seek to return here to resume the fight.

“You Scions are supposed to be smart.” Aethon said to her, his fascination with her weapon apparently satisfied for now. His own sword was sheathed at his side, but the way he held hers left her with little doubt he’d have any trouble cutting her down with it instead. “So I’m wondering; do you always make such bad choices in the company you keep?”

“That’s rich, coming from a servant of the Demon of Blood and War.” Alisaie retorted, her frustration boiling over. It was an unwise thing to say. She knew there was no point in raging against a tempered man’s compelled servitude and it might even provoke him into attacking her after all. But Aethon surprised her. Instead of becoming angry, he laughed.

“Heh. You got me there. Gorrath doesn’t exactly have a shining reputation.” He leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “Between you and me, he’s a lot better than the tales would have you believe. But I won’t pretend he’ll ever be anyone’s first choice of friend. Still, better him than a damn Skalik.”

Nonplussed by his apparent friendliness, Alisaie took a moment to reply. “I think that’s rather debatable. Gorrath has left a mountain of corpses in his wake.”

Aethon’s expression cooled a little. “Maybe you’re not so smart after all. Skraal’s probably killed more people than you’ve ever met. His hands are drenched in innocent blood. In a just world, he’d have died screaming years ago.”

“And how much Skalik blood is on your hands?” Alisaie countered. “What would your fate be, in a just world?”

Aethon greeted her challenge with a patronizing look that eloquently conveyed how stupid he thought the question was. “If the world was as it should be, I’d be happily living at home in Cyrtos without ever having killed a single one of these rat bastards. This race of vermin would never have existed at all, or been wiped out a long, long time ago.”

Alisaie shook her head in disgust. “Typical. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else. Of course you demonize an entire race to justi–”

“Don’t lecture me, outlander.” Cold anger strangled Aethon’s good mood. “We don’t have the luxury of dismissing war as something that happens to other people.”

Alisaie glared back. “I've seen enough war myself.” 

“You’ve seen nothing.” Aethon's eyes flashed. “When you’ve waded through the blood and filth from friend and foe alike, killed past the point of your limbs going numb because the enemy keeps coming, and found the corpses of the children you failed to save being eaten, then you’ll have seen enough.”

His grip on her sword tightened and his expression twisted into something hateful. “You know, I thought my people were numbed to it, but surely outsiders would see how rotten this realm is. Instead, you’re more blind than anyone. And even a blind man could tell we are forsaken. The gods are dead, or they don’t care. There’s no other way these atrocities can keep happening, over and over, across the centuries.”

Aware she was treading on thin ice, Alisaie didn’t reply. She also wasn’t sure what she could say. He wasn’t wrong that she knew little about the history of conflict in Elarion, though what she did know suggested it wasn’t as one-sided as Aethon made it sound. She doubted that observation would be particularly welcome. Neither was he wrong about the gods. While Hydaelyn certainly cared for the people of Etheryis, she had indeed passed on and even before her passing the limitations on her ability to intervene in the material plane made it dubious that she had done much with regard to this land’s wars.

Aethon took her silence as an admission of defeat. Swinging her sword out in a gesture at their surroundings, he continued. “Gorrath may be a vicious god, but at least He’s doing something. He’s slaughtering these vermin and He’ll cleanse this land of their filth. We will wipe them all out, every last clan, in every single hole they hide in.”

And all the while, the psychopathic monster that delighted in slaughter and killed for the pleasure of it would be growing ever stronger. Alisaie felt her mouth curl into a disgusted scowl.

“And when you’ve murdered the last cringing Skalik child,” Alisaie said, not even trying to mask the sheer disdain she felt right now. “What happens then? What will your God of Blood and War do when the war is over and there is no more blood to shed?”

Aethon eyed her curiously, resting her sword on his shoulder, his anger gone as quickly as it had arisen. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

Footsteps behind them made Alisaie turn her head. Her hope they might be reinforcements withered in an instant. The Skalik at the front of the pack had a scute that resembled budding horn jutting from the center of his forehead and a mouth lined with fangs. One arm had far greater musculature than the other, and ended in razor sharp claws. Another poor soul so tempered it had mutated him into an abomination. The dozen or so others behind him, all Skalik, weren’t much better. The only uniformity to their deformities was that they all, in theory, made the recipients more dangerous in combat. More muscle to hit harder, sharp edges or pointy bits with which to skewer a foe. Alisaie had to wonder if that was the natural end result of being infused with Gorrath’s aether, or if he was somehow directing the changes.

Aethon walked over to the new arrivals. “Report.”

“Pack saw their master fall, fled to find him.” The lead Skalik said.

“You didn’t pursue?” Aethon asked.

“Many did.” The Skalik answered. “We came to reinforce your position.”

Aethon did not seem very grateful. “Any word on the Scions?”

“Bull prince found them. Now in pursuit.”

“Another win for Urianger.” Aethon commented wryly before sighing. “If it’s Minos, then I’ll need to take command. Lead me to the front.”

“As you wish.” The Skalik flexed the claws on his mutated arm and drew his sword with his other. He took a step towards Alisaie. He did not take another, owing to the sword point raised in his face.

“No.” Aethon said down the length of Alisaie’s rapier. The Skalik mutant hissed.

“She is enemy. We offer her blood to Gorrath.”

Aethon sighed, indulgently. With a quick flick of his wrist, the crystalline sword point opened the Skalik’s throat. Blood pouring down his front, the tempered collapsed. He lashed out with his claws in a desperate swing that Aethon lazily knocked aside. He kicked the Skalik down into the rapidly spreading pool of blood and after a few more twitches, the creature lay still.

“There. An offering of blood.” Aethon turned to the group. “Does anyone else want to challenge me?”

Some of the tempered looked as though they might, though more for the thrill of facing him in battle than any concern for their slain companion. Ultimately, none stepped forward. Aethon pointed at one. “You. Lead me to where Minos was fighting. The rest of you, rally all remaining troops to that location. We’re about to have company.”

The Skalik departed in haste. Aethon glanced back at Alisaie. “Next time, Scion.” He tossed her sword to her in a high, arching throw. By the time Alisaie caught the bloodstained weapon, he was gone. She briefly entertained the thought of pursuing; engaging him on the spire’s stairwell with the height advantage did tilt the odds in her favor but him having a pack of reinforcements nearby tilted them right back.

A flare of light out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. From her elevated viewpoint, she could see the pillar of balefire burst into being and hear, faintly, the deep rumble of Minos’s scream. She saw all too well what the balefire transformed into.

She ran for the stairwell. She had to get over there now, and if she ran into Aethon along the way, she'd make him regret it.

Gorrath unfurled his wings, spreading them out in a great canopy. He twisted his head and let out a pleased hum. He was stretching, Thancred realized. Leisurely, right in front of them. He didn’t consider them a threat at all. And it was easy to see why.

Thancred had long since come to terms with his lost ability to channel aether into performing magic, which he had never used much before its loss anyway. And even before his fateful dip in the Aetherial Sea, he had never been one for the more subtle, perceptive arts that the likes of Y’shtola excelled in. So he knew full well what a bad sign it was that even he could sense the Primal’s power.

It radiated off Gorrath in waves. Standing before him felt like both a weight was crushing Thancred down and he was being buffeted by hurricane winds. The immensity of it was astonishing. He had only felt anything like this twice before, when he stood before first Hades, then Hydaelyn. And while both of them still had the Blood Demon beat, Thancred’s gut feeling was it was not by a significant margin.

It was too much. Far too much to simply come from draining aether from the land. How many lives had been ended to feed that power? How many souls had been devoured by that fanged maw? Thancred’s lips pulled back in a snarl. His grip on the hilt of his gunblade tightened, itching to bring it to bear. He yearned, so strongly it was a physical sensation, to throw himself forward. To attack and fight and kill until this evil was dead. Glancing at his companions, he could tell they thought the same. If he charged, they would be right behind him.

“You feel it, do you not?” Urianger called. “The majesty, the glory of the truest of gods?”

The words were like a bucket of cold water dumped on Thancred. He rebelled against the impulse to fight, knowing it was born of the Primal’s influence. Even though the warding scale protected their souls from his corruptive touch, their minds could still be drawn in by the sheer aura of bloodlust he exuded. Thancred forced himself to breathe deeply, to loosen the death-grip he had on his weapon. Gorrath supposedly was here just to talk, and Thancred would be damned before he was baited into being the more violent of the two of them.

Gorrath’s wings beat, stirring up a gale as he launched into the air. Blooddrinker went from resting on his shoulder to raised above his head, the axehead alight with balefire making the weapon resemble a torch. The Primal roared and the sound echoed throughout the entire cavern city. Gorrath dropped as quickly as he had ascended, kicking up another maelstrom as he landed. He stamped his axe down butt first. The balefire was already gutting out. Had the entire display been a show for them?

“Tell me, Urianger.” Gorrath’s voice was deep and resonant. Thancred could quite literally feel it in his bones. “Do you ever tire of being correct?”

“I am only ever happy to serve, my master.” The fawning look on Uriagner’s face was sickening. “Though I confess I will be overjoyed when my comrades join me at your side.”

“I suspect they might still be reluctant to embrace the truth. Although,” Flickers of blue flame danced along Blooddrinker’s edge. “I see they brought another with them.”

Urianger glanced at Cailia. “Pray save your power, master. Doubtless they have given her my warding scale.”

“Hmm.” The flames vanished. “Crafty of them.”

“You wanted to talk, and here we are. So talk. What do you want?” Thancred interjected. He had no interest in listening to a Primal puppet Urianger into playing a Nymian Chorus.

“Such fire.” Gorrath regarded him and his companions, their weapons all held at the ready, with an appraising eye. “Such boldness. To stand before me without fear, impressive. You would make magnificent Chosen.”

“We will never serve you!” Alphinaud declared. “We would rather die first.”

A fate that seemed tragically likely at this point. Thancred was no fool, and now that he was thinking more clearly he knew the chances the four of them had against Gorrath, even should Urianger stay out of the battle, were the wrong side of comical. Galling though it was, the Primal’s curiosity was likely the only reason they were all still alive.

Gorrath seemed amused more than anything else by Alphinaud’s declaration. “A good answer. Just the attitude I expect from those that belong to me.”

“I’d say our continued efforts to foil your plans and kill your followers prove we do not belong to you.” Thancred replied, keeping his voice even.

His many years of training and then serving as a covert agent, first for the Circle of Knowing, then the Scions, had developed certain instincts. One of them being that he was always subconsciously identifying avenues of escape. Some little corner of his mind constantly assessed potential sources of danger and evaluated ways to evade them. He’d even been caught out by Minfilia for it once, when he’d been a little too obvious about never leaving his back towards any open doors.

He turned to the little corner now, and its report was not good. With Gorrath’s power and mobility, every plan he could come up with that had even a chance of working all involved someone staying behind to hold the Primal’s attention. Thancred dying to distract him, while the rest, hopefully, escaped. Every plan but one, that is.

From where they stood, where the ground rose to meet the cavern ceiling sloping downward, they had an elevated vantage point and could see a fair amount of the city. And, conversely, a fair amount of the city could see them. And even if not, Gorrath’s roaring leap had undoubted caught the attention of everyone in the cavern. If Thancred had judged Warlord Skraal right, the man would jump at the chance to slay the source of his woes and was mobilizing his troops to do exactly that. The Scions couldn’t take down the Primal themselves, but with whatever tempering immune forces the Skalik could muster at their backs they just might. If they could distract Gorrath for long enough…

“Killing my followers hardly disqualifies you from my service.” Gorrath snorted. “Indeed, I expect no less from my finest. Which Urianger assures me you will be, but you are as yet marred by your crippling weakness. You will require tempering before you are truly worthy to be my Chosen.”

Tempering. Right. Thancred nearly rolled his eyes. “And what weakness is that?”

“Delusion.”

The answer caught Thancred off guard. He’d been expecting something like ‘compassion’ or ‘honor.’ “Delusion?”

“Yes. Superlative warriors one and all, yet you think of war as an aberration. An anomaly. That one at least understands.” The Primal gestured at Cailia with a languid wave. “War is all there is. Battle is the inherent state of all things. So it has always been and so it will always be.”

“You are wrong.” G’raha said. The Miqo’te stepped forward, brandishing his glimmering sword. “Mankind has fought amongst itself for many reasons, for land or resources or justice. But those battles always end. It is our nature to shun violence and choose peace, and only when we are compelled by greater purpose do we compromise on our nature.”

“That is your delusion.” The Primal snorted and shook his head in disappointment. “You cling to that fantasy because you are weak. You lack the strength to embrace the reality of this world, and so you hide in the comforting lie that peace is somehow the default state of being.”

Gorrath raised an upturned palm. Balefire sparked, coalesced, changed color as it compressed into a sphere and became a sight Thancred recognized from his visit to the Moon. The star of Etheirys took shape above the ruddy hand. “I have watched from beyond the bounds of this star, mortals. I have seen your kind live for thousands of lifetimes. All living things fight. Constantly. Endlessly. Mortals, gods, even animals. Battle is innate to life itself. Moments of peace are few and far between, and always nature reasserts itself. Even those arrogant Ancients, who wanted for nothing, fell when one of their kind turned his monsters on the rest. All things return to the truth, embrace the shedding of blood, in the end.”

The blues and greens of Etheirys turned red and dripping. Gorrath’s voice rose, the brass rumble echoing off the walls around them. “But you resist this truth. You deny your nature. Pretend you do not enjoy triumphing over your enemies, relish in shedding the blood of your foes. Or can you truly state that you feel nothing after claiming a hard-fought victory? Feel no sense of satisfaction when you live and that which sought to kill you instead lies dead at your feet?”

Thancred gave no reply. He couldn’t. And from the looks of the others, neither could they. Gorrath snorted in amusement.

“You cling to the perversion of peace and seek to spread it to others. That is your sin. Have you even considered what might happen if you succeed? This star, this reality exists for nothing but battle. All else is meaningless, pretty frills laid over a backdrop of blood. Strip them away, and you will see.”

His gaze roved over them. Thancred had to resist the urge to step back before the force of the Primal’s will. “You pretend you fight only for a greater purpose. That there is any purpose in this world. There is none. No meaning. No purpose. Just the endless wars waged across the face of this bleeding star. Fight or die. Or fight and die. Nothing matters beyond the clashing of arms and the shedding of blood. It is why we exist. All of us!”

Gorrath stamped his axe, cracking the ground beneath it. “Even if you succeeded in your mad quest to end conflict, this world would simply end, its reason for being extinguished.” The Primal clenched his fist, crushing the simulacrum to splinters. “You lie to yourselves that you are heroes, but you seek to damn us all because you would rather shield your delicate sensibilities than admit the truth. A truth that you know in your hearts, with the blood on your hands, but are not strong enough to face.

“You enjoy fighting and killing. All living beings do. It is what you were made for, what this entire star was made for.” A smile emerged, one of the most terrible things Thancred had ever seen. Gorrath stretched out a hand, beckoning. “But do not despair. I shall give you the strength you lack. I will remind you of your nature and help you shed your comforting delusions. All you need do, is offer yourselves to me.”

Silence followed the proclamation. Gorrath waited with his hand outstretched, as if he truly expected them to toss their warding scales into his empty palm. A low voice punctured the quiet.

“Madness.”

With glacial deliberateness, the horned head turned towards the speaker. “You disappoint me, Elarian. I thought my children at least understood.”

Cailia took a step back from the intensity of his gaze, but weathered it. “What I understand is I’ve been surrounded by Skalik today. The rat bastards that murdered my sister, my aunt, my friends. And you tell me that not killing them was somehow the easy way? Madness.”

Gorrath’s expression turned thunderous. But before he could speak, Alphinaud was stepping forward. “She’s right.”

The young Elezen stared the incarnation of bloodlust and fury down without flinching. “We have fought and killed, when we need to. But we also have the strength not to.”

Alphinaud pointed in judgement. “You’re the one who’s weak! You cling to war not because it is our nature or some grand truth, but because you need it! Because without it, you’re nothing! Just a fantasy dreamed up by people too bloodthirsty to admit there’s a better way!”

Gorrath took his axe off the ground, his expression murderous. A flick of his free hand and the hooked chain dropped, hanging ready for use. Thancred adjusted his grip on his gunblade, stepping closer to Alphinaud. He could feel the incipient violence in the air, crackling like lighting on his skin. A storm of carnage brewing around them.

“I see.” Gorrath growled, the faux joviality he displayed earlier murdered. “It is as I thought. I will have to drown your childish dream in blood.”

He shifted his stance. Blooddrinker rose and his hooves squared themselves. The movement was slight, but it was as good as a declaration of war. Thancred braced for the incoming attack. His senses narrowed, watching Gorrath for the merest motion, for any sign of how he’d strike.

Thancred was so focused on the imminent attack, the sound of a horn almost made him jump. It did make Gorrath jump, taking to the air with a beat of his immense wings. But instead of attacking, the Primal turned, looking in the direction of the noise. Confident they weren’t going to be attacked in the next second, Thancred followed his gaze.

From their elevated vantage point backed against the cavern wall, Thancred could see an army of Skalik charging across the city towards them in a disorganized mob. But something did not seem right. He squinted as the front ranks, if you could call them that, drew closer, a tide of brown fur rolling towards them. Wait, brown fur? Thancred looked again. Many of the Skalik wore only thin, tattered clothes that were little more than rags. Some bore the usual jagged swords and spears, some had only long, flintlike knives clutched in one or both hands. And many had nothing at all, only their bare hands and teeth for weapons.

Even more curiously, they seemed to be ignoring the tempered positions in favor of charging here, towards the rise. The tempered also weren’t making any effort to stop them, Thancred even saw one group quickly dart out of the way as the horde barreled down on them.

What in the name of…? Unwilling to articulate his sinking suspicion to make it any more real, Thancred whirled around at the sound of bassy laughter.

“Finally.” Blooddrinker surged with a billowing tower of bright blue flames. Thancred readied his gunblade, hoping to contest the Primal’s actions. But even as he leapt, he knew it would be too late.

Gorrath swung his axe in a wide arc. The blue fire took flight, leaping from the axeblade into a wide crescent. Thancred’s charge pulled up short and the flames rolled around him. In his pocket, he could feel the warmth that signaled his warding scale activating to repel the Primal’s power. But this attack had not been aimed at him.

The wave of tempering magick spread as it leapt from the axeblade and grew into a wall of rippling flames. It washed over the charging lines of Skalik, engulfing them. Instead of burning, consuming the Skalik, the flames were consumed, seeping into each of the ratmen. The Skalik stiffened, writhed. Many of those who were armed dropped their weapons as they fell to their knees. When the last vestiges of fire vanished into Skalik bodies there was a moment of stillness.

It broke when a Skalik thrust his knife into the air and roared. The cry was taken up by the others, all raising what weapons they had, all screaming the same name.

“Gorrath! Gorrath! Gorrath!”

In less than a minute, Gorrath had tempered the entire group. There must have been hundreds of them, enslaved in mere seconds.

Gorrath landed and stomped the butt of his axe. The cheering stopped. In dreadful unison, every single one of the newly enthralled Skalik turned to look at the Scions. Gorrath spread his wings and took flight. Urianger was gone, disappeared while they had been distracted by the display. The poorly armed, poorly equipped Skalik began to walk closer to them, moving at a slow, measured pace.

In a moment of awful clarity, Thancred understood what was to come.

“Back.” He shoved Alphinaud towards the cleft in the cavern wall he had nearly been cornered in by Minos and waved the others in that direction. “Get back!”

“You have committed the sin of peace.” Gorrath declared from on high. Even from that distance, Thancred could see the evil simmering behind his eyes. “Behold your penance.”

The Demon raised his voice, and in that moment Thancred could not say who he was addressing. “Kill them all! Spare no one! Slaughter in my name!”

“Blood for Gorrath!” The tempered charged.

Chapter Text

Alisaie made her way through the ruined city as fast as she could. The dim lighting and mazelike streets made it easy to get turned around, but she had a reliable method of knowing the way.

She followed the sounds of screaming.

Her grisly signpost guided her true and she eventually rounded a corner to see a milling pack of armed Skalik ahead of her.

They saw her too. “Elarian!”

“Kill her!”

The mob had barely begun to turn on her when another voice cut across them. “Hold!”

A large, black armored Skalik roughly pushed his way through the crowd. He took in Alisaie, who recognized him as one of Skraal’s hunt pack. The Skalik jerked his head over his shoulder back the way he came. “Come. Warlord awaits.”

He snarled something guttural and the other Skalik hurriedly made a path for them, shoving one another in order to clear the way. Alisaie followed her escort along the impromptu tunnel, well aware of how many eyes were on her, and how many hands were clutched tightly around their hilts. The farther they went along, the narrower the path grew and the more intense the stares grew. Alisaie was debating the merits of drawing her sword to defend herself when her escort spoke in a low drawl.

“Warlord. Found the healer.”

Skalik in front of them part to show Skraal, surrounded by other Skalik with the well-crafted arms and armor Alisaie was beginning to associate with Skalik officers. She stepped into the ring, feeling the hostile eyes from every side on her. The warlord turned to fix his sole eye on her and Alisaie similarly assessed him. He looked surprising little worse for the wear after falling of the tower, though the slow movement of one leg as he moved spoke of an injury. Skraal looked her up and down.

“Healer. Escaped Caller, hrm?”

“More like he let me go.” Alisaie admitted bitterly. The shame of it still burned in her throat. “He never saw me as a threat.”

Skalik around her jeered, but Skraal barked a laugh. “Honest Healer. Refreshing.” The laughter died. His eye glittered dangerously. “Few are threat to Caller. Blood runs from both hands.”

The sounds of battle continued in the distance. Skraal saw Alisaie’s head turn slightly toward the commotion and followed her gaze. He growled to his officers. “Hnng. Battle continues. To places!”

With a chorus of “Yes, Warlord”s the group scattered, moving through the crowd of troops around them presumably to their respective commands. Skraal set off for the front. Alisaie hurriedly joined him. As they walked, she noted the slight hitch in his stride of a man wounded but trying not to limp.

“You are injured. I can help.” She offered. Skraal hissed quietly.

“Hssk. Make no mention of it.” He stumped along, clearing intent on ignoring his pain.

Alisaie rolled her eyes. Her sword and focus were combined in a moment, and in another she had her healing spell readied. Skraal barely managed to take three steps after his denial before her magick was washing over him and soaking into his leg. A simple spell, one that would do little to heal his injury but would reduce his pain and inflammation.

Skraal rounded on her with a snarl. His hand dropped to his sword, murder in his eye. Alisaie took a step back from the intensity of his glare, nearly raising her rapier into a defensive stance. The Skalik around them started, many taking up their own weapons. Skraal’s eye roved over the others and he stood up straight, hand leaving the hilt of his sword. Alisaie could feel the tension drain away; the others around them settled back down. With a jerk of his head, Skraal ushered the two of them on. His voice dropped low as she fell into stride beside him.

“You play a dangerous game, Healer.”

“If you want me to be the healer, then I’m going to heal.” Alisaie countered. She noticed Skraal’s anger didn’t seem entirely directed at her, but rather the surrounding Skalik that saw her heal him. Perhaps a ‘Warlord’ didn’t want to show weakness in front of his troops?

The sounds of battle grew louder and the ranks of soldiers tighter together as they approached the front. Skraal led the way up a small incline to give them a clear view of the field. Alisaie saw two Skalik armies at war with one another, with Skraal’s forces steadily fighting their way through the opposition. The battle seemed to be going well. Almost suspiciously so. She looked closer. It was almost as if…

It was. The Skalik on the ‘enemy’ side that were being mowed down, they had no weapons or armor. They were, one and all, the rag clad servants she had seen in the war-den. She and Skraal followed as the front line advanced and she had the chance to examine the fallen. Each of them wore a metal collar, the kind she recognized instantly. She rounded on Skraal.

“You sent your slaves to bait out Gorrath’s corruption? Unarmed?”

“Give them blades, yes? Help them kill more of the clean?” Skraal seemed more amused at the thought than anything else. Alisaie’s hands curled into fists, clenched tight. She might have shouted at him, or saved time by just slugging him, were it not for the fact that they were now close enough to see what the tempered force was focusing on. And the sight drove all other considerations from her mind.

Thancred had lost track of how many Skalik he had killed. He cut down another, the body tumbling backward down the slope. There were so many, the corpses had begun to form a ramp up the slope to the crevice where he and the others made their stand. Another Skalik was already on him, wearing a loose robe and armed only with a small knife.

Thancred killed him with a heavy, two-handed chop, killing with the weight and edge of the blade. He’d ran out of ammunition long ago. Even if he hadn’t, his gunblade’s firing mechanisms were clogged with gore. His weapon was being worn down by the prolonged killing; Thancred would swear the blade had dulled in this fight alone. Not that he was in much better straits. Blood spatters covered his body from head to toe. The slaughter no longer made his stomach turn and he had already passed beyond exhaustion, into the twilight realm of adrenaline-fueled strength that kept him moving because to stop was to die.

The energy blasts flying over his head and the shimmering shields that turned the occasional blade that got past his guard told Thancred Alphinaud was still in the fight behind him. G’raha fought on his left, gleaming aetheric sword and shield the only things among them not stained in blood from the one-sided battle. Cailia was on his right, her arrows long since spent, hacking and slashing with her knife in one hand, a pilfered Skalik sword in the other. Those were not her ideal weapons, but she had passable skill with them. Against this mob, passable skill was enough.

The tempered were endless ocean. The Scions were only able to hold due to the defile in the cavern wall they had retreated into. It drew the Skalik into a chokepoint, unable to surround and overwhelm their foes and forced to come at them only a few at a time. And on they came. Endlessly.

Thancred killed and killed. The tempered were lean and wiry, underfed and fueled by the fanatic bloodlust their new god had instilled in them. They had no fear. Even as countless of their number were cut down, as they trampled the bodies of the dead, they charged straight in, howling for blood. Some had weapons, but many did not and none wore any armor. They were easily dispatched and dispatch them he did. His movements became mechanical, the killing routine. A vicious, bloody routine. His mind began to drift, his full attention not needed on the battle.

Thancred knew the tactic. The Company of Heroes had used it against Titan. A Primal could only temper so many at once, so sending in an expendable wave to bait out and use up that tempering would protect the rest of the force. The Skalik put a ruthless twist on the idea, stripping the sacrifices of armor and weapons so they could be more easily cut down after. They were left with some meager armaments, likely just enough that Gorrath would not simply decide they would be useless to him and decline to temper them. He wondered how they had determined the required amount. Trial and error?

He realized such musings were the product of boredom. The thought shook him. He had become bored with this slaughter. He was ending lives with the mindset of a man carrying out a chore. Was this what the Demon had intended? Their punishment for opposing his carnage being forced to become inured to it?

It took Thancred a moment to realize it had been several seconds since he had last been attacked. This seemed wrong to him and it snapped him out of his mechanical routine. His awareness returned, refocused to beyond his immediate surroundings.

The tide of foes had ceased. No more Skalik were charging up the slope at him intent on his death. The slope itself was littered with corpses, piled high, forming a gruesome landscape of its own. Skalik waited at the bottom, a small knot of them flanked by their rat-wolves. These had armor, and proper weapons, and a small figure in red stood among them, a splash of color amongst the blacks and browns.

Thancred did not intend to sit, but he found himself on the ground regardless. He exhaled deeply, a shaky breath laden with fatigue and relief.

It was finally over.

He looked at his companions, seeing similar expressions of relief on two faces and something more concerning on the third.

Skraal’s troops secured the area. Reports came in, delivered by runners and a few Skalik riding their rat-wolves. The demonic thralls had been routed, the Demon himself had vanished after performing the tempering, and Aethon was retreating with his forces in good order. There was a brief debate that the Skalik ought to pursue, ended when Skraal dismissed the idea.

“Caller not caught before tunnels. Tunnels he make killing ground.”

One ‘Mad Gorsik’ was tasked with harrying the fleeing thralls until they left the city and setting a watch on the tunnels. And with that, the battle was over.

The Scions had withdrawn to the side of the army now milling around this area. Surrounded on all sides by the Skalik, but left alone for now. Thancred sat on a rock, slumped over with his arms resting on his knees. No longer needing to fight for his life, the full weight of his exhaustion had settled on him. His body ached all over, muscles protesting their recent abuses. He felt tired to a degree he rarely had before. His hands shook slightly and his thoughts were sluggish, the product of adrenaline cooling in his veins. Above all, he felt numb.

He was, quite deliberately, not looking at the pile of corpses that was steadily growing as Skraal’s men gathered the dead. It worried him that Alphinaud wouldn’t look away from it.

Alisaie had some understanding of what had happened to them and was trying to distract them with a report on her duel with Aethon and his words after. Cailia, who unsurprisingly seemed the least affected of the four of them, told of their conversation with Gorrath and the situation he had forced them into.

Alisaie looked sick to her stomach. “You mean all this, it was just to prove a point?”

“Shockingly, the ‘Blood Demon’ has rather gruesome methods of persuasion.” Thancred replied, his humorous tone forced.

“How many?” Alphinaud asked. His first words since the battle had ended, and there was a high-pitched edge to his voice Thancred didn’t like the sound of. He watched the boy, it was hard in this moment to consider him a man, closely. He was painfully aware Alphinaud didn’t have the same amount of practice he did at getting past the experience of ending lives.

“At least a couple hundred.” Cailia said bluntly. Thancred wanted to punch her.

“Hundreds.” Alphinaud murmured. He inhaled shakily. His breath hitched. G’raha shared a concerned glance with Thancred. Alisaie sat beside her brother, a comforting hand on his back. Out of the corner of his eye, Thancred could see Skraal turn slightly away from his subcommanders reporting in, an ear turning in their direction.

“They… they were unarmed.” Alphinaud said. “Unarmed and defenseless, and I blasted them down like… like t-target mammets at the practice range.”

That worrying edge in his voice was getting sharper. “They might as well have been target mammets. Just a simple firing drill. One would pop up and I’d blast them back down. Up, down, up, down.” His laughter was spiced with hysteria. Alisaie hugged him to her chest and he began to shake. His hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“Hnng. Wounded, yes?”

Skraal stalked closer, leaned down so he could look Alphinaud in the eye. He examined the young Elezen for a moment. With blinding speed, he raked at Alphinaud’s face, drawing a pained cry and a spray of blood.

“What are you doing!?” Alisaie pulled Alphinaud closer to her and twisted them both away. She glared at Skraal like she was trying to slay him where he stood with the intensity of her anger.

The fresh cut on Alphinaud’s cheek bled freely, but even from here Thancred could see it was shallow, only superficial. That observation did nothing to remove his hand from the hilt of his gunblade. Only the Skalik around them raising their own weapons prevented him from lunging forward to pull the warlord away from his young comrades. Or worse. He raised a hand to signal Cailia hold the knife she held ready to throw. Skraal ignored all of them, looking past Alisaie into Alphinaud’s eyes, meeting a glare nearly as intense as his sister’s.

“Anger, good.” The warlord raised a claw still dripping with blood. “Unarmed, yes? Not harmless. You killed well. Saved yourself and your comrades. Hold anger tight. Turn on your enemies. On them that would do this” he pointed at the claw wound “and worse to you and yours.”

Alphinaud glared sullenly through red-rimmed eyes. “I never want to ‘kill well’. I didn’t want to fight at all.”

Skraal hissed. “Hsssk. Fight or die, or fight and die.”

The familiar words short-circuited Thancred’s anger. This was the way of Elarion, he realized. The grim acceptance of death. Not grief, but anger. Not mourning, but vengeance.

I can get behind taking revenge for this. He admitted to himself.

Skraal looked at each of them, turning his head to see them with his only eye. “You fought well. Proof you are Demon’s enemies. Come. We return to war-den.” The beady red eye roved over them, taking in their slumped, exhausted forms. He turned to one of his officers. “Ready ride wolves!”

The Scions were ushered to stagger closer to the corpse pile. Thancred thought he had already bottomed out his disgust for today, but the sight and sounds of the pack of rat-wolves tearing apart and devouring the bodies of the tempered, all while their handlers watched and did nothing still managed to turn his stomach.

“What are they doing?” Alisaie demanded. She rounded on Skraal. “Make them stop.”

Skraal shook his head. “And waste meat?”

“They died for you.” Alisaie countered hotly. Thancred was aware of the ring of Skalik onlookers around them and their displeasure towards her tone with their leader. “They deserve better than this.”

Skraal hissed, sounding faintly amused. “Souls gone. Only meat left. And meat is meat.”

A dozen wolves, all larger ones Thancred now saw were fitted with saddles, were pulled from the feeding frenzy. Skraal mounted the largest, a black furred beast surprisingly similar to its rider. He gestured to his men and they brought a mount before each of the Scions. Thancred pulled himself onto his, noting stirrups that were uncomfortably high for him and no reins with which to steer the beast. Several Skalik with the trappings of officers took the remaining mounts, Vilsrich among them. Skraal waved one away from his would-be steed and pointed at Nrack, who hesitantly took his place among them.

“We go!” Skraal spurred his steed into motion and the other wolves fell in behind him. The mystery of how to steer his mount without reins was answered by the rat-wolf following Skraal’s, the group loping through the city like a pack of true wolves on the hunt. How Skraal steered, Thancred could not tell.

The city rushed past them. The sights were made blurry by their speed and given a surreal sensation from the low, flickering light. Thancred spotted orange brightness in the distance. As they approached, it resolved into piles of burning corpses, with Skalik teams laboring to add to the pyres.

“I thought meat was meat.” Thancred said to himself. He didn’t expect to be heard over the drumbeat of the wolves’ paws, but Nrack either heard or guessed at his thoughts and leaned over.

“Demon-flesh tainted. Must burn. Other meat, too much. Not leave, let spoil.”

How very pragmatic, Thancred thought. He knew it was likely his imagination, given the size of the cavern for the smoke to diffuse through, but he could smell charred corpses the rest of the trip back.

When they were back in the confining tunnels of the war den, the party dismounted. Unarmed and unarmored Skalik, so very similar to the mobs that Gorrath had sicced on them, led the animals away.

 Skraal beckoned. “Follow.”

Aware of Vilsrich’s eyes on them, Thancred motioned for the others to comply. He wasn’t sure whether to be reassured when Skraal made a quick gesture and Nrack drifted to the back of their procession. Skraal led the Scions and Cailia along several passageways, descending deeper into the rock. They stopped at a heavy door the warlord wrenched open. Beyond was a hallway lined with several rooms on either side. Rooms where the door and front wall were made of bars.

“A prison?” Thancred asked. “After what we’ve been through proving our intentions?”

He intentionally avoided specifics, but he still saw Alphinaud twitch slightly. Skraal growled lowly.

“Emptied when we needed fodder. Far cell, large enough for five. Best place for you.”

Cailia surprised all of them. “He’s right. We should stay here for the night.”

Putting deeds to her words, she pushed past the twins into the prison. Thancred shared a quick look with G’raha, who microscopically nodded and shrugged at once and followed the archer in. When all five of them were inside the prison Skraal spoke from the door. “Elarian.”

All of them turned to listen. “Only I or Nrack come for you. Any else, gut them, leave corpse as warning.”

“Gladly.” Cailia answered. Skraal bared his teeth in what might have been intended to be a smile at the reply.

“I will send Nrack with water for cleansing.” The warlord offered in the tone of something that had just occurred to him. Thancred became aware of the blood covering him, the reek of it filling the enclosed space. He felt the sudden urge to strip himself down, to tear the blood-drenched cloth and leather away from his body. Skraal nodded once and the heavy door shut in front of him with a clang. Thancred gave Cailia a questioning look.

“We’re ‘Elarians’ in a Skalik den.” She answered. “I bet half the rats out there would happily slit our throats in our sleep just so they can eat our corpses.”

“Meat is meat.” Alphinaud muttered, flatly. Cailia seemed to miss the warning signs there and continued.

“A cell Skalik can’t get out of is one they can’t get into either. The safest place for us, short of having Skraal watch over us all night.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say we can trust him.” Alisaie commented, pointedly not looking at her brother.

Cailia scoffed at that. “We can’t. But if he wants us dead, we’re already dead.”

“There are seven cells.” G’raha observed. Three along each side and a larger one at the far end. “We can each have our own.”

Cailia was already shaking her head. “We all stay in the big one, and we have someone keep watch while the rest sleep. You heard Skraal, we might be attacked in the night.” 

“Very well.” Alphinaud woodenly slipped past them and headed for the cell door. The rest wordlessly followed. The cell was spacious, by prison standards. Meaning there was enough room for them to stand and walk a few paces in any direction. The beds were two sets of alcoves carved out of the opposite walls, six in total. Thancred eyed the flat stone surface with distaste. He’d need to sleep on the floor, being too tall to fit comfortably in the stone alcove, but there wasn’t much difference between the flat stone of the bed and that of the floor. At least they weren’t locked in, and could relieve themselves in the privacy of the other cells.

“Could be worse.” Alisaie said sagely. “We could be freezing to death too.”

Thancred had hoped the reference to their impromptu imprisonment in Garlemald might prompt at least a small smile from Alphinaud, but he gave no indication he even heard his sister. He just kept his eyes lowered, staring at the floor as if it contained the answers he desperately sought.

Skraal was good to his word, and buckets of water arrived not long after. Alphinaud cleaned himself quickly, scrubbing at his skin and clothes even as the water in his bucket turned red. He heard the others saying it was a relief to get clean. He felt no relief.

He didn’t feel clean.

Along with the water had come a restocked quiver of arrows for Cailia. It was important that they resupply; in all likelihood they would be fighting again soon. Cailia shouldered the quiver and took up station near the door before even washing, to defend the Scions while they bathed presumably. While she waited she spoke to the empty air, reciting the events that had transpired since their arrival in the tunnels. Reporting in.

This deep underground, their linkpearls were useless but the distance would be no consequence to the Princeps. While Gorrath’s shadow blocked the Princeps from Seeing them while they interacted with the Demon’s minions, even retroactively, he could See them now. Speaking aloud with the hope the Princeps was listening in was apparently a custom in Elarion, though in their particular case they could be sure the Princeps was watching them. Putting the events into words ala a formal report made it easy for him to understand what happened, he need only See the report rather than try to piece together events on his own.

By the time Cailia delivered her report, the Scions were finishing up with their washing. Alphinaud offered to take Cailia’s place on watch, but Thancred had quickly inserted himself. The stalwart gunbreaker insisted he would handle the first shift guard duty and urged the others to get some rest.

Alphinaud sat alone on the floor of a corner of the cell. He had a pouch of empty aether cartridges in his lap, a small pile of filled cartridges on the floor beside him. He had volunteered to attend to the duty of restoring Thancred’s stock of gunbreaker ammunition. It gave him something to do, and a reason not to talk to anyone.

He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to hear platitudes about how he had no choice, or he did the right thing, or it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t want to think about what happened at all.

A nearly naked Skalik reached for him with empty hands, slavering as he ran forward. A bright burst of light obliterated his face and the Skalik fell bonelessly backward.

Alphinaud felt his gorge rise. He breathed deeply through his nose several times until his stomach settled. He concentrated on flowing his aether into the small, metal casing in his hands. He just needed to keep working. If he was working, then he wasn’t thinking.

The sound of footsteps made him look up. Freshly clean, Cailia was walking over. Alphinaud felt his mouth curl into a scowl he tried to suppress. If he didn’t want to have this conversation with his sister or his friends, he certainly didn’t want to have it with a relative stranger.

Without waiting for permission to join him, Cailia sat herself beside him with her new quiver held in front of her. She started pulling out arrows one at a time and inspecting them. She clearly didn’t like what she saw, muttering curses about ‘rootwood crap.’ She pulled out her knife and set to work whittling the shafts into straighter lines.

“I talked to the other Scions.” She said, apropos of nothing.

“And they told you to come speak to me?” Alphinaud hazarded, already lining up some choice words for her. And not just her, with the enclosed confines of the cell the others would hear him unless he whispered.

Cailia nodded. “They said that out of the four of you here, you’re closest to Markos.”

That had not been what he had been expecting to hear, in more ways than one. He put aside his prepared barbed words as he considered hers. He was surprised to hear the others say he was the closest to Marcus. Thancred had been the one to first invite him to join the Scions, while G’raha and Alisaie, even if she tried to deny it, idolized him. But now that he was thinking about it, it occurred to him that with their time together after the attack on the Waking Sands, in Ishgard, and then the First, he had indeed spent the most time with Marcus of anyone, Y’shtola notwithstanding.

“I suppose I am.” Alphinaud confirmed. He turned to face her, the cartridges momentarily forgotten. “Was there something you wished to ask about him?”

“Yeah.” Cailia looked back at him. “What’s he been like, since you’ve known him? I know he’s changed, after leaving home.”

Alphinaud took a moment to marshal his thoughts. How did one even describe someone like his friend, the incomparable Warrior of Light?

“He is remarkably strong, and brave, and compassionate.” Alphinaud said, the words feeling trite to him. They so poorly encompassed the reality of who Marcus was. “He inspires others without even meaning to, triumphs over the greatest of foes without difficulty, and never balks from a challenge, no matter how perilous. I am immensely proud to say I consider him one of my closest friends.”

He felt his face warm slightly. He was not accustomed to giving such frank words of praise. But Cailia did not scoff, as he half expected she might. She merely nodded with understanding.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Her head tilted slightly in curiosity. “Does he still do that thing where he does something amazing, then gets all confused when people are amazed?”

Alphinaud had to laugh. It was brief and weak, but it was a laugh. “With depressing regularity, I am afraid.”

Cailia laughed as well, a rough but oddly musical sound. “Some things never change.”

“Indeed. While I wouldn’t go so far as to call his humility a flaw, it can be frustrating at times just how oblivious he is to how uniquely talented he is.”

“He told you about the Squad?” Cailia asked. Alphinaud answered her with a nod and she continued. “I bet my bow he said he was the weakest among them.”

“The ‘weak link of the group,’ were his exact words.” Alphinaud recalled and Cailia huffed in irritation. “I believe that on some level, he simply does not understand what he is. He acts as though he is purely the product of circumstance, that anyone who was in his position could and would do the things that he’s done.” Alphinaud smiled as memories resurfaced. “It is entertaining to see him meet people for the first time and watch their slow realization that his self-deprecation is no façade.”

Cailia smiled, the expression forming creases on a face not used to it. “I imagine that’s easier figure out now, when he says more than two sentences a day.”

Alphinaud’s smile dimmed a shade at the reminder. “Yes, he was a much more taciturn individual when I first met him. Quick to respond when others spoke to him, but often with little to say himself. It took no small amount of time for him to open up and begin to express himself more.”

Alphinaud thought back to those relatively simpler times, when Marcus often stood silent while the other Scions discussed and deliberated. “I had thought the change simply him becoming more comfortable around us. But after he shared the harrowing experience that prompted his departure from Elarion, I now realize he needed time to work through his trauma. Small wonder he became withdrawn, after th–.”

“No.” Cailia cut him off, shaking her head. “No, you were right the first time.”

“What?”

“When he left, I’d known Markos my entire life. What I said before, about him saying two sentences a day? That’s how he was for the entire seventeen years I knew him. That wasn’t trauma, that was just how he was. I thought I had the wrong guy when I met him again and he actually cracked a joke.”

Alphinaud reassessed his view of his friend in light of this revelation. It did make a degree of sense. One reason he had never suspected such dire happenings in Marcus’s past was because the other man had certainly not acted like a broken, haunted man. But for such a profound change in demeanor to occur largely unprompted?

“I mean, I asked about it once.” Cailia continued. “If he was so quiet because he was sad or something. His brother told me that no, nothing bad had ever really happened to him. He spoke up more a little at home, but that was it.”

“His brother?” Alphinaud asked. Cailia’s expression instantly became guarded.

“What did Markos tell you about his brother?”

“Nothing.” Alphinaud answered, surprised by her sudden wariness. “I only learned he even has a brother recently, after Marcus mentioned it in passing.”

“Had a brother.” Cailia corrected, which told Alphinaud all he needed to know. Cailia sighed. “If he didn’t want to tell you, then I won’t either.”

“I understand.” With how tightly knit small villages tended to be, Alphinaud would be more surprised to learn Marcus's late brother had not been friends with Cailia as he would the reverse. Cailia snorted quietly.

“I doubt that. But, yeah, Markos was always a quiet guy.” Cailia pointedly brought them back to their original topic. “Not because something happened to him or anything. He just… never had much to say. The other members of the Squad did all the talking. They could sit for hours, happily chatting away, and he wouldn’t say a thing.”

“Mayhap that was why.” Alphinaud said without thinking. The question writ on Cailia’s face invited him to continue. “Marcus’s description of the Squad made them sound like they were all outspoken individuals.”

“That would be putting it mildly.” Cailia agreed. “My sister could outshout a grown man when she was nine. All six of them together could hit you like a storm.”

Alphinaud nodded. “Mayhap being surrounded by such dynamic personalities smothered Marcus’s own.”

He hurriedly continued when Cailia’s head snapped around to lock onto him. “Perhaps that was a poor choice of words. It would be better to say that he had no need to speak, when surrounded by friends who would speak for him. He would not need to express his anger, if Niko was already doing so, for instance.”

“Maybe.” Cailia conceded. “I can say from personal experience that I was often the same way when Niko would go off. No need to add to the shouting, right? But I still think it had less to do with them, more to do with him.”

Her tone turned wistful. “He entered a new land, met new people, experienced things I can’t even imagine. Made new friends, not just the same crew that were really more like family to him. He got to see a world that didn’t need to keep one eye on the ground, waiting for the enemy to emerge.”

“You sound like you disapprove.” Alphinaud observed. Cailia shrugged in reply.

“That’s like disapproving of the rain. It happens, and you can either wear a cloak or get soaked.” Her voice softened a hair. “But I’m glad he had the chance to take his cloak off.”

“What was he like?” Alphianud asked. He was gripped with the sudden desire to know more, as if he owed it to his friend to understand the whole of his life, not just the parts Alphinaud himself had witnessed. “Besides being quiet, I mean.”

Cailia settled into her seat beside him, took a moment to think. “He was reliable. The Squad’s bedrock. Nothing could rattle him, nothing could break him. He would spend all day doing some chore and the others’d be guilted into helping him. You needed someone in the Squad to do something, you asked Markos. He’d either do it, or get the person who needed to do it and help them.”

“That has not changed.” Alphinaud said. “Sometimes I wonder if he knows he can decline a stranger’s request for assistance.”

Cailia chuckled. “He probably doesn’t. He was always very caring, too. Wouldn’t say much, but if you needed a sympathetic ear he was your man. He’d really listen too, not just feign it. He cut a gallant figure at times, if you like strong silent types. Heh, I actually had a bit of a crush on him, myself. Everyone assumed he’d end up with my sister though, he was the only one who could handle her when she got heated. Even the others in the Squad started to get fed up with Niko at times, as they got older. Never him.

“He was strong, too. Not the strongest in raw muscle, Lukas had him beat there, but he was close and had the stamina to run laps around everyone else. Because he’d still be going even after they all collapsed. You actually had to be careful, make sure if you gave him an open-ended task that you kept an eye on him. You’d come back hours later to find him still at it, when a sane person would have given up ages ago.”

“A predilection I’ve come to notice and take steps against.” Alphinaud commented drily.

Cailia laughed. “That reminds me of the time he wrangled a chocobo by wrestling it for five hours.”

“Why in the world would he do that?” Alphinaud asked, genuinely curious.

Cailia leaned forward from the wall a little, started to gesture with her hands. “So it all started when Theospuias had the brilliant idea of breeding his two orneriest ‘bos together…”

They talked for a long time, sharing stories. Cailia told Alphinaud of Marcus’s various childhood misadventures, and he told her about Marcus’s journeys while a member of the Scions. At some point in the conversation G’raha drifted over and then Thancred, who claimed to only want his cartridges filled yet stayed and shared some stories of his own. Long after the last of Thancred’s cartridges were filled, they were still chatting away. It wasn’t until Alphinaud caught himself yawning while sharing details of the fighting to take Doma Castle that he realized how long it had been. He felt tired, a bone deep exhaustion that made even the hard stone bunks look appealing. He tried to ignore it and finish his story, but Cailia noticed the motion.

“We can finish that one tomorrow.” Cailia offered and stood. G’raha and Thancred both joined her, stretching out the kinks after the long time seated. Alphinaud was going to argue that he could at least conclude his current tale when another yawn threatened to split his face.

“Very well.” He conceded. “If you can withstand the anticipation.”

“It’ll be difficult, but I’ll manage.” Cailia said lightly. “I’ll be waiting to hear what Hien’s big idea was. Good night.”

“Good… night.” Alphinaud said around yet another yawn. He picked himself off the ground and tiredly followed Thancred over to the wall with the sleeping nooks.

Cailia watched him settle in, tossing and turning to find a comfortable position on the hard stone. When he finally stilled, she carefully made her way to the far end of the cell, where Alisaie was currently maintaining the watch.

“You know your stuff.” Cailia quietly told the young Elezen. “Your idea seems like it did the trick.”

“For now.” Alisaie glanced at her brother, who was already drifting off to sleep. “I doubt he’ll be sleeping well. He won’t get over that ‘penance’ just by being distracted with some old stories.”

Cailia grunted noncommittally. Alisaie eyed her. “You probably think we’re terribly soft.”

Cailia glanced at her and Alisaie could see the Elarian’s internal debate on whether or not to deny it. “Just a bit. Even I found that slaughter hard to stomach, and I hate these rats. I can’t judge him for getting rattled by it.”

Alisaie shifted, her flash of anger quickly smothered. “All that death, just so that monster can make some twisted point that only makes sense to him.”

“An Elarian monster.” Cailia mused bitterly. “If there’s one thing we do, it’s fight. Fitting then that our Demon sees killing as holy and peace as a sin.”

“If war has any fear, it is that one day the killing might stop.” Alisaie said. Cailia snorted.

“How philosophical.” She sobered. “But you’re not wrong. I bet if Gorrath is afraid anything, it’s people like you.”

The two women stood in silence for a moment. Cailia jerked a thumb towards the bunks. “You should get some shut-eye. I’ll take over the watch.”

“After what the four of you went through, I’m certain you need the rest more than I do.” Alisaie protested. “I can stand watch.”

“And you will.” Cailia stood over her, looking down with a wry expression. “When I wake you up hours from now for the middle of the night shift. The worst one. You can pick whoever gets the early morning shift yourself.”

“That sounds only fair.” Alisaie said. She wanted to argue further, but she sensed it would be futile. And she could not deny the weight of fatigue pressing down on her. She nodded sternly. “Very well. But you and I are going to have words if you don’t wake me when it’s time for my turn.”

Cailia shooed her away. “Go on now.”

Alisaie hesitated, well aware that was not an agreement. Cailia’s gaze turned to questioning and, knowing it would be childish to bicker over the semantic quibble, Alisaie chose another topic.

“I still find it hard to believe that Marcus was truly so introverted when he was younger.”

“I’m still not sure if I believe Markos has ever actually yelled at people.” Cailia countered. A smile formed, not entirely a happy one. “It’s hard to imagine.”

“Stop dying you coward!” Marcus felt the axe strike his shield with enough force to judder his arm. He spared a second of attention to glance at the downed Taurhe by his feet. “You’ve been killed before! Walk it off!”

Brusan growled a mix of pain and agitation as he forced himself to his feet. The Demon’s attack had nearly torn him in two, yet the bull-man’s flesh was already unmarred by the time he picked up his dropped hammer. Still, the shock and pain had been enough to bring him down and might have kept him down if Marcus had not bullied him back onto his feet.

Brusan yelled a wordless battlecry and launched himself at the enemy. Marcus went back-to-back with Pollux, enjoying the mildest of respites before the battle swept them up again.

“This is not going well!” The spearman shouted, eyeing the Gorrath approaching him.

“What do you mean? We’re still alive, aren’t we!” Marcus yelled back, looking at the two Gorraths on his side.

The duo separated, taking the fight to their tormentors. Marcus rained magical blades that shredded one of his foes and caught the other’s axe on his shield. Again the impact nearly made him stagger. These shades were nowhere near as formidable as the real Blood Demon, but they were certainly still strong. The axe rose for another strike, but the Gorrath proxy fell as the image of Alex slashed the backs of his legs and dissolved into putrid smoke as the image of Katt stabbed into his neck. And from the wall of mist surrounding them, two more demons emerged.

With a thought, Marcus tasked the images of his friends to meet the new enemies and looked for Pollux. The older man’s own demon was dying with Pollux and Estinien’s spears buried inside him. The dragoon did not pause, leaping to join his illusory comrades. Pollux leaned on his spear and caught a quick breath.

“How many is that?”

“Ninety-seven.”

“You gotta pick up the pace, I’m at five hundred and twelve.”

“Only because you’re counting your friends’ kills as yours.”

“Seems only fair. I did make them. You don’t like it, make your own.”

Pollux shot him an annoyed look. He had, like everyone else, tried to produce his own illusory allies like Marcus and had as much success as everyone else did. I.e. none at all. Why this had only worked for Marcus was a mystery they did not have the time to solve. He had tried to call up more specters of his friends to help the others win free, but whatever rules of this place didn’t let him manifest more than one of each friend, and no others beyond his initial batch.

A roar, a clang, and Alex flying over their heads interrupted the men’s conversation. Pollux sighed, whirled his spear into a ready position, and charged back in. With Alex closely following him, and Lucas joining the fray, Marcus felt they had this front under control. He looked for any other breaches in the perimeter and was relieved to see none. So far, the Gorraths hadn’t tried to breach the stone ‘walls’ of their fortress, but Marcus wasn’t about to assume they never would. Now that their band of survivors was committed to this position, maintaining a strong defense was key.

Their numbers had swelled as they rescued more and more captives, with their enemies increasing at the same rate. It’d been getting harder and harder to keep everyone together and moving, people kept getting picked off and lost to the mist. The Gorraths liked to jump on anyone who fell behind, which happened far too often for Marcus’s liking. He was being pulled in too many directions, having to lead the charge and cover the rear and raise spirits whenever they flagged, all while fighting off an endless onslaught of demons. Even with the shades of his friends helping, he was being stretched too thin.

Finding this place had been a godsend. A ring of tall rock formations that formed a fragmentary wall for them to hunker down in. A fort they could use as a base of operations and form a stable defense, rather than being forced to continuously move and regroup. It did slow down their efforts to rescue the others still trapped, but they were working on that.

“Captain.” A gravelly voice said from directly behind Marcus. He jumped and nearly decapitated Kata purely on reflex. The fur on her snout flattened for a moment as she registered the movement of his sword, but she settled as he lowered it back to his side.

“Sorry.” Marcus said sheepishly. “How’d the scouting go?”

“Followed your instincts. Found three more.” Kata hissed. “Two close, one far. Perhaps another, close to the far one. The Demons pressed closely.”

Four more. That would bring them up to fifty-five. Marcus still didn’t know how many people were trapped here and it would be easier if Kata could scout them all out. But Kata risked being caught and tortured all over again each time she went out, her own demon gaoler doggedly pursuing her and stirring the others into hunting her too. It wasn’t a risk he was entirely comfortable with, but the first step in escaping would be bringing all the prisoners together into the defensive perimeter, and only Kata had the speed and stealth to perform that vital reconnaissance.

“Good work.” Words Marcus had never imagined he would say to a Skalik Night Knife, one of the most feared assassins in Elarion, but today had been a very long, very strange day. “Are you good to fight?”

Kata hissed in disapproval at the question and answered by drawing her knives. She didn’t stop to wait for his opinion and raced towards the nearest demon, tail whipping behind her as she ran. Despite everything, Marcus chuckled.

That’s how we know things are dire. He thought to himself. People are calling me “captain.”

“Captain!” A deep voice boomed. Marcus broke into a run.

The battle was raging fiercely on the other side of the perimeter. A legion of Demons assailed the lines of beleaguered defenders, but the Minean Cataphractii were tenaciously holding them at bay. The ranks were close to buckling under the assault, but they had been for hours now and they hadn’t broken yet.

“Another three from the left! Spears ready!” Minos called. “They come to die! Grant their wish!”

With a wordless roar, his men met the renewed attack. Marcus darted past the archers and slipped seamlessly into the gap when Gera, one of the spearmen, was knocked aside. He joined Minos on the prince’s left, and each of them faced off against a Gorrath of their own. By now, both men had become accustomed to the Demon’s fighting style and quickly felled their foes, Marcus with a brilliant blade of light and Minos with a hammering punch to the skull that snapped a horn clean off.

On either side of them, spears and arrows bit into demonflesh. And axes cut down humans.

“Hold fast! Repel them!” Minos bellowed. Those struck recovered from their wounds and rejoined the fray, by now well accustomed to shrugging off the shock and pain of what should have been mortal wounds. The Cataphractii continued to hold the line magnificently, bolstered the steady stream of shouts of encouragement and calls to duty from the prince. “Drive them back! No Demon has reached the druids yet, and I will be damned if one gets through our side! Cut them down!”

The orders were less important than there being a strong, commanding voice in the soldiers’ ears. Demons fell to Elarian blades and, as ever, more emerged from the mist. Minos spoke quietly to Marcus as they fought off two more that replaced the ones they had slain. “We are being driven back. We need reinforcements.”

Would that I had any to give. “Your eyes are going, old bull. We’re advancing. Always advancing! Forward!”

“Forward!” Though the Cataphractii echoed their traditional battlecry, they could hardly put it into practice with how much it was taking just to hold their ground. Still, the words bucked up their spirits a little, which was more important. Their commander, on the other hand, took the word to heart.

“FORWARD!!!” Minos charged, tackling the Gorrath before him and driving it backwards off its feet. With an earth-shattering stomp he smashed the downed monster’s head into a pulp and roared his defiance to the three Demons that encircled him now that he had advanced beyond the lines of his troops. One Demon fell to an aetherial blade Marcus shot from the sky, another to an arrow that unerringly embedded itself in the beast’s eye, and the third found its axe caught and used as a tether to pull it into a punch from an armored gauntlet.

Emboldened by the display, the others dispatched their Demons with renewed vigor and raced to the side of their commander. When Marcus rejoined Minos, the old bull was laughing. “Haha!, Yes, always forward! Cataphractii do not retreat!”

Marcus grinned fiercely at the man’s restored confidence. That was the way of things on this front. Minos bolstered his men, Marcus bolstered Minos. Courage and confidence were in short supply here. But duty and discipline? Those were carrying them forward. Minos was not about to fail his men, and they were not about to fail him. All Marcus had to do was remind them of it every now and again.

The Elarians and Demons clashed again, the advance sputtering out as quickly as it began. Still, they were fighting fiercer, and while the enemy was not being driven back they were at least dying quickly. Marcus started to withdraw, letting others take up the foes he was fighting. He shouted to be heard over the battlecries and clashing of steel.

“I’m going back out. I need whoever you can spare.”

“I can spare no one.” Minos answered while punching a Gorrath so hard the Demon left its feet. “But I imagine Diana will be going with you regardless of what I say. Anyone else, you’ll have to grab from the reserves.”

“Understood.” Marcus pulled back and let Akakios take his place. He waited long enough to confirm the Hyur swordsman established himself on the line without being overwhelmed before winding his way through the press of bodies in the other direction. He paused as he passed Diana among the archers.

“Up for another field trip?”

“Just say when we’re ready to go.” She answered, not taking her eyes off her target. She loosed another arrow and was rewarded with a strangled snarl.

Marcus jogged the rest of the way to another knot of people. Eight of them, standing in a loose circle around three more. The reserves, as Minos had called them. Even Elarian stubbornness couldn’t keep some men fighting indefinitely against monsters out of their worst nightmares. Assigned to guard duty, it was a place where those that needed one could take a breather, along with a few permanent tenants who had lost their nerve entirely, or never had it.

Marcus passed one, Lysander, and gave him a reassuring nod. The young man still clutched his sword too tightly, but at least he was looking less frightened now that it had been hours since he had last felt Gorrath’s axe. Hours, days, it was tough to tell time in this place, whatever this place was. Speaking of… “Any progress?”

Lili looked up from her trance. “None. There remains no way out of here that we can divine.” The Lalafell druid was sitting with the two of her fellow druids they had managed to wrest from Gorrath’s tortures. The trio was supposed to be figuring out what was happening in this space and more importantly getting them all out of here. They had made little progress with either.

“There is no way out of here, I’m telling you.” Petros insisted yet again. “We have looked and looked and found nothing. We will be trapped here forever.”

After hearing that for the fifth time, it was starting to get old. “The hell we are. I’ll dig us out of here if I have to. But I’m still hoping you can save me the effort.”

Lili frowned. “And I am still convinced you are the key. If you would just join us in our trance–”

“Could you figure out a way to get us all out of here in less than three minutes if I did? Because that’s how long you’d have.” Marcus had been willing to join up the first time she had proposed this, but then she had mentioned his participation in their magicks would almost certainly break his connection to the thirteen shades of his friends he had somehow conjured. The same shades that were the only thing keeping their lines from collapsing and their precious flesh safe from the Demons’ great big axes. In the distance, the flash of an explosion signaled Y’shtola incinerating another Demon.

If only they could wrest more of their number from the Demon’s tortures. If Marcus’s theory was correct, there were about a hundred of them in total. Around half of that had been rescued so far, for a given value of the word rescued, mind. And while there was a chance they might find another superlative warrior like Pollux; they could also rescue a trembling mess like Lysander. Good for a last line of defense and holding Gorrath off for a minute or so, but ultimately someone who needed to be protected to keep his own ghostly tormentors from returning. Not to mention that with every person they rescued, a new Gorrath joined the forces besieging them.

“Can you at least find a way to exorcise the Demons?” Marcus asked. “We can’t fight them off forever.”

That was not, strictly speaking, true. One of the oddities of this place being that even after fighting for what felt like weeks Marcus still felt as fresh as if he was newly arrived to the fray. But the mental strain was beginning to get to people. After rescuing Minos, Pollux had been so determined to rescue their fellow comrades Marcus had needed to rein him in occasionally. Now, he was needing to encourage the other man to keep going. Even Elarion stubbornness had its limits. They couldn’t hold if half their number were retreating to the reserves every five minutes.

“We are trying, but the specters appear to be intrinsically linked to us. There is… one option.”

“No.” Marcus replied flatly. Lili gave him a look that was equal parts sympathy and annoyance. “We are all getting out of here, understand me?”

“I think you are the one who does not understand.” Lili held up a hand to forestall his rebuttal. “We will keep trying.”

“Good.” Marcus said, for want of a cleverer final word. He stepped back into the ring of a baker’s dozen of guards surrounding the druids. “How are things, guys?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we have a slight Demon problem.” Alathea said, getting laughs from the others. Marcus chuckled, relieved. If they were up for laughing, things were good here. In the beginning, Marcus had been keeping their spirits up purely for its own sake. But the longer he spent in his dubious position of command, the more he started to notice patterns.

Every person in here had some illusory tormentor that took the form of someone they knew, most often a dear friend or family member. That phantom would brutalize their victim both physically and verbally to keep them helpless and pliable, incapable of resisting. The goal thus far had been to reach those trapped souls and defend them, help them shrug off the despair, fear, and pain that held them chained. When they did, the phantom torturer would be banished and replaced by a blunter instrument of suffering, another copy of Gorrath striding from out of the fog around them and intent on murder. And when they had lost poor Lysander to a sudden Gorrath attack, his previously dispelled dead sibling had returned to resume the torture. Thankfully, a quick counter attack had been able to snap him out of it and he was now laughing along with everyone else.

So there was an obvious reason to keep everyone positive, but Marcus felt like it went beyond that. It seemed that what one person in here felt, they all felt to an extent. Someone being afraid made them all a little more afraid. So conversely, someone being confident or happy would make them all more confident and happier. And maybe it was just Marcus, but the mist seemed to lighten more and the fighting was easier when moods were high. Almost as if their optimism was having a tangible effect on the place.

“Speaking of which, who here is ready to get back into it?” Rokgak and Alathea stepped forward. “That’s what I like to see. I’m tired of playing clean up for the old bull, go back him up eh?”

The Lalafell and Skalik drew their weapons and took off running towards the Cataphractii together. That should compensate for Diana’s impending absence. Marcus was about to head out himself when Lysander stepped forward.

“Um, sir? I… I want to apologize. I know we need everyone to fight and I know I’m not pulling my weight. But every time I think of fighting him, it… I just can’t– I know I’m a failure of a–”

“Okay first, you want a ‘sir,’ you’ve got the wrong guy. I actually know my head from my ass.” Marcus interrupted.

“Hey, Marcus?” Lieutenant Cora said, before making a rude gesture at him.

Marcus smirked at her before continuing. “Second, I know guard duty may not be glamourous, but I need someone looking after the druids. They’re druids, they can’t fight their way out of bed in the morning.”

“I heard that.” Lili’s voice came from behind him.

“Then get back to work! You’re supposed to be trancing.” Marcus put enough humor in his tone to take any bite out of his voice.

He looked back to Lysander. “Jokes aside, I need runners here. As soon as they learn anything or, gods be good, find out how to get out of here, I want to know that minute. And that’s still your job, to bring me and Minos and the others that news. I get that you want to do more, but that’s what we need right now.”

Lysander didn’t look very reassured, so Marcus tried another take. “Tell you what, I’m headed back out there now. When I get back, you and me can take em on together. I’ll line some Demons up for you, make killing them nice and easy. Get you a taste for it.”

The look on his face said what Lysander thought of that. “I’m not so sure…”

Marcus clapped him on the back. “You’re not going to pass up the chance to call yourself a Demon slayer, are you? The ladies love that sort of thing. So do the men, come to think of it.”

“I... I want to. But even just looking at him…” Lysander fumbled over his words before quietly, almost whispering, finishing his thought. “All I can think of is him killing me.”

“That’s just because you haven’t killed one yet.” Marcus replied glibly. “The first one is the hardest, but once you get the knack for it, you’ll be cutting them down left and right.”

Lysander visibly swallowed his reluctance. “I… I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I need.” Marcus gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You have time to think on it. I gotta go rescue some more people and when we get back I’ll want you to get them settled in here like you’ve been doing. But after that, maybe you and I will go on a little rampage, hmm?”

“Okay. I’ll try.” Lysander gave him a weak smile.

“Offer stands for the rest of you, by the way.” Marcus spoke to the others remaining. “Free chances to kill Gorrath are available! I know y’all want to see his head roll as much as I do. Probably more, really.”

He got a few tentative nods and smiles and counted that as a victory. With a call over his shoulder for Diana to join him, he surveyed the ongoing battle on the other side of the perimeter. He headed over to where the fighting was less intense. “Shtola!”

She broke off after incinerating another Gorrath. “We are heading out?”

“Yeah.” Marcus answered as Diana joined them. “Just want one more with us.”

“Try not to think too hard about it, we know who you’ll pick.” The Miqo’te said drily as they set off for another part of the perimeter.

“I’m not that predictable.” Marcus protested before Y’shtola pointed.

“Then why are we heading toward Niko’s portion of the line again?”

“She’s near Kata, and we need another frontline fighter.” Marcus tried to save himself. The looks Y’shtola and Diana exchanged showed they weren’t buying it. The sorceress tilted her head in question.

“Is that why it’s been the four of us for the last three excursions? Simple proximity?”

“Look, it’s a good team composition, alright?” Marcus protested.

“Oh? Then it’s not that if we left without Niko that she would charge in after us anyway and smack you for leaving her behind?” Diana asked. “Like she did before?”

“Yes, thank you, I was there, I remember.” Marcus felt his face warm at the reminder and picked up the pace. He joined Thancred, Niko, Lucas, Pollux, and Kata as they stood against a quartet of Gorraths.

“Leaving already? You’re up, Niko.” Lucas grunted and he blocked a heavy axe blow. The Gorrath who swung at him died a second late, Diana’s arrow in its throat. Another fell to one of Thancred’s explosive shells.

“Finally!” Niko replied. She yanked her sword free from another Gorrath’s stomach. “I was beginning to think I’d have to chase you down and smack some sense into you again.”

“Aren’t I the captain here? Shouldn’t you guys be following my orders and showing me respect?” Marcus asked petulantly while shooting an aetherial blade through a demon advancing into the new gap.

“Marcus, you couldn’t captain your way out of a chocobo pen.” Thancred replied, to the others’ laughter.

Pollux watched the exchange between what was, technically, only Marcus himself. “I don’t know whether to think you’re humble or masochistic.”

“Let’s say humble, for my sake.” Marcus answered. “Kata, we’re moving!”

“Hsssk. Follow.” The Skalik took off around the demons and darted into the mists. The rest of them followed. Marcus glanced back with a moment’s hesitation at the now outnumbered trio and behind them the line of Cataphractii before turning back to his hunt. He dismissed the impulse to stay. He knew they’d be alright without him.

They would hold the line, as long as they needed to. Until Lili figured out a way out of here, or Marcus’ real friends from the outside managed to get through to them, or they just plain killed every last Gorrath in this seemingly infinite army of them, they would keep fighting.

They were Elarians, they didn’t know how to do anything else.

Chapter Text

Aethon stalked through the tunnel, his hand gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword. He rounded the corner and strode into his god’s audience chamber.

“Clear out!” The dozen Skalik milling around the room hastened to comply, to his displeasure. If any had defied his command, he could have cut them down for it. Killing Skalik always served to brighten his spirits. Even this new, mutated kind.

Gorrath called them ‘ascended.’ Those in His army treated the condition like a sign of the Blood God’s favor. One so blessed with such a transformation may still be beneath the Chosen, but they stood above those merely corrupted. Aethon knew the truth; the condition was simply the result of prolonged exposure to Gorrath’s power. The metaphysical runoff of His divinity warped those who bathed in it. Thus far, the few dozen or so Elarians left in their army had all been denied such favor; only Skalik had received that gift. If Gorrath was aware of that fact, He’d given no sign of it.

The reminder made Aethon scowl. He’d been in a foul mood since the battle. He was still pretending he didn’t know why even as he brooded on the cause. That conversation he had with the Scion, Alisaie. Not even what she had said, but the way she had said it.

I should have killed her. Then and there. Put an end to this. Why didn’t I?

He knew why.

Urianger entered the room behind him. Aethon mastered his breathing before turning around. “Your precious friends better not have died. Would make this whole exercise a waste of time.”

“Brief though their service was, our master’s newly claimed servants did fight and die in His name. In death, their souls become His strength.”

Aethon rolled his eyes. He knew that much already. The massacre still bolstered the God of Blood and War’s power, but less than a proper battle would have. All the more reason that this ‘lesson’ was a waste.

“As for my comrades,” Urianger smiled, a sly thing. Aethon resisted the urge to slash it off his face. “Worry not. If they were feeble enough to fall to Skalik dregs, they would be useless to us.”

“They’re useless now because they’re still the enemy.” Aethon pointed out. “We should have taken them when we had the chance. Instead of that ridiculous show, wasting the opportunity to bolster our ranks.”

“You surprise me, my captain.” Gorrath emerged from the shadows that pooled at the far end of the chamber. Aethon started; how long had He been there? “I would have thought you’d rejoice at the slaughter of Skalik.”

“When it’s done by my hand.” Aethon answered shortly. His patience for his god’s entertainment was wearing thin. “Or when it serves a purpose.”

“You know the purpose.” Gorrath chided. Aethon’s scowl deepened.

“A real purpose. Something that advances our tactical or strategic aims, not indulging Urianger’s fantasy that his friends will make the finest killers on the face of the star if only we spoil them.”

Urianger met his scowl impassively. “I am confident my fellow Scions will be the greatest of our master’s servants once they are properly prepared and brought into the fold. Have I not vowed that I shall remain among the unchosen until I deliver them into His arms?”

“Such a noble sacrifice.” Aethon almost sneered. Further argument was stalled by a pillar of balefire bursting into existence beside them. Crimson flames and black lightning quickly bent into a recognizable shape. Minos snorted and tossed his head as the last flickers of energy faded. The former prince took in his surroundings and immediately genuflected.

“My master. I give thanks that my flesh was deemed worthy to serve as a vessel for your incarnation.”

Aethon was in no mood for more fawning. His simmering anger wanted a target and he held it down with difficulty. “Pity it was. If not, our lines wouldn’t have collapsed and we wouldn’t have lost the battle.”

Keeping Gorrath’s army in good fighting order on the battlefield was hard enough. Minos, though as prone to getting blood-drunk as any of the Chosen, was one of the rare few who retained enough tactical sense and command presence to actually lead their forces, rather than simply rampage in a given direction. When he left the battle to ‘entertain’ the Scions, the army’s cohesion disintegrated and the Skalik counteroffensive had picked them apart. For all Aethon despised Skraal, he had to admit the one-eyed warlord was a skilled tactician. It had been all Aethon could do to rally the bulk of their forces and perform a fighting withdrawal to cut them free of the tightening noose formed of hunt packs.

Gorrath scoffed. “This was hardly a defeat.”

“Neither was it a victory.” Aethon snapped. His rage and the aura of bloodlust Gorrath exuded combined into something dangerous. “How much long are you going to be outmatched by these damn rats?”

Even knowing the blow was coming, Aethon only barely managed to dodge it. Blooddrinker shattered the ground where it impacted, throwing up fragments of stone the size of grown men. Aethon sidestepped the attack, narrowly escaping being caught up in the shockwave it created. His sword and shield were drawn, ready to taste blood. Gorrath raised His axe, holding it in both hands ready to kill. Aethon met the Blood God’s murderous expression without flinching. He licked his lips, eager to finally cross blades with the deity he had summoned. Minos looked between the two of them, torn. He yearned to kill Aethon for the insult nearly as much as Gorrath did, but if he stood with Aethon he would have the sublime experience of meeting their god in combat.

The brittle tension would have only lasted a few seconds before they started to tear each other apart, had not Urianger bravely, or foolishly, stepped into the middle.

“I too eagerly await the day that we may begin to tear each other apart in holy slaughter, but that day has not come. We have enemies enough still yet to contend with.”

Gorrath simply growled, an animalistic noise of pure hate. Aethon knew Gorrath would butcher Urianger alongside him without blinking. But the astrologian’s words had punctured his own furious haze enough that he knew he only had one choice.

Aethon straightened out of his combat stance and held his weapons loosely at his sides. He met the Blood God’s glare, knowing a more overt show of submission would only be taken as a sign of weakness to exploit.

“He’s right. My apologies, my master. I’ve spent too long in the stifling air of this rat hole and it has enflamed my temper.”

Gorrath exhaled through clenched teeth and straightened up as well. Blooddrinker shifted from held before Him in both hands to stamped down butt-first on the fractured floor. Aethon relaxed a hair, knowing the worst of the danger was passed.

“Take care, mortal.” Gorrath warned darkly. “Your rank as my captain does not grant you free license to mock.”

“It will not happen again.” Now Aethon did break eye contact, dropping his gaze as he bowed slightly. Gorrath watched him for a long moment, no doubt aware of the desire to kill something, to kill Him still burning in Aethon’s heart. Aethon waited, wondering if Gorrath would kill him anyway. And if he even cared.

The tension he felt worsened by the day. He’d thought he could ease it with the rush of battle and the satisfaction of slaughtering Skalik, but the former was a fleeting pleasure. As for the latter, he killed and killed but he was never satisfied. His anger did not cool, not much how much blood he tried to quench it in. That fire burned ceaselessly, inexhaustible despite that he had nothing left with which to fuel it.

All he had left was serving his bloody god. And if that god deemed his services no longer required…

To Aethon’s uncomfortably mingling relief and disappointment, Gorrath let the matter drop and turned to the other men present.

“The Scions have moved as we expected, but not all of them. The secondary plan will needed to lure out the two remaining ones.”

“Is it truly necessary for us to devote so much attention to these Scions?” Minos asked. The gargantuan Taurhe folded arms as thick as an entire man across an even broader torso. “The captain’s point is not wholly incorrect. Our war stalls while you spend time chasing them.”

“These two are the best of the Scions.” Gorrath growled, deceptively calm. “They have already proven they would make exceptional Chosen. I want them, and I will have them.”

Aethon, well aware he wasn’t so much on thin ice as he was on ice that was already cracking, said nothing.

Gorrath smiled, a gruesome sight. “And this realm is in need of a proper massacre.”

It was morning when Skalik came for the Scions. At least, it felt like morning to Alisaie. Completely underground with no external frame of reference, she was beginning to lose track of time. Having been woken up in the middle of the ‘night’ for her shift on watch wasn’t helping much either.

The heavy iron door that sealed off the cell-block slowly opened with a screech of rusted metal. On watch, Thancred straightened up from where he was leaning against the wall. The other Scions and Cailia got up from where they were sitting and joined him at the cell door. Cailia had her bow in one hand, the other raised to grab an arrow out of her quiver. Alisaie doubted the Skalik would really try to murder them after everything, if nothing else they wanted her ability to cure tempering. But when Skraal believed it likely enough to give them permission to kill any who tried, she had to admit it was something to watch out for.

The group collectively relaxed when Nrack padded down the stairs, a tray laden with food in one hand and a jug in the other. All of them except Cailia, who drew one of her arrows and trained it on Nrack with blinding speed.

“Who are they?” She demanded of the young Skalik frozen in his tracks. She jerked her head towards the stairs where Alisaie now saw several large, dark armored Skalik waiting in the doorway.

“Guards.” Nrack squeaked out, hands raised defensively. His beady eyes darted around in fear. “Warlord sent. Escort.”

“Skraal told us he would send Nrack for us.” G’raha reminded Cailia, trying to talk the archer down.

“He’d send Nrack.” She replied, eyes not leaving the Skalik for a second. “Not a bunch of fighters.”

“If he knew someone would try to kill us, sending an escort only makes sense.” Alisaie pointed out. She assessed ways to incapacitate Cailia, knowing the thought exercise futile. With an arrow nocked on a drawn bowstring, trying to jump Cailia would only jostle her into firing.

Cailia was not swayed by her logic. “Or Nrack was threatened into disobeying his warlord’s orders and aiding an attempt to kill us. That kind of thing happens all the time among Skalik.”

The Skalik on the stairs were getting restive. One took a few steps down and Cailia’s grip on her drawn arrow shifted. Alisaie knew they were seconds away from violence breaking out.

“Message. From Warlord.” Nrack croaked. His eyes darted over to Alisaie. “For healer.”

“Me?” Alisaie asked. What could Skraal have to say to her?

“Be more careful, yes?” Moving slowly to avoid drawing an arrow, Nrack raised the hand holding the jug to his head and awkwardly freed a finger from its grip on the jug’s handle to tap his temple. His right temple, the same spot that on Alisaie still throbbed from when Aethon clobbered her.

She smiled, the tension draining out of her. “It’s alright. Skraal did send him.”

She expected to do more explaining, but Cailia was already lowering her bow. “Good. We needed to be sure.”

“Wise.” The Skalik on the stairs growled with begrudging respect. He shifted impatiently. “Eat quickly! Warlord awaits!”

No longer in fear for his life, Nrack came forward bearing their breakfast. Cailia leaned in close to Alphinaud and asked in a low murmur “Can your healing purify poisons?”

“It can.” He murmured back. Cailia straightened up and nodded to Thancred he could open the door.

“Bit paranoid, are you?” Alisaie asked drily. Cailia looked unamused.

“I could never face Markos again if I let you die from suicide down here.”

“Suicide?”

“Trusting Skalik. Same thing, really.”

Nrack cautiously entered the cell to deposit his cargo, then bolted for the door as soon as he placed it on the table. Alisaie sighed at the lack of cups or plates, but she’d eaten in worse conditions before. She noticed the platter was full of cuts of meat and eyed them with trepidation. Cailia guessed at her thoughts from her expression.

“Don’t worry.” She ripped off a piece of the jerky with her teeth, chewed, and swallowed. “This is livestock, not people.”

“What kind of livestock?” Thancred asked, sitting down beside them. Ever adventurous, G’raha was already eating while Alphinaud simply sat quietly.

“That, you’re better off not knowing.” Cailia told them, which wasn’t terribly reassuring. Nevertheless, Alisaie tentatively took a bite. The meat was hard, gamey, and heavily salted. She managed to tear off a chunk with her teeth and wash it down with a gulp of water from the jug when it was passed around. She nudged her brother, who began to eat slowly as well. Though in his case, she doubted it had anything to do with the food and everything to do with his stomach. She had pretended not to notice when he had stumbled out of their shared cell to vomit in the middle of the night and she doubted his stomach was any more settled now.

Still, he managed to keep the meal down and all of them quickly ate their fill. Alisaie couldn’t say the jerky was anywhere close to good, the taste could be compared unfavorably to Archon Loaf, but there was plenty of it. The water in the jug was crisp and clean, as well. Under the circumstances, that was about all they could ask for.

When they had finished their brief breakfast and gathered their various effects, the Scions left the cell and joined Nrack. He led them up the stairs and out of the prison, with the waiting guards moving to be on either side of the group.

One barked at them. “This way.”

They set off through the twisting passages of the war-den. By now, Alisaie was beginning to get a sense of direction even with the near identical tunnels and the frequent turns. They were heading deeper into the complex, and downwards as well. She doubted she could find her way back to the entrance or their previous accommodations unaided, but she could at least head in their general direction now. They passed by several groups of Skalik, all of which hastened to clear their path. One dreg with gray in his fur was too slow and was unceremoniously clubbed to the ground by the lead guard.

“Stop that.” Alisaie demanded. The guard looked at her with disdain but complied. Alisaie stepped forward and readied a healing spell, but the elderly slave bolted away down a side passage before she could. The guard hissed.

“Hssk. Waste time. Come.”

The group continued on. Eventually they descended down a spiral staircase and Alisaie could hear the sounds of numerous conversations layered over one another that signaled the presence of a large, open space filled with people. They soon entered a chamber that was exactly that.

It consisted of a wide-open atrium with a high ceiling. The sudden open space after being held in the close confines of the tunnels surprised Alisaie and she noticed Thancred gratefully stretching out his back while straightening to his full height. The room was full of Skalik, milling this way and that. Many were armed and armored warriors but plenty more were recognizable as rag-clad dregs, keeping their gazes lowered.

The crowds took notice, and exception, to their presence. The mood in the air turned angry and the conversations became confrontational. The guards took to shoving their way through the press of people; no longer were others making way for them. That only intensified the anger, and some in the crowd began to push back. Their progress halted and their group began to compress in response to the pressure of the crowd. Angry cries sounded.

“Elarian scum!”

“Gut them!”

And worryingly, a few calls of “Meat!”

“Traitors!” The guard nearest to Alisaie savagely struck the warrior who darted forward and spat that in his face. No weapons were drawn, yet, but the guards were now all struggling against the crowd. Cailia’s hands twitched toward her bow, but she knew better than to draw it. Alisaie could sense the violence brewing, feel it beginning to bubble over into a riot. One Skalik slipped past the line of guards and snarled at her.

“Back off!” She shoved the Skalik back. A guard grabbed him and bodily threw him aside. The pressure from the crowd was increasing, their thin line of protectors nearly buckling inward. Hands reached past the armored bodies to claw at the Scions. Alisaie slapped the nearest ones away. She could tell Alphinaud was trying to reason with the crowd, but even standing right next to him she could barely hear his voice over the cacophonous yelling.

Suddenly, a wordless snarl ripped through the shouting. Many of the raised voices instantly cut off. The silence spread like a wave rippling outwards through the crowd. More and more Skalik turned to see the source and fell silent as well. The press of bodies towards them changed direction, moving away from them and one another. And walking silent along the path even now being made for him was Warlord Skraal.

He regarded his guards and the Scions dispassionately, ignoring the mob around them entirely. He jerked his head in a gesture to follow and follow him they did, back along the channel through the crowd that widened as they approached. The watching Skalik pushed and shoved each other back for space rather than stand in the procession’s way. Skraal led them up a ramp, and around a circular hallway to a room that consisted of rows of seating, laid out in tiers. It resembled the stands in a stadium and, as Alisaie looked through the gap in the curtains that were the room’s far wall, she realized that’s exactly what they were.

Skraal pointed at Alphinaud. “You are the group’s speaker?”

Alphinaud glanced at his companions and gave them a chance to object to the designation. None of them did. Alisaie nodded her approval at him. He was the closest the Scions have had to a spokesperson in a long time.

“I am.” Alphinaud confirmed. Skraal nodded.

“Then follow. War talk begins.” He looked at the rest of them. “You all stay here. Watch.”

Without waiting for an answer he turned and strode from the room. Alphinaud hastened after him, followed by one of the guards. Another shut the door behind them and took up position next to it. A third gestured to the back row of seats, which like the others was simply a carved stone bench.

“Sit here. In shadows.”

And out of sight. Alisaie knew. Given their presence had nearly started a riot, she agreed with the precaution. As she took her seat, Nrack pulled the curtains back and she got a look at the room they were overlooking.

It resembled an arena, in some respects. A large, circular space sunk below their vantage point. Similar rooms to theirs ringed the top level of the arena, while below them were more open seating areas Alisaie assumed for the general public’s use. These were filling now with Skalik slowly flowing in from outside, filling the air with noise. There were some patterns in the crowd, one section having more dressed in brown, others having many wearing a dark gray. There were precious few dregs present, she noted.

The arena’s floor itself was a little atypical. Instead of a flat, featureless surface like one might expect, the ground was set in a series of circular steps that went lower and lower into the ground, Twelve of them in all, with the lowest circle making thirteen levels total. Four Skalik already stood in the chamber. Three standing apart from one another on the second to last level, while the fourth, who Alisaie recognized as Vilsrich, stood a level up. She wondered about the placement; it did not seem random. A denotation of rank, probably.

She clicked her tongue in distaste. She was beginning to realize how rigidly hierarchical Skalik society was and she did not care for it.

Braziers were set at points around the circle. Fire crackled in them, creating an orange glow that Alisaie found oddly jarring. She was getting used to the muted green light that was omnipresent in the Skalik tunnels, but seeing it competing with the warmer light generated by actual flames created a garish contrast.

Movement drew her eye. Skraal entered the ring and with a purposeful stride descended to the second lowest level to stand opposite his contemporaries.

“Warlord Gorsik.” Nrack said quietly, pointing to one of the others on that level, wearing armor that was dashed with dark red and left one arm bare. Nrack’s finger swung to another, wearing steely gray full armor, made of heavy plates and with a helmet tucked under an arm. “Warlord Vorska.” Nrack indicated the third, who held a staff of gnarled wood and even from here had visible pustules on his exposed skin. “Warlord Nakgrot.”

Finally, the finger landed on Vilsrich. “Packsleader Vilsrich.”

“Pack-leader?” Alisaie repeated. Her theory about the rings signaling rank seemed true.

Nrack frowned. “Packsleader.” He stressed. Alisaie nodded her understanding. Pack leader, singular, was one rank, packs leader, plural, was another. With such an emphasis on the hierarchy, getting it wrong was likely a grave insult. Useful to know, if she needed an insult.

 Below, Skraal raised a fist. The low murmur of conversation around the ‘arena’ ceased and he lowered it again. He eyed his fellow warlords, turning so he could look at each of them directly. His gaze raised, scanning the watching crowd. Neither of the other warlords spoke, waiting for him. Alisaie sensed Skraal was first among equals here. Finally, he looked back down to them.

“Gnashfang.” His gravelly voice carried easily throughout the whole space. “Madclaw. Ironfur. Bilespitter. Shadowtail.”

Skraal gestured in the direction of a section of seating as he recited each name. Alisaie held back a grin. She recognized this, first from seeing her father address the Forum and later from her brother who inherited the talent. The warlord was playing to an audience.

“Five clans fight here. Five clans fail. Beaten, many times. Lose against Demon, even Demon’s thralls.” His gaze narrowed on the other Warlords. “Clan Gnashfang fights harder than any two clans.”

All three of them bristled. Gorsik spoke first. “Clan Madclaw fights harder than Gnashfang!”

“Ironfur fights harder than both!” Vorska insisted. For a moment she and Gorsik glared at each other before Skraal caught their attention by laughing.

“Lies, Gnashfang stand supreme. But truth, clans fight hard. Better than any save Gnashfang. Could say nine clans fight here.” Alisaie rolled her eyes. He wanted to say they were all doing well, but just had to insist his clan was doing best.

Skraal’s likely feigned humor withered. “But still, defeat. Demon lives. Skalik blades not enough. Need more blades? Ask Quickpaws for warriors?”

Jeering laughter greeted the rhetorical question.

“Need Skalik magic!” Nakgrot shouted. He stamped his staff “Poison Blood Demon’s blood!”

“When?” Skraal growled, low and deadly. “When Demon fall to plague, hrm? Hasn’t yet. Bilespitter magic too weak.”

Nakgrot tensed, and for a moment Alisaie thought he might lunge forward and attack. Skraal’s hand dropped to the hilt of his Elarian sword and Nakgrot paled, retreating a step. Skraal stared him down for another moment, then ignored him in favor of addressing the others.

“Need new weapon. Gnashfang has new weapon.”

“Gnashfang steals!” Alisaie was surprised to see Vilsrich step forward and shout. She would have guessed the lower ranked Skalik was not allowed to speak in this meeting unless spoken to. “Healer need to be taken to Council! Gnashfang–”

Skraal roared at her, a wordless snarl that cut her off. “Warlords speak here!” He shouted, confirming Alisaie’s suspicions. “None other!”

Vilsrich quailed under his and the other warlord’s glares. She shrank back and was dismissed with a contemptuous shake of Skraal’s head. Alisaie couldn’t say she felt sorry for Vilsrich; she had the distinct impression her fate would be rather unpleasant if she ended up in the female Skalik’s hands.

“Healer not new Gnashfang weapon. Healer healer, not weapon.” Skraal said like he was addressing a particularly stupid child. He gestured toward the door he had entered from. “Gnashfang have better weapon.”

Alphinaud entered on cue and the arena erupted. Skalik were roaring, shouting curses. Some even got out of their seats and made as if to rush into the ring, though none were brave enough to vault the railing that encircled the stands. Alisaie watched carefully, knowing that if any did she might have to defend her brother with some quick spellwork. Alphinaud started a little at the noise but walked on, stopping three rungs in with a deliberateness that made Alisaie certain he had been told to stand there.

“Quiet!” Skraal yelled, and there was quiet. The crowd, though still agitated, obeyed the command for silence immediately. Vorska, not subject to Skraal’s orders, laughed mockingly.

“Madder than Madclaw, bringing Elarian here.”

“Elarian, no.” Skraal countered. “Uplander, yes.”

“Still meat.” Gorsik said. Alisaie didn’t like the way he was eying Alphinaud one bit. “War-talk no place for lunch.”

Skraal’s voice dropped warningly. “Gnashfang captive. Gnashfang property. Want steal from Gnashfang? Then get steel.”

He patted the swords at his waist. Alisaie frowned. That was probably the best way to slot them into the Skalik’s society, she knew. As people, they were outsiders, threats. As things, they belonged to the clan and harming them would be wronging the clan. The didn’t mean she had to like the designation, however.

Nakgrot was peering at Alphinaud. “That Healer, no? Not new weapon.”

“New weapon, knowledge.” Skraal insisted. He waved at Alphinaud. “Speak.”

“Thank you, warlord.” Alphinaud straightened up and projected his voice. “I speak for the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. We dwell across the sea, and we hunt and destroy Demons wherever we find them to keep them from threatening our land.”

Alisaie couldn’t help but smile a little in pride. Even after what he’d been through recently and surrounded by a very hostile audience, he still could channel the dignity and poise of an elder statesman. It was just as well they were shrouded in the shadows of their box; she’d never live it down if he saw her respecting him like this.

Vorska snorted. “Destroyer of thralls, maybe. What good you against true Demon?”

Alisaie thought the reminder might wound Alphinaud, but he was in his element here and answered the question without so much as a waver in his composure.

“For starters, we are all immune to his corruption.” They had all agreed the existence of warding scales should remain a secret lest the Skalik get covetous. “And we know the secret of the Chosen’s immortality.”

He went on to explain about the coffins and described them. When he finished, Skraal waved at him sharply in a clear gesture to be quiet.

“Corpse inside crimson crystal.” Skraal summarized. He looked between his fellow warlords “Seen?”

When each of them answered in the negative, he returned his attention to Alphinaud. “How find ‘Coffins?’”

“The Caller is the Demon’s right hand. He will know.”

Gorsik laughed mockingly at Alphinaud’s words. “Demon thralls never talk. Never betray master. Even torture useless. You Demon hunter? You lie.”

Alphinaud was unfazed by the objection. “It’s true, Aethon is corrupted and would never tell us something so damaging to Gorrath’s cause.” He smiled slightly. “But we have the Healer.”

Voices erupted around the arena as everyone present took in the implications of Alphinaud’s words. Vorska and Nakgrot were speaking to one another and Gorsik was laughing again, this time with genuine mirth. Vilsrich stepped forward again.

“Caller must die!” The other conversations ceased and she spoke again into the silence. “Council has commanded it. To every warlord and warrior here.”

Skraal stalked around the ring of his level. “You warned, Shadowtail.”

His hand dropped to his sword as he approached. Vilsrich quailed, but rallied. “My right to speak, to say Council’s command!”

Skraal was within arm’s reach of Vilsrich, but he paused at that. Alisaie suspected there were some technicalities in the rules of who was allowed to speak and when at play here. Vilsrich took advantage of them to continue. “Caller dies. Elarian say to heal, Elarian say to defy Council! All Elarians but Healer must die!”

“Truth.” Vorska said. Skraal turned to scowl as her as she continued. “Council’s command clear. Kill Caller. Deliver corpse. Kill Elarians aiding Caller.”

She looked at Alphinaud. “Say we spare Caller? Save him from us? That aid, yes?”

Voices raised in agreement around the arena. Alisaie felt the eyes of the guards in the box on her and her companions. She surreptitiously loosened her rapier in her belt. Skraal may be first among equals here, but it sounded like he was being overruled.

Skraal shifted on his feet, looking around at the increasing number of Skalik standing against him. His gaze landed on Alphinaud just as Alisaie’s brother raised his hand. “Something to say? Speak!”

Alphinaud nodded and turned to Vilsrich. “You say to kill the Elarians except for the Healer. Did the Council’s command spare her?”

She hissed in disgust at the obvious question. “Fool. Council will want Healer alive.”

A grin flashed on Skraal’s face as he rounded on her, clearly grasping Alphinaud’s idea as quickly as Alisaie had. “Oh? Vilsrich on Council now? Speak with their voice?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer, instead turning past her to his fellow warlords. “Warlords know, orders change as battle change. Council command Caller and Healer die. Council not know Caller lives, Chosen die. Council not know Healer exist. Council change order if knowing?”

Skraal rounded on Vilsrich again. “If Shadowtail so concerned with Council commands obeyed, Shadowtail go and ask them. Not obey only commands she want.”

Vilsrich hissed. A reckless determination filled her. “I no fool. Skraal capture, not kill, Caller while I gone.”

Skraal backhanded her across the face. The blow threw her backwards and she fell onto the higher rung behind her. Skraal’s eye glared murderously at her.

“You Gnashfang, you die for that. Skraal serve Council. Always.”

Vilsrich propped herself off the ground on her elbows. She snarled, but the look in Skraal’s eye strangled the noise and she quickly dropped her gaze to the floor rather than meet his. Skraal spoke to the room while not looking away from her.

“Skraal commands; Vilsrich go to Deep-Dwell. Tell Council of new plan. Return with Council’s command. War-den wait for Council word. Will kill or spare Caller as commanded.”

Skraal looked to each of the other warlords in turn and patted the hilt of his Elarian sword. “Any challenge? Knightkiller Skraal ready.”

Silence stretched between the warlords for a ritualistically long moment before Skraal nodded. “Go, ready clans for battle. Demon comes again soon.”

“I hear, I agree.” Each of the warlord said before turning to leave.

Vilsrich stood, spat a globule of blood, and glared daggers at Skraal. “I hear, I obey.”

Skraal joined them in the viewing box as the attendees slowly filed out of the arena.

“Do you think the Council will vote in favor of our plan?” Alphinaud was asking as the duo entered. Skraal chuckled, a guttural noise.

“No. Council bickers over choicest cuts of Caller’s flesh. Not even need to vote.”

“But once uncertainty about their choice is raised, it needs to be addressed just in case you might disobey their will?” Alphinaud speculated. Alisaie was relieved to see the usual calculating air to him rather than a return to the moroseness of this morning and the past night. “I imagine Vilsrich conceded because the Council would be furious if someone who can purify corruption was killed, even if it was done on a literal interpretation of their orders.”

Skraal nodded at his words. “Just so. Cunning move. Gives us time.”

“How long will it take Vilsrich to reach Deep-Dwell?” Thancred asked, already thinking.

“On wolf-back, one day. Or less.” Nrack answered. Thancred frowned.

“So we only have two days at most to act.”

“Hnng, no.” Skraal was shaking his head. His single eye had a glint of amusement.

“One day if riding hard. Vilsrich soft Shadowtail. And long on the front. She ride slow. Take her time. Two days, or three. And when she reaches Deep-Dwell, not storm Council chambers right away. Stop for good food, soft bed, clan comfort first. And Council take time to meet. Will argue. More time for their decision. Then Vilsrich come back, slow as she went.” His voice dripped with contempt.

“You said they would be unanimous in calling for Aethon’s death.” Alisaie pointed out. “Will they really argue?”

Again Skraal gave that harsh laugh of his. “Council always argue. Do it for show, for fun. They never come to a decision quickly.”

“So we have time.” Alisaie concluded.

“Time and blades.” Skraal agreed. “Only things warriors need. We find Caller, and he talks. One way, or another.”

In the shadows off to the side of the Nrack shifted uncomfortably. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“What is it?” Alisaie asked him. He jumped at being addressed and to her surprise glared at her. Just as Skraal was now glaring at him.

“Speak.”

Nrack looked very much like he wanted to disobey his warlord’s command, but he reluctantly complied.

“Warlord say, we await Council judgement. We take Caller, break that word. Other clans will know, tell Council we defy them.”

“Hnng, we not take Caller.” Skraal answered. “We search. Send scouts. Scour tunnels. Find him. Then await Council’s command.”

He turned and his one eye roved over the Scions. “But if Uplanders take Caller before Council’s command arrives…”

“That would be entirely unpreventable, wouldn’t it?” Alisaie concluded, grinning. She punched a fist into her open palm, a gesture she copied unthinkingly from the absent Warrior of Light. “What’s our plan?”

Skraal growled, low. “Hnng. We hunt. We turn to Elarian monster.”

“You mean Lupercal? I don’t think she’s in any position to–” G’raha began, before Skraal cut him off.

“Not Elarian Demon. Elarion’s biggest monster. Silver Eyes.” Skraal’s voice dripped venom on those last two words. Nrack and a few of the guards spat.

“What makes you think we can work with the Princeps?” Alisaie asked. She had not forgotten the man’s warning against revealing their partnership with him, not that she needed it with how they reacted to the mention of him. Skraal gave her an unamused look.

“We not stupid. Silver Eyes sees all on the surface. You walked his land, he knows of you. If not already his servants, then at least you had his blessing on your hunt. You can approach him, and he will tell where Caller hides.”

No use hiding it, then. Alisaie shook her head. “He cannot. The Demon’s power shrouds his thralls. Aethon is hidden from his Sight, as is the Demon himself.”

The guard standing next to her scoffed. Skraal looked carefully at her for a long moment. “Convenient.”

“What does that mean?” Cailia asked angrily.

“Silver Eyes sees every trap and trick, but helpless now?” Skraal’s eye narrowed. “Some say Demon not called by chance. That this another one of Silver Eyes’ schemes.”

“You think Gorrath was summoned on the Princeps’ orders?” Alisaie asked in disbelief.

“Elarian Caller. Elarian Demon.” Skraal pointed out. “Commanded or not, Skalik blood shed by the Demon is on Elarian hands.”

“The Princeps has mobilized the forces of Elarian to fight against Gorrath.” Alphinaud countered evenly. “And Gorrath was only summoned via a ritual your people prepared to summon a Demon of your own. Would you be weeping if that had been successful and a Skalik Demon was slaughtering Elarians?”

The Skalik in the room bristled, but Skraal let out a bark of laughter. “True. Much blood running from many hands.”

He sobered. “Silver Eyes useless, no matter. We can hunt just as well. Shadowtails need tasking. This skulking what they are bred for.”

“What can we do to help?” Alisaie asked.

“For now, nothing.” Skraal noted her expression and shrugged. “Tunnels are our land, not yours. We move faster, quieter. Search quicker. You wait for news.”

His demeanor darkened. “Wait, and prepare. Finding Caller the easy part.”

It occurred to Alisaie that she’d have to face Aethon yet again, this time without a master swordsman like Marcus or Skraal to hold him at bay. Her temple throbbed.

Chapter Text

The tower chamber of Clenon Castle echoed with the ringing of blunted steel.

Castor’s practice sword moved without conscious thought, easily knocking away the Princeps’ stab. His pulled his follow up strike but still solidly rapped the Princeps in the rib cage. Telarchus glowered from his place standing by the wall clear of the combat but said nothing. The Princeps had long ago sided with his Guardian Knight over his attendant that training needed real risk to be effective. And he needed the training.

The Lady’s Oracle was many things, but a warrior was not one of them. When Castor had first entered the younger man’s service, the Princeps’ skill with a blade was poor enough to be considered embarrassing for an Elarian. But now, after years of training from one of the realm’s finest Knights, he could be called an adequate swordsman. If one was being generous.

Still, the physical demands of using the Sight meant the Princeps was required to keep himself in shape. With how much of his aether the Princeps had been forced to spend on using the Sight in recent days, it had been a while since they had trained together. Long enough that today’s session was prompted by Telarchus needling their shared master about taking the time to maintain his physicality. Fitting the Princeps’s predilection for making the most of his time, their regular sparring matches served as both exercise and potentially useful training sessions. It was hard for Castor to picture dire enough circumstances where the Princeps would actually ever need to fight, but he could hardly deny it was a useful skill to have in Elarion. Something he’d learned from the Princeps; unlikely circumstances had a tendency to force themselves into occurring surprisingly often.

Another advantage to the duo sparring was that it gave them the chance to connect, something their respective different duties sometimes made difficult.

“Is the Underground War over yet?” Castor asked into a brief lull in the ringing of blades.

The Princeps passed his blade from hand to hand, trying not to show how heavily he was breathing. Telarchus was not wrong that he needed the exercise. “Not officially, there are still holdouts being pried out of Ripper Gorge. But that is only a matter of time. Gabril and Helena are already leading their respective forces north to join us.”

He lunged forward swinging his sword in a clumsy arc that Castor side-stepped rather than defend against. He caught the flash of irritation on the Princeps’s face. “Fight with your head, not your eyes.”

The oft-repeated admonishment irritated the Princeps further but he retained enough wits not to be provoked into a rash attack, slowing down and centering himself with a deep, calming breath. Castor didn’t allow him the time to compose himself, going on the offensive himself. He drove the Princeps back with a series of strikes the younger man barely stayed ahead of. The Princeps was nearly backed into the wall before Castor allowed him to escape by juking to the side. He surprised Castor by darting in with a sudden stab, getting close enough that Castor had to put some effort into parrying the attack away.

“When can we expect those reinforcements?” Castor asked over the sounds of combat.

“A few days.” The Princeps saw the confusion in his face. “They’ve already left and I requested they move swiftly.”

“I see.” A ‘request’ from the Princeps certainly would get Helena hopping to it. Gabril, on the other hand, Castor would bet would have raced north regardless to grab whatever glory he could. A quick flurry of blows saw him nearly disarm the Princeps and Castor withdrew to let him recover his grip. “And the Scions? How fares their mission?”

“They’ve made contact with the Skalik and managed to ingratiate themselves.” The Princeps answered, not sounding entirely pleased. “They are safe for now in the protective custody of Warlord Skraal.”

That did not sound safe to Castor. He knew of Skraal. Though, on the topic of the Scions…

“Have they been fruitful?” He asked the Princeps as they slowly circled each other looking for openings. “Your conversations with Y’shtola?”

Another man less familiar with the Princeps might have missed the defensive note in his voice. “We are making good progress and her map of the ley lines will be useful beyond the close of this war.”

Over the Princeps’ shoulder, Castor met Telarchus’s eyes. A rare moment of common understanding passed between them. The demands of his office meant the Princeps forsook certain forms of companionship, but he was still a man. Neither of his retainers had the heart to take him to task over this… dalliance with the Miqo’te woman.

Perhaps seeing Castor’s distraction, the Princeps blinked in a way Castor recognized. He rushed forward and brought his sword down hard. The Princeps was fast enough to block the strike, but the force of it still knocked him off his feet. Castor ignored the angry tongue-click from Telarchus. There were rules to these sparring matches and one of them was that when the Princeps tried to cheat, he paid for it.

The Princeps laid unmoving on the floor, moaning slightly from the hit. For a moment Castor allowed that Telarchus wasn’t entirely in the wrong. Even a blunted blade could do serious damage in his hands. He approached his downed master, shifting his practice sword into his off-hand and wordlessly reached out his now free arm. The Princeps looked at the offered hand and sat up. He made to take Castor’s hand, only to lash out with his sword in a burst of motion. Fast, for him, and Castor only barely snatched his hand back to spare his fingers the hit. The Princeps rode the momentum of his attack to rise to his feet and spun into another slash. Castor caught the attack with a clang and blades ground together.

“You’re not getting me with that again.” The Princeps said, straining against Castor’s sword with such determination Castor felt a smidge of guilty humor over how little effort it took to keep the other man at bay. A note of laughter crept into the Princeps’ voice. “For the fourth time in a row.”

“Very good.” Castor nodded in approval. The boy was finally learning. “This match is now over.”

The usual words brought their combat officially to an end. The Princeps stopped his struggling and exhaled deeply, shoulders slumping with fatigue only now catching up with him. Telarchus was already at his side with a cup of water and a towel. The Princeps traded the latter for his sword and padded up his sweat, panting freely. He took the water and drank deep gulps after a word of thanks to his loyal seneschal. He rolled his shoulders as his breathing came under control and idly stretched out his arms. He looked happy, for once. The cooling rush of combat was an easy high to get lost in. But their training session was over now.

It was time for Castor to ask the question he’d been avoiding.

“And what of our enemies?” What did you see that made you seek the distraction of sparring?

The Princeps’ smile withered. Even expecting it, Castor still felt guilty. The Princeps turned away, walking over to the window and staring out at the mountains. Staring north, to where their enemy lay. Castor shared a look with Telarchus, the manservant looking as concerned as Castor felt as they waited for their master to speak. After another few seconds, he began.

“Gorrath is sending south two forces of Chosen, thirty in each.”

“To where?” Castor asked. He was already assessing targets. Even thirty Chosen would be hard pressed to taken Volos Castle, and Clenon would be beyond them. There were still some small hamlets in the Eastern Ferrocs that had yet to be evacuated, but for those thirty Chosen would be obscene overkill, even for Gorrath.

“One to Minea, one Cretos.” The Princeps answered, to Castor’s confusion.

“How do they intend to get across the river?”

“They’re going to swim.” The Princeps turned back and answered Castor’s look with a shrug. “They’re strong enough now that they can do it. And once they get across they will rampage across the land, killing everyone they meet. No specific target I could discern, just carnage.”

“I don’t understand.” Telarchus said, looking to each of them in turn. “Why strike the southern princedoms? That makes no tactical sense.”

“This isn’t about tactics.” The Princeps said darkly. “This is about slaughter. Gorrath wanting to drown the land in blood.”

Castor knew it was about both. Obviously Gorrath would always be out to cause as much bloodshed as possible, but the benefits of this move were obvious too. They could not leave Cretos and Minea undefended, but…

“We do not have the Knights left to stop such an attack.” Castor said, the admission bitter on his tongue. “We simply are too few.”

Telarchus turned on him. “There are nearly fifty of you left. More than enough to stop one group. And Lupercal can take the other by herself, can she not?”

Castor was already shaking his head. “No. Because Gorrath’s goal here is exactly that.” He looked at the Princeps. “Isn’t it?”

The other man sighed. “If Lupercal goes to engage either force, Gorrath will join them. I can’t quite see how,” he preempted the obvious question, “but he’ll be there. And while Lupercal might still be a match for Gorrath, even as empowered as she is she cannot defeat Gorrath and a small army of Chosen alone. As for the Knights, Gorrath’s plan is clear. He hopes to winnow them down through attrition in battles like this that he can afford to lose. The Knights could best one force, but not without losses. And those losses are his true goal. Once the Knights are well and truly depleted, we will not be able to stop more substantial moves.”

Castor nodded grimly. Gorrath had them neatly trapped. Trying to stop him with the forces they had at their disposal was only playing right into his hand. But at the same time, not stopping him was simply not an option. Which left them with only one choice.

Castor met the Princeps’ eyes. “Gabril and Helena are leading their armies north. Those reinforcements can be diverted to intercept the Chosen strike forces.”

The Princeps nodded, ahead of him as usual. “They will have time to reach the opposite bank and contest the Chosen crossing. The Chosen will be stopped before they can massacre the villages of northern Cretos and Minea.”

“But, if those armies fight…” Telarchus trailed off. No man in this room was blind to what the result would be, pitting ordinary soldiers against Chosen. Gorrath was getting his bloodbath, one way or another. The manservant rallied. “Atreus will want to fight himself. Knowing the situation, he’ll insist on sending the Calydonian army to face one, or both, Chosen forces. He’ll not allow enemies to cross Calydon uncontested, knowing what the cost will be.”

“I will have a word with him.” The Princeps’ grin was a weak, hollow thing. “Well, more than one. But it’s an argument we’ll need to have. Calydon is too depleted to weather such losses now, not when their troops will be needed for the battles to come. And we can lessen the worst of the losses. Asterion is already in position to repel an attack on Cretos, so Gabril’s forces can reinforce him.”

“Leaving Lupercal free to reinforce Minea?” Castor hazarded. Correctly, judging by the Princeps’ nod.

“Even I would have a hard time keeping her here with such a battle on. If we send a dozen Knights with her, that tips the scales enough that Gorrath won’t engage. But they’ll need to stay in reserve, rather than be on the front line.”

A difficult duty, Castor knew. To stand back and watch as your comrades were cut down in droves. At best, it might cost them a dozen men to kill a single Chosen. Likely more. He assessed which of his remaining brothers and sisters would find that task easiest. “I can have them ready to depart within the hour.”

“Thank you.” The Princeps turned back to the window, looking north. “You and yours have fought hard already. Borne the dreadful burden of this war on your backs alone. And paid dearly for my lack of vision.”

“To pay such a price is our duty, my Princeps.” Castor replied evenly. They’d lost many Knights in recent days, yes, more brothers and sisters dead than Castor had ever expected from a single conflict. But that was the point of Knighthood. “Our blood for Elarion, our souls for the Lady.”

The Princeps looked back at him. Castor was struck by the look of him. His shoulders slumped and his eyes were downcast. Their plans were made, their path to victory assured, and he looked utterly defeated. He sighed, the sound laden with regret.

“I must send word to Helena and Gabril. I’m going to need a lot of blood for Elarion.”

There was another sigh, this one irritated. “Must you always do this to yourself?”

Castor turned to see Telarchus regarding the Princeps with an unamused glower, his arms folded. “This self-flagellation you insist on whenever circumstances demand sacrifice is pointless. You just outlined how we have little choice in this matter and we are doing all we can to lessen the loss of life. You are the Princeps and this is your role. Blessed Lady, it is obvious to anyone who looks that you are doing all in your power. Why then do you torment yourself?”

The sickening pall of defeat lifted from the Princeps, replaced by anger. He stepped forward, hands clenched at his sides. “You have to ask why I regret I cannot find a better way? That I have to command men to march to their deaths?”

“You forget yourself, my Princeps. You do not command.” Telarchus retorted. “You only advise. It is Gabril, Asterion, and Helena who will order men to die.”

“A poor attempt at evasion.” Castor commented and found himself on the receiving end of Telarchus’s glare. No longer aimed at their mutual master, Telarchus’s scorn flowed freely.

“Evading what? He is the Lady’s Oracle, not the Lady herself.” His attention returned to the Princeps, softening as it did. “Loss is part of war. You know that. Gods above, you know that better than anyone. You are not failing in your duty just because you cannot prevent it.”

The Princeps met the determined stare with one of his own, only to wilt and look away. “I know, alright? You’ve said it enough times already.”

“It’ll be enough when you start to believe it.” Telarchus said, not entirely mollified. “We inherit our burdens and lighten them for those who follow.”

The old saying did little to lift the Princeps’ spirits, or Castor’s for that matter. “Easy words from someone not sending men to die.”

Telarchus scoffed at the reply. “From one of the sent. Give the word, Knight-Captain, and I will depart at once. I’m confident I can take at least one Chosen with me into death.”

Castor regarded the killer dressed in silks opposite him and knew it was no idle boast. At least one, probably more. He could see it in the other man’s eyes, a part of him was very much hoping Castor would send him out. His service to the Princeps denied him the battlefield, but their master had too few servants he could rely on as it was. Instead, Castor hardened his expression.

“Do not make light of the sacrifices our countrymen must make.”

Telarchus’s eyes widened and he grimaced. He looked pensively at the Princeps. “That was not my intention. But, ‘Our Lady asks that we sacrifice much.’”

“’But embracing death shames her.’” The Princeps finished the line. He looked tired. “And the way I see things, embracing death is most of what I do. A few careful quotations from Scripture doesn’t change that.”

He cut Telarchus off with a raised hand. “You are not wrong. I dwell on the cost of victory. But to do otherwise risks becoming inured to it.”

“I don’t believe that will ever happen. Not to you.” Telarchus made a clear effort to soften his expression. “Your burden is heavy enough without you adding to it yourself.”

The Princeps absorbed that in silence. Castor doubted he would take the words to heart. Not when he’d sacrificed everything to embrace that burden.

Indeed, the Princeps changed the subject by sniffing himself. “I need to get changed before I can speak to Atreus. Castor, ready your chosen Knights. Telarchus, inform the prince I will be calling on him.”

“Yes, my Princeps.” The two men said in unison and departed the room together. As they descended the stairs Telarchus leaned in close to Castor.

“You are his Guardian Knight. You’re supposed to protect him. Even from himself.”

Castor thought of the lives the coming battle would cost, of how many of their people they had just condemned to death and the weight he felt on his own soul.

“Easier said than done.”

Krile was already waiting in Y’shtola’s room when Estinien arrived.

He had to stoop to step through the door and remained slightly crouched as he approached the two women. A piece of trivia he happened to pick up on was that Calydon had something of a tumultuous history with Cretos. For centuries, the Hyur of Calydon had been bitter enemies with the Taurhe of Cretos, second only to the Skalik. Even after, centuries ago, Cretos had been formally acknowledged by the Princeps of the time as a fifth princedom of Elarion, tensions continued to simmer across the river. It was only in living memory and thanks to the efforts of Prince Minos that the two realms began to see each other as genuine allies.

All of which was to say that, much to Estinien’s annoyance, the ceilings of many rooms in Castle Clenon had been very deliberately built to inconvenience someone of his height.

“Have I kept you waiting?” Estinien asked. The odds either woman might kill him for being later were slightly worse than if he attended them covered in Skalik blood, so his armor faintly shone.

“I only just arrived myself.” Krile reassured him, looking up from the desk. The Lalafellian woman looked determinedly not haggard; numerous long days spent either healing or creating more porxies to fill the endless need for them having taken their toll. Y’shtola looked little better. As far as Estinien understood medicine, her recovery was nearly miraculous as it was; one didn’t simply shrug off the kind of injuries he’d seen. It probably wasn’t helping that, though barred from combat, she remained hard at work in more intellectual pursuits. And speaking of which…

“Is this the map?” Estinien crouched near the table. Spread out across it was a map of the northern mountains and the various tunnels running through them, with a litany of notations meant to depict different elevations as well as sections filled in with red to designate enemy territory. It was surprisingly detailed, though perhaps not so surprising given its likely source. Scattered across the red zones of the tunnels were markers placed on the parchment seemingly at random.

“Indeed.” Y’shtola’s expression was unflappable, as always. Estinien respected those who could keep their cool, but it was still vaguely unnerving on some levels to interact with someone whose composure never wavered. Even when, say, she was watching the man she loved dying in his sickbed, Y’shtola’s emotional register peaked somewhere around ‘mild concern.’ As a friend, it was somewhat unsettling. As an ally, Estinien couldn’t ask for better.

“This map shows the locations of the aether current, or ley line if you prefer, conjunctions.” Y’shtola could likely already tell she was losing Estinien because she elaborated. “Places where the flow of aether through the land is especially strong. And thus, the ideal locations to position devices like the Chosen Coffins that will require a steady supply of aether.”

“How did you manage to find these?” Estinien marveled. Y’shtola shrugged and tried to hide the wince as the movement aggravated her torso wound.

“Aetherology is my field. It is a simple matter when one knows what to look for in animal migrations, weather patterns, and similar natural phenomena. Ordinarily, the true trial is obtaining such data, but the Princeps’ involvement greatly expediated that portion of the process.”

“So that is why the Princeps has been visiting you so regularly.” Krile said, a smirk in her tone. “I had begun to believe he was simply fond of your company.”

Y’shtola’s expression stayed carefully neutral. “I have my own theory as to that. However, it would behoove me not to cast aspersions born of baseless speculations.”

Estinien stifled his laugh enough that he merely grinned. The way she said that, he could tell exactly what her theory was and that she herself believed it. He put the thought of the amorous young oracle out of his mind and returned his attention to the map.

“If you have all these already, what use can I be?”

Y’shtola frowned. “We have found the locations where the Coffins are likely to be, but currently we have a surfeit of options. Now, we must needs determine which of these potentialities is our true quarry. For that, we require a less… scientific perspective.”

Y’shtola waved a hand over the map and the little black discs dotted across it. “From your experiences in both war and as a hunter, which of these myriad options do you believe Gorrath has used to base the Coffins out of?”

Estinien looked over the map for a long moment, ignoring the markers and focusing on getting a feel for the terrain. “Do we know where Gorrath was summoned?”

“Here.” Y’shtola’s finger landed squarely on the disc near the center of the red region. Krile looked at the spot with interest.

“Then that strikes me as the most likely place. Our enemy may be cunning, but I doubt he’s done an aetherological survey. The place of his summoning might be the only conjunction he knows of.”

“No.” Estinien mused, thinking deeply. “That’s too easy. He’s hiding the Coffins with that shadow of his, right? And you don’t hide something in the first place the enemy would look.”

He saw Krile’s expression. “It’s possible, I can’t rule it out, but it wouldn’t be my first pick. I would say…” He tapped each marker as he went. “Here, here, here, and here.”

The two women assessed his choices. Krile’s head cocked in question and she pointed at one disc at the intersection of several tunnels in the heart of Gorrath’s territory. “Why not that one? With its position, surely it would be fortified and the fortifications would arouse no suspicion owing to its central location.”

Estinien almost laughed. He knew full well either of these women could think rings him without even trying, but military strategy was clearly not their forte.

“That’s the main crossroads for the whole region. If you’re trying to pry Gorrath out of the tunnels, you’d practically have to try to avoid taking that spot.” Estinien pointed out. He folded his arms. “I doubt Gorrath has hidden the Coffins where any attacker would trip over the things.”

Krile nodded, taking the correction in good grace. “Whereas these others are on the periphery, and so liable to be missed by attackers?”

Estinien raised an eyebrow, reminded of his earlier thought regarding how easily they could out-think him. “While still close enough to the heart of Gorrath’s forces that they can be easily reinforced.”

“What of this one?” Y’shtola gestured to a marker on the far edge of a long loop of a tunnel. It was on the far outside, barely within Gorrath’s domain. Estinien frowned. He’d ruled that one out for being too far afield, even if one was trying to avoid discovery. But the look on Y’shtola’s face told him it wasn’t an idle suggestion.

“What makes you think that’s a likely candidate?”

“The tunnels here are small and easily collapsed. With Gorrath’s ability to summon his Chosen to his side, mayhap he did so in order to make the Coffin site completely inaccessible to his adversaries?”

Estinien thought he had a good guess as to where that idea came from. “Is that the Princeps’ suggestion?”

Y’shtola nodded forthrightly. “He agreed with your other choices, but thought this location warranted consideration as well.”

“Good to know I matched up with his predictions.” Estinien said drily. “I’d hate to be the one to prove the all-knowing oracle wrong.”

Y’shtola shook her head. “This was not an act of prophecy. He simply made his own assessment of the most probable location of the Coffins through his own sense of strategy. That the two of you independently reached the same results lends credence to your projections. Castor too is going to be asked to lend his insight to the task.”

Estinien grumbled. It made sense to consult a number of different people to cover every angle, and if deeper thinkers than he wanted to try their hands at this, he welcomed the attempts. And it was good they were mostly in agreement. He turned his mind to the one exception.

“It’s possible, but I wouldn’t. Forcing every Chosen to go through Gorrath would be hell on your forces’ flexibility. It’d be too much of a bottleneck when Gorrath might be in the field himself even.”

“A fair point.” Y’shtola conceded, looking back at the map. She frowned slightly and Estinien didn’t need to guess as to what was troubling her.

“So, four, or six, possibilities but only one true target. And how do we find the real one?”

“Reconnaissance, I should think.” Krile offered. Estinien knew that might be their only option, but he didn’t like it. Right now, Gorrath might feel safe with the Coffins hidden. If they sent scouting missions to each spot they might be, the Blood Demon might realize their intent and would undoubtedly fortify the actual site of the Coffins as much as possible.

“Our hopes still rest with the others.” Y’shtola said. “What they learn, from an untempered Aethon or otherwise, may yet prove to be the key in unravelling this mystery. Our task is to narrow the field as much as possible, so whatsoever information they provide can be of most use.”

She looked at Estinien. “My thanks, for your insight.”

“Think nothing of it.” Estinien replied. Y’shtola seemed inclined to do just that, already turning to Krile.

“And what of Marcus?”

Krile faintly winced at the earnest question before answering. “Still no change. The rate his body is deteriorating at remains erratic and his aether continues to ebb and spike seemingly at random.”

“I see.” Estinien was a little disappointed, but not surprised, to see Y’shtola take the news with the gravity of Krile warning it might rain later that day. Her eyes drifted over to the window, as if she truly was checking the weather. “Forgive me, but I am tired. Would you excuse me to rest?”

 “Of course.” Krile assured her. Estinien nodded a farewell to Y’shtola and followed the Lalafell out. Back in the higher ceilinged corridor, he gratefully straightened up to his full height while closing the door behind him. Something occurred to him as they walked down the corridor, him watching his stride so as to not outpace Krile.

“There may be another way to narrow it down.”

“Oh?” Krile asked.

“Much of tactics is predicting what the enemy will do before they do it.” Estinien explained. “That means getting inside their head and thinking as they do. If Gorrath’s mind is based on Aethon’s, then we to find the Coffins we need to get inside Aethon’s head.”

“I see. We should ask around, then. See if there’s anyone who knew Aethon well.” Krile suggested.

Estinien nodded. Now that he was thinking on it, that seemed like such an obvious step that it would surprise him if Castor or the Princeps hadn’t already thought of it, but it was worth a shot. And at least it would be doing something.

The chamber Aethon had taken to thinking of as the war chamber, though in truth all of them were for war now, was stifling.

Various Skalik mutants crowded around, filling the leaden air with their pungent, unwashed musk. Even though they kept a respectful distance from the commanders regarding the rudimentary map table, the smell was nearly enough to make Aethon gag. He kept his gorge down with difficulty, looking up across the table at the others who were not helping his comfort any. Gorrath and Minos towered over him. Though Aethon was well used to his god’s immense presence and its effect on his mind by now, the deity and His Taurhe double’s sheer size was enough to make the air feel close.

Aethon put thoughts of comfort out his mind and focused on the task at hand. “So that’s it? We just march into the enemy forces?”

“Blood will flow.” Minos said, eagerness dripping from his voice. “What else matters?”

“I’d prefer if we didn’t abandon the pretense of tactics quite yet.” Aethon folded his arms, not even trying to mask his disdain. And to think once, in a time he could barely remember now, he respected the prince as a master tactician. His gaze slipped over Urianger, standing dutifully at the Blood God’s side. How long has it been? “Surely we can come up with a better strategy than marching our men headfirst into a slaughter?”

“Slaughter is our strategy.” Gorrath spoke, the air rippling with his words. “We must needs blunt our enemy’s counterattack before it can begin. Massacring their reinforcements will suffice, for now. Our losses can be easily restored, theirs cannot.”

Aethon’s hand twitched towards his sword from and fought to still the motion against the sudden swell of anger. That little voice in his head that had been shouting since that day in the tunnels was louder now. Normally, it was quiet enough that the roar of bloodshed could drown it out. But it had gotten cunning, this last clinging remnant of who he used to be. Impotent though it was against the divine, it still knew how to hit him where it hurt.

Aethon forced the anger back and made himself acknowledge the sense of his god’s words. Leveraging attrition was a valid strategy, even if it was somewhat pedestrian for his tastes. It certainly wasn’t as though he cared about their losing any men, not when it would only be Chosen in the mix. His hands still faintly shook.

Aethon breathed slowly through his nose in an attempt to marshal his temper. Deeply inhaling the Skalik reek did little to calm him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the closest Skalik, a hideous, horned abomination with only patches of fur remaining on its reddened skin. The creature only barely resembled the ratman it had once been, and now had far more in common with the god Aethon had brought into this world.

Aethon turned and pointed at Urianger. “You, with me. I need an escort.”

He kept turning, his finger landing on a Hyur spearman. “You as well.” Aethon pointed to five others in the war chamber in turn. “All of you, let’s go.”

“Even after your words, you are off for a slaughter of your own?” Gorrath asked, amusement plain even with Aethon’s back turned. Aethon could not deny the fire in his heart called for blood. His hands itched to kill someone, anyone. His scowl deepened.

“I was not made for skulking in these stinking holes. I need some fresh air. And if any vermin get in my way…”

Gorrath glanced around the chamber at the ranks of Skalik surrounding them. “Fair enough. You will not be needed for the coming battle anyway. Relax as you see fit.”

Aethon nearly snarled, his fury rising to the fore once again, but he heeded his god’s dismissive nod and, accompanied by Urianger and the six other non-Chosen Elarians in the war chamber, Aethon departed.

Packleader Skirik of Clan Gnashfang thought her orders were stupid.

She didn’t say this out loud. Skirik became packleader because she was not stupid. Unlike the previous packleader. The moment the pack got back, any rat here would turn her in. Then the pack would have a new leader and Skirik, like her predecessor, would be dreg-fodder. Or worse.

It would probably be Rhaka. That one was crafty. Always watching. Waiting for weakness to pounce on. He’d replace her as packleader eventually. She’d have to find a way to get him killed first.

Assuming they survived today. These orders were a death sentence. Their ‘prey’ would likely kill them all. And the pack knew it. They were mutinious already. Much more snipping and snarling than usual. But that was fine. Another reason Skirik became packleader; she was scarier than the enemy.

They were waiting in an unused side passage. The hunt pack was still and quiet, for now. They were hunters all. They knew better than to give themselves away to their prey. They didn’t want to be here because they didn’t want to die.

Their prey would approach soon. At least, that’s what the Shadowtails said. Skirik (internally) cursed Warlord Skraal again for not sending them again. She knew why though. He wanted this done right. He wanted the best. That meant Gnashfang.

A murmur rippled back through the pack. Less a sound and more a motion. Like most, Skirik commanded from the rear. To keep her pack from running, of course. Also because she was not an idiot. The ripple reached her and told her what she’d already guessed.

The enemy was here.

Skirik sent a ripple forward. The pack slithered into motion. Quietly they crept forward, a single beast with twenty-two bodies and forty-four red eyes piercing the darkness. The tunnel brightened as they moved. Elarians, even demon-Elarians, were weak. They relied on the light. It blinded them. And gave away their position.

The pack slowed as they approached. They knew from long experience how close they could draw before even near-blind Elarian eyes would see them. The Skalik at the front slowed and the pack bunched up behind them. No one wanted to be the first to fall unto enemy blades.

Skirik was now close enough to make out their prey. Half a dozen torchbearing Elarians, surrounding the true threat. She grimaced. This would be bloody work, but there was no point in delaying. She screeched a warbling cry. The pack surged forward in response to the wordless command in Skalik battle-tongue.

Attack!

The Elarians moved fast. They recognized the cry. They formed ranks the target pushed his way through to attack the Skalik head on. The front of the pack leapt. Those behind them dropped low. The attack from two heights worked well most of the time. This time, the Elarian swordsman ignored the blades hacking at him and slashed through the hunters.

The tunnel was wide enough that the pack could flow around him. Most did. Skirik scowled but understood. Far safer to attack his escorts rather than the man himself. No one wanted to join the four already dead at his feet after as many seconds. She screeched another order. Members of the pack regrouped and lunged for him from all sides.

The swordsman carved through them, of course. He made killing battle-hardened Gnashfang hunters look easy. But while he was busy killing her pack, and blinded by the sprays of blood, Skirik was able to get her jagged sword in position. Her blade hacked into unarmored flesh. It took more strength than she thought possible, but she forced it through. The monster’s head went fell one way, his body the other. Both burst into flames.

Skirik looked at the dead Chosen. She took a deep, relieved breath. These fiends were so powerful, trading nine members of her pack for one was luckier than she could have hoped. She looked to the pack and saw what she expected. Three of the Elarians were dead already. Two were down and might be dead. Only one was still up and fighting with blades closing in around him.

“Alive!” Skirik shrieked. The pack obeyed her reminder of their orders and pulled their blades. She’d already vividly impressed on them that if she was killed for failing Skraal, she’d kill them first. Especially if they failed her now, with the hard part already done.

The final Elarian went down under a pile of biting, punching bodies. Skirik was on them at once. She roughly pulled Skalik from the pile. Mercifully, the scrum hadn’t accidentally killed their prey by suffocation or beating before she could unearth the still struggling Elarian head. It was swearing some elaborate curse when Skirik silenced it with a precise jab to the temple. She rolled her eyes. Elarians loved to hear themselves talk. Even demon-Elarians. 

“Restrain. Keep watch.” She growled. The pack members that remained moved in with bindings to secure their quarry. Others took up outside the torchlight to watch for enemies. Skirik took stock of the situation. Of the twenty-two her pack had started with, she was down to eight. The other five Elarians were indeed dead. Over half her pack dead with only one captive to show for it.

They’d succeeded beyond her wildest expectations. She wouldn’t be dying today after all.

A half-dozen Shadowtails crept into the light. Throksh stepped forward eagerly wringing his hands. “Prey taken?”

“Hssk. Of course.” Skirik answered. The danger had past, now he came forward. Throksh wanted the rewards for bringing in her prize but not at risk to his own fur. A man after her own heart.

“We take back.” She said, her emphasis clear enough Throksh stepped back defensively.

“Hnng. Of course.” He tried to mockingly imitate her tone. The effect was spoiled when she took a step forward and he flinched. Then they all flinched when a screech echoed down the tunnel. A battle call they all recognized.

Enemies.

Enemies that were aware of them, for the lookout to break silence. Skirik exploded into motion. She stamped down on a torch to extinguish it and gestured for her pack to do the same. They plunged into darkness, showing the light approaching. Skirik could see who was at the head of this second wave of foes.

For a second, she thought of running. Her Gnashfang pride quashed the notion. She stuck out an arm, catching Throksh as he made to flee. “Rhaka!”

“Packleader.” Rhaka bounded up to her. His blade was already wet with blood.

“Take prize. Back to Warlord. Now!”

Rhaka looked surprised for half a moment, then nodded. He waved Nragral over and the two lifted the bound body onto their shoulders. They set off down the tunnel back towards the war den as fast as they could run. Skirik turned to Throksh still struggling against her grip.

“Shadowtails fight.” She growled in her command voice. A low and deadly snarl. A promise that the enemy might kill you in a minute but disobeying means you die right now. Throksh quailed, then hardened. Skirik was well used to seeing fear swallowed by grim resignation.

“Shadowtails fight.” He repeated, loud enough for his pack to hear. They underwent a similar change as their packleader and readied their blades. The Gnashfang warriors had already taken up positions, ready for the enemy’s arrival.

Skirik waited in her place at the back. She still didn’t want to die today but she wasn’t Shadowtail. Gnashfang don’t run.

She lunged into battle along with her pack as the Caller descended upon them.

Chapter Text

Segreant Cara had to admit, it really was a lovely day.

The sun was shining high in the bright blue of the cloudless sky. A light breeze stirred the air just enough to be pleasant rather than intrusive. Though she couldn’t see the Ribbon through the forest of bodies surrounding her place in their formation, she could still hear the calming sound of rushing water. And the northern chill she’d felt this morning had dissipated into a warm but not hot afternoon.

It truly was a gorgeous day to die.

She had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, it was nice to have enjoyable weather for her last chance to be able to appreciate it. A treat before the end came. On the other, the bright and sunny atmosphere didn’t really feel appropriate for something as dramatic as her last day on the star. A storm would be more fitting, or perhaps a colorful sunset of deep reds and vibrant oranges like in the songs. That would be a good note to end her life on.

All of which was to say, her plan to distract herself from the imminent battle by thinking about the weather was not going very well.

Cara gave up on the idea and looked down the line to take stock of her squad. The eight of them stood in their rows, near the front but still several ranks deep in the eight-hundred man formation. None of her men looked any happier to be here than she was. She’d reminded them all that no matter how fearsome the enemy, they would be victorious and survive this day but even she wasn’t buying it. If half the stories she’d heard about these Chosen was accurate, this was going to be a bloodbath.

The enemy didn’t even matter really. They’d all known what they were in for given the simple fact that Gabril had asked for volunteers. The Princeps was always good about that, even if it was a little insulting.

Who in their right minds would miss this? A battle against demonspawn, in defense of another princedom? There was glory aplenty to be had. The bards would sing songs of the stand along the ribbon, Cara was sure of it. A worthy prize, even if it killed them to obtain it.  

Beyond her squad, rising up out of the line of bladesmen Cara could see the bears, impatiently pawing at the ground despite their riders’ attempts to keep them still. And towering above them she could see the Taurhe atop a gargantuan Chocobo, allowing Cara to pick out the location of her prince, waiting beside Asterion atop his steed and the signature animal of Agriphina, albeit a brown bear rather than a golden one. They’d be the first into the fray, both because of Gabril always wanted to be first into the fray and because few things could withstand a massed bear-rider charge. Pity their enemies were one of them.

She was a little surprised, even now, that Asterion welcomed them to fight alongside his soldiers. Cretos must have been more damaged by losing Minos and the Cataphractii than she’d thought.

Voices rippled backwards from the front line. Cara knew even before they reached her that the enemy was in sight. Gabril and Asterion both shouted orders to their respective armies. Flights of arrows flew over Cara’s head, landing where she couldn’t see beyond the ranks of now much more tense soldiers. Another call and another volley launched. Then a third. Cara appreciated the effort, but they wouldn’t have brought the force of two princedoms to bear on foes that would fall to a handful of arrows.

Another ripple of voices announced the enemy had made the shore. Cara braced herself. They wanted to let the enemy come onto dry land before engaging, as fighting in the frigid waters would impede their troops more than the Chosen, but not too far ashore. A few moments later a horn sounded, echoed by roars as the bears were spurred into motion with the Chocobos close behind. A thunderous crash signaled the charge meeting the enemy, replaced by screams and thuds and clangs as battle was joined.

Cara, and everyone around her, readied themselves. They listened to the clamor, waiting for the order. Finally, it sounded down the line.

“Charge!”

“For the Lady!” Cara’s squad shouted, one of a dozen similar battlecries that issued from the soldiers breaking into motion. Cara sprinted to keep the pace of the soldiers with longer legs surrounding her, following the man ahead of her with her sword and shield at the ready even if she still couldn’t see the enemy. She could hear what sounded like the front line clashing, with enough screams of pain to uncover the pit in her stomach adrenaline had buried. She pulled up short to avoid running into the man in front of her, who stopped and shouted something inarticulate before a sword burst from his back. He crumpled without another sound and Cara finally laid eyes on a Chosen.

It was a monster.

A beast with blood red skin and curling horns. His feet were cloven hooves and his face elongated into a snout. Burning blood gushed from a score of wounds, half a dozen of them grievous enough to kill a man. There was, if you squinted, some semblance of a Hyur in the creature’s form. That somehow only made him more monstrous. Behind him, Cara could see broken bodies strewn across the ground. The Chosen was laughing, if something so laden with malice and bloodlust could be called that.

Their eyes met.

Cara darted forward, swinging her sword with all her might.

As the Skalik’s hunt for Aethon continued, the Scions had little to do besides wait. They were not confined to the cellblock they had been placed in, per se, but to maintain the pretense that they were captives of Clan Gnashfang as well as for their own safety walking amongst the general Skalik population was deemed unwise. Given that, G’raha came to understand, there were only a handful of his soldiers that Skraal trusted not to knife them at the first given opportunity, arranging any sort of exploration would prove to be a hassle, if not fatal.

G’raha was willing to take the risk. The Skalik were almost entirely an unknown civilization, even in Sharlayan’s extensive archives. Here they had a chance to investigate that civilization from the inside and see it with their own eyes rather than rely on secondhand information from the Skalik’s hated enemies in the Elarians. G’raha knew that was worth facing some danger. In truth, the real risk was staying in the cell and having to explain to Krile, Y’shtola, and the Archons back home that he hadn’t taken advantage of this opportunity while he could. If you thought the Skalik were murderous…

It took several requests to Skraal, relayed through Nrack who was otherwise detained to answer G’raha’s many questions, before the warlord finally passed along his approval. Even then, G’raha got the impression that had more to do an expectation of reciprocity for Skraal’s ‘request’ that Alphinaud and Alisaie meet with him that was delivered at the same time. Still, it was permission for G’raha, and only G’raha, to explore the war-den for a short while under strict escort.

G’raha supposed the limitations made sense for security purposes. Thancred was a Hyur and therefore indistinguishable from an Elarian as far as most Skalik were concerned. Alisaie was the Healer, and therefore a very valuable asset Clan Gnashfang had taken possession of. Her twin brother, likewise, could easily be mistaken for her. All three of them had reasons the Skalik might try to attack or abduct them even with the presence of armed guards. G’raha at least was obviously not Elarian with his tail and ears, and little public presence in the group besides being a mage with strange, outlander magic.

He’d asked about the plague magic the Skalik wielded, but Nrack knew precious little. Mages in general were rare among the Skalik. What little G’raha could glean was that plague magic was a school of spellcraft centered around inducing aetheric decay and imbalances in both living and non-living targets. It was the primary spellcasting discipline the Skalik wielded, with any other sorceries kept as tightly guarded secrets for each clan’s advantage. Small wonder that Alisaie, the only Scion that the Skalik knew could cure tempering, was considered such a prize.

It was slow work, teasing out information about Skalik society from Nrack. Not just from his reluctance to talk to G’raha in general, but also because he tended to speak as though G’raha already knew facts about the Skalik that were considered common knowledge. Often, Nrack would go on about how something differed from the norm that left G’raha guessing at what constituted the norm to begin with.

Despite the difficulties, G’raha was enjoying the conversations. While not as insatiably curious as Y’shtola, he did still enjoy learning about foreign lands and cultures. There was also a certain amount of intellectual challenge he found satisfying, piecing together the puzzle pieces of information he was obtaining into a picture of Skalik culture as a whole.

Nrack seemed anxious when he and four of the black armored Skalik G’raha had taken to thinking of as Skraal’s personal guard arrived to escort him. Nrack seemed anxious most of the time, to be honest. He kept his gaze low and never seemed to want to look G’raha in the eye and often jumped or cringed when spoken to. G’raha had assumed him to be young, in his teens perhaps, and was both right and wrong.

It took some calculating to connect how the Skalik kept track of time to the system used above, Skalik seasons being marked by tidal changes to the underground seas Nrack alluded to, but once he’d worked it all out G’raha realized Nrack was about sixteen years old. However, far from being a newly minted adult like he would be in Sharlayan, Skalik matured quickly and Nrack was the equivalent of being in his mid-to-late twenties. G’raha still didn’t know the approximate Skalik lifespan, but Nrack spoke admiringly of Skraal’s prowess despite the warlord being pushing forty in a way that showed that was considered an advanced age.

Whatever the cause of his nervousness, Nrack opened the door but said nothing as one of the guards called inside. “Red fur! Come if coming!”

“On my way.” G’raha replied. Skalik born with auburn fur were rare, one in maybe a hundred litters. And each litter produced a dozen Skalik or more. They were therefore seen as a good omen for the clan; G’raha was fine with the nickname if it meant he’d be seen as a source of good luck rather than a threat.

Nrack tentatively looked up when G’raha joined them, the ring of guards flowing to surround the two of them from all sides.

“Where to?” He croaked.

“The marketplace, if you please.” G’raha answered. He ignored the looks the guards were giving him and followed Nrack as the other led the way. The low, dimly lit tunnels were as mazelike as ever, but eventually G’raha could hear steadily building voices as they walked. They emerged from the passage into a relatively bright and high-ceiled chamber that stretched out down the way, lined with nooks. Tunnelers by nature, much of Skalik architecture was carved out of the surrounding rock.

The market was as bustling as Nrack had described, easily hundreds of Skalik going about their business. Shouts filled the air from hawkers listing their wares. Many didn’t use words at all, simply screeches that were undoubtedly the Skalik battle-cant that Nrack had mentioned. Comparing screeches to the goods on offer, G’raha pieced together that the most common one, a long note with a short, higher note quickly following, meant weapons. Unsurprising, given this was a military fortress after all.

Each nook was a storefront, with the wares for sale placed in the back, visible but not accessible for any would-be dreg thieves. A common practice, Nrack explained. Punishments for theft were harsh, but levied against the thief, not the thief’s master unless the master admitted to commanding the dreg to steal, and who would? Any dreg’s claims of such orders were, of course, ignored. Dregs would say anything to get out of punishment.

Looking for them, G’raha saw many Skalik wearing the iron collars that marked them as members of the Skalik’s slave caste. These kept their heads down and moved quickly, always hurrying to get out of the way of any non-dreg that crossed their path. They likewise stayed quiet even as murmurs swelled at the sight of G’raha’s group. Decidedly unfriendly sounding murmurs, but no one dared confront his intimidating guards. The crowd parted as the group walked through it, even the free Skalik giving way just as the dregs did. More than his escorts’ weapons and armor, G’raha sensed this deference came from Warlord Skraal’s authority.

The Skalik’s caste system was something G’raha was greatly interested in, but had learned little about. Nrack didn’t like to speak on the topic, at one point even fleeing the conversation with a transparent excuse about having other duties when G’raha had pressed him on it. Dregs, G’raha knew, were mainly born dregs but being demoted to such as punishment was not uncommon. Dregs were typically used as disposable labor or, as G’raha had seen firsthand, cannon fodder. G’raha didn’t even attempt to hide his disdain for the practice and Nrack similarly made no secret of his belief the Elarians were foolish not to have their own dregs. Or rather, he took it as a given that they must have dregs, they simply made the mistake of treating them like people rather than property.

Suffice to say, that conversation had not ended pleasantly.

Above the dregs were various ranks, from blade to packleader to packsleader to warlord until one reached the clanlord. He still didn’t know the name of the Gnashfang clanlord, Nrack refused to speak it out of a mix of respect and fear. Within each rank, there was a subtle social hierarchy based on capability and prestige. Skraal was considered the preeminent of the warlords gathered here, and the two other Gnashfang warlords elsewhere, because he had slain an Elarian Knight and taken the man’s sword as a trophy; one of the highest achievements any warrior Skalik could aspire to.

Nrack gave a brief description of the shops and their wares as they passed. It didn’t take G’raha long to spot a pattern.

“These places sell food then?”

“Some. Many have closed.” Nrack waved a hand at one of the several empty alcoves they’d passed. “The war cut broods down. Enough food to go around. For now.”

G’raha sobered at the reminder. Famine was a constant hardship among the Skalik. The Skalik matured, aged, and bred quickly. Their population underwent regular booms as litters were born often occurring at approximately the same time in large batches. Unfortunately, their food infrastructure lacked the means to support such explosive growth. Privation was a way of life for the Skalik and starvation was an old friend. G’raha was not a cynical man by nature, but he couldn’t help the suspicion that the regular invasions were meant to help address this problem. A form of population control, enacted via Elarian swordpoint.

He craned his neck to see what kinds of food these shops were selling. Fungus was a staple food down here, as was meat. As for the kind of meat, the Skalik weren’t picky. G’raha had asked and Nrack insisted the Elarian horror stories of men being eaten alive by Skalik were just that, only stories. G’raha might have doubted that claim, it would hardly be the first time someone denied his people’s wartime atrocities, were it not for the fact that Nrack was remarkably open, blasé even, about Skalik eating dead Elarians.

“Who wants food that screams?” Nrack had asked. To hear him tell it, that was the main reason, besides hatred for the Elarians, for the invasions of the surface, to claim resources. Including the available meat.

That line of discussion opened an interesting window into the Skalik psychology. To them, the soul was the only part of a person that had intrinsic value. When the soul moved on to the Aetherial Sea, the body left behind was mere refuse. Edible refuse, and all too often the Skalik couldn’t afford to waste food. Skalik had a firm taboo against eating their own kind, which G’raha suspected had more to do with them knowing cannibalism caused disease rather than any sort of scruples, but other races were fair game.

Fortunately for all concerned, Nrack had assured the Scion that while they were being kept well fed, as prisoners they were too lowly to get meals with human meat. Their diet mainly consisted of meat sourced from vilekin, immense beetles raised in subterranean farms. One of the many things Cailia was proving to be right about; G’raha had been happier not knowing that.

G’raha looked around as they walked, trying to see everything. He knew the war-den was at its heart a military base, but even so there was a lack of decoration in the market. Precious few of the shops had signage or other identifiers beyond a clan marking above the entrance. Most of those were the stylized paw that represented Clan Quickpaw, a worker clan unlike the Gnashfang’s warrior clan. Nrack presented them as objects of ridicule, hence the laughter when Skraal had suggested soliciting their aid during the council. The warrior clans gathered here would have to be on the verge of extinction to consider lowering themselves to asking such for help on the battlefield. Nrack even implied that Skraal’s willingness to defend worker clans sheltering in their refugee caves was atypical; most Skalik warlords wouldn’t care one way or another if such ‘lesser’ clans were wiped out.

That said even just a cursory glance at the number of Skalik browsing at the Quickpaw shops showed them to be a vital part of Skalik society. He wondered if the worker clans similarly disdained the warrior clans and didn’t much doubt it.

G’raha thought he might be able to speak to some of the Skalik they encountered, to gain additional perspective beyond purely Nrack’s, but that seemed like a false hope. Most Skalik pointedly refused to look at him and those that did glared. One spat as they passed and paid for it with an armored fist crashing into his snout.

G’raha tried to put that out of his mind as they passed a store with no visible merchandise and a clan marking resembling a wolf-rat.

“What store is that?” He asked Nrack.

Nrack turned to see. He spat. “Beast breeders.”

“They produce your wolves and ogres?” G’raha asked, understanding the different clan marking. It made sense that worker clans would have specialties, just as the warrior clans each seemed to favor certain combat doctrines.

Nrack growled. “Hng. Wolves and ogres yes. Monsters too. Clan Fleshscuplt not bound by sense.”

G’raha recognized the name. Clan Fleshscuplt was one of the clans on the Council, the oft mentioned rulers of the Skalik.

The Council was formed of the clanlords of the thirteen greatest clans, a mix of warrior and worker. These seats were largely static, though it was not unheard of for a clan to fall from grace such that they were ousted from the Council, or even destroyed by the other clans entirely, with a new clanlord rising to fill the vacant seat.

There was some nebulousness to the Council’s actual authority. As G’raha understood it, the Skalik clans were all independent factions. None of them answered to any other and there was no overarching authority figure that could countermand the ruler of a clan. Clans could, and often did, even outright go to war with one another, only putting those conflicts aside when it came time to invade the surface. The Council mainly served to keep that infighting in check through a bastardized form of democracy. A way for the important clans to show what side of an issue or conflict they stand on based on how their Clanlord voted. Such votes were often unanimous, as any clan that voted against the common consensus risked being singled out as an enemy to be eliminated. When the Council debated and reached a decision, that was taken as the collective will of the Skalik people.

A screech tore through the air. G’raha spun to see, as his ring of guards tightened around him and drew their swords, a Skalik leaping out of one storefront, a bundle of jerky tucked under his arm. He hit the ground hard and was on his feet running less than a second later. The thief had no dreg’s collar, but he was short and thin. As the market erupted, the child dropped to all fours and snaked through the crowd, being joined by other children with similar purloined goods. They disappeared down one of the side tunnels that fed into the marketplace, pursued by angry, and armed, shopkeepers.

G’raha escort relaxed as the chaos faded. The one who’d first called to G’raha and who he thought of as the leader snarled. “Damn kids.”

 Another guard looked over his shoulder at G’raha. “Thank Elarians for that.”

“What do you mean?” G’raha asked.

“Hng. Many child gangs these days. Stealing, scrounging.  Elarians put that plague on us.” The Skalik answered. The lead guard flashed him a look and he fell silent.

G’raha put the pieces together. “You mean to say the Elarians killed their parents and left them orphans.”

“Elarian scum.” Nrack muttered. “Spare children. Leave them to suffer.”

G’raha felt himself teetering on another unwelcome cultural revelation. A part of him very much did not want to pursue this line of thinking, but he pressed on. “You think the Elarians are scum because they do not kill children?”

“Kill adults, yes?” Nrack said, looking at G’raha defiantly, at least by his standards. “Leave children alive, send them up tunnels. Abandoned, with no family. A slow death. Made dregs if lucky. Starve, more likely. Better to feed them steel. Quicker. A mercy.”

G’raha fought to keep his voice level. “I believe the Elarians expect your people to take care of the children, rather than leave them to their own devices.”

Nrack scoffed. “Elarians filth, not stupid.”

“And do you show Elarian children that same mercy?” G’raha asked.

The guards around them flinched. Nrack cringed and lowered his beady eyes so hurriedly he almost dropped to cower on the floor.

“Some do, yes.” Nrack hissed through trembling lips. “Not me. Not ever.”

 A lie, G’raha knew. He was aware, dimly through the roaring in his ears, that the guards were now facing inwards, swords half-drawn from their belts. He forced himself to count to ten, breathing deeply, and let the tension bleed out of his arms enough that he could unclench his fists.

“I have seen enough. Let us return.” He said. With poorly disguised relief, his escorts turned around and walked him back through the market the way they came. G’raha no longer looked around, his mind swirling with dark thoughts.

Even now, he still hoped that there might be some way to engender peace between those that lived above ground and those that lived below in Elarion. Despite this most recent grim revelation, he knew the Elarian view of the Skalik as inherently evil creatures was wrong. They were like any other people, with views shaped by their culture that was itself shaped by their environment. Would they care for their orphaned children if they had the means to, instead of regularly being on the brink of starvation themselves?

 But even so, there was much to dislike in the Skalik purely in moral terms, their slavery and savagery. It was hard not to hold such things against them and G’raha didn’t honestly believe he shouldn’t. For there to be peace, the character of the Skalik people had to radically change. And how could one enact such a change, seeing as they themselves had no desire to, save through forcing it on them at swordpoint?

He was aware he was being morose. Days in the muted, sickly green light were taking their toll on his mindset. It was hard to feel optimistic in such conditions. He tried, nonetheless. Most of his information was coming from a member of a warrior clan. It was only natural Nrack’s views might skew towards being more hostile and violent. The worker clans might be far less belligerent.

He returned to the cellblock and descended the stairs while Nrack and his guards lingered by the door, no doubt as happy to part with him as he was with them. Cailia seemed to tell how his trip had gone from the look on his face and by now had the decency not to say she’d told him so. That or it had gotten old.

G’raha looked around the cell block, seeing only Thancred present. “Where are the others?”

“The warlord summoned them not long after you left.” Thancred said, looking up from the throwing knife he was idly sharpening. “With no intention of attempting to extract our secrets, I’m sure.”

“And you just let them go?” G’raha looked from him to Cailia, who shrugged.

“They wanted to go. What were we supposed to do, chain them up here?”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” G’raha conceded, his surge of worry fading. They all knew this was going to happen eventually. And G’raha knew firsthand, Skraal might have bitten off more than he could chew when it came to meeting with an angry Alisaie.

One of Skraal’s bodyguards, whose name Alisaie hadn’t learned and frankly didn’t care to, opened the metal door to his lord’s quarters. He surprised her by not entering himself, merely holding the door open while she and Alphinaud stepped inside and closing it behind them.

Skraal’s chambers were the most opulent room she’d seen in the Skalik war-den, and still could only be described as austere. The furniture was plain and utilitarian, an unadorned desk, dresser, and a bed that she struggled not to call a cot. The only decoration, if you could call it that, was a banner bearing the stylized fang emblem of Clan Gnashfang hanging from one wall. About the only thing that made the room distinct from any other in the war-den was the way the ceiling wasn’t quite so claustrophobically low and the furniture had noticeably better craftsmanship than the rough hewn fare of their cell.

Given Alisaie would have said the spartan nature of the war-den was due to privation rather than desire, she wasn’t sure whether the warlord’s quarters being so plain was a reflection of Skalik values, or his own. She laid eyes on the one-eyed warrior and felt her anger stir.

Skraal was for once unarmored, wearing simple grey fatigues over his black fur. He bent low over a small table, doing something with a small amount of glittering green dust. Just as Alisaie realized he was arranging the powder into a line, Skraal leaned down and inhaled through his nose. He snorted the line of snuff in a single motion and looked up blearily with his single eye at the twins. Alisaie felt her mouth curl into a scowl, both in disgust at the nonchalant drug use and her previous anger intensifying.

It occurred to her that she and her brother were both armed while Skraal was not, they were completely alone, and unless that display had been entirely performative he was intoxicated. Her hand found her rapier’s hilt.

“You must feel awfully confident, being unafraid to be alone with us.” Alisaie said, not hiding the challenge in her voice. “What would you do if I tried to run you through here and now?”

“Alisaie!” Alphinaud hissed at her, but the objection bounced off the wall of her anger. Here was a man who sent hundreds of his own kind to their deaths. Hundreds of slaves, who it couldn’t even be pretended had chosen to follow his orders. And that was not the first time, she could tell. While Gorrath was the one who’d done the killing, there was more than enough blame to spread around.

This one eyed bastard was the reason why she could still see the corpses piled stories high and still smell them burning. Why Alphinaud had thrashed in his sleep again last night before waking in a cold sweat, trying and failing not to puke. Alisaie knew they still needed Skraal and if he died they would too, or worse, but she wanted to at least make him feel afraid for a change.

Skraal didn’t look afraid. Indeed, he barely reacted to her at all, simply straightening up and sighing. He met her gaze and Alisaie felt a chill run through her.

“Young wolves often think,” Skraal began, pacing slowly towards them. “That age dulls fangs of the old. They forget, this wolf is fierce enough to grow old, hrm?”

Alisaie was reminded of how this man had held his own against Aethon and how easily Aethon had defeated her, along with his ‘lesson’ about how being unarmed did not mean harmless. It occurred to her that perhaps he wasn’t alone with them, they were alone with him.

She took her hand off her sword, unwilling to escalate her bluff to actual violence. “And why would an old wolf want to talk to us?”

Skraal made an amused noise at her about-face. “Come.”

He waved them over past the desk to a chair with an open back facing two stools that were noticeably meaner than the rest of the furniture. Skraal sat in the chair, feeding his tail through the hole in the back. He gestured at the stools.

“Elarians like to sit and talk. So sit.”

Alisaie shared a glance with her brother. This was his arena, after all. Alphinaud nodded microscopically and sat. Alisaie moved to take the other stool and caught the look in Skraal’s eye that he hadn’t missed the exchange.

“Before we begin on why you called us here,” Alphinaud said, leaning forward slightly to brace his hands on his knees. “It would behoove us to discuss your stratagem in the previous battle.”

Skraal’s expression said eloquently that he was well aware what Alphinaud was getting at, but he leaned back in his chair and waved a hand at the younger man to continue. “Oh?”

“He means you marching hundreds of souls straight into the Demon’s maw.” Alisaie told Skraal archly, in no mood for verbal games. Alphinaud nodded.

“Indeed. Such… tactics,” Alisaie suspected Alphinaud was the only person in the room who missed how he shuddered. “Play directly into Gorrath’s hands. They must not be repeated.”

Skraal surprised Alisaie by nodding. “No fear of that. We are running out of dregs.”

His laughter was harsh and grating. A surge of anger nearly saw Alisaie stand and punch the smirk off his snout. She held herself back enough that her fists merely clenched at her sides. Skraal’s eye flicked down at them and he laughed with renewed humor.

“This is no laughing matter.” Alphinaud said, doing an impressive job of keeping his cool. “The Demon draws power from every one of his slain servants. By sending out your weak to fall under his influence and massacring them, you only bolster his strength.”

That got Skraal to stop laughing. He looked past them, lost in thought. “As I thought.”

“You knew?” Alisaie asked incredulously. Skraal looked back to her.

“Hng. Suspected. Demon tactics too stupid. Thought he wanted to watch us die, but guessed he had higher purpose.”

“You knew.” Alisaie repeated, disgusted. “And you sent your people in to die anyway. Or do dreg lives not matter?”

Skraal’s eye narrowed at her. “We fight the war we have. Not the war we want.”

He raise a hand to cut her off. “Make no mistake. Dregs have value. Wasting them is… wasteful, yes? Gnashfang knows.”

“Yes, why would you want to waste your supply of slave labor?” Alphinaud asked in a downright arid tone. Skraal shook his head.

“Ganshfang allows them the chance to rise. To earn their freedom with their blades. Better than most clans are to their dregs. Ask Nrack.”

“Nrack was once a dreg?” Alisaie said, surprised. “He didn’t mention that.”

“You not notice his cringing? Like a dreg, because he was one.” Skraal shrugged. “Some are fools, think being once a dreg is shameful. Not realize, dregs that break their chains are proven strong, yes?”

“Is that how you justify your slavery?” Alphinaud challenged. His eyes flashed. “You allow some scant handfuls to rise above, meaning those that don’t deserve their chains?”

Skraal still looked amused more than anything else. “Nothing to justify. Dregs are dregs. You are alone in thinking them sin.” His face hardened. “And you not called here for debate.”

Alphinaud laid a warning hand on Alisaie’s leg entirely unnecessarily; she could hear the threat in those words just fine herself.

“Fine. So what did you want to discuss?” She asked, pretending she didn’t already know.

Skraal did not disappoint her. “Healer can break Demon hold. Useful magic, that.”

“And you want me to teach your clans how.” Alisaie finished. They’d known this was going to happen sooner or later. The ability to cure tempering was too useful to expect the Skalik to pass on the chance to acquire it. And if it kept them from launching more suicidal human wave style attacks, she was almost willing to just let them have it. Almost, mind. As Alphinaud had explained at length already, so long as they have something the Skalik need, they have leverage.

Skraal didn’t agree as readily as she expected. He looked at her for a long moment, the red, unblinking stare making her shift self-consciously in her seat. Well, what did he think she was going to say?

Finally, Skraal spoke again. “Hng. A blade in your hand is useful. A shard of a blade in the hand of each of your allies, less useful. Secrets are secrets by staying unknown. And secrets give power, give… sway.”

Alisaie tried not to roll her eyes. “Yes, of course. You want only your clan to have this secret, right?”

But again, that didn’t seem to be what Skraal wanted. “A blade in hand makes you more deadly than one, not all. And one that is deadly is also a threat. Gang up on him, take his blade, steal his secrets, wield them yourself, yes?”

He stood, a complicated process with his tail through the back of the chair. “Gnashfang has few mages. Win wars with flesh and steel. Never have summoned our Saints. Never will. We have little use for your magick. Other clans, more mages, more use. We learn your spells, they crave. They steal. And grow stronger than we for it. But cannot steal what we do not have.”

Something in the dawning realization on Alphinaud’s face helped Alisaie understand too. “Suppose I don’t give you my magick. No matter how much you beg or bully me for it.”

“Hng. Gnashfang never beg.” Skraal chided her. He shrugged. “But you are strong. Torture did not work. A shame, that.”

Alphinaud looking calculating. “And you can tell your Council that much, so all the clans will hear that you definitely do not have the means to cure corruption. I’m sure they will believe that, and definitely not spend their time and energies trying to unearth the spells your clan doesn’t have instead of acting against you more effectively.”

“Just so.” Skraal radiated a pleased smugness. “Better this way, for Gnashfang and for Scions.”

“Are you sure about this?” Alisaie asked. All he was saying made sense, but still didn’t sit right with her. “Why shouldn’t we be freeing your people from the Demon’s grip, rather than condemning them to death in his service?” Skraal was a useful ally among the Skalik, but if she had to find another…

Skraal folded his arms with his tail slowly swishing behind him. “You care about dregs. Foolish, but your choice. Then know, I spoke truth. Gnashfang better to dregs than other clans. Think clanlords and warlords will use your spells on them? No. Only call more Saints, now that we need fear them less.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Alisaie vowed. Skraal’s eye glinted.

“One Demon is enough, yes?”

“On that, we can all agree.” Alphinaud nodded. Realizing this was probably the best they were going to get, Alisaie did so herself a second later. Despite their agreement, Skraal grumbled to himself.

“Hng. Truly am getting old. Never thought I would be doing politics.” The inflection placed on the last word felt more fitting for an obscenity. Alisaie shrugged.

“It’s never too late to get out of the warlord business and find something more productive to do.”

“You do seem to have a knack for diplomacy.” Alphinaud offered, perhaps unconsciously touching his neck where Skraal had nearly cut his throat when they’d first met. Skraal’s eye narrowed, unamused, but before he could reply someone rapping on the door interrupted their conversation.

Skraal turned to the doorway. “Speak!”

A muffled voice came through the door. “Warlord. Hunters have returned. They bring prey.”

Alisaie stood, seeing her brother do too. She felt a surge of hope she tried to hold down. If this was the prey she hoped…

It wasn’t. The pair of Skalik warriors who entered at Skraal’s barked command were dragging a Hyur man between them, but he wasn’t Aethon. At a gesture from Skraal, the duo passed their burden off to some of Skraal’s black armored guards that had escorted them in and stood at attention.

“You?” Skraal asked. The taller of the two stood up straighter.

“Rhaka, Warlord.”

Skraal’s head cocked ever so slightly to the side. “Skirik?”

“Fallen.” Rhaka answered. He tried and failed not to wince as Skraal’s eye roved over him. “Caller found us.”

“Hng. Died as Gnashfang.” Skraal growled quietly, as if to himself. He jerked his head at the door. Rhaka and his companion bowed low and backed away, dismissed. Skraal regarded the unconscious Hyur for a moment, then turned to his guards.

“Hrask, take Scions back to cell. Srask, take prize to interrogation.” One guard snapped a gesture at those holding the Hyur and they turned to leave. Another, seeming identical guard, stepped up to Alisaie and Alphinaud and waved them towards the door.

“What are you going to do?” Alisaie asked, filled with sudden misgivings. Skraal looked at her, blood red eye entirely devoid of mercy.

“Get answers. Our way.”

“You can’t!” Alisaie protested, feeling her stomach twist into knots. She knew they had to work with the Skalik, but standing back and letting a man be tortured was beyond the pale. Skraal’s guards raised their weapons as she stepped forward, but what drew her up short was her brother’s hand grabbing hers.

“Alisaie. Don’t.” His voice was low and urgent. Still with that hollowness to it, that he’d had since Gorrath’s ‘penance.’

Alisaie forced herself to stamp down her outrage. She was not the only one who’d had to compromise on their morals for this mission. They still needed Skraal as an ally, and getting herself skewered by his guards would help no one. Though it filled her stomach with bile, she looked up at Skraal.

“Just make sure it’s worth it.”

Skraal’s smile was all teeth. “Oh, it will be. I promise you that.”

Chapter Text

Lupercal’s loping stride devoured the malms. She ran as fast as she could, weaving between trees and over hills, following the stench of corruption. The warriors of Cretos and Agriphina had fought well; if they had been against foes intent on battle they would have carried the day. But no. Gorrath’s cruelty ran deeper than that. His Chosen had sought to fight through the forces arrayed before them, so they could enact slaughter elsewhere across the realm. In Minea, Lupercal had ensured none succeeded. But in Cretos, though the defenders done all they could, they were ultimately only human.

Three Chosen managed to escape. Three monsters on the loose, each one of which could massacre entire villages before being brought down. And yet, Prince Asterion had shown no fear for his subjects when he reported this development in the wake of the battle. Why would he? The Wolf was on the hunt.

Luperal slowed enough to sniff the air again. She was not tracking the demonspawn like a mundane canine would, following a scent trail left in their wake. Her nose was better than that. She could smell their corruption on the wind. She knew exactly where each one was, how powerful they were, how fast they were moving, and what lay in their respective paths. They could not escape her. No prey ever escaped the Lady’s Wolf.

Or so the sermons said.

Lupercal confirmed the first of her prey was near. It was drawing close to a village, but not so close she would not run it down first. She returned to her full speed, thinking as the land blurred past her.

The sermons also said that Lupercal could see into the hearts and minds of those that offered themselves to her and this was indeed true. After she had been summoned, Lupercal had taken stock of her new pack. She wanted to know them, understand them, take the measure of those who had offered themselves to her and who she was sworn to protect. And there was something in their memories that stood out to her.

All of her Wolf-touched, indeed all of Elarion, worshipped her. She was a god, she knew this to be true. They had all grown up on stories of her, her hunts alongside her Lady, the fiends she’d slain to defend this land, and the many times she’d lain down her life (or at least, the lives of her various incarnations) in defense of this land. But when they had been about to breathe life into a new incarnation, they had been given specific instructions. Certain stories and attributes of hers that they were to think on most strongly, when they called out to her.

She recognized those same attributes in herself. Her ferocity, her deep reverence for her Lady, her hatred for those who would harm Elarion. She was, every ilm of her, the guardian god they had summoned.

Lupercal could see her prey, a lone crimson skinned Hyur with a sword clasped in each hand. Hearing the drumming of her paws, he turned as she approached. He roared some challenge she took no notice of and leapt with his blades drawn back ready to strike.

Lupercal batted him out of the sky with a swipe of her paw. The Chosen smashed into the ground with enough force to turn a Hyur’s body into paste and was rising barely a second later. He didn’t get far. Lupercal bent low and snapped her jaws around him, enjoying the crunch as bones broke and burned under her teeth.

Mercy was not a trait her summoners were told to emphasize.

Lupercal was already moving toward her next prey as the last embers of the Chosen gutted out on her tongue. She didn’t expect dispatching her other prey would be much harder. Glutted on crates of crystals, she was strong now. Stronger than she could ever remember being, save for when she last fought at her Lady’s side during the First Battle. Her memories of that war, with the world ending and being reborn at the same time, came in crisp and clear, undimmed by the fog of ages. And that was what troubled her.

Because the First Battle was a story her pack had focused on when summoning her.

Lupercal was not prone to inaction. Hunting was in her blood, the wild blood of a wolf not a dog, and she did not while away her time in introspection. But in those first days of her incarnation, when she was still trying to sort out the world and her place in it, she’d noticed something about her memories. Events that her pack were told to dwell on when calling to her were vibrant and detailed. She could feel Gorrath’s throat give under her jaws when she faced him a century ago as readily as if her fangs were on him now. But other memories, events her pack knew from old sermons and half-remembered lessons, those were faded and indistinct. Like she was imagining something described to her rather than recalling a past experience.

Lupercal sniffed again and growled. Her second prey was close, but the third was closing in on a group of mortals. Without needing to think on it she changed her course, already accepting that she would not arrive in time and feeling fury build in her chest. That she would always defend the Elarian people was another attribute her pack were told to hold up in their hearts.

Lupercal might have dismissed these thoughts. Of course aspects of her reflected what her worshippers focused on. She was their god and their Princeps could tell them exactly what she was like. But there was one point in particular that got stuck in her craw, that she returned to worry incessantly like a sore tooth. The Princeps had told her followers that it was very important they remember, above all else, that the Lady’s Wolf obeyed the commands of Her Oracle.

And sure enough, Lupercal did so. It made sense. The boy saw with Her eyes, there was no mistaking that. His guidance kept Lupercal on the right path, as surely as She once did. And Lupercal followed that path, because that’s how she was programmed.

Lupercal bounded over a stream and the ridge behind it in a single motion. She smelled smoke and blood. Already running as fast as she could, she could only howl to give heart to the defenders. And to promise vengeance, were there no defenders left.

That was the right word. Programmed. She was what the Elarians thought of her. What they were told to think of her. Perhaps there was a divine wolf somewhere in the Sea of Souls, a true god named Lupercal, but she knew that was not her. She was no god. She was just a tool.

All her power, all her ferocity, all the faith in her and temples and prayers and offerings, they were only to shape her into a weapon aimed at their enemies. Oh, it was all genuine worship, of that she had no doubt. Insincerity would fail to produce aught at all, she suspected. But even so, she existed to fight their battles and lay down her life once they were done with her.

The village came into sight, below the smoke trail raising from the smoldering ruins of a house beside another that had been flattened like it had been dropped out of the sky. Several bodies littered the ground, the corpses nearly torn apart by the force of the blows that killed them. Several still living Elarians clutching weapons formed half a ring around the Chosen, another Hyur but armed with an axe. Beyond this protective ring, other mortals were running from the village. Most of them either children or carrying a child with them, they scattered in a deliberate fashion as they fled, making it so the fiend would not be able to chase after them all. Not that the Chosen was in any hurry. He snarled and feigned attacks at the defenders, savoring their fear when they flinched and their cries when another fell to his blade.

Lupercal pounced on him with paws wreathed in enough blue fire to kill him with satisfying thoroughness. She burned with rage that such monsters could even exist, that they could prey upon her people, that she was not fast enough to save them all. The fleeing mortals stopped and the defenders lowered their weapons. Lupercal felt a hot pride rise in her chest at the courage her worshippers showed, whether they stood against such a foe to buy time or kept their wits as they tried to escape it.

Lupercal made sure to stand tall, letting the mortals drink in the grandeur and power of their savior. Fear and pain receded as they took solace from seeing the might of their protector, as she knew they would. She sniffed for the last Chosen and placed his location and speed were such that she could afford a few seconds for another of her duties.

“Be at peace, mortals. The enemy is dead. You are safe now.”

Many in the crowd fell to their knees. One man who did so also raised his hands in supplication. “Praise the Lady! She hasn’t abandoned us!”

Lupercal growled softly, leaned low so her breath ruffled the mortals’ clothes. “Never.”

She returned to her full height, already turning in the direction of her final quarry. “My hunt continues. See to your valiant dead. And your no less valiant wounded.”

She nodded at one man, whose arm ended in a bleeding stump. The rapt awe on his face suggested he considered the loss of the limb a fair price for her words of praise. Lupercal bounded away, her focus on her final target. She pushed herself to run faster, knowing she’d arrived as fast as she could yet cursing herself for being too slow all the same.

Such emotions, she knew, were engineered. The Princeps and any others who understood her true nature had made sure to instill them into her while she was being summoned. Part of her yearned to rebel against these emotions. To defy the thoughts imposed on her by others. Certainly, that was her first thought after the realization of her true nature shocked her to her core enough that the members of her pack trembled to feel it.

But something gave her pause. Because it felt… right.

It felt right to hunt. It felt right to honor her Lady. It felt right to protect Her people. Did it matter whether that desire to protect came from the memories of the lesson in compassion her Lady taught her in the woods all those millennia ago, or from the hearts of her summoners who believed that lesson had taken place? Her memories and emotions were manufactured, yes, but did that make them any less real?

Lupercal knew that might be a rationalization. A delusion to keep her on her leash. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

She had already made her choice.

She wondered if the Princeps had foreseen all this, dropped her the clue she needed on purpose. It was possible. It was always wheels within wheels with that one. Masks worn over masks. Guessing at anything that ran through his head was an easy path to madness.

The last Chosen was close. Minos had heard her howl and turned from the town in his path. He was coming straight for her. Lupercal crested a hill and there he was.

The former prince had grown, glutted on his god’s power. He stood nearly as tall as her now, and unlike many Chosen his mutations still retained a sort of symmetry. He looked like a wingless Gorrath and bellowed a challenge like one.

“Come, dog!”

Lupercal snarled and darted forward. Minos roared and charged, horns lowered to gore her on impact. But when they closed on each other the Chosen drew back, dropping low and throwing an upward jab at where her jaw would have been had she lunged for his throat. He struck nothing but air, Lupercal not fooled by the feint, and her fangs bit deep into the outstretched wrist. She released the bite almost immediately and leapt backward for space. This was not a foe she could drag down by the arm.

Minos examined the wound and roared not with pain but satisfaction. He ignored the burning blood spilling down his arm and lunged forward, trying to grapple with her. Lupercal didn’t let him. She circled as the fought, keeping ahead of the punches and kicks sent her way while biting and clawing when they left him open. Minos was fast, but she was faster.

It took longer than she expected, Gorrath’s perverse power making Minos unnaturally resilient, but eventually the accumulated wounds and blood loss brought him down. Despite appearances, he was still a being of flesh and blood. Minos gave a pleased shout that became a choked gurgle as she bit down hard on his throat to finish him off. He managed a few words through a mouth full of blood.

“Next time, wolf.”

With a final snap, the corrupted shadow of the prince was dead. Lupercal released the burning corpse, wishing it was Minos’ master dead at her feet.

Truly, they were not so different. Gorrath was born of rage, she born of fervor. Was he aware of what he was? A weapon like her, merely one without a master? Did he think on his nature, that his bloodlust was merely the product of his summoner’s heart not his own? Lupercal doubted it. Gorrath was content to simply kill.

Lupercal turned her gaze north, to the source of the monsters and her reason for living.

Gorrath waited for her, in the darkness. One of them would kill the other, she could feel that in her bones. It would be her, she resolved.

She was a weapon, and that was her purpose.

The cellblock door wrenched open with the familiar harsh screech of straining metal. G’raha turned, looking away from his conversation with Alisaie expecting to see Nrack delivering tonight’s supper.

It wasn’t Nrack. Skraal’s powerful presence filled the chamber.

“Have news.” Skraal said. The warlord wore a self-satisfied smile. “Know where Aethon is. Or at least where he will be.”

“That is indeed good to hear.” Alisaie said, while Thancred and Cailia came over from where they had been sitting in one of the cells. She moved about animatedly. G’raha felt some of the tightness in his chest recede. Finally, they had a lead.

“How was he found?” Thancred asked.

Suddenly sobering, Alisaie made a face. Skraal spoke. “Found a scouting party of thralls. One lived long enough for questions. He broke. Eventually.”

By now, G’raha’s only surprise at the veiled reference to torture was that Skraal bothered to veil it. He reminded himself that Skalik cooperation was essential to stopping a greater threat. “Thralls do not betray their master.”

“And didn’t.” Skraal answered. His red eye glittered. “But Caller is not master. Betraying him to us, possible. If we press. Bit of… loophole, yes?”

“So where is he?” Thancred asked, no doubt as eager to get off the topic of how this information was obtained as G’raha was.

“Caller is Elarian. Soft.” Skraal said with a sneer. “Can’t stand earth’s weight. Makes trips to outside, often, stand under weightless sky. At place Elarians call Wolfhook Peak.”

“I know it.” Cailia said. She folded her arms. “It’s a mountain, not far from where we entered the underground. And it has a known passage that leads into the Skalik tunnels.”

“Hng. Just so.”

“So we can go there first and wait in ambush?” G’raha considered. It was a better opportunity than what they had been expecting, having to hack their way through Gorrath’s minions just to reach Aethon, or having to abduct him out of the chaos of a pitched battle. Skraal laughed harshly.

“Hrah! No. We have Silver Eyes.”

Alphinaud gestured with his hands as he spoke. “Indeed. The Princeps can pinpoint a time when Aethon will pay a visit to this Wolfhook Peak. We need only go there at such a time and Aethon will be up for the taking.”

“What if it’s not Aethon?” Thancred asked. “The Princeps can’t tell which of Gorrath’s tempered that’s blocking his vision. We’ll only get one shot at such an ambush; we need to ensure Aethon is there before we can spring a trap on him.”

Cailia stepped forward a little. “That out-tunnel leads to an area with steep, impassible slopes. It’s not a passage used for transit.”

“It has a nice view,” she added sheepishly to the looks the others were giving her. “A good place to go to clear your mind. Makes sense Aethon would use it as a place to relax.”

“This plan could work.” G’raha said eagerly. Aethon was fearsome, but if they ganged up on him while he wasn’t expecting a fight… “And if he’s out in the open air, the Skyhunters can aid us.”

Alphinaud turned to Skraal. “We have to get above ground so we can contact the Princeps.”

Skraal shook his head and hissed. “Hsssk, no. Wait till war-den sleeps. Easier, that way. Less voices to object to ‘prisoners’ being ‘freed.’”

His voice and gaze hardened. “One other matter, first.”

The shift in his demeanor put G’raha on the defensive. “And what would that be?”

Skraal stalked around the cell, hands straying close to his swords. “Caller has shed rivers of Skalik blood. You find, you capture, you question. Then you give to us. The Council will have his corpse, one way or another.”

G’raha glanced between his fellow Scions, found consensus there.

“Of course.” He lied.

The mist pressed in, as ceaseless as the monsters.

Marcus didn’t know how long he’d been fighting. The rangings beyond their improvised fortress were bearing fruit, with more rescued captives joining their ranks after each expedition. They were up to eighty-six people by now. By his count, there were only fourteen left to save. Good progress made, with the end in sight. There were less Gorraths attacking them, as well.

On the other hand, the druids had made no further strides in actually getting them out of this hellscape of endless fighting. And on that note, the army of Gorraths besieging them was less numerous, but only because they were starting to favor quality over quantity. Though fewer, these Gorraths were stronger. Much stronger. As if the weaker but more numerous variety were combining into a more powerful version.

Or in other words, same shit, same seemingly endless day.

However long they’d been fighting in this fog-filled hell, the unchanging days, weeks, or months weren’t long enough to deplete their enemy’s numbers. Marcus was starting to wonder if Gorrath’s numbers in this place truly were infinite. He’d hoped that eventually they start getting ground down through attrition if nothing else.

Marcus thrust his sword down and the aetherial blade the size of the building tearing a mythological monster in half managed to feel dully routine. Sheer repetition had drained all joy he normally got from combat. Pollux stepped up beside Marcus as Gorrath died with yet another roar of defiance. Already the mist swirled as another began to emerge.

“How many does that make?”

“Dunno.” Marcus answered. “Doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t see Pollux frown, his eyes fixed on the emerging Demon. Another enemy, another fight, and another victory that meant nothing. Even as this Gorrath burned to ash after Marcus impaled him and Pollux cut his throat, another Gorrath was already taking shape in the mist.

Pollux looked back at Marcus.

“You need to rest.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Marcus replied glibly. Pollux was not amused.

“Yes, that is indeed exactly what will happen very soon.”

“We can’t die in here.” Marcus retorted, already sizing up his next foe. Pollux leapt to the side as the axe descended; Marcus planted his feet and raised his shield. A shockwave erupted as the energies in the two weapons clashed. Marcus rallied from the blow and made to strike back, but Gorrath dropped to one knee from Pollux slashing through its back. A pair of aether-bright arrows drilled into Gorrath’s throat and the monster fell, dissolving into balefire.

“We’re serious.” Diana said, drawing another arrow and fitting it to her string. “You haven’t taken a break since the very start. You need to take some time to at least relax a little.”

“I’m still good to keep going.” Marcus said. With his stamina not draining no matter how much he fought, he could keep fighting indefinitely. Even after… however long it had been, he was still fresh and capable. “We just need to hold out a little longer, until my friends and the Princeps get us out of here.”

Behind his turned head, fixed on where the next Gorrath would be coming from, he missed seeing the look Diana and Pollux exchanged.

“Do you think he even knows his friend’s shades are gone?” Diana asked quietly. Pollux simply shrugged. He opened his mouth to ask the question directly, but a deeper voice cut over him.

“First Officer.” All three heads turned at the sound of Minos’s voice. “I require a reprieve from my command responsibilities. Take charge of the far front.”

“Yes, my prince.” Pollux jogged back the direction Minos came. The Taurhe prince shared a glance and a nod of understanding with Diana before stepping forward to Marcus’s side. A new Gorrath roared his hate and charged out of the mist. A hooked chain whipped towards them only to be caught in Minos’s gauntleted fist. He yanked hard and pulled Gorrath stumbling forward, though the Demon had the wherewithal to raise his axe to deflect the arrow aimed for his eye. Minos was ready with a jaw-shattering punch, but blades of light shredded Gorrath before he could strike. He looked back at Marcus, as always impressed by the sheer power the younger man could bring to bear.

Of course, that was part of the problem.

“You need not exert yourself so. We can hold this position without you.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to.” Marcus replied with a leaden sort of cheerfulness. “I’ve got this.”

Minos frowned, tried another tactic. “I have told my warriors there is no shame in needing rest. You have as well.”

“Right, nothing wrong with knowing your limits.” Marcus said, the irony of the statement apparently lost on him. Minos continued in an even tone.

“But your actions say otherwise. My men are fighting past their breaking points because your refusal to withdraw shames them into staying.”

That got Marcus’s attention. “Really?”

Minos snorted and shook his head. “Indeed so. I am having to order some of them to retreat to the reserves lest they break and compromise our formation. Your insistence on fighting is setting a poor example. You should take a breather, to show there truly is no shame in it.”

“I’ll think about it.” Their heads turned in response to the screamed battlecry of yet another Gorrath. “In a little bit, maybe. Still have more monsters to chew through.”

Marcus was running at Gorrath before Minos could respond. Diana joined him as they watched their savior fight on without pause.

“My prince…”

Minos grunted. “I know. We will need to take steps.”

Marcus’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The rictus grimace that his face twisted into more often than not since the onset of his coma was gone, for a blessing. Currently, he wore a placid expression that looked as though he was merely sleeping. Physically, at least. Beneath the surface, his aether was a roiling cauldron. It was like his soul was at war with itself, which was the prevailing theory as to his condition. Gorrath’s corrosive aether had bled into his own, and now Marcus’s body was fighting a desperate battle to expel it. From what Y’shtola could see, he was making precious little headway.

She sat beside his bedside and watched the motion of his chest with each breath. She had more important things to do, she knew. She should be sleeping herself, hurrying along her own recovery from her injuries. Or better yet, studying her map of Elarion’s ley lines, looking for clues as to where the Coffins were hidden. She felt confident they were located in some confluence of the local energies and she might still be able to narrow down the list of likely candidates already identified. Even returning to Sloarn for another discussion on the nuances of druidic magic would be more productive than this vigil. A pair of Elarian healers bustled around the room, making busy in her presence but still perfectly capable of attending to any changes in Marcus’s condition. She was not needed here.

But there was something Marcus had said to her, some fact or implication that her subconscious insisted was imperative she act on. Unfortunately, what that nugget of information was refused to come to her, lingering just outside her recollection. She knew she knew it, but for the life of her she could not recall. She came here in the hope that seeing his face might jar her memory.

She knew that for the excuse it was, but also did not particularly care.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the Elarians stiffen and immediately lower himself to one knee. Y’shtola didn’t bother to turn and look.

The expected voice spoke a moment later. “Leave us, please.”

The healers began to move, hesitated when they saw Y’shtola sitting still, and after a look from the Princeps departed anyway. Y’shtola did not turn to greet the new arrival, continuing to watch the slight motion of Marcus breathing even as the scrape of chair legs on the floor told her the Princeps would be joining her. He took his seat in the chair he dragged beside hers and both of them sat in silence watching over Marcus.

“He looks like he could wake at any moment.” The Princeps finally ventured, perhaps feeling a need to break the silence.

“Will he?” Y’shtola asked. Despite herself, she felt a sting of disappointment when the Princeps shook his head.

“It’s not impossible, but in terms of probability I wouldn’t hold your breath.” The Princeps shifted in his seat. “I see Mistress Krile is taking a well-earned break.”

“At my insistence.” Y’shtola confirmed. Between tending to Marcus and supervising the creation of the small army of porxies that waited for use in the castle’s various storage vaults, it was a wonder the Lalafell had not collapsed yet. Y’shtola had received only a token protest when telling Krile she needed some time to relax. Krile was well aware of the danger of exhaustion induced errors in her delicate work.

“You Scions are all Elarian at heart.” The Princeps said. Y’shtola thought of the prideful and often belligerent way many Elarians behaved and held her tongue. She made a conscious decision to take the words as the compliment they were intended to be.

They maintained a quiet vigil over the Warrior of Light’s body as the minutes ticked by. Y’shtola briefly glanced at the Princeps, noting his eyes had the unfocused shine to them that indicated he was deep in thought. But about what, she wondered.

Something in his aether, the blue of deep water, so different and yet vaguely similar to Marcus’s, drew words out of her.

“I have always craved knowledge, ever since I was a child.” Y’shtola began, not sure why she was telling him this. “And not mere trivialities, no. The grander and more significant that knowledge, the better. It has long been my life’s work to study the great mysteries of this star. I have scoured ancient ruins, plumbed the depths of magical theory, and researched the very fabric of creation.”

Her eyes felt hot. “But now I want nothing more than to hear the mundane facts about life in a backwater mountain village.”

Silence stretched out between them. Y’shtola turned her head to blink back her tears without him seeing, knowing the motion as good as announced what she was doing anyway. The Princeps wavered on the verge of speaking, but whatever words he had stayed sealed away behind his guarded gaze.

“My apologies.” Y’shtola managed when she could speak clearly. “I realize such musings are of little significance.”

“Significance.” The Princeps repeated, turning the word over in his mouth. He finally turned to look at her directly. “One gift the Sight provides; when you can see all there is and can ever be, you gain an understanding of significance.”

“No doubt. I imagine there is precious little that is truly significant.” Y’shtola said. She did not particularly yearn to discuss more of the Sight’s vagaries right now, but the distraction would keep her from embarrassing herself further.

“Indeed. Like me.” The Princeps said without an ounce of shame. Y’shtola was already lining up an ego puncturing barb when his gaze swung to look out the window.

“I saw it all, you know. I knew the Final Days were coming, what the Forum was hiding, where Meteion was, all of it. Even before you returned from the First, I knew it all. Of course, I looked to see what could be done, how the crisis could be averted. And there was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Y’shtola repeated in surprise. The Princeps looked back to her and nodded.

“Yes. You and your fellow Scions were on the case. In some potentialities you succeeded, in others you failed, but any attempt on my part to intervene only made things worse.”

“How could that be so?” Y’shtola asked. “Surely, even if a military intervention would be poorly received by Sharlayan, having been informed in advance of the pertinent details would only be to our benefit.”

The Princeps had that knowing smile of his. “Have you heard the saying, one meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it?”

Y’shtola pondered the conundrum for a moment. “For your providing us with all the answers to invite disaster, then it follows that the actions we took to uncover those answers were themselves somehow essential to our success.”

“Exactly.” The Princeps confirmed with a nod. His good humor soured. “Which meant there was nothing I could do to help. Even with all the knowledge the Sight offers me and entire armies at my call, the best thing I could do was… do nothing. The fate of all of existence was balanced on a knife’s edge and I was utterly insignificant.”

He was quiet for a moment, a complicated expression on his face. “And I have also seen the opposite. Seen how even a single action can ripple outward, distorting events, changing lives, changing the world. Until a simple thing like defending a beggar from a bully ends up saving the world.”

Y’shtola found herself smiling as the memories came rushing back. That hot day in Ul’dah, where a well-meaning adventurer stepping up to selflessly defend a woman in need solidified Y’shtola’s decision to invite him into the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Into her life, and eventually into her heart.

The Princeps was still talking. “Any man can change this star and the people on it beyond recognizing, simply through his choices. And so, I know that every man is significant. Even those peasants of a backwater mountain village that aren’t blessed with the powers of a god.”

Marcus groaned slightly and Y’shtola’s swell of good mood subsided. She watched him attentively, but the noise did not appear to signal anything more than a passing discomfort. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted the telltale surge of aether that indicated the Princeps was using the Sight, but he kept whatever he saw to himself.

“Would you have called on him, if you had known?” Y’shtola eventually asked. “If you knew this would be the result?”

Again there was a long pause, but this time the Princeps sighed. “I would.”

Y’shtola turned to look at him, but he was steadfastly staring out the window. “I have sent countless men into battle knowing they would die; why should he be any different?”

He turned back to her. “You must think me a monster.”

“I wish I could.” The words tore at Y’shtola, but their truth could not be denied. “I wish I could truly say that if the choice was put in my hands, I would never sacrifice his life for anything. But I cannot. I have already asked him to face death countless times, knowing any one could be the last.”

She tried to smile, to hide the yawning pit inside her words uncovered. “Perhaps we are both monsters.”

The Princeps looked at her not unkindly. “I questioned the need to forsake my personal connections when I first ascended to this seat, but now I understand. Sacrificing the lives of others is hard enough when they are strangers. When they are those you care about, the pain is too much to bear. If you can willingly shoulder that pain, you are stronger than you realize.”

“Do you believe that?” Y’shtola asked. “Do you truly see it as a strength?”

“I have to.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Eventually, Y’shtola broke the silence.

“What would have happened, had you not called on us?” She was not sure why she was asking. Mayhap she simply wanted reassurance that all of Elarion would have been slaughtered already, that Marcus’s sacrifice was meaningful, but the Princeps was already shaking his head.

“The Sight lets me see what was, what is, and what might be. Not what might have been. And I am grateful for it.” His voice lifted with an inkling of humor. “I have enough regrets already.”

“Oh?” Y’shtola responded drily, matching his humor with her own. “But we all know the path the Princeps chooses is always the most optimal way forward. What then do you have to regret?”

It was a rhetorical question, but after a moment the Princeps answered it. “I regret not being able to fight.”

Y’shtola sobered, knowing this was no joke. The Princeps’ gaze landed on Marcus. “I was raised to think the measure of a man lay if not in his battle prowess, then at least his courage in protecting others. Then my eyes burned silver one day and the idea of me protecting anyone became a bad joke.”

“I believe you fight harder than you give yourself credit for.” Y’shtola answered evenly.

The Princeps looked back to her with a disagreement in his expression that he chose not to voice. “I also regret not looking to see if Marcus would agree to come, back in Radz-At-Han.”

He spoke quietly and a little quickly. Like he was confessing a painful fact. “I should have checked, but I didn’t. I could have prevented that whole debacle. That would have been easy to head off in advance.”

That did explain the confusion when she and Marcus had first met Castor, what felt like months ago in Thavnair, but again Y’shtola thought he was being too hard on himself. Though she had certainly not enjoyed the frantic scramble across the city, given the demands on his time and aether it was hardly something he should have exerted himself unduly to preempt. But the Princeps continued, as if he felt he needed to explain his deficiency.

“I thought he would agree to answer the call but knew there was a chance he wouldn’t. Especially if he knew I was the one asking him to return. And that wasn’t something I wanted to see, even as a hypothetical future.”

“What makes you think there was any chance he would refuse?” Y’shtola asked, perplexed. Marcus ignore people in danger? They regularly had to hold him back from diving headfirst into such situations. A more interesting question occurred to her before he could answer the first. “Why would he be especially opposed to you calling on him?”

The Princeps looked at her with an unreadable expression. “What did Marcus tell you about me?”

“Marcus did not speak of his life before he arrived in Eorzea, and we did not pry.” Y’shtola told him. “He told me only some details of your position after Castor introduced himself as your messenger.”

The Princeps leaned back, a faint air of disappointment about him. “Then he didn’t tell you I was the reason he left for Eorzea in the first place?”

Y’shtola frowned. “He said only that he left in the face of being rewarded in place of his fallen friends. He did not say as much, but it was clear his real motivation was his guilt and his grief.”

“True.” The Princeps conceded. “But I was the one who was going to give him those rewards.”

He sighed and folded his arms. A spur of anger infected his voice as he spoke. “I was trying to show appreciation for their sacrifice by honoring them, even if it was post-mortem. I didn’t even bother to look ahead to see how he’d react. I should have known he’d take it as sowing salt into the wound. And that after they died to a trap I could have easily seen coming, but again I didn’t even look for it.”

“Why did you not scan the future for such an eventuality?” Y’shtola asked. That question had bothered her, since she had first heard the story. How could the Elarians fall afoul of a trap when they possessed a man who could see such all traps in advance?

The Princeps sighed again. “Because I was weak.”

His eyes moved away from her, drifting to stare out the window again. “I was young, and not as used to the rigors of my power. The battle was well in hand; the Skalik were being routed without much trouble. So I turned my gaze away to focus on other things. I was being wise, I told myself. Preserving my time and energy for more important matters, battles that needed my attention to help us secure victory.

His voice dropped low, so quiet she could barely hear him. “I let them all die just so I could take a break.”

Some measure of steel returned to his voice. “It was an important, if costly, lesson. The warriors I command fight with everything they have. I have no right not to give just as much as they do. And when many have already given their lives, letting petty fatigue keep me from Seeing is pathetic.”

He snorted, taking Y’shtola aback at the departure from his usual refined air. “Course, that doesn’t do me much good if I see something and let it happen anyway.”

Bitterness and self-recrimination tainted his words. His aether made the half-second flare up Y’shtola knew signaled he was briefly activating his Sight. “Gorrath is on his way to slaughtering the entire realm when I could have stopped him from even being born. But I didn’t. I knew he had a plan waiting for us and I didn’t see it. I let Markos walk right into another trap I failed to see.”

He glanced back at Marcus’s sleeping face. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he hated me. He has every right to. He’s done everything asked of him, put himself through hell more than once to save the entire star, and I’ve repaid him by failing him at every opportunity.”

His hand clenched into a fist and his aether writhed after his admission. His expression twisted into a mix of self-loathing and sorrow. Y’shtola was more than a little surprised by the display, this openness from a man normally so inscrutable. Perhaps his respect for Marcus went deeper than she realized.

“I misspoke, before.” She said. The Princeps turned to look at her with narrowed eyes. “When you asked about what Marcus had said regarding you. There was one piece of information he shared that I would be remiss not to repeat.”

“And that is?” The Princeps asked, his guarded expression that of a man bracing for what he was about to hear.

“That you were a good man, and a stronger one than him.”

The Princeps stared at her. Beneath his unreadable expression, his aether churned in a tumultuous whorl. His stare lasted long enough that she started to feel self-conscious before he finally spoke.

“I see.” He said with an air of a man fishing for something to say. “Good. That is… good to hear.”

An awkward silence followed. Y’shtola did not know what to say. The Princeps would not meet her gaze. Seeing him now, Y’shtola was reminded he was a young man. Several years younger than her if she was any judge, for all he normally carried himself with a dignified bearing. Nothing quite made her feel her years like a younger person acting older than she was. She sighed.

She was tired. Still recovering from wounds that should have taken her life twice over. Watching the man she loved slip closer and closer to death while she could do nothing to help him. Alone, with almost all of the comrades she saw as family away facing danger while she was forced to remain behind. But she pushed all that aside in the face of a young man in clear need of someone to talk to.

“You shared your causes for remorse, tis only fair I divulge mine.”

“Yours?” The Princeps asked. “You don’t strike me as the type to do much of anything you’d regret.”

“An image I take care to cultivate, not that you would know anything about that.” Y’shtola said, getting a reluctant chuckle of him. Pleased she was lifting his spirits, hers nonetheless lowered as she thought on her topic. “We Scions have only recently gained the tools to face Primals ourselves. For far too long, we sent others in our stead.”

“You regret having to stay behind?” The Princeps offered. Y’shtola nodded.

“We prepare them as best we can.” She told him, feeling a sense of kinship with him. “We instruct them to the best of our ability about the danger they face and remove as many obstacles from their path as possible. But inevitably, the time comes when we must send them alone into the dark. And there is nothing we can do but pray for their safe return.”

It had never gotten easier, even over the several years she had been a Scion. Sending not just Marcus, but any of the Echo-blessed adventurers noble enough to be willing to face death on behalf of the realm. Sending them into battle, sending them to fight gods, while she could do nothing but wait. Marcus had always returned, but many more had not. And all the clean and clear logic that she knew had proven poor refuge from the guilt and helplessness that ate at her conscience.

She turned to look at the sleeping Marcus as she continued. “Often I wish it had been otherwise, that our roles were reversed. That I had Hydaelyn’s blessing and could be the one to fight, to protect him. To be the one keeping others safe, rather than counting on them to defend me. Much is made of the rigors those that have to fight must endure. Having been on both sides of the exchange, I personally find having to wait on the periphery to be the more arduous task.”

The Princeps exhaled a long breath. A barely perceptible tension in him eased slightly. “I confess, sometimes I’ve wished I could change places. Make it so that someone else was the oracle and I a warrior.”

“Even him?” Y’shtola asked, not needing to indicate Marcus’s current state. The Princeps did not surprise her by nodding.

“Yes, even him. Wouldn’t you?”

Y’shtola did not answer. Trade roles with Marcus, and suffer the wounds and hardships the position of Warrior of Light forced on him? If she could snap her fingers and reverse their conditions, make him hale and healthy while she was plunged into a coma as her soul tore itself apart?

She would make that choice in a heartbeat.

The Princeps saw her answer in her expression and did not make her voice it. “I have wondered if that would really be for the best. Would the star be better off if he was the Lady’s Oracle and I was the Warrior of Light? Or is that just selfishness on my part?” He sighed. “Wanting someone to take away the burden of being Princeps?”

“It is a fruitless line of speculation in any case.” Y’shtola told him, having had all too similar thoughts herself in the past. “We are all shaped by our experiences. The man he is today was forged by the life he’s lived. And the course of that life was shaped by his abilities. The same is true for you and I. Were our abilities different, then we too would be different people, perhaps even unrecognizable from who we are now.”

She made herself give a small smile. “I can tell you that the man he is now could never do what you do. Forcing him to make decisions of life and death with the lives of others at stake as opposed to just his own? It would destroy him. In that sense, you could say that him being the warrior instead of the likes of us is for the best. You being the oracle spares him from that fate, if that mollifies your conscience any.”

That was more of the cold logic that had never done wonders for her, and looked to be doing little for him as well. Her forced levity withered as memories of the many times Marcus returned injured and others did not return at all.

“I do not regret not joining them in battle. That was simply not within my power.” Y’shtola said, knowing the words were only mostly true. “What I regret are the choices I made outside of battle. I have been reckless, not just with my own life but those of others.”

She looked him in the eye and saw blue fire of aether staring back, knowing it was her own fault she’d never know the actual color of his eyes. Just as it was her fault Thancred would never wield magic again.

“I also regret not doing more for them outside of battle. I need not the Sight to know how what might have been. Why could I not persuade the Alliance’s leaders not to encroach on the tribes? Why could I not research my own cure for tempering?” Y’shtola felt tears welling in her eyes. “Why can I not… Why can I not save him now?”

Her tears welled over. Bone-deep instincts made her turn her head, hiding her face from the Princeps and as good as announcing to him she was crying. She expected him to say something, but he did not. He listened without offering her any reassurances or trying to dismiss her words, something she was grateful for. Instead, he absorbed what she said in silence as she worked to restore her composure, before finally offering up a question.

“Do you regret falling in love with him?”

“Not even for a second.” Y’shtola answered immediately. The Princeps nodded.

“Then take solace in the knowledge that the grief you feel comes from the depths of that love and channel that remorse into strength so that you will not fail again.”

Despite everything, Y’shtola felt herself smile a hair. “So you can be wise after all, when you are not being maudlin.”

“I’ve got a few pearls rattling around up here.” The Princeps tapped his temple. The bit of self-deprecating humor, so much like Marcus, was enough to make Y’shtola laugh. The Princeps grinned at the sound before his knowing smile slid back onto his face.

“It occurs to me that there is a debt between you and I.” He said in his usual casual tone. “And I would prefer to settle up now if I can.”

“I told you, we do not fight Primals for reward. You owe us nothing.” Y’shtola reminded him.

“Not that.” The Princeps said. “I mean the debt incurred from you looking after my wayward countryman while he explored the wide and unforgiving world.”

“Another matter that requires no repayment.” Y’shtola chided him gently. The Princeps cocked his head at her in response.

“That is gracious of you, but I cannot in good conscience allow the honor of my position be besmirched by leaving an account in arrears.” His voice shifted into a more placating tone after he saw her expression. “Come now, you said you crave knowledge of both this star’s secrets and the details of Markos’s life. I have some aether to spare, enough to tell you anything you wish to know. A private vision of your choosing will see us square.”

Y’shtola wanted to hear about Marcus’s life from only one person, so that idea was out. She also doubted the Princeps would divulge anything he deemed truly secret even if she asked, but she tried her hand at another question that lingered in her mind.

“What began the war with the Skalik?”

“What?” The Princeps asked, thrown off. Whatever he’d been expecting her to ask, it clearly wasn’t that.

“As the Princeps, you can see all of history, correct? I am curious if you ever witnessed the inciting moment of the war between the Elarians and the Skalik.”

“You mean, who struck first and is to blame?” The Princeps accused gently. She nodded fractionally. If he wanted to see it that way, then she would let him. It certainly was a large reason why she wished to know more about the conflict’s beginnings.

The Princeps cocked his head slightly. “All you desire is a piece of interesting but useless trivia?”

“I hardly think so. Knowledge is never useless, there are only those who fail to find its uses.” Y’shtola countered. The Princeps just sighed.

“The Skalik insist they ruled the aboveground and were forced underground, the Elarian view is that’s a self-serving lie and we have been here since long before they crawled out of their holes. The actual truth no longer matters.”

“It might.” Y’shtola argued. “If it was an accepted fact, then–”

The Princeps cut her off. “Then what? We’ve gone far beyond keeping score. Both sides have long tallies of atrocities they can turn to for justification by now. If the Skalik are telling the truth, then my people can just cite any one of countless massacres committed against us as an entirely reasonable casus belli. If the Skalik are lying, they’ll just continue to do so. Even if it somehow could be proven to their satisfaction their claim is false, they’d just pivot to fighting to avenge some other Elarian act against them. Or not bother with a justification at all, it wouldn’t matter for some Clanlords.”

He laughed a little to himself. “Hell, if the Elarians being the aggressors actually could bring an acceptable end to the wars, I could just lie and say we were, no matter what the actual truth was.”

Y’shtola raised an eyebrow at that. Not so much the statement that he would deceive his people, but that he was willing to admit as much to her. “And they would believe you? Even if you contradicted something as ingrained as their hatred of the Skalik?”

The Princeps snorted and made the now familiar blink and aetheric surge of activating his Sight. Checking for anyone who might overhear them, if Y’shtola had to guess. When he confirmed the coast was clear, he continued.

“I could tell people the sky is green and many of them wouldn’t even bother to tilt their heads to check. And some that did would assume it’s their eyes that are mistaken.”

“You mean to tell me you do not solely dispense divinely ordained truth?” Y’shtola asked with enough deliberate irony that the Princeps chuckled to himself for a moment before his voice and mood dropped.

“Lies are the Princeps’ stock in trade. When I need to send men into battle but telling them they’re going to die would cripple their morale and result in defeat, I lie that they’ll survive for sure. When we suffer some defeat or setback, of course it’s not that I didn’t anticipate it. It was all just part of my master plan to avert a worse future. If I don’t tell you something important. It’s not that I didn’t know, there was just some greater reason it was important I keep you in the dark.”

That edge of self-loathing in his voice was back again, audible under the sarcasm. “Hydaelyn dying would shatter my people’s faith and might even tear apart the realm. So when the augurs peered into the Aetherial Sea and saw our Lady’s crystalline body was gone, I was ready with a story about how she ‘ascended.’ When tensions are high and people are at each other’s throats, I lie and take the blame for our defeats because they won’t turn on me.

“I am lying constantly. Sometimes it’s hard to keep all the lies straight.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You really shouldn’t trust anything I say. For all you know, everything I just said were the real lies.”

Y’shtola knew that last claim was untrue. She prided herself on her ability to read people and she was confident she understood the man’s character by now.

He played the role he needed to as someone all of Elarion looked to for aid. ‘The Princeps’ was a symbol in and of itself. The belief in his infallibility was far too valuable to surrender simply to have a clear conscience. She could appreciate that. In her role as a source of knowledge and occasional leader of both the Scions and the Night’s Blessed, she knew full well how reassured others were by the notion she knew everything and had matters under control, whether she truly did or not. ‘Master Matoya’ had been something of a symbol herself.

But she could also tell he was a moral, if not necessarily good, man, who did not particularly enjoy the constant deception. He wanted to tell the truth and was using these chats with her to do so. To be more open than his role typically allowed, as he was with an outsider who could not threaten the integrity of that role. He just also had the same streak of self-deprecation running through him that Marcus had, that insistence on downplaying his admirable qualities as much as possible.

“I do not think you are as dishonest as you claim.” She told him evenly.

He rolled his eyes. “And here I thought you were the smart one. I’ve lied to you twice already just in this conversation.”

Y’shtola let out an annoyed sigh. That was, itself, probably a lie. “I’m willing to abide in uncertainty if you are willing to pay the debt you insist on settling. What event first started the war? I can tell you already know.”

“You really are curious, huh?” The Princeps didn’t wait for her to answer. “Fine. Let me just refresh myself on the details.”

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath in and out, and opened them to show the familiar burning silver. That silver gutted out in an instant and he jumped in his chair. The look on his face alarmed Y’shtola.

The calm, always knowing Princeps looked absolutely terrified.

“What is it? What did you see?”

The Princeps ignored her questions, talking quickly under his breath to himself. “No no no, why would it do that? Makes no sense, how could it even know–”

“Princeps!” Yshtola shook his shoulder to snap him out of his panic. His frantic eyes met her bewildered ones and he found an answer in them.

“Of course. Urianger.” The words were a whisper that dripped with horrified understanding.

“What? What about Urianger?”

Again, he did not seem to hear her. He bolted out of his seat and ran for the door. As an afterthought, he called back behind him. “Stay here!”

Y’shtola stood, planning to do no such thing. She spared a final glance at Marcus before following the Princeps from the room, aware that somehow, things had gotten worse.

Chapter Text

Estinien took the stairs three at a time, ascending the staircase as quickly as he could without dragoon leaping his way up it. Which perhaps he should have done; the messenger said his presence was ‘urgently’ requested.

He moved hurriedly through the halls towards the prince’s war room. As he rounded the corner, he saw the doors that had been tightly closed to him the past few days now stood open. The guards standing vigil on either side gestured for him to enter and Estinien did so without a break in his stride.

The war room was a fairly large, round space about halfway up the castle’s central keep. Being where Atreus held council and briefings with his various officers, it was nestled deep within the keep with no windows or other vulnerabilities an attacker could exploit. The room matched Calydon’s design sensibilities, with heavy, reinforced doors, thick wooden furniture that could be used as barricades, and hard stone floors and walls. The griffin banner of Calydon hanging on the far wall served as the room’s only ornamentation. If Estinien had been dropped into here with no context, he would have guessed this some frontier lord’s forward base of operations, not a royal command center. He approved.

He put such thoughts aside and hastened to the center map table, which was surrounded by four people.

“Why were they not evacuated in the first place?” Castor was asking.

“They’re puny villages way outside the Demon’s path.” Atreus answered. “Evacuating them meant marching the villagers into the warzone, they were safer staying put.”

“Evidently not.” Castor said darkly as Estinien reached them. Y’shtola gave him a small nod as he stepped up beside her which was the only greeting he received. The three Elarian men ignored his arrival.

Castor continued. “It’s too late now to have them flee. Gorrath would catch them on the road–”

“What’s happened?” Estinien cut him off.

The Princeps spoke. “I have foreseen Gorrath’s next attack. He’s targeting a village in the eastern Ferroc Mountains.”

Estinien frowned slightly as he looked at the Princeps. The man’s normal air of calmness and knowing smile were nowhere to be seen. His arms were folded, fingers drumming a beat on his bicep. His mouth kept working like he was chewing on something.

What’s got him jittery? Estinien wondered.

“But why?” Atreus asked. His hand came down hard on the map. “Why attack there? There’s nothing for him. No strategic resources, and if he’s after people to slaughter there are far better targets within his reach.”

Castor’s expression was grim. “It’s bait. He knows we’d try to defend the villagers, so he’s attacking some far out the way where we could only get a scant handful of fighters there in time to intercept him. He wants to lure out some of our forces so he can pick them off while they are isolated. Our strongest fighters, the only ones who would have any chance of stopping him.”

The Knight’s head bowed in resignation. “It’s unsavory, I’m well aware, but we should do nothing. The area is sparsely populated, even if Gorrath massacres the entire region he would only claim a few souls to bolster his power.”

At Estinien’s side, Y’shtola stirred but said nothing. The dragoon folded his arms. What Castor said was hard to argue with in terms of pure practicalities. It did seem an obvious trap and they didn’t have any response beyond putting themselves into its teeth. But he had not taken up his lance to do nothing when people were in danger.

“I’ll go.” He announced to the room. He shot Castor a hard look. “Even if I have to go alone.”

“No you won’t.” Castor replied evenly. He made a visible effort to soften his expression. “You’d only get there in time if on griffinback, and we won’t spare you a mount just so you can run headfirst to your death.”

“No.” The Princeps stepped forward and planted his hands on the table. “We will not let the Demon rampage here. I won’t allow it.”

Estinien glanced at the younger man in surprise. Unless he grossly misunderstood the Elarian political landscape, the Princeps was majorly overstepping his bounds by making that kind of declaration. And if that was obvious to him, it would be glaring to the other Elarians and the more politically minded Y’shtola. Castor and Atreus shared a long, knowing look.

“My Princeps…” Castor began hesitantly. “You know as well as I do this is unwise. I understand your reasons, but you must put those thoughts aside. That is your duty.”

The Princeps glared at him. “Damnit Castor, my duty is to protect the people of Elarion. All of them. You will send what strength you can to stop the Demon’s attack.”

“No, I won’t.” Castor’s expression hardened. His voice raised into a more official tone. “As the Knight-Captain appointed at the agreement of the five princes of Elarion, I refuse your suggestion as to how and where to deploy our forces.”

He stared down his master. “You could send Lupercal and the Scions, but without support Gorrath will bury them in Chosen and they will die. And if they die, all of Elarion is doomed. I know you are not selfish enough for that.”

“Don’t do this, Castor.” The Princeps actually pleaded.

“I have no choice.”

Estinien could no longer stay silent. He rounded on the Knight “You have a choice, you’re just refusing to make it. Do the lives of your people matter so little to you?”

“Watch what you say, Eorzean.” Castor’s voice could have frozen a lake. “We don’t have the luxury of living in a peaceful land where we can let sentiment move us. We have to make hard choices and sacrifices if we are to survive.”

“Taking the path of least resistance is not the hard choice.” Y’shtola countered. “And it is easy to speak of sacrifice when expecting others to make it.”

Castor’s hand slowly clenched into a fist. He stepped closer to them, but whatever he was going to say was interrupted.

“Four.” Everyone turned to Atreus.

“What?” Y’shtola asked.

Standing with folded arms, Atreus locked eyes with Castor. “You are Knight-Captain according to four princes. I quit the alliance. I’m sending my Knights and griffins to defend the people of Calydon.” His unyielding stare bored into the other man. “You want to help? Great. If not, stay out of our way.”

Castor glared back. “You’ll damn us all.”

“I was going to say the same to you.” Atreus replied.

The tension lasted for several seconds before Castor exhaled explosively. “Very well.”

The Princeps stared at Atreus with naked relief. “Thank you. My prince.”

Atreus humphed gruffly. “I’m a simple man. My people are in danger, and they will be protected. What comes after will happen as it will.”

“Short-sightedness is not a virtue.” Castor growled as a parting remark. He looked to Estinien, all business now. “Lupercal will bear one rider, ideally someone who will face Gorrath with her while the others hold of the Chosen he’ll summon. That will either be me or you, whichever of us is stronger.”

The Princeps spoke up. “Fight each other. The winner rides Lupercal.”

“Agreed.” Castor nodded, pointing towards the door. “Come, to the sparring ring.”

“Of course.” Estinien agreed but did not move as silver light flared into existence.

After a moment or two, it faded. “Castor wins nine times out of ten.” The Princeps said. He ignored Estinien’s scowl and addressed his Knight. “But you attributed that to your style of combat being better suited for such a duel. Against a foe like the Demon, the two of you agreed he will serve better.”

“Very well.” Castor agreed and turned to Atreus. “How many griffins remain capable of bearing passengers?”

“A dozen, including my own.” Atreus answered.

Castor half-turned away, already thinking. “Then I will assemble the twelve strongest knights we have remaining. We must act quickly if we’re to get there in time.”

“Eleven.” Y’shtola said. “I shall be accompanying you.”

Estinien examined her with a warrior’s eye, noting the subtle flush in her face and the way she was surreptitiously leaning on her staff. He shared looks with Castor and Atreus, who both managed to wordlessly convey both that they agreed with his assessment and that this was his problem to deal with.

“You’re staying here.” He told Y’shtola, folding his arms. Estinien was tall even for an Elezen and stood several fulms taller that the scholarly Miqo’te, but the glare she gave him made him feel like she towered over him.

“I would much enjoy seeing you try to stop me.” The sorceress told him in a dangerous tone of voice. Estinien glanced at the Elarians, all three of whom were pointedly ignoring the exchange. Bastards.

“You’re still healing.”

“I have convalesced long enough.”

“It’s only ‘long enough’ when you’re fully healed. And I’ll not have Marcus and the others after my head because I let you throw yourself into battle before you are ready.”

Y’shtola looked unimpressed at his reasoning. Estinien wondered what he was thinking. Since when had she ever put stock in her own safety? He tried another tact.

“We have a limited supply of mounts. Can you guarantee your wound won’t hold you back? If not, the steed has to go to someone hale and healthy. We can’t afford to be at anything less than our best here.”

Y’shtola grimaced and turned away. Estinien could see the gears in her mind turning as she tried to justify her involvement to herself.

She failed. “Very well. I shall remain here.” She pinned him with a gaze. “But know that you cannot fail.”

The absurdity of the words made him laugh. “Indeed not. I’d rather not die, myself.”

Something in his words brought her to a realization. “We did not say, did we? What village is under attack?”

“Does it matter?” Estinien asked. Y’shtola grimaced.

“Perhaps it should not but… Gorrath seeks to destroy the village of Theron.”

Marcus’s hometown. Then Estinien understood, and was doubly glad Y’shtola was staying behind.

This trap was baited for them.

Lieutenant’s wings beat slowly, just enough to maintain their height. He snapped his beak at a wisp of cloud that drifted close and quorked softly, shaking his head.

When one saw a war griffin, several tonze of muscle, claws and razor-sharp beak honed by evolution and further by good breeding into an apex predator whose capability to singlehandedly tear through a formation of infantry was considered one of its less dangerous qualities, it was easy to believe they were beyond feeling anxious. But Cailia had spent several years working with the majestic cloudkin, and Lieutenant most of all. Their bond had been forged in the crucible of combat over the course of several years; often she found herself intending to issue some command to him in battle, only for him to already be moving before she could. The same was true for her, she could tell what he was thinking from the smallest of cues, a twitch of his tail, some ruffled feathers, sometimes something so small she didn’t even register the movement, just what it signified.

All of which was to say, Cailia knew her mount’s emotions better than her own. And she could tell he was feeling pensive.

Not afraid, nothing in a griffin’s evolutionary history had ever prepared it to be afraid, but still on edge. He knew they were hunting, and though Cailia had not explained who their target was (not that Lieutenant would have understood anyway) his instincts were good and he could tell they were after dangerous prey. He was as wary of the danger as he was excited by the prospect of fresh prey and yearned for the hunt to begin in earnest. But they needed to wait.

How they were waiting wasn’t helping matters, Cailia knew. Griffins were not built for hovering. Their flight was best used for quick striking, powerful legs launching them forward while their wings provided lift and steered them towards whatever had the misfortune of being their prey. The advantages of taking true flight like other cloudkin were obvious enough that even wild griffins would do so, but they relied heavily on the momentum generated from their launch and any dives to ease their passage through the sky. You’d never see a wild griffin hovering like this, it was too exhausting.

But Lieutenant had been hovering for the past ten minutes without any complaints. Cailia patted the feathered neck in front of her, thick enough to be a tree trunk, and smoothed down some feathers in appreciation. The hardest part of anything she’d had to do on the Scions’ mission to find and work with the Skalik had been leaving Lieutenant behind. And given what that mission had ended up entailing, that was saying something.

She glanced back at Lieutenant’s other passenger. Alphinaud sat behind her, checking over one of his, what were they called, the floating knives that shot people. She could tell from the way he handled it there was no need for any actual maintenance, he was just trying to keep his mind occupied. Before, she might have guessed that he was trying to keep his mind off their current situation. She had noticed he had been more than a little uncomfortable when they had first flown together, which she could hardly blame him for. Being nervous about being suspended thousands of fulms in the air with nothing but some leather stirrups holding you aloft didn’t rate as being afraid of heights, it was called being sane.

But now, Cailia guessed he was dwelling on what had happened, down in the darkness of the tunnels.

She liked these Scions, she had to admit. She may not agree with their worldview, but they were strong. Both in body, and in convictions. It wasn’t cowardice or weakness that drove Alphinaud’s reaction to what Gorrath had forced them to do, but a genuine belief that all lives were sacred. Even Skalik lives. That was idealistic foolishness, true, but Cailia could respect that the young Elezen held himself to such high standards even if she did not agree with those standards.

Her gaze turned to the sky around them. Now, out in the open air surrounded by the blue of the sky and the white of the clouds, her time spent in the green-tinted darkness of the underground didn’t feel quite real. Her memories of even the past few days had a dreamlike quality to them. Had she really fought alongside a hunt pack in defense of a cavern city? Had they really been the guests of a Skalik warlord who had just let them go? Cailia had been expecting knives in her back the entire way out of the war den and through Rhuskrak back to the tunnel they had first entered from. Even after their Skalik escort had peeled off, she had been waiting for the ambush lurking up ahead, but there was nothing. They made it outside, reunited with the rest of her unit, and made contact with the Princeps all without incident.

Half a day later and now they were here, waiting hidden above the clouds for the Princeps’ signal to strike.

As if summoned by the thought, a soft chime rang in Cailia’s ear. The Princeps’ familiar voice came through her linkpearl a second later. “Thirty seconds until an enemy emerges.”

Cailia shifted in her seat, reminding herself to wait for confirmation. Everything relied on this ambush and they only had one shot at it. Once Aethon knew this habit of his was exposed, he’d never make himself vulnerable like this again. It fell to Thancred, the only one among them who both could hide within sight of the tunnel entrance at Wolfhook Peak without being spotted and knew what Aethon looked like, to identify the demonic thrall the Princeps Saw approaching was indeed that traitor.

She counted down the seconds, reins held tight in clenched hands, until she hit zero. More seconds trickled by. Cailia wet her dry lips. How long did Thancred need to take a quick glance at a doorway?

Finally, his voice came across the open line. “We have him. And an extra bonus, our verbose friend is with him.”

The reference meant nothing to Cailia, but she felt Lieutenant’s torso shift from Alphinaud sitting up in surprise. “Urianger is here?”

Cailia half glanced back to see the wide eyes and open mouth of happy surprise on his face. She remembered Markos’ friend, the tall Elezen who talked like a thesaurus had gotten stuck in his throat. The chance to get him back was a bonus indeed. Fortunately, the Scions had prepared two of the flying pigs that were somehow essential to curing corruption. One for redundancy’s sake, that was no longer redundant.

“Dive on five.” Sarge commanded sharply. Cailia had just enough time to check that Alphinaud was tightly holding on before the order came through. “Dive!”

Lieutenant was already tilting even as Cailia spurred him. His wings folded. They fell like a stone.

They plummeted through the cloud layer. Her world became rushing wind and swirling grays and whites. They punched through after a few seconds and she could see the peak growing larger ahead, or more accurately, below them. She didn’t even bother to try to control their descent.

Without prompting, Lieutenant spread his wings. The angle of the dive shifted, from straight down into merely a steep angle. An angle that would slam them into the mountainside, rather than the ground.

Lieutenant titled. They turned, sharply. Arcing around, over the open space, still descending rapidly. The ground rose to meet them and hit like the fist of a god. Lieutenant’s powerful legs weathered the blow easily, but Cailia was still jarred and Alphinaud nearly fell out of the saddle. Around them, she heard the sound of similar landings as she drew her bow.

Barely five seconds after the order to dive and the Skyhunters had the enemy surrounded.

There were a half dozen of them. The traitor Aethon, the lost Scion Urianger, and a quartet of Elarians as an escort. A handful of men, surrounded by some of the most dangerous predators on the continent bearing riders that were arguably more deadly.

As Cailia drew back an arrow, she saw Aethon’s face. And watched surprise change into a savage grin.

Chapter Text

Estinien watched the skies. An ominously dark cloud front was moving in their direction in defiance of the prevailing winds. Coming out of the west, the oily, shifting murk swallowed the sun and cast them all into shadow.

Say what you will about Gorrath, but the Demon enviable flair for the dramatic.

Estinien spared a glance back at Theron. Marcus had described his hometown as a tiny, backwater village. Knowing the Warrior of Light’s tendencies, Estinien had half expected that to be a considerable understatement. If anything, Marcus had oversold the place.

Lupercal’s long strides had chewed up the malms and she effortlessly navigated the difficult terrain with an ease that Estinien doubted any flesh and blood creature could match. On foot, it would have taken days for even a swift steed to reach here. And what a ‘here’ it was.

 There were enough homes for maybe seven families and a few other buildings, the largest of which was a barn. The buildings themselves were small and crude, clearly made by inexpert hands, but they were just as clearly well maintained. Estinien found himself feeling vaguely nostalgic; Ferndale had been much the same. A dozen and a half chocobos milled around a large fenced off area happily grazing on the scraggly shrubbery that dotted the pen. They were the only residents of the village visible, the rest hiding inside.

There had been quite the commotion when he and Lupercal had arrived. The townspeople were quick to realize what the presence of their incarnated protector deities signified. Estinien might have expected confusion and turmoil, but the Elarians surprised him with a quick and orderly evacuation already well underway by the time one of the villagers approached the new arrivals to confirm an enemy attack was imminent. The hard-eyed woman, old enough to be the dragoon’s mother, wasted no time on pleasantries.

“If you’re here, I guessing the Demon isn’t far behind?”

Estinien blinked. That was her greeting to her people’s living god?

“He is.” Lupercal answered, just as businesslike. “You and your neighbors should seek shelter. In a single location, so you are more easily defended.”

The woman was already turning away. Her hands cupped her mouth as she called out. “Everyone! Into Cassus’s basement! Move sharpish!”

The villagers, arms laden with goods Estinien noted to be food, water, and weapons rather than valuables, filed into the largest home. Given how none of their hurried strides changed direction at the woman’s shout, they were likely already heading there. By the time the Knights arrived on griffinback, most of the town’s citizens were already sheltered.

Even this far off the beaten path, Elarians were used to being under attack.

The response had been so prompt, it took some doing to extricate the half-dozen children and teenagers so they at least could be flown to safety. After that was taken care of, all there had been left to do was wait. And not for very long. Less than an hour later, the horizon began to darken.

Estinien stood with the Knights, Lupercal prowling nearby. The great wolf was always in motion, treading up and down the mountainside with what Estinien would have called nervous energy if he couldn’t sense the eagerness radiating off her. The remaining six Skyhunters and their griffins were withdrawn to protect the village. Some drawn into a ring around the home the villagers were bunkered down in, others perched on the few roofs that would bear their weight. A last line of defense, in case the Demon ignored the promise of battle in favor of slaughter.

Estinien doubted he would. If Castor’s prediction was correct, and Estinien believed it was, killing them was the whole point of the exercise. They’d made sure he’ll have his work cut out for him.

A dozen Knights awaited the battle to be joined. Castor, Diomedes, Calista, Jason, the finest fighters in Elarion stood ready to fight for the fate of their realm. Estinien had seen some in action and for the others prided himself on his not inconsiderable ability to take a man’s measure at a glance. These twelve? Collectively, they would be more than a match for the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. At least, the Scions without counting a certain member.

Estinien knew that was his task, standing in for Marcus. He shifted his grip slightly on Nidhogg, the lance’s butt planted on the ground before him. He would not be found wanting.

Then there were the half-dozen griffin riders held in reserve. Once upon a time, during a mission that involved an errant dragonet and his squad becoming very lost. Estinien had chanced to fight a wild griffin. If the Skyhunters’ mounts proved even half as ferocious, they might give Gorrath no small amount of trouble. And that was before one considered the deadeye marksmen riding them.

And last but certainly not least was Lupercal. Who would have thought eating several crates worth of crystals would have such an effect? The wolf Primal’s golden fur shone as if it couldn’t fully contain the energies within her. She smoldered with latent power, radiated vitality. Just being near her made Estinien’s blood quicken and goosebumps form. What could possibly threaten such a being?

A crimson shape plummeted from out of the dark, diseased clouds and hit the ground with enough force that Estinien felt the ground shudder beneath his feet.

Right. Estinien’s grip on his lance tightened. He can.

Gorrath straightened out of his landing crouch and planted his axe with a metallic thud. The hooked chain swung free below his hand. From here, he looked to be grinning.

“How predictable. And hypocritical. I expected that mutant to at least adhere to his own principles. But you seem determined to fail this land at every chance. So obsessed with clinging to your supposed goodness, you happily–”

“I see he still likes to hear himself talk.” Estinien commented in an aside to Castor, tuning out the Demon’s speech.

“I would not expect that to change any time soon.” Castor answered. The Knight’s sword was planted into the ground before him with his hands resting atop the hilt, not quite leaning on it.  On the other side of him, Diomedes sighed loudly.

“You think this will be quick, or will we be waiting long?”

Estinien yawned. “With the way he goes on, I might squeeze in a nap.”

Several of the Knights laughed. Their levity was genuine, not a façade. Despite the battle awaiting them, they were as relaxed as they would be at the training grounds preparing for a sparring match.

Estinien approved. They would have made fine dragoons.

Realizing he had lost, or more accurately never had, his audience, Gorrath threw back his head and laughed raucously.

“Hahahahaha, Good! Very good indeed.” He gestured with his axe in a sweeping wave that encompassed all of them. “I tire of killing cowards. Heroes’ blood tastes far sweeter.”

Above their heads, Lupercal snorted. Estinien felt the gust of wind ruffle his hair. “Get on with it, brute. I tire of waiting.”

Gorrath smiled wickedly. “As you wish.”

He held up a hand, a ball of balefire burning in his palm. Pillars of that malevolent flame burst into being before him. Estinien took a quick count. He marked twenty pyres solidifying into the bodies of the Chosen. Less than they had feared Gorrath might bring with him, but more than they had hoped.

Gorrath may have come here as a plot to kill them, but his love of combat was a fundamental piece of the Primal’s essence. They would have no chance if he called forth all one hundred of his Chosen here and now. But, as the Princeps speculated, Gorrath wouldn’t do that. He had a twisted sense of fairness that demanded he face them on relatively even footing. More to the point, drowning them in bodies would be boring to him. He wanted them to fight back, and to come close to defeating him. He could always summon more Chosen to his side or even simply retreat if he actually felt threatened.

That arrogance, Gorrath knowing he could effortlessly crush them and so feeling no risk in indulging himself, was their advantage. Estinien couldn’t say it was a reassuring advantage.

The Chosen finished forming. Weapons were thrust into the air, cries for blood echoed.

Estinien stared. The Chosen looked monstrous. Some were bulked with muscle beyond their size, some had horns. One even had a pair of great wings folded behind his backs. They were becoming more like their master, Estinien realized. More monstrous, and he was willing to bet more powerful.

Gorrath pointed past the enemies arrayed against him. His voice echoed off the mountainside. “Slaughter that village! Kill any who stand in your way!”

“Blood for Gorrath!” The Chosen roared. They charged up the slope, on a collision course with the line of Knights.

“Blood for Elarion!” The Knights shouted as one. They moved as one, marching downslope to meet the Chosen head on. The two lines met with the clamor of metal striking metal, the shouts of the Chosen countered by the grim silence of the Knights. Elarion’s warriors fought with the same fluid perfection Estinien had seen from them before. Even outnumbered, the Knights were ably holding the Chosen back.

All the Chosen but one. The winged Chosen had waited as the others advanced. Now, he unfurled his wings. With a great beat, he catapulted upwards. Another flap launched him forwards. Estinien noted the angle of his flight. He’d pass well over the melee and enter the village unopposed. A challenge for the Skyhunters to overcome.

Though her burning blue eyes didn’t leave Gorrath for a single second, Lupercal marked the flying Chosen as well. “Estinien.”

“Yes?” He asked absently, already focusing his attention on the Demon downslope. Gorrath had made no move to advance yet, but even without the eagerness writ plain on his face Estinien would have doubted he’d wait much longer.

“Dispatch the flyer.” Lupercal growled. “I will face the Demon alone.”

Estinien looked up in surprise. “That was not the plan. The Skyhunters can handle him.”

They were not, strictly speaking, sure how Gorrath and Lupercal measured up to one another. While the Princeps and the other Elarian leaders had a good grasp on how powerful Lupercal was, it was harder to say how truly strong Gorrath was. Especially considering how by all accounts he was steadily accumulating more and more power the longer the war went on. The general assumption, however, was that the Wolf Primal came up short to the Blood one.

Lupercal didn’t seem to care much for that assessment. “The people must be protected. That is our purpose here. We will leave nothing to chance. Slay the winged one, then join me.”

Her head finally turned away from Gorrath to glance down at Estinien. “I am not be so easily beaten that you will not have enough time to see to your task first.”

Staring her down, Estinien found he could not argue. He glanced up to check the winged Chosen’s position as he crouched. Aether gathered in his legs, creating the familiar tension that had always reminded him of a drawn bow.

“Try not to kill him too quickly.” Estinien told her. “I still want my turn crossing blades with him.”

He didn’t wait to hear a response. He released the tension and shot heavensward, his lance an arrow in his hands aimed at the heart of his new prey.

The Chosen saw him coming and reacted with all the speed Estinien had come to expect. His own spear snapped up, knocking Nidhogg’s point away from him. This turned Estinien’s momentum and instead of slamming into the Chosen the dragoon sailed past him. They passed close enough for an embrace, more than close enough for Estinien to see the Chosen was Pollux despite his new, monstrous features.

With aerobatics so practiced he no longer needed to consciously perform them, Estinien righted himself out of his knocked askew plunge. His feet found traction on the empty air and he came to a stop for a single second. In that moment, as the tension pooled in his legs again, he saw Pollux.

The Chosen turned back to face him, spear held at the ready, with no thought for the village below them. Estinien saw the savage grin and with a flash of insight he understood.

Pollux wasn’t targeting the village; Pollux was targeting him.

Then the dragoon was leaping again, determined to make the other spearman regret it.

For a moment, Demon and Avatar stared at one another while their respective allies fought. Gorrath took up his axe and held it before him, but in a loose way. Lupercal stood straight and proud, her legs not yet bent in anticipation of movement. Gorrath seemed to be smirking

“You will not harm these people.” Lupercal declared.

Now Gorrath was definitely smirking. “You think I care about these mortal specks? Whether they die today or in a year, it matters little to me. No, I am here for the only thing that does matter in this wretched world.”

He raised his axe. Despite the bright sky overhead, the dark metal did not glint, as if the sunlight died in its presence.

“This. The war. The only war. That every being fights in, whether they realize it or not. And this will be one of its most important battles. Elarion’s new god, against the last gasp of its old one.”

“If you believe I am the last of my Lady’s presence in this land, you are more of a fool than I thought.”

Now Lupercal did brace herself, ready to burst into movement. Brillant azure fire flared up around her. She took hold of the lightflame with a thought, shaping it. It hardened, crystalizing into armor that fitted itself to her frame. Cerulean claws formed on her front paws, her head and throat became encased in plates of shimmering blue that left her jaws free to bite and tear.

She reared back and howled. More than mere sound, it echoed off the mountains and pierced the ears of everyone who heard it. To the battling Knights and Scion, it was an invigorating call to action. To the villagers hiding beneath the earth, a reassuring vow they would be safe. To the Chosen and their vile master, a promise that they would not live to see another day.

Then she lunged forward. Gorrath swung his axe to meet her and she caught the blade with her fangs with an explosion that shook the mountain down to its foundations.

Fighting one of the fiercest battles of his life, Castor paid no mind to the clashing gods. His attention was occupied with much more immediate concerns. Like the axe headed for his skull.

He noted the descending weapon, wielded by a Hyur man whose budding horns and swollen muscles made him seem a Taurhe at a glance, yet did nothing to impede it. His shield was already raised to deflect an arrow aimed at Calista behind him and his sword was occupied blocking another sword slashing in from his right. He couldn’t stop the Chosen’s weapon from splitting his head open like an overripe fruit, but that was fine. He didn’t need to.

Jason’s spear came up and knocked the axe aside. This left the Calydonian Knight open to attack for a single second, which would be more than enough time for the Lalafell Chosen opposite him to take his legs off at the knees if Calista wasn’t already blasting that Chosen backward with an expertly placed blade of light.

Gorrath’s further transformation of his Chosen had made them monstrous in more than just appearance. Their strength continued to grow, becoming more and more inhuman. In his long years of service as a Knights, Castor had never faced stronger foes. Each blow had immense power behind it and the Chosen themselves were ignoring even worse injuries than they had previously. Against these, Castor could still hold his own but some of his physically weaker comrades were being outmatched in one-on-one combat. Just as well then that the Knights did not fight one-on-one.

People believed the Knights had great teamwork and that was why they were capable of fighting so perfectly together. That was hardly the case; Castor had met Jason perhaps a dozen times throughout their respective careers, their paths only crossing as duty required. They were acquaintances, not close friends or comrades who trained intensively together. Castor did not trust Jason so wholeheartedly as to put his life in the other man’s hands. He didn’t need to. He simply knew Jason would defend him, just as Jason knew when he stabbed at the downed Lalafell Chosen that Castor’s shield would block an incoming stab at his exposed torso.

Of the varied benefits the Lady’s Blessing bestowed upon a Knight, the boost to strength and power was widely held by the masses as the most important. It turned a Knight from a good fighter to a great one, had uplifted Castor from being a near equal to his brother to far outstripping him. It was easy to see why people made that mistake, but a mistake it remained.

Castor swung his sword one-handed in a wide arc. He knew it would force back the Chosen in front of him and the one to his right, in front of Diomedes. He knew Diomedes was already stepping forward ready to strike following his swing, the other man’s shield still raised to defend Damian on his other side. Castor knew, without looking, that he needed to shield Calista, that the Chosen archer was twisting away from an aetherial blade shot at her while still bringing her drawn bow to bear.

All this he knew, not because the Lady’s Blessing let him sense the future in battle, but because it let all of them. Knights fought as one, always. Whether there were hundred of them in a battle, or merely two. The Lady’s Blessing, or the Echo as the Scions called it, granted the power to connect souls. That was how it let one understand an unknown language, not from granting knowledge of the words but from interpreting the meaning and intention of the speaker. And if you gathered a group of those who could connect souls and trained them to do so readily even in the heat of combat, the advantage was incredible.

Castor did not sense Calista was in danger from the archer’s arrow. Calista sensed that and not just Castor but all eleven of them sensed her sensing it. And Calista and the other ten sensed that Castor would intercept this arrow, just as Castor sensed that Georgios was readying a spell of his own aimed where the Chosen’s dodge of Calista’s spell would carry her. The decisions were instantaneous, happening without thought. They simply knew what to do, just as they all felt the sense of satisfaction when the aetherial blade impaled the archer and she burst into flame.

Their precognition only covering a few seconds ahead made for a poor imitation of the Princeps’ true Sight. But paired with their souls linked together such that they fought like a being with one mind and a dozen bodies, it was more than enough.

The Knights were outnumbered and overpowered by their foes. But they were not outmatched.

The battle had begun with nineteen Chosen against twelve Knights. Now they were down to sixteen. Raw power and brute strength were yielding to the Knights’ synchronized skill.

A rumble in the ground preceded an eruption of earth that would throw the front line of Knights aloft. Calista and Georgios sent their power into the ground, forestalling the druid’s spell while Agatha fired a counter-attack at the Hyur. But that left Iacton, on the outside of their formation fighting to keep a Chosen from circling around to attack their casters directly, with no one to cover him when another Chosen stepped forward with a blade. Damian, on Iacton’s left, could not intercept the blow in time, and his decision to not even try in favor of cutting down the attacker was as readily made as any other.

Castor felt the urge to recoil when he felt the sword run him through. Linked as they were, he and the rest of the Knights felt Iacton’s wound as if it had been their own flesh rent. But they were Knights and not a one of them so much as paused while they fought on. Even as he felt the life bleed out of Iacton, Castor fought on.

Some people wondered why Knights, who were often scattered across the realm as duty demanded, referred to one another as brother or sister. To Castor, feeling his friend and comrade of the past dozen years breathe his last like it were his own heart stopping, the term was not nearly intimate enough.

But still, he fought on. His sword batted an axe away from Diomedes and blocked one aimed for him in the same motion. His shield shuddered under the impact of a hammer.

“Die!” The Taurhe with the hammer screamed with each hit. “Die! Die! Die!”

Castor ignored him; Jason would dispatch him momentarily. More importantly, the Hyur dual wielding axes was attacking again. Above them, audible over the clash of blade on blade, Pollux’s battlecries could be heard.

That was a problem, and one they needed to solve. Soon.

Estinien darted through the air, cursing the strain his legs felt. It had been a long time since he’d fought a proper aerial duel; he’d let himself get rusty.

The rapid jumps he was making to maintain his height were shaking that rust off. The downward thrust of a dive generated a lot of his striking power, staying high was key. There was one distinct advantage Estinien had in this battle. He’d been a dragoon for years. Pollux had grown wings mere days ago. And he flew like it.

The other spearmen’s movements in the air were clumsy. Not slow, his wings propelled him with shocking force, but he lacked the experience and maneuverability to fly properly. A veteran of over a decade of aerial combat, Estinien was jumping rings around him.

Estinien dove, Nidhogg held before him. Pollux saw him coming and spun, his spear lashing out to intercept the blow. Estinien made a small jump, barely a hop, and the balefire wreathed weapon passed close enough to only scorch his armor. Estinien arced over the Chosen’s head before another, stronger jump shot him into Pollux’s back, Nidhogg running the Chosen clean through. Estinien had learned his lesson by now and barely a second later he was springing away. He just barely managed to clear the area before Pollux’s counter-attack swept through where his neck had been.

 Estinien made another jump off the air, straight up to gain elevation. He’d inflicted four mortal wounds on Pollux by now, all of them due to the fact the Chosen remaining in the air allowed Estinien to easily outmaneuver him. But that didn’t matter much when the man would not die. The wounds kept healing themselves, even now as Pollux shot up after him there was only a dwindling flame to mark the injury inflicted a few seconds ago. Pollux’s chest finished closing itself up, and then there wasn’t even that. The Chosen seemed incapable of being mortally wounded, and was well aware of it.

“I cannot die!” Pollux screamed again. “But you will!”

Estinien hurriedly propelled himself sideways out of the way of Pollux’s charge, narrowly avoiding the stabbing spear. Nidhogg flicked out and tore open the man’s side as he passed, to another scream of fury rather than pain. This wound, less serious, healed even faster than the previous one.

The other Scions, learned scholars that they were, would likely have already worked out why the Chosen seemed immortal and come up with a clever way to defeat him. Estinien, on the other hand, was a simple man and had a simple plan.

If he killed Pollux enough times, eventually it would stick.

Estinien let himself fall, knowing Pollux would doggedly pursue. Once they got low enough, Estinien could reverse his falling trajectory faster and let Pollux’s own downward momentum impale him on Nidhogg’s length.

Just as Estinien was gathering his aether to halt his fall, a chain made of shimmering silver magic shot up from beneath him. Committed to his dive, Pollux couldn’t pull up in time to avoid it wrapping around his wings and dragging him down. Estinien turned to follow and saw Calista on the other end of the chain. Castor’s deep voice shouted over the din of the melee. “We have matters here! Go help Lupercal!”

Estinien nodded. The angle of his planned jump shifted and he catapulted himself up angled so he would arc over to where the Primals fought. As he flew, he took in the battle unfolding. It did not look good.

Pollux flexed and with a surge of balefire shattered the chain bringing him down. Calista recoiled from the backlash of her spell being broken and for a moment Castor thought they wouldn’t be able to stop Pollux from chasing back after Estinien. But though Pollux eyed the dragoon’s retreating figure briefly, he turned away and continued his descent under his own power.

With a thought, Castor sent Calista to rejoin their brothers and sisters, who were still battling the Chosen behind them. That fight was desperate enough even when the two of them had been present, he couldn’t justify keeping her out of it. And besides, he thought as Pollux landed and furled his wings, this was a family matter.

“So this is really where you chose to die?” Pollux raised his arms to gesture at their surroundings. “Defending some podunk village in the middle of nowhere?”

Castor readied his armaments, sword in his right hand and shield in his left. “I thought it wouldn’t matter to you where we fought, only that we did.”

Pollux smiled, wild and fierce. “Finally, you’re speaking my language. I can’t wait to finally kill you.”

Castor settled into his ready stance. “After you, brother.”

Pollux answered the invitation by lunging forward and stabbing with his spear in a horizontal thrust. Castor caught the attack squarely on the center of his shield. Even when braced for it, the impact still drove him backwards. Castor grit his teeth. Gorrath’s twisted blessing had more than evened the gap that Knighthood had opened between the brothers.

Pollux slipped to the side, swinging his spear around to slash from Castor’s right, his vulnerable side. Castor made the snap decision, dropping his shield and bringing his sword up in both hands. The speartip clanged against the wide metal flat of Castor’s sword. He could feel the heat from the balefire surging around Pollux’s spear. Even with both arms, he could barely hold the weapon back. He tapped ever so slightly into the Lady’s Gift and with renewed strength knocked the spear aside.

Pollux was not deterred by the white flames enveloping Castor’s blade and attacked again. Back and forth they went, exchanging a furious series of blows. Neither side could claim an advantage. Every time the spear lashed out, the sword was there to meet it. Every time the sword struck, the spear would whirl around to intercept it. They were evenly matched. But they shouldn’t have been.

Pollux was stronger now. And faster. His weapon was also better suited to this duel than Castor’s greatsword and unlike his fellow spearman in Estinien, he was well seasoned in fighting man sized foes rather than first and foremost great beasts, meaning Castor could not make up the difference in skill either. Pollux should have been able to defeat him, and he could tell the other man knew it. The longer their duel went, the more agitated he became. His swings and thrusts grew wilder, with more power behind them. But even though small cuts and balefire burns dotted the Knight’s frame, the Chosen could not land a decisive blow.

Because Castor was no longer hiding.

‘Brother’ he had called Pollux, for the first time since the man had been lost to Gorrath. And he meant it.

Castor had told himself that the creature wearing Pollux’s face was simply a monster born of the Blood Demon’s evil. A beast made out of his brother’s corpse; whose imitation of the man himself was merely a mocking affectation.

He had never been able to convince himself of it. Pollux’s words, the way he spoke, his gestures and body language, they were all too perfect, too familiar to have any origin but the man himself. But Castor refused to believe it. Refused to believe the man he had known and loved his entire life could ever become this, even with the Demon’s influence. He hid from the truth, to spare himself its sting.

Learning the nature of the Chosen had been a revelation. Now, he understood. This creature opposite him that looked more demon than human, that stared back with bloodthirsty madness in his eyes, was indeed his brother. The boy who he had grown up with, had laughed and cried and fought with. The man who, on that night, had told him: It should have been me, not you.

That bitterness, that pride, that disdain for Castor, they were all part of Pollux. The Demon may have amplified those feelings, but they were genuine. This Chosen was indeed his brother. But there was something he was not, as well.

The man who had taken those words back.

Who loved Castor just as Castor loved him, whose resentment was completely eclipsed by the shame he felt for having it. Who lied to Castor that he didn’t care about the thing he craved his entire life because his brother was more important.

That understanding was the key that let Castor finally accept, in his heart, that his enemy was indeed Pollux. And he knew how to fight Pollux.

They had sparred together countless times, first as youthful fun then as training. Castor knew how Pollux fought better than he did. No matter how strong he became or what demonic mutations he acquired, this was still Pollux. And he fought like it.

Castor saw the drop and sway of the spearpoint that indicated, like it had the last thousand times he had seen it, a feinted stab at his stomach. He ignored it and by the time the actual attack arrived, a whirling slash aimed at his throat, his blade was already waiting for it. His counterstroke knocked Pollux off balance, and his swordpoint traced a burning line across his brother’s torso. Pollux screamed in mindless rage, hacking savagely. Just like he had before, after being shown up in the dueling ring, and like before Castor slipped easily away from the wild strikes to get behind Pollux. This time, the folded wings received his boot instead of his brother’s back, but the kick made Pollux stagger forward all the same.

“Tired yet?” Castor asked. The words never failed to rouse Pollux’s ire, and did so again. Balefire surged, growing beyond the spear to wreath his body in crimson flames. He lunged forward and thrust, enough power behind the blow to obliterate Castor where he stood. So Castor did not stand. He ducked low, letting the burning blade pass over him close enough that he felt his skin blister, while he brought his sword around and up.

He took Pollux’s hands off at the elbows and carved a bloody canyon in his chest. Pollux reeled backward, his energies desperately mending his damaged flesh. Castor did not give him the chance, stepping forward and impaling Pollux with enough force that the Chosen left his feet. Castor brought his sword up then down, slamming Pollux into the ground and pinning him there.

Castor put both hands on the hilt and poured his aether into it. White fire contested crimson as the power trying to restore Pollux’s body clashed with the energies trying to destroy it. Pollux’s reforming hands scrabbled ineffectually at the blade.

“I’LL KILL YOU!!! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!!! CASTOOOR!!!!”

His shouting cut off. His body reached its limit and disintegrated in a final surge of flames.

Castor cut off the flow of his aether into the blade, panting. He leaned on his planted weapon, needing a moment. Not just from fatigue.

That had been… hard. He dearly hoped the Scions were successful in their mission. He wasn’t sure he could do that again.

He allowed himself a few seconds only. The battle was still raging, and his brothers and sisters needed him. But as he turned to rejoin them, an explosion lit the sky behind him.

Lupercal fought the Demon with all her strength. Cerulean lightflame met crimson balefire again and again, becoming a swirling conflagration that scorched the land around them. Just as well she had sent Estinien away, no mortal could withstand such a maelstrom of flame for long. Even the trio of Skyhunters that had joined the fray were keeping well far away firing arrows from a distance rather than risking getting close. Even without the fire, it was too dangerous for them. As they had learned when the first griffin to dive in with beak and talons ready to rend had instead caught Gorrath’s hook square in the chest and survived just long to die on impact with the ground. Lupercal’s warning to the others to stay back was hardly necessary.

This was a battle for gods.

Gorrath swung Blooddrinker in a wide arc. Lupercal ducked under it and darted forward. She aimed to sink her fangs into his gut while his axe was swinging away from his body, but he reacted with whipcrack quickness and caught her teeth on his axe haft. Lupercal resisted the urge to try to snap the weapon in her jaws and leapt backward, narrowly escaping the blade made of balefire plunging down in the Demon’s free hand. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it flying after her. Lupercal barely had time to land before she needed to bat the thing out of the air with her armored claws.

She prowled to the left, always taking care to stay between Gorrath and the village. She did not have a body of flesh and blood, for which that dreadful axe’s curse gave her cause to be grateful. But her aetheric form bled nonetheless, small jets of aether from a dozen small wounds she had taken in the last several clashes. That was with her armor. Without it, the wounds would have been much worse.

She took the momentary reprieve as a chance to heal them. Restoring her form was as simple as tasking her aether to fill in the gaps. She could recover from any injury until she ran out of the energy with which to do so.

Unfortunately, that applied to her enemy as well. Gorrath too had taken damage as they fought and he too mended those wounds with a simple thought as he matched her by pacing to the right, axe held ready to be brought to bear. They were so very similar, Avatar and Demon. No, what did the Scions call them? Primals. Yes. That name fit well.

Primals. That was what they were. Primal expressions of emotion and will, made manifest through aether. She would protect this land because that was the purpose she was created for. He would try to destroy it because that was his purpose. That was all that mattered.

Tired of waiting, Gorrath strode forward. He was grinning. He had been smiling the entire fight. A battle for the fate of the realm, of the star itself, perhaps, and he saw it only as entertainment. Lupercal hated him. Hated everything he represented. That hate filled her limbs with power and she bounded forward.

Blooddrinker flared hatefully as it swung to meet her. She bit down on the bladed edge with another earth-shaking clash of energies. Gorrath used the length of his weapon to keep her fangs and claws from where they could do real damage. She had to get around this damned axe somehow if she wanted to sink her teeth into his flesh.

Lupercal backed off, just out of reach. She raked the air before her with her claws. The solidified lightflame that made up her armored claws awoke and took flight. The air filled with a barrage of azure claws.

Gorrath reacted quickly. Moving with grace that seemed impossible for something so large, his axe danced in his hands to form a wall between him and the incoming attacks. Every set of flying claws was shattered and smashed aside without coming near him. Including the last one. The set aimed at his ankle. If it had hit, it would have destroyed his footing and left him open, an opening she would have used to tear out his throat. But with blinding speed, Blooddrinker had snapped down and intercepted the claws. Just as Lupercal hoped.

She pounced. Not at the Demon, but his weapon. Her paws landed on the axehead, pinning it beneath her. Her jaws reached for Gorrath’s unguarded throat.

Something struck her neck instead. The hook! The chain! It wound round her neck like a leash before the hook bit deep into her throat. The chain pulled taut, dragging her down. She managed to keep the axe beneath her as she fell, at least he could not use it to butcher her where she lay. Gorrath stood over her, a gloating smile on his face. It was unearned. She pinned and could not retaliate, but neither could he. One hand held the chain keeping her down, the other the axe she had trapped beneath her.

Lupercal glared. If he wanted to hold her leash, he was welcome to it. She channeled her lightflame toward the metal around her throat. Not to burn it, but to run along it and incinerate its holder.

Gorrath’s smile morphed into a snarl. He clenched the fist holding the chain and balefire surged down it to meet her flames surging up. They struggled against each other, fire against fire, a match of pure strength where the loser would be incinerated. Lupercal poured her power into the contest, converting her armor into power to bolster the intensity of her attack.

But it was not enough. Ilm by ilm, the balefire pushed the lightflame back. Ilm by ilm, Lupercal drew closer to burning alive. She snarled and pushed harder. She was the guardian god of this land. She would not fail!

“Lupercal!” The five remaining Skyhunters were diving towards the struggling Primals in attack formation. Gorrath released his axe and swept his now free hand out. A hurricane of the foul, dark winds that accompanied him erupted with enough force to throw the strong cloudkin away. Gorrath returned his attention to his captive.

“You first. Then this world.”

Lupercal snarled, a wordless scream of defiance and impotent fury. She nearly missed the flash of ruby energy out of the corner of her eye.

Estinien’s aim was perfect.

He descended from the sky as a bolt of ruby lightning. His landing created a shockwave that radiated outward, but his angle was such that Gorrath absorbed the brunt of it. More importantly, his lance pierced his target with unerring precision.

Namely, Gorrath’s chain. And a good chunk of the calf behind it.

Gorrath roared as he stumbled backwards. A flailing hand generated a burst of balefire that coalesced into a sword. Gorrath threw it as fast and straight as an arrow, but by then Lupercal was on her feet again. She snatched the blade out of the air and bit it in two. The pieces burned to nothingness as they fell and she fixed her attention on their maker.

Gorrath’s leg was already healing, but he was wounded for the moment and without his weapons. Her legs were bending to pounce when she saw him put all his weight on his wounded leg and raise the other. Before she could move, he stamped his hoof hard. The ground buckled outward in a wave aimed at her and the dragoon. As stone split and rose, it broke along unnatural lines to form a series of deadly spikes. The dragoon flipped away to safety. Less nimble, Lupercal simply rode the wave backward, her power blunting the spikes before they could pierce her.

His leg still healing, Gorrath clapped his hands together. Flurries of balefire formed between his fingers, more black lightning than red fire. What he planned to do with that, Lupercal would never know thanks to the canary yellow blur that slammed into him.

It was a Chocobo. It was half a dozen Chocobos, with more behind them. They swarmed Gorrath, kicking and pecking him. With his hands clasped, he could not defend against them. A few found his wounded leg and were savaging it. Bewildered, Lupercal looked back behind her to see the gates to the pen open and a woman running away from them back towards the house the villagers were hiding in.

Gorrath endured the livestock onslaught for a few seconds before his fury broke. “ENOUGH!”

He ripped his hands apart. A storm of black lightning burst forth, dark tendrils striking everywhere. Chocobos were intelligent creatures; these ones smart enough to know they would rather be anywhere else but here right now. They turned and fled, but several were struck and died instantly.

Gorrath thrust out a hand. Drawn by some terrible magnetism, his axe leapt off the ground to smack firmly into his hand. Power surged around the axehead, more than Lupercal had seen from him yet. She growled, gathering her own energy. Estinien returned to her side, his lance held ready.

Gorrath jumped. His wings beat once to give him greater height and he soared through the air towards Lupercal. His axe was held over his head in both hands, ready to be swung down like a fiery guillotine.

Lupercal nearly laughed at the Demon’s foolishness. Such a straightforward attack could be easily dodged and countered. She went low, knees bent ready to spring away, when she heard the dragoon curse. That was enough to remind her, the realization chilling her like a plunge into an icy ocean.

The village was behind them, and the power in Gorrath’s attack it would not only reach it but raze it off the face of the star unless stopped.

She faced a choice that was no choice at all.

Blooddrinker descended in fire and fury, a meteor held by a monster.

Lupercal howled cold and clear and pure. Her leap away became a leap towards.

The world became naught but light and fury.

Estinien picked himself up off the ground with a groan. He’d managed to hold onto his lance, but that was about all. His intention had been to lend his strength to Lupercal’s defense of the village, but the power erupting from the Primals had blown him away instead. He gingerly got to his feet and tried to look around. The air was filled with dust kicked up by the explosion. Estinien looked uphill. For a mercy, the village looked unharmed, spared from the blast. The wind picked up to blow the cloud of dust away in the same moment he heard a canine whine.

He turned and uttered an obscenity that would have earned him a scolding from Krile.

Lupercal and Gorrath stood close enough to embrace, Blooddrinker embedded firmly in the wolf’s chest. Gorrath’s smile was a terrible thing to behold.

He kicked and yanked at once. Lupercal staggered backwards and the axe ripped free of her flesh in a vomit of blue fire. Primals could recover from injuries to a degree, but Estinien could tell even at a glance the wound was a mortal one. Lupercal was shedding a gushing fount of aether and her legs were shaky. She tried and failed to stand up straight.

“Well fought, wolf.” Gorrath said. The respect in his voice made the words ring obscenely genuine.

Lupercal tried to speak, but the words came out a choked gargle. A flurry of blue fire passed over her throat and she tried again. This time, she got the words out in a halting, weak voice.

“I… am… the guardian… of this… land.”

“You were.” Gorrath’s head turned to fix Estinien in his dark gaze. Estinien took his lance in both hands, tapping into the power of the dragon within him. It was up to him, now.

But Lupercal was not done. “I… protect… its people!”

She staggered forward, teeth flashing. Gorrath effortlessly caught her by the throat and lifted her so they were face to face. Lupercal’s limp legs trailed beneath her.

“Pathetic. I was going to let you die with some dignity.” Gorrath chided. Estinien braced for a jump and bit back a curse when he saw the Demon’s eye flick over to track the movement. He’d be ready for the attack when it came. Estinien was just about to jump anyway when Lupercal surprised them both.

She laughed.

Forelegs that had been limp moved with startling speed. One wrapped around Gorrath’s axe arm, pinning it down, while the other paw went around his torso, pulling them closer.

“Too easy.” Lupercal growled, her tremulous voice strong once again. Gorrath was unaffected by the sudden change, merely frowning in confusion.

“What are you…?” He trailed off when he saw what Estinien saw. The embers of aether weren’t dying down, they were flaring up. 

“You are too arrogant.” Lupercal growled as her flames intensified. “We’ll burn together!”

Gorrath snarled. “Even now, you think you can stop me!?”

“I WILL stop you! You will not hurt my people, EVER AGAIN!!!”

It took Gorrath only a second to free his arm from Lupercal’s paw. He was a second too late.

A pillar of fire engulfed them both, fire so hot the blue burned almost white. It roared into the sky, a tower of pure, destructive power. And above the roaring of the flames Estinien could hear a triumphant howl.

He was not tempered, but he knew what she meant.

He watched the brilliant display burn. It seemed impossible that anything could survive within such a destructive plume of energy. But a sudden sense of foreboding punched him in the gut.

Within the flames, movement.

Estinien was already leaping backward went the pillar exploded outward. He landed upslope automatically, mind jammed by disbelief.

Gorrath stood among the dying flames, unburnt. Unsinged. Even the minor wounds he had before Lupercal’s final attack were gone like they had never existed. Only the Primal’s face showed he had ever been hurt, his bloodthirsty grin replaced by a murderous snarl.

“That bitch!” Gorrath’s hand clenched like it was still around Lupercal’s throat. His fist shook.

That’s impossible. Estinien stared stupidly. To not only survive that, but do it completely unharmed? What kind of power would that take?

His combat instincts punched through his fog of confusion. How Gorrath survived was irrelevant. He could be hurt, the Primal’s own fury was proof of that. If he could be hurt, he could be killed. And if he survived being killed, then Estinien would kill him again.

Gorrath allowed him no more time for such thoughts, leaping forward with his axe in hand. Estinien stood still, took a deep breath. He paid no heed to the rapidly approaching Primal, looking within himself. He touched the power of the dragon, power that had lurked within himself ever since Nidhogg used his as a host. Estinien used this power, let it fuel his limbs and bolster him in combat, but always kept a part of himself removed from it. Nidhogg’s spirit was gone, he knew that, but after losing himself to the Great Wyrm in a moment of weakness, Estinien resolved to never fully lower his guard again.

Now he did. The Great Wyrm’s power flooded his body as he embraced it fully. When the Demon’s axe obliterated where he was standing Estinien was already gone, taking to the sky with a jump that he performed faster and easier than he ever had. Gorrath followed him into the air with a fluidity that told the dragoon he would not be as easily outmaneuvered as Pollux.

Aether flowed into Estinien’s lance until it shone with energy. Gorrath responded with a wordless shout of challenge, axe drawn back ready to strike. When another beat of those immense wings drew him close enough, he attacked. Estinien took Nidhogg in both hands, found traction on the air, and leapt in the other direction.

He wasn’t about to go blade to blade with a Primal this powerful. He was a simple man, not a stupid one.

Incensed at his challenge being denied, Gorrath threw an orb of balefire Estinien’s way. It only crossed half the distance between them when it burst, becoming a barrage of aetherial blades. A trio of quick, small jumps were enough to carry Estinien out of the paths of all of them but the distraction had been enough for Gorrath to close the distance. The axe swung again, stronger and faster.

This time Estinien didn’t propel himself far away. He evaded with a tiny hop, his right leg pushing him down just enough to clear the axehead’s path. He let the balefire rake over him, feeling himself burn through his armor. Two legs would have moved him far enough to be unharmed, but he’d saved the tension building in his left leg.

He loosed that tension and shot himself forward like an arrow. Still committed to his attack, Gorrath had no chance to evade or block him. Nidhogg’s entire blade sank into a gap in the dark plates armoring the monster’s torso. Estinien surged his aether as he thrust. The energy ripped into Gorrath’s body and rewarded Estinien with a bellow of outrage.

Reflexes honed over fifteen years of combat sent Estinien springing off Gorrath immediately. His foe was wounded, not dead. His caution was vindicated when the Primal released a spherical shockwave of energy a second later. With the distance he’d gained, Estinien was blasted across the sky, not disintegrated.

He managed to arrest his fall in time to avoid splattering his head on the ground, though he still had to skid to a stop on the stony ground. Gorrath landed with a tremendous impact behind him. He didn’t look terribly put out by the attack Estinien landed.

“Haha yes! Keep fighting, mortal! Give me more carnage!”

Estinien licked the blood off his lip and matched the Primal’s savage grin with one of his own.

“Fine with me. I’m just getting started.”

“As am I.” Castor came up beside Estinien. His body was wreathed in white flame as if to match the shifting, translucent dragon scales that enshrouded the dragoon. “This battle is far from over.”

Estinien saw behind him other Knights running over and concluded the Chosen had been dispatched. The Skyhunters too were rallying, the cries of their griffins growing louder.

“Well said.” Gorrath rumbled. Eagerness dripped from his words. “Why stop the slaughter here? More blood is always welc–”

His head snapped around to look west, words cut-off mid-sentence. His face took on an expression Estinien had yet to see from him, and the unexpectedness of it gave him pause.

Gorrath looked astonished. Completely and utterly stunned.

“What?” His voice was barely a murmur. It raised as anger bled in. “Why?”

Without sparing another thought for the enemies around him, he launched himself into the air. Estinien watched him recede as he shot away from them at a blinding speed, contemplating pursuing.

He gave up on the idea. He’d never catch up. And, now that the battle was over and he could admit as much to himself, he’d be killed even if he could bring the Primal to battle.

The danger passing made fatigue fall unto him like a tonze of bricks. Estinien sat without meaning to, his spear clattering on the ground. He was panting, trying to force air into desperately overworked muscles. Castor flopped down beside him, his breathing also heavy. Similar sighs of relief and exhaustion could be heard from the others. For a minute they simply sat there, luxuriating in the feeling of still being alive after the rush of battle.

“Sers?” A voice intruded. Estinien turned to see the village’s spokeswoman, the one who had unleashed the flock of Chocobos approaching them. She was armed with a sword and a shield, eyes on the horizon watching for Gorrath’s return. Seeing her again, this time up close, he recognized her sky-blue eyes. “Did we win?”

“We didn’t lose.” Estinien told Marcus’s mother, hearing Castor echo him a second later. The two men shared a glance of wry amusement before they both looked away. For all they agreed, neither of them thought the words were very true.

Chapter Text

Alisaie recovered from the jarring landing and looked down from her mount at the group of five tempered encircled by the Skyhunters’ griffins.

Three of them were Elarian soldiers, two men and a woman. They were all thin, borderline emaciated, with ramshackle, piecemeal armor hanging off their bones. The three of them had reflexively drawn up around the fourth member of the group, Urianger. He had his astrolabe out, already assessing targets mere moments after the threat had revealed itself. He seemed to be in good health, if a bit more gaunt than she remembered. Certainly better than his companions who, while not having been mutated by their tempering like the Skalik Alisaie had encountered underground, still had a wiry, almost feral look to them. They hunched low, lips pulled back to bare their teeth, and their swords were drawn ready to be used. But they hesitated, waiting on the fifth of their number.

In contrast to his companions, Aethon stood tall and proud. His sword and bladed shield were in his hands, both looking recently sharpened. His stripped-down armor too was in good repair, with signs of mended battle damage here and there. Only the best for the Blood God’s captain, clearly. Aethon looked disconcertingly eager to see numerous enemies appearing, literally, from thin air. His only reaction was his mouth curling into a savage grin and readying his weapons.

Cailia hadn’t known much about Aethon personally, only what she’d heard of his battles and victories, and what those victories cost. But that was enough. Enough that Alisaie had a picture of the man and the war that had shaped him, the bloody battles that were the foundation Gorrath’s tempering was built on. Looking at him now, she could see the battlelust pulsing through his veins. He burned with it, fury blazing within his eyes and seething under his skin. Yet somehow, he still held it in check. Alisaie couldn’t deny that she was impressed. He waited for them to make the first move, but he was not about to surrender.

And they all knew it. “Take them!” Alisaie’s co-rider, who Alisaie knew only as ‘Sarge’ shouted. Griffin legs bent to pounce, but Aethon was already in motion. With that blinding speed of his, he darted towards the griffin on Alisaie’s left, G’raha’s. The cloudkin react quickly, lashing out with a taloned foot. But Aethon was faster. His blades carved bloody fissures in the griffin’s outstretched leg.

The beast screeched and reared up, an instinctive reaction to get away from what was hurting it. But that was a mistake. Aethon now had unimpeded access to the griffin’s belly. He put it to good use, slashing and drawing another, louder screech. Alisaie was readying a spell when she felt the prickling feeling on the back of her neck that meant powerful magic was being prepared in her vicinity. She glanced at Urianger just in time to see a star detonate.

The brilliant flare of magic rocked the encircling griffins backwards. Staring directly into the bright explosion, Alisaie was temporarily blinded. She cursed and blinked the spots from her eyes while hearing the thrum of longbows, griffin cries, and grunts of pain. After what felt like a much longer time than it probably was, her vision finally cleared enough for her to take in the situation again.

One of the tempered soldiers was down, an arrow jutting from his shoulder and a griffin’s taloned foot pinning him to the ground. They traded poorly; the griffin Aethon had attacked was also down, white feathers stained red while G’raha quickly tended to his stricken steed. Aethon and the other tempered were now outside the ring formed to cage them, though fortunately the direction of their breakout put the Scions and their allies between the tempered and the tunnel entrance. The remaining two soldiers had again taken defensive positions around Urianger. Aethon stood in front of them, flicking a spray of blood off his sword. A drop was on his face; his tongue flicked out to lick it up and his grin widened.

“Come on, that can’t be it. Who’s next?”

Alisaie heard Sarge mutter a colorful obscenity that, despite the situation, put a flush in the Elezen’s cheeks. “He’s too fast, our griffs closing is a death sentence.”

Alisaie nodded and slipped her feet out of the stirrups. When planning this ambush, there had been the thought that perhaps the powerful cloudkin could simply overwhelm Aethon and whatever guards he had with him. It had smacked of wishful thinking even then. She slid off the griffin’s back, noting Thancred and her brother doing the same. The Skyhunters stayed mounted, their bows benefiting from the greater height and mobility.

Aethon lifted his sword in salute. “Thancred and Alisaie! Round two for each of you then?”

“This won’t go like the last time.” Alisaie warned, rapier held level before her.

“I should hope not.” Aethon answered. “That would be over too quickly!”

On the last word, he lunged forward. Alisaie and Thancred moved to meet him as one. Gunblade and crystal rapier met the mythril forged sword and shield and one of the fiercest battles of Alisaie’s life was on.

Her words had not been an idle boast. She had learned from the humiliatingly easy defeat Aethon had previously dealt her. She also compared notes with Thancred from his own round with Aethon. They had done their best to dissect the man’s fighting style and understand how best to bring him down. Aethon was a frightfully fast swordsman and his bladework was impeccable. He favored aggressively attacking in combat, his shield more often used as a second sword than to defend, and he relied on his incredible reflexes to dodge or parry incoming attacks.

Thancred led the charge and took Aethon on directly, as they planned. He slashed out with his gunblade and Aethon parried the attack, twisting away from the explosion. Aethon’s lightning-fast riposte got past Thancred’s guard but scraped off the barriers both he and Alphinaud had woven. Thancred brought his gunblade back around to block the shield punching at his neck and struck back with enough force Aethon staggered backwards.

He recovered quickly, fast enough that he was ready to attack again before Thancred was able to recover his guard. And he was drawing back his sword to do exactly that, before turning to knock aside Alisaie’s lunge at his legs with his shield. Alisaie attacked with a flurry of thrusts, keeping the shield-arm busy until Thancred was coming in from the other side. Aethon wasn’t fool enough to try to block the explosive strike and leapt backward away. He’d barely landed before Alisaie was on him, lunging again for a non-vital area.

Aethon parried the stab and let Alisaie’s momentum bring her closer. His shield began to punch towards her, but aborted the motion to deflect the arrow that nearly hit his shoulder. Alisaie danced back, Thancred moved into the gap made. Aethon attacked with blinding speed, but Thancred made a wall of his blade and took only a few, superficial scratches. Alisaie took the opportunity to circle and lunge from the left. Aethon ducked right to narrowly avoid the crystalline point, but the move also brought him within Thancred’s guard again. Aethon made no move to strike however, as he immediately jerked backwards to avoid the flurry of lasers Alphinaud unleashed from the nouliths hovering around the duel. Amazingly, Aethon avoided the entire barrage, dodging or deflecting all of them in a fluidly flawless dance. Alisaie shot a sextet of aetherial blades to join the onslaught and these too missed entirely.

Alisaie bit back a curse. Aethon was slipperier than a greased toad. They were attacking him from every angle and hadn’t even come close to hitting him. She reminded herself that was alright; their strategy expected as much.

Neither Thancred nor Alisaie could not go toe-to-toe with Aethon. They didn’t need to. Thancred’s more defensive gunbreaker style of swordsmanship could weather Aethon’s deadly attacks long enough to give Alisaie an opening to strike, and her fencing was quick enough to keep Aethon on the back foot and give the slower Thancred some breathing room. With Alphinaud shielding them and adding unexpected vectors of attack, plus the occasional arrow from Cailia when the fighters were far enough apart she had a clean shot, they could hound Aethon until his reflexes failed him. Urianger was occupied holding off the other two griffins and their riders, so a single good wound would slow Aethon down enough for Alisaie to call forth Angelo and cure him.

It wasn’t the most complex plan, but it was the best one they could come up with.

It wasn’t working.

They were keeping Aethon off balance and only able to retaliate infrequently, but only relatively speaking. He was still successfully attacking them, inflicting some minor wounds that required Alphinaud’s ministrations while they had yet to so much as scratch him. He somehow always managed to be a second or two ahead of their attacks. Even outnumbered, and fighting at a disadvantage, they could not hit him.

He was, simply put, better. The admission burned like bile in Alisaie’s throat, but there was no other word for it. He was stronger. He was faster. His swordsmanship was sublimely brilliant. He fought them with both relentless ferocity and consummate skill. Alisaie knew she and Thancred could not beat him. She doubted anyone could.

But that was fine. They didn’t need to.

Alisaie lunged again and again hit nothing but air. She stepped back to narrowly avoid Aethon’s counter-swing and saw G’raha approaching to join the fight. His staff was in his hand and a piggy familiar was floating above his shoulder.

“Bracket him!” the Miqo’te called.

Alisaie and Thancred moved to do just that. Aethon was fast, but they attacked from both sides to pin him. Thancred went high with an overhead slash that Aethon caught on his sword and Alisaie went low with a stab that met Aethon’s shield. The Scions both pressed in on him, forcing him to push back to avoid being skewered. Out of the corner of her eye, Alisaie saw energy swirling around G’raha’s familiar.

Aethon saw it too. Alisaie felt his shield begin to vibrate through the length of her sword. That was her only warning before Aethon spun. The aether he’d charged into his weapons shot out, forcing the Scions back. Alisaie only barely managed to raise her rapier in time to keep the blade of pure aether from slicing her open. With a second of free movement, Aethon spun and threw his shield. The razor-sharp circle flew through the air like a discus towards G’raha, who dove out of the way. But he wasn’t the target.

The shield sliced the porxie in two. The porcine familiar barely had time to squeal in pain before the magic animating it failed and it fell to the ground as two lumps of clay.

Alisaie rallied but Aethon was already on her. She barely managed to parry a slash aimed for her legs in time. She wasn’t fast enough to stop his free hand from catching her under the chin.

The impact snapped her head back and clacked her jaw together so hard she thought her teeth might break. She fell backward, fingers unintentionally loosing around her rapier’s hilt. Loose enough that Aethon had little trouble snatching the weapon away from her as she recoiled from his punch.

Alisaie hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of her. She looked up, her vision blurry.  Aethon stood over her, two swords now raised to strike, when something shining slammed into him. G’raha wielded an aetherial sword and shield, warding Aethon away from her. Thancred coming in from the side forced Aethon farther back and he began to trade blows with the two in earnest.

Alisaie tried to stand, but the world swam around her. She forced down the wave of nausea when Alphinaud arrived. Her brother’s hands stretched out glimmering with curative energies. Alisaie felt the fog in her head clear away.

“Are you alright?” Alphinaud asked, worry writ plain on his face. Alisaie nodded.

“That’s two concussions I owe him, but I’m fine.” She glared at the ongoing melee. “Looks like it’s down to me and Angelo.”

Alphinaud nodded. “With only one left, we need to save it for Aethon. We can subdue Urianger and bring him back with us much easier.”

As much as it pained Alisaie to leave their friend in the Primal’s thrall, she had to agree. She nodded and the duo rose to their feet. Alphinaud’s nouliths took flight, sending fresh shields towards Thancred and G’raha, who needed them. Alisaie readied her spell focus. Her timing needed to be perfect, if she conjured Angelo before she had a shot Aethon would undoubtedly attack it like G’raha’s porxie.

Aethon was staying in motion now, fluidly keeping G’raha and Thancred from encircling him again. Alisaie knew both of her fellow Scions to be skilled swordsmen, but Aethon made them look like amateurs. Even two on one, he was keeping them on the defensive. Alisaie’s stolen sword gave him more reach than his shield had and he wielded it like he had trained with it for years. If anything, he’d gotten even faster. It was two on one, and G’raha and Thancred were fighting desperately to fend him off rather than the other way around.

“Come on!” Aethon yelled, blocking Thancred’s gunblade with an X formed by his swords while booting G’raha back with a kick to the chest. “At least make me earn it!”

Alisaie loosed a bolt of lightning to even the odds but Aethon side-stepped at just the right second for it to shoot harmlessly past him. The deep thrum of a longbow from behind her preceded the arrow that Aethon somehow managed to deflect out of the air with the backswing of a slash, almost as if by accident. The quartet of nouliths flew around the fighters and fired a bevy of lasers as they circled. Aethon twisted and danced such that, impossibly, every shot missed him. The rapier flicked out and landed a glancing blow on one noulith, knocking it away.

This is ridiculous. They were attacking with all they had, but couldn’t so much as scratch Aethon. It almost felt like… like they were fighting Marcus.

Alisaie turned from her battle to the other, where one griffin was limping with a badly burned leg standing protectively over its downed rider while the other Skyhunter pair struggled against a wave of gravity pressing down on them. On the other side, the two tempered soldiers were down, unconscious or dead Alisaie couldn’t tell. Urianger stood with his astrolabe glowing and his arm extended, pitting his magic against the griffin’s muscles.

In a single motion, Alisaie materialized her already aether-laden porxie and fired a beam of purifying light into Urianger’s back. Urianger’s arms went wide and his muscles seized up as the light washed over him. Alisaie could feel her aether infusing him, burning away the corrupted aether that polluted his soul.

Several seconds later, the work was done. Angelo cut off the beam and vanished, aether store depleted and useless. Urianger fell to his knees, taking large, gasping breaths.

“Alisaie!” Alphinaud protested. “What are you doing?”

Despite his words, his nouliths were already deploying themselves to envelop Urianger in a shield and infuse restorative aether into him. The astrologian looked up at her with approving eyes. “Well deduced, Mistress Alisaie.”

“What?” Alphinaud looked between them, confused.

“There was no point in saving the porxie.” Alisaie told her brother. She turned to Aethon, his swords crossed with Thancred and G’raha’s. She raised her voice so he could hear. “You have the Echo, don’t you?”

“What!?” G’raha’s jaw dropped while Thancred swore loudly. Aethon used the distraction to push them both back and leapt back himself to gain some distance. He looked over to Alisaie, his smirk her answer.

“That’s what Urianger called it.” Aethon straightened out of his combat stance, swords held loosely at his sides. He gestured with hers. “Pity you figured it out, I was hoping I could get you to waste one of those pigs on me.”

“Urianger, please tell me you know where the Coffins are kept.” Alisaie looked at him with what she knew was forlorn hope, but was still disappointed when he shook his head.

“Nay, I regret to admit that secret was never entrusted to me.” He pointed with a shaky hand. “Thy suspicions were correct, however. Aethon doth indeed bear that knowledge.”

“Yep, I do.” Aethon confirmed with a playful snarl. He cocked his head. “Good luck getting me to tell you though. You could try asking nicely, you never know.”

“Wait, don’t tell me…” Cailia began. Sarge bounded up on her griffin, completing a semi-circle between them to keep Aethon pinned between them and the edge of the cliff.

“He’s not being controlled by Gorrath. He never was.” Alisaie confirmed, trying to keep despair at bay. Aethon wasn’t Gorrath’s victim, he was his accomplice. Their plan never had a chance of succeeding even from the very start.

“But that’s impossible!” Cailia objected, face drawn with the same realization Alisaie had. “If he’s not corrupted, the Princeps would have been able to See him!”

“He’s not tempered, but the rest of the army is.” Alisaie said, the explanation coming easily to her now that she was thinking about it. She waved a hand to encompass Urianger and Aethon’s other guards. “They’re around him all the time, so they block the Sight from reaching him.”

“Not quite.” Aethon raised his voice to offer. “We thought that might work, but I wanted to be sure.”

He planted her sword into the ground and reached into his pocket, from which he pulled something glimmering red. He held it up between his forefinger and thumb and Alisaie saw what looked like a fire crystal, but a deeper, darker red than any she had ever seen.

“Gorrath calls it ‘bloodcrystal.’” Aethon said wryly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s got something of a theme going on. Anyway, it’s a chunk of the stuff the Chosen Coffins are made of. It’s the Blood God’s power materialized into physical form. Acts as an energy resonator. That’s how the Chosen are able to project their bodies outside their Coffins in the first place. As far as my needs go, this little hunk of rock puts out juuust enough of my god’s power to block any prying eyes.”

Aethon turned slightly and projected his voice to the Skyhunters. “Just in case you were wondering about how pathetic your dead Lady really is, her precious oracle can be foiled by a simple bauble from the God of War.”

“You rat bastard.” Sarge seethed. Alisaie turned her direction and noticed her brother’s hands were clenched tightly into fists.

“If you were not under his thrall, then why!?” Alphinaud demanded, echoing Alisaie’s own thoughts. “Why serve him? Why help destroy your own home, your own people!?”

Aethon shrugged. “After I summoned Gorrath, we made a deal. As recompense for the summoning and in exchange for my continued service, he would exterminate the Skalik. All of them.”

He paced a little to the side, then back. “That’s been our mission this whole time. The only reason we’ve been fighting you at all is because you’re coming after us. We need to eliminate threats to our plan before they can stop us.”

Alisaie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You can’t be serious. Do you really believe he’ll keep that bargain!?”

“Of course he will.” Aethon said lightly. “Gorrath is out to kill every living thing on this star. The Skalik would hardly be spared.”

The bluntness of his words rendered Alisaie speechless. Aethon continued. “After the Skalik are dead, Gorrath and I will face each other. One on one, winner takes all. When I kill him, our army becomes mine. Then all I have to do is order the corrupted and the Chosen to wipe themselves out and that will be the end of it. Actually, you Scions have brought the means to cure the corrupted, so they can be spared.”

“You’re insane if you think he would even deign to face you or place his army under your command just so you can destroy it.” Thancred growled.

Aethon shook his head, patronizingly. “You misunderstand him. Gorrath lives for battle, he’d offer command just to get me to agree to face him. He’ll keep his word. If nothing else, he has no reason not to because he has no fear of ever being defeated.”

“A justified confidence from what I’ve seen.” G’raha said, hand white-knuckled around his sword. “Believing you even can defeat him, singlehandedly at that, is the height of arrogance.”

“If he’s genuinely unstoppable, why are you fighting him?” Aethon retorted. He shrugged. “I definitely could have taken him when he was first summoned. Now I’m… less confident. Even so, it’d be a great way to go out. In single combat against the god of war.”

The nonchalance with which Aethon spoke of his own demise gave Alisaie pause. Aethon cocked his head to the side. “I will admit, it was a bad deal on my part. Since he was going to slaughter the Skalik anyway, I should have bargained for him to spare Elarion. Then again, I doubt he’d ever make that promise. At least this way, the rats will go first.”

“And you are okay with your people going second?” Alisaie asked, incredulous.

Aethon shrugged again. “Why not?”

His sword snapped up, just in time to deflect the arrow aimed for his heart. Aethon tsked as the arrow clattered to the ground before him. “Temper, temper.”

Cailia lowered her empty bow, face contorted with rage. “You were a hero, a champion of Calydon, of all Elarion! And now you’re fine with seeing us all dead!? Cut the bullshit arrogance and answer me! Why did you betray us!?”

“Are you really asking why?” Aethon asked. He sounded genuinely incredulous. “Yeah, I was a hero. A champion, even. I won battle after battle, killed countless rats. I shed enough blood to dye the Blue Ribbon red. And for what? What do I, what do we have to show for it beyond dead friends and a shattered realm?”

“We survived.” Cailia growled. “We give our lives so our people can live on.”

“Live on for what?” Aethon countered. “What do our people have to live for beyond preparing for the next war?”

He started pacing again, warming to his topic. “We tell ourselves there’s glory and honor in fighting and dying. We pride ourselves on protecting the world with our sacrifices. Such pretty lies. There’s no glory on the battlefield, only carnage and whatever pleasure you can take from it. As for our pride, we are protecting nothing.”

Aethon’s gaze flicked to Urianger. “Even peaceful, soft Eorzea is wracked with conflict, with evils as great as the ones we face. If not worse. We face a Demon once a century, they have to deal with one every other week. We fight the rats, they’ve been at war with an empire with machine weapons that make your griffins look like songbirds. And when that was dealt with, a monster descended from the damn stars to keep the fight going. It’s endless. Sure, they’ve won peace, for now. But how long do you think that will last, before some new threat rears its head? A year, maybe two?”

Alisaie watched for openings as Aethon ranted, but for all his fervor for the topic he left none. “We fight and kill and die all for nothing but the chance to build back up for the next fight. This entire star is trapped in an endless cycle of conflict. Drowning in blood. The only reason there are any survivors is so the cycle can continue. And the only reason the cycle continues is because it can. Endless war, purely for its own sake and the joy we take from it.”

Aethon smiled, a nasty flash of teeth. “But Gorrath promised an end to the cycle. A final war. One that will end this star’s suffering instead of prolonging it in vain. He’ll war with the world, win, and slaughter everything in one go instead of forcing generation after generation to bleed and suffer. Then he and his followers that remain will turn on each other and fight for the pleasure of it until they’ve drained the star of every last drop of aether. Then there will be peace, the only lasting peace there can ever be.”

“You seek to end the world for its own good?” Alisaie said in aggravated disbelief. After first the Ascians, then Meteion, she was beginning to get tired of people insisting life was purely suffering. As if everyone’s lives were so pathetic and miserable they weren’t worth living.

Aethon simply gestured dismissively with his sword. “What I want is irrelevant. Gorrath will do as he wishes, and he wishes to drown the world in blood. I’ll stop him. You’ll have your shot if I fail. And if you fail, he’ll have his way and frankly we’ll all probably be better off for it.”

“You lie!” Sarge shouted, hand clenched around her bow so tightly her knuckles were white. “All this bullshit about serving the greater good!” She pointed accusingly. “Admit it! You only bowed to the Demon to save your own cowardly life!”

Aethon was unruffled by the accusation. “Weren’t you listening? What difference would it make if I died to Gorrath today or in a year? What difference would it make if I died at His hands or yours, or some random Skalik’s? My life doesn’t matter. No one’s does. Nothing matters, and never has.”

Urianger stood up to his full, impressive height. Though still a little unsteady on his feet, he stared down Aethon. “Permit me a question, mine former captain, if thou will.”

Aethon’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Oh good, that’s back.” He muttered to himself before nodding his assent.

Urianger spoke. “If all things are meaningless and our ultimate fates do not matter, why then did thou seek to keep myself and thy fellow Elarians away from your capricious, divine master? Was it not to limit our exposure to his corruptive power and spare us the grisly fate of becoming akin to the malformed mutants that comprise much of his army? Is that not why you bid we accompany you here, to keep us from spending overmuch time in his company? As you have done for all your kinsmen?”

Surprised, Alisaie thought back. Now that it had been pointed out to her, she realized Urianger was right. All the tempered mutants they had encountered were Skalik. Every tempered Elarian she’d seen had not undergone that change.

Aethon merely smirked. “So, you think you’ve caught me out, huh? You found some last lingering remnant of my morality you’re trying to tug on.” He chuckled, darkly amused. “Sorry to say, I kept you all away from Gorrath because seeing my own people turn into abominations would upset my delicate sensibilities. Nothing more.”

“I see.” Alisaie knew the glint in Urianger’s eye as he continued. “Then thy reservations were not born of seeing in ourselves potential surrogates for your fallen friends?”

Aethon’s smile twisted into a furious glare. He took a step forward, raising his swords slightly. “You piece of Eorzean filth. Do you believe scum like you could ever replace them? They…” Aethon faltered, but anger drove him on. “All you corrupted dregs put together couldn’t take the place of even one of them.”

“Thou shows such vehemence, for those whose lives you only just recently declared meaningless.” Urianger remarked with the air of a fencer landing a hit. For a second Alisaie thought Aethon would charge the other man, but he visibly corralled his temper and his glare returned to the half-smirk, half-snarl he had worn previously.

“You’ve got me there. None of them actually did matter. Understanding the truth and living by it are two different things. I’m only human, after all.”

Seeing the same affected nonchalance on his face that she had seen on Marcus’s back on the airship loosened Alisaie’s tongue. “You’re lying.”

Aethon turned to her and sighed, faintly amused. “This again?”

“You’re not lying to us. You’re lying to yourself.” Alisaie told him, feeling her emotions rise. Something in Aethon’s manner changed at the words. His face cleared, becoming expressionless. “You’re afraid.”

“Afraid of what, pray tell?” Aethon’s voice was as devoid of emotion as his face. Somehow, this was more intimidating than any amount of anger. But Alisaie was not about to be cowed.

“You’re afraid that it’s not meaningless.” Alisaie told him. She was well aware she was taking a shot in the dark, but this wasn’t entirely a guess. Aethon was too similar to Marcus for her to ignore. A dark mirror, warped by hate and pride, but with the same stress lines and fractures running through it. She hoped. “That even the fleeting peace we win matters.”

Unseen, Aethon’s knuckles whitened around his sword hilts. “You did everything you could to save the ones you love and it wasn’t enough. You tell yourself it would have made no difference if they lived or died to ease the pain. You want it all to be meaningless, because you’re afraid that if it is then they died for nothing when they could have lived for something.”

“Be quiet.” Aethon said softly. Alisaie ignored him.

“And above all else, you’re afraid of having to live on in a world without them.”

“I said shut up!” Aethon shouted and furiously brandished his swords. Thancred and G’raha closed ranks in front of Alisaie, weapons held at the ready. Looking past them, Alisaie saw Aethon glaring at her like he intended to strike her dead purely with the force of his hate. “You Scions, so smug while knowing nothing.”

He grinned, a predator’s triumphant smile. Alarm bells rang in Alisaie’s mind. “You don’t even know the first rule of war.”

“Behind us!” Cailia screamed. Too late.

The explosion of air was aimed for the griffins and their sizable bulk took the worst of it, but there was enough of a shockwave to rock Alisaie forward. She turned, seeing a dozen or more Chosen spilling out of the tunnel entrance, crimson-skinned and monstrous. Some combat instinct turned her back around to see Aethon dart forward, his swords lashing out. Thancred and G’raha both managed to block the attacks aimed at them, but they were still off balance from the spell and Aethon threw them backwards. Alisaie readied a lightning spell, knowing it was in vain. She could never complete the casting in the instant it would take Aethon to skewer her.

But he surprised her by ignoring her and kept moving. His reason became clear when he twisted and dove past the writhing griffins to roll to his feet before the line of advancing Chosen. Alisaie swore in the privacy of her mind. Now they were the ones pinned to the cliff edge, unless they wanted to make the likely suicidal attempt to mount the griffins and escape while under attack. Had Aethon planned this, when he first broke out of their encirclement in this direction?

A Lalafell Chosen with a staff and a pair of gnarled horns jutting from her forehead addressed Aethon. “Your orders, Captain?”

Aethon glared at the Scions, his eyes landing on Alisaie for a moment. “Kill them.”

The Chosen frowned. “The master commanded the Scions be taken alive.”

“He’s always listening.” Aethon retorted. “If he wants to override my commands, he’s welcome to. But until he does, the order stands.”

He gave each sword a half turn in his hand. “Kill them all! Blood for Gorrath!”

“Blood for Gorrath!” The Chosen surged forward.

A furious melee erupted. Though one had been struck down by the air explosion, the remaining two griffins proved themselves formidable against opponents less lethal than Aethon. Wickedly sharp talons swiped out and hooked beaks snapped with enough force to crack bone. For all Alisaie could tell these Chosen were even more powerful than before, the imposing cloudkin still gave them no small amount of trouble. As she watched, Cailia’s Lieutenant reared up onto his hind legs and flapped his wings, creating a buffet of wind that threw several Chosen backwards off their feet. Cailia’s bow thrummed. With unerring accuracy her arrow pierced the heart of one Chosen. To their shared dismay, the man simply snapped the shaft in two and stood, rejoining the battle despite the arrowhead embedded in his flesh.

Still without her sword, Alisaie stayed behind the line formed by her companions and alongside Alphinaud and Urianger lent her magical might to the battle. She sent spell after spell hammering into the Chosen attackers being held at bay. She managed to bring down a few, but a distressing number of the blood-skinned fiends shrugged off the impacts and kept fighting. It took an obscene amount of punishment to bring one down and keep him down, nothing short of decapitation or completely mangling their bodies did the trick.

A blur of silver slipped through Lieutenant’s scything talons and twisted out of the way of the fireball she shot at it. Aethon came to halt before her. He had recovered his bladed shield and wore it again on his left arm. In his right, he held both his sword and hers. Alisaie risked a glance back to the melee to see Thancred, G’raha, and the Skyhunters were all too heavily pressed to come to her aid, even if they noticed the danger. Urianger was a kaleidoscope of swirling power, all his energies and attention devoted to healing the frontline fighters. He would no help either.

“Alisaie!” Alphinaud noticed Aethon, but before he could do anything a Hyur woman got past G’raha and was on him. Nouliths snapped around to form a shield around her brother, which cracked after only a single blow. Alphinaud was forced to backpedal, sending four lasers straight into the Chosen’s face to give himself some breathing room.

He’d be fine, Alisaie knew. He’d taken on worse foes many a time. But she doubted he would triumph in time to aid her. She was on her own. And likely not for much longer.

“Here.” Aethon tossed the crystalline weapon through the air to clatter on the ground at Alisaie’s feet. “Take up your weapon.”

He put his words into practice, adjusting his grip on his sword and bringing it and the shield up into a ready stance. Alisaie looked at him, then at her sword on the ground, then back to him. “No.”

“What?” Confusion spread across Aethon’s face. “What do you mean, no?” He gestured towards her sword with his own. “Pick it up. Face me.”

“No.” Alisaie repeated, stubbornly staring him down. A duel between them had only one ending, and at this point she was willing to deny him the pleasure of combat out of spite. “I’m no match for you with blades, we both know that. If you’re going to kill me then get on with it already.”

Aethon’s agitation grew. “So what, you’re not even going to try to fight? You’re just going to accept death? Just like that?”

Alisaie knew this moral victory would cost her life. But for all Elarians were stubborn, she’d show them a thing or two about being obstinate. “If I had a chance to beat you I’d take it, but I don’t. Kill me if you’re going to, and if not stop posturing.”

Aethon’s eyes narrowed. His hands clenched tighter around his weapons. His limbs twitched with a nervous energy. “You can’t just give up!”

“Why not? Alisaie retorted. “You have.”

Aethon’s voice took on an angry and almost childish pleading to it. “I’m letting you die with some dignity. Fight back, you coward!”

Alisaie’s eyes narrowed. This desperation, it went beyond him simply courting combat. Could it be…

“What, do you want me to arm myself so you can tell yourself I died in combat?” The stunned look on his face stunned her in turn. “Wait, is that truly it? Don’t tell me after all you said, all you’ve done, you’re balking at the idea of murder? You’ll damn the world, but you won’t dirty your hands?”

Aethon’s glare deepened. His voice dropped to a growl. “Pick. Up. Your. Sword.”

Alisaie met his gaze without wavering. “No. You know you’re wrong, and I’m not going to help you pretend otherwise.”

Something in Aethon’s glare changed. He bolted forward, shield punching towards her. The explosive speed of the incoming attack made Alisaie flinch despite herself. Her eyes involuntarily screwed themselves shut as she braced for the metal circle to bite deep into her body.

In the darkness behind her eyelids, she heard the ring of metal striking metal.

Tentatively, she opened her eyes. She was, somehow, not dead.

Aethon had punched past her, not into her. She met his eyes; he looked even more surprised than she was at this turn of events. She turned, following his outstretched arm over her shoulder to see the Chosen swordswoman that had been fighting Alphinaud had come up behind her. A Chosen swordswoman whose sword had come less than a fulm from splitting her skull. It would have, had not Aethon’s shield interposed itself between her and it. The Chosen made three of them stunned by what had happened.

Silence stretched between them for a moment. The sounds of fighting around them raged, unaffecting the bubble of stillness between the three of them.

The Chosen recovered first. Black lightning crackled along her sword as she drew it back to strike again, this time intending to cut through both Alisaie and Aethon at once. Alisaie began to duck, but Aethon was faster.

His outstretched arm came back, positioning his shield to block the slash in a way that wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Alisaie felt the impact through his arm.

“Mistress Alisaie!” Urianger shouted urgently. “Get away from him! He has succumbed to his battlelust! He could do anything!”

Aethon flexed his arm and batted the Chosen back. Alisaie saw the sudden, rabid grin on his face and was already diving away as he turned back to her, sword lashing out. She landed near her rapier and rolled to her feet, the stab of pain and feeling of wetness on her cheek telling her how close she’d come to losing her head. Aethon spared her little attention, his shield again straining against the Chosen’s sword.

The Chosen roared. “What are you doing captain!? Have you lost your damn mind!?”

“I’m done.” Aethon’s voice was a ragged snarl. “Done playing this game. Spare them, recruit these. Enough.”

He threw back his enemy and pointed at her with his sword. “I’m done pretending any of this matters. What do I care about a final war? If the bloody hypocrite we have for a god says carnage is holy then I’ll make a sacrament of you, the Scions, the rats, and everyone else! Blood for Gorrath, until even he drowns in it!”

“You blasphemous traitor!” The Chosen drew back to strike again. Aethon lunged forward. He twisted around the slash aimed at his throat and his own blade flashed, taking the Chosen’s sword arm off at the wrist. In the two seconds it took Alisaie to snatch her own rapier off the ground and bring it to bear, the Chosen was reduced to a pile of incinerating limbs.

Others had taken notice of the exchange.

“Kill the traitor!” A pair of Chosen rushed Aethon, wielding a spear and a heavy maul.

“Yes! More battle! More death!” Aethon roared in delight, his dark god writ small. He readied his weapons and ran to meet them, but side-stepped at the last second and parried the swinging hammer into the spearman. He lashed out with his shield, again literally disarming his foe. The spearman recovered enough to come to his comrade’s aid with a flurry of stabs that forced Aethon back enough for the other Chosen to regenerate his hand. The two lunged together at Aethon and he laughed.

“That’s it! Give me foes worth killing!”

Aethon danced around their weapons with ease and savagely hacked into his opponents. His blades flashed and sprays of burning blood filled the air. Watching him dismember the pair of Chosen with the ease of pruning a shrubbery forced Alisaie to admit he was telling the truth. He really had been holding back.

Alisaie held her sword at the ready but was unsure who to turn it on. The Chosen were definitely the enemy, but Aethon was probably an enemy too and of the two, he was graphically demonstrating that he was the greater threat.

“What did you say to him?” Alphinaud ran up to her side, utterly perplexed as they watched Aethon take apart the two Chosen with brutally efficient swordplay.

“I have no idea.” Alisaie answered honestly, staring stupefied. At this point, staying out of the fight might be best. With any luck, they’d kill each other.

A third Chosen ran towards the melee. Aethon dodged the swinging axe and took the Taurhe’s leg off at the knees with contemptuous ease. His charge now hobbled, the Taurhe crashed into his comrades and knocked them all down into a pile of tangled limbs. Instead of taking advantage of the opening like Alisaie expected, Aethon burst into a run, ignoring the trio and racing towards Thancred dueling his own Chosen. The opponents saw his approach and broke off, each swinging for Aethon as he reached them. Without a break in his stride Aethon ducked under Thancred’s attack, parried the Chosen’s and sliced open her stomach for good measure, and burst past them towards yet another Chosen.

A Chosen that Alisaie noted with a chill of fear was currently erupting with balefire. But not fast enough, as Aethon took his head off and cut his torso in two in the same second. Without missing a beat, or even turning to look, he whipped his arm left and flung his shield through the chest of a staff bearing Chosen, the Lalafell’s spell dying uncast.

That settled the debate for Alisaie. Another Chosen beginning to flare up got her feet moving. “Come on! We need to cut them down before Gorrath can come through!”

Alphinaud needed no encouragement, nouliths snapping into a firing arrangement. They were not even remotely prepared to fight the Demon right now. Though seeing Aethon take apart two Chosen in as many seconds did make Alisaie wonder if maybe he could take his god on. She shook off the thought and readied another spell.

The fight that followed was brief but frantic. Down to eight of them left, the Chosen could have closed ranks and likely could have kept the Scions and their allies occupied long enough that one of their number could have summoned their god into himself. Instead, while one did become wreathed in fire that signified her being used as a conduit, the others ignored their previous foes and swarmed Aethon with furious abandon. Undefended, the summoner was easy prey for several Skyhunter arrows, with Alisaie’s lightning bolt zapping her down being overkill.

The other seven fared little better. Aethon was a blur of movement, keeping them at bay as easily as he had the Scions. He made a few half hearted attempts to attack the Scions when they drew near, but his focus was on evading the Chosen’s fanatical efforts to kill him and hacking them apart in turn. The Chosen were maddened in their effort to kill the traitor, and another attempting to invoke his god made the Scions and Skyhunters wordlessly agree to focus on eliminating that threat first. Spells and arrows hammered the Chosen and brought them down. By the time there were only four left Gorrath stopped trying to materialize, likely realizing it was a futile effort. But by then, it was already too late.

The last Chosen staggered backward, blood flaring as his wounds tried to heal themselves. He fell to his knees as the flames gutted, consuming his flesh rather than restoring it. His stores of aether depleted, his body was devouring itself to survive and only would for a few more moments.

Aethon looked away, brandishing his weapons towards the Scions and ignoring the dying Chosen. “Alright then, who’s next to die?”

Unseen behind him, the Chosen burned to ash. To Alisaie’s surprise, Urianger straightened up, folding up his astrolabe and slinging it on his back.

“We are beyond the gaze of our dread former master.”

“Whew.” Aethon rose out of his ready stance, lowering his weapons to his sides. “That was bracing.”

He flashed a smile at Urianger. He looked, for the first time since Alisaie had seen him, genuinely pleased. “It’s good to see you come by your scheming honestly. I was worried we were a bad influence on you.”

Urianger shook his head sagely. “Nay, tis a capability that I have honed for many years and put to great use of my own volition in times past. Twould seem we two stand as allies yet again, at least momentarily.”

“I don’t think so.” Sarge bit out. The Scions sans Urianger and Skyhunters had their weapons held at the ready. Alisaie had a lightning spell crackling in her hands and noted similar magical build-ups swirling around her brother and G’raha’s own casting implements. Cailia and Sarge, the two remaining Skyhunters, had arrows nocked and their bows drawn. Their griffins stood crouched, prepared to pounce. Sarge looked a second away from releasing her grip on her arrow. “You really think you can kill a few Chosen and all is forgiven?”

Aethon looked unconcerned about the hostile reception. “The terms of my deal with Gorrath involved my continued service to him. By attacking the Chosen, I’ve broken my end. Gorrath doesn’t forgive betrayal.”

Alisaie glanced at Cailia, who nodded reluctantly. “The legends agree, Gorrath hates traitors. He’s fine with corrupting people, but every time someone’s betrayed us and tried join him he kills them for it.”

“Yeah, and I won’t get a gentleman’s duel out of him. He’ll just mob me with Chosen.” Aethon added. He shrugged. “So if I want to live, I’ll need to help you kill him first. Hence, our little performance.” He gestured towards Urianger, who bowed facetiously. “Gorrath will happily believe I was attacking the Chosen, rather than protecting you. He doesn’t really do forgiveness, he won’t think we’re joining forces.”

“Why did you defend me?” Alisaie asked, still not comprehending this sudden change of heart. “After everything you said, why turn on Gorrath now? Why ‘join forces’ with us at all?”

That mask of a cocky smile fell away from Aethon’s face. He looked lost. His gaze dropped to the ground. “I don’t know.” He said softly, more to himself than to her. “My body just moved.”

He came back to himself a moment later and chuckled bitterly. “Just one more impulsive decision in a life full of them. It doesn’t matter why. What matters is I’m the enemy of your enemy, and you are in no position to turn down friends.”

He adjusted his grip on his sword in a small but meaningful way. “I guess I could kill you all now, but what would be the point of that?”

Alisaie’s grip on her own sword tightened. It was no idle boast; from what he’d shown, their chances against him even by himself were on the wrong side of bad. She dissipated her spell and was about to tell the others to do the same when Cailia surprised her.

“He’s right, Sarge.” Cailia lowered her bow and met her superior officer’s glare with a shrug. “I hate admitting it, but he is. The Demon takes priority, even over this gutless traitor.”

Looking none too happy about it, Sarge lowered her own bow. “Fine. Then talk. Where can we find the Coffins?”

No longer faced with drawn weapons, Aethon sheathed his sword. “That, I can’t quite say.”

That was not what any of them wanted to hear. Alisaie spoke first. “What? You know where they are, you said so yourself!”

“I do.” Aethon nodded. “But they’re hidden. We didn’t exactly stick them in obvious, open spaces, they’re tucked in out-of-the-way corners of isolated Skalik tunnels.”

Alisaie wasn’t the only who noted the plural. Alphinaud addressed Aethon. “You mean to say the Coffins are not all kept in one place?”

“And risk an enemy tripping over them by chance and being able to take them all out in one go?” Aethon asked rhetorically. “No, we put them in two separate spots. I remember where, I can find them fine. But telling you where to find them, that’s a bit harder.”

“That’s convenient.” Thancred groused. “Meaning we have to leave you free and mobile to lead us to them.”

Aethon shook his head. “A bad idea. The biggest advantage you have right now is Gorrath still thinks the locations are a secret. Destroy one set, he’ll quadruple the guard on the other, make it completely untouchable. They need to be taken out at the same time, or close enough that he won’t have time to react.

“Still, you guys are supposed to be smart. I’m betting you can find them.” Aethon said to the Scions. Alisaie was finding it a little hard to adjust to him going from their enemy to their strategist at the drop of a hat, but he seemed entirely genuine. “I can tell you this much, they needed to be placed on junctions of three or more ley lines. Something to do with how they draw energy from the land. One is in the tunnels northwest of the Brothers, the other is a few malms north of Low Peak.”

“That may suffice.” G’raha told the group. “If Elarion does not have a map of the ley lines, I’m confident between myself, Y’shtola, and Krile we could create one quickly enough.”

“We must make great haste.” Urianger urged. “Our faux-divine foe grows in power by the day.”

“Then perhaps we should ignore the Chosen for now and focus on him.” Alisaie suggested. “Defeat him while we can, then mop up his followers after.”

The difficulty of defeating both Gorrath and the Chosen at once had been what inspired their hunt in the first place, she was well aware. Now, it seemed sensible to her that with the difficulties in acquiring materials to summon Primals in Elarion, if they could vanquish him his followers might not be able to bring him back before they themselves could be hunted down. Unfortunately, Urianger was shaking his head.

“Nay, that would be of negligible import. Each Chosen bears a fragment of Gorrath’s primordial essence. This communion of their original soul and his own produce a unity of self between their respective beings. T’would be simplicity itself for him to restore his aetherically based form from even one such fragment, should he possess the volume of energy required to do so.”

“Meaning Gorrath can’t be killed until the Chosen have been destroyed.” Alisaie translated for the Skyhunters, whose eyes had started to glaze over.

“Bingo.” Aethon confirmed. “Destroying his body would set him back the aether making up that body, but it won’t kill him unless every Coffin is destroyed first. Part of my deal with him was that he wouldn’t come back through that ability if I won, but that’s off the table now.”

“Then it would seem we have our plan.” Alphinaud said. “First, we must return to Clenon. We are in no condition for further excursions at this stage in any case.” He was right there. Alisaie was tired, hungry, and her body was covered in cuts, bruises, and other small wounds. The others were the same, if not worse. Cailia’s quiver was nearly empty and Thancred had been running low of cartridges before today’s fighting. “Once we have the locations and are in better shape, then we can strike out with two teams targeting the Coffins. I’m sure Skraal would help us move quickly through the tunnels to find them.”

Aethon’s mouth quirked at the mention of Skraal, but he nodded respectfully towards Alphinaud. “A sound plan. I wish you good fortune with it.”

“If you think for one second that you can sit this fight out–” Sarge began before Aethon cut her off.

“I think if I go back to Clenon, Gorrath will know we’re joining forces.”

“Why wouldn’t he assume we’ve captured you?” Alisaie suggested. Aethon just looked at her patronizingly.

“If he knows we’re joining forces then he’ll know I told you about the Coffins, but if I stay here he’ll assume we parted as foes. Enemies making peace with one another will never be his first assumption.”

“I must concur.” Urianger nodded. “Our continued enmity will be considered a default of our relationship to Gorrath’s thinking. Only in the face of evidence to the contrary will he begin to suspect otherwise.” He eyed Aethon. “Thou intends to wreak havoc within his holdings, challenging and slaying his followers while keeping mobile enough to stay ahead of the Primal himself, I presume?”

“Exactly. Best way to keep him occupied; bait him with a fight.” Aethon said. He looked plenty eager for the hypothetical battle himself.

Alisaie had to agree with their logic. They had seen Gorrath immediately try to manifest here after Aethon’s betrayal; if he went with them to Clenon that would only bring the Demon’s fury down on the city. She doubted the capital could repel Gorrath without taking immense losses. Possibly not at all if he brought the Chosen with him in force. Right now, time might be their most precious commodity. Anything that slowed Gorrath’s retaliation would be worth pursuing. But, Aethon’s plan had one glaring flaw.

“That’s suicide, you realize?” She asked him. “One man against both the Primal and his entire army? You’ll be run down and killed.”

Aethon laughed a little. “If I went back to Clenon, Atreus would execute me anyway. Besides, you’re underestimating me again. I know the tunnels well by now and my Blessing is fine-tuned to sense danger. I can keep Gorrath and our army chasing me long enough for you to put two strike forces together.”

Cailia scoffed. “So what, you think this is your chance to redeem yourself with a glorious death?”

“I told you there’s no glory in war. And I’m so far beyond ‘redemption’ I’ve forgotten what it looked like when I passed it.” Aethon said glibly, but his humor didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s risky but all war is risk. I think my chances are pretty good. And if I’m wrong, what do you care?”

Sarge glowered. “I think you’re full of shit. You’re going to run away and let us and Gorrath tear each other apart while hiding from the Princeps with that rock of yours.”

Aethon pulled out the bloodcrystal. “The rock that probably lets Gorrath know my exact location at all times? I’m chucking this off a cliff.”

He drew back his arm to do exactly that before G’raha reached out. “Hold a moment! If the Coffins are made of such a material, it may prove useful to have a sample to study.”

“True, but if Gorrath can track it then us taking it with us would give up the game about our working with Aethon.” Thancred pointed out.

“Not if we shield it, cut it off from his influence.” Alisaie said, warming to the idea. “With the right wards, from Gorrath’s perspective it would seem as if Aethon simply destroyed it.”

“My thoughts exactly.” G’raha shared a nod with her. Aethon shrugged.

“You want it? It’s yours.” Aethon lightly tossed the glimmering red gem to G’raha, who handed it to Thancred. The Gunbreaker obligingly held out the crystal for G’raha as the Miqo’te’s hands alight with aether and wove complex traceries through the air. A few seconds later, a blue shell formed around the crystal, making the thing look oddly similar to the staff on G’raha’s back.

For a moment Alisaie wondered if Sarge might be on to something. That this ‘plan’ was just a ruse fabricated to give himself a chance to do a runner. But, putting aside that Urianger seemed to trust him, what would be the point? He couldn’t hide, not from the Princeps and if Alisaie believed one thing about Elarians it was that they were a vindictive people. Not to mention the determined look in his eyes reminded her of Marcus, when his mind was made up. She shared glances and nods with her fellow Scions, their thoughts clearly along the same lines as hers.

“Here.” Thancred pulled his linkpearl out of his ear and tossed it to Aethon. “So we can contact you if we need to.”

Aethon caught the bead with a slight grimace. He made a point of rubbing it off with the exposed cloth on his shoulder and seemed in no hurry to put it in his ear. “I intend to go deep into the tunnels, so I doubt I’ll have connection, but the option can’t hurt.”

“Now then, perhaps we should–” Alphinaud cut himself off, likely because the chime of the linkpearl in Alisaie’s ear was echoed in his own. Three of the Scions and the two remaining Skyhunters raised hands to their ears.

Alisaie realized she was getting used to life in Elarion, because she was utterly unsurprised to hear the Princeps’ voice speaking as if he already knew everything that had transpired. “Congratulations to all of you. You have all done well and won a crucial victory for us. But now you must return as quickly as you can. Scions, teleport back. Skyhunters, fly with all speed. Events are balanced on a knife’s edge and we must move quickly.”

Aethon must have guessed from their expressions. “If that’s a call from you know who, you’d better do what he says.”

“Urianger, are you good to teleport?” Alisaie asked.

“Back to Clenon? That will not prove too arduous of an endeavor.” He answered.

“We’ll see you back in the city.” Cailia called. Sarge said nothing, only pausing to spit in Aethon’s direction. The Skyhunters were already turning their mounts away, though with no small reluctance at leaving their fallen comrades behind.

“Good fortune in thy incipient battle, my once captain.” Urianger said by way of goodbye.

“Get outta here already.” Aethon told them all. Alisaie tapped into the familiar magic and felt energy envelop her. Through the swirling aether, she saw Aethon watching them. No, she realized. Not them. He was watching her.

Then space folded around her and she was gone.

Aethon watched the griffins recede in the distance. He took a moment to survey the battlefield. Dead Elarians and dead thralls, what you’d expect from an inconclusive battle. No dead Scions, which would be a little suspect, but letting him kill one of them just to sell the scene hadn’t even been worth suggesting.

He performed the assessment automatically, his mind on other thoughts. He tossed the link pearl up and down in his hand, absently.

Those Scions… they actually took me at my word. For such worldly and well-educated sorts, they are awfully naïve.

He declined to catch the linkpearl, letting it fall. It bounced on the ground a few times before he crushed it underfoot.

Aethon took a deep breath of the crisp, clear mountain air. He savored it. The sun was high overhead the peak, he could see for malms to the south. The view, as always, was striking.

He turned away, towards the dark mouth of the tunnel.

Well, that was fun, but it’s time to get back to work.

Chapter Text

Clenon Castle’s main courtyard was filled with activity. The place hummed with the kind of organized chaos that only an army could generate. Griffins quorked and stamped as they were herded against the flow of traffic, voices were increasingly raised as men shouted over one another, and yet the whole operation ran with smooth efficiency. Y’shtola regarded the bustle from the outskirts, waiting impatiently.

She was fully healed and rested, her aether at its zenith. After days of being forced on the sidelines by her debilitating injury, she was finally ready to rejoin the fray. Convalescing while her friends faced down hardship always proven onerous, and this time was no exception. Especially when she learned just how difficult those hardships had been.

She had been waiting with the Princeps and Atreus when the Scions and Castor had returned via teleportation last night. The two groups were shown into the war room immediately. Castor had, with his typical military precision, recounted the events of his and Estinien’s battle with Gorrath. Though the Princeps had alluded to Lupercal’s fall before the conversation, having the event confirmed filled Y’shtola with disquiet. How quickly one adapts to new circumstances, she had mused. The prospect of a tame Primal had alarmed her when she’d first heard of it, now she was troubled by that Primal’s death. She felt a smidge of guilt for misjudging the Wolf; Lupercal had been a loyal protector of her people until the end.

That story concluded on the confusing note of Gorrath up and leaving with for no discernable reason, it was time for the other party to give their report. Alphinaud served as the group’s spokesperson, though the other Scions chimed in with whatever details they considered pertinent as the story of how they made contact with the Skalik and fought alongside them unfolded. It was a bit of a meandering tale, at one point Y’shtola glanced at the Princeps wondering why he did not circumvent the explanation with his Sight like he had before. He met the look with a slight shrug; she was reminded he liked to let people have their moment by voicing their own discoveries.

Thoughts on her oracular companion were driven from her head as Alphinaud’s recounting reached their encounter with Gorrath and his twisted ‘lesson.’ Alphinaud’s voice began to waver, ever so slightly, and as seamlessly as if they planned it Cailia took over the story, telling of how they had weathered the onslaught and earned a place in the war-den. Alphinaud resumed his recitation to describe how they had found and ambushed Aethon and the revelation that followed.

“He was Blessed?” Atreus demanded. “Blessed by Our Lady, and he chose to serve a Demon?”

“Indeed.” The Princeps responded. “An unforgiveable oversight on my part.”

And on hers, Y’shtola thought to her chagrin. The possibility had honestly never occurred to her. But it should have. She’d known Aethon was one of the finest fighters in the realm and that the Echo made one more formidable in combat. More damningly, she’d known that when he and Marcus had fought, Marcus had been drawn into a vision of Aethon’s memories. And that when the vision faded, Aethon had not moved an ilm despite his foe being defenseless. Y’shtola would bet her staff that he had a vision of his own at that time, experiencing Marcus’s memories as Marcus experienced his.

Hindsight has perfect vision, she ruefully reflected.

The tale went on to describe Aethon’s thin excuses for his god’s planned global slaughter and his surprising reversal of allegiance followed by joining his enemies in fighting his allies. Alphinaud concluded the story with a summary of the plan they decided on.

“Our course of action is clear.” He announced to the room. “We must identify the Coffins’ locations and, working with Warlord Skraal, destroy them.”

“Skraal.” Atreus made the name a curse. “I’d sooner cut off my own hand than stand with that murderous cur.” He folded his arms across his barrel of a chest and exhaled in half a sigh, half a growl. “But if it spares my people any, I’ll let the Skalik do some fighting and dying on our behalf.”

“Both fortunately and unfortunately, that will not be an option.” The Princeps said. He seemed faintly amused. “I lack the time and leisure to check, but I do believe today might be a historic day. The first time a Skalik Warlord has ever used the Princeps as a messenger.”

“He what now?” G’raha asked, showing the confusion they all felt. Y’shtola had a guess as to what might have happened, which the Princeps confirmed as he went on.

“Skraal learned from you speaking to the empty air knowing I would hear and borrowed the trick to address me by name, if you count ‘Silver Eyes,’ and have me pass along a message.” The Princeps blinked and activated his power, the piercing silver glow stunning everyone into silence. He blinked and the glow faded, then cleared his throat and continued in what the others would later agree was a surprisingly decent impression of the Warlord’s drawl.

“Silver Eyes. Message for Outlander allies. Scions. Word from Council delivered. Caller is to be killed. Scions are to be killed. Healer is to be taken to Deep-Dwell, never see sky again.” The Princeps made a sort of hacking hiss. “Wisdom from our masters. Return and die, Scions. Run and live. And fight.”

Then the Princeps turned to G’raha. “A warning for Red Hair. Practice lying before doing it more.”

The Princeps shrugged. “He proceeded to laugh at some length but that was all he had for us. In any event, we can no longer turn to the Skalik for aid.”

“Amazing we even got this much out of them.” Castor commented drily, to his master’s nod.

“Quite. Fortunately, we will not need them.” The Princeps’ gaze turned to Y’shtola then. “Our resident scholar has already drawn up a map of the ley line conjunctions Aethon referred to and with the rough geographic locations of the Coffin-sites, will have no trouble identifying the specific locations we need.”

“Indeed.” Y’shtola commented drily. She doubted the search would take much time. However… “Shall I assume you have expedited matters?”

His slight smile deepened into a grin. “I have. Along with the relevant tunnel paths required to reach them. A stroke of luck there. Gorrath was more concerned about the Skalik he wars with finding the Coffins. The sites are surprisingly near the surface.”

“Then let’s get moving.” Estinien announced. He stood. “Past time we struck back.”

The other Scions began standing as well, to Y’shtola’s mild alarm. “I think not. You all are in no condition to undertake another expedition.”

The aethers of her fellow Scions, Castor too, were depleted. They were exhausted, running on fumes and willpower. Even without her aetheric sight, the worn, damaged states of their weapons and armor, to say nothing of their battered bodies, made it clear just how long and hard they had been fighting recently.

“We can still fight.” Alisaie said. Atreus snorted.

“The hell you can. A stiff breeze could bowl some of you over.” He turned to the Princeps. “How long until Gorrath’s next attack?”

“If we do nothing, two days.”

“Two days? The Traitor will buy us more time than I thought.” Atreus addressed the group with regal authority. “You all are going nowhere but the infirmary and dining hall. Once you eaten, rested, and your gear has been tended to, then we will take the fight to Gorrath.”

“We can ill afford to wait.” Alisaie countered, but neither the prince nor Y’shtola were swayed.

“What we can ill afford is hasty action.” Y’shtola told her younger counterpart. “This could change the tide of this war. It must be executed with the finest force we have at our disposal. That means means we must be rested and ready when we strike.”

“You said we needed to act quickly.” Alisaie said in appeal to the Princeps, who merely looked amused.

“And we do. The sooner you begin to recover from your previous exertions, the sooner you will be ready to strike out again.”

There had been some continued grumbling, but ultimately the Princeps’ argument that it would not be until morning that they even had the griffins to carry the two strike teams anyway settled the debate.

Now, after a night of recuperation, the Scions stood ready to set off. The remaining Skyhunters had returned in the night, but their steeds were far too tired to set off again so quickly. Instead, two flights of eight griffins had flown in from the south yesterday, coming from Cretos and Agriphina. Those would serve to carry the teams designated to attack each Coffin site, the Scions hitting the southernmost site near Low Peak while a group of Knights hit the farther location near the Brothers. Castor had decided who would strike where, though Y’shtola felt confident that the Princeps had been the one to truly make that determination.

As if thinking of him had conjured the man, he appeared in her field of vision crossing the courtyard. Despite the chaos, he did not obstruct anyone as he made his way in her direction. Men paused to allow his passage, but their sudden stops did not lead to the traffic jam one might expect and the flow of men and material continued to proceed smoothly.

Y’shtola rolled her eyes. Had he truly used his foresight so he could pass through a crowd without inconveniencing anyone? She felt a sudden temptation to box his ears and reprimand him for overusing his magick.

Perhaps aware of her thoughts, the Princeps greeted her with a slight bow. “Mistress Rhul. I have a question for you, if you have a moment.”

Y’shtola raised an eyebrow that eloquently spoke to how he had clearly seen her standing here waiting for several minutes. “I can spare a minute or two.”

“My thanks.” He nodded in gratitude. She nearly laughed at his stiff formality, before reminding herself that they were in public now. The candor she had witnessed from him in their private conversations would not be making an appearance now. “You felt something yesterday as well, yes?”

Y’shtola did not need to ask what he meant nor was surprised to hear he had sensed it as well. Near as she could surmise, all those aetherically sensitive in the castle had felt it. “I did. The surge of aether that resulted from Lupercal converting her life-force into raw energy with which to attack Gorrath.” She answered him.

It was not an answer that satisfied her. She had conferred with Estinien, the timing was certainly correct. Nevertheless, her reservations remained. She had briefly discussed the matter with Sloarn, who had sensed the aetheric pulse as well. He shared her belief that what they had felt seemed too, for lack of a better word, ominous to be the regal Primal’s dying fury. But, lacking any better answer about what it could have been instead, they had agreed that sense was merely their preconceived biases coloring their perceptions. Y’shtola had not been entirely convinced by that rationale. The Princeps questioning the event only strengthened her doubts. “Do you believe otherwise?”

“I don’t know.” His voice lowered. “I hope that’s all it was.”

He straightened up, made an attempt at adopting his usual knowing smile. “Are you fully prepared to depart?”

“Just as soon as I have wings to carry me.” She answered. The Princeps looked her up and down, then nodded in agreement.

“Excellent. Let’s see if we can’t find you some.”

The two of them set off across the courtyard, beginning to clear as everything got to where it needed to be. A group of eight Knights Y’shtola did not recognize stood at attention, being instructed by one she did.

“Newly promoted from down south.” The Princeps answered her unasked question as they walked past Diomedes briefing the other Knights. “Our last eight Reliquaries went into Knighting them. With them, we’re back to forty-eight combat capable Knights.”

Forty-eight, Y’shtola thought to herself grimly. Less than half of the total Knights. From what the Princeps had alluded to, making more Reliquaries would take weeks, if not months. For this war, that might as well be an eternity.

She was not blind to the gravity of their situation. Say what you will about Elarians, and she intended to, but they were indeed a warrior people and their preparations for facing the Primal that menaced them were nothing short of remarkable. A small army of Echo-blessed fighters. A Primal of their own to counter the risk of tempering. Y’shtola knew full well that no nation in Eorzea, and likely not the entire star, would be as equipped at facing down this threat. And their resources with which to challenge Gorrath had already been tapped out, with all that remained of that strength gathered here.

If Clenon fell, all of Elarion would fall with it. And if Elarion fell, there was a real risk the rest of the star would fall too.

The duo pulled up before a group of griffins, the sizable cloudkin finally mustered into ranks. The lead officer was addressing Jason. “– White Wings might not have the glory tally as the Skyhunters, but we’ll get you there.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” The Princeps said, announcing their arrival.

“My Princeps!” The griffin-rider knelt, as did all his similarly attired comrades. At her side, Y’shtola could feel the Princeps stiffen with annoyance for a moment.

“Rise, please Barbus. If anything, it should be I who kneels before you, who have come in our hour of need.”

Barbus stood, looking awed that the Princeps knew his name and still uncertain that he was allowed to stand in the man’s presence. “Everything is prepared, my Princeps. We await only your word.”

“Not quite.” Y’shtola commented, seeing an unresolved matter. The Princeps followed her line of sight and the two of them walked along the line of shuffling, snorting griffins towards the argument in progress.

With sixteen griffins rested and available, the plan was decided that the two teams would number eight each. As the Scions only had seven combat effectives, the empty slot would be filled by one of the Knights. Adonis of Carpenthia, an imposing man with a large sword and a larger shield, had been chosen by Castor to round out their group. But now that selection was the subject of some debate.

“I don’t care. I’m going.” Cailia said stubbornly, arms folded. She stood between Adonis and one of the mounts, the griffin’s rider already in the saddle and looking between the two nervously. Watching nearby, Estinien and Thancred both seemed amused.

Castor was not. “You seem to mistakenly believe you have the right to decide. You are staying. That’s an order.”

“Piss on your orders. I’m seeing this through to the end.” Cailia retorted. The Princeps sighed as they walked up.

“You truly think now is a good time to emulate your sister?”

Cailia winced, at their arrival or his words or both, but rallied.

“I have to do this.” A note of pleading entered her obstinate tone. “I can’t pull Markos’s weight, but I can at least keep his friends safe.”

The Princeps held up a hand to forestall Castor’s rebuttal. “You no longer have an amulet to protect from Gorrath’s influence. If you should encounter him, you would not be their protector, but another threat.”

The reminder put a dent in Cailia’s certainty but she rallied. “I realize that. But the chances of us running into Gorrath are small, aren’t they?”

In theory, anyway. The plan was for the Scions to land at the tunnel entrance nearest to their target and take the most direct path through the tunnels to it. Given the Princeps’ prediction that Gorrath would respond to the destroyed Coffins by counter-attacking them here in Clenon, they were going to return via teleportation as soon as their target was eliminated. With her hypothetical future self having pinpointed the general location of the ley line conjunction, it was a simple matter to consult the tunnel maps to find a sizable cavern in the vicinity and the path to it. Y’shtola had, like the others, already memorized the route there. They had no need for a guide.

Nevertheless, something in Cailia’s face spoke to her. “We would be glad to have her accompany us.” Y’shtola told both the Princeps and the Knight-Captain. “Even with her own steed being too exhausted to make the trip and the knowledge that she must needs take one of ours.”

“Are you volunteering to stay behind?” Castor asked but the Princeps looked contemplative. He looked from Cailia to Y’shtola and back again before coming to a decision.

“This mission is the purview of the Scions. It is only right that they choose their team’s composition.” Castor and the Princeps shared a long, wordless look before the towering Knight nodded.

“Very well.”

And with that, they were nearly ready to depart. It took little time for all of them to mount their respective steeds, Adonis taking a mount from another Knight in Castor’s group. Y’shtola straddled the impressively large cloudkin, stamping down on her unease. Flying had never appealed to her. Calista joined the Princeps, watching them with no small amount of envy. She’d been wounded in the defense of Theron, and though still capable of combat Castor had sidelined her for another Knight in full health. Y’shtola could only sympathize with her, having just finished drinking that bitter draught herself.

The Princeps addressed them when they were all mounted.

“As Princeps, it is not my place to command any of you.” He managed to say with a straight face. “So, it as nothing more than an ordinary man that I have an order for you all.”

He slowly turned his head from one end of the row to the other. Y’shtola was struck with the sense that he was truly looking at each and every one of them, fixing them in his mind. His voice rose and he spoke with authority. “No matter what, I want all of you to survive and return here alive.”

He locked eyes with his Guardian Knight. “That means you Castor. I still need you.”

“I have never failed you before. I don’t intend to start now.”

The Princeps’ mouth curled into a sad smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“We will survive and succeed.” Y’shtola answered in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Well said.” Castor agreed. He nodded to the lead griffin rider whose voice rose in command.

“Let’s fly!”

With surge of white feathers, the griffins shot into the air in response to their riders’ spurs. Despite the unsettling feeling of the ground dropping away, Y’shtola found herself looking down and back. Back at the little blue ember of aether, dwarfed by the yellow flame of the Knight next to him. She watched him shrink as her mount flew on until he disappeared, then turned her attention ahead.

A half dozen Skalik were loitering on a Low Peak cliffside outside the tunnel entrance the Scions intended to use, one of them with a curling horn growing out of his forehead proving they were tempered. They were sitting and standing in a desultory way with the universal body language of guards who believe they have nothing better to do than stand around.

Eight griffins each with a pair of deadly riders dropped out of the sky nearly on top of the group. There was just enough time for the nearest Skalik’s eyes to widen in shock before eight bows twanged and several spells were loosed.

G’raha almost felt sorry for them.

Dismounted, the Scions huddled for a quick conference.

“How long do you believe we will have before the bodies are discovered?” Alphinaud asked.

“With the comportment of our foe’s forces, tis a wonder any of his supplicants were stationed to guard this location at all.” Urianger answered. “Gorrath’s ability to observe events using the senses of his minions is limited solely to those among his Chosen. He doth not possess the wherewithal to use his more ordinary tempered as watchdogs in that manner.”

Thancred folded his arms. “Nevertheless, we should move quickly. We can expect Aethon to have well and truly kicked the hornets’ nest, meaning the tunnels will be heavily patrolled.”

Urianger nodded. “Indeed. Swiftness will prove a far greater ally here than stealth.”

Barbus spoke from atop his steed. “We can remain on-station as long as we are needed. In case you need some wings.”

Cailia frowned, nearly making G’raha laugh. She was a skilled flier and therefore had proven a terrible passenger. That and plain old interservice rivalries had made her and the Cretan White Wings snipe at each other almost the entire trip. At the very least, every time G’raha’s own mount had drifted close enough to overhear conversation he’d picked up on her and her co-rider arguing about something or other.

“There will be no need for that.” G’raha told Barbus. As amusing as the rivalry was, the tactical situation took precedence. “You should return to Clenon with all speed. With any luck, we will be back even before you arrive.”

The plan was simple, as these things go. Reach the chamber where the Coffins were kept, and destroy them. That would be crude work. Blunt. The Coffins were effectively crystal formations large enough to contain an entire person. Urianger had confirmed that, at least as far as Gorrath’s followers knew, even if they should manage to pry the living corpse within out of its confinement, that person would remain a Chosen hellbent on their deaths, just with a flesh and blood body rather than one made of aether. Safer to leave them dormant and deal with them that way.

Deal with them, G’raha thought with a grimace. He understood what was required of him. They all did. They would have to go Coffin by Coffin, killing every inhabitant. Murdering them in their sleep. They had to, in order to do this quickly. Even if they were willing to drag each one out and face them in combat, Gorrath certainly would respond once the Coffins began to break. They needed to complete their task and have teleported back to Clenon before he could descend on them. It would prove a grim duty, but it was an essential one.

G’raha had turned over the problems in his head, the unsavory task they had to perform and the need for speed as they did so. He had something of an idea. He didn’t think it would work, and so he had not mentioned it to anyone else, but it would be worth a try at least when the opportunity came.

“Lady’s favor and His gaze be upon you, Scions.” With those parting words, the griffins took to the air and departed. The Scions made their way up the cliff and, without a moment’s trepidation, entered the tunnels.

Thancred and Cailia took point, with G’raha just behind them as they moved quickly through the darkness. By now, the flickering half-light of the tunnels was familiar to him and his eyes quickly adjusted. As they made their way deeper, he counted out the turns in his head. Unlike their previous trip, this time they knew the path to their objective and needed only to follow it. As a precaution should they become separated, all of them had been encouraged to memorize the route. G’raha had done so with relative ease, as had the others. Or so they claimed. Privately, G’raha had his doubts about Estinien but the dragoon had insisted he knew the way to the point of claiming he could lead the group.

The others had denied his offer, as Thancred and Cailia’s superior senses were needed to ensure they didn’t stumble into an ambush, or needlessly give themselves away to enemies unaware of their presence. The Princeps had tried, but he could only guarantee they would encounter some of Gorrath’s minions, not when. All he’d been able to do was give them several points along their route where they were likely to run into the enemy. G’raha mentally crossed off each of those points as the Scions reached them. Tension slowly grew inside him as they passed each point, knowing the fewer contact points left the more likely it was that reaching the next would begin the fighting. He could tell he was not alone in that assessment; the air about the group grew more and more apprehensive the deeper they went.

“Where is everyone?” Alisaie quietly asked after a time. “I get we’re not exactly near the frontlines but this place is deserted.”

“Mayhap Aethon succeeded in drawing Gorrath, and his thralls’, attention more than we thought.” Alphinaud offered tentatively.

“More likely than thou knowst.” G’raha turned back to see Urianger nod. “Many in the ranks of Gorrath’s followers despised the captain for not being truly under the Demon’s influence. Twould be an unsurprising turn of events for both the Chosen and the tempered to be fixated on claiming his head in hopes of rising in their master’s esteem.”

“Shh!” Cailia hissed from up ahead. The group fell silent as they continued on.

After perhaps an hour of skulking, with nothing more than a few close calls of patrols the Scions managed to avoid attracting the attention of, they reached one of the main throughway tunnels that ran under this region of the mountains. Thancred signaled a halt and they took a moment to regroup before continuing on. They all knew this was it. The throughway was a wide, tall passageway that many other tunnels connected to. It was, by far, the fastest route to their destination; avoiding this tunnel would make them take more than twice as long to reach the Coffins even using the next most direct route.

But it was also a highway used regularly by the Skalik and now by Gorrath’s tempered. The Scions’ chances of encountering enemies along its length were not in terms of if, but when.

“Is everyone ready?” G’raha asked the others. He didn’t see anyone wavering, not that he expected to. Estinien outright scoffed at the question.

“Nay, I think we should about face and leave now.”

G’raha rolled his eyes at the sarcasm, but it did briefly bring a smile to his face. With one final quick glance to check for enemies, Thancred led the way out into the main tunnel.

The Scions made their way down the tunnel, maintaining the half-run of soldiers who needed to move quickly but also had to conserve their stamina for the fight awaiting them. The passageway was nearly a straight shot and brightly lit, at least relatively speaking. There was also little in the way of clutter or obstructions to block sightlines. G’raha could see far, and knew that meant he could be seen from far away as well.

Even so, between the tunnel’s gloom and acoustics he knew that the sounds of their footsteps and other noises, particularly the clatter of Estinien’s armor, would carry farther than they could be seen. He craned his ears, listening for any errant noises. The one chance they had of avoiding conflict was if they heard oncoming enemies in advance and ducked down a convenient connecting passage while hoping the thralls mistook the Scions’ own sounds as those of other tempered. He counted the offshoot tunnels as they passed. Three thus far, and their exit was the eighth.

They had passed the sixth a while back when Y’shtola’s low voice penetrated the quiet. “Our foes approach.”

Reflexively, G’raha looked in vain for an exit. They had a ways yet to go to the seventh connecting tunnel and the sixth was far behind them. “Should we attempt to withdraw?”

“They approach too quickly.” The other answered, her aetheric sight easily piercing the darkness. “This aether… they are Chosen. I am certain.”

“Can we easily overcome them?” Alphinaud asked, to G’raha’s approval. Fighting would not be ideal here, the last thing they wanted was to get bogged down in a meaningless battle here. But if they could overpower the attackers quickly and keep moving…

“I doubt it.” Came the answer. “There are only several, but one is particularly formidable.”

Alphinaud thought quickly. “Rather than charge into them, I say we prepare ourselves and meet them here. Once we have weathered their initial assault, then we can see about getting past them.”

It was as good a plan as any. G’raha could already hear the faint drumbeat of footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Someone or something large was approaching, and approaching at great speed. He had a sinking feeling he knew who was coming for them.

Minos looked surprised to see them as he charged down the tunnel with several other Chosen behind him, hurrying to keep up with the running Taurhe. The surprise didn’t so much as cause a break in his stride, however, all he did was lower his horned head and turn ever so slightly so he was charging directly at them. An arrow embedded itself in his shoulder without so much as a grunt of pain from him. G’raha shot a fireball that had about as much effect while Cailia nocked another arrow. Minos grew larger as he neared them, the ground beginning to shake under the massive Chosen’s hooves. He came on, inexorable. Unstoppable.

Until he was engulfed in an explosion that lit the tunnel bright as day for a moment. Minos’s charge faltered, he staggered backward with arms raised to shield his smoldering head from another blast. A dark blue blur shot past G’raha. The tunnel was tall enough that Estinien had room to leap high into the air. He put that height to good use, descending like a ruby lightning bolt to strike Minos with a shockwave releasing plunge. The stardiver knocked the hulking Chosen backwards off his feet. Estinien bounded backwards clear of the meaty hands that snapped up to grab him and with a great thud Minos fell onto his back.

G’raha couldn’t help but grin. He’d forgotten how fights went when you were backed up by the Azure Dragoon and the ‘avatar of destruction.’

Minos began to pick himself off the ground. He growling in either anger or anticipation, G’raha couldn’t tell. “Scions. Nice of you to save us the trouble of hunting you down.”

His attempt at rising was halted when a wave of pure gravity hammered him down onto the ground.

“Though thy anticipation is understandable, your highness,” Urianger held out his astrolabe, the rotating contraption pulsing with power. “Our business here will be only for your benefit. I would advise you stand aside.”

Minos leapt up onto his hooves, overcoming the gravity crushing down on him with little visible effort. His Chosen followers caught up with him and would have run straight past him had not a snarling snort from the former prince drawn them up short. Minos didn’t spare them another thought, turning his attention back to Urianger.

“Do you truly believe I would take you up on that offer?” His amused disbelief was audible. “Did you learn nothing in your time with us?”

Urianger simply shrugged. “I considered it polite to offer you a chance to escape the hiding you will receive at our hands.”

Minos’s laughter echoed down the tunnel. “That’s more like it.”

He slammed his fists together. In the enclosed space the sound was like a thunderclap. G’raha felt a numb sort of horror at seeing the Taurhe was no longer wearing gauntlets. Rather, the metal had fused to his skin and from the look of it G’raha wasn’t even sure it was metal anymore. The way it flexed as his hands moved made it seem disturbingly organic.

Minos pointed a clawed finger. “Butcher them in the Master’s name!”

“Blood for Gorrath!” The Chosen surged forward.

In the few seconds before they could close the gap. G’raha quickly took stock of the battle. Counting Minos there were eight Chosen arrayed against them. All but one carried melee weapons, an eclectic combination of swords, axes, and one Warhammer, while the last had a bow that she was even now drawing. She would pose a problem; G’raha readied a spell aimed at her feet. Then there was Minos.

The Taurhe was even larger than the last time they had encountered him and G’raha didn’t need his aetheric sense to tell the Chosen had become stronger as well. Power, wild and unrestrained, radiated off him in waves. G’raha had the distinct and uncomfortable impression Minos was stronger than the other seven put together.

He felt the familiar and comforting cool sensation as one of Alphinaud’s barriers took shape around him as he shot the fireball from his staff. The flames took the archer in the legs and knocked her off her feet, but he had been too slow. Her arrow was already loosed, it was only thanks to Thancred’s preternatural agility he managed to catch it on the flat of his gunblade before it could skewer Y’shtola, somanoutic barrier and all. The Miqo’te and the two magically inclined Elezen slowed the other Chosen’s charge with a barrage of spells, but one particularly tenacious Hyur man armed with a sword powered through. G’raha applied his own magic, his Break spell locking the attacker in place just as he reached the Scions. At which point Estinien smartly took his head off with a swipe of his spear.

“Estinien!” Alphinaud called out. The dragoon had the grace to look a little abashed.

“Right, sorry.” He stepped past the immolating corpse of the first Chosen and engaged the next. G’raha had no more attention to spare on him, as a Hyur woman with an axe in one hand and a sword in the other engaged him. With no time to put up his staff G’raha was forced to wield it as a weapon, blocking the sword with its haft while parrying the axe with a glimmering sword of his own materialized in his free hand. The Chosen’s strength was astounding and every blow drove him back a step.

G’raha wanted to wince at each hit he deflected with his staff. It was a well-crafted weapon, but first and foremost a spell focus. It had not been made to endure this kind of physical violence for long. Despite knowing better, he still felt a surge of relief when Cailia’s arrow whistled over his shoulder to bore between the Chosen’s eyes.

Thancred voiced the same conclusion they were all coming to. “We have to thin their numbers first!”

G’raha reluctantly agreed. He’d rather avoid killing any of the Chosen if he could, but they were too powerful to simply brush aside. His sword dissipated as quickly as it had appeared and he readied another, more potent fire spell. From behind him, Y’shtola cast a powerful wind spell in an impressive display of magick. It was controlled tightly enough that the winds flowed around her comrades yet powerful enough to throw the Chosen backwards and give them some much needed breathing room.

Because now Minos was charging, and the unleashed gale didn’t so much as stagger him.

When he drew near, Minos stamped with enough force to shake the tunnel. The stone floor buckled and broke. The Scions’ careful formation was knocked askew as they were thrown backwards away from one another by the rising chunks of stone. G’raha rolled lightly back onto his feet and shot a bolt of lightning into Minos’s flank, but the Chosen shrugged it off without blinking. His attention was fixed on the Leveilleur twins, Alisaie helping Alphinaud back to his feet.

Minos rushed them with a raucous laugh. Both twins responded, Alisaie firing a sextet of crystalline swords at the minotaur while Alphinaud’s nouliths peppered him with blasts. Minos shrugged off the attacks and raised his arms as he charged. Alisaie backflipped with a parting volley of magic while Alphinaud hurriedly made then yanked on an aetherial tether to Thancred, pulling him over to the gunbreaker’s side. They narrowly escaped death; fists the size of their torsos hammered down into where they had been standing barely a second before.

His targets splitting, Minos chose to concentrate on Alphinaud. With his lengthy stride, it only took a few steps for him to reach the duo sheltering next to the tunnel wall. Likely under no illusions about his ability to withstand many of those devastating hits, Thancred looped an arm around Alphinaud’s waist and unceremoniously hoisted him like a sack of popotos. Ignoring the surprised yelp from his passenger, Thancred bounded up the wall and flipped off it an ilm before Minos’s clawed fist shattered the stone. Again the entire tunnel seemed to shake under G’raha’s feet.

G’raha had to turn away to hurl spearlike icicles at a now recovered Chosen who was charging back into the fray. His knuckles whitened slightly on his staff, an outward sign of his frustration.

They might have to kill some Chosen to clear the way, but Minos was another story. They couldn’t afford to kill him. Just from what G’raha had seen, there was a distinct possibility they physically couldn’t. It was hard to believe he’d become this powerful, it felt like they were fighting another Primal in his own right. Even if they could lay him low, it would take far too much time and energy. And that would ultimately all be for nothing. So far the Chosen hadn’t noticed the Scions’ plan, but they wouldn’t stay blind to it forever and the already slain Chosen added a time constraint.

G’raha blocked a stab aimed at his throat with his staff and turned to smash its tip of hard crystal into the Chosen’s head. The man rode the impact with little issue, licking his lips as he brought his blade back to bear. Y’shtola’s commanding voice cut through the clamor of battle with a single word. “Eyes!”

Though it went against every single screaming combat instinct in G’raha’s body, he closed his eyes. And just as well, even with his eyelids tightly screwed closed the flash of light still nearly seared his retinas. Blinking away the afterimages, he saw the remaining four Chosen staggering clutching at their eyes. Even Minos was briefly disoriented. Thanks to that trick, which would almost certainly only work once, the Scions had a few precious seconds of opportunity.

“Now!” Alphinaud shouted. The Scions broke off from their foes and ran. Past the Chosen, down the tunnel, towards their destination. G’raha stopped his flight once they were past the section of the tunnel now damaged from their fighting. They couldn’t outrun the Chosen; Minos would catch them in seconds. But they didn’t need to.

“Bring it down!” Spells from Y’shtola and the twins hammered at the ceiling, stressing the stone. G’raha and Urianger saved their magic, each preparing a spell of their own.

“Cowards!” Minos roared, guessing their plan. He lowered his head and charged. “Stand and fight!”

He was too late. G’raha and Urianger both cast their spells. Aimed not at the oncoming Taurhe, but at the ceiling. The battered, crumbling ceiling, now experiencing the tender pull of two skilled mages’ worth of gravity.

The stone collapsed like a Syndicate promise.

The cave-in was greater than G’raha expected. The Scions had to hurriedly run farther down the tunnel to avoid being crushed. Thanks to his charge, Minos was at the center of the collapse. Boulders the size of gigas smashed into him. Incredibly, it took several such hits for him to fall, but fall he did as the weight of the mountains above crashed down around him. When the rockfall finally ceased, enough rock had come down to seal the tunnel behind the Scions, trapping the Chosen behind a wall and Minos in a tomb of rock. For all he tried to be optimistic, G’raha doubted that had actually killed him.

Nor did he harbor any illusions about how much time they had bought. “We need to move. That will hold him for minutes at best.”

“Indeed so. Thou must make haste.” Urianger said, checking his cards and remaking his deck. He stepped closer to the fallen wall.

None of them missed his choice of pronoun. “Not this again.” Alisaie protested. “You’re coming with us. This is not up for debate.”

“Quite so, time is far too precious now to waste on fruitless arguing.” Urianger said, but made no move to join them. “Our foe will catch us again unless further obstructed, and mine knowledge of his prowess combined with my particular spellcraft make me ideally suited to delaying him.”

While his logic checked out, G’raha rather strongly suspected an ulterior motive. Alisaie was less circumspect. “Like hell. You’re doing this out of some stupid belief you need to redeem yourself.”

Urianger smirked faintly. “I assure thee, mine deeds that require atonement are far too numerous for this defiant stand to absolve.”

The rock pile trembled. Only slightly, but enough to grab everyone’s attention. Urianger thrust a hand down the tunnel towards their destination. “Go now! The current circumstances preclude any further debate on the matter.”

Thancred sighed and rested his gunblade on his shoulder. “I swear, it’s like you choose these things just to make life harder for me.” He stepped up to join the astrologian and languidly waved the others away. “Get moving. I’ll see to it he survives his poorly timed show of atonement.”

Estinien was the first to leave. “Come, we have no time to waste.”

Reluctantly, G’raha followed. He didn’t want to go on without them, but someone needed to hold Minos back and the two of them were probably the best suited of the group to do so. That didn’t mean he enjoyed leaving them behind. He could hear Alisaie swearing at them as she fell in with the exodus.

“You idiots had damn well better survive, you hear me!?”

The six of them left ran full tilt down the tunnel. There was no call for conserving their stamina now. The featureless stone walls rushed past them, G’raha carefully watching for their awaited opening. A great crash echoing from behind them pulled them up short for a moment. All except for Alisaie, who stubbornly kept running. “Come on! You heard them!”

 G’raha grit his teeth and resumed running.

Only a few minutes later Y’shtola’s voice rose. “As we expected, they are coming.”

G’raha turned his attention from the wall to before him. Emerging out of the gloom were four familiar Chosen. The same four the Scions had dispatched mere minutes ago.

They revived quickly. He couldn’t say he was truly disappointed, they’d been expecting as much. The Chosen were reborn at the Coffins, any the Scions killed would simply revive themselves and go out to fight again. And this close to the Coffins, there was nothing stopping them from confronting the Scions over and over again. That’s why they had to avoid killing Chosen as much as possible; every Chosen they killed was another that would reinforce the Coffins’ defenses.

“We’ll hold them!” Alisaie shouted. She ran at the head of the pack, rapier held at the ready. “You four keep going!”

“I assume I am other in ‘we?’” Alphinaud commented, his tone managing to sound dry despite his panting.

G’raha could hear Alisaie’s smirk. “I’d stay alone if I thought for one second you’d leave me behind, you worrywart.”

The quartet of Chosen screamed a wordless battlecry of pure fury. A bow twanged. One of the Chosen staggered, an arrow in his leg. He pulled it out in a gush of burning blood and snaped the shaft in a clenched fist. G’raha slowed enough to turn back and see Cailia had stopped and was drawing another arrow.

“Go! I’ll look after them!”

Suppressing a laugh at Alisaie’s indignation, G’raha slowed his stride enough to allow the twins to move ahead engage approaching enemies first. Once the Chosen were occupied with arrows, aether blasts, and a swift crystalline rapier, G’raha adjusted his course to cut a wide berth about the battle. Y’shtola followed him. Estinien hadn’t bothered and simply leapt over the melee.

G’raha ran on, aware they had to be close. The sounds of combat were still faintly audible in the distance when Y’shtola shouted out again. “There!”

G’raha turned, squinted. He still saw nothing and only had a nebulous sense of powerful aether nearby, but with her talent for seeing aether the false wall stood out to Y’shtola as plainly as if it had been marked out in paint. A quick gout of conjured water hit the ‘rock’ and the façade broke into magicked splinters revealing a tunnel ramping downward. G’raha darted downward, waiting only long enough for Estinien to take point just in case there were any guards awaiting them.

The tunnel was short; barely thirty seconds later and they emerged into a tall, wide cavern. Row after row of crimson crystal pillars awaited them, each with a body of varying shapes and sizes barely visible within. Gorrath’s reliance on secrecy to protect this place was born out and there was no one else here waiting for them.

Something gave G’raha pause, as he looked out over the Coffins. Something not quite right.

He worked it out just as Y’shtola joined them. “There’s too few!”

Y’shtola, entering the chamber behind him, blanched in a way he’d never seen from her before. Her mouth opened for a reflexive denial but her mind worked fast enough to confirm his count and cut herself off.

Estinien whirled on them, not comprehending. “What? What do you mean?”

“There aren’t fifty Coffins here.” G’raha said, fighting back bitter despair. “There’s only thirty-three.”

Estinien might not be able to count in his head as quickly as an Archon could, but he was no fool. He understood the implications of that number immediately. He swore in language fervent enough that the words could have stripped paint. To G’raha’s sinking mind, an entirely reasonable sentiment.

Thirty-three Coffins. One third of a hundred. The Coffins weren’t kept in two places, but three.

Aethon lied.  G’raha thought numbly. He tricked us.

But why? It didn’t make sense. Why tell them where to find some, but not all of the Coffins? If he wanted to hide the Coffins he wouldn’t have been telling the truth about these Coffins being here. And if this was some sort of trap, Gorrath’s forces would have been waiting for them.

The air sparked. The smell of brimstone and ozone flooded the chamber. One Coffin, near the front, surged with light and power. The flames it gave off twisted and grew, taking shape. A massive shape.

Minos finished materializing with an angry snort. No longer was there any hint of amusement in his manner, now he glared at them with pure rage.

Had Thancred and Urianger actually managed to kill him? Or had he guessed their intent and killed himself to head them off? Impossible to know and it hardly mattered. The Taurhe quickly interposed himself between the Scion trio and the Coffins.

“Clever little rats, finding this place. But it will avail you nothing! You will not mar a single one of our Master’s prizes!”

Not that it would matter even if they did, G’raha thought darkly. They had gambled on being able to destroy all the Coffins in one go, and that was impossible now. It had never been possible to begin with.

“Damnit all, FINE!” Estinien shot into the air. He dove, wreathed in flames, aiming at the crystal the Taurhe had emerged from. Minos punched his out of the air, long before he reached his target, but the dragoon righted his fall and landed gracefully. “Fine then! We can’t destroy them all, but we can destroy these! That’ll at least put you down, won’t it!”

“Right!” G’raha banished his feelings of hopelessness. They couldn’t stop Gorrath outright here, but they could still deprive him of many powerful thralls.

“Them all?” Minos repeated, understanding coming to him. He laughed, loud and mocking. “You only knew of this place, didn’t you? You thought you could slay us all, deprive us of our Master’s gift, deny us even a warrior’s death?”

“You have had more than your share of those.” Y’shtola swept out her hand. A large stone ripped out of the floor and flew towards a Coffin. But Minos was too fast. His hoof came down on the earthen projectile, smashing it into the floor and shattering it.

“You have already failed!” Minos crowed. “You cannot defeat us, no matter how hard you try!”

G’raha fired a blast of potent energy only for it to be intercepted as well, but instead of pressing his advantage, Minos backed up. G’raha knew that was their advantage. Minos was being forced to stay on the defensive to protect the Coffins, and with three against one they would eventually get past him.

That hope withered as several other Coffins came alive, pulsing with the aether needed to materialize their occupant here. More than enough to decisively tilt the scales away from the Scions. Even if Minos weren’t here, the trio wouldn’t be able to destroy enough Coffins in time to prevent the Chosen from swarming them.

That is, if they were destroying the Coffins one at a time.

“Buy me time!” G’raha didn’t wait to see if Y’shtola and Estinien would cover him. He didn’t need to. He slung his staff and pulled out the bloodcrystal chunk Aethon had given him. With a thought, the wards he had woven dissolved and the crystal regained its natural crimson color. Immediately the warding scale in G’raha’s pocket warmed, coming alive to shield him from the gem’s malevolent energies. He hesitated for a moment. If this failed, they were all dead and likely the rest of the star would not be far behind them.

Minos had no possible way of knowing what G’raha was doing, but he could tell Miqo’te was doing something and wasn’t going to wait to find out what. His mouth opened wide and from it came a torrent of flame. Y’shtola smartly stepped in from of G’raha and thrust her arms out. The slender shield covered them both barely a second before the flames reached them.

“Make haste!” She urged, voice tight with strain. With a silent prayer for luck, G’raha began.

He’d lived a long life, owing to the Crystal Tower’s blessings. And in that long life he’d had plenty of time to study all manner of unusual, esoteric magicks. Magicks relating to that same Crystal Tower, naturally, occupied no small amount of his studies. Aether-forged crystals like those that made up the Tower were incredibly durable. The aether that comprised them naturally formed a lattice-like structure that rendered the crystalline formations near impervious to damage, but also made them relatively brittle, magically speaking. All one had to do was disrupt that lattice, and the structure would crumble. And that was as simple as projecting aether in the right wavelength to destabilize the crystal’s internal composition.

Of course, simple was not the same thing as easy. It took a copious amount of aether being projected in such a manner to actual cause the crystal’s collapse. Just as an example, destroying the approximate mass of crystal that made up the Coffins in this chamber would take about as much aether as every living being in Elarion had put together. Far, far more than G’raha could ever safely channel, let alone had at his disposal.

But if you had some sort of aetheric resonator, some kind of material used to transmit and amplify aether like, say, a medium that allowed a person’s soul to repeatedly materialize outside their body, then in theory such a material would boost and spread the disruptive wavelength to all possible receivers in the vicinity. Then it would only take a tiny fraction of the aether required to unmake the targeted crystals. In theory.

The barrier shattered under Minos’s fists. Jarred out of his focus on the crystal’s aetheric composition, G’raha barely managed to leap to the side alongside Y’shtola to avoid the hoof caving in the ground where they stood. The impact flung the both of them into the air, G’raha crashing back down hard and getting the wind knocked out of them. He looked up to see Minos slap Estinien out of the air, a glancing blow the dragoon would recover from in a few seconds. The monstrously clawed hand reaching for G’raha meant he didn’t have a few seconds.

G’raha forced himself to his feet. Too slowly. The hand closed around him, pinning his arms to his side and crushing him in a tight grip. G’raha looked at Minos’s face to see the sadistic glee, understood he only wasn’t already reduced to paste so the Chosen could savor the kill. He only had a moment to live and strained with all his might but it was in vain. Minos’s fingers didn’t so much as budge.

Until they did. One second the Taurhe’s grip was crushing the breath out of G’raha’s lungs, the next the hand released him entirely and drew back. Shock flashed across Minos’s face before it hardened into a look of steely determination.

“Strike!” He roared. “Strike now!”

Though doubtless as baffled as G’raha was, Y’shtola and Estinien both complied with the orders no doubt intended for the still materializing Chosen. A massive fireball drove Minos back and another Stardiver knocked him off his feet. He picked himself up slowly, face filled once again with murderous hate.

G’raha shoved aside his confusion at what just happened and concentrated, tuning out the battle raging around him and the enormity of what was riding on the next few seconds. He examined the crystal closely once again, confirming the exact layout of its aetheric composition. Then he tuned his own aether to the right elemental frequency and projected it into the crimson bauble tightly held in his hands.

Nothing happened.

The seconds ticked away. G’raha’s palms shone from his aether, but the crystal between them did not react. G’raha refused to stop the flow of his aether, even as his heart plummeted. A dozen Chosen swarmed out from around the Coffins, falling on Estinien and Y’shtola.

Then, light.

The bloodcrystal shone, its crimson hue overpowered by a brilliant blue. All of the bloodcrystal, in the entire chamber. Each and every Coffin turned the color turned the color of the cloudless sky. They trembled. A small motion, at first. Then it grew, more and more, until they were shaking, practically rocking off the ground. The Chosen who spawned them were recoiling, fallen to the ground and writhing. Only Minos stayed on his feet, and he clutched desperately at his head as if trying to hold his skull together.

The crystal in G’raha’s hand burst with a little pop. Like a firecracker.

A Coffin exploded with a deeper boom. A blue firework detonating in the darkness of the cave. Then another. And another. One after the other, then two and three at a time, the Coffins blew up.

It had to be said that Minos rallied. Even as the Coffins around him disintegrated, he powered through the obvious pain he felt and attacked the Scions, trying in death to enact some measure of retribution on his saviors. But his final, wild attack was, for all its fury, unbalanced and Estinien was able to knock the burning punch aside and the former prince off his feet. His Coffin burst, the last one to go, and Minos’s soul vanished before he could hit the ground.

They three Scions panted in the sudden stillness. Estinien stared at G’raha. “How did you know you could do that?”

G’raha grinned through his labored breathing. “I didn’t. I was winging it.”

“Your plan was purely a gamble? A certain someone has been a bad influence on you.” Y’shtola said. She tried to sound stern, but her affection for their absent companion was audible.

“Indeed. Both the recklessness and the amazing success.” Estinien remarked wryly. He straightened up by kept his spear in hand. “Is it too much to ask that that… whatever you did got the Coffins that aren’t here?”

G’raha shook his head regretfully. “We’re lucky that resonance collapse even managed to cover the entire room.”

Y’shtola clapped her hands together. “Then our plan is as it was. We return to Clenon and hope the Knights succeeded in their part.”

“And the remaining Coffins? The third site?” Estinien asked. G’raha’s spirits sunk. In the excitement, he’d forgotten that detail.

“Mayhap the Coffins were not evenly distributed between the two locations.” Y’shtola offered. She took the distinctive pose as aether began to swirl around her. “Let us return quickly and not waste time on fruitless speculation.”

G’raha bowed to the wisdom in that and began to channel his own teleportation spell. Through the violet energies that churned about each of them, he could see from her expression Y’shtola didn’t believe her theory any more than he did.

Chapter Text

Aethon panted, leaning on his planted sword. He looked at Cris’s shield with its bladed edge, held in his left hand.

Cris had sworn that a shield sharpened in such a manner would make for a fine, deadly weapon. As the superior swordsman, by far, Aethon had not been swayed by his friend’s many attempts to argue in defense of his modification. But after extensive personal experience wielding Cris’s blade-shield, Aethon could definitively state he had been right all along. The thing was a terrible weapon.

Shields were not designed to be used offensively. Certainly not via the edge. Pointing the rim of a shield at your enemy reduced its blocking profile to almost nothing. As for attacking, the grip was poorly positioned and sharply limited the angles you could attack from, not to mention the thing having poor reach in general. In almost every circumstance, you’d be better served by simply wielding a second sword in your off hand, like Aethon used to. But after Cris’s death, Aethon had stuck with his friend’s creation. And in his hands, even the impractical weapon had indeed proven deadly.

He'd done a damn fine job fighting his way here, Aethon knew. Always moving, striking when he had the opportunity, he’d carved a bloody fissure through the army he’d commanded as of yesterday. The army he’d helped build. He’d cut a winding, circuitous path through the tunnels under Gorrath’s control, taking care to stay a step ahead of the Blood Demon the whole time. His choices in direction must’ve seemed random, driven by no greater purpose than to seek out enemies that could challenge him, make his blood pulse with excitement. Of which there were many. Counting each time for those he dispatched more than once, he had killed seventy-four Chosen in little more than a day.

Even with his exhaustion weighing him down and the wounds dotting his body singing in pain, Aethon would be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed this.

As he’d hoped, his meandering course hadn’t aroused any suspicion. His arrival here was taken as mere coincidence, he’d gotten no sign anyone had realized he’d been making his way here the whole time.

Here, in the deepest tunnels Gorrath had claimed, practically on top of the site where he had been summoned. Where the third set of Coffins was kept.

They were just behind him now. Rank after rank of bloodcrystals, each with a living corpse inside. Thirty-three in all, the nearest close enough he could almost touch. But still out of his reach all the same. The Chosen had gotten thicker and thicker as he’d drawn closer. They were reborn out of their Coffins nearly faster than he could kill them. This close, there had been too many. He couldn’t slay them all fast enough to keep one from summoning their god.

Aethon looked at the shield with its bladed edge, still held in his left hand, lying on the ground. He hadn’t let go. Not even now. There was some symbolism in that, he was sure. He refused to let go of the past, or his friend’s memory, or something.

On some level Aethon was aware his thoughts were spiraling away from him. Shock, almost certainly. Losing an arm would do that to you. The one nice thing about Blooddrinker being constantly wreathed in balefire, the flames seared your wounds closed. Without that, he’d already be dead from blood loss, bleeding out through his new stump.

Not that it mattered either way. He could feel the axe’s curse crawling through his flesh. A hungry thing, infecting him, spreading through his body like a disease. He could block it, he knew. Putting all his aether into a barrier would let him resist Blooddrinker’s pull. But not for long. A few seconds at most. And doing that would make him physically defenseless anyway. Even if he could hold off the curse indefinitely, he’d be helpless should the Demon try to kill him the old-fashioned way. He was only still alive so Gorrath could gloat.

And he was. “I admit, I understand your frustration.” Gorrath towered over him, indulgent in his victory. “These rats make for poor challenge.”

As if to make his point, the hook lashed out on its chain. Whipcrack fast, it decapitated some of the Skalik waiting by the wall for orders. Their broken bodies collapsed, three dead in less than a second. The others around them cheered, delighted at the showing of their god’s powers.

Aethon watched in disgust, wishing he could blame that on anyone else. Who were you kidding, pretending you wanted justice for us? Agora’s voice asked him. We both know you just wanted to see them die. And he had, an ocean of blood wouldn’t be enough to drown out hers, and Cris’s, and Thoma’s. Or so he’d told himself. That anger was threadbare at this point. Seeing his revenge enacted like this brought him no satisfaction, only disappointment. This is what he wanted?

There were enough Chosen and corrupted surrounding them that even he would have been hard pressed to take them all on, but now they were nothing. Gorrath was here, and against him all other enemies were insignificant.

“Still, I’m disappointed to see such a shortsighted rebellion.” Gorrath continued. Murderously mercurial, he looked down at Aethon with disapproval that the man knew could turn to fury in an instant. “If nothing else, I thought you’d be smarter about it.”

Aethon was hardly listening. His thoughts were spinning away from him, twisting into disjointed tangents and jagged images. Agora’s face flashed before his eyes, then Alisaie’s, and he heard them speak as one with overlapping voices. His faith had been dead and buried long before hearing the Princeps’ pretty lies about how The Lady had not died but ‘ascended.’ But some kernel of it kept stirring in the depths of his soul.

Had the Princeps known? Had he planned for this? And if not him, had Hydaelyn? It wasn’t what he’d come to expect from either, but it seemed too great a coincidence to have happened by chance.

Was he supposed to believe that events had conspired, by freak occurrence, to pit him against a girl who looked and talked just like her, who gave him the exact same glare while saying the exact same words?

You’re lying. Not to me, but to yourself. You know you’re wrong, and I’m not going to help you pretend otherwise.

Agora had always been unafraid to call him out, even as weak as she was. Seeing Alisaie staring him down had been like seeing her alive again, standing before him. He shouldn’t have outlived her. Why wasn’t he with her, when she died?

He’d been too busy killing. Aethon laughed bitterly. He truly had learned nothing.

He’d lied, when he said he didn’t know why he’d saved her. He could no more let Agora die again than he could tear out his own throat.

“You do deserve some respect.” Gorrath was saying. How they liked to ramble on. “You fought well. Better than any mortal can be expected to. I was right, to see you as my greatest foe.”

But that was a lie. Aethon knew it. There was one who Gorrath actually feared, or was at least wary of enough to make special preparations to deal with.

Marcus Dorne.

Aethon had crossed swords with the much-vaunted Warrior of Light. Aethon’s Blessing only rarely let him read the heart of another, but it had for Marcus. The memory Aethon saw was unsettling, enough that he’d grilled Urianger about the man when the chance had arisen.

The similarities were hard to ignore. Two men from the backwater of a backwater province, both of them great fighters and hailed as heroes of their war. Both of them lost those they loved in that war, down in the dark. But Marcus had emerged from the darkness and saved the world, while Aethon had gone deeper down and tried to murder it.

Does that say more about him, or me? Aethon had wondered, before burying the thought. He’d made his choice, picked his side already. He’d summoned a monster and doubled down on that moment of weakness, letting pride and hate and plain stubbornness keep his feet fixed on that path and himself blind to every chance to step off it. Until it was too late.

Aethon forced himself to focus. He wasn’t dead yet. He scrabbled together his thoughts and pushed down the delirium that threatened to swallow him. He looked up, mustered a fierce smile.

“You know me.” Aethon panted. “I make rash decisions and stick with them past the point of all sense. That’s why I took orders from you to begin with.”

Gorrath actually chuckled, harsh and grinding. “Then shall I spare you the insult of asking you to recant this rebellion?”

“Wow.” Aethon was legitimately surprised. “That might be the first kind thing you’ve ever done.”

“You wound me. You should take heart, my former captain.” Gorrath’s attempt at sounding reassuring only sounded insultingly false. “In honor of your service until now, I will uphold my end of our bargain. The rats will die, every last one. Just as I promised.”

Like he would have spared them anyway. Aethon looked into those beady black eyes and saw only death looking back.

Aethon looked up at the monster. At his monster.

There was no denying it. No mistaking how much of himself was in Gorrath. They both lived for battle and were good at nothing else. They both had fierce anger burning in their hearts. They both yearned to test themselves in combat, to feel the rush of crossing blades with a worthy foe.

At first, Aethon had told himself that he summoned Gorrath because Gorrath was like him. But that wasn’t quite right. Unlike in the stories, Gorrath’s anger was not a raging fury but an icy hatred, much like Aethon’s own temper. This Gorrath was no mad brute, he had a cunning mind that reflected Aethon’s head for tactics. His willingness to retreat, his mercurial mood swings, even his desire for companions in the form of worthy Chosen.

Gorrath wasn’t like him, Gorrath was him. Him shorn of mortal frailty and human sentiment. That was why Aethon had followed him, even when it meant turning his sword on his own people. Certainly, that was who he wanted to be, someone strong and ruthless enough to end the Skalik once and for all. Right?

Now, with the end in sight, Aethon couldn’t help but dwell on how many similarities there were between himself and both the Warrior of Light and the Demon of War. Was he closer to Marcus, or to Gorrath?

He already knew.

Was that why you lied to them? A little voice from inside him asked. He’d say it was the voice of his conscience, but it sounded more like himself than Agora. Told the Scions the Coffins were only in two places? Kept these ones to yourself, so you and only you could destroy them? As if that would redeem you, would wash away the blood on your hands?

Aethon knew it wouldn’t. He knew he was beyond redemption, but he’d tried for it anyway. Put everything at risk, just so he could feel a little better about himself. Only his selfish gamble had failed, and the world would pay the price. 

In the end, I really am nothing but a traitor. Fitting that I die with one last act of treachery.

All he wanted to do was to lay down and die. For all this to finally be over. He was so tired. Tired of the killing, the blood, the weight of his sins. He’d never see Agora, Cris, or any of the others ever again. He wasn’t going where they’d gone. But he still owed it to them to die as they did. On his feet, fighting to the end.

Aethon ignored his wounds and stamped down the pain. He forced himself stand upright, wrenching his sword from the ground and holding it up before him. He stared down his monster.

“If my service has earned any consideration from you, then what I ask for is a little of your time.”

As expected, that intrigued Gorrath. “Oh?”

Aethon raise his sword so it stood vertical, the base of the blade even with his face. The weapon began to glimmer, as Aethon gathered his power into it. “Give me a minute, and I’ll land a blow that’ll wound even you.”

Gorrath simply chuckled. “Far be it for me to deny your last request.” His stance shifted, lowering himself slightly into a bracing crouch. Blooddrinker rose, held across his body in both hands, waiting for the attack to come. Courting combat, just like Aethon himself would.

Aethon shifted his sword, holding it across his body so it pointed behind him. He held the blade ready to slash out, the metal shining ever brighter as more of his power flowed into it. Aethon held nothing back, pouring all of his aether, his strength, and his hatred for both Gorrath and himself into the weapon. He had one last attack left in him, and he needed to make it count.

He staggered slightly, his legs going weak as he syphoned their strength away. He remained standing through sheer force of will. He locked eyes with the Demon, staring him down as he gathered every last scrap of himself to spend on one final act of retribution.

Gorrath’s head snapped to stare at the wall. He faced east. The direction of another Coffin site. “What!?”

Now.

Aethon spun and slashed. His sword whipped outward as he turned, the aether within taking flight. A brilliant white crescent blade of light took leapt from his blade into the air. It was a powerful, potent strike, enough to, as promised, wound even Gorrath. If Aethon had aimed for him.

Bloodcrystal shattered as the blade of light hewed it in two. It passed through the first rank of Coffins and the Chosen guarding them without slowing, then the next, then the next. Faster than anyone, even the God of War, could react, all thirty-three Coffins broke and burned in an instant. The prisoners within finally granted freedom in death. The Chosen left standing burned to nothing and vanished, their link to the world cut.

“YOU!!!” Gorrath’s fury eclipsed anything Aethon had ever seen before. “TRAITOR!!!”

With the last dregs of his strength, Aethon threw himself forward with his sword ready to strike. In that final moment, as the axe descended with enough force to erase him from existence, he just might have smiled. 

Blooddrinker struck with enough force not just to rend, but to obliterate.

Gorrath killed his summoner with gratifying thoroughness, reducing the man to less than ashes. He stood above the ruin he had wrought, looking over the ruin Aethon had. His rage was such that even his remaining followers, those feeble corrupted, turned and fled at the compulsion of bone-deep survival instincts.

Two of his groups of Coffins, destroyed in as many seconds. Gorrath understood the implications of that, the true depths of Aethon’s betrayal, all too well. His reaction went beyond anger, to the cold, dispassionate place where pure hatred resided.

Impossible as it sounded, Aethon had somehow allied with the Elarians. The warrior, one of the few truly worthy of the word, had betrayed the locations of the Coffins to the enemy. The rebellious rampage carefully paced to give his new confederates time to get into position, where they would deprive Gorrath of both his greatest warriors and his means of reviving. And Aethon was not foolish enough to arrange for only one of the other sets of Coffins to be destroyed.

With a thought, Gorrath commanded all thirty-four of his remaining Chosen to defend the last remaining batch of Coffins with their lives. A waste of manpower, he once thought. No longer. The secrecy he had relied on to protect the Coffins had not only failed, it had been turned against him. The shadow he had woven to block the Sight, primarily to hide his Coffins, began to fray, burning up as the power used to cast it was syphoned away in drips and drops to feed Gorrath’s steadily mounting rage.

Those few seconds of calm decision making were all he was capable of before his fury boiled over. His wrath knew no limit or restraint any longer. And running through it was a black tendril of what only a very unwise man would call fear.

Gorrath set off for his final, endangered bastion with all the speed he could muster, borne on burning wings, carving a path through earth and stone as easily as air.

Castor was leading his team down a sloped path, encountering enough Chosen resistance that they were definitely approaching their target, when he sensed it. All eight of them did. That kind of shiver up your spine, a lightning bolt of dread originating from instincts that ran even deeper than danger sense the Lady’s Blessing conferred. A second later, that Blessing whispered a more detailed warning.

Gorrath knew of their mission. He was coming here. Now.

Without a word passing between them, Castor and his men moved as one.

Castor was a veteran of countless battles. His accumulated combat experience was honed to a near-instinctive degree. He made his tactical determination instantly, and with their synchronization born of their shared blessing in Hydaelyn’s light he did not need to convey it to his fellow Knights via words. A single second after he recognized Gorrath’s approach, Castor had a new battle plan and his fellow Knights were carrying it out.

If Castor had taken the time to examine and lay out in detail the logic behind his assessment, it would have been as follows: Gorrath was approaching at some speed, and seemed to be displaying greater power than ever before. The odds of him having newly received this power are slim, it was more likely a trump card he had been saving for a crucial moment. Gorrath was therefore attempting to secure a critical victory in the immediate future. Given the Knights’ mission, it was safe to assume Gorrath was trying to preserve his vital war-assets in the form of the Chosen. That he was aware of the threat to the Coffins and coming to intercept the Knights suggested the Scions had been successful in their half of the mission.

Which meant the Knights were in a position to deal a serious blow to the Demon, and had to act quickly before he could prevent them.

As one, the bodies of all eight Knights became wreathed in the white fire of the Lady’s Gift. Turning your soul into kindling to fuel your power was only sustainable for a short while, a minute a most. Overusing this ability was inevitably fatal. More than mere death, the user’s soul was incinerated entirely, never to be welcomed to the Lady’s side. But the Knights were under no illusions. Their lifespans were already measured in minutes.

The corridor was filled with Chosen, the blood-skinned monstrosities stronger than ever. Each of them had the power and ferocity to star as a demon in their own ballad, and there were a dozen of them arrayed against the Knights. But wielding the flames of the Gift, the Knights mowed them down. With lethal efficiency the Knights hacked their way through the remaining Chosen guarding the door and slashed down the door with only the slightest slowing of their advance.

 The ranks of crimson crystals waiting for them confirmed they were in the correct location, a cavernous hall the original purpose of which Castor did not waste even a second on speculating. Coffins pulsed with power, more Chosen emerging from a handful of them. Castor, Diomedes, Jason, and Agatha rushed forward, the former trio cleaving through the nearest Chosen with blades wreathed in shimmering aether while the latter raised her staff and prepared a spell to destroy several Coffins. The remaining four moved to defensive positions around the entrance.

They were not kept waiting long. The entire chamber shook from the impact of something, or someone, just outside. An instant later, the Blood Demon smashed through the wall, ignoring the door entirely. He was roaring something unintelligible, the words blending together into more a scream of fury than anything else. This close, his power was overwhelming and was still growing. Through the sharing of senses with his brother and sister Knights, Castor could see daylight in the tunnel beyond without turning from his task. Gorrath had taken the direct route to his objective; likely only the risk of damaging the Coffins had prevented him from bursting into the chamber itself.

Three of the Knights on guard rushed the demon, while energies crackled around Georgios and his quickly forming spell. Adonis reached their enemy first and struck with all his might. He was the first to die, when Gorrath met the attack with his own and the power in the clash of silver sword against dark iron axe was enough to simply obliterate the Knight’s body on the spot.

Linked as they were, sharing thoughts, perceptions, and to a limited degree sensations, all seven of the remaining Knights felt Adonis’s death like a blade in the stomach. They ignored it. Dion was already leaping, using the opening his brother had given his life for to embed his spear in Gorrath’s neck. The Demon roared furiously with enough volume to deafen and his power flared outwards. Dion, and Damian who was now stabbing one of Gorrath’s knees, only barely managed to weather the hit, thrown backwards with bone breaking force. Georgios’s spell fired and the massive blades of light managed to make Gorrath stagger. But only for a moment.

The moment was enough for Damian to recover. Gorrath met his charge with a blow from Blooddrinker that shattered the ground beneath Damian’s feet when he blocked it. Though his aether-warded shield held, the raging storm of balefire around the axehead engulfed him. He screamed without any judgment from the other Knights, who through their bond could feel the unimaginable pain that came from being burned alive by balefire.

The trio destroying the Coffins continued their work with no regard for the battle behind them. Eleven Coffins down already and already Castor had counted and knew that was not enough. There were not fifty Coffins here. That detail was processed, the implications understood, and dismissed. They could do nothing about Coffins hidden in another location. It was irrelevant to the battle at hand, and so ignored.

Castor could feel in his gut these were the last Coffins. Victory here denied the Demon his ability to revive, he was certain of it.

So they fought on, cleaving through one Coffin after another with a breakneck pace. Barely twenty seconds after Gorrath’s arrival and only fourteen Coffins remained. But those twenty seconds had been bought with the lives of four Knights. Agatha and Georgios had died well, buying them crucial time. Dion’s spear was wrecked and discarded but his sense through their joined souls insisted he could hold his own for a few seconds more with Agatha’s sword.

Without the need for words, Diomedes and Jason turned to join their brother’s stand. Castor was left to dispatch the remaining Coffins alone. He discarded his shield, swinging his greatsword in wide, looping strokes. The blade’s burning edge seared through durable crystal and the living corpse within; with each stroke he killed another Chosen. Coffins flared with light as their inhabitants sought to rejoin the fray, these he dispatched first. He tried to devote the whole of his focus to his task, but in the back of his mind some part of him could not help but observe his fellow Knights fight and fall. His friends were dying, and he was only human.

In a cold place within him where sentiment was strangled by grim necessity, he counted down both Knights and Coffins.

Dion. Twelve Coffins.

Jason. Eight Coffins.

Diomedes. One Coffin.

His soul was screaming from how long he used the Lady’s Gift. Castor sprinted towards the last Coffin, his sword raised and drawn back ready to end this with a running slash. Its guardian and occupant, a monstrous, winged spearmen charged to meet him. Castor drove him back with a hammering blow that cleared his path to the Coffin. But he misstepped.

When Diomedes died, so too did the last pair of eyes on Gorrath. The Demon did not waste that opening.

Blooddrinker caught Castor in the side of the torso. Pain like he had never felt flooded his body. It was only his superhuman reflexes bringing his sword down to keep the axe from biting deeper, along with sheer luck that the attack had come from the side his sword had been held on. Instead of being cut in half, Castor was merely flung into the air. Flung into the air away from his target.

Time seemed to slow. Castor felt desperation the likes of which he had never experienced before set his limbs to shaking. Or that might have been the bloodloss, even with his reflexive block his torso was still nearly ripped in two, the kind of wound he knew would prove fatal in mere moments. If he even lived that long; his body turned as he flew and he could see Gorrath raising Blooddrinker, ready to gorge on the blood it had just tasted. Castor’s sword began to slip from limp fingers.

He had failed. With even a single Coffin left, Gorrath could return from death. They would never have another chance, now that the Demon knew they knew of the Coffins’ significance he would never again leave them undefended. He would make this last Coffin impossible to assail, create replacements for those destroyed, and be unstoppable as he brought death to every corner of this star.

All this crystalized to Castor in a single moment, this single pivotal moment for which his entire life had been lived. And he had failed. Failed his Princeps, failed his fellow knights, failed everyone that lived. He heard the cruel bark of the demon’s laughter and the weight of his despair shattered him into sand.

But he was still Castor of Cenopylae.

He was still a Knight of Elarion.

And he still remembered a bit of panache.

Fingers that had released the hilt clasped it again before the blade could fall. As Blooddrinker lit with malevolent light, he drew his arm back. And even as all the strength left in his body was being painfully ripped out of him, he threw.

Crystal cracked and split with a sound that rang clear and bright as a bell. The body within, a Hyuran spearman, died impaled on the sword without a sound.

Gorrath’s scream of fury shook the mountains.

Castor’s last thought was a sudden surge of regret.

He had disobeyed his master, his friend’s, final command.

Then he died, taking Gorrath’s claim to immortality with him.

Gorrath stood alone in the chamber. The Knights were slaughtered, their aether devoured, and His Chosen died with their Coffins. The last fragments of Bloodcrystal were dissolving, the final act of the crystalline conductors being to return their remaining aether to the creature that had spawned them. The air hung still, and for a moment a perverse quiet filled the chamber.

Gorrath’s Coffins had been destroyed, the vital lynchpin his plans revolved around. His Chosen, the superlative warriors he had molded in his own image were gone. His hidden method of immortality, of anchoring his life to a hundred others so he could return from death even if he was slain, had been ruined. Even the pipeline of power he drew from the land through his creations nestled deep into the earth like ticks drinking blood had been severed.

Gorrath laughed.

Loudly. Wildly. Without restraint.

He laughed at his own folly in placing his hopes on such contrivances, instead of his own strength. He laughed because the core of his being remained a beast of war itself, and couldn’t help but feel admiration for how his enemies had outmaneuvered him so. Aethon truly had grievously wounded him with his final blow, more than any other ever had. And Gorrath laughed because even with this setback, he still was far from beaten.

His power swelled as he laughed. The strength required to cast a shadow across the shifting images of reality viewed by the Sight was considerable. The secret out and the shadow useless, now all that strength flowed back into Gorrath’s form. The Coffins too contained in their crystal pillars no small amount of energy. Though a third of the Coffins had somehow been rendered completely inert, the broken pieces of the others still encrusting the bodies that were now truly corpses dissolved into nothing, that energy returning to its source.

Gorrath’s laughter died as his power and rage mounted. For all he respected his enemies’ skill in fighting back against him, their defiance infuriated him all the same. Blind, burning anger overwhelmed him, leaving no thoughts but that of vengeance and bloodshed. His power strained against his skin, filled to bursting by an amount of aether that defied comprehension.

For the first time since he was summoned, Gorrath unleashed his full might.

And the world trembled at his fury.

Across the sea, in scholarly Sharlayan, a curious anomaly was detected. Several gauges used to monitor ambient aether levels being used for various experiments spiked rapidly, many simply returning the highest possible value they could. The flare up lasted only a second, and was dismissed as a mere glitch until much later, when gossip and word of mouth allowed the researchers to connect the dots and realize every such gauge being used on the island had the same reaction at the same moment. This prompted some short-lived investigation into the cause of this anomaly that ultimately came to nothing. One Archon would eventually learn of this bizarre occurrence, and its source, but due to her personal circumstances and no small amount of private amusement she kept the answer to herself.

As advanced as Sharlayan was, and it more than earned its appellation of the land of scholars, said scholars still could not make an aetheric sensor more capable than a human mind. At the same moment as the aetheric gauges malfunctioned, those particularly sensitive to aetheric fluctuations felt a decidedly unwelcome sensation. Some felt a chill run up their back, others a sudden turning of their stomach. As far afield as Doma, those with the sense for it had what could only be described as a very bad feeling. It came and went in an instant, and most chalked it up to their imagination.

In Elarion, the sensation was far more potent. It was understood by aetherologists that everyone possessed some degree of aetheric sensitivity. Those that were actually considered such simply were sensitive enough that it was noticeable, while most human beings fell far short of that mark. It was therefore surprising, but no more surprising than the occurrence itself, that everyone in Elarion noticed the pulse. Most felt the same sort of unpleasant, instinctive sense of danger that the others overseas felt.

For the aether-sensitive, it was more than merely a feeling. It was power. Raw, brutal, and bellicose. Violence as an almost tangible sensation. They were shaken, rattled by what they felt. They recoiled, in some cases lashing out in an instinctive defense against the unseen threat. One elderly man died, his heart not capable of withstanding the shock.

Sitting with Scion company in one of Castle Clenon’s towers, the Princeps started wildly enough he almost jumped to his feet. Krile, blessed with far greater aetheric sense, found it not much of a blessing in this moment. The pulse of aether emanating from the north rapped her head like a drum. She fell out of her chair, mouth open in a wordless cry of pain while her hands scrabbled ineffectually at her temples.

The Princeps did not notice her suffering. His attention was held not by the wave of aether, which he felt like a punch to the gut, but by something else. Something he had felt in the instant before Gorrath’s power had erupted, something that only he and three others on the star had the senses to perceive, and he was the only one that did.

The Princeps straightened up, ever so slightly. It was as if a weight about his shoulders that had been there so long he no longer noticed it was suddenly removed. He checked and confirmed it with ease, greater ease than he had experienced in a long time. Alone among all the people in Elarion, he felt a glimmer of hope.

Krile was sitting up, already recovering. Impressively quickly, given her proximity and high degree of aetheric acuity. More than half the augurs in the Citadel, nearly the length of Elarion away, were still reeling. The Princeps knew this because he could see them. He’d looked on an impulse. Stone walls and malms of distance proved no impediment at all, he could see the circle of convulsing mages as easily as if they were in the room with him.

Despite everything, he couldn’t keep from grinning.

“It’s the Demon.” Krile stood, staring out the window in the direction of the pulse. “He’s on the move. But his power…” She looked lost, still too in shock to be frightened. “My senses must be failing me.”

“They are not.” The Princeps replied, his grin dying. He’d looked back and seen the last battle. It was a testament to his character both in that seeing what had happened to his friend of fifteen years silenced him, but also that he moved past that loss within seconds. “It is indeed that powerful. And it is coming here. Now.”

Krile’s head bowed. “How… How can we hope to overcome that?”

The Princeps already knew. He looked beyond her, images already beginning to blur past him. A path to the future he sought was already taking shape. A thin, jagged path, one that he’d need exceptional care to walk. But he could walk it. He sculpted a broad, reassuring smile and sent it Krile’s way.

“Easy. I'm the Princeps.”

Chapter Text

Y’shtola materialized in Clenon’s aetheryte plaza, G’raha and Estinien already waiting for her. The guards arrayed around the walled aetheryte were lowering their weapons having confirmed their identities. Another distortion of space formed then faded away to reveal the arrival of the twins and Cailia. Then another, resolving into Thancred and Urianger. Y’shtola let out a tired sigh, relieved everything had gone according to plan.

She had been a mite concerned, when they had gotten separated. Not just for everyone’s safety, though that had been a pressing concern as well, but also for their ability to carry out the plan. She was sure G’raha would give some sensible, logical reason why he had not mentioned he had the means to destroy all of the Coffins at once, but Y’shtola felt confident that his holding back was at least partially another iteration of the younger man’s flair for the dramatic.

Seeing him speaking with Thancred and Urianger, she made her way over to the group. She was also relieved to see the two of them hale and whole, especially the former. The duo swore by the reliability of their chained teleportation method that allowed Urianger to pull Thancred with him. The gunbreaker was unable to shape and direct his aether beyond basic, instinctive physical strengthening, but the astrologian’s teleport shaped his aether for him, complete with delivering him to the correct destination. As something of an expert on teleportation, Y’shtola found the method dubious but could not deny it seemed to work for them.

“–practically bared his neck for us to strike.” Thancred was saying to G’raha as she walked up. He nodded a greeting and brushed off whatever their topic had been. “Mission accomplished then?”

“Not quite, no.” Y’shtola said. The reminder sent a wave of foreboding through her. Because things had not gone according to plan after all. They had succeeded in their task and she doubted the Knights would fail in their part, but unless Gorrath had inexplicably decided to place twice as many Coffins in one site as another, there was a third site out there they had no knowledge of. Perhaps the Princeps could identify a moment when they could confront Aethon and interrogate him again.

Her expression clued Thancred and Urianger in that something was wrong. “What is it?”

G’raha opened his mouth to answer but Y’shtola cut him off. “In a moment.”

She waved a hand at Alphinaud and Alisaie, who began to walk over with Cailia following. It would be better to tell everyone all at once. The Scions formed a ring and she was thinking of the right words to break the unpleasant news to them when she felt it.

They all felt it. Everyone from the Scions to the distant soldiers still guarding the aetheryte. Y’shtola had no need to inquire about that, the way everyone’s heads snapped up and looked in the same direction in the same instant was proof enough. Nor could she have asked even if she wanted to. The aether, the power she sensed felt like a sudden punch to her stomach. The force of it momentarily stole her voice and her reason, she could only stare dumbfounded in the direction of mountains too distant for her aether-sight to perceive them.

“What was that?” Alphinaud asked, more from shock than confusion. None of them could mistake the source of that aether.

“I think Gorrath is a bit unhappy about our work.” Thancred said. His voice was trying for cavalier, but failing miserably at hiding his sudden fear. He received no judgement from Y’shtola for that; in the face of such power, fear was the only sane reaction.

Cailia recovered first, more from having a blunter sense for aether than any surplus of nerves. “It’s as the Princeps predicted. With all the Coffins destroyed, he’s on the warpath.”

Except all the Coffins weren’t destroyed, Y’shtola thought with a grimace. She shared a pained glance with G’raha and Estinien and opened her mouth to explain as much when the soft chime of the linkpearl in her ear cut her off. She raised her hand to her ear, noting all others in the plaza were doing the same. The Princeps’ composed voice came through a moment later.

“To all receiving, we have just won a tremendous victory. The away teams have succeeded in their mission. I have confirmed it; all one hundred Coffins have been destroyed.”

Y’shtola’s brow furrowed. How were all hundred truly destroyed? Were they indeed kept in only in two places? And how could the Princeps have confirmed that? He continued without answering those questions.

“What we all just sensed was indeed Gorrath’s fury. His rage at the loss we have inflicted on him has unbalanced him; now he intends to descend upon us and slaughter everyone in Clenon.”

Murmurs began to flow from everyone around the Scions. Y’shtola could make out enough of them to know they mirrored her own thinking. Though the sense of Gorrath’s power was gone, the feeling of its immensity lingered. How could anyone overcome such a thing?

“Gorrath’s power is great.” The Princeps went out, doubtless knowing what everyone was thinking. “No longer is he spreading his might thin. He has gathered all his strength for this final battle. And it will be the final battle. Because he has made a grave mistake.”

The plaza was silent. The murmurs had ceased, everyone hanging on the Princeps’ every calm yet resolute word. The man certainly can play to a crowd, Y’shtola thought. Given she was also listening attentively, she had no room to judge.

“Gorrath’s power is great because he has recouped the power he used to cast the shadow that blocked my holy Sight. A foolish misstep. He comes believing his destiny is to slaughter us all and then the rest of the star, but I can See again. And I have already Seen it. His destiny is to die here, today, at our hands.”

Someone in the plaza cheered, a cry that spread as it was taken up by others. The Princeps paused as if waiting for it to pass before continuing.

“Gorrath will arrive in three minutes’ time. All Knights and the Scions are to gather at the aetheryte, all others are to withdraw to the castle unless I inform you otherwise.” Some murmured protests from those in the plaza with wolf pendants had barely begun before the Princeps headed it off. “He is not coming for slaves, but for blood. We will greet him not with a banquet to slake his thirst, but with ranks of our finest blades.”

Though not without some grumbling, the soldiers in the plaza began to hurriedly depart from the walled enclosure. Already, some Knights were pushing their way through the flow of traffic inside. Cailia made to move, then paused with a hand on her ear and nodded.

“Understood.” She said, and flagged down a retreating archer to help herself to his full quiver.

“You’ll be joining us in dancing with the Demon?” Estinien asked.

“I guess Gorrath’s too angry with us to temper us when he could kill us.” Cailia shrugged, transferring arrows from her purloined quiver to the one on her back. “Pity we don’t have more of you Eorzeans. We could use another dozen Scions right now.”

Y’shtola noted Estinien using an Elarian term and Cailia using an Eorzean one. It was a bittersweet feeling. She and her fellow Scions had been shaped by their time in Elarion, and not entirely for the better. But at the same time, they had shaped Elarion too. In small ways, perhaps, but they had made a positive difference to this land and her people. A worthy legacy they could take pride in when they returned home, one that was more than their accomplishments on the battlefield.

Assuming the rapidly approaching monster does not kill us all and obliterate that legacy, that is. Y’shtola thought wryly to herself. She drew her staff in preparation, rolling her shoulders and stretching slightly. After having fought fiercely mere minutes ago, she was not in as much of top condition as she would like, but she was uninjured and had plenty of aether left. Not that her condition mattered overmuch. Even if she’d been bleeding out and nursing a concussion, she was not about to sit out the coming battle.

Another chime and the Princeps was speaking again. “With my full Sight restored, I will be directly supervising this battle. When I give a command, it is to be obeyed immediately in the manner that seems most natural to you. Otherwise, fight as best as you can according to your own judgement. Do not wait for my instructions, but also do not hesitate to follow them.”

Y’shtola met Alisaie’s surprised look. “He can use the Sight fast enough to direct a pitched battle?”

“I’ve heard of him doing so.” A dark-haired Hyuran Knight said as he walked up to join them. Sword and shield already in hand, he looked away from them to scan the sky to the north. “Never experienced it myself.”

He must have noticed their expressions, because he turned back. “But hey, that’s good to hear. Whenever the Princeps takes command, we don’t lose.”

Y’shtola heard noises of agreement coming from the other Knights around them. The plaza was quickly filling up with armored figures, mostly Knights but a few others as well. Asterion’s unmistakable bulk was directing the crowd, directing men into a semblance of a formation. She wished she shared their unshakable faith in the Princeps’ abilities. The private conversations they had, while useful for expanding her understanding of the man as a person, left her dubious with regards to his supposedly infallible foresight. Could he truly sift through the myriad of potential futures to find the best outcome, fast enough to make a difference in a pitched melee?

She raised her staff, checking it to make sure the purple gem that served as an aether focus was in perfect alignment. No, whether the Princeps truly could guarantee their victory was irrelevant. She would fight to the best of her ability. That was all she could control, and so it would be all she concerned herself with. Worrying about anything else would be fruitless.

“There!” A voice shouted. “Black clouds!”

Y’shtola did not need the warning. She could see the cloud of polluted wind aether cutting through the air around it like a blade. Approaching them quickly, and its speed seemed to be increasing. More importantly, she could see the crimson beacon within the cloud. Even from this distance, the scale and intensity of Gorrath’s power was astonishing. She heard low mutterings from around her and saw the gathered soldiers in amongst the Knights shift uneasily. Though they couldn’t see the aether like she could, the size of the cloud and the speed of its approach were certainly intimidating enough.

“Our enemy comes.” The Princeps was speaking again. His unfazed voice had a calming effect, Y’shtola noticed the shifting stopped. “The Demon is fearsome. Powerful beyond reckoning. Will we cower before him?”

A voice raised from the other end of the plaza. Y’shtola recognized it as Prince Atreus. “No!”

“Will we shirk our duty?”

More people shouted, Asterion’s deep rumble standing out “Never!”

The Princeps continued, his voice rising. “No, we will not! We will vanquish this evil like we have all others that threaten our people, that threaten the entire star! The Demon will burn in our light! Our victory today will become a legend that will burn bright until this star’s end! For the Lady! For Elarion!”

The plaza roared. Y’shtola joined her voice to the shout, speaking for the absent Marcus and because, deep down, she could admit the moment stirred her.

“For Elarion!”

Y’shtola looked around her. The beginnings of fear and unease she had noted were nowhere to be seen. The fighting men and women around her looked resolute and ready, fearless in the face of what was to come. Eager even. Y’shtola understood. She understood, in moments such as these, the rush that combat gave Marcus. How could she not, when she felt it herself?

“One minute until the Demon arrives.” The Princeps warned. The clamor died down as everyone listened to his instructions. “Do not try to match him blade to blade, he is too strong for that. Encircle him and attack while he is attacking another. Prioritize defending yourself before attacking, you’ll have plenty of chances to strike.”

The cloud was growing larger as it drew nearer. “Thirty seconds.” Thancred muttered under his breath, gunblade resting on his shoulder. Y’shtola did not doubt his count, but the cloud did not seem to closing fast enough to arrive when predicted. From what she could tell, Gorrath was still quite far away.

“Scatter!” The Princeps commanded, his voice sharp in her ear and replete with authority.

Everyone in the plaza complied immediately. The area nearly became a scrum as people tried to run away from everyone else in all directions at once. Y’shtola stood still, realizing that she would be standing alone in a few seconds even without moving. At least, she would have, were Estinien not barreling down on her.

She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing when he ducked low without breaking his stride. His shoulder hit her in the torso with enough force knock the wind out of her. By the time she recovered her breath, he had straightened up with her draped over his shoulder like a sack of popotos. A flare of aether was visible out of the corner of her eye.

“What–?” Was all she got out before his legs bent and they catapulted into the sky. From her angle looking down, she had a great view of the monstrously large battleaxe slamming into the ground with enough force to shatter the plaza’s paving stones. The axe came to a halt after carving a deep furrow into the ground. A furrow that started, she could not help but notice, exactly where she had been standing.

She felt oddly flattered. Good to know I warrant such ‘favoritism’ from our enemy.

Estinien landed lightly and set her down with a roughness that came from entirely understandable haste. A second later she had her staff and he his spear at the ready, looking for their enemy. They were not kept waiting long. Gorrath plummeted out of the sky to land beside his weapon, landing with enough force Y’shtola felt a tremor through the ground. She looked up at the Demon, aware she was finally seeing him at the fullness of his power.

It was an awe-inspiring sight. Gorrath had amassed so much aether it almost blinded her, she could barely make out the details of his body. Even worse, what she could see spoke to an immensely dense concentration of aether, yet there was still so much it was boiling over and could not be contained even in his towering form. She’d only ever seen more aether in one place once before, when she’d had the privilege to look upon the Mothercrystal itself.

How much of the star’s lifeblood did he drink? She wondered in numb amazement. How many souls has he devoured to slake his thirst for carnage?

She felt a compulsion to attack, immediately. Something this horrific, this evil, being allowed to exist offended her every notion about right and wrong in this world. This abomination deserved nothing less than swift, immediate destruction and she would be less of a person if she allowed it to exist even one second longer.

She resisted that impulse. Thancred had warned her already, it was the product of Gorrath’s will weighing down on her. The Demon wanted them to fall into an orgy of violence and she would not indulge him.

“Hold.” The Princeps commanded, voice low. “Attack only on my signal.”

Gorrath straightened out of the crouch he landed in. His head turned slowly, gaze sweeping over the small army of nearly a hundred souls that stood in defiance of him. He snorted.

“To think, I’ve wasted my time on mortal filth such as this.” He pulled his axe free of the dirt, bringing the huge weapon up and around with discomforting ease. His hook hung free on its chain, creaking a funeral dirge. He grasped Blooddrinker in both hands, snarling. “It is time I cleansed this land in blood.”

Everyone tensed at his movements, but no one defied the Princeps’ command. Gorrath shook his head contemptuously at the lack of response. “Is there no one among you with any fire? None who have any steel within them?”

“We’ll kill you, Demon!” A voice cried out, unable to withstand it any longer.

Gorrath laughed. “Did that silver-eyed freak promise you that? We’ll see how bold his predictions when I pluck the eyes from–”

Said freak responded. “Now! Attack!”

Y’shtola unleashed a gout of fire from her staff, one of dozens of attacks that flew forward at once to converge on Gorrath. She couldn’t be entirely sure, but it looked like he grinned in the instant before the barrage struck him. The magical blasts detonated as they hit, so many they resembled nothing so much as the grand finale of a fireworks show Y’shtola had seen once. But within the explosions she could see Gorrath was unphased by the assault. He thrust his axe upward and aether coursed from the axehead into the sky. Into the dark clouds that formed around Gorrath and still continued to linger overhead, blocking out the sun.

It began to rain black lightning. The dark bolts scorched the ground where they struck, one hitting so close to Y’shtola she could smell the ozone. The lightning would have hit Estinien but the dragoon was already gone, taking to the air. He dove, spear held before him. Gorrath batted the attack away with a wing. Y’shtola’s attempt to follow up Estinien’s attack one of her own was curtailed by the Princeps speaking to her. “A shield!”

She abandoned the half-formed spell and gathered her aether for a shield. She saw out of the corner of her eye Alphinaud’s aether rippling outward, applying barriers to those around him. Even as she thrust out her arms she saw Gorrath drawing his axe back to swing. By the time Blooddrinker swept out, releasing a wave of balefire over the battlefield, her shield was already fully formed and men were ducking behind it.

The flames rebounded off the thin aetheric bubble. Her shield faded as the last embers gutted out, and the half-dozen Knights that had sheltered behind it were charging forward, shouting battlecries.

Gorrath turned away from them, deflecting some blasts coming from the other side of the plaza. His back was no less dangerous than his front, however, and his wings unfurled to meet them. The limbs were more flexible than Y’shtola thought. Wicked sharp pinions lashed out like claws. The Knights’ charge faltered as they defended against the sudden attack. One proved a hair too slow and the hooked talon tore him open. Y’shtola could tell at a glance that the man was beyond saving and retaliated instead with a sizable bolt of lightning that may as well have been a jolt of static for how much it seemed to hurt Gorrath. The Demon kept his wings out wide and spun around. A dark mist rolled off the outstretched limbs, enshrouding the entire battlefield.

“Dreadmist!” A Knight near Y’shtola shouted. The name alone had Y’shtola holding her breath and readying wind aether. The Princeps vindicated her caution a moment later.

“Try to avoid breathing it.” His choice of words implied breathing some would not prove instantly fatal, a relief as Y’shtola’s wind spell blew away much less of the enshrouding clouds as she would have liked. The Knights around her likely could not see very well, but at least they weren’t about to choke and die in the next few seconds before she could cast another, larger wind spell.

She caught a flash of red. The aether-dense hooked chain, obscured by the mist but plainly visible to her eyes, flicked out and was lashing low across the plaza. She opened her mouth to warn the others, but the Princeps preempted her. “Duck!”

She saw the Knights drop as one on the spot. She bent low, narrowly avoiding the chain that passed over her head with bone breaking speed. She rose ready to resume fighting, but another warning came a second later. “Jump left!”

She obeyed, and not a second too soon. The hook slammed into the ground where she had been standing, impossibly arcing itself through the air in defiance of its momentum. The impact was enough to throw off her landing and it took her a moment to find her balance when the next instruction came. “Attack!”

However, unbeknownst to him, Gorrath’s arm was sweeping across the plaza and a battery of balefire blades shot out, a trio aimed at her. Too fast for a spell, she’d have to dodge. But even as her muscles tensed to move, two figures darted in front of her. It was pair of Knights, a tanned Hyuran spearman and the swordsman from earlier, and the duo expertly deflected the incoming blades. Despite the ferocity of the battle raging around them, Y’shtola could not help a quick grin at the pointedness of it. She spoke to herself, knowing he’d hear.

“Yes, yes. You are indeed on top of things.” She attacked as ordered, several seconds late. Gorrath was weathering the onslaught well, but the sheer impact of the blasts carpeting his body was at least pushing him around. He roared and turned, swinging Blooddrinker out in a wide arc. An arc not aimed at any of them, but at the glowing pillar of the aetheryte. The crystal pillar shattered from the blow, black lightning leaping from the axehead into the shards and pulling them along in the axe’s wake. At the end of the swing, the lightning tendrils whip-cracked forward and sent the massive chunks of crystal hurtling Y’shtola’s way.

“Still.” The Princeps told her. Fighting her instincts, Y’shtola did not move even as the men around her scattered. She saw a flash of white, Thancred leaping from crystal to crystal as they arced through the air. She was distracted when crystalline debris crashed down around her, but none of it struck her as promised.

“Everyone, if you wouldn’t mind.” The Princeps said with a casual air jarring after his previous clipped and precise orders. “Shoot that down for me?”

Y’shtola drew lighting around the head of her staff and looked around, confused. She saw the explosion rock Gorrath’s head, Thancred using the impromptu bridge the Demon had unwittingly created to get in position to attack him directly. Gorrath reached for him with blinding speed, no doubt intent on crushing the life out of Thancred with his bare hand, but an aetherial chain was already wound around Thancred’s leg and Calista was pulling him free of the Demon’s reach.

Gorrath finally cottoned on. He turned to face Clenon Castle.

“Ah,” a gout of flame blazed on his breath as he exhaled. “So that’s your game.”

His aether spiked. Balefire coalesced above his empty palm, becoming a burning spear with a wickedly barbed head. He drew back and threw, enough power contained in the spear to blast a good sized hole in the castle. Y’shtola shot it with her bolt of lightning, one of over a dozen shots that hammered the spear and made it explode above their heads like a monstrous firework.

Gorrath growled. “Coward.” His voice rose into a bark. “Come out and fight!”

The Princeps’ voice was assured and calm in Y’shtola ear. “Oh, we’re not going to make it that easy for you.”

Y’shtola found herself smirking at the sardonic rejoinder. A wave of good humor rippled through the men around her. Y’shtola knew of no way for Gorrath to hear the words over linkpearl, but he snarled at them anyway. He made to move on the castle directly, but already Knights were moving under the Princeps’ orders to attack his ankles from behind. Y’shtola hefted her staff and rejoined the fray.

The battle raged on. For all his fury, Gorrath was not fighting in a blind rage, but with calculating skill. Even encircled and attacked from all sides, he moved fluidly and attacked with fierce brutality. Not just strong, but fast too. The Princeps was giving her advance notice of when and how she needed to move and judging by the similarly preemptive dodges she was seeing from others, she was far from the only one. Men still died, slowly but surely. Blooddrinker was living up to its name, ending lives in sprays of crimson vanishing into its maw. Gorrath’s magical assault pressed equally hard on them, an endless onslaught of balefire, black winds, and jagged stone spears erupting from the ground. Y’shtola grimaced as one such spear impaled a nearby Knight, the woman dying instantly. It was hard for her to keep up purely enough to stay alive, let alone fight back.

Not that fighting back was accomplishing much. Gorrath was constantly being peppered with arrows and blasts of energy, hacked at by those brave enough to get within reach of him. All of it to no effect. Most of the attacks that landed failed to harm him at all. For those that did, the occasional sliver of injury was regenerated in a blink. All the while, Gorrath continued to fight, laughing and roaring out his satisfaction without even the slightest hint that he was taking any damage. He seemed invincible.

Of course, Y’shtola knew better. Nothing was truly invulnerable. Gorrath’s aether was simply so massive that it blunted attacks before they could reach him and with his aetheric body any injuries he suffered could be healed so long as he had the energy to restore his form. That was part and parcel of fighting any Primal. But Gorrath’s wellspring of aether seemed so deep that even the ceaseless parade of damage inflicted on him barely scratched the surface of what he could bring to bear.

Y’shtola fought on regardless. She twisted away from the bolt of lightning the Princeps warned of and shot her own in return. Gorrath’s power had a limit. She would find it even if she was reduced to beating him with her staff.

“Keep up the pressure!” The Princeps called as if reading her thoughts. “He’s weakening!”

Not to Y’shtola’s eyes, but she was willing to take the point on faith. The words at least served to invigorate the soldiers around her, who fought with renewed intensity.

Gorrath stamped a hoof. As it had before, the ground buckled. Jagged stone spikes erupted outward, aimed at her. Y’shtola paid them no mind in favor of continuing to shape her next spell. The two Knights she had taken to thinking of as her bodyguards defended her ably, spear and sword slicing apart the constructs with ease. The stone constructs, and that gave Y’shtola an idea. She reached out with her aether and seized the now severed spikes. Corrupted or not, they were still made of rock and subject to earth aspected magic. She waved her staff like a conductor’s wand and the dozen or so spears flew through the air to crash against Gorrath with satisfying solidness.

The Demon’s glare found her.

Gorrath came on with a heavy stride. His chain whipped out, snapping away Estinien’s attempt to intercept him without him so much as turning to look. The axe rose. Y’shtola gathered her aether. She was not sure if her shield could repel him as he was now, but they were going to find out.

Before she could put it to the test, the spearman darted forward. His body burst into white flames as he ran to meet the Demon. Dwarfed by the oncoming monster, he planted his feet. His spear thrust out as a weapon of radiant fire, large enough that it would not have looked out of place in Gorrath’s own hand.

Gorrath smashed the magicked weapon with a single blow from his own. Shrugging off Y’shtola’s desperate spear of ice like he didn’t even notice it, his second blow hacked the spearman in two. Two more steps and the axe descended again, a second faster than her hastily readied shield could deploy.

A white blur slammed into Blooddrinker’s face as it fell with an explosion. It was expertly aimed. Thancred could not stop the weapon, but he could knock it aside.

Even off target, the axe carved a fissure into the earth. The updraft of broken stone thrown up by the blow might have done the job for it, but the swordsman was at Y’shtola’s side and aether emanated from his shield in a circle that warded off all of the debris.

“His footing.” The Princeps’ said in Y’shtola’s ear.

Much of the ground in the plaza had become unstable from the intensity of the battle raging on it. It was simple enough for Y’shtola to shift loose the stones under Gorrath’s feet. He staggered from the suddenly unstable ground for only a second, but that was enough. In that second, Y’shtola saw G’raha and Urianger pool their strength and haul on Gorrath with all the gravity magic they could harness. It was not enough to pull him from his feet, even together they could not manage that, but it made him all the more off balance.

A poor position, when Estinien was above him wreathed in ruby energy.

The dragoon’s aim was true and his lance bit deep into Gorrath’s exposed neck. The Demon yelled with anger more than pain and his body flared with light. No one’s fool, Estinien was already leaping away before a surge of balefire engulfed Gorrath’s body. Not satisfied with this failed retaliation, Gorrath took to the sky after the dragoon with a single beat of his massive wings.

His flight did not go far before it was arrested by a yank on his arm. Y’shtola saw the chain pulled taut, followed its line to Asterion and the two remaining Taurhe Knights straining to hold the hook with all their strength.

“Pull!” The prince commanded.

“Break the chain.” The Princeps said. Y’shtola was not the only one to comply. Spells hammered at the links of dark metal but they held firm. Gorrath dropped down with a heavy thud, slackening the chain, but Asterion and his helpers hauled on it and took up the slack immediately. A pair of Knights took advantage of the chain being at ground level to slash at the same link with blades surging with white fire, but still it held firm. Before they could strike again, Gorrath threw a bevy of balefire swords at them and blasted them away from the damaged link. Another Knight made to run towards it, but Alisaie’s voice rang out.

“Stand back!”

The flash of the red mage’s rose-laced blast lit the area bright as day for a moment. Metal rang like a bell as the chain link shattered.

Cheers sounded, but Y’shtola did not join in. It was a victory, but not much of one when with his boundless reserves of aether Gorrath could simply restore the weapon. Likely even easier than they had destroyed it.

Gorrath’s roar silenced the cheers. He clenched a meaty fist in the direction of his now broken chain. With barely a second’s warning as the aether within the chain spiked, a massive surge of balefire exploded outward. Even with those around the chain already fleeing even before Gorrath’s roar, the chain’s self-destruction consumed several and seared several more. Grim proof of Y’shtola’s dark musing.

 Then she saw something that gave her heart.

Gorrath’s aether had lessened. To a barely perceptible degree, but it had. They were wearing him down, slowly but surely.

Y’shtola shot another fireball which crashed into Gorrath’s wing. Again, he made no reaction. In all likelihood, he did not even notice. But now looking closely for the change, Y’shtola saw it. His aether dropped, ever so slightly, as the flames washed over his skin. Another spell, A Knight’s blade of light shattering on his horn, knocked another sliver away. Though still massive and monstrous and overwhelming, he’d been weakened enough by the continuous and his own exertions in fighting that his aether had weakened enough that she could see the changes. A death by a thousand cuts would still kill him.

Emboldened, Y’shtola resumed fighting with renewed strength. She formed a barrier, blocking several dark lightning bolts from striking those around her. She decided to focus on defense, prioritizing keeping those around her alive until the Princeps told her otherwise. The longer they all stayed alive, the more they could whittle Gorrath down.

The Princeps watched as Ser Tobias took a bolt of black lightning to his chest. He smelled the reek of flesh charring, felt a ghost of the man’s pain as his insides were immolated. He rewound the vision, starting from a new point where he told the man “left.” No good. Tobias merely looks left and is struck anyway. Events played out again, this time starting with a warning “dodge left.” Tobias moves, but for a split second he hesitates, looking for the attack, and his evasion is a split second too slow. What about “move left?” That did it, now the lightning flashes past, missing Tobias’s shoulder by an ilm.

And, of course, kills Sophie behind him. But that was fine, as there was no way to save either of them from the balefire blades that would impale them in thirty seconds anyway and in those thirty seconds Tobias would land a stronger blow against Gorrath than what Sophie would manage. Prophecy had no place for sentiment.

It took the Princeps less than a tenth of a second to perform this analysis, which meant he had more than three seconds before he needed to actually speak the warning. Which was good, as even while his mind assessed how to save Tobias his mouth was currently occupied telling Estinien where to strike when Gorrath left himself open launching that blade barrage. His hands danced across the switchboard, changing which linkpearls he was calling as his mouth recited his list of carefully prepared orders one after the other without pause. Time was the Princeps’ most precious commodity and he spent every drop of it carefully, though that didn’t stop him from wishing it would pass faster.

He immersed himself in visions of the battle unfolding, devoting his entire attention to them. Almost, there were a few outside factors he checked on when he had a spare millisecond, but those were still relevant to the battle even if not directly a part of it. He tried to keep his attention about twenty seconds ahead, what he’d found to be the ideal point in time. Enough time for him to determine the best course of action and relay it, but not so far ahead his instructions weren’t timely. The sheer amount of information he needed to process had him slipping, however. In the passing of a single second, he watched his followers die a hundred times. He watched them attack a hundred times, sometimes wounding the Demon sometimes not. He needed to analyze each person’s current situation, find the optimal course of action for them, while keeping the circumstances of the battle as a whole in mind, and without pausing in speaking his stream of instructions to each person or group as needed.

Honestly, if he stopped to consider what he was doing, even he’d conclude this was impossible.

It was particularly hard using the Sight and interacting with the world at the same time. It would be a thousand times easier to activate the Sight, gather what information he could, then deactivate the Sight so he could pass along his instructions. Easier, but inexcusably slower. Dozens would have doubtless lost their lives already if he’d tried that, possibly enough that Gorrath might have already won. That had been one of the first things the Princeps had checked; once enough of their numbers were thinned out no amount of foresight could hold Gorrath at bay.

So the Princeps planted one foot in the kaleidoscope of visions that was the Sight and one foot in mundane reality. And ignored how the pressure to snap fully into either side threatened to split his skull in two.

The human mind was not built to handle such stress. He was overtaxing his brain, forcefully invoking the Sight’s ability to speed up his thoughts. If he kept this up he’d give himself a seizure. While he’d love for that to be hyperbole, he could see a worrying number of futures that featured him convulsing on the floor. And the more he used his Sight, the more numerous those futures became.

He processed that information as dispassionately as he did everything else. He felt the desire to push himself and give his all, but being this deep within the Sight he knew that to be the product of his ego and ignored it. In this game, emotions were dangerous. His stamina was a factor that needed to be accounted for, alongside the myriad of other factors that determined how the fight proceeded.

The fighters they had remaining. The capabilities of those fighters. Their morale. Gorrath’s incoming attacks. How those attacks could be avoided. Who would avoid them on their own and who the Princeps would need to warn. How long it would take him to warn them. Who would contribute more to the ongoing battle if they survived. Whose lives were worth the time it would take to save them, when that time could be spent wounding Gorrath further.

The Princeps threw away lives to save seconds of his time and counted them well spent.

His mind wandered for a millisecond, try as he might even he could not maintain his focus flawlessly throughout the minutes that felt like years, and he reflected that this was the purest expression of his duty as the Princeps. He’d surrendered his home, family, and name to become someone less than human. To not have his judgement compromised by emotion, to think and act only with clean, unfeeling logic. So he did. He moved those fighting under his command like game pieces, directing with no concern for their lives beyond their strategic value, commanding them to die if it would benefit the battle as a whole.

When it came to the prospect of his own death, he didn’t even begin to care. He simply noted the changing probability of that death and checked himself whenever it became too high too soon. He was still too useful to die yet, not before the end.

He saw a flash of stone spikes skewering Urianger and Alphinaud and investigated further. In most potentialities they avoided the danger without his involvement but Ser Amara standing next to them being struck was likely, so he added a warning to the three of to his running queue. Y’shtola and G’raha were each about to fire on some sizable spells, and if Calista and Alisaie added to the barrage it would actually stagger Gorrath for a moment. That would open a veritable host of opportunities, so the Princeps put a priority on that and moved some Knights to screen for the duo.

At the very start, he had been determined to get what use he could out of the Scions while he had the chance. They were awkward tools, lacking the instinctive obedience to his orders that Elarians had. He’d had to pass up on several good chances early on because he saw that they wouldn’t obey what seemed like unwise commands and explaining it to them would take too much time. To be sure, they were powerful enough that it was worth the effort, but Gorrath knew that too and they had earned no small measure of its ire as well. For reasons both emotional and practical, it was going to target them more than anyone else on the battlefield. Even with the Princeps trying to preserve them, he knew they would only survive for about three minutes.

The battle had just passed the five-minute mark, and they were all still going strong.

Gauging probability was an acquired skill. Visions didn’t exactly come with mathematical odds of their chances. How probable a vision was could be determined by how readily something appeared before his eyes, how many iterations of an event that were functionally the same that he could see. By now, the Princeps was experienced enough to grasp the likelihood of a future at a glance, but the Scions were beating the odds so consistently he might have to reevaluate his skill at a later date.

They should all be dead five times over, but they were still in the fight. About a dozen times now the Princeps had written one of them off as someone he couldn’t save, only for Thancred to block an attack that should have flattened him or Alisaie to dodge at the last second. By now, the Princeps had adjusted his parameters and started taking for granted that if there was a chance they would succeed, they would. They were being such thorns in the Demon’s side that Gorrath had even intensified his efforts to kill them, but to no avail.

The Princeps knew, the next time he let Gorrath kill someone, it would probably have to be one of them.

He’d been pacing the casualties out as best as he could, helped by the fact that there were plenty of deaths he genuinely couldn’t prevent, but he knew he couldn’t let Gorrath go too long without a kill. Their best chance, their only chance, relied on dragging out this battle as long as possible. He’d done everything he could to stall, including letting Gorrath have the smaller victories of killing some of its foes here and there, but he was approaching the limits.

He saw the end coming. Inexorable. He looked for ways to put it off, delay it as he had several times before, but there was nothing. With its merciless clarity, the Sight showed him there was nothing he could do anymore. Even offering up a Scion would only placate Gorrath for a few seconds. Not worth what it would cost them.

Despite his need to remain dispassionate, bitter anger washed over the Princeps. His soldiers had done everything they could. All of them, not just the Scions, had fought better than he’d had any right to expect. He’d used them to the best of his ability, but this was all he could buy with their fervor and their faith. Their sacrifices.

It would have to be enough.

He keyed the switchboard to the wideband frequency that would reach everyone in the plaza and gave his final order.

Y’shtola felt the pangs of aetheric depletion and the slowly worsening headache that accompanied them. They’d been fighting for what felt like an hour, chipping away at Gorrath’s seemingly inexhaustible stamina. She was impressed at the tenacity of those around her. She could plainly see Gorrath’s aether diminish, the progress they were making, yet she was beginning to flag nonetheless. For those without her sight, the Demon’s might must have seemed limitless for all the good their attacks were doing, yet they fought on as fiercely as when the battle first began.

Out of anyone, Gorrath was the one getting fed up. His good humor from being in the thick of battle had all but evaporated; all that was left now was an increasing amount of rage towards his enemies. Every strike of his own that failed to land home and every strike against him that did enraged him further. In his fury his attacks grew more ferocious and powerful, trying to crush his enemies with brute strength. However, those attacks were also wilder and easier to dodge, with the Princeps’ reliable advice guiding them. And wasting yet more aether on fruitless attacks only infuriated Gorrath all the more.

 Finally, that wrath boiled over. “Enough!”

Gorrath shifted his grip so that Blooddrinker’s head was pointed down and raised the weapon in both hands. Immense power surged into the axe, eclipsing anything Y’shtola had seen from him before now. She sent a bolt of fire into the Demon’s chest, but the flames spattered harmlessly on his chestplate. Gorrath laughed in bloody triumph.

“Enough hiding behind wretched foresight! This ends NOW mortals!”

The Princeps’ voice was in her ear again. “Brace yourselves!”

Y’shtola had just enough time to think that was frankly useless advice before Blooddrinker struck the ground. The world exploded around her.

She came to a minute later. She had been far enough away from the explosion that the flames hadn’t killed her outright, merely hitting her with enough force to lift her up and throw her backwards. The hastily formed barrier she wove at the last second had managed to blunt the worst of the violent impact, though she still felt like she had been trampled by an aurochs and had the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. She tried to pick herself up, her battered body requiring several attempts to sit up. What she saw when she did made her heart sink.

The plaza had become a blasted crater. The walls around the aetheryte had been entirely pulverized. Of the broken aetheryte itself, there was no sign. The air was filled with dust slowly settling back onto the ground. The black clouds had been blown away, but they were already returning. Bodies laid strewn everywhere. Some were moving, but many were too broken to ever move again. Y’shtola felt a rush of relief to see, albeit muted, lights of aether from the Leveilleur twins lying together. From the way they were positioned, she guessed Alphinaud had tried to shield his sister with his own body in the instant before the impact.

One thing moved through the clouds of dust and tainted aether. Gorrath strode through the devastation he had wrought, a disgustingly satisfied look on his face. A Knight forced himself to his feet, weakly clutching a sword in his hand. Blooddrinker cleaved him in two. It rose back into the air trailing streams of aether.

 A flash of aether preceded Gorrath spinning with blinding speed to lash out with his axe. Instead of impaling him, Estinien was smashed out of the air and into a building on the far side of the plaza. Even knowing firsthand how tough the dragoon was, Y’shtola knew the speed of his impact might have killed him. It definitely knocked him unconscious, a sad result for their last attempt to fight back.

She caught herself. This was not over. Not yet. Not until every last one of them lay dead. As long as she still breathed, she was not done fighting.

She pushed herself up, ignoring the pain coursing through her body and forcing protesting limbs to move. She stood, bracing herself on her staff and felt malignant attention on her. Gorrath saw her move and was coming for her with a slow, leisurely stride. Why would he rush? He had already won. His aether burned like a bonfire, so bright it seemed to leech the light from the world around him. Black winds swirled faster, caging her in the dark with him.

Y’shtola could see her own aether just as easily as she could anyone else’s. She knew exactly what she was capable of, and what she wasn’t. Even so, she raised her staff. Magic began to gather around the rod’s purple gem for one final act of defiance.

Gorrath’s lips pulled back to bare his wetly glistening fangs. “Magnificent.” His axe rose, ready to end her life in a single stroke.

Something moved, beyond the oily blackness of the aether that enveloped them. Gorrath hesitated.

Like the first ray of dawn, light shone through the darkness. Pure and radiant, it burned through the black clouds. The shadows withdrew, refusing to contest the light’s coming or mar its passage by filling in behind it. It descended to earth like a shooting star and nearly as fast; Y’shtola saw in the instant it took to approach that the light was in truth a man, overflowing with dazzling radiance and borne on wings of solid aether. It was as if the universe had responded to the obscenity of Gorrath’s evil by birthing his polar opposite to defeat him.

The man landed before her with surprising gentleness given his speed. He turned towards her. Such was the radiance of his power she could make out none of his features, but his voice was unmistakable.

“Sorry I overslept.” Marcus said, a smile in the words. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

Hearing his voice, even after everything, was enough to make Y’shtola wilt. The easing of her tension, her fears and stress and the rigors of battle, was so immediate she almost collapsed in sheer relief. Despite the darkness that still surrounded them and the Demon visible over his shoulder, she couldn’t help a small laugh. “As always, your timing is dramatically appropriate.”

Marcus made an amused noise, but whatever he intended to say was overridden by the brass rumble from behind him.

“You survived. Impressive.” Gorrath’s voice carried a begrudging respect with it. “But to face me without even dressing yourself seems a touch arrogant, no?”

Y’shtola craned her eyes, trying to see past the brilliance of Marcus’s aether. Gorrath was right, Marcus was wearing the same light shirt and pants he had in his sickbed. He had no armor, or even any weapons. She tried to question that, but breathing in to speak proved to be one breath too many of the dark mist and she doubled over coughing. Marcus peered at her in concern.

“First things first, then.” Marcus said quietly, as if to himself. “Let’s see about clearing the air.”

Y’shtola looked up to see him swirl a hand through the air, wind aspected aether twisting in his palm. Behind him, unnoticed, Gorrath’s axe rose again.

“No matter.” Gorrath sounded deservedly triumphant. “I applaud your courage, but I have already far outstripped you. Die with your land, Elarian.”

Y’shtola tried to shout a warning but fell into another coughing fit as the axe began to descend. Marcus turned, sweeping out his arm as he did so. The spiraling winds leapt from his hand and grew into a maelstrom, roaring outward furiously enough to force Gorrath back a pair of steps. Not only the mist but the black clouds beyond them were blown away in the wind’s passing, allowing Y’shtola to see clearly again and feel the sun on her skin.

Not stopping there, Marcus clapped his hands together and raised them up over his head before splaying them out until his hands were even with his shoulders. A wave of magick spread outward as his hands parted, washing over everyone present. Y’shtola straightened up as the wave swept over her, feeling her pain lessen and her exhaustion recede slightly. She looked around and, as she suspected, many of the downed, defeated fighters were stirring again, some getting back on their feet.

Marcus spoke, loudly to reach the entire plaza. “Clear this area and withdraw to safety. Those that can move, aid those that cannot. We will handle Gorrath.” The various Knights looking between one another uncertainly prompted a commanding bark. “Now!”

The authority in that word got them moving, men and women grabbing those too hurt to move themselves and carrying or dragging them away. Y’shtola looked at Marcus, now staring down Gorrath, with no small amount of confusion. She knew what spells he was capable of; conjuring widespread gales and mass healing were not among them. She’d also never heard him speak before like that, being that authoritative. More than that, his voice seemed to change every time he spoke. It was always clearly his voice, but other than when he’d greeted her his inflections and cadence were different, both from how he normally spoke and from each preceding sentence he said. She looked closer and noticed his aether was not a uniformly white light but countless colors layered over one another, constantly mingling and shifting such that they seemed white at a glance.

“You’ll ‘handle’ me, will you?” Gorrath said with a sneer. “Have you forgotten who, what, I am, mortal?”

His voice rose on the last word and he attacked. Blooddrinker slashed out and around, coming from the side to tear both Marcus and Y’shtola apart in a single swing. Power flooded the axe as it arced through the air. With blinding speed, a shield of light formed on Marcus’s arm and he raised it to meet the burning blade-edge with barely a millisecond to spare.

The explosion from the colliding powers stirred up a hurricane. Men on either side of them were thrown from their feet. The ground cracked under Gorrath’s hooves; tremors rippled outwards from where he planted his feet for his attack.

And Y’shtola, standing little more than a fulm from the source of such violence, felt nothing. Not the slightest errant breeze or the most meager trembling through her feet. All of it had been perfectly warded away from her. Marcus flexed his arm and batted away the gargantuan axe with his glimmering shield. Gorrath allowed the movement to force him back a few steps, staring in confusion.

“Thank you.” Y’shtola said to the warrior of light before her. Her suspicions were confirmed when, instead of playing off her gratitude like he normally would, he nodded solemnly.

“You’re welcome. Now leave, this place is not safe.”

“Marcus.” She enunciated clearly, so he knew she was speaking to him directly. “I only just got you back, I have no intention of losing you again.”

Marcus turned and smiled at her. He spoke, and this time the voice was unmistakably his. “Don’t worry, Shtola. We’ve got this.”

She heard the unsaid words and smiled back to repeat them to him. She wanted little more than to fight at his side, to face this danger together rather than leave him alone. But even with his healing, she was close to completely spent. As much as it pained her to leave him to stand alone, she would be more hindrance than help if she tried to fight alongside him now. And besides, he wasn’t alone.

She raised her voice, as if the others might have some trouble hearing. “Take care of him. Gods know he won’t.”

The voice that emerged from Marcus’s throat had a tinge of amusement to it. “Oh trust me, we know.”

With no small amount of reluctance, Y’shtola turned and left, looking for anyone who needed her help withdrawing to a safe distance. She had no doubt the plaza was about to become one of the fiercest battlegrounds the star had ever seen. Once she was clear, it would be quite the spectacle to watch.

Marcus turned back around to see Gorrath watching him. The Blood Demon ignored the fleeing Scions and Knights, his onslaught stalled for the moment by the prospect of a proper challenge. Far from being wary at Marcus’s display in blocking his attack, Gorrath looked worryingly eager.

“Good. There’s still some fight left in you. I was worried my poison had finished you.”

Marcus didn’t answer that directly. “You made a grave mistake, Demon.”

Gorrath’s head cocked in question, an oddly human gesture. “Oh?”

Marcus saw Y’shtola, battered and bloody, and a red hot fury flashed through him. “We’ve gotten a lot of practice killing you.”

Finally, Gorrath realized that the ‘we’ wasn’t referring to him and Y’shtola. His eyes widened. He inhaled via a surprised snort. “Impossible. I left nothing behind but shattered, tortured fragments. Just enough to scream, so their agony would bury you.”

Marcus nodded urbanely. “Even so, we survived. We recovered. And we’re here to stop you.”

Gorrath’s lips pulled back wetly to bare his fangs. He laughed, loudly and freely.

“Good! This is how it should be! A fair fight, with both of us wielding the power of my Chosen. A proper battle for the fate of this realm. Anything less would be a disappointment.” He stamped his axe on the ground, hard enough to shatter the ground beneath it. “But do not forget, little mortals. Battle is my domain. Fighting me only strengthens me. Hating me only gives me power.  I am a god. War itself given form. I cannot be killed by the likes of you.”

“We don’t hate you.” Marcus said lightly, and something in his quiet confidence gave the self-proclaimed god pause. “We can’t, remember? You took our anger, our courage, our confidence. Everything that would be useful for a fighter, for your Chosen. All you left was guilt and grief.”

His voice was calm. “Did you forget, or simply not know, where those come from?”

Gorrath’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. “From failure. From pain.”

Marcus shook his head sadly. He looked at the monster opposite him with what seemed like sympathy. “No. Not ultimately.”

Gorrath snarled at the pity and took a step forward. Marcus continued, his voice rising, still changing as he spoke.

“You tried to leave us helpless, by taking everything you thought would help us fight. But you forgot something simple. I love my brother.”

His voice grew deeper. “I have a duty to my men.”

Now, softer and higher. “I want to save my country.”

Then his again. “You hurt my friends.”

Light gathered in his palm as he raised his hand to point at Gorrath. “For those we’ve lost and those we can yet save. We’re going to end this, and you, here and now.”

The light forged itself into a sword, shining pure and bright and pointed straight at Gorrath’s heart.

Chapter Text

The Princeps checked the outcomes, then checked them again. It galled him, but there was nothing more he could do.

The Knights, Scions, and other soldiers had played their part and the battle was down to Markos alone now. Markos himself knew his work, most advice or warnings the Princeps could provide in this battle would be of little help and more often than not the distraction of another voice in his head only made things worse. It burned like bile to admit it, but events were outside of the Princeps’ hands now.

With cringing reluctance he withdrew from the endlessly shifting world of the Sight and felt the migraine hit him like the fist of an angry god.

His senses collapsed in on themselves, leaving him blinded, deafened, and with nothing to distract him from the agony in his skull. The world receding from infinite possibilities into just the room around him felt like his brain was being compressed into a pinprick. He reeled, hands clutching at his temples, as the waves of pain washed over him and afterimages of the futures he’d been immersed in swam before his eyes. He fell out of his chair, striking his chin hard on the desk. A fresh, sharper pain bloomed and he forced himself to fixate on it. With something real to focus on, he could at least ground himself in reality even if that wouldn’t help the headache liquifying his brain.

He'd had bad experiences after overusing the Sight before, but this was beyond any of them. The pain was so intense he forgot and thought it was genuinely killing him. It wasn’t until the pain began to recede and he became aware of the hands wreathed in light pressed over his that his mind was clear enough for the self-recrimination to hit.

The fog of agony in his head clearing, the Princeps began to sit up. Krile pushed him back down.

“Stay still until I’m done with you.” She said in such a motherly commanding voice that the Princeps found himself obeying without thinking. Blearily, he looked up to see her glaring. “What, were you trying to kill yourself?”

“Not quite.” The Princeps managed to croak. He’d been trying to time it so that he fell into a seizure right when his aid was no longer needed, but that fact that he wasn’t in a coma right now meant he’d misjudged. He should have pushed himself harder.

He was still hurting, though the pain was mercifully much diminished, when the light faded. Too overwrought to remember the Princeps doesn’t ask questions, he nearly asked Krile why she’d stopped before seeing the answer writ plain on her face. She was exhausted.

“I’ve done all I can.” She said while her breath came in slow, measured gasps. “I just hope it was enough.”

“It will suffice.” The Princeps told her, sitting up. Krile’s surprisingly strong hands helped him back into his chair and he languidly waved her into the seat next to him. “I’ll be fine.”

“I treated Marcus as best as I could. But when he saw the explosion, I couldn’t stop him.” Krile reported.

The Princeps nodded, not bothering to mention he knew this already. He’d checked the status of Markos’s healing constantly as the battle in the plaza unfolded. The countless ways the battle could go even at the very start were always going to narrow into those two points. Gorrath would lose its patience and wipe the defenders out in one attack and Markos would go out to face it in response. The only question was the timing. The Princeps had done everything he could to delay, to give Krile more time to restore Markos’s coma-weakened body to fighting fitness and Markos time to work through the voices in his head. The warriors under his command did their part, draining Gorrath’s aether through a needless battle Gorrath’s own lust for combat had suckered him into. But ultimately, this battle was always going to come down to the Warrior of Light against the Blood Demon. The rest of them only set the stage.

Krile looked up at him with hope and fear mingled in her eyes. “It was enough, wasn’t it?”

The Princeps sighed and leaned back in his chair, knowing what she was really asking. Determining probabilities of the Sight’s visions was more art than science, but it was an art he was well practiced in. He could say, confidently, that he knew exactly how likely it was Markos and his new hangers-on would defeat Gorrath.

A reassuring lie rose reflexively to his lips, mouth opening before he stopped himself. He thought about it. He’d lived the coming battle a hundred times, he knew how badly the odds were stacked against them. But when he asked himself who was going to win, he kept coming to the same answer.

“Of course.” He told Krile, completely honest. “Markos is going to beat Gorrath like a drum.”

Marcus lowered his sword arm, the gleaming weapon still clutched in his hand. Gorrath stared at him, hands shifting slightly on the haft of his axe. After everything he’d done, it was good to see uncertainty on that monstrous face.

That rattled him. Lysander said, to laughter and agreements from many of the others. ‘Said’ was not quite the right word. It wasn’t as though Marcus could actually hear him, or any of the others, with his ears. ‘Thought’ might be better. Marcus simply understood what meaning Lysander meant to pass along to him; interpreting that as words was how his mind made sense of it.

Hng, Demon filth look confused. Not scared. Khrall pointed out.

Not sure this bastard knows how to feel fear. Alathea agreed.

We’ll teach him. Pollox promised.

Cut the chatter. We need to focus. Minos commanded, to Marcus’s relief. His arms hung at his sides. Not entirely by choice. His limbs felt so heavy even lifting them was a trial.

His entire body felt like it was made of lead. It was as if the fatigue from the endless fighting inside his mind had waited until now to make itself felt. He wanted little more than to lay down and sleep. For a week, maybe. Even just standing here felt beyond him. And likely would be, were it not for the feverish energy burning in his limbs. It added to the ache pervading every ilm of his body, but at least it kept him moving.

Krile had done her best to heal him, to restore his body from one that had lain in a sickbed for weeks into one that could fight. The fact that his current state was so much better than how he felt when he awoke was as much a testament to her prowess as it was to how weakened his body had become. At least his mind felt relatively clear.

Even after rescuing all one hundred of the trapped Chosen from the fog, the battle against the illusory Gorraths continued. Or Gorrath, seeing as the Primals finished combining into one after the last soul was brought into the fold. Marcus had taken that Gorrath on, backed by a rotating roster of his new friends with the others getting to finally rest after the hellish marathon of battle they’d been forced into. With Marcus holding their last enemy at bay, the druids and others started how to get them digging their way out of their purgatory. To no success until, from what Krile had said while healing him, the Chosen’s prisons in reality were destroyed and finally Marcus was able to wake up.

And boy oh boy, did he wish he hadn’t.

A hundred voices continued to crowd his brain, every one of Gorrath’s captives now forced to share the same mind. The cacophony of noise inside his head when he’d first awoke had left him reeling, barely aware of the world around him. More than Krile’s healing, he’d needed the time to put his mind in order. To their credit, the others had adapted quickly and come to order. They’d done their best to keep their thoughts to the level of a low murmur unless they wished to ‘speak.’ He practiced tuning them out as best he could, but Gorrath ending the battle at the aetheryte plaza had forced his hand and silenced any remaining objections from the chorus inside him.

Marcus sized up the Primal staring him down. Powerful, certainly. More powerful than almost any foe he had ever faced before. So much so Marcus could feel the pressure of that power like a physical weight. An evil beast, too. Death and carnage dripped off him. Just looking at him felt like staring at the aftermath of every battlefield Marcus had ever been on. It made his stomach turn and his gorge rise.

Gorrath was a monster, in every sense of the word. But still just a Primal.

And Marcus knew how to kill Primals.

The show of strength in blocking his attack and the revelation of who they were had given Gorrath pause. Marcus stood still trying to milk that for all it was worth, both to give the few still conscious Knights time to drag everyone else out of the plaza to safety and to spare himself the pain and exertion of moving. Unfortunately, Gorrath was already overcoming that caution. The uncertainty on his face turned back into rage as Marcus watched.

He wasn’t about to give the Primal any more time. Marcus ran forward, readying his sword and shield as he did. Gorrath matched the charge with a snarl and a charge of his own. His axe descended and the shield of light rose to meet it.

This clash had nowhere near the power of the first one and even as Marcus felt the weapons collide he was turning to strike with his sword. Already forged from his aether, it was a simple matter to lengthen the blade to negate Gorrath’s advantage in reach. His slash was aimed for the Primal’s throat, but before it could get there Gorrath’s arm snapped up with blinding speed and caught the attack on his vambrace. The sharp light bit into the dark metal, but not deep enough to reach the crimson flesh beneath it. Marcus drew his sword back, already turning to block the axe hacking in on his left.

Marcus dug his feet in to weather the impact and ignored the pain in his aching limbs that worsened with every move he made. He thrust with his sword and a blast of light magic struck Gorrath clean in the chest. Gorrath staggered backward, more off balance than hurt, and recovered his footing before Marcus could close the distance. Gorrath stomped, and stone spikes erupting from the ground forced Marcus to halt and defend himself from being skewered from below. As he sliced through the last spike, the burning axe hurtled towards his right. Only a reflexive parry kept Marcus from being cut in two.

Primal and paladin circled one another, trading lightning-fast blows. Neither the sword nor the axe inflicted any real damage. Marcus landed a few nicks and cuts, but only shallow ones that healed so quickly Gorrath barely noticed them. Marcus paid for those wounds by being singed here and there, but nothing serious and he ignored the pain from the balefire burns. The inconclusive duel might have continued for much longer, were it not for Gorrath’s eye landing on a Knight trying leave the plaza, an unconscious comrade slung over her shoulder.

Both combatants moved as one. Marcus darted before the fleeing duo and braced himself, while Gorrath planted his feet to send a powerful, upwards slash at them. Marcus angled his shield so that the force of the hit knocked him up into the air rather than back into the Knights. He could see Gorrath grin maliciously as his plan worked. He raised his axe to strike at Marcus while he was in midair.

Marcus was about to project his aether outwards defensively when Kata’s thought emerged distinctly from the background chatter that continued to buzz in his brain.

Stop fighting. Start killing.

That’s a good idea. Marcus thought back. His feet found purchase on the air.

Instead of defending, he attacked, launching himself forward in a dragoon dive straight at Gorrath. The Primal reacted with preternatural speed, his own attack changing fluidly into a guard that knocked Marcus’s sword, and his trajectory, away. Marcus landed on his feet just behind Gorrath, but instead of arresting his momentum he ducked into it. Blooddrinker snapped down and, had Marcus turned to attack, would have embedded in his chest. Instead, the axe hit nothing but empty air while Marcus rolled away.

The sword and shield of light changed as Marcus rolled. When he came to a stop, he had a fan of knives in each hand. Hands moving of their own accord, he threw the half dozen glittering blades with unerring accuracy. Caught off guard by the unexpected method of attack, Gorrath only managed to deflect five of the knives. The sixth embedded in his collarbone, drawing a growl of anger.

Gorrath swept his hand out, trailing balefire. A trio of swords materialized from the flames and shot out. Marcus dropped to all fours as he ran, darting left then right then left again to dodge each of the fiery projectiles. He reared up onto his feet as he drew close, another dagger forming in each of his hands. Gorrath struck with a heavy overhand chop. Marcus didn’t even try to match it, stepping smartly to the side and letting the impact with the ground throw him to the side. He spun in midair as he flew past Gorrath’s leg and planted a knife into the unarmored back of the Primal’s knee. Marcus landed and immediately backflipped away from the retaliatory slash that filled the space where he had been standing with fire.

Marcus smirked as he landed. Another dagger materialized in his empty hand as Gorrath seethed. “Reduced to fighting like cowardly vermin, are you?”

Marcus’s lips pulled back, sucking in air through his teeth as Kata’s words came to his lips. “Better than being one, Demon-dreg.”

Gorrath snarled as he lunged for Marcus again. Marcus kept dodging, staying one step ahead of the attacks, keeping his distance and punishing every opening with another dagger embedded in the Primal’s flesh. This was Night Knife combat. Not fighting Gorrath. Killing him. One knife at a time.

Marcus couldn’t fight like this, he didn’t know how. And Kata couldn’t take the reins because it wasn’t her body, her movements would be too clumsy to have the perfect precision this deadly dance required. So they moved together, coordinating at the speed of thought. Kata would think of how to dodge and Marcus matched it, moving as fluidly as if the idea had come from his own mind. They kept it up, whittling Gorrath down with stab after stab, the Primal’s fury growing as his every attempt to respond in kind met with failure.

Finally, he’d had enough. The flames shrouding his axe gutted out, replaced by swirling black winds. Gorrath swung and the dark wind became a tempest that ripped across the plaza with enough force to throw the shattered paving stones into the air. It was too fast and wide reaching for Marcus to evade, the winds plucked him off the ground and hurled him aloft. Gorrath took to the air after him. Crimson wings unfurled wide as they beat to carry him upwards.

What a nice, big target. Marcus thought. Diana?

Too easy. She answered.

The knives of light lengthened. One curved into a bow, the other narrowed into an arrow. Marcus nocked the arrow, well aware it would be useless to him. He was an adequate archer, but he was also tumbling headlong through the air trying to hit a rapidly moving target. He couldn’t make that shot. He didn’t need to.

Diana’s thoughts guided his hands to draw back, center the arrow, and find their target. They waited together until the right moment stared them in the face. When his fingers released the arrow Marcus honestly couldn’t say who was controlling his hands.

Gorrath saw the arrow coming, of course. He reacted with contemptuous ease, lifting his axe turned flat to block the bolt of light’s path to his right wing with more than a second to spare. The arrow clanged uselessly off the axe head and went spinning away. Which meant the axe was held in one hand, away from his body.

The next three arrows punched clean through the left wing.

Gorrath’s flight became a fall. He beat his remaining intact wing quickly, trying to maintain his altitude. That just made it easy for Marcus and Diana to put a couple of holes in it as well. And when Gorrath was in freefall, there was nothing to stop them from putting a few more arrows into his back before their own flight finished cresting and Marcus began to plummet down as well.

Gorrath landed roughly. He struggled to his feet, growling an animalistic noise of wordless fury. Burning blood dripped from his punctured wings and torso to sear the stone beneath him.

Marcus panted as he fell. Every bit of power he spent burned up more of the feverish energy inside him, leaving his body feeling heavier and his head pounding harder. This could not continue, he knew. He had to end this, and soon.

Marcus pushed down the pain as he saw Gorrath staggering. The Primal’s wounds were still healing, but slowly. The monster might be nearing his limit. Either way, Marcus knew better than to waste this opening. He turned his fall into a flight, wings of light sprouting again from his back to propel him downward with greater speed. A sword formed in his hands and he poured power from his exhausted, aching body into it. He descended in blazing white like a bolt of divine retribution. A blade to put an end to this, once and for all.

But Gorrath’s weakness was a feint. He turned with blinding speed, axe whipping around as an upward guillotine. Marcus’s speed worked against him; he only barely managed to raise his sword between him and the oncoming axe in time.

The explosion from the collision of energized weapons sent Marcus flying back, a meteor trailing fragments of light. It was only by sheer instinct he formed a shield around himself an instant before slamming into the earth. He plowed a deep furrow through the ground before coming to a stop. Marcus painfully sat up, his body’s aching now joined by more mundane pain. One spot of pain, sharper than the rest, drew his hand to his cheek. His fingers came away bloody.

Oh shit. Marcus turned, saw the vicious, victorious grin on Gorrath’s face. He raised Blooddrinker over his head. The snarling visage on the axehead lit up with sinister energies as the curse activated.

Nothing happened.

For several seconds the two combatants stared at one another, Gorrath’s grin dumbly plastered on his face.

Instead of his body being ravaged by the curse and his aether tortuously extracted, Marcus felt nothing. But he could sense it. The drain on Lili and her four fellow druids as she led them in holding the inexorable pull of the curse at bay. Others were already flocking to join in their efforts, but Marcus knew it would not be enough.

We must hurry. Lili thought, audible over the exertions of the others. This will overwhelm us soon. We must defeat him, NOW!

Working on it. Marcus painfully rose to his feet. Just what he needed, another time limit.

Gorrath’s confusion turned to rage. He grasped Blooddrinker with both hands and instead of trying to draw power from the axe, he started pouring power into it. The axehead was engulfed in balefire that intensified, crimson flames burning so hot Marcus could feel them from here and black lightning crackling with such intensity it formed a shell around the fire. Marcus paused, struck with disbelief at the sheer amount of energy the Primal still had to bring to bear. There was enough power in the axe to obliterate most of the city.

I won’t let that happen. Marcus vowed.

Gorrath took to the air, his wings already mended. He raised Blooddrinker over his head as he flew, ready to bring the axe down in a twohanded stroke directly on Marcus.

Stand your ground. Minos’s commanding presence instructed. Plant your feet, meet him head on!

Knowing trying to dodge would doom himself and likely everyone else, Marcus did as he was bid. He stamped one foot then the other, shoulder width apart, and gathered all the aether he could into his hands. His fists took on a blinding radiance as power flowed into them.

“DIE!” Gorrath roared. Overflowing with energy, Blooddrinker descended. Marcus thrust his hands armored in gauntlets of light to meet it.

Their clash created an explosion rippling outward, throwing up dust and stones around them.  Neither of them noticed. Both had their attention fixed solely on their contest of strength, Gorrath trying to force his axe down while Marcus pushed up with all his strength. It felt like trying to hold up a mountain. Gorrath was too damn strong.

Blooddrinker’s power was too great to be contained. Marcus’s gauntlets of light allowed him to catch the axe without it obliterating his hands and shielded him from the worst of its fury, but the balefire boiled over. Fire burned his arms, lightning seared his shoulders. He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. Giving in even the slightest ilm would see him dead, allow all that raging power to discharge directly into him and eradicate not just him, but most of Clenon in an instant.

Marcus strained with all his strength. His muscles were burning, his limbs trembling. He was giving all he had to give. Blooddrinker lowered an ilm, then another. Through the maelstrom of clashing light and fire above him, Marcus could see Gorrath’s hateful triumph.

Come on! Put your back into it! The thought was directed at himself, but Marcus felt the others respond. They came together, thoughts loud and clear.

We’ve got this!

Just a little more!

He’s wavering!

The thoughts overlapped one another and blended together into a cacophony of indistinct, encouraging noise, but it was enough. Marcus knew he wasn’t strong enough. But wasn’t just him.

Blooddrinker’s descent stopped. It rose an ilm. Marcus and the others were emboldened by that minor gain, but Gorrath surprised them all by laughing.

“You fight well. Better than a mortal has any right to. I did not expect that cast off refuse to be capable of drawing on this much power.” The laughter turned to rage again. “But it is not enough!”

The storm of raging power held above Marcus’s fingers intensified. The ground around him became blasted glass as stone melted from the heat. Marcus felt his arms shake. His knees were quivering. The weight grew heavier, pressing down on limbs that, no matter how much he commanded them to hold firm, started to buckle. Blooddrinker lowered again.

Far above, barely visible through the fury of their clash, Marcus saw a stone hit Gorrath in the side of the head. He turned, reflexively looking for who struck him.

NOW!

A hundred and one souls roared in defiance as one. Metal cracked.

The world turned white, engulfed by sound and fury.

The explosion threw Gorrath up into the air. The violence of it pulverized stone, shattered the ring of buildings around the plaza and the ring around them. Low to the ground, Marcus was sheltered from the worst of the detonation. The force of it still battered him to his knees.

As the hurricane of energy abated, Marcus forced himself to stand. He saw Gorrath standing across the way, staring in stupefied disbelief at his axe. At the charred, smoking haft that was all that was left of it.

Gorrath’s stunned eyes found Marcus. His face contorted. Marcus thought he’d seen the Primal angry before. The rage he saw now made that seem only mildly piqued.

“YOU MORTAL FLITH!!!” Gorrath roared. He ran forward in a mad charge, retaining only enough sense to form swords of balefire in each hand. His voice rose into a howl of pure wrath, impossibly loud, likely shattering any remaining windows in the city.

One last effort. This ends now. Pollux thought. Marcus dragged his battered, exhausted body into standing up straight. Light coalesced in his hand, becoming a glimmering spear. He settled in to a crouch, the spear held low, waiting as death approached in a furious dash.

Too soon and we miss, too late and we die. Pollux knew their opportunity would only be for an instant. Marcus wasn’t sure his feverish, pounding head could make that determination. But he didn’t need to. He simply waited for the call.

Now!

Marcus raised the spear and thrust. A simple attack, one that would never land on any thinking opponent.

Gorrath, maddened with rage, was beyond thinking.

The spear punched through his armor, the Primal’s own charge impaling him on the waiting weapon. Every soul inside Marcus poured all the power they had left into one last attack.

Light bored through aether-forged flesh and burst out the back. Gorrath’s charge halted, his sword fading to nothingness as every last scrap of their power ravaged him from the inside out.

“Arg… argh…!” Gorrath staggered backwards, a hole nearly the width of his chest bored through him.

Marcus fell to his hands and knees. The feverish energy inside him was completely spent. In the wake of that heat, his body felt unimaginably heavy. Even lifting his head to see the spiderweb of cracks emanating across Gorrath’s body from the burning hole in his chest was almost impossible.

We did it. He thought to himself as much as the others. We won.

He felt them cheer, applaud one another and himself most of all. Despite their thoughts pulsing through his skull like repeated blows from a hammer, Marcus smiled.

“Not yet! I… cannot… will not… die!”

The cheering stopped. Marcus felt his blood run cold. The cracks were no longer spreading across Gorrath, they were receding. The hole in his torso began to fill. Marcus’s head filled with voices again, angry, despairing ones.

Godsdamnit! Pollux raged.

Does this bastard’s power have no limit? Lysander asked. Marcus snarled his thought.

Doesn’t matter. Ours doesn’t!

Marcus forced limbs made of stone to move, to stand and stare the recovering Primal in the eye. Gorrath was panting, his bare, regenerated chest heaving. He was not restoring his armor, too spent for that. Trembling with frenzied wrath, he raised his hands, fingers curled into claws, and growled at Marcus.

“You… DIE!!!”

Marcus forced his clenched fists up and readied himself. Gorrath took a menacing step towards him, then reeled forward as fire crashed into his back. Blinking in stupefaction, Primal and Hyur both turned to see the fireball’s source. Marcus felt a dagger of ice plunge into his gut when he saw Y’shtola, wisps of energy still flickering around her staff.

“WITCH!!” Already maddened into a berserk rage, Gorrath ignored Marcus and charged Y’shtola. She waited for him, another spell already forming.

Marcus’s heavy limbs and pounding head were forgotten in an instant. He was running before he knew what he was doing, only slowing enough to bend low to snatch a fallen sword off the ground. He gathered aether into his legs as he ran, drawing it tense, and loosing it without a break in his stride. The leap carried him over Gorrath, past the oncoming Primal, to land roughly in front of Y’shtola. Marcus spun around, Gorrath already reaching for them with clawed hands strong enough to rip the two of them apart.

Marcus grasped his new sword’s hilt with both hands and stabbed, putting every drop of aether he had left into one final blade of light.

The gleaming, golden edges seared through Gorrath’s outstretched arms, taking his hands off at the elbows, and continued on to ram into his broad, bare chest. The force of the blade halted Gorrath’s charge and drove him back a step. His wounds burned, and again blazing cracks began to spider out from them.

Marcus forced himself to stay standing through sheer stubbornness. Impossibly, his body felt even heavier now and his headache was beating a steady rhythm inside of his head, but he refused to fall until he was sure that monster was dead this time. That determination lasted the few seconds it needed to until Y’shtola hurriedly stepped forward and took one of his arms around her shoulders. Marcus gratefully sagged against her.

“Thanks.” The word was difficult to get out with his chest heaving and mouth sucking down desperate gulps of air. “I owe you one.”

“Oh please.” Y’shtola replied, the relieved frustration in her voice music to his ears. A deeper voice made them both turn.

“This… is not… over!” Gorrath stood before them, his body shaking and his wounds aflame. The cracks were spreading, growing deeper. “So long as this land drowns in blood, I will return again and again until I SLAUGHTER this wretched realm!”

“We’ll…hah… be ready for you.” Marcus could barely get the words out. His vision dimmed, the weight crushing him down too much for him to even keep his eyelids up.

“You won’t.” Gorrath grinned sadistically.

That final bit of malice was all the warning Marcus needed. Even as the cracks across Gorrath blazed with light and Y’shtola shouted, Marcus was already moving. Drawing on strength he didn’t have, he shrugged free of Y’shtola, stepped in front of her, and ripped his arms up.

The laws of reality met the force of his will and folded. Stone pillars impossibly erupted from the ground in a ring around the Primal’s flaring body. Marcus thrust his arms out and stone materialized between the pillars, spreading out from him to completely encircle Gorrath. Just as the last block was settling into the wall, Gorrath exploded.

The dying Primal’s wrath surged outward with the fury of a supernova. The conjured stone buckled. Marcus held on, holding the wall intact with desperate determination for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, finally, the blast abated, all of the flames erupted harmlessly into the sky. In the absence of a threat to guard against, the battered but intact wall vanished as quickly as it appeared. Within the ring, there was nothing left but glassed earth and smoldering embers.

Lips curling into a slight smile, Marcus fell flat onto his face.

He didn’t feel hitting the ground, or much else, His body no longer hurt, it just felt numb. His heartbeat was loud, pounding in his ears. He’d felt like this before, some part of him remembered. After his fight with Zenos, in Ultima Thule.

Y’shtola came into view, looking alarmed. She was shouting something, but her voice was tinny and indistinct; Marcus couldn’t hear her over his thundering heartbeat. He tried to lift himself up to reassure her, but his arms refused to move. Her face darkened, night somehow falling in a matter of seconds.

He’s dying. Unlike Y’shtola’s voice, Lili’s thoughts came in clear and crisp. We have minutes, if that.

The Demon is dead. It is time. Minos rumbled. Now, as we planned!

Planned? What plan? Marcus asked. He was answered by a hundred daggers stabbing into his mind.

“Argh!” Now his hand did move, involuntarily scrabbling at the dirt he lay in. Stop! What are you doing!?

He didn’t need to ask. He’d suspected they might try this now that the battle was over. He hardened his focus, clamping down. He was determined, but his will was pitted against that of a hundred others. And he was just so tired. All he wanted to do was let sleep take it.

But his fight wasn’t over yet.

He’s resisting. Petros called out.

As we expected. Minos replied. Pressure him harder!

Ever the loyal Cataphractii, the others obeyed the command. Marcus felt himself being driven back, his grip slipping. Kata nearly skulked free of his grasp before he slammed down hard on her, but diverting his attention even for a moment gave the others a chance to hit him even harder. He grit his teeth against the pain, his head feeling like his skull was about to crack open.

“Stop this!” He thought so strongly his mouth formed the words. They ignored his plea, if anything redoubling their efforts. He was dimly aware of light above him, somehow he’d gotten rolled onto his back and hands that looked like Y’shtola’s were glimmering weakly with magic.

Godsdamnit, give up you stubborn bastard. Pollux thought with a mix of frustration and admiration.

Never. Marcus refused to give in now, not when they were this close. I am going to save you. All of you.

You already have. Unlike the others, Diana’s thoughts were soft, laced with comfort. Now we are going to save you.

The others began chiming in, each with their own echo of her words. Marcus could feel his resolve faltering, knowing some of the others were almost about to break free. He could hear Y’shtola pleading from far away.

“MARCUS! MARCUS PLEASE!”

In the end, he didn’t know if he let go intentionally, or if his will finally gave out. All he knew was he felt something give, then his back was arching as a column of light burst forth from his chest. A hundred souls poured out of him, each of them passing on final farewells as they left.

When the torrent finally ceased, his body flopped onto the ground, utterly spent. The deafening silence in his mind dragged him into oblivion.