Our Crimson Iterations of Purpose - SmugRubric (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

The North Padamendastine Plains sported a natural splendour that dazzled the eyes of many who happened upon them along their travels. For miles around all that one would see were sprawling expanses of grass and rolling hills interceded by the occasional sparse placement of trees. Herds of gerbeast, no more than dots in the distance, would rest upon the soft open pastures and take generous bites of sward to satiate their hunger. Flocks of bright-coloured birds would seek refuge in any nearby trees, forming galleries of vivid reds and blues. All manner of flora, purple and pink and yellow and white, stood tall amidst the grass and bathed in the resplendent glory of the sun’s eternal and loving gaze. The tranquil landscape had been host to numerous religious miracles, many marked in holy books as the cornerstones of organised faith, and such a history only seemed to bolster the ethereal peace of the region. For those cut from religious cloth, who saw spirituality in nature unburdened by any trifling mortal manners, it made sense as to why the plains had been classified as a sacred spiritual site for pilgrimage.

Yet, no matter how rich its history of religious chronicles, nor how much the laypeople adored it, it was nothing more than another blood-spattered locale to cleave armour and rend flesh.

The wolf stood at the epicentre of where the carnage had broken out. Both blade and plate had been splashed in crimson and viscera, record of war’s permanent expense that would soon only be a temporary blight upon steel. The fallen lay strewn across the serene pastures beside abandoned weapons, broken armour, severed limbs and decapitated heads. The sizeable bulks of war mounts lay beside their riders, fighting fang and claw until the end.

A single glance was all it took to notice the overwhelming number of rabbits, broken bodies laid to rest in bloodied yellow surcoats.

The wolf looked down. Beneath him, skewered upon his blade, lay a brown rabbit. The defeated warrior was no older than his mid-twenties, the once bright vitality of youth that had resided within his green eyes vanquished forever. Terror was etched into his gormless face. One limp paw still clutched the blade above where it had punctured his stomach, as if some dregs of his soul still fought against fate.

The wolf yanked the blade out, flicking blood off.

Another republic army conscript.

Clan soldiers, clad in chainmail shirts and sturdy cuirasses, marched through the aftermath of the bloody battle. Krosguard warriors followed behind them, exhausted ictharrs trudging after the infantry yet still marching with a semblance of pride. Cheers of victory moved forward with the advancing survivors, clan banners flying high.

A growl to his left.

The wolf turned his head. There, stooped over the mauled remains of an adeun, loomed a hulking black ictharr. Blood matted the fur around its fearsome maw, no doubt a mixture sourced from numerous victims both beast and person.

“Here,” the wolf called.

The ictharr’s growling ceased. It padded over to his side and sat, panting. The wolf pet the side of its head.

“Well done.”

The ictharr turned its gaze back to the fallen adeun, snarling. The wolf rested his gaze on the dead beast. There he saw but another foolish conscript. A beast with little clue of bloodshed driven headlong into pikes, swords, and all manner of weaponry sharpened to hack apart fools such as it.

He was starting to think the Land of the Sun and Moon hadn’t fought a war before.

“Sir, sir!”

He turned left. A clan soldier hurried to his side, quiver slung over her shoulder and bow in paw. She stopped and spoke.

“Report from the left flank, sir. The rabbits are in full retreat.”

“How many?”

“Not many, sir. Can’t be more than a couple hundred troops still standing.”

“Losses?”

“We’re starting to take count, sir, but initial estimations are pretty good in our favour. Looks like they’ve tripled our casualties.”

The wolf smiled. It was small, no more than the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth, but the satisfaction bled in ever so slowly.

Another group of fools bested.

“You know what to do,” the wolf said, climbing into his ictharr’s saddle. “I want you to take stock of our dead and wounded, get the scavengers in here to collect weapons.”

“What about their wounded, sir?”

The ictharr growled. The wolf’s blade glinted as he slid it into its scabbard.

“Let’s not ask stupid questions. Run along.”

The archer stood there, stung by his dismissal of the death around him, but saw to her orders. As she rushed to relay his instruction to the troops, the wolf cast his gaze east. He looked past the bodies, past the humiliating defeat of his enemies, past the routing survivors, and past the ground still to cover.

In the distance, no more than a glimpse of a towering silhouette, he spied the Saint Gaspard Wall.

The small smile upon Lieutenant Maximus Verschelden’s face boldened. Thornfang glared ahead.

Beyond that wall, beyond that flimsy barrier of brick and stone, lay everything he starved for.

“It won’t be too long now,” he muttered.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Thornvallis Attronieux had never seen the Land of the Sun and Moon’s capital thrown into such disarray before.

As the carriage trundled along the paved streets, the world beyond raged and screamed. Crowds of protestors, mostly peasants and humble merchant peddlers, waved signs and banners sporting statements dissenting the war written in bright red paint. They yelled and chanted in front of the doors to parlours, they packed themselves inside the cramped entrance halls of banks, and they occupied many establishments in the hopes of spreading their message far and wide. People climbed the street’s lantern posts, dangling their banners from the necks of the illuminating spires. The pavements were packed with protestors on either side, fenced in by the tens of Saint Luxzancque Guard who fought to keep the carriageway clear. Their gleaming white armour and shields had been covered in dirt, dented in by bricks, and splashed in red paint. Some cheers interceded the manic anger as the carriage passed but it was hardly noticeable; a mere flash of hope in the hearts of a people who had been betrayed far too often to let it linger.

“Well then,” a voice mused. “The crowds are still fond of someone, First Minister.”

Thornvallis turned their attention back to the interior of the carriage. They sat close to the single swinging door at the back, having to stoop down somewhat to avoid their head bumping the ceiling. Inside there were no screaming protestors and no crowds of angered peasants. Instead, there were two rows of cherry leather benches pressed into the walls facing one another, plenty of room for six yet only seating three. Beside them sat Dashim Jintao. The ram, despite their smaller stature, possessed the lean physique of a nimble warrior. A flowing white gown rested against their frame, a body they had endlessly bragged about bearing many a scar. A white woollen plume rose from beneath the high collar of the green-accented garment, the top combed back to keep their fringe from covering their hazel eyes.

Across them, one leg crossed over the other with a ledger open on her thigh, sat a grey rabbit. First Minister Isabella Bromchaurd’s eyes perused the page’s contents with great care, shifting her thin-framed spectacles on her small nose. Her purple parliamentary blouse, devoid of frill and plume, was an immediate sign of her allegiance. Upon her left shoulder, she bore the insignia of the First Minister, a four-pointed yellow star sitting within the circular white border of the moon that denoted the party’s leader. Stern-faced and resolute, she sat focused on her work yet could not help to frown at the cacophony beyond.

“It is a shame it came to this,” she sighed, flipping the page. “In such a short amount of time, our most vulnerable feel abandoned and unheard. The Avantiers didn’t listen to us when we spoke about conscription.”

“Their premier hasn’t exactly dealt with matters well, have they?” Dash said.

“Not at all. One issue after the other in this damnable age of idiots.”

“They’ll be baying for blood in the amphitheatre.”

“If it was only the Avantiers party that would have to suffer for the world to fix itself, I’d be rather shocked.”

Thornvallis said nothing. Navigating the labyrinthian mess of social appearances, rhetoric, facades and fickle public favour was an endeavour of gargantuan undertaking. At least those they had faced down in combat had the decency to not sheathe their intention to kill them in empty platitudes and brazen lies.

“So, the plan,” the First Minister said, shutting her ledger. “I deliver my speech in front of the Guild Union this evening. Afterwards, you go to your rendezvous and you speak your piece.”

“You seem confident you’ll land the votes,” Dash said.

“Because I know I’ll land them. My whips have made sure the representatives of the Macheillons party remember their dedication to the working people of the parabular republic. The houses comprising the Nedatic League shall get their say. You have my guarantee on that.”

A team of guards waved the carriage through. It took a sharp left, followed a bend, and came to a stop in front of the towering political arena. Teams of weary guards stood ready on the steps, some filing groups of protestors into the backs of constabulary wagons. One guard rushed to the First Minister’s carriage and opened the back door.

“First Minister,” they said in Eposian, almost relieved. “The Guild Union is waiting.”They disembarked from the carriage. The front of the crowds cheered at the sight of the First Minister. She waved, offered a smile of acknowledgement, before she made her way towards the steps. Thornvallis and Dash followed.

“You seem nonchalant about stepping out your carriage with two wanted revolutionaries,” Dash said.

“You two prove to be better company than all of the sly cowards that frequent these halls,” she said. “At least you believe in what you say.”

Dash shot Thornvallis a look accompanied by a small grin. Thornvallis knew that expression. Confidence nearing complacence. A signal that told them all was looking great, packaged with Dash’s characteristic slick manner.

The group walked past the front of the carriage. Thornvallis stopped beside the adeuns. The four-legged beasts of streaked purple and blue muscle heaved and huffed from the stress of the commotion. Red flashed across their manes that bristled with unease. Their four long ears twitched and flicked, two on each side of their head. They scratched the stone ground with their three-pointed feet, two claws forward while one pointed backwards. Thornvallis felt for them, beasts of no allegiance to anything other than desire for contented life, and patted one of their flanks as they passed. Their manes displayed a steady green for only a moment.

First Minister Bromchaurd led the duo up the steps, past the lingering glares of the Saint Luxzancque Guard, and through the large doors into the gilded halls of the House of Sun. Thornvallis hated how it dazzled them, how they felt like a wide-eyed naïve lamb, yet they could not ignore the splendour of it all. Chiselled white stone slabs formed the floor, perfect to the most minute of measurements, and bright yellow covered the areas of the wall that were not adorned in political regalia and trophies. More steps led to more examples of gratuitous decoration, confined to chambers and rooms Thornvallis peered into as they walked by. Bromchaurd rolled her eyes at the whole charade. Gaggles of politicians, snakes and bulls and sheep and rabbits, gathered like schoolyard cliques to consult one another. The Avantiers ministers shot the First Minister wary glances as she passed, clad in golden doublets of brocades depicting religious murals. Upon their left shoulder sat their hallowed insignia; a white sun, its circumference lined with evenly spaced triangles, that carried a purple star at its centre.

Thornvallis met their glare with a hardened gaze of their own.

The trio split ways. Bromchaurd was waved through a pair of doors under guard by a team of four Saint Luxzancque Guard who warded off the pair with stern expressions. Dash led Thornvallis up a set of stairs to the right, following a congregation of sheep parliamentarians into an upper gallery. Thornvallis and Dash waved, recognising familiar faces of supporters amidst their ranks, before filing in after them.

The House of Sun’s Guild Union chamber was a relic of a far -bygone era that brought the Land of the Sun and Moon into existence. Evidence of extensive renovation and modernisation was obvious: new upholstery, more contemporary paintings, load-supporting beams and integral structures reinforced and replaced; yet, Thornvallis could still see the lingering presence of its original iteration. Sections of the white stone were somewhat faded down in the centre of the political arena, in the aisle dividing the congregating parties. Some of the decorative statues predated the Attronieux bloodline itself. Most noteworthy, however, was the preserved black leatherbound book sitting atop a stone podium in the aisle. A glass case, not a trace of dirt or print upon it, guarded the artefact with unrelenting dedication.

The Tome of Celestial Truth, a few-thousand- page scripture written by the three founding parabular saints.

The first established religion of Vos Draemar.

Thornvallis turned his attention to the Guild Union chamber once more. It had been split into two galleries, upper and lower. Political parties and entities, ones considered too peripheral or small to be granted prominent positions, arranged themselves in the grey cushioned benches that formed the U-shaped balcony. The lower gallery was longer and split into two distinct sides separated by the central aisle. On the left side, shifting along purple cushions, sat the Macheillons parliamentarians. First Minister Bromchaurd sat at the front bench, conferring with her closest subordinates.

“I actually feel confident with her,” Dash said as they both sat down, taking a seat at the back of the upper gallery. “There’s a venom to how she regards everything about this place. Shows she’s sane.”

“Maybe we should invite her to the tavern afterwards,” Thornvallis said, shifting in the bench section that was too small for them. “A couple of glasses of carrot wine and she’d be advocating for us to burn this all to the ground.”

“Let’s not push our luck,” Dash chuckled. “This arena is foreign to us both.”

Thornvallis turned their attention back to the lower gallery. More and more parliamentarians packed themselves in, cramming into the aisle steps. Elderly rabbits, dressed in white gowns and cassocks with golden trimmings, shuffled up onto the stage at the end of the aisle and took seats behind their raised wooden desks. The one in the middle, swathed in enough religious paraphernalia to double as a trinkets merchant, rang a small bell. The murmurs ceased, the tumult ended, and First Minister Bromchaurd took to her side of the aisle podium.

So did the figure opposite.

Sporting the egregious fanciful uniform of the Avantiers party – a political coalition of greedy racists, duplicitous morons and parasitic entrepreneurial types all wrapped up in the ignorant warmth of religious fundamentalism – was Guild Premier Benjamin Le Ferantidunnuf. The grey hare, coat splotched with the occasional white and brown, almost glided over to the podium with how his gown hid his hind paws. His face was slim and expressionless, animation reserved only for gleeful delight in the misery he inflicted on others. Thornvallis struggled to decipher where his poisoned ideals and beliefs originated from – idiocy conflated with enlightenment or malice masquerading as rationality – but regarded the figure with contempt either way. An individual of such a nature, of such a history, made even something as innocuous as the way they walked seem like a calculated political stunt. Thornvallis felt compelled to dive for the snivelling coward from all the way at the top of the chamber.

“In session!” the elderly speaker called, ringing the bell.

First Minister Bromchaurd took a moment before commencing. “People of the House of Sun – venerable ministers hailing from all guilds – it has become worryingly apparent that we face a time of national crisis. It can be described as no lesser and, in the coming days, it certainly will only be described in more severe terms. As I speak, western military elements hailing from the Kingdom of Loxworth, the Allied Procyoni States, the Clan of the Great Lupine, the United Hound Dominions and the Kingdom of Opulus pillage our holy lands and slaughter our future generations. The fighting forces of the Parabular Republic’s Grand Army are failing. War is a turbulence of morality, a perversion of good will, and it has cost us dearly.”

She turned to face her side. “But I am not here to simply observe what you all fear already. I did not arrive here to waste your time. Instead, I have been summoned to this podium – in front of all those who claim to love our fellow people – to condemn the idiotic misguidance of the fool across the aisle who claims to know better.”

The left side of the gallery murmured in agreement. The right donned expressions even more unapproving than they had been already.

“Ooh, she goes right in for it,” Dash said.

“First Minister Bromchaurd,” the elderly speaker said. “Let us remind you of where you stand before you issue any more inflammatory statements.”

“I remember where I stand quite rightly, speaker of the union,” she spoke, voice firm. “I issue no disrespect to those who uphold the sanctity of the little democracy we have. I issue it only to the moron charlatan who commenced a veritably unsanctioned war against a foreign power for ulterior reasons he shall not share with those who ought to know, a war that our nation was left vastly unprepared for in favour of his own persisting and obnoxious ignorance.”

Cries of opposition from the right gallery. Shouts of support emanating from the left and above audiences. It was not yet a frenzy, but even the politically uninitiated could sense the direction it was taking.

“You claim to value the democratic processes of our great republic, First Minister, yet speaking with such a hostile tone seeks to insult the integrity of the political articles you love so dearly,” the Guild Premier remarked, smug expression upon his face.

“The fact you can only issue a vague whataboutism in the face of condemning failure speaks to your inability to lead, you bumbling halfwit.”

That got the Guild Union riled up. The Guild Premier scoffed and shook his head. There were yells of protest from the right, cheers of support from the left, all interceded by retaliatory cries from either side. In the span of a few seconds, the tense silence had risen into a cacophony of vitriol.

“First Minister, remember your place!” the speaker yelled.

“There is an unyielding double standard to these civility politics you all remain so ardent on,” Bromchaurd said, volume raised. “A few naughty words, no matter the reality they convey, cannot be entertained by the fragile minds of the Avantiers. Yet we have conceded a third of our land to the enemy, we have lost the south and now the North Padamendastine Plains, all our once actually experienced military commanders that graduated the Grand de Timot Academy have been replaced by Ferantidunnuf’s inbred cousins—”

“This is out of order, Bromchaurd!” the Guild Premier bellowed.

“—all supplemented by the internal failures of a looming financial crisis caused by your personally-appointed Guild of Commerce ministers, failing relations with the Nedatic League, Kingdom of Serpents and Tabahos Islands after repeated instances of racist conduct from your personally appointed Guild of Foreign Affairs ministers, and the monstrous folly that is the recent heartless introduction of conscription laws by your personally-appointed Guild of Defence ministers that have only sought to have our next generations halved! Halved, you fool! And this is less pressing than the utterance of a few mean words?”

“Get off your high adeun, Brommy!” a voice from the stands cried.

“You don’t know the first thing about leading, Bromfraud!” another yelled.

“Bromfraud?” Dash scoffed. “Is calling someone else a bastard too scandalous?”

“Cursing is as sacrilegious as the truth here,” Thornvallis said.

The speaker of the house quelled the outrage. Voices died, anger relented, and all it left was murmurs of animosity. The First Minister continued.

“Your incompetence for governance in peace time is as immeasurable as it is impressive, Guild Premier, but your inability to lead in war time is a horrid reality the most downtrodden of our society are having to suffer. For the sake of our country, for the sake of our nation’s sanctity, we must divert our course from the imminent doom your leadership is bringing. If you truly value the few aspects of fair political ruling we have left in this theocratic nightmare touting itself as democracy manifest, you must push aside your ego and lend an ear to my proposal.”

“You could have spared us all the wasted time and gotten there,” the Guild Premier said.

First Minister Bromchaurd gestured to an aide nearby. The young rabbit hurried over, almost tripping in the process, and passed her a parchment. She unravelled it and spoke.

“This is why the Macheillons party, in cooperation with the representative parties hailing from the venerable houses of the Nedatic League and the Kingdom of Serpents, propose the immediate formation of a coalition guild government with the ruling Avantiers party—”

The booing on the right was immediate. The speaker yelled for silence, yet it did not come. The supporters of Bromchaurd’s attack resumed their applause and cheers.

“Shut up, Brommy!” the Avantiers cried. “Get off the podium, Bromfraud!”

“—to best ascertain the path forward to success and our people’s survival!” she yelled over the bellowing voices.

“Working side by side with the likes of you would be an insufferable annoyance!” the Guild Premier yelled.

“As it would for me, you crass moron, yet I would suffer far worse to save this country! Shed your pride and resign from government, for sun’s sake! Step down and let us elect a new leader before the wolves and hounds take our heads and collapse centuries of our history!”

With a swing of her arm, flourishing the parchment as she turned away, she made her way to the door and left. Macheillons party members stormed out along with her, offering both harsh words and crude gesticulations to the booing Avantiers.

“Yeesh, quite the dressing down,” Dash said. “Wish we’d gotten front row.”

“Wasn’t an execution, but if this is all we’ll get instead, so be it,” Thornvallis said.

“All those failings exposed,” Dash said as they leaned in, grinning with smug glee. “More room to get our hoof in the door, eh?”

…

Thornvallis had expected something more fanciful for their late evening rendezvous. Throughout their last forty years of living, they had heard wondrous testimonies of the capital’s taverns. They had heard of the dimly lit clubs draped in crimson velvet, frequented by couples dressed in their finest evening attire, where wandering merchants of hilarity took to the stage and delivered lethal blows sheathed in comedic punchlines to the fools of parliament, all the while carrot wine flowed freely from bottle to glass.

Instead, to Thornvallis’ quiet dismay, a cohort of Saint Luxzancque Guard had whisked them away from the House of Sun and ushered them into the back of a constabulary carriage. They travelled out east to the outskirts of the bustling city, watching as the raucous chaos of protests and persisting revelry of select brightly lit establishments faded into sprawling crops and humble homesteads. Half an hour later they arrived outside a roadside pub made of white wood and a thatched roof of straw. The guards disembarked and stood aside for the two furtive arrivals to make their way inside. Dash exited first and Thornvallis followed them into the tavern, shooting a look at the guards splashed in paint and dirt.

Within the establishment resided an interior that would not have met the near-perfect standards of the average capital city dweller. Uneven wooden floors, rickety tables and stools, and an old bartender in farming overalls who looked fed up with his life choices. Most of the bar was empty, save for the occasional huddle of agricultural workers drinking around dim lanterns on the tables. The murmuring chatter persisted although all eyes glared as the entourage crossed the room. Some even took the liberty to spit at the floor.

Thornvallis noted that only the Saint Luxzancque Guard were the recipients of such frosty reception.

The entourage led them downstairs into a basem*nt, passing the shadowy forms of carrot wine barrels. They filed through an empty doorway and turned a corner, arriving at a small room with an open centre. Barrels, crates of glasses, bottles and all manner of tavern items had been pressed against the walls.

At the centre, upon the large and faded stone slab floor, stood Guild Premier Benjamin Le Ferantidunnuf. There was something oddly wrong with seeing a figure of such lofty heights and supposed accomplishments loitering in the dank and mundane recesses of a wine cellar, although the discomfort visible upon their face proved a satisfying sight. A few political associates stood to the side and mulled over some carrot wine.

“Well,” Dash said, smiling. “Guild Premier Ferantidunnuf. It’s taken a lot of letters but, finally, we’re face-to-face.”

“Did you two give that wretched hag the idea to humiliate me at the Guild Union?” he snapped.

“Had nothing to do with us.”

“She made me and my government look like fools.”

“I think you’ll find you do that well enough on your own.”

The Guild Premier scowled. “You best watch your tone, rebel. No one who matters knows you’re here. I could have you—”

“Our people know,” Thornvallis said, glaring. “And you’d have a lot more trouble on your southern border with the Nedatic League. The kind of trouble we both know you don’t need right now.”

The Guild Premier stared. His scowl persisted but his silence betrayed him. With a sigh, he spoke.

“Why do you wish to speak with me?”

“An opportunity for mutual benefit, my dear premier,” Dash said, a grin upon their face. “You’re facing a pretty bad war. It’s no secret.”

“What do you low-born rebels know of war?” an advisor spat.

“That you’re bad at it, for one. The last ten years of occupation in the Nedatic League didn’t go swimmingly, did it? Especially when you lost to a bunch of low-born rebels.” Dash pivoted back to the Guild Premier. “Second, we know a lot about your exact situation. A third of the land is gone yet, either by mercy or by malice, your civilian population hasn’t been pillaged. Thousands of refugees have come pouring in from the west, no?”

The Guild Premier’s eyes widened. “How do you—”

“I also know that, in historically record-breaking time, the Opulusian Legion swarmed along the south-west border and will soon be in the process of sieging Saint Gaspard.”

“Did that witch give you confidential military documents?”

Dash’s grin persisted, a subtle yet deniable confirmation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Guild Premier. All I know is you’re in dire straits with a failing army, a failing country, and a failing government. But not to worry! House Yastillot is willing to help break the siege in Saint Gaspard and buy you time to fix the mess you created, a move blessed by our fellow houses in the league.”The Guild Premier’s face softened for a moment, a lapse in his cold guard.

“And what do you want in return?” he asked.

“Why, how gracious of you to ask.”

Dash procured a scroll and tossed it to the Guild Premier. He fumbled the parchment but caught it in the end, shooting Dash a look before unravelling it and reading. His eyes perused its contents, continuing from bottom-to-top, and they continued to widen with every passing demand.

“Y-you…” he said, aghast. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, we are extremely serious,” Dash said.

“You are asking me for complete separation of the Nedatic League houses from the Land of the Sun and Moon. You’re asking for complete cessation.”

“Independence seems a difficult concept for you,” Thornvallis said.

“Atop financial reparations and a widening political influence in the Guild Union, y-yes! Yes, it damn well is difficult for me! You ask for my ruin!”

“You prefer the alternative? The Land of the Sun and Moon gets dismantled for resources by Opulus?”“That seems far more reasonable than the insulting list you’ve asked me to abide by here!”

“Is it now?”

“Yes, it is!”

Thornvallis stepped forward. The guards tensed in anticipation. The cohort of cowardly politicians jumped and retreated a step.

“Interesting. Three-hundred years ago, when the people of House Yastillot were independently ruled by the fairly-elected Governing Peer Wamkal, the soldiers of the Parabular Republic invaded. You know what they did to the Governing Peer?”

“I—”

“They put their head on a spike and marched it around the capital for all to see. Their family was never seen again, likely butchered and buried. In their place came Governing Peer Rambouville, a leader who turned House Yastillot into the puppet state it has been since.”

Thornvallis pointed at the Guild Premier first and then swept the gesture across the entire cohort. “When the wolves and the hounds get here, they’re going to do the same to you. They’ll take your heads, they’ll butcher your families, they’ll desecrate your religious lands and replace all of it – all of it – with someone who does as they’re told. Do you want to taste that poisoned medicine we were force-fed?”

The group stared, shocked into silence. Dash took over.

“You haven’t exactly got much in the way of options, Guild Premier. Opulus has been willing to recognise us as an independent nation for the last century. We are doing you a big favour.”

“You have no guarantee they’d respect that,” the Guild Premier said.

“You have no guarantee they wouldn’t. We have Tabahos, the serpents, and the league at our back. Who’s at yours? Your extended family?”

The Guild Premier averted his gaze for a moment. He stood there, a scolded kit, and issued his timid response.

“I…I suppose we can take a look at this proposed deal. The logistics may take some time to plan.”

“Of course, of course,” Dash said. “We’re reasonable. Work takes time, especially for those who haven’t done much of it before. I’m aware of a ball you’ll be hosting soon? Of course, myself and my compatriot will be there. By then I’m sure you’d have had enough time to deliberate the deal amongst yourselves.”The Guild Premier nodded. Thornvallis interjected.

“We’ll also need somewhere to stay in the meantime. I saw a nice- looking place on the way here, what was it…oh, yes, the Chame de Galuge hotel back in Saint Luxzancque? We’ll need a room for the next few days.”

“You’ll have accommodation organised,” the Guild Premier nodded, gesturing to one of the guards. “You’ll be escorted back.”

“Paid for?”

“Paid for, yes.”

“Thank you. We look forward to speaking again.”

The duo turned to leave but, as they did, Thornvallis pointed to a crate of carrot wine.

“Who owns this?”

“A peer working in our party,” one of the advisors said. “They own the brand. It gets distributed here.”

“Great,” Thornvallis said, taking the crate under their right arm. “Consider this a down payment on future reparations. A show of good faith on your part.”

The cohort said nothing. The duo exited, followed by the silent group of guards.

“Well done,” Dash smirked. “Didn’t think of you as a warrior-negotiator.”

“Your charm is starting to rub off on me,” Thornvallis said.

“Evidently so. That ball will be quite the affair. Talk of the town.”

“It will be. I have a feeling the next few days will be exciting, sibling-in-arms.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

He was there again. Before he even saw the unchanging glare of the grey stone, before he noticed the darkness lurking at the fringes of the lantern lights, before he felt the faint cold grasping at his soul, before he saw the numerous bodies across the floor, he knew where he was. He sat in the middle of the aftermath, surrounded by the shadows of corpses left drowning in their own blood. His gaze did not dare to frequent the gruesome cadavers around him, warded away by the lasting terror such frightful visages would bring. Instead, his eyes focused on a single figure slumped against a pillar. An arrow protruded from his bloodied side and a layer of foam crept out from his hanging mouth.

Lieutenant Ziedik’s dead eyes glared at him in condemnation.

Ragnar’s breath caught in his chest. The remains of the lieutenant’s sacrifice rooted him to the very spot. There was no running away from that dying expression, no escaping the death of the only comrade he had in that hell. His voice quivered.

“I’m sorry. Francis…I…”

The terrifying vision shifted. Beside the deceased lieutenant, a familiar shadow appeared on either side. They hung limp from despotic shackles, the grievous extent of their inflicted injuries made apparent by the dim light, and with their arrival came the overpowering stench of death and decay. The gruesome demise of the tortured wolf and doe obscured his mind with flashing imagery of rent flesh and slashed faces. The bombardment drove him into a tight ball, knees to his chest and eyes shut.

“Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

The world heeded his desperation. He was weightless, falling through a void alongside the haunting phantoms, and his sudden plunge accelerated at terrifying speed. He screamed and flailed, grasping at nothing, as he fell towards a rapidly approaching pinprick of light. He saw that dim bedchamber, slick with black blood and shattered glass, leering up at him. The grotesque face of Archsovereign Zakulo, reinvigorated by forbidden power, regarded him with sad*stic glee as he plummeted towards them.

He struck the ground with a rib-shattering crack.

The vision abated as Ragnar’s eyes shot open. The grey brick had been usurped by white. The blood and corpses had been routed by beds and cabinets. The darkness had been bested by natural light beaming through curtained windows. The persisting cold had been dissuaded by the warmth of the sheets pulled around his body. The only thing that dared linger was the dull ache of his broken rib, a far cry from the excruciation it had inflicted on him prior. He lay on his side facing the wall, both arms in front of him with legs brought up slightly. The pillow beneath his head was plump and soft, a far more comforting successor to the hard floor of the abandoned cabin. A great lethargy plagued him that, even with the low murmur of the infirmary he had been brought to by the mysterious soldiers, willed him back to the peace of sleep. To lay there, to be still without a fret, was a luxury he didn’t even know he would ever miss. His eyes eased shut once more and, in seconds, sleep began to take him.

“I’ve asked Axel and the others. They’re happy with the idea.”

Ragnar’s ears stood.

“As am I,” a familiar voice retorted. “We’re here for this.”

“I know you are. I know all of you are.”

Ragnar eased himself onto his back, shifting the sheets as he turned. He looked away from the wall and into the sanitised centre of the infirmary, gaze passing over the countless other recovering figures that rested nearby.

“It’s just…this isn’t going to be easier. We’re going towards more danger. I don’t want you to volunteer just for—”

“We saved you from the execution because we believed in what we were doing. It wasn’t a favour. It was an oath. We’d all die in its name.”

“I don’t want that.”

“None of us do. The only other option was let them kill you and that didn’t sit right with any of us.”

It was them.

Rohesia was sat up in bed, an open book on her lap that she had abandoned in pursuit of conversation. The sight of bandaging tightly wound around her head summoned worry but her calm demeanour and smiling face dispelled such concerns. She was being well taken care of. His gaze drifted to the figure sat in the chair in the aisle, elbows resting on his knees as he spoke in a hushed tone to Rohesia.

A wolf with a white front, black back, and green eyes.

Ragnar didn’t say anything. He stared in defiance of reality, doubting the relief such a sight brought, and his stunned stupor froze all possible words in his throat. Rohesia glanced in his direction and her soft smile faded with realisation.

“Corsair,” Rohesia said.

Corsair Sedrid looked towards Ragnar. His ears stood, his tail flicked, and a hopeful expression emerged on his face.

“Ragnee?”

That nickname, that mantle owing its origins to more peaceful days long gone, made Ragnar’s face crumple. Corsair shot up from the chair and hurried down the aisle, sitting on the bed and wrapping his arms around his brother whilst making an overt effort to avoid touching his mending rib. Ragnar clutched Corsair as if his very life depended on it, eyes stinging with tears.

“God,” Ragnar whimpered, closing his eyes. “It’s you. I wasn’t dreaming.”

“This is real,” Corsair said.

“I missed you so much.”

“I did too. Oh my God, I missed you. I missed you.”

The two siblings held each other for a moment, relished in the harmony their reunion brought in light of the past few days of violence, tragedy, and terror. Fierce blizzards, sharpened blades, unplumbed catacombs and ancient parasites could not hope to drive a wedge between the two Sedrid brothers anymore. Corsair leaned back, paws on Ragnar’s shoulders, and smiled.

“I’m sorry I took so long.”

“It’s okay,” Ragnar sniffled, wiping his eyes. “It’s all…I’m just…I didn’t think I’d get out of there.”

“I would have done anything.”

Both siblings sat there, unable to do anything but just look at the other. It was a comfortable silence filled with doubts as to the reality of what was before them. Ragnar kept waiting for the dream to end, to wake up again in that brick coffin and see glinting blades outside, but it did not cease. He looked over at Rohesia who offered a smile.

“Nice to see you, Ragnar.”

“She helped save you,” Corsair said. “She snuck inside and found out what was going on. She sent us to get you out.”

“I hope you didn’t get that while doing it,” Ragnar said, pointing to her head.

“No, no, just something else,” Rohesia said. “I gave back twice what I got, trust me.”

“Right. Well, thanks. You helped save me.”

Rohesia said nothing, merely let her smile be her acceptance. Corsair spoke with excitement.

“Axel’s here, too, and there are these two other wolves who helped me escape the capital, Thomas and Dieter. Everyone was a big help in finding you.”

“Where are they?” Ragnar asked. “They’re not hurt too, right?”

“No, they’re fine. They’re just seeing to things outside, wanted to give you space. They’ll come say hello later.”

“Harangoth?”

“He’s here too,” Rohesia said. “He’s okay. Everyone is.”

Ragnar smiled at the thought of seeing his best friend again, a reunion that had been considered impossible only days prior. Corsair eased his paws off his brother and rubbed his face.

“I…it all worked out, Ragnee. The rescue, the way up here…it all worked out.”

“I don’t remember much,” Ragnar said. “I know something happened in the throne room where that thing—”

“It’s a lot to explain. There’s a doctor here – a kind deer called Ralwyndr – he’ll go through it all with you. Where we are, who we’re with, what we’re doing…it’ll all make sense soon enough. What matters though, Ragnee, is that we found each other again. We got you out of there. We made it!”

Ragnar didn’t know what to say. So much had gone so wrong and yet, in a blur of mania and blood, it had gone right. The air was fresher, the world was brighter, and those two hallmarks of liberty told him that he was free.

“So, who else is here?” Ragnar asked.

“A bunch of people,” Corsair said, excited. “All of them helped. There’s this organised militia that was hunting down Innerbridge and Zakulo. They found us on the road after we escaped Grand Wolf Plains. They took us in, they looked after us, and they agreed to help us track you down. The leader, Lady Riskar, we met her—”

“I mean from the capital. Mum’s around?”

Corsair’s face faltered. His excited spiel stopped.

“Corsair?” Ragnar asked, confused. “Is she still home?”

“She…”

Words didn’t follow. Corsair looked over at Rohesia. She responded with a soft nod and a solemn expression, looking away and opening her book.

Fear crept up Ragnar’s spine.

“What’s going on?” Ragnar said. “Why are you being weird?”

Corsair turned back to him. The excited expression, the tears of happiness and the relief were all gone. In their stead came a crestfallen face and flattened ears, usurpers of all the joy and merriment the last few minutes had brought. A pause, pregnant with dread, lingered in the air. Corsair drew air in, held it, and pushed the air out. He followed his preparation with a soft voice and dejected tone, sullen eyes focused on the bed. He delivered no more than a few words of explanation and did not dare to elaborate further.

Ragnar stared, mouth hung slightly open.

“I’m sorry,” Corsair said, still not looking at him.

Nothing else was said. Nothing else needed to be said. The few words his younger brother spoke had rendered Ragnar’s body completely numb. He didn’t move nor did he make a sound. The light, the air and the comfort all ceased to exist. The world melted into featureless grey as he stared at his brother, the source of the unravelling revelation, and from that featureless grey he realised it had been a dream all along. The happy reunion, the hope and the implicit signals of better things to come were all gone. The grey brick returned, embedded itself in his very flesh. The metal barred door sealed his mouth shut, silenced his tongue from ever speaking. The uncomfortable mattress wrapped around his head and suffocated his mind.

He felt the weight of an ink quill in his paw.

His sentence had not been served.

…

Corsair had tried to kill the silence, to resume their happy celebrations, yet he found it persisted regardless. Ragnar hardly responded to his queries in lieu of the troubling revelation. Corsair pursued that joy for the next few minutes, continuing to prompt his older brother to talk, yet the best he got were one-word retorts spoken in a neutral and almost lifeless tone. As much as it pained him, Corsair signalled his retreat. He told his brother he had to see to something, that he would return soon, and hugged his sibling before his departure.

Ragnar hardly reciprocated. He sat there, ridden with despair, staring at nothing.

Not a tear.

Corsair exited the infirmary after a muttered goodbye to Rohesia and shut the door. His eyes stung with tears, his breath hastened and his fear amplified. Dread and doom marched over the horizon.

“Breathe,” he muttered, forcing air in and out. “Just breathe.”

It was an uphill battle that he fought with fangs bared. He couldn’t let the regret hold him, couldn’t let terror paralyse him. He had someone to care for now, to protect. He was no longer chasing a prospect, pursuing a shot at rescue. He was protecting his brother from the many blades that sought to bring the Sedrid lineage to the bloody end they desired so much.

They couldn’t go back home.

A yap from Corsair’s right prompted him to turn his head. Quickpaw sat beside the stairs, regarding his master with head tilted and ears standing to attention. His tail flicked behind him, gliding to and fro across the stone of the cave.

The darkness at the fringes abated.

“Hey, Quickpaw,” Corsair said, mustering a smile as he descended the two steps and pet his head. “You’ve been very patient, good ictharr.”

Quickpaw mewled, casting his gaze to the door.

“He’s okay. He just woke up and…he needs space. A lot of rest. He’ll be well looked after.”

Quickpaw growled, standing and pushing his snout into the side of Corsair’s head.

“I know you do,” Corsair chuckled, easing him away. “He loves you too. He’ll be really happy to see you. Now come on, let’s go check on the others.”

Quickpaw yapped with excitement and bounded off, disappearing around the corner of the infirmary. Corsair glanced at the infirmary door, wishing he could be at Ragnar’s side, before he followed after the excitable ictharr.

The celebrative hubbub of the day prior had long faded into the familiar early-morning work grumbling, induced by copious amounts of alcohol. The few unfortunates that had been roused to tend to chores walked between their respective areas with half-open eyes and miserable expressions. Atan offered a timid hello as they slithered past with Paetri in tow, the beast trilling her greeting to them. Master Brouhard and Lendausz discussed matters with passionate fervour most would think impossible for such early hours. Kilik stood outside one of the barracks and puffed on a cigar, many bundles of Merchant’s Puff lying at his hind paws. It was good to see familiar faces, to be surrounded by a retinue of allies that shared a common purpose.

The liberated slaves dozed peacefully in the back of captured Tseontaeg wagons. They were a far cry from the comfort the cramped barracks transports of House Vigilance afforded yet were a substantial upgrade from their cells. Snakes and felines lay swathed in blankets and sheets, chests rising and falling as they slept under the loyal guard of the militia. Across from them, stood around the end of one of the barracks transports, were Corsair’s comrades. Dieter and Thomas pulled clothes on over plumes of unkempt and ruffled fur. Empty buckets and damp cloths sat on a table beside them. Parts of the rocky floor glistened with water, disappearing around the side of the barracks. Zechter, Arkzmeyer and Arwenin chomped through their morning breakfast, hunched over a metal trough. Quickpaw slid in beside Arwenin and offered a growl of greeting. Arwenin reciprocated and nudged over some food with her nose towards Quickpaw.

“Oh,” Thomas said, pulling his shirt over his head. “Hey, ‘Sair.”

“Morning,” Corsair said.

Dieter didn’t bother looking in Corsair’s direction, remaining focused on dressing himself.

“Where’s Axel?” Corsair asked.

“I’m behind here,” Axel said from around the back of the barracks. “Just finishing up. Can you pass me my clothes, Tom?”

Thomas reached for the clothes but stopped as a devilish idea formed in his head. Grinning, he grabbed the fourth bucket and disappeared around the transport.

“Don’t look when you come around.”

“I wouldn’t want to look, Ax. Here.”

“What? Tom, I asked for my cloth—"

The fateful splash of water was followed by a shrill shriek of surprise from Axel and intense laughter from Thomas. The troublemaker hurried back around with empty bucket in tow, keeled over from laughter. Corsair couldn’t help but snicker.

“Tom, you idiot!”

“I was just helping you clean!”

“It’s damn cold! I’m going to get sick!”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad!”

“I hate you so much, you little—”

Furious banging emanated from within the barracks, striking the nearby wall. A muffled voice screamed in Sikkharan for them to shut up, bringing silence to the cold-water debacle. Axel emerged seconds later, wet towel held around his hips by one paw and fur waterlogged.

“If it wasn’t early in the morning I’d hit you over the head with this bucket,” Axel said, snatching a new towel.

“‘Sair’s here.”

“Yeah, I got that before you doused me.” The hostility in Axel’s tone dissipated as he looked at Corsair. “Morning, buddy.”

“Hey,” Corsair said.

“Ragnar awake?”

Corsair sighed. “Yes, he’s awake.”

“And you told him about…you know?”

“I did.”

Axel nodded. “Good. You did well doing that, Corsair. It’s better he knows now than finding out later. Makes it easier for him.”

“Doesn’t seem that way.”

“It will eventually. It’s difficult. Just remember he has all of us here to support him.”

“Right.”

“What did he say about following House Vigilance?” Thomas asked. “Did he take that well?”

“As well as he could have,” Corsair said. “I told him about what we’re doing right now and…he just nodded. Didn’t say anything, didn’t protest, just nodded along without a word.”

“He’s in shock,” Axel said. “Understandably. Maybe you should ask again in a couple of hours, give him time to process.”

“I have to tell Lady Riskar now. They need to start moving the slaves towards the clan and we all need to start heading off wherever we’re going next.”

“It’s a difficult situation,” Thomas said to Axel. “It’s not like we—”

“I’m sure you’re going to make a terrific point here, Tom, but if you say another word to me right now, I’m going to stuff you inside that damn bucket,” Axel said, glaring.

Thomas looked away. Axel turned to Corsair. “He can’t go back home, and we’re certainly not going to leave him on his own in some foreign country. He’s coming with us. You just need to make sure he understands. We can’t spring more surprises on him in the fragile state he’s in.”

“You’re right,” Corsair said. “And I will. I’m glad we’ve got a consensus on this.”

“We’re with you every step of the way.”

“Same here,” Thomas said. “We helped you escape for a reason.”

“As am I,” Dieter said, not making eye contact.

“Good,” Corsair said. “Look after Quickpaw for me, make sure he eats.”

“Will do,” Axel said.

Corsair nodded, bid the group farewell, and proceeded down towards Lady Riskar’s quarters. The three wolves watched him walk past.

“It’s nice you worry about him so much,” Thomas said. “Quite the compassionate apothec—”

Axel smacked Thomas over the back of the head.

“Ow!” Thomas yelped. “What the hell was that for?”

“Next time, it’s with the bucket,” Axel said, storming off behind the barracks with haste. “Absolute idiot.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

As leader of House Vigilance, there were three unspoken responsibilities that Lady Riskar made effort to attend to. First was enforcing a respectable sense of authority in how she appeared. Even on the most miserable of days, Lady Riskar nary forgot to dress sharp. Perhaps it was the affluent upbringing still lingering in her habits yet, to her, it invoked trust from the people she had been tasked to lead. Care for the peripheral implied even greater care for what truly mattered. Second was keeping a level head. No matter what news she received, no matter how dire, she willed herself to remain focused. In dire circ*mstances the people of House Vigilance would look to her for guidance. If she held steadfast in the face of adversity the others would surely follow. Third, and finally, was knowing when to listen. She was young and with that youth came a ferocious spirit, one that could burn too bright and obscure the full picture with its flames. True intelligence was admitting that one did not know everything and twenty-five years of life left one with still much to learn. She was thankful for the guidance of the experts that had joined the house in its mission, offering their vast knowledge on vital areas to advise the next course of action.

Yet, as Lorenzo leaned over the map spread out across her desk and explained in detail their situation, Lady Riskar found she had violated all three rules in one morning. She sat at her desk in her purple nightgown, fur dishevelled and slumped over with one arm keeping her alcohol-tortured head up. Her expression rivalled the ever-grumbling misery of Kilik’s face, regarding the map with little understanding.

She couldn’t stop thinking of that transport trundling off into the blizzard. Of the monster she had come so close to ending just vanishing into the snowy wastes after two long years.

I had the bastard right in front of me. I squandered this moment. I should have his disgusting head on my desk right now, witnessing his vanquishers celebrate his demise. What a fool I have been.

“Milady?”

Lady Riskar snapped out of it and looked up. The armoured hound regarded her with a confused expression.

“Are you okay, milady?”

Lady Riskar glanced over to the bed. Sasha sat there in an equally hindered state, one paw to the side of her head and eyes hardly open. The evidence of their celebration, that being the five bottles of Aym-Jahar’s Remedy, lay at the base of their bed. Sasha fared better at enduring copious alcohol consumption, at least far better than Lady Riskar did, yet it was clear both had exceeded their limits the previous night.

“I apologise,” Lady Riskar said, rubbing her face and sitting up. “I was…distracted.”

“Is it Innerbridge?”

Lady Riskar said nothing. Lorenzo sighed.

“Milady, I understand how tough it is that we missed him. You both have a long history and this was as much a chance to set things right for the world as it was to set things right with yourselves. As hard as it may be right now, we need to appreciate what we succeeded in and press on from that point.”

“We freed the indentured of the Tseontaeg, my love,” Sasha said, standing and walking to Lady Riskar’s side. “Our wolf comrades put the terrible Zakulo to rest once and for all. We have rid Vos Draemar of a blight too evil for even these barren wastes to harbour.”

Sasha placed a paw on her shoulder and squeezed gently, letting Lady Riskar know she was there. The security such a small gesture afforded the grey feline was immeasurable.

“You must stop punishing yourself,” she said.

“I understand,” Lady Riskar nodded. “Thank you. Captain Lofdawn, I apologise, can you recite again what you elaborated on?”

“Of course,” Lorenzo said, pointing to the map. “Judging from where we are now, we’re quite far east in the Deuvick Feldanas. Terrain past the Glasefluss River – the one that had been cutting us off at Bokgohorodiskar – seems fairly easy to navigate. We have a direct exit route going south-east from the hideout into East Parabular territory.”

“East Parabular?” Lady Riskar said.

“Old legion term for Land of the Sun and Moon. Parabular Republic, East Plains, Old Parabular; all easy to say and less parchment taken up writing out the name.”

“I see. We are far closer than I anticipated.”

“Exactly. This saves us a lot of trouble. I’ve asked the pantry to be put on ration duty until we get resupplied. Getting into East Parabular itself will take a little over one day and then getting to a nearby town shouldn’t take much longer.”

“It also eases our situation regarding the slaves,” Sasha said. “Sending them south towards the Clan of the Great Lupine would potentially garner many questions that could expose the house’s existence as a threat to their alliance with Opulus. Of course, this was outweighed by the importance of their safety; what mattered most, and rightfully, was them returning to civilisation as swiftly as able. Now that we have learned the republic is closer, they shall be able to seek aid without exposing the house.”

“Exactly,” Lorenzo said. “That means they’ll be following us south-east. They’ll get priority on rations but, arguably, having them with us and draining food a little more is more cost-effective than giving them a big haul to last a longer journey in a different direction through tougher terrain. Things are going to get easier very soon.”

“Which then brings us to our primary topic of discussion,” Lady Riskar said, leaning forward. “Our plans for the Land of the Sun and Moon, especially with how they align with current international politics.”

“They’re far from friendly right now,” Lorenzo scoffed. “We won’t be sure on the details until we get back into civilisation, hear about what exactly is going on.”

“Are there any risks of us encountering the invading forces as we enter?” Sasha said. “Our militia is hard to disguise as a roaming group of itinerant workers considering the extent of our military equipment.”

“And the group of wolf fugitives we took on would make things a lot more awkward,” Lorenzo said. “If clan soldiers catch us harbouring them, we’re all as good as dead. I…I can’t make any certain estimations, here. Estimates aren’t certain in their own right anyway, so I’d be really just…guessing.”

“You have experience with the legion, captain,” Lady Riskar said. “Do you recall anything likely to inform your estimations?”

Lorenzo perused the map. Lady Riskar could almost hear his brilliant mind work, years of familiarity with the machinations of the Opulusian war machine playing back in his head. His paw rested on the map, tracing the west border between the Land of the Sun and Moon and its many opponents.

“The Silverclaw War was a learning experience for the legion and the wolves,” he said. “Neither of us expected Clan Silverclaw to put up such a fight, not with how weak their military was at the time. A lot of changes happened to battle doctrine afterwards but, once the war was over, I was already being reassigned to the Umbrali.”

He eased his digit away from the border and into the mainland. “Primarily, you’d have wolves focus on the north and the legion would push south and south-east. It’s the quickest route from their borders, less time spent rearranging armies back and forth, and they’d be sending messages from their aviaries to keep each other updated. Overconfidence in fast advances didn’t work well for them last war so they’ll likely keep a cohesive frontline strong across all points and move up their camps one secure position at a time. A successful counteroffensive from the rabbits could set them back badly. They also haven’t been to war for a long time which means that they can’t have made much headway.”

He brought his paw to a stop about one-third into the Land of the Sun and Moon.

“There’s a lot of factors at play here, I’m not claiming this to be solid evidence, but I don’t think they could be any further than…here. The Padamendastine Plains. They’re certainly not past the Saint Gaspard wall let alone up to it. If we go as far east as we can and then continue south-east over the border, we can move fast for the wall and get passage through to the other side.” Lorenzo looked up at Lady Riskar. “You’ll work your persuasive magic, milady?”

“If the circ*mstances are as dire as we are assuming them to be, I’m sure the governing parties of…what was it captain, East Parabular?”

“That’s the one, milady.”

“I assume they would be overjoyed with our offered assistance.”

“And then we have another party at the table condoning the overthrowing of Opulus,” Sasha said. “Although, I must say, it does not bring me much comfort knowing the gluttons of East Parabular may start staking claims to conquest in Opulus.”

“I don’t know. This war isn’t going to be particularly favourable for them,” Lorenzo said. “It’s one thing that they tried to seize the Raskartz-Amien towns, it would be another thing trying to invade after repelling an invasion. I wouldn’t be worried about something so long term, captain.”

“Apt,” Sasha said. “So, a brief overview of our next steps?”

“Of course. We get our affairs sorted here, pack everything up, and by midday we’re heading east. We hit the border, we go south-east, and we flag down a town at the Saint Gaspard wall. We explain our situation, we resupply, we get on the other side of the wall and then we head down to Saint Luxzancque. It’s a big country but we’ll have solid roads across fair terrain, it won’t take long moving around.”

“And then we parlay with the powers at be,” Lady Riskar said. “I am sure they shall be as incessant as this headache.”

“Speaking of incessance,” Lorenzo said. “That prisoner needs dealing with.”

“Of course,” Lady Riskar said, standing. “Let me fetch my coat so I do not appear so unkempt.”

Sasha was already on it without a word. She hurried to the row of hooks upon the wall and eased it off, returning to Lady Riskar and easing it on around her.

“I am starting to think you are flirting.” Lady Riskar smirked.

“By retrieving a coat? I worry your standards for romance are lowering, Aadi.”

Lady Riskar chuckled, pecked Sasha on the cheek, and followed Lorenzo to the door. “Rest for now, my love. I shall return soon.”

“Are you sure I should not accompany you?”

“Nonsense. Nurse your head, I—”

A knock at the door. Lady Riskar turned to face the entrance as Lorenzo grabbed the knob and pulled. The door swung open and there stood Corsair, as tired as the rest of them were.

“Morning,” he said.

“Ah. Good morning, Corsair,” Lady Riskar said. “Captain Lofdawn, would you mind seeing to our incessant friend?”

“I’ll have him taken outside,” Lorenzo said. “See you soon, milady. Corsair.”

Lorenzo brushed past Corsair and walked off down the parked convoy. Lady Riskar eased down the steps and shut the door.

“Excuse the captain. His grumpy demeanour becomes endearing at some point. Pray tell, how is your sibling? Has he emerged from his slumber?”

“Awake. I told him everything.”

Lady Riskar nodded, face softening. “My condolences, Corsair. This is not an easy time for either of you.”

“No, it’s not.”

The duo stood there in silence. Lady Riskar deplored pauses in conversation, felt vulnerable at the elongating awkwardness, yet she was too hungover to conjure up some manner of small talk. Corsair brought the suffering to an end.

“Look, I just uh…I came here to say we’re with you. All the way. There’s nothing else for us out in Vos Draemar. We’ll follow you wherever you go.”

“That is good,” Lady Riskar said. “You and your comrades are valuable support. The house would be honoured to return you and your brother to your rightful position as Winter Baron in the process. For now, however, we will be venturing to the Land of the Sun and Moon.”

Corsair frowned. “Really? Why?”

“To afford support against Opulus. We discussed this at length just prior.”

“You want to join a war against Opulus and the clan? Aren’t we—”

“No no no no,” Lady Riskar chuckled. “Goodness, no. We do not disillusion ourselves with the thought of fighting a conventional army head-on. We would be merely offering logistical support. Helping ferry supplies to and fro, couriering messages, tending to their war beasts and so on. A game of favours and busywork. A soldier cannot hope to best the demands of their mortality with only sword in paw.”

Corsair nodded, although the frown lingered. “Right.”

“I am also aware that…well…this would involve you turning on some of your people. Now I assumed this was apparent when—”

“No, it was. We discussed it. Tiberius has his supporters and not everyone will believe it was a set-up. Some wolves will want me dead for what they think I did.”

“I sincerely pray it does not come to that, Corsair.”

“Me too.”

Lady Riskar spied Lorenzo and Kilik escorting the prisoner past them, leading the blindfolded captive outside the cave.

“Apologies. I have matters to see to. We shall be vacating this place near midday so if your polite ictharr friend seeks to exercise before then, you may wish to see to that.”

“I will. Stay well.”

“And you.”

Lady Riskar turned and followed Lorenzo out the cave. She looked over her shoulder at Corsair. The wolf seemed sad, understandably so. The siblings’ reunion could only serve as a spark of relief in the unfailing darkness of their predicament. The potent grief that overshadowed all.

She knew it all too well.

She followed the troupe outside the cave, passing the ashen remains of the funeral pyres the enemy had been tossed upon. The decision to dispose of the corpses had not been motivated by respect but, rather, the fear that the Inkblood Malady would find some use of corpses in their fetid nests. They collectively decided it was best to deprive the ancient parasites of more vessels to satiate their Deathmothers. Beyond the ashen pile was an ever familiar shroud dark green, layered in shawls and cloaks. The deer knelt before a shallow grave dug into heaped snow, head bowed and hands rested upon the icy earth. Lady Riskar ventured over and stopped by his side.

“Ralwyndr.”

Ralwyndr raised his head. “Oh. Good morning, milady.”

Neither spoke a word for a moment. Lady Riskar watched the deer regard the shallow grave with sullen eyes, misery upon a face that once beamed with optimism.

“I am truly sorry,” Lady Riskar said.

“She was so brave. Astol. I wouldn’t have gone through with any of it had it not been for her. And now I cannot even thank her with a correct burial. No tree. No family. Just…me,” his voice quivered. “In all my failure.”

“You are no failure. You endeavoured to make the world right once more. The hearth shall keep her close in its eternal warmth. She suffers no longer. Take some solace in her peace if nothing else.”

Ralwyndr paused before saying anything. “I need some time.”

“Of course. Do you require anything of me?”

“No, milady. You give me enough. I’d…I want to be alone.”

Ralwyndr said no more. Lady Riskar took her leave even though her heart tugged her back in his direction. The troupe stood to the left of the cave. The blindfolded captive’s chest heaved up and down while Kilik held him by the shoulder.

“Good morning, Kilik,” Lady Riskar said.

“Milady,” Kilik grumbled. “Is Ral okay?”

“Grief is a difficult process. He needs time alone.”

“Right, right. What about this one, then? We gonna see if anyone grieves him?”

“No no no, look, I did what you asked,” the captive said. “I helped you kill them. You can’t kill me. You said you wouldn’t.”

“You did,” Lady Riskar said. “And now our deal has reached its conclusion.”

“S-so…that means you’re letting me go, right?”

“I keep my word. Kilik, set our friend loose.”

Kilik undid the blindfold and shoved the captive forward. He stumbled and fell into the snow, rolling onto his back and scrambling back.

“Go on, get out of here,” Kilik said. “You’re free to go.”

The captive looked over his shoulder. The endless snowy expanse returned his gaze. The prisoner shrank in the face of it and turned back to them.

“B-but…where do I go?”

“Away from here,” Lorenzo said.

“I’ll freeze out there.”

“We’re not killing you, are we?”

The captive looked back at the snowy expanse, trembling, and then looked back to the group. His eyes shimmered with tears.

“No…you can’t…please don’t do this.”

“Are you deaf, der’mo?” Kilik yelled, stepping forward. “Scram! Go!”

“Those things will eat me out there!”

Kilik brandished his mace. “And I’ll cave in your head here, you little sh*t, now go!”

The captive got up and hurried towards Lady Riskar. He dropped onto his knees, clasped his paws together, and stared up at her with pleading eyes.

“Forsake Jjandiet, I can’t die out there. I did everything you wanted. Please!”

Lady Riskar said nothing. His eyes brightened as desperate ideas came to his mind.

“I-I can keep helping! I can cook and clean and carry things for you! I’ll kill for you, I will!”

“Come here,” Kilik hissed, grabbing him by the arm. “I’ll make you understand.”

“No, stop!” the captive yelled. “I did as you asked! I’m still useful!”

“Shut up already!”

The captive sobbed and flailed, struggling against fate as Kilik dragged him out into the snow. Lady Riskar watched, clenching her paws. In his place, she saw the phantom of a young grey feline struggling as she was carried off, nothing but a torn nightgown about her figure.

“Please!” the captive begged. “Please don’t leave me here! I beg you! I beg you!”

“Hearth below…call them back,” Lady Riskar said, rubbing her face.

“Milady?” Lorenzo said. “Why should—"

“I am asking you to summon them back here, captain, if you please?”

“Kilik! Bring that idiot back here!”

“What?” Kilik bellowed, stopping and turning.

“Bring him back!”

Kilik’s derision for such a choice was expressed by a long exhale pluming from flared nostrils. A moment of silent anger passed before he dragged the weeping captive back to the group. Kilik shoved him down in front of Lady Riskar and stepped back. The snivelling prisoner looked up at her.

“Please. Just listen to me. I beg you a thousand times over, I—"

“I did not ask you to grovel,” Lady Riskar said. “Stand up.”

He did as ordered, shakily struggling to his hind paws. Lady Riskar snatched the collar of his shirt and yanked him in. He winced in anticipation of being hit. He stood taller yet, judging by his terrified face, it was evident he felt ten times shorter.

“You know what your dear Innerbridge would do to a prisoner who pleads?”

“W-what?”

“Cut their tongue out.”

Lady Riskar let the silence drag out, let the uncertainty settle in. The prisoner sobbed, trying to hold her gaze and failing.

“If anyone else stood where I stood as of now, if you were pleading to any other but me, they would not care. Perhaps the most you would be able to barter is a swift demise here as opposed to the freezing end that awaits you out there. So thank the hearth below that you have encountered me during a particularly merciful period.”

The prisoner almost deflated with relief. “Thank you. Forsake Jjandiet, thank you.”

Lady Riskar wasn’t done. “You are to be placed on the slave transports and will follow us to our destination. You shall depart from us at the designated point with the slaves. From there on, I care not what you do. Pursue faith, seek alcoholic comfort, or shovel sh*t. It is of no concern to me.”

A flash of steel and her rapier rested against his throat. The captive went taut, eyes wide.

“H-hey!” he yelped.

“But if I discover you have relapsed back to your depraved ideals, that you have turned your poisoned soul back to butchery and harmed a single soul, I will personally see to it that you are decimated in a manner unbefitting vermin. Do you understand?”

The prisoner nodded, sniffling. “I-I understand.”

“What are you not going to do?”

“Go back to the S-sons of Dokvaillam.”

“And what will happen if you do?”

“You’ll…you’ll kill me.”

Lady Riskar sheathed her rapier, let go of his collar and patted him on the side of the face. “Well done. Innerbridge’s troupe inspires little confidence but, I must say, there is hope for you yet. Kilik?”

“Yes, milady?”

“Get this fool out of my sight.”

“Wake me up at the arsecrack of dawn to go on a walk,” Kilik grumbled under his breath, shoving the captive. “What are you gawking at me for? Move!”

Lady Riskar and Lorenzo watched the captive being returned to the convoy.

“I didn’t want to undermine you there,” Lorenzo said. “But I don’t follow.”

“How so?” Lady Riskar asked.

“The sudden change of heart. Why spare him?”

Lady Riskar looked towards the funeral pyre. There lay the ashes of many cruel felines, individuals of disgusting repute who met the flaming steel of justice. Yet, in the remains of the pyre, she saw the pillaged families of her youth sprawled before her. She saw the ashen remains of innocents decimated by the unstoppable onslaught of zealous fire.

She heard herself – a version many years younger – crying and begging for mercy before that bastard tiger.

“Perhaps I am fickle at heart, captain,” was all she offered in reply.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

How had he not seen her?

It was a question that repeated in the hound’s mind again and again, an excruciating line of enquiry that only served to surface guilt and further entrench regret. It haunted him in every waking moment, ambushed him in the midst of good thoughts, and sought to ruin him at every corner. There was no place he could hide, no refuge he could seek, for the immortal witness of his own mind would follow him to the ends of the earth.

How had he not seen her?

He was there again. Sword poised to skewer the disarmed wolf prince, to deliver on orders he had been assigned. The Sedrid family were to be removed from the equation by any means necessary. Exile had been silently what he pleaded for yet the murder of an Opulusian legionnaire forced his gauntleted paw into greater action. Everything moved as if submerged in water, reacquainting him with every detail of the agonising memory.

How had he not seen her?

And, as if the world disappeared for a moment, he arrived at that crucial failing. There was no moment between, no perceivable transition, only a lapse in which a cascade of fresh grief began. No longer did the young prince lie before him. Instead, skewered on his longsword driven forth by loyalty to a peaceful future, he found the quarry’s mother.

How had he not seen her?

It was a cruel joke that he could not recall how he had overlooked such a sacrificial intervention yet could remember the crimson splotch growing in diameter across her back, could see the glint of the lanterns in the few drops that pushed through the blood-sodden cloth and fell to the ground. The dawning realisation stung, froze his heart in his chest, and he could not avert his gaze from the emergent tragedy of his wrongdoing.

How had he not seen her?

The mother’s head turned as the world froze. She struggled to look past her left shoulder, her neck straining, before her spine severed with a disgustingly clear crunch and her head turned fully to face him. She looked up at her murderer, the hound that had pillaged her family line in such short time, and opened her mouth to speak. No words came. In their stead arrived a torrent of blood that pushed out her gaping maw as if to escape, pouring out into the Great Hall of Wolves. He couldn’t move. There was no chance for egress. The hall filled and filled with viscous crimson, spilled by his paw, and soon it rose above him. He struggled and flailed as everything disappeared behind that sickening shade, tried to claw his way to the surface, yet he knew there was no winning. The blood forced its way into his throat, into his eyes, and before long his very being was routed and replaced by his grievous misdeeds. That question echoed one last time as that eternal pool of reminiscence forced the air out of his lungs and pulled him into the crushing darkness.

A jolt, a gasp, and the crimson vanished.

The doberman lay on his side on a four-poster bed made of light varnished hardwood, head resting on a scarlet cushion. A warm plump duvet was drawn up to his shoulders, shielding the hound from the emboldening cold of the Auxiom night. Sunlight beckoned through a crack in the heavy beige curtains, defeating the guardians that hung from the metal rail across the top of the right wall and ran down to the crème-coloured carpet. Light-coloured bedside tables sat on either side of the bed, half-melted candles sitting in their holders on both.

He was home.

Valour, groaning as he emerged from the grogginess of sleep, turned over. The right side of the bed was empty, the duvet thrown back for his husband to vacate the room. A book, page folded at the corner halfway through, sat beside an almost-empty pitcher of now lukewarm water. Valour smiled.

He let me sleep in.

Feeling a light pressure around his head, coaxing his temple and neck, he reached up and removed the band of yellow wool. The happy hoody was something his mother-in-law had knitted for him, used to destress during difficult times when it was all too much. His name had been written along the top in red stitching, bordered in a pink love heart as a label forever claiming the slightly embarrassing sleep apparel to be his. Smiling at the kindness put into every thread he placed it on his bedside table, climbed out from beneath the duvet and proceeded to make the bed. It was an old legion habit, enforced by the Royal Order knights that oversaw the rookies’ training, yet he found it to be a healthy one all the same. Once the bed had been made, he crossed the wide room and slid open the closet. The storage space ran the width of the wall opposite the bed, hiding behind its thin wooden face a long metal rack of clothes. The clothing assembly was split down the middle into two halves, one for each of the husbands, and despite the lack of a physical partition it was not difficult to ascertain which belonged to whom. Valour’s clothes were smaller, a collection of gowns and tunics that fit his slimmer athletic frame, whereas Daslynn’s apparel were more suited to shrouding his larger figure. Valour picked out something light. It was a present from his parents for his thirtieth birthday, a white gown that hung over one shoulder, decorated in blue diagonal stripes. He was thankful his line of work offered many opportunities for physical exertion, letting him maintain a figure that retained a veritable treasure trove of clothes from many years prior. Valour shut the closet, opened the curtains, and proceeded out the bedroom with empty pitcher in paw.

Working as commander of the Militaria chapter still proved to be a stressful position even after the few years Valour had exceptionally performed yet it did yield some worthwhile benefits. The city cottage he lived in, no more than a ten-minute walk from Grand Arx Illud’s Vos Unitia Bastion, was a completely different reality from the western slums of the United Hound Dominions. The abode was spacious, a building of wood and brick furnished in affluent and fanciful upholstery. The carpeted landing from the bedroom to the downstairs was guarded by a wooden banister, the heads of howling hounds carved into the surface. Family paintings and portraits greeted the doberman as he passed, depicting either his parents or his husband. He smiled at them as he passed. Some were from trips abroad, painted by the trained paws of roaming artists, whilst others were sourced from talented individuals within the kingdom’s capital. He reflected on them fondly as he descended the stairs to the ground floor of the cottage and stopped by the living room door. His ears stood.

Beyond the threshold, through the living room and out through the garden door, he could hear two voices. The first was high-pitched and excitable, filled with the inexhaustible curiosity and energy of youthful spirit. Valour could recognise the animated yapping of his youngest daughter with ease, a sound he had missed during his excursions up north. The second voice spoke less often, letting the eager cub express herself, but when it did Valour smiled. It was deep yet soft. There was care and sensitivity in every word. A loving voice that spoke with only the best in mind for their daughter.

Daslynn.

Valour moved away from the living room door and crossed the entrance hall at the foot of the stairs to the kitchen. Large tessellating stone tiles supported the weight of the lightly coloured wooden countertops and cupboards. The dinner table sat before a set of bay windows, four chairs pulled around the dark circle mounted upon four arched metal legs. The aftermath of last night’s meal sat atop the counters beside the washing basin, cooking utensils and plates smeared in leftovers and grease. Valour deposited the empty pitcher beside the refuse and got to work.

He had missed this dearly. A simple life, cushioned from worry yet not insulated from meaning. They had no servants, no helping paws, just the unity of a good family to keep them going. Valour was happy to see to the more domestic aspects of the home – cooking, cleaning, laundry – and brought him much satisfaction to know he was contributing to a comfortable house for both husband and pup. Valour hummed to himself a marching tune as he cleaned, minutes passing.

“Good morning.”

Valour’s ears stood, and he looked over his shoulder.

Crossing the kitchen, sporting a dark sleeved gown of his own with a red sash tied around his somewhat pudgy waist, approached Daslynn. The blue-eyed Samoyed regarded his husband with a smile, a warm expression of joviality Valour had missed. The expression made the fur on his cheeks point outwards like arrowheads. The thick volumes of his mane cascaded down over his chest from his neck. Both knew attempting to wrangle such a jungle would prove futile.

“Morning, Lynn,” Valour said, turning his attention back to the cleaning.

Valour smiled as he felt Daslynn’s arms wrap around his waist, felt the warmth of the sun that had gotten stuck in his coat as Daslynn rested his head on Valour’s shoulder.

“What a good husband,” Daslynn said. “Already clearing everything and he’s only just woken up.”

“Of course,” Valour said, nuzzling against him before continuing. “Who would I be without my tendency to obsessively clean?”

“A mere shadow of a hound, surely.”

Valour chuckled. “Kaegli sounded like she was having fun.”

“She was. She’s been waiting to go to the Central Market today, pick out a toy with her two favourite dads.”

“We’re not too late for that, right?”

“Central Market’s open all day.”

“I know but I mean the toy stall. It’ll have what she wants?”

“Should do. If it doesn’t, we’ll find something else, lot of peddlers in the city.”

“What about Juno?”

“Up in her room.”

Valour hummed in thought. “Well, we should get going soon. I’ll finish up—”

“Morning, Papa!”

Daslynn eased off Valour and the doberman turned. A young fox cub, six-years-old, stood in the doorway. Clad in a bright blue frock and red stockings smeared in grass stains, Kaegli bounded over to Valour giggling with every step. Valour turned and caught his daughter as she ran towards him, yanking her up into the air and holding him against her with one arm. A tiny bird felt heavier than she did.

“Well, good morning, Kae.” Valour beamed. “What have you been up to with Daddy?”

“We were making flower necklaces.” Kaegli grinned.

“Really?” Valour said, pointing at her stockings. “Is that how you got these dirty?”

“Maybe.”

Valour looked over at Daslynn, who rather conveniently was facing away from the conversation by rummaging through the pantry.

“Well, perhaps Daddy can clean these up himself later. Next time be careful Kae, please.”

“Okay. Did I do bad?”

“No no, don’t be silly. Go upstairs, change your stockings and get Juno to come downstairs please. We’re going to the market.”

Valour lowered to the ground and watched Kaegli run off upstairs with a new charge of energy, yelling for her sister to hurry up. Valour looked over at Daslynn again, who, rather coyly, attempted to broach a new topic of conversation.

“So, uh, what should I pack for the market?”

“A better way of changing the subject.” Valour smirked, flicking the back of Daslynn’s head. “There will be food there, just some flasks for water. I’ll go get our sunhats.”

…

The Central Market had always been a gladiatorum for cutthroat peddlers and fierce merchants, many vendors fighting against one another to appeal to the attention of families and their heavy coin pouches. Royal Daschlain traded paws every second, purchasing goods of various origins and purposes. It resembled a small town, claiming a big stake to the real estate of central Grand Arx Illud, and to walk through its crowded streets under the glowing sun was always a nice family outing. There was no questioning how valuable such a location was to the economies of not just the kingdom but numerous other nations across Vos Draemar.

The family sat at a table nearby, placed on one of the busy wide pedestrian avenues cutting a straight line between the stalls. Valour enjoyed a delicious fresh breakfast of scrambled gupplebird eggs on warm toasted bread accompanied with a healthy portion of gerbeast bacon. Daslynn sat across from him with a straw sunhat atop his head, enjoying a smaller portion of eggs, and Kaegli beside him was chomping through the toasted sandwich she had asked for. The morning was so great, so peaceful, one would hardly know there was a war going on.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Valour asked.

“It’s so good!” Kaegli exclaimed.

“Speak when you’ve finished eating, Kae,” Daslynn said. “It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

Kaegli nodded, lesson learned.

“What do you think, June?” Valour asked, looking left. “Central Market makes good breakfast, hm?”

The fourteen-year-old hyena sat beside her father, already finished with her meal yet not a word spoken. She stared at the passing citizens with a bored expression, brown eyes fixated on one point of the street and observing the traffic that passed through. A short dark mane rang along her back and disappeared beneath the collar of her grey tunic, accompanied by a haphazard arrangement of dark spots across her light brown fur. Part of her dark-coloured ensemble were black trousers and shin-high boots. Valour had advised her that they were too heavy for Auxiom daytime, yet she insisted otherwise. Valour could tell she had realised such a decision was imprudent, that she should have heeded her father’s suggestion, but the last few years had taught him that she was not one to admit that.

“It’s good,” Juno said.

“What did you have again, June?” Valour said.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You just had it.”

Juno shot him a look. “Do I need to remember everything for your interrogation?”

“Excuse me,” Daslynn said. “Your father very kindly paid for our breakfast. Don’t take a tone with him.”

Juno looked away. Valour knew better than to contest it. Kaegli wolfed down her sandwich and turned to Daslynn.

“Daddy, I’m finished!”

“Wow, well done,” Daslynn said, inspecting the plate. “And that was fish you didn’t like, too. Well done for trying.”

“Can I go show my friends my new toy, please?”

Daslynn looked over to Valour. “Her friends from academy are a few tables down. We said hi to them as we passed.”

“She’ll be okay,” Valour said. “Kae, what did we teach you about strangers?”

“Never ever go with them,” Kaegli beamed.

“And what do you do if someone you don’t know tries to take you somewhere?”

“I run to you!”

“No, you yell first. You yell very loud. Then you run to me, okay? And if you can’t find us, you go to a royal constable and stay with them. You tell them you’re the daughter of Commander Valour and you’re lost. They’ll keep you safe.”

Kaegli nodded violently, eager to go. Valour sighed.

“Okay, go on. Let their parents know you—”

Kaegli was already gone, plush toy in paw as she raced away to find her friends. Daslynn chuckled.

“She’s so funny.”

“I just hope she listened,” Valour said.

“She does. I can see her from here anyway, it’s not a trouble.”

“I’m going to talk to my friends,” Juno said. “They’re down the other way.”

“Remember what I said to your little sister, please,” Valour said. “You—”

“I’m not six.”

“No, but you’re my daughter and I want to make sure you’re being safe in a crowded street. Am I allowed that?”

Juno didn’t say anything. Daslynn spoke.

“Thank your father for the breakfast before you go.”

“Thank you,” Juno muttered. “Can I go now?”

“Sure,” Valour said. “I’ll come fetch you in a bit.”

Juno evidently couldn’t get away from him quickly enough. She hurried off to a gaggle of teenagers a few tables down, quickly sliding in beside her friend. The friend waved to the two husbands who both returned her greeting with a friendly wave back.

“Is June still having that problem at academy?” Valour asked, finishing his meal. “You know, the fights?”

“A couple happened while you were gone,” Daslynn sighed. “She didn’t start them this time but…she insists on getting into them.”

“Were they bad?”

“Nothing expulsion worthy. A shove here, a slap there. The academy is being very lenient, giving her a lot of support. It’s difficult for teenagers in the adoption system, we knew what we were taking on.”

Valour looked over at her again. She was happy amidst her friends, chatting up a storm like he had never seen before.

“Those are good friends she has,” Valour said. “The hyena next to her, I know her parents. Doctors.”

“She was around a few times,” Daslynn said. “Very well mannered. June’s keeping good company.”

“I just wish she’d be like that with me,” Valour said, stacking the plates.

“She’s not exactly talkative with me either, Val.”

“She listens to you though. With me…I don’t know. The last couple of days I’ve been home, she’s either always outside with her friends or up in her room. Gods, am I doing something wrong?”

“Val—”

“You had to ask her to come downstairs to say hello when I got home. I haven’t been back since Adgrediom. Does she not like me?”

“Val, come on,” Daslynn said, placing his gargantuan paw on Valour’s. “She’s an adolescent. This is expected. You told me how you were as a pup in the Dominions, running around slugging people across the jaw.”

“It was the slums. You fight to survive out west. Here…it’s the centre of Vos Draemar, Lynn. We have everything we need. The money, the house, the education, the amenities, we’re not struggling for anything. We’re making so much money you quit blacksmithing, what, two years ago?”

“Right.”

“So, what is it? Am I overbearing? Too curt with her? I tried using the slang her friends use—”

“That was embarrassing for everyone involved,” Daslynn chuckled.

“I was just trying to be youthful,” Valour said, unimpressed.

“What teen wants to be pally-pally with a military commander, Val? They think you’re trying to recruit them or something.”

“I…look, I tried being relaxed, right? Being her friend and trying to follow her interests. So, what is it?”

Daslynn sighed, looked over his shoulder at Kaegli playing with her friends, and then looked back at Valour.

“I don’t think it’s just this, but…I think it’s the job.”

Valour felt himself deflate. “Lynn—”

“I know, I know, we’ve been over this. It’s a conversation we have every time you’re home on leave. I’m sorry, but if you’re asking me for a genuine answer then that’s it. She’s an adopted teenage daughter who’s been through gods-know-what before she was brought into the system, and she only has one of her fathers at home most of the year.”

“Well—”

“And now there’s a war going on. What if this is her repressing all the fear, all the worry, that she has for you? That you’re not going to come home after this? That she’s going to be abandoned again?”

“Well, what do I do? I can’t exactly quit, Lynn.”

“I know. And being the commander means something to you more than power, you’ve said that. It’s a chance for you to help bring a peaceful future, something we didn’t have growing up, because you believe in Farramor’s vision. But you don’t have to take on the world, Val. Being home, getting a local job and being around, that would bring a peaceful future to both your daughters.”

“I was—”

“And me.”

Valour met Daslynn’s loving gaze, saw the lingering sadness behind his eyes.

“You know it kills me to leave,” Valour said.

“And it kills me to see you go,” Daslynn said. “Waking up next you, feeling you there, holding you…I missed it, Val. I really did. And I know you miss this.”

“I do. You don’t know how much I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You know the problem. We have this because of my job.”

“So, what does it matter if we go back to the Dominions? You know the place, you have family there, we could still—"

“No,” Valour said with a firm tone. “Lynn, no. The kind of horrid things pups had to see in those slum alleyways are not character-building. They’re not liveable. I didn’t get beaten up and fought for my life to get out of that horrible place just to send my own pups back there. This life that we love so much is afforded on what I do. If we go back, you know what will happen to June? To our little Kae? Boot polishing for some parasite nobles will be the best it gets for them. How can I give up the very thing that shields what I love, Lynn? What kind of father would I be? You can never ask me to do that. Never.”

Daslynn didn’t say anything for a moment. He fiddled with his food, looked down at the table, and nodded.

“You’re right.”

“I’m sorry I took that tone,” Valour said.

“No, I understand. I’m sorry I suggested that. I just want you to stay home.”

Valour didn’t say anything for a moment. He felt the weight of the bond around his neck in the silence, reaching up and feeling the golden band around his throat. His digits rested around the dull stone embedded in it that sat just above his collar bone. His marriage, the event in his life that had brought him such joy and purpose, was vested in that thin gold oath collar that had been placed around his neck. It was his promise of fealty to everything that mattered, a dedication to family, love, peace and kindness that would one day outlive him. He would be laid to rest one day and that testament to all he valued, to all he championed, would eternally live on.

It was an oath to Daslynn.

Valour placed his paw on Daslynn’s. “Listen…I’ll give this a thinking over.”

“Thinking over what?” Daslynn said.

“Being commander. I’ll find something, a loophole or…a way to keep us here. Home is the only place I want to be…but—"

“You still have to go.”

Valour issued no more than a solemn nod. Daslynn nodded back, gaze lowering once more.

“I understand. You do a lot for us.”

“And I love all of you.”

Valour got up and moved to Daslynn’s side. He sat down and eased the top of his head against the side of Daslynn’s, closing his eyes. Daslynn eased an arm around him.

“I promise you,” Valour said. “I swear it. All I want to be is right here, with you and our pups.”

“I believe you,” Daslynn said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

Valour saw nothing but good things in Daslynn, could not comprehend the vastness of his immense dedication and support, and knew deep down where he was meant to be. To find purpose in a place that wasn’t splattered in blood and shattered by the consequences of a conflict he had not lived to fight in. Yet such a brief retreat from his occupation was not in the cards they had been dealt. Not yet. He had to venture east, turn himself towards carnage again, to keep the security his family had.

Yet all he could see in the pursuit of the king’s prophesised peace was a doberman forever drowning in blood.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

“…sair.”

Corsair groaned as he emerged from the grogginess of slumber. A paw rested on his shoulder and gently shook him.

“Corsair.”

He opened his eyes. Rohesia knelt by his side, shaking him awake. Corsair sat up and yawned. The barracks transport had stopped moving.

“What?” he asked.

“We’re here.”

Corsair looked to the rest of the carriage. There was a buzz of excitement amongst the troops of House Vigilance, peering out of windows to get a glimpse at the landscape of the Land of the Sun and Moon. He surmised that many likely had never been to the country, let alone close to its borders.

“Finally,” Thomas yawned. “I never thought I’d get tired of sleep. Where’s Ax?”

“With Ragnar,” Corsair said. “Seeing to patients, I think.”

“Right.”

A knock at the door. Corsair stood and approached, placing his paw on the doorknob and opening. The aggressive chill that would force its way inside was no more. The air’s temperament was far friendlier than its northern counterpart. Sasha stood at the bottom of the steps, clad in armour.

“Good evening,” she said. “I trust the journey has not been too boring?”

“We’ve kept ourselves busy,” Corsair said.

“A bit more food would have been nice,” Thomas said, stomach rumbling.

“Rationing is far from a delightful process, I concur. You shall not have to suffer for much longer. Corsair, the presence of you and your comrades is requested by milady.”

“Okay,” Corsair said. “One moment.”

He eased the door shut and got dressed. The group pulled on their snow clothes, apparel better suited to the Deuvick Feldanas yet still somewhat applicable to the colder north of the region. The cohort filed out the barracks alongside a few house troops, watching them hurry off to see to some manner of urgent task.

“Follow me, if you will,” Sasha said, leading them to the front of the convoy.

Corsair led the group after the captain, turning his attention to their surroundings as they walked. The snow had long disappeared, usurped by only the white tint of frost over the grass blades. The flatlands extended out to the horizon, interceded only by the occasional hill and pond. The evening sun hovered low to the ground in the west, pink and orange bleeding from the sky. Its fading light cast over the quaint town to their east, a congregation of grass-covered mounds and hills that had made up the rabbit burrows. Wooden doors and thin glass windows sat in holes excavated into the landscape, paved pathways snaking through the sleepy settlement. Yonder, over the many grassy mounds, abyssal darkness beckoned from the yawning mouths of mine entrances. Distant figures ventured and out in steady streams, donning overalls and heaving pickaxes.

“Where are we?” Thomas asked.

“The Reveneur region,” Dieter said. “Northernmost province of East Parabular.”

“What do you even do to pass the time out here?”

“On the surface, perhaps it does not appear so exciting,” Sasha said. “But I imagine that the interiors of their underground abodes are quite comfortable. They are shielded from the cold.”

Corsair glanced right. Some feline militia soldiers stood huddled together, muttering in amazement of what they saw around them. No longer did they hunch their shoulders and tremble from the cold’s assault yet their paws were still tucked beneath their armpits to shield them from the slight chill. Corsair and the others walked freely, all limbs exposed to the elements, and did so without so much as a shiver.

The group arrived at Lady Riskar’s quarters. The grey feline stood conversing with Lorenzo and Kilik, alongside a few other armed members. Sasha stopped by her side and turned, letting the militia leader address the arrivals.

“Good evening, my friends,” Lady Riskar began. “It has been an arduous journey, yet I believe, from this point on, our work shall become far easier.”

“Why’s that?” Corsair asked.

Lady Riskar pointed to the town east of them. “The docile northern mining town of Galance de Boignot is unharried by the western invasion. We have our point of entry to not only acquaint ourselves with local forces but to also resupply the caravan and press on to the capital.”

“A bunch of armed vagrants just turned up on their border,” Thomas scoffed, arms folded. “You think they’ll be friendly?”

“Perhaps not at first. Ever since the events of the Silverclaw War, the denizens of our clan are typically viewed as murderous idealists. However, when they see who we have in our midst…”

She gestured to Corsair. The wolf’s ears fell.

“Uh…is that a good idea?” he said, glancing to the town. “I’m the son of the Winter Baron.”

“Under the banner of your clan maybe,” Lorenzo said. “But you’re with us now. When they realise you’ve defected from your clan, we’ll have their interest. It’s not an airtight plan but it’s more convincing than just a promise we’ll behave ourselves.”

“And what if they try to kill him?” Rohesia said. “Did any of you think about that?”

“He shall not be alone,” Lady Riskar said. “Myself and this cohort will approach the town. All will be explained, and Corsair won’t come to harm.”

“Well, I’m coming with him,” Rohesia said.

“And me,” Thomas said, paw on his sheathed longsword.

“As am I,” Dieter said.

Corsair looked to them all, nodding in thanks. Lady Riskar smiled. “Such brave loyalty. Of course, you may come along also.”

“It is imperative we do not attempt to escalate matters,” Sasha said, shooting Thomas a look. “Keep your paws away from your weapons and let milady see to the negotiation.”

“Yeesh, fine,” Thomas said.

Motion in the corner of Corsair’s vision. He turned his head to the town and saw a group of small dots approaching with haste. He counted ten of them, all mounted.

“They’ve decided to save us the walk,” Lorenzo said. “Captains and milady up front, the rest of you hold a perimeter behind.”

The group took to their formation. Corsair went to follow, offering Rohesia a reassuring smile that he would be okay. He saw Kilik walk over to Thomas, scratching his chin.

“Where’s your apothecary friend?” Kilik said. “The one with the bad temper?”

“Ax’s in the infirmary,” Thomas said, shooting him a look. “Why? You miss him all of a sudden?”

“Pfft. No. Felt like pissing him off.”

“I’ll let Ax know you’re worried.”

Kilik shot Thomas a look before facing ahead. Corsair stopped beside Lorenzo. The mounted group closed in and slowed, bows in paws and clad in armour. They moved with caution, some dropping down from their adeun steeds and unsheathing their Caeli blades. They took up a semi-circular formation, the leader disembarking from their mount and approaching with sword and shield in paw. They yelled in Eposian, taking up a defensive stance.

“Lanzig?” Lady Riskar asked.

“Fortunately for you,” the leader said.

“This caravan arrives in peace. We pose no threat to you nor the people of your town.”

Corsair glanced to the armed escort. They clutched their bows with intent, held low with arrows knocked but bowstrings slackened. At any moment they could take aim at any one of them, gauging hostility off a multitude of subjective indicators. Corsair hoped the group was staying calmer than he was.

“What is your business here? You have entered sovereign territory of the Land of the Sun and Moon during a time of war,” the leader spoke.

“To offer aid in such trying times,” Lady Riskar said. “We are House Vigilance, a militia of trained fighters and warriors opposing Opulus’ tyrannical march on foreign nations.”

“Under whose jurisdiction?”

“Our own.”

The leader gestured to the caravan. “Pah! I see a roaming circus of idiots before me, not a fighting force worth our trouble.”

“I assure you that we are the exact group your leaders will be searching for.”

“Your assurance is meaningless and your presence is grating. You are to be escorted back across the border by an armed escort. If you resist—”

Lady Riskar gestured to Corsair. The rabbit guards flinched.

“Before you, sworn to bring down the tyranny of Opulus that consumed his own home, is Corsair Sedrid.”

The leader’s face faltered. He glared at Corsair, scrutinising the wolf before him. The rabbits around him murmured and stared.

“The…son of the Winter Baron?”

“Yes,” Corsair said. “My brother and I are here to fight Opulus in any way we can.”

“I’ve never seen the face of that bastard’s son. How do I know it’s truly you?”

Corsair looked to Lady Riskar. She nodded, gesturing to his scabbard. Corsair eased his paw towards the blade’s grip and unsheathed it, holding up the broadside.

“Tournament runes,” he said. “I’ve earned them for the last decade as the son of Arthur Sedrid. You don’t find these anywhere.”

The leader appeared flummoxed. If he was outraged by his presence, the son of the wolf that started it all, Corsair couldn’t tell through the shock. Corsair lowered the blade as Lady Riskar spoke.

“And even if this was not who we claim, he’d be a remarkably better fighter than the young prince. How else could one take his sword and live to flaunt such a victory?”

The leader looked back to Lady Riskar. “And how can we be sure you are not spies sent from the clan? You crossed out of the Deuvick Feldanas.”

“A way that logistically most armies would not survive,” Lady Riskar said. “I do not believe the Clan of the Great Lupine would see much need for an extensive and costly flanking movement when they are beating you so well head-on, no?”

“You—”

“We bring before you a trained regiment of fighters, alongside the tournament fighting prowess himself and his Krosguard comrades, and you still see deceit?”

The leader argued back. Lady Riskar remained passive, although Corsair was sure that the persisting smirk on her face was a deliberate yet subtle challenge of the escort’s authority. He looked over his shoulder at his loyal troupe. Thomas winked at him, an expression of certainty in their odds. Dieter averted his gaze. Rohesia offered a warm smile of reassurance. Corsair reciprocated.

Rohesia’s gaze shifted to his left and her expression faltered. Corsair frowned and followed it to where it rested. A rabbit stood there, dismounted from their adeun, staring right at him. While the other soldiers’ gazes flitted from person to person, theirs did not deviate from Corsair. They stared, transfixed, paws sheathed in black coarse material clenching hard as if to crush themselves. Bodies faded into existence around them. Wolves and rabbits clashed blades left and right. The dead lay strewn at their hind paws.

A familiar cloth mask concealed the white rabbit’s face, only showing the eyes.

A single black spot sat on the right side of her face.

Corsair’s eyes widened.

The masked one’s paw was upon her blade in an instant. She darted forth and ripped the sword clean from its sheath, spinning it as she covered the distance between them. Corsair readied his longsword and brought up in front of him, anticipating a flash of steel, yet the masked one guessed otherwise. She dropped low and swept his legs out from under him. Corsair yelped and landed on his side, fighting to stand.

The sharpened edge of her blade pressed into his throat.

Corsair froze. The masked one crouched over him, leaning down to hold the sword against the base of his neck. He looked up into the two burning charcoals that peered out through the mask, saw the vitriol they wielded, and knew all that sat between him and death was one swift slice.

The tense peace of the negotiations fell apart instantly. The rabbit soldiers raised their bows and took aim, levelling the arrows at the delegation. Rohesia aimed her bow at the masked one while Dieter and Thomas unsheathed their blades, snarling.

“Get off him!” Thomas yelled.

“Get the hell away from him!” Rohesia yelled.

Plenty of Eposian voices yelled back. Some spoke to the masked one, attempted to de-escalate the confrontation, while others demanded what the militia had done to instigate their soldier. The situation worsened with every second. Corsair knew if a single bow fired that a skirmish would break out. Such a possible bloodbath kept all parties frozen in place. None could rush to his aid.

Corsair couldn’t look away from those eyes filled with hate. He drew in shallow breaths, not wanting to move in case it summoned the rabbit’s wrath. The end of everything pressed hard against his throat. He felt dread creeping up on him, scuttling onto his limbs and crawling up towards hi heart. Ears flat and tail stiff, he attempted to reason with her at a volume no louder than a hushed whisper.

“Listen to me. Whatever you hate me for…whatever is driving you to kill me…don’t. Not here. Too many good people will die.”

The rabbit stared, not a word uttered.

“If you don’t get off him, I’m going to shoot you in the face!” Rohesia bellowed. “Leave him alone!”

“If you do this…our friends will kill each other. Please.”

The rabbit’s arm trembled. She drew breath in and out fast. The great duress of their situation pushed her towards a decision, one Corsair hoped would not end in gurgling blood. The voices rose, the tensions grew, and the slaughter would soon commence. Dread caressed his heart. Doom was but a few steps away. His mind raced from face to face; Rohesia, Axel, Ragnar, Quickpaw.

Whether it was a rebalancing of cosmic scales or the whim of luck, mercy was granted.

The masked one pulled her sword away and stood. Corsair raised a paw to his throat and exhaled, chest heaving. Lorenzo stepped forward and shoved the rabbit over onto her back, taking position in front of Corsair. The wolf cohort hurried to his side and helped him onto his hind paws.

“She has stepped back!” Sasha yelled. “Weapons down, now!”

“Put the damn weapons down, no one is getting killed here!” Lorenzo spat.

“Weapons down!” Dieter bellowed. “Weapons down!”

The voices faded. The bowstrings slackened. The blades disappeared back into their sheaths. The fierce confrontation receded into tense negotiation.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Rohesia said, ears down and slightly out of breath. “Did she hurt you? Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” Corsair exhaled, showing his throat to her. “I’m okay. I know her from…Pothole Plains.”

“She clearly doesn’t know us if she felt brave enough to pull that,” Thomas said.

Corsair struggled to get the words out. “I killed her friend. That’s why.”

“And she was about to kill mine. I don’t care for the reason. We’d have gutted her if it came to that.”

“As would I,” Rohesia said, fangs flashing for a moment. “I would have cut her in half if she hurt you.”

“Stop making threats,” Dieter said. “We just de-escalated matters, let’s not rile it back up.”

Thomas and Rohesia begrudgingly shut up. Corsair noticed how Rohesia stood in front of him, knife out and ears down. She glared at the masked one with fangs bared, the iron grip around the knife a silent promise that she intended to deliver upon if it came to it. The near-death experience shook Corsair, put a slight tremble in his being, but Rohesia’s fierce devotion calmed the wolf somewhat.

“I shall assume such an unprovoked assault was no more than an error,” Lady Riskar said. “An incorrect interpretation of body language. Perhaps that is fair.”

“Maybe,” the leader said, shooting the masked one a look. “Regardless, I don’t see how you could help.”

“Respectfully, my friend, it is not a responsibility of your station. My services could be highly valued in the capital, welcomed by like-minded spirits, and could prove crucial in the defence of the nation you love so dear. Or you could escort us back across the border. We would venture elsewhere, and when the wolves and hounds carve your head off your neck, you’ll have enough life left to ponder this meeting and regret your declination.”

The leader scowled but said nothing. Lady Riskar offered a paw.

“All I ask is you escort us to your capital, arrange a meeting, and let your wise leaders decide the best for this nation. You would be serving your patriotic duty and perhaps you would be privy to a reward from your superiors when we mention the great lengths you took to ensure all avenues of defence were explored.”

The leader hesitated. His gaze crossed Corsair and the wolves, panning through the small delegation, before he sighed.

“Merde…fine. I shall have some of the guard escort you to Saint Luxzancque.”

“Terrific,” Lady Riskar said. “I assumed you were the reasonable type.”

“Don’t push it,” the leader said, climbing up onto his adeun. “Bring the caravan to the town, we’ll proceed from there.”

“Of course. We will need a restocking of supplies for the trip, but I am sure the details can be discussed at the town, also. Let us embark and we shall be on our way.”

The negotiations concluded. The rabbits climbed onto their mounts and spread out, ready to lead the caravan onwards. Lady Riskar approached Corsair, Sasha at her side.

“What happened, Corsair?” she asked.

“Someone I met in battle,” Corsair said, rubbing his throat. “I didn’t do anything to antagonise.”

“I apologise profusely, I had no idea—”

“I told you that was going to happen,” Rohesia said. “After all he’s done for you and your militia, stop using him like some bargaining chip. He’s—"

“Rohesia, it’s okay,” Corsair said. “It’s not their fault. They didn’t know.”

He looked in the direction of the masked one. She glared at him from the saddle.

“We have bigger things to focus on than just what goes on at a battlefield, right?” Corsair said.

“Apt,” Sasha said. “The sins of the present are a far more pressing matter.”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

The last night was always the one that filled Valour with dread. The naïve and clueless would have assumed after years of tearing himself away from his family to manage the movements and structures of the kingdom’s presence beyond domestic territory that he would have found it easier. The pain would be assuaged by time, the normalcy of the routine would heal all, yet such an idea could not be further from the truth. To bound to and from home wounded Valour and, with every subsequent departure following his brief return, the wound would open once more.

He stood in his armoury, a personal storage room for the tools of war he had carried for so long. The small chamber of dark wooden floors and dim red walls resided on the landing close to the bedroom. Within lurked cabinets and cupboards of armaments and armour plating, the occasional mannequin standing motionless amongst them. Valour dumped equipment into a bag and heaved it towards the door, setting it down with an audible clank.

He turned to the glass cabinet across from the door.

There it sat. His armour. The golden palisade against the blades and arrows poised to claim his life. It gleamed with the pride of the legion, a result of his rigorous polishing that the past few years had instilled in him, and sat ready for war. Valour approached it and stopped, easing the helmet off the top of the mannequin inside and inspecting it. The headgear glinted in the lantern light.

As nothing more than a street hooligan, fighting and robbing to survive, he had seen a future in that glint. Hope. Peace. A death more meaningful than most would ever have, if it came to it. Yet, now, all he could see was murder. Carnage. A bleak tomorrow cast in the stifling shadow of good intentions.

He could see her.

A knock at the door. Valour looked over his shoulder, ears up. Daslynn leaned against the doorframe.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Valour said. “Packing the gear up.”

“Did you pack the happy hoody?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why I found it stuffed in your drawer at the very back?”

Valour looked to the door and groaned. The happy hoody dangled from Daslynn’s paw to defy his claims.

“It was very sweet of your mother to make that for me, but I’m a commander. I can’t be seen wearing that.”

“And last time I checked, commanders need good sleep like anyone else.”

“Lynn, I’ll look like a pup still in academy.”

“Pack it with you or you’ll put my mum in an early grave from the grief.”

Valour sighed and beckoned it over to him, catching it as Daslynn tossed it from the door and stuffing it into one of the bags.

“You always have to guilt trip me with Panna,” Valour said.

“Call it a party trick. When does the carriage arrive?”

“Dawn. I’ll be gone by the time the pups are awake.”

Daslynn nodded, face softened by sadness. “Do you need me to take it downstairs?”

“No, no, it’ll be seen to.”

“Okay. Kae wants to give you a present before she goes to bed. She’s outside her room. Come to bed when you’re done.”

“Okay. I’ll say my goodbyes.”

Daslynn disappeared into the bedroom. Valour dumped his gear into another bag, deposited it by the door, and ventured out onto the landing. He padded past the top of the stairs and turned the corner, arriving at the small corridor where Kaegli and Juno’s rooms were. Kaegli stood in front of her white door to the left, paws behind her back.

“Hello, Kae,” Valour said, taking a knee. “Daddy said you had something to show me?”

“I made it with Daddy this morning,” she said, only managing a small smile.

“Oh? I’m excited now.”

As if holding a baby bird, she revealed the present with great care. A flower necklace sat in her black paws, a green thread connecting the blossoming white heads together. Valour gasped, exaggerated yet sincerely grateful.

“For me?” Valour said, easing it out of her paws. “Wow.”

“I wanted to use the white flowers,” Kaegli said. “Daddy thought they were good, too.”

“They are, they are. Excellent choice.”

“Can you wear it, please? It’ll protect you when you’re fighting the bad people.”

Valour smiled, looking up at her. “That’s very sweet, Kaegli, thank you. I’m worried it’ll break if I wear it, but I know what I’ll do. When I’m leaving the city, I’ll stop by the jeweller and ask him to thread this around my oath collar. That way it won’t fall off and I’ll be protected. How does that sound?”

“Good.” Kaegli smiled, hugging Valour. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you even more. You keep being good for Daddy and maybe Papa will try and bring you back a souvenir, okay?”

Usually, the promise of a present would rouse excitement from his youngest daughter. Instead, all he got was a sedated wag of the tail and a nod of the head. It pained him to see her like that.

“You head to bed now, okay? You’ve got academy tomorrow and we don’t want a sleepyhead going to class.”

Kaegli hugged Valour again. The doberman reciprocated, feeling her weak arms clutch to him for dear life before eventually she eased off him and opened her door. As she stepped inside, she turned.

“Papa?”

“Yes, Kae?”

“Please come home.”

Valour forced a smile. “I always do. Goodnight, Kae.”

The fox eased the door shut. Valour remained there for a moment, holding the flower necklace with a tremendous care for its fragile nature. It was held together by love, something so powerful that the shell couldn’t hope to contain it if placed under any duress. He placed it atop the table beside him and walked to the end of the corridor.

Juno’s room.

He placed his paw upon the doorknob and knocked with his other, easing it open. Even in the shadowy darkness of the night, Valour’s familiarity with the space let him recognise the interior’s shape regardless. A bed rested to the left of the door across from a wide table and dresser. A bookshelf lined with many different titles stood against the opposite wall. A half-blank parchment sat on the desk beside the dresser, placed before the window. Moonlight beamed through and landed on Juno’s bed, illuminating his eldest daughter’s silhouette comprised mostly of blankets and fur.

“June?” Valour whispered.

The mass on the bed didn’t shift. She lay there facing the wall, not budging an inch.

Valour sighed. He knew how such an act would go. He would enquire as to her wellbeing, she would continue ignoring him, and he would be left feeling a fool. So many questions he wished to ask circulating that central desire for clarity – what was he doing wrong? He did not fool himself with believing that night would hold the answer. Rubbing his face, Valour eased the door shut.

He stopped as it almost closed, leaving only an inch of space. His ears stood. As faint as it was, he could hear it.

His heart sank.

Oh, June.

Valour pushed the door back open and stepped inside, easing it shut behind him. His daughter sniffled, shifting as she wiped her face.

“June?” Valour said, approaching the bed. “Why are you crying, is something wrong?”

“Of course something’s wrong,” she said, voice timid and hoarse. “You’re going away again.”

Valour sat on the bed. “What are you talking about? I’m coming back, silly.”

Juno sat up, wet eyes glistening. “When?”

“Well, it may be a couple of—"

“You don’t know. You never do. There’s a war there, Dad. What if you’re gone for years this time?”

“It won’t—”

“What if you die? What if…they…”

Juno trembled, chest heaving as the emotions overflowed. Paternal instinct, that deeply primitive desire to protect, directed his arms without him realising. He hugged his distraught daughter. He didn’t feel the characteristic resistance, the anticipated attempt to pull away. Juno leaned into him and cried her eyes out. He sat there, unsure of what to say as she bawled and bawled.

“Please don’t leave me alone,” Juno sobbed. “Don’t go away.”

“You’re not alone,” Valour shushed her. “You’re never alone. I think you were holding this in for a while.”

Juno nodded, face planted into his side. Her sobbing continued for another minute before Valour felt the emotions relent, felt the ferocity of the crying die down. He spoke.

“June…you know I’d never want anything else other than to be here with you, right?”

Juno looked up at him. “T-then why aren’t you?”

“Because…because I’m needed to fix things. There’s a lot of things wrong with the world and the king needs me to help make it right. And when that’s done, when we know people can be happy like we are, then—”

“I’m not happy, Dad. I’m not. I want you home. I don’t remember the last time you walked with me to the academy. Most of my friends don’t even know who you are. And some idiots then joke that you hate me, that’s why you’re away all the time, and then…”

She trailed off. Valour nodded. “So, that’s why you’ve been fighting a lot?”

She nodded, sniffling. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

The question pierced Valour’s heart. It was less the allegation itself and more so what lay beyond it, where such a thought had come from. He couldn’t fathom how devastated Juno was to utter such words with conviction. He placed both paws on her shoulders and met her glistening eyes, put all his heart into his words.

“What? Gods, no, don’t ever say that. We brought you to our home because we wanted to make you a part of it. We love you unconditionally and we know, as parents, that you and Kaegli are our lives now. I would never hate you. I love you more than you know.”

“You don’t think I’m a bad daughter?”

“The only thing I ever think about you is how lucky I am to be your father. Don’t you ever – ever – forget that.”

Her face crumpled. The tears started again. He hugged her, held her close, felt a bond bloom right there that he would then have to abandon by dawn. He closed his eyes.

“Oh June. Your poor, poor pup. I’m so sorry you had this brewing all this time. I’m so sorry I didn’t realise.”

…

Valour sat on the bed and rubbed his face. Daslynn rolled over on his side of the mattress, a sizeable creak emerging from beneath him.

“How were they, Val?” Daslynn asked.

“Kaegli made me a flower necklace. I’ll get it thread around my oath collar, make her happy. June…”

Her emotional appeal to him, her confession to how she saw him, made him miserable. He couldn’t utter another word. He lay down on the bed and pulled the duvet over him. Seconds later he felt the warmth of Daslynn behind him, felt his arms wrapping around Valour’s midsection and holding him close. Valour closed his eyes, exhaling.

How can I leave this again?

“What did she say?” Daslynn whispered.

“She cried. I didn’t think she was going to stop. She thought I hated her.”

A brief pause, no more than a second, let Daslynn realise what Valour had said. “What?”

“She thought that’s why I was leaving all the time. You were right. I’m in and out of her life and it’s hurting her.”

Daslynn squeezed him around the midsection, a gesture of reassurance that Valour appreciated. “Oh, Val, I’m sorry.”

Valour rested his paws on his husband’s arms, steadied himself against his love. He imagined himself walking with Daslynn’s paw in his, waving to his two daughters as they hurried through the academy gates. Imagined what an afternoon nap on a hot day was like. Imagined what cooking dinner for a full table every evening would feel like. Imagined a world where the only battle he faced was difficult conversations about relationships, subject grades, and cleaning up.

“I don’t want to go,” he said.

“I know you don’t,” Daslynn said.

“If there was anything I could do—”

“You’d do it. I know you would. You don’t have to prove yourself to me.”

“I don’t want to miss out on any more of their lives. I want to see Kaegli grow up. I want to be there for Juno in the way she needs me to be. I want a menial life where my problems aren’t the security of the kingdom but what we’re going to wear for a neighbour’s housewarming party, what we’re going to cook tomorrow evening, what we’re going to do over the weekend.”

“And being the commander?”

Valour hesitated. Despite it all, he still saw virtue in his rank. He saw vocation in his work. To bring peace to Vos Draemar, to trust in the king’s plan, was a grand deed to all across the world. Was it selfish to forsake the thousands out there, starving and dying, for his own slice of a perfect life?

“It means something to me,” Valour said. “The world needs this. But…not more than Kaegli and Juno. Not more than you. So I’ll do something.”

Valour eased out of Daslynn’s embrace, sat up and looked at his moonlit love. “I’ll resign. Once the campaign in the east is finished, once we’ve completed this major step in world peace, I’ll speak to the king. He’ll see reason. He values me as a friend. We can keep the cottage, we can stay in the city, and I’ll find some work as a civil servant or something.”

“My love—”

“I can’t let your lives go on in the shadow of mine anymore. I won’t leave you here again. I’ll fix it, I’ll fix all of it, I’ll—”

Daslynn reached up and caressed Valour’s face, a soft smile emerging. Valour closed his eyes and leaned against his husband’s paw, exhaling.

“I believe you,” Daslynn said. “And I support you. And I’m happy. Right now, my love, I only want one thing.”

Daslynn eased the passionate doberman back into bed. Valour issued no complaints. They returned to their dozing embrace, Valour relishing the security being encompassed by Daslynn brought.

“I want you to survive. No matter how bad or bloody it gets. You have to come home to Kae and June. You have to come back to me,” Daslynn whispered.

Daslynn leaned in and spoke into Valour’s ear, let the deepest caverns of his winding soul be reminded of the oath around his neck.

“Kill whoever you need to. Do whatever needs to be done. Come back to me.”

Those words fastened a steadfast resolve in Valour. Harrowing yet resonant in its clarity, there was no greater encouragement than that phrase spoken by a voice close to his heart. He would fix it all. He would mend the world with the time he had given himself. He would survive.

“I’ll do anything.”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Two long days of travel. Corsair had watched the cold and frost dissipate as the caravan ventured south-east, were waved through a checkpoint in the Saint Gaspard wall, and then drove south along the cobbled roads of the Land of the Sun and Moon. Rolling hills and sprawling grasslands met his gaze wherever he looked. The sight of colour, a deviation from the monotony of grey stone and white snow, was a welcome change of scenery. The further south they travelled, the friendlier the weather became. Warm days and still nights passed as House Vigilance advanced to its rendezvous in Saint Luxzancque.

They had arrived in the afternoon of the second day, time passed through conversation and napping, and came to a stop in the rural farming outskirts. The splendour of nature could only occupy one for so long. Upon arrival, Corsair had made sure to give Quickpaw a good run around the nearby fields to exhaust him. All the ictharrs had known for the past few days was the enclosed spaces beneath the transports, forced to lie about and sleep while filled with the energy to run and play. It was good to see Quickpaw so happy.

Now Corsair sat on a stool outside the barracks in the cool of the evening, watching the ictharrs eat from their trough as he helped wash the group’s clothes from wooden buckets. Axel saw to the laundry also, watching as Arwenin and Quickpaw passed a final morsel of food back and forth between themselves. The militia was free to bustle about the caravan for as long as they kept to their allotted perimeter. Corsair could see wagons positioned to their right and left flank one hundred metres off, Saint Luxzancque guards aiming pocket scopes at Atan and Paetri as they shared an evening walk in the nearby field.

Corsair looked down the cobbled road. Not too far in the distance, a looming beacon in the encroaching dark, resided Saint Luxzancque. Past the wheat fields and carrot crops lurked the beckoning lights and towering structures of the City of Ingenuity, a place Corsair had never been privy to in the extensive travels of his tournament career. Sports fighting was deemed too barbaric for the palettes of the civilised city-going folk, only allowed as close as the outskirts. To finally see the bustling avenues and lively promenades was a bonus of their excursion.

Lendausz passed with a box carried on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he greeted.

“Hello, Lendausz,” the two wolves chorused.

“Fellas, please, call me Len. Been quite a journey, huh?”

“You’re telling me,” Axel chuckled. “Must be boring in the forge.”

“Well, not too bad. Master B…” Lendausz stopped, glancing around. “The master of the forge keeps me busy.”

“Can’t say his name here?” Corsair asked.

“He hasn’t got a good history with the place. Defected. He doesn’t like to discuss the details, only that he says it’s best for him to remain inside.”

“Probably a good idea,” Axel said. “East Parabular can’t be too overjoyed losing a genius like him.”

“And there’s no telling what they’d do to get him back, especially not after how they attacked you Corsair. I’m glad you didn’t get hurt.”

“So am I,” Corsair said. “It would have been bad news for all of us.”

“I’m sure you would’ve leapt to our rescue, Len,” Axel chuckled.

“You know me.” Lendausz grinned, flexing a monstrous bicep. “Well, I better get back to it. Don’t want the boss to catch me showing off. See you around, fellas!”

“Bye,” Corsair said.

“Uhm, yeah, bye,” Axel said, gaze following the bull. “I…huh.”

Corsair looked over at Axel. His jaw was only just starting to recover from its sudden descent to the floor and his eyes stared in pure mesmerisation. Lendausz’ casual flourishing of his physical prowess had left the apothecary speechless. The wolf was so stunned one would believe he had witnessed the very end of the world. Corsair grinned.

“You’re seeming flustered.”

“Nope,” Axel said, recovering fast. “Don’t even.”

“Just saying. Maybe he’s trying to send a sign?”

“Yeah, okay, what sign? Him flexing a muscle isn’t a sign! I can’t even see him through his fringe! I can’t work anything out about him, let alone some sign. The mysteries of Lendausz are extensive.”

Corsair chuckled. “Sounds like a book name.”

“Maybe I’ll write it after all this is done.”

“I’m starting to think you wouldn’t mind writing a book about Lendausz.”

Axel opened his mouth to answer, struggled to retort, and then gave up on the affair. The apothecary’s flustered struggle made Corsair chuckle once more. Quickpaw moved away from the trough as Zechter started barking for Arwenin’s attention. He sat before Corsair and bowed his head. The wolf pet him, a smile on his face.

“Len aside, you seem to be doing good,” Axel said. “Aside from what happened two days ago.”

“I’m feeling better despite it,” Corsair said. “It comes and goes. Ragnee’s safe and, yeah, it’s difficult seeing him so upset but it’s a lot for him. He’ll come around.”

“You’re right,” Axel said. “It must be difficult being away from him, too, but space is a good thing for him. Processing all of this is…I can’t imagine how difficult. Learning what happened to his mother on top of discovering the Inkblood? It’s horrible.”

“Yeah. How was he last night? You checked on him.”

“The rib’s doing well. Really well. Whatever they’re using to mend broken bones in Wyndr does the trick better than I could imagine. He’s practically healed.”

“Already?”

“Well, almost healed, but it’s good.” Axel looked over to the city. “You know…it’s weird. To leave that place of forgotten history where parasites turn you into a nest and come here to a place that’s so…normal. Oblivious. Makes me wonder what Wyndr has behind its borders that we still don’t know about. What would have even made Ralwyndr leave?”

Corsair nodded. “It’s troubling. Part of me wants to be spreading the word.”

“Yeah, and then some lunatics who think the moon cured them of a plague will burn us alive for being demons or whatever. We can’t just go around showing that stuff off. It would have to be to the right people.”

“Who would that be?”

Axel thought for a moment. “Honestly? No clue. But that’s for Riskar and the captains to be looking at. I’m just glad you’re doing better.”

Corsair smiled. “Helps having you around, if I’m honest.”

“Nice. Certainly better than the opposite.”

The duo shared a moment of laughter. When was the last time such a jovial interaction had been in such overt abundance? Being beside the apothecary felt right.

“Ah, Corsair!”

The two wolves turned right, Quickpaw turning his head and co*cking it to the side. Lady Riskar and Sasha approached, bundles of parcels held in the arms of both.

“Swift developments,” Lady Riskar said. “The ruling party of the House of Sun, the Avantiers, is hosting a ball tonight.”

“A ball during wartime?” Axel said.

“To muster a semblance of normalcy,” Sasha said. “To reassure the elite that the war is going swimmingly. Whether or not it aligns with reality is another matter. We now have our meeting.”

“They want us to come to the ball?” Corsair said.

“Not at first but, of course, my charm is rather infectious.” Lady Riskar smirked. “They expressly asked for the presence of myself, my two captains, and our lupine comrades. The ball abides by a strict dress code so, understanding our house is geared more so for war than revelry, they decided to deliver us some party attire.”

“They…knew our sizes, right?” Axel said, taking the parcels from Sasha.

“This has all been a very sudden development,” Sasha said. “You will have to pick from the few variations there that best fit your physique.”

“We shall ride out in the pathfinder in the next two hours,” Lady Riskar said, walking away. “This rendezvous is mostly business but, of course, it is a ball. After your recent turmoil, a bit of pleasure goes a long way. Enjoy yourselves there. Perhaps you and Rohesia can finally have a nice evening, Corsair?”

Heat rushed up to Corsair’s face. “U-uh what?”

Lady Riskar realised her mistake immediately. “Oh dear, perhaps I misread your interactions. Apologies. It shall be a nice evening for you all, anyhow.”

“Thank you,” the two wolves chorused as the duo ventured off the front of the caravan. Corsair tried to hide, examining the parcel, but felt Axel’s smug grin levelled right at him.

“Well, well, well,” Axel said. “Oh, Corsair Sedrid, isn’t it marvellous how fast the table turns?”

“Don’t,” Corsair said.

“I’m not the only one seeing it. That has to count for something.”

“It must be some disease you all have.”

“Okay, wise guy, riddle me this; if you don’t at all care about Rohesia, a certain long-term friend of yours, then why is your tail flicking?”

“It’s not.”

“It absolutely is.”

“No, it’s not!”

It was futile to argue. Every protest just made him more conscious of how flustered he was. Corsair reached behind himself and smacked his tail to subdue it. Axel laughed and patted him on the shoulder, shaking his head.

“Much to learn about love, ‘Sair. Much to learn. Let’s get these clothes out quick, we’ll have to see to this later.”

Corsair turned to leave. Quickpaw whimpered, overtaking and sitting in front of them.

“It’s a ball, Quickpaw, you can’t—”

Quickpaw’s ears drooped and he lowered his head, peering up at Corsair with big sad eyes.

“Don’t do that.”

Quickpaw’s sad stare persisted.

“Quickpaw.”

Quickpaw didn’t budge. Corsair sighed.

“Okay, fine, we’ll ride you into the city. You need to be on your best behaviour though.”

Quickpaw yapped up a storm, following after Corsair. The wolf delighted in the sight of seeing his companion so happy and felt a strong wag in his own tail at the thought of what the future was bringing. After nothing but the lasting grief of recovery, of crawling from the wreckage and licking his wounds, he finally felt the sweet taste of progress.

…

Ragnar sat on his bed, hind paws resting on the floor. The pain that had left him stricken with dulled agony was long gone. It didn’t warrant an all-clear just yet but, in record time, the lasting injuries of his indentured service were fading. He would have pondered the miraculous speed of his recovery if it were not for the thoughts that occupied his mind.

The door opened and voice spoke, beckoning Ralwyndr from his desk. Ragnar looked down the aisle. All the beds had been cleaned and made after the wounded slaves had been passed onto the authorities at the Saint Gaspard wall, soon to be returned to their families and livelihoods. To him it had always felt vacant. He could be stranded in a crowd, and yet, he would soon find all around him were lifeless mannequins.

“Ragnar,” Ralwyndr called. “Axel is here.”

Ragnar said nothing. The door opened and Axel stepped through, flat parcel in his arms. His casual attire had been ditched in favour of far more formal wear. A black chemise shirt, complimented by puffy sleeves and white accenting, billowed about his upper body. The torso piece tucked neatly into a belted pair of black blessume pants, riding up to his waist with two columns of evenly spaced metal buttons descending from lower stomach to his groin. Brown hind paw socks and thin gloves shielded his extremities. Axel approach with minor discomfort.

“You’re probably wondering why I look like this,” Axel said, placing the parcel beside Ragnar. “Long story short, we’re all invited to a ball. The rabbits want to see the fearsome wolves in the flesh.”

Ralwyndr walked over and passed Axel a support brace, a brown leather corset to shield the ribs from pressure and harm.

“Okay,” Axel said. “It’s not ideal right now, I know, but this will help us all in the long run. Let’s get you up so I can get the brace on.”

Ragnar stood. Axel reached for his shirt but hesitated, ears down.

“U-uh…you’re okay with me doing this, right?”

“Yes,” Ragnar said, unphased.

“You’re not…shy about me seeing you in your undergarments?”

“No.”

Axel, harried by some manner of anxiety, eased the shirt off over Ragnar’s head. The wolf prince lifted his arms up, let the apothecary pull his top over his head, and waited for Axel to place the brush.

“Oh,” Axel said, going around to his back. “Your coat is messy. It’s, uh, probably been a while since you’ve groomed.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to, uh…you know…brush out the knots for you?”

“If it matters.”

“Uh…is that a yes or—”

“Yes.”

Axel, nodding, hurried back down the aisle and retrieved a brush from Ralwyndr. The apothecary returned, timid, and proceeded to bring the brush across his back.

“This must feel a bit better, right?” Axel said, untangling the knots.

“Sure.”

“I’m not hurting you, right?”

“No.”

“Right. I’m sorry if I’m being annoying, I just know it’s a little difficult right now and—”
“You’re not annoying.”

“That’s good, yeah. That’s good,” Axel muttered. “Not being annoying is a good thing for people to do.”

Axel finished up and saw to placing the brace. He wrapped it around Ragnar’s midsection, careful to not apply pressure to the rib, and threaded the strings through the allotted holes.

“I’m going to tighten it,” Axel said. “It may feel a bit weird, but it’ll keep your ribs shielded.”

Axel wasn’t wrong. The persistent hug of the brace stood between shielding and crushing, committed to neither particularly yet only one sharp tug or hurried loosening of the strings necessary to convince it of either extreme. After that came the garments. Axel helped on the shirt, pulling it over Ragnar’s head with conscious care for the brace, while he timidly insisted on looking away while Ragnar changed out his trousers.

“How is it?” Axel asked as Ragnar pulled on his gloves and hind paw socks.

“Fine,” Ragnar said.

“Too tight, too loose?”

“Neither.”

“Huh. I guess I just got an unlucky size, then,” Axel said, wincing from the chaffing of his trousers. “Do you want the fur around your head done in any way?”

“Tied back, please,” Ragnar said.

Axel nodded and got to work. The apothecary’s paws moved with a speed that implied familiarity, knotting the long strands of fur as if he had done this a thousand times before. In a minute, the Sedrid’s party makeover was complete, and Axel hurried to Ralwyndr to retrieve his hand mirror.

“Here you go,” Axel said, passing the mirror to Ragnar. “Tell me what you think.”

Ragnar lifted the mirror up. A completely different wolf looked back at him. What had once been a dishevelled prisoner recovering from a bad injury was now a dashing representative of a foreign land. The clothes fit to his body remarkably well, likely assisted by the added bulk of the rib brace that took up any empty space beneath the chemise, and the colour scheme matched well to his fur. Evidently it had been a deliberate choice by the designers to match the attire to the clan’s banner.

“I did an okay job, right?” Axel said, pointing to the tie-off. “A product of my sisters’ torturing. Could run a grooming business after this is all done.”

Yet that’s what the person outside himself would see. A handsome lupine with a stormy expression imposed upon his face by some mysterious alluring past. To Ragnar, he could see beneath the attempted reinvigoration. He felt thinner – he was thinner – and the warrior’s physique he had spent years cultivating through training and gruelling work had been emaciated by the last few days of ceaseless strife. His proud eyes were half open, the shine they once had dulled into a lifeless gaze bordering on vacant. The brave spirit he had once felt in his chest, maintained by the steady beat of his steadfast heart, had atrophied into the skeletal frame of a terrified pup.

“Ragnar?” Axel said, unsure of how to interpret the silence. “It’s a good fit, right?”

He didn’t see Ragnar Sedrid, son of the Winter Baron. He saw a fool. An idiot. A disgrace to the virtue and aptitude of the family name he had fought so hard to live by.

“Yes,” Ragnar said, staring into the mirror. “It’s a good fit.”

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

The delegation from House Vigilance rode in tight formation. The pathfinder, housing the leadership of the militia, trundled along in the centre of a three-transport caravan. An armoured wagon, pulled by a huffing adeun, sat ahead of and behind the militia carriage. Each of the two transports couriered many Saint Luxzancque guards, evenly split between talking amongst themselves and warily eyeing House Vigilance. Paetri heaved the pathfinder along, Atan sat in the driver’s seat with Kilik and Lendausz beside them. Corsair and Ragnar rode on the left, the younger brother ahead of the second, whilst Thomas, Axel and Dieter rode on the right. The caravan approached the inner-city limits of Saint Luxzancque, riding under the merciful protection of the shining moon above.

“So, a ball,” Thomas called. “Didn’t expect such a change of pace from killing slavers.”

“A welcome diversion,” Axel said.

“I’d enjoy this outing while we can,” Dieter said. “If the negotiations reach an agreement, it’s likely we’ll be set to work quick. War doesn’t wait.”

“You a dancing wolf, Ax?” Thomas asked. “Tonight might be your last chance for a long while.”

“I can dance pretty good,” Axel said.

Arwenin growled in disagreement. Kilik laughed from the front. “Nice one, apothecary!”

“Shut up, Kilik,” Axel said, turning back to the others. “Okay, maybe I’m not the best dancer, but I can drink like the best of them.”

“But not tonight,” Dieter said. “There’s too much riding on this.”

“God, will you relax?” Thomas groaned. “I’m going to hate old age if it makes me as jaded and boring as you are. Loosen up and enjoy this, like you said!”

“I am not looking forward to carrying you out drunk, Thomas.”

“Out of us two? It’d be me carrying you.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Depends if you’ve got the nerve, old timer.”

For the first time, Corsair heard Dieter laugh. Not a polite chuckle, not a snicker, but a genuine hearty chortle. The new chapter in their campaign summoned high spirits that even the veteran’s unshakeable discipline was forced to relent. Even with all that depended on success at the negotiation table, Corsair looked forward to what the night would bring.

He looked over his shoulder. Ragnar rode behind him, not a word contributed to the conversation. His gaze focused on the even paving of the road leading them into the city, not able to muster even a modicum of strength to look directly ahead. Harangoth marched on, looking back every few seconds at his best friend to see if anything had improved. The sight of the stoic Harangoth so desperately trying to get the attention of the one wolf he missed to no avail wilted Corsair’s spirits.

“Ragnee?” Corsair called. “Harangoth’s trying to get your attention.”

Ragnar looked up and met the face of his companion. For a moment his face lit up. The corners of his mouth dared to curl upwards into a sad smile as Ragnar pet Harangoth’s head.

“Right,” Ragnar said. “Hi there.”

The caravan passed through the towering open gates of the city’s stone walls, the guards waving up to their comrades monitoring the citadel from the ramparts. They rode up a short ramp and, as they passed over its crest, Corsair’s eyes were dazzled at the sights. In almost no time at all, the sprawling fields and farmsteads puffing smoke from their chimneys had been replaced by paved boulevards and vibrant urban gardens. Towering buildings loomed over the new arrivals from all sides, belonging to a multitude of businesses and professions that catered to the wandering residents and visitors of the capital. Bars, casinos, public pools, gymnasiums and parlours to bet on racing adeuns were just a few of the things one with a lot of money to burn could get up to in a free evening. Marble statues of parabular saints stood in the centre of the dual carriageways, forming roundabouts where the roads curved about their mighty monuments. Water spouted from their raised paws, cascading down into the refilling pools below. Quickpaw’s curious eyes wandered from point to point, urged by intrigue to investigate yet knowing to stay his course.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Corsair said, petting Quickpaw’s neck. “Imagine living here.”

“Look on the right,” Dieter said.

“Holy sh*t,” Thomas gasped.

Corsair peered around the pathfinder. On the right of the road, placed before a tranquil park of mowed lawns fenced in by thick green hedges, sat a temple. The white cylindrical structure climbed a few floors before it widened into a metal roof, its shape resembling that of a lance’s head. One half was painted purple, adorning the white circle of the moon, whilst the other was painted yellow and sported the fierce orange of the sun. The roof pointed up into the sky, channelling the energy of the celestial gods. Groups of robed rabbits, sheep, snakes and bulls filed inside as a mighty bell rung from within. Lendausz pointed and looked over his shoulder.

“See that, fellas? That’s the Temple of Celestial Truth. The first place of worship for the parabular saints.”

“Wow,” Thomas scoffed. “Puts our churches to shame.”

“People make their pilgrimages here all the time,” Atan contributed. “Not to interrupt Lendausz, of course, but it’s one of the many holy sites attributed to the parabular faith. Not all temples are so grand. I’m sure lupine churches are very nice as well.”

“Saint Vacili Luxzancque preached there while he was alive,” Lendausz added. “Some say it was an old board-and-nail building, very small. The rabbits have trussed it up very nice.”

“We have nothing like this in our capital,” Corsair said.

“It makes sense,” Axel said. “This country was pretty much founded on religion. The clan doesn’t put a lot of stock in fantastical churches.”

“East Parabular has a very rich religious history,” Dieter said. “Inventors, social pioneers, saints…a lot of their work motivated from faith. Looking at some of it, you can’t blame someone for thinking it’s a miracle of the gods.”

Dieter wasn’t wrong. Everywhere Corsair looked, he felt as if he gazed upon something new. Alchemical lights that flashed blue and pink and purple glowed out through hollow letters on the sides of buildings, forming illuminated signs that beckoned them to hotels and theatres. Overalled workers marched between the many lampposts along the street, rekindling the flames with lit wicks mounted upon long poles. Yet, bizarrely, the streets and establishments were almost empty. Only the odd soul dared roamed the roads nearby. He had anticipated the City of Ingenuity to be somewhat busier.

His ears stood, as did Quickpaw’s. The ictharr growled. Paetri’s mane flashed red for a moment.

“Hey,” Corsair called. “Is that…chanting?”

The group stopped talking and listened. Many voices, muffled by the countless buildings between them, bellowing and yelling slogans in unison. The occasional cracking of glass and shattering of brick accompanied their united cries.

“What is that?” Thomas asked.

“Sounds like a protest,” Dieter said.

“Not for us, I hope,” Axel said.

“If it would be anyone here it’s you, apothecary,” Kilik chimed in, puffing out smoke from their most recent drag of their cigar. “They know what annoying presence they’ll be putting up with soon.”

“Out of you two, you’ve been running your mouth the most,” Lendausz said, coughing with Atan. “And don’t puff smoke Atan’s way, bletousch, they don’t like that.”

“If it’s n-not a problem, of course,” Atan said.

Kilik rolled his eyes and spared the group from his ramblings. Dieter spoke. “I wouldn’t anticipate the government here to be openly advertising visits from mercenary types. It’s likely the war.”

Corsair could see more silent indicators of the chaos such protests were causing. Groups of workers stood in dark alleyways, scrubbing hundreds of painted slogans cast over the walls of business and establishments. A gaggle of Saint Luxzancque guards patrolled along a street of broken windows and splintered doors, taking notes of the owners’ testimonies. Further down, parked on the wide pavement, Corsair saw a group of four protestors being guided into the back of a constabulary wagon. Such unrest, such widespread dismay, had never had any hold on Grand Wolf Plains to any comparable extent as it did in Saint Luxzancque.

Before it all went wrong.

The caravan rode on for the next few minutes, touring through the hard work of the capital’s dissident citizens, before they took a sharp turn left and came to a stop in front of a formidable iron bar gate. Contingents of Saint Luxzancque guard, visors down and shields ready, stood outside as if to fend off an approaching army. Messengers ran back and forth between parked constabulary wagons, conferring with their superiors that consulted wide maps of the city. A subordinate called out to the guards at the gate. The entrance swung open, and the caravan passed on through. Corsair could tell the city guards were preoccupied because none bothered to afford him the courtesy of the disgruntled glare he had been the recipient of for most of the evening.

“Whoa,” Thomas said. “This is—”

“Ridiculous,” Axel scoffed, also entranced.

Corsair looked ahead. Across the gigantic front lawn, large enough to host an entire ecosystem of woodland creatures among its neatly trimmed hedgerows and flourishing flower beds, resided a palace at the end of the gravel road. White stone formed the structural foundation of the rectangular box, a metal dome painted in two halves of purple and yellow positioned on top of the tall building. Shadows of the partygoers that had already arrived moved behind stained glass that depicted figures of faith in tessellating yellows and purples. Figures loitered on semi-circular balconies, clad in fine clothes and full glasses of carrot wine in paw. Light beckoned through the open doors and windows for the new arrivals to hurry inside lest they miss any more of the fun. Their call to revelry was serenaded by the sound of string instruments playing a polite song; slow, soft, and not daring to deviate by a single note.

“Party’s started without us,” Axel said. “Here I was thinking we were the guests of honour.”

“Speak for yourself,” Thomas said. “They’ll be queuing up to speak with me.”

“To spit in your eye, maybe.”

The door to the pathfinder opened. Lady Riskar stepped out onto the stairs, pulling a pair of thin white gloves over her paws. A dark blue dress, an expression of extravagant flair, hugged her slim figure. The top stopped just above the chest, bounded up onto the shoulders and descended down her arms until they met with the gloves at her wrist. A cloak of similar shade and material shrouded her. The shoulders were obscured partially by the accessory which continued down to just above her boots, where her dress also stopped. A thin strip of blue makeup crossed over her eyes in a straight line.

“Why, good evening my friends,” Lady Riskar greeted.

“Dressing to kill there,” Thomas chuckled. “I feel underdressed.”

“Nonsense, you all look dashing in your outfits. I hope they do not prove uncomfortable?”

“Only for some,” Axel muttered, shifting in his saddle with a grimace.

The two captains stepped out behind her, easing the door shut. Lorenzo’s outfit had not changed much except for the brown cloak he held tight around him. The metal mask remained. Sasha, alternatively, embraced the exuberance of such an occasion. A dark blue kaftan robe drooped over her prominent figure, tied around the waist by a thin drawstring, and the same stripe of blue makeup crossed her eyes. She sat down on the step behind Lady Riskar and wrapped her arms around the grey feline, letting her partner lean back into the embrace.

“As fetching as ever, warrior poet of mine,” Lady Riskar smiled, caressing one side of her face.

“Aadi, h-hush,” Sasha said, flustered. “Not in front of the others.”

“Where’s Rohesia?” Corsair asked.

A great tumbling from within the pathfinder answered him.

“Ah, stupid thing!” Rohesia’s muffled voice yelled.

“Be careful!” Ralwyndr’s muffled voice called.

“She is still acquainting herself with the dress,” Lady Riskar said. “One of my own due to an unfortunate shortage of party clothing. Unfamiliar for her, but I remain confident she shall manage.”

A shrill yell followed by a thud emanated from inside.

“Oh sh*t! Uh, I’m okay!” Rohesia called out. “I didn’t break anything!”

“She is fine!” Ralwyndr said. “Nothing broken, milady!”

“Ah,” Lady Riskar said. “Perhaps…somewhat confident is more fitting.”

The caravan crossed the expanses of the front lawn, berthed around the chiselled statue of another figure of the faith, and came to a stop perpendicular to the steps. The guards stepped out of their transports and took up perimeter, most spreading out at the front of the palace whilst some approached the pathfinder to escort them inside. Lady Riskar and Sasha stepped down, arms linked.

“Good appearances, my friends, good appearances,” Lady Riskar said. “Of course, this is a night of meaningful progress for us but try not to let the celebrations get too hectic.”

“We’ll be responsible,” Dieter said, shooting Thomas a look accompanied with the hint of a grin. “Anyone gets too drunk, they’ll be seen to.”

“Dunno why you’re looking at me, old timer,” Thomas said.

“Just no throwing up or drunken fights,” Lorenzo said, turning to Lady Riskar and Sasha. “Let’s get inside, I’m sure the Guild Premier is waiting.”

“Of course,” Lady Riskar said. “We shall see you inside.”

The leadership sauntered ahead, Sasha and Lady Riskar chuckling to themselves as they gossiped. Atan dismounted from the driver’s seat and saw to Paetri while Lendausz and Kilik remained atop the pathfinder, the latter smoking a stick of Merchant’s Puff while the former procured a dark bottle of strong alcohol and began drinking.

“Well, nothing for it then. Be good, Zechter, and I’ll bring you back some leftovers!” Thomas said as he dismounted.

Zechter growled, swearing an oath to good behaviour. Dieter followed.

“Be a good ictharr, Ark!”

Arkzmeyer nodded, sitting down beside Harangoth. Harangoth didn’t notice, gaze focused on Ragnar. The older Sedrid turned, pet his best friend around the scruff, and then proceeded inside without a word. Corsair and Axel watched.

“Has he spoken to you?” Corsair said.

“Not about much,” Axel said. “Still healing.”

Corsair sighed. “Right. I’m surprised he had the energy to get all cleaned up for this.”

“I helped him with that.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. He kinda just went along with it, didn’t make any real indication that he cared, but…looking good makes you feel good, you know? Right now, feeling good is what he needs.”

Corsair smiled. “Sometimes you’re very wise.”

“Careful. I might start charging you for it.”

“You can be a sage advisor when we get back home. For now, just lend me a paw and look after Ragnee for me. I think they’ll want me with the leadership.”

“I’m on it. Be good, Arwie, and you’ll get leftovers too.”

Arwenin yapped, sitting in place. Axel hurried on inside after Ragnar. Corsair turned to Quickpaw, who, instinctively, whimpered in anticipation of another separation.

“I know, I know. It’s just a couple hours, I promise.”

Quickpaw growled. Corsair rolled his eyes.

“No, I won’t get attacked again.”

Quickpaw growled. Corsair frowned.

“No! That’s not what happened, I didn’t get beaten up. I—"

Quickpaw insisted with another growl. Corsair rolled his eyes.

“Listen, I’ll bring you out some food when we’re done too,” Corsair said, leaning in as he pet Quickpaw. “Look after Harangoth for me, please.”

Quickpaw’s ears stood, and his head turned, tilting at Harangoth. The loyal steed kept his gaze focused on the entrance to the palace, waiting for Ragnar to return. After waiting for so long, a few hours could hardly deter the beast’s loyalty. Quickpaw padded over and sat beside him. Harangoth looked to his side, saw his companion there, and bumped his head into Quickpaw’s. Quickpaw reciprocated the gesture.

At least he’s not alone out here.

The door to the pathfinder opened. Corsair looked away from the ictharrs as Rohesia stumbled out fighting to pull the sleeve all the way over the arm. Ralwyndr followed her behind, arms outstretched and hands raised as if to ward the stumbling lupine away from crashing into him.

“Are you certain you’re okay?” Ralwyndr asked. “

“Yes, it’s just this stupid dress,” Rohesia groaned. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Evening, Ralwyndr,” Corsair said. “She didn’t fall onto you, did she?”

“She made a good effort to avoid me,” Ralwyndr said, turning to disappear around the side of the pathfinder. “Have a good evening.”

As the conversation ended, that pensive sorrow Corsair had caught brief glimpses off amidst the bustle of the militia caravan returned. Ralwyndr walked around the side of the pathfinder and walked off towards the hedgerows, avoiding the conversation the others shared beside Paetri.

“Ah, you stupid—” Rohesia said, finally besting her dress sleeve. “How the hell does someone even wear this?”

The wolf archer – a person Corsair had nary seen not clad in cloak, tunic and trousers – stood before him in a dazzling outfit. She wore a black dress accented in white, featuring a slim-fit bodice and a billowing skirt of modest volume below the waist. The sleeves puffed out over the elbow and upper arm. The six ties on the fur along her jaw remained, accompanied by one at the back of the head. She stood embarrassed, arms wrapped around her midsection as if to hide herself.

“I tripped over fighting a dress. Say it. I look stupid.”

“Usually I wouldn’t challenge,” Corsair said. “But right now…no. You look great.”

Rohesia’s ears flattened, and her tail flicked, a timid smile emerging on her face. “Really? I mean…you’re not joking?”

“No, not at all. I think you’ve outdone everyone here.”

“Okay, I don’t know about that,” she chuckled. “But…thanks. That’s sweet, I guess. Where’re the others?”

“Inside. I think we should get going or we’ll miss out.” Corsair offered his arm as a joking gesture, although the nerves that accompanied such an offer begged to differ. “May I escort you inside, mademoiselle?”

Rohesia visibly hesitated at the offer, tail driven down, before she quickly recovered and donned a similar joking attitude. “Well, I guess someone has to keep you busy. I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, eh?”

“Usually I wouldn’t want to be seen dead around you. We wouldn’t want gossip, would we?”

“God forbid, no. Now that’s something we can’t survive.”

The pair walked together inside, giggling and joking like pups. Corsair valued the change of atmosphere, the sizeable lapse in the oppressive dread that promised to grow into a whole new chapter of life, and was thankful he had such great companions by his side for such an arduous journey.

Chapter 10: The Diplomatic Debauchery of High Society (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter Text

Beyond the doors of the palace lay a dimension beyond Corsair’s wildest dreams. An entrance hall full of coveted decorations; oil paintings framed upon the marble walls, magnificent regalia stored away in pristine glass cases, and a wide yellow carpet accented in gold that led the way to the main event. Crystal chandeliers, shiny rocks fashioned into stars, shone from above. The carpeted path split off into two, followed the circumference of the circular water fountain in front, and then parted ways further. One went left and one went right, both advancing towards the two staircases that curved upwards to a small veranda overlooking the hall. Corsair could hear the music continuing from above.

“Good evening,” a rabbit servant said in perfect Lanzig, bowing. “Your presence is expected up in the premier’s ballroom. We hope you enjoy tonight’s gathering.”

“Thank you,” Corsair said, leading Rohesia to the steps.

“Wow,” Rohesia said, dazzled by all around. “Imagine living here.”

“What do you even do with all this space? Even in our house, we never had much more than what everyone else had.”

“Whatever rich people do,” Rohesia said. “Whoa!”

Rohesia slipped on one of the stairs and fell forward. Corsair grabbed the wobbling damsel and steadied her.

“Careful,” Corsair said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Rohesia said. “Tripped on my dress.”

“Let’s hope Opulus doesn’t start throwing clothes at you.”

Rohesia shot him a look. Mounting the stairs and passing the veranda, the duo walked through the doors into the ballroom. The hall rivalled the size of Corsair’s house. Varnished wooden floors, each plank level with the next, formed the floor of the gargantuan ballroom. To the left stood the bar; a long marble counter run by a team of ten rabbits clad in yellow waistcoats and dark servant uniforms. They moved from place to place in an organised frenzy, paths intersecting with their colleagues’ frequently yet never colliding. Beside them were long tables covered in white tablecloth where serpent chefs cooked meals in front of the crowd of attendees, flipping and tossing food into the air and catching it with burning pans and pots to the sound of raucous laughter and applause. To the right was an assortment of standing tables and stools, cliques and groups gathering around with glasses of carrot wine in paw. Beyond them sat a group of 12 musicians on a stage, playing their string instruments while heeding the silent instructions of the conductor and concertmaster. Situated in the centre of the ballroom, streams of bubbling alcohol jetting from their raised paws, was a marble statue of a parabular saint dispensing carrot wine. Giggling attendees flocked to the frozen prophet and stuck empty wine flutes out to catch the beverage before taking delicate sips and returning to their conversations as if nothing happened.

“A wine fountain?” Rohesia said.

“I feel like we’ve stepped into another world,” Corsair said.

“I feel like I don’t belong here,” Rohesia said. “It’s so…extravagant.”

“Hey, come on. Might be fun. Imagine Mr Duncan with that. Stronbeniz flowing from the tap right into our tankards? It’s like a dream.”
“A dream for you, maybe.”

“Just because you can’t handle one sip does not make it a less appealing idea.”

“I can handle more than one sip!”

“Hey, you two!”

The duo turned. Thomas waved to them from a standing table on the right with Axel, Dieter and Ragnar stood around it. Corsair and Rohesia approached.

“Got these for you,” Thomas said, passing the two wine glasses. “Kindly gifted to us from the marble god over there.”

“This is crazy,” Axel scoffed. “Probably more expensive than all of us put together.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Corsair said. “Where’s Lady Riskar?”

“One of the servants ushered her and the captains through. I told them you’d be a second,” Axel said.

“Right. Let’s squeeze in a quick toast before I get dragged off.”

The group raised their glasses, Ragnar being the last to do so. They all looked to Corsair.

“Go on, ‘Sair” Thomas said. “Prince’s honour.”

“Sure,” Corsair said. “Uh…to our lives, to our stories, and to the next stage in making everything right again. I’m glad you’re all here. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” the group chorused, clinking glasses and taking big sips of their drink. Corsair took a swig, feeling the slight bubbly fizz of the wine against his tongue and savouring the sweet taste of the carrot. Despite its expensive nature and exotic origin, Corsair still felt a spiritual longing for the simple strength of Stronbeniz mead.

“Spoken like a true prince,” Thomas said. “Maybe we should settle down here. Wine will tide us over until Tiberius dies and then we can head back.”

“And Opulus magically stops invading?” Axel said.

“Can’t kill someone while they’re enjoying a good drink. Wouldn’t be right, even for the legion.”

“Must have missed that in the clan’s constitution,” Dieter said. “You’ll have to show us where that’s written.”

“Oh, no need, I’ve memorised it. It’s right after ‘Opulus and Tiberius are required to go shove it up their ass’!”

The group all laughed together. The oppressive weight of past, present and future could not stifle their spirits there. If it was to be their last night alive, the evening at the ball would remain liberated of the worries their new world had brought them.

Ragnar said nothing.

A rabbit servant wearing a feathered muffin hat and a yellow brocade approached. “Master Sedrid, greetings. Your presence is expected in the premier’s chambers. Please follow me.”

“Okay,” Corsair said. “Watch Rohesia with the wine, she’s bad with alcohol.”

“That’s not true!” Rohesia said.

“I believe it,” Axel said.

“You’re probably as bad as her,” Thomas said.

“You watch it, I still haven’t forgotten about the bucket incident.”

“The what?” Rohesia asked.

“Ah, one of my great exploits,” Thomas grinned. “Go on, Ax, you can tell it. You’re clearly dying to share.”

Corsair left the group to their gossiping and followed the servant across the ballroom, ignoring the many different looks he received. Curiosity, disdain, anger; he was the recipient of many different expressions that spoke their venomous sentiments in silence. He sought refuge in a corridor behind the ballroom, following the servant along the long hallway and up a flight of steps. The servant stopped in front of a single doorway flanked by two tall plants, their stems obscured by layers upon layers of leaves.

“Your colleagues are already inside,” the servant said. “I shall be here to escort you back to the ballroom once you are finished.”

The servant opened the door and stepped aside, bowing. If she bore any resentment towards the lupine’s presence, she did not make it apparent.

“Thank you,” Corsair said, stepping across the threshold as the door shut behind him.

Through the door was an oval chamber confined by curved walls of dark wood panels. Far smaller than the extravagant entrance hall and ballroom, it housed a single dining table of similar dark shade with seven chairs positioned around it. On the left end sat Lady Riskar with Sasha to her left and Lorenzo to her right. On the right end sat the Guild Premier, a rabbit who regarded the troupe of new arrivals with a dejected look of defeat. Two advisors sat with him with equal looks of misery, almost comedic when accompanied by their puffy yellow brocades and wide white ruffs around their neck. Empty plates sat in front of all attendees, including the empty chair beside Lorenzo that had been left for Corsair.

“Ah, there he is,” Lady Riskar said. “I am sure he needs no introduction but, for the sake of formality, this is—”

“Corsair Sedrid,” the Guild Premier said with a veneer of hatred. “The youngest clan prince and the son of my undoing.”

“Good evening,” Corsair said. “Uh…do I need to bow or—”

“Just sit down, sun’s sake.”

Corsair sat down beside Lorenzo. The hound’s gaze passed over him as if to begrudgingly acknowledge he existed before turning away. The negotiations moved on before Corsair could reciprocate.

“Now that we are all here, let’s move on from the excruciating small talk and converge on more meaningful matters,” Lady Riskar said, sipping at a tumbler filled with a dark beverage.

“Yes. Perhaps we should,” the Guild Premier said. “It’s not every day I get mercenaries at my—”

“Please, Guild Premier, we are no mercenaries.”

“Whatever you delude yourselves into thinking you are, I don’t expect you to be crossing my borders. Not so brazenly. Let alone do I expect a convoy of transports and mounted troops arriving from the Deuvick Feldanas.”

“What were you doing out there?” an advisor asked.

“Seeing to the conclusion of a slave ring, one operated by two exiles known as Pon Zakulo of the Kingdom of Serpents and Innerbridge Tazharimit of Clan Silverclaw. Both were slain, as were all those who followed them.” Lady Riskar gestured to Corsair. “Corsair struck down Zakulo and I vanquished Tazharimit with the aid of my two captains here.”

“Pon Zakulo is an international criminal of violent disrepute. We are to believe this?” the other advisor scoffed.

“Very few voluntarily venture into the Deuvick Feldanas, let alone do so prepared for a two-year excursion. We are experienced, we are fierce, and we have the means to support your nation during a time of national crisis.”

The door across from the entrance opened and a team of servants emerged. Each carried a silver dish across the threshold. Corsair’s stomach voiced its anticipation with a grumble.

“So kind of you to accommodate us like this,” Lady Riskar said, watching the platters be placed down. “It is a first to be the recipient of East Parabular hospitality.”

The Guild Premier snorted, seemingly innocuous yet equally derisive. The servants removed the seven domes in unison, and the aroma hit Corsair immediately. Orange and yellow chunks of seared fruit crowded the left of his plate while a large cut of gerbeast steak covered the right, the lemon juices that had been drizzled over it glistening in the candlelight. It was exactly what any exhausted warrior wanted to see after days of rationed eating. Corsair had to fight to hold his composure, tail flicking at the thought of tucking in.

“Fruit picked fresh today from the outskirts,” the Guild Premier said. “And a generous cut of gerbeast steak drizzled in lemon imported from the island of Bonamonnay.”

“A remarkable dish. However, am I wrong to believe East Parabular to be predominantly vegetarian?” Sasha asked.

“For the most part, yes,” the Guild Premier said, picking up his knife and fork. “Religious holidays are an exception, however, and Loume de Toll just passed. You may tuck in.”

“What’s Loume de Toll?” Corsair whispered to Lorenzo.

“How do you not know what that is? That’s basic—” Lorenzo hissed before containing himself and explaining. “Celestial Toll. It’s a series of intermittent fasts they follow through Auxiom to respect their gods. When it’s finished, they celebrate by eating meat.”

The servants bowed and exited the chamber, only one remaining to top off the tumblers with the strange liquid. Corsair’s paws almost trembled with excitement as he cut away at the steak and put a strip into his mouth. It tasted magnificent. The zest of the lemon, the sweetness of the cubed fruit, and the succulence of the meat all coalesced into a meal Corsair despaired he likely wouldn’t eat again for a long while. A sip of the drink purged his throat, a beverage he realised to be beetroot brandy, and despite its bitter embrace of the tongue he carried on drinking.

“Delightful meal,” Lady Riskar said, dabbing her mouth with the napkin provided. “Cooked by your chefs, I presume?”

“Culinarians from the Kingdom of Serpents,” the Guild Premier said, musing over his tumbler. “Some of the best cooks in the east.”

“They live up to their name.”

“Indeed. Perhaps better than you could with our national crisis, a phrase all fiends in my life seem insistent on tossing around.”

“Would you describe it as anything less?”

“That is not what I am getting at here. To walk into my city and demand counsel with me to deliver a promise so vague – so optimistic in spite of reality – contradicts your claims of professionalism and wastes my time.”

“Perhaps that is your problem, premier. You have been losing for so long that even the most basic confidence in success is terrifying to you.”

“Need I remind you to watch your tone?” an advisor scowled.

“I am very mindful of my tone right now, I assure you. If I am sounding rude or curt it is because I intend to do so.”

Corsair held in a snicker. Lady Riskar seemed completely in her element; not even half the age of her opponents yet her tongue twice as sharp.

“What would you even offer us?” the other advisor said. “What can your house do?”

“If I may, milady,” Lorenzo said. “I served during the Silverclaw War, and I’ve learned from the mistakes made three decades ago. I can assure you the legion have, too. We understand that backline logistics are as valuable as frontline combat. We’d be willing to undertake the gruel of transportation services to bolster the fighting efforts of your troops, along with the knowledge I hold on the legion’s doctrine.”

“Shy of the frontline yourselves, hm?” the Guild Premier scoffed.

“Getting our paws dirty isn’t a problem. We’re conscious of your image in the eyes of the public isn’t that great, seemingly. It’s better to have battles won by your republic army to restore faith in your leadership than to be seen hiring what everyone assumes to be mercenaries. Putting us in the back where you can deny outsourcing lightens your logistical load while improving your image.”

“Why should I care for my image? I’m being ousted from my own government by rebels and idiot naysayers who obscure reality with these purer-than-thou ideals. My image has already been tarnished.”

Lorenzo opened his mouth to continue, but the premier already moved on and pointed to Corsair. “What of him? Hm? What do you contribute, wolf?”

Corsair looked to his side. The trio returned his gaze expectantly, waiting for his answer. Corsair turned back to the advisors, feeling the same embarrassment as if Mr Klement had called upon him while daydreaming.

“Uh…protection, I guess.”

“You guess?” the other advisor scoffed. “Are you unsure of what the word means?”

“No, uh, because I know how to fight. Fight better than most, I mean. There’s six of us. We have Krosguard armour, we have ictharrs, and we’re ready.”

His opponents’ unimpressed expressions– ones that had been so easily dislodged in place of anger and confusion – remained unfaltering. Corsair endured the awkwardness of his testimony’s lacking effect and silently thanked Lady Riskar as she resumed control.

“My colleague need not explain himself. Why should he? You have already become familiar with the tenacity of the lupine first-paw, no? It would be remiss for you to disregard it a second time.”

“Which is why you should heed our offer,” Sasha said.

“And in return?” the Guild Premier asked. “The keys to the kingdom?”

“Certainly less than a band of mercenaries would ask,” Sasha said. “The first would be a monetary fee for our efforts to be paid in Silverclaw Standards. Half now, half later.”

“Autonomy,” Lorenzo said. “We’ll take your orders and get the jobs done but we’re not bending our chain of command for you. Whatever you need changing, you come to us three first and we’ll pass it on.”

“And cooperation,” Lady Riskar said. “Our aims transcend those of a mere mercenary group. The Kingdom of Opulus’ warmongering has gone on for far too long and the schemes of King Damien Farramor are a threat to continuing and sustainable peace. By helping repel this invasion, you partially owe the survival of your people to us. That debt will be forgotten for as long as you aid us in our efforts to dismantle Opulus’ current regime.”

Throughout the evening, the Guild Premier’s face had frequently fluctuated between many different expressions of disdain and anger. Every sentence of deliberation ushered in a new animated presentation of some fierce negative emotion. Yet, after hearing Lady Riskar’s final pillar of proposal, his face did not change. He took another bite from his meal, leaned in and glared.

“Be frank with me. How stupid are you, Riskar?”

“Quite the tone to take with me,” Lady Riskar said. “I see you lead by example.”

“This is not a joking matter. You claim you’ve asked less than a typical group of militant opportunists but do you realise what you have asked me to do?”

“Is abiding by a deal such a foreign concept?” Sasha asked.

“Are you aware of how many Royal Daschlain the capital’s Central Market pulls in?”

“Enlighten me,” Lady Riskar said.

“Fifty thousand. Every single day. What my Guild of Commerce have estimated to be two-thirds sourced from international trade and, for our republic, the primary trading destination for at least two- thirds of our exports.”

“Relevance?” Lorenzo said.

“I am not done,” the Guild Premier snapped. “The Nedatic League, as a result of House Yastillot’s emboldening insistence on independence, also have considerable economic dependence on Opulus. The Kingdom of Serpents’ export of their prized Ghai La lamps during Gelidiom makes up quite a large slice of their monetary income. Clan Silverclaw’s reconstruction has been partially funded by Opulus. Loxworth and the Procyoni States rely on steady streams of leisure items being sold in Opulus to keep their economies afloat. If the list were to continue any longer, the point may bludgeon you to death with how heavily I must hint at it for you to ever comprehend.”

“I am unsure as to—” Lady Riskar tried to say.

“There has been one point in history in which a war was fought within the borders of the Kingdom of Opulus, the blight upon history that is the Urremond Travesty, and that brought the entire realm to a complete standstill. Metals from the mines, food from the crops, medicine from the plants; all gone. Life ceased to be during that tumultuous time and thousands – tens upon tens of thousands – perished.”

“We are not requesting a counteroffensive,” Sasha said. “A firm understanding that we have your diplomatic aid in applying pressure to—”

“Counteroffensive or not, you are still not listening. The Kingdom of Opulus is Vos Draemar. It always has been! Historically, politically, economically and culturally. The world has formed and adapted to a life in which its own existence is conjoined at the hip to Opulus’ survival. To even contemplate the undoing of their sovereign is to ponder tossing every single nation – and their people – into uncharted carnage. It is insanity – insanity – to even pose that as a consideration, for it will cost us all the entire world!”

“So, the alternative is to let Opulus continue pillaging all it sees fit to pillage?” Lady Riskar said.

“No, you oaf, the alternative is we survive the invasion and wait until they nod along to a peace agreement that preserves our republic. Yet without even a shred of long-term thinking you ask me, in return for supposedly helping to save our nation by carrying a box around, to do the very thing that will ultimately destroy it? I did not heed their word to demolish it, I heeded them to demolish the Clan of the Great Lupine!”

The Guild Premier’s face fell. The two advisors recoiled, eyes wide. Even Lady Riskar’s persisting smug demeanour faltered.

Corsair stared. “What did you say?”

The Guild Premier met his gaze. Corsair persisted.

“You said ‘their word’. Whose word did you listen to?”

The Guild Premier looked to his advisors. They looked back to him, equally as helpless.

“I think it would be pragmatic to answer Corsair’s question,” Lady Riskar said, arms folding across her chest. “Seeing as you’re so adamant on talking currently.”

The Guild Premier had nowhere to run. He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his face, and gave one last look to his aides in a final attempt to seek some help. None came. He turned back to Corsair.

“It was not our idea to invade you.”

…

“I don’t think he hates you,” Thomas said.

“I’m not on the same level of fondness as you two,” Dieter said. “He said he doesn’t give a sh*t about what I say.”

“He didn’t mean that,” Axel said. “Just…a lot of emotions. He likes you as much as he likes us.”

“I don’t need him to like me. We’re beyond something as pup-like as that. But…he can be reckless. More reckless than he can afford to be. We all did this for him. You two just make sure he keeps his head on straight. He won’t listen to me and I understand why but that means you two need to look out for him.”

Ragnar stood at the table, full glass of carrot wine still in his paw. The wolves huddled together and deliberated over the schism between Corsair and Dieter, a brief detour from more pleasant topics. Perhaps if Ragnar had not been so beset with other thoughts, he may have felt some residual dislike for the veteran and the part they played in arresting his younger brother.

“Excuse me,” a voice spoke from behind him, light and sprightly.

Ragnar looked over his shoulder and the group turned. A ram, body clothed in a flowing pink gown that hung from the shoulders, stood before them with a glass of carrot wine in one hand and a bottle in the other.

“Evening,” Axel said. “Can we help you?”

“Merely looking for a few drinking pals,” the ram said, smiling as they raised the bottle. “Looks like you’re all about to run out.”

“You’re not wrong,” Thomas said. “Get on in here, come on.”

“Did the captains say we could mingle?” Dieter said.

“It’s a couple of drinks, old timer, not us pouring our life secrets. Get in here already, let’s talk about sh*t that isn’t dreary and depressing.”

Ragnar eased aside for the new arrival. They passed the bottle to Dieter, who proceeded to pour it out into everyone’s diminishing drinks.

“What’s your name?” Axel asked.

Ragnar already knew the answer. Mr Klement’s voice spoke in his head, reciting the history burned into his mind. Stood beside him was Dashim Jintao, political representative of House Yastillot and well-known affiliate of the Yastillot Vanguard of House Yastillot in the Nedatic League. Ragnar would have praised the visionary under other circ*mstances yet, in that moment, he barely had the strength to talk.

“Dashim Jintao, a representative of House Yastillot in the Nedatic League. Please, though, call me Dash.”

“Pleasure to meet you. You come to these often?” Axel said.

“Not usually, no. I tend to deplore fraternising with the Avantiers party, but today’s ball involved an important meeting.”

“Who are the Avantiers?” Thomas asked.

“Now that is a long story,” Dash said. “The short version is that they were once farmers a millennia ago that developed considerable monopolies on agriculture, and, eventually, their harvests of wheat turned into harvests of coin. They dominated the industry and…well, now, the ruling party of this damnable country is infested with upper class lunatics and parasites.”

“Their opponents?” Dieter asked, taking a sip of carrot wine.

“The Macheillons. Workers, academics, commonfolk tired of toiling for no pay and mobility. Good people. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always translate to good politics. Last decade has been an awful show of idiots. We’re hoping the recent First Minister might do a lot better.”

“How do you stomach it?” Rohesia asked.

“Barely,” Dash chuckled. “Good friends and true causes see me through, as they do my colleagues.

“Must pay well though,” Thomas said. “Surely that sweetens the deal a bit.”

“Only so much, only so much. What good is coin in paw when it comes at the cost of so many?”

“I mean…carrot wine’s a good start.”

The group laughed, Dash included. Ragnar sipped the carrot wine to disguise his lack of involvement.

“It is quite convincing, I will not lie,” Dash said. “But tell me, tell me, what are you doing here? It’s interesting to see wolves in the capital during such tumultuous times.”

Dieter began to explain, Thomas and Rohesia chipping in here and there. Axel turned to Ragnar. “You enjoying the food?”

Ragnar looked down. Half a steak and a measly group of surviving fruit cubes leered back up at him.

“Yes.”

“Beats the rations, right?”

“I suppose.”

Axel nodded, looking away as he thought of something else to say. Ragnar paid the silence no mind.

“How’s your rib?” Axel asked.

“Aching.”

“But better, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Uh…you chose to do your head fur up well. It suits you.”

“Thanks.”

Another pause. Ragnar felt the phantom weight of a quill in paw.

“Did you, uh, did you try the wine?”

“Yes.”

“It’s good?”

“I suppose.”

Axel nodded. “Right. That makes sense.”

Another pause. His mother’s wailing despair echoed through his haunted mind, the last sound he had ever heard her make.

“I just…you know, Ragnar, I…I understand it’s so bad I can never understand how bad it is.”

She was dead. He didn’t get to say goodbye. He’d left her alone, at the mercy of monsters.”

“And, considering how awful it is to be alone with that, I’m just checking in with you. Silence might be easier but…once you’re past the difficulty of talking, it helps.”

Ragnar felt a tightness imposed upon his chest. It was hardly noticeable, a culmination of sin that feebly grasped at his body but emboldened with every passing second. It wrung him like a wet cloth, squeezing the truth out with increasing force.

“If you don’t want to talk that’s fine but…I don’t know, I think it could be—"

“I did it.”

The words left his mouth before he even realised what he had said.

“Did…did what?” Axel said.

“I wrote the letter. I wasn’t framed.”

Axel stared, uncertain of what to say. Ragnar met his gaze with a pained expression.

“She died because of me, Axel.”

“Rag—”

“I wasn’t there because I was involved in a plot to—”

“Stop stop stop stop,” Axel said in a hushed tone. “Okay, easy, let’s calm down. Don’t say it so loud.”

Axel looked back to the group, ensured that they remained ensnared in Dash’s stories, before resuming the conversation. Ragnar steadied his breath.

“You weren’t framed?”

“No,” Ragnar said, unable to look him in the eye. “There were letters. They were like the one Zakulo had gotten from the king. I had a lot of people with verified evidence telling me that Tiberius was planning to kill me.”

“But he exiled you.”

“Into a place with an ancient disease no one knows about. A place where other people have letters like his.”

“Right, but…look, whatever the reason he didn’t kill you, does Corsair know?”

“No.”

“I think he should.”

The idiocy of the suggestion made Ragnar grip the wine glass hard. “He’d hate me, no.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Corsair was willing to search far and wide to find you, his safety be damned.”

“I’d be confessing I was the reason our mother is dead.”

“You’d be getting closure. You’ve just told me this abruptly in the middle of a crowded party. You’re saying you don’t need to talk to someone?”

Ragnar forced air out and closed his eyes.

“Your secret is safe with me. Okay? I’m not going to blab to anyone,” Axel said, donning a sympathetic tone. “But as much as your brother deserves to know, you also deserve to be free of holding this in. It will ruin you.”

The optimistic use of future tense was naïve. An unshakeable nausea gripped Ragnar, drilled down deep within and entrenched itself where nothing could hope to dislodge it. All eyes burned holes into his back. Whispering voices exchanged condemnations of his actions – of his life – and all were interceded by a quill scribbling on parchment.

He placed the glass down. “I need to leave.”

“Ragnar—”

“I’m going outside.”

“Okay, I’ll come with you.”

“No. Shut up and stop clinging to me, for God’s sake.”

Axel winced. “Oh. I…right, okay.”

Ragnar hurried back out into the entrance hall, down the stairs, and stepped out into the open. The music and laughter faded. In their stead came the hearty conversation Kilik and Lendausz shared, still sitting atop the driver’s seat with plenty of bottles and cigarettes in paw. Atan read a book whilst sitting beside Paetri, who licked herself clean as part of her grooming regimen.

He took a moment to understand the truth’s escape. He fought his haggard breath as he contemplated the rush of negative emotion the confession brought. Exhaustion nestled deep into his muscles, made standing under the weight of it all too much to bear. He sat down on the steps, grimacing as he willed his trembling spirit to restabilise, and clutched at his chest with one paw.

I wasn’t there to save her.

Harangoth yowled at the sight of his approaching master and hurried over, sitting at the bottom of the steps and whimpering. Ragnar saw his best friend there and, for a moment, felt the terror abate.

“Hey.”

Harangoth pushed his body into Ragnar’s side and rested his head on his lap, exhaling and closing his eyes. Ragnar hugged him.

“Such a pup,” Ragnar muttered. “Such a little pup.”

Harangoth mewled.

“I know. I missed you too.”

Quickpaw hurried up the steps and sat beside Harangoth, keeping guard.

“Hello, Quickpaw.”

Quickpaw yapped hello. Ragnar turned his attention to the world beyond the manor. He could see smoke in the distance, accompanied by the flickering of orange and the furious screams of the people. Saint Luxzancque guard hurried to and fro beyond the gates.

What a cruel world it was. There he sat, just outside the doors to a ball where he could gorge on luxuries that many beyond those gates didn’t even know existed, and outside the world burned. How cruel it was that the stars in the night sky would keep shining, would keep on giving hope that there was some meaning in the struggle, when there was none. The stars did not shine in defiance, they did not light the world for them, but did so because that’s all they were created to do. Glow and die. If there was no meaning vested in something so magnificent, how could there be any in him? In his life? In the pain he felt as a result of his hopeless and overt failure?

People had suffered. He had suffered. What would come of it? Nothing. The wealthy would continue to feast, the poor would continue to die, and Ragnar would continue to waste away. To fight it was to resign oneself to delusion; to believe that something as fickle as willpower could hope to endure the cruelty of everything.

“Ragnar Sedrid.”

The voice was deep and calm, accompanied with an Eposian accent. Harangoth’s eyes shot open, and he stood, getting in front of Ragnar and growling.

“Easy,” Ragnar said, disarming Harangoth with his voice. “They won’t hurt me.”

Harangoth stood down and returned to resting his head on Ragnar’s lap, silver eyes trained on the new arrival. Standing on the same step, a mountain below the clouds of grey wool, stood a ram. They struck an intimidating figure, wielding an imposing presence with their broad shoulders and strong arm. Two horns curved forth from either side of their head, the one on the right cracked and missing the tip. The figure’s left arm suffered a similar fate, hacked off below the elbow and leaving only a stump of scarred flesh. Braids descended from either side of the ram’s head, sporting coloured bands and thin string. A decorated pink cowl flowed down from the neck and over the shoulders, coming to a stop over the chest. A midriff of thick wool separated the fabric over the upper body from the skirt over the legs, coming down to just above the knees. One brown eye looked down at him with a neutral gaze, the other hidden behind their woollen fringe. Ragnar could see seniority in their dark weathered face, scarred by time and the numerous battles it had accumulated, and estimated the warrior to be around forty-years-old.

“I take it you’re not a fan of extravagant parties?” they asked.

“Needed air.”

“You’re Ragnar Sedrid.”

“And you’re Thornvallis Attronieux. The Flowering Knight of Yastillot, Veteran of the Yastillot Vanguard.”

They smirked. “Impressive. I didn’t expect my name to precede me.”

“I know about the Nedatic League’s history.”

“You’re well-read. You mind if I sit with you?”

Ragnar didn’t care. He nodded. Thornvallis sat beside him, almost a whole head taller still. The ram pulled out a cigar and offered it to Ragnar. The wolf declined with a shake of his head. The ram eased the cigar into their mouth, fished out a match from their skirt pocket, struck it against the step and held it up to the cigar. Tossing away the spent match, they pulled out the cigar and puffed smoke.

“Guilty pleasure. Where sword and arrow have failed, smoke will no doubt succeed. My lungs are as scarred as my broken body.”

“I don’t judge.”

“I didn’t assume so. When we’re surrounded by the gluttonous depravity of the ruling class, it would be peculiar to arch your brow at a burning stick. No matter how good the wine is.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Thornvallis let the silence hang for a minute. The lull in conversation was not uneasy – Ragnar did not feel repulsed by the veteran’s presence despite Harangoth’s lingering and wary glare – yet its yawning duration proved too imposing to dislodge with casual small talk.

“So, tell me,” Thornvallis started. “Not usual for wolves to be in the capital right now. What’s your business?”

“You’re asking the wrong wolf,” Ragnar said.

“You don’t know?”

“All I know is there’s nothing else. If you want answers, then ask the others.”

Thornvallis puffed out smoke. The grey vapour plumed into a thin cloud and then dissipated into nothing.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Word travels around. The situation back in your home country isn’t good from what I’ve heard.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Condolences.”

Ragnar said nothing. Thornvallis took another drag of the cigar then carried on.

“There’s a lot of cruelty in the world. Not just in the dank and dark at the corners of it but, sometimes, in the highest and most noble seats of power. It boxes you in, deprives you of opportunity. I’m sure both of us would have followed very different paths had it not been for the meddling of outside forces.”

The ram’s spiel had Ragnar’s attention, as diluted and difficult to aim as it was. Ragnar listened to their conclusion.

“With the cards we’re dealt…sometimes all we can do is resist. Defy. Refuse to follow the bastard accords of the oppressor. Die being as much of a nuisance to tyrants as possible. What say you to that?”

Ragnar didn’t know what to say. A clear sentiment with a direct call to action yet a vague power behind it. The stranger had spoken every word as if they addressed a legion before a great triumphant battle yet there they sat, puffing on a cigar and idly observing Kilik and Lendausz’s conversation.

“Those are words for someone more important,” Ragnar said.

Thornvallis nodded. “I understand. You wish to be left alone. Wherever your travels take you, I hope you fare well.”

Back up the stairs the stranger went. Ragnar watched them disappear inside the palace, curiosity piqued by such an avant-garde approach to understanding the world’s chaos.

“Good evening, Ragnar.”

Ragnar looked towards the bottom of the steps. There stood the deer physician, the one who had fundamentally changed his understanding of what the world held in store for them all. With sullen eyes and a downtrodden expression, Ralwyndr looked as miserable as Ragnar felt. Quickpaw yapped in greeting. Harangoth warily eyed the deer.

“Hello,” Ragnar said. “Not one to socialise inside?”

Ralwyndr shook his head. “Perhaps another night. I came purely for fresh air.”

“I understand.”

Ralwyndr nodded and scratched the back of his head, shifting from hoof to hoof as if uncomfortable. “I…I hope this isn’t inappropriate. I just…”

He struggled to finish. Ragnar interjected.

“Just ask.”

Ralwyndr nodded and exhaled. “When you found her…that doe…she was already…gone?”

Ralwyndr’s eyes shimmered in the light. No further words needed to be spoken for Ragnar to understand.

“A long time. I’m sorry.”

Ralwyndr nodded. He fidgeted with his hands, repeatedly tapping his thumbs against each other as if to stave off a collapse. The sight, even in Ragnar’s emotional lethargy, prompted a foolish question.

“Are you okay, Ralwyndr?”

“No,” Ralwyndr said, voice hoarse. “I left too many things unsaid.”

The physician murmured a timid goodbye, spun away from Ragnar and strode off towards the shadows of the hedgerows. Ragnar turned his gaze back up to the stars, examined the pinpricks of light belonging to celestial bodies that had long since died by the time their shining signals reached Vos Draemar. Harangoth mewled, checking if Ragnar was okay.

There was nothing else to say.

…

The Guild Premier, face shadowed in shame, muttered something to his colleagues. One of the advisors stood and hurried out the room, disappearing through the door the servants had gone through.

“Where are they going?” Corsair asked.

“To get the evidence,” the Guild Premier said, voice soft with shame.

The advisor returned half a minute later and sat back down, passing the object to the Guild Premier. He sighed, mused over it, and passed it to Corsair who then proceeded to pass it to Lady Riskar.

“At the turning of the second season, we received information from the Kingdom of Opulus’ Royal Order that the Clan of the Great Lupine was posturing to invade the Raskartz-Amien projects. We dismissed it as nonsense at first, an oversensitivity of intelligence that would interpret innocent activity as potentially hostile. But as time passed, we received more correspondence alongside letters of discussion that were being sent from the clan to the Council of Vos Draemar Affairs.”

“What did they say?” Corsair asked.

“They used the kind of words one does not wish to see when talking about foreign policy. Invasion. Military alliance. Third Rabbit-Lupine war. They spoke of soldiers being secretly transported into the towns so the border could be seized from inside without any resistance. So, under King Farramor’s instruction, Royal Order representatives suggested the best way to tackle this was to reinforce the border towns and kick out wolves that had taken up recent residence there. The Kingdom of Opulus would then intervene before any war emerged and delegate peace talks between us and the clan.”

“This letter does reflect what you say,” Lady Riskar said, passing the letter to Lorenzo. “This correspondence speaks in a rather urgent tone about a sudden western invasion.”

“I agree,” Lorenzo said. “It’s very direct. Little room for misinterpretation.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Corsair said. “The announcement of war from my father was sudden. There wasn’t any posturing, any preparations, it just happened. The army and Krosguard were focused on dealing with petty crime and the occasional bandit group.”

“Unless they’re lying,” Lorenzo said, passing the letter to Sasha. “Unless there never was any talk of invasion from the clan. Opulus made it all up to get you to do something.”

The Guild Premier nodded. Corsair, confused, spoke. “Wait. How do we know that isn’t faked either, then? That this isn’t an excuse?”

“I am afraid not,” Sasha said, reading the letter. “This seems legitimate.”

“Why?”

Sasha turned and showed the letter to Corsair. As he took it in his paws, the truth became painfully irrefutable. The royal emblem of the Kingdom of Opulus was stamped in the top right. The red ink had faded somewhat, an indicator that it wasn’t a forgery the advisor had hurriedly marked on an unrelated Opulusian letter. Paragraphs of New Opulusian written in dark cursive continued down the page, forming regiments of words that did not dare deviate from the line margin by even a millimetre.

“It shares the exact format of what we discovered in Zakulo’s hideout,” Sasha explained. “Zakulo was also receiving instructions from the Kingdom of Opulus to attempt a coup in the Kingdom of Serpents, a political usurping that failed and led to their retreat north.”

“A coup?” the Guild Premier said. “Pon Zakulo attempted to lead a coup? That runt. That putrid court underling. I cannot believe they had the gall to attempt to undermine our good relations.”

“They defied your expectations,” Lady Riskar said. “And they did so a long time before you received this letter, it seems.”

“But the archsovereign is a staunch ally of the republic,” an advisor said, shocked. “So…that means—"

“That the invasion was planned for a long time before you even heard from Opulus,” Lorenzo said. “They wanted Zakulo to take over the Kingdom of Serpents so, when the time came, you’d be fighting on two fronts and the Saint Gaspard Wall wouldn’t strategically matter anymore.”

“That is why the Opulusian Legion and Clan of the Great Lupine advanced so swiftly through your territory,” Sasha said. “Their points of attack had been known already for an extended amount of time.”

“But…we can’t be sure the clan was involved, right?” Corsair said. “There’s no direct evidence that—”

“We can’t rule it out,” Lorenzo said. “It wouldn’t make sense for Opulus to set up all these pieces just to leave their best military ally to chance. The clan must have known.”

“He wasn’t involved.”

“What? Who are you—"

“The semantics of involvement and guilt will have to wait,” Lady Riskar said, shooting a look at Corsair before turning back to the Guild Premier. “You were played, Guild Premier, and I am unsure if I should be surprised considering it is you at the helm. If this plan has as much preparation as we think it has, it would be smart for you to consider our help.”

“In return for aiding Opulus’ destruction? I think not,” the Guild Premier said, staunch defence returning. “The value of your services has begun to dawn on me, I admit as much, but to ask me to aid in the kingdom’s collapse is a step too far for any agreement to be reached.”

“I do not plan for collapse. I plan for a new king, one that doesn’t wish to see you and your people subjugated to their military might. A rise without the fall. Surely that interests you, no?”

“Assassinating one of the most valued international leaders and changing the world?” an advisor laughed. “What an impossible promise.”

“That was not a promise. That was myself making it abundantly apparent that our involvement benefits you either way,” Lady Riskar said, going in for the kill with eyes focused solely on the Guild Premier. “Either ourselves and whatever other militant groups out there are slain and your nation falls – as it shall do without us anyway – or your nation survives and all you have to part with are money and supplies as payment for our services.”

“I—” the Guild Premier said.

“The alternative is your head parts with your neck, Guild Premier, so I would strongly consider you let us help.”

“Is that a threat?” an advisor said.

“No. That was a promise. And, unlike the behaviour of those cut from your cloth of ill politics and moronic perspective, the wolves and hounds are keen to stick to theirs. So, what will it be, Guild Premier? Do you wish for your enemies to spit upon your name in the history books or your own people to spit upon your name in a faded and forgotten obituary?”

The Guild Premier said nothing.

…

Corsair followed the leadership back out into the ballroom. The dancing floor was no longer left woefully empty. Couples swayed together in unison with the music, murmurs of conversation and snickers of laughter in the air. The nobles and rich peers wore an assortment of bizarre hats that were far bigger than their heads, sporting ridiculously large rims that hosted golden ornaments.

“Quite the difficult conversation,” Lady Riskar said. “But now we have an arrangement, a plan of action, and a way to afford ourselves some renown in important circles…even if said circles nauseate me beyond endurance.”

“But what they said about Opulus,” Corsair said in a hushed tone. “It’s true, then? They orchestrated a war between the clan and East Parable.”

“East Parabular,” Sasha said. “And yes, it is evident that Opulus wished for a conflict to arise so they could partake in the invasion.”

“To stoop as low as to seek help from the likes of Zakulo is criminal enough,” Lady Riskar said.

“None of you are explaining how the clan was involved,” Corsair said.

“You’re being more annoying than usual about this,” Lorenzo said.

“We have a physical letter from Opulus to the republic. We don’t have one from the clan.”

“Let me get this straight. Opulus has potentially been setting up a plan to manipulate world tensions for years – decades, at the worst – and put in deliberate effort to get all the pieces into place except the one most important part? That they left their long-term military ally, who has the fealty of Loxworth and Procyoni behind them, completely to chance?”

“Yes,” Corsair said.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Me? I’m the only one considering that my father was manipulated too.”

“There is no strategic incentive to letting their biggest military ally potentially call for peace when they want a war. Your clan had to have known or it could have all fallen apart.”

“He didn’t know.”

“I don’t give a sh*t about your dad and I’m not here to counsel you on whatever feelings you have about his guilt. Pull yourself together.”

“Quieten down, both of you,” Lady Riskar snapped. “Hearth below, you are both acting like a pair of kits. Where the ultimate root of guilt in this intricate network resides is not of our concern. We have proof Opulus has been orchestrating matters for some considerable time before the war’s commencement. Not too long after this, the Sedrid lineage is displaced from power. These are conspiratorial movements on an international level, united as one by whatever putrid goals justify them. Now both of you leave this discussion be and carry on with some semblance of normalcy.”

“Of course, milady,” Lorenzo said, glaring at Corsair. “I’ll go check on the pathfinder.”

Lorenzo left. Sasha offered her paw to Lady Riskar and knelt.

“Aadi, may I take this dance?”

“Dance?” Lady Riskar scoffed, taking her paw. “How scandalous to even suggest.”

The couple walked together onto the dance floor and joined in the slow dancing, earning a couple of looks but offering them nary a thought. Corsair stood there, feeling dumb and stupid, before he crossed the ballroom and returned to the wolves’ table. New dishes of magnificent food sat in front of them, a second course comprised of pastel-coloured cakes and cream. Dieter and Axel stood on one side and watched as Thomas giggled and laughed with glee, slumped over his drink of beetroot brandy and arm thrown over the shoulders of a ram beside him. The fur over his face was sodden as if it had rained while Corsair was gone.

“Whoa…that’s…” Thomas slurred, staring at his drinking partner in bewilderment. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“It is quite the story,” the ram laughed. “Not nearly as remarkable when heard sober, however.”

“What? Pfffffffffffffffft. That’s ab…ab…” Thomas turned to Axel. “Hey…what’s the word?”

“Absurd,” Axel sighed, turning his attention to Corsair. “Welcome back.”

“Ah, hello!” the ram greeted, offering a hand. “I’m Dashim Jintao. Call me Dash.”

“Nice to meet you,” Corsair said, shaking it. “Where’s Ragnar?”

“Out front,” Axel said. “Wanted some air, I think.”

Corsair pointed to Thomas. “And him?”

“Got a bit overzealous with the alcohol and dunked his head in the wine fountain.”

“No way,” Corsair scoffed. “I can’t believe I missed that.”

“Lucky for him that Dieter’s around. After the bucket incident, I was half-inclined to let him drown.”

“Hey Ax…Axxxy…Axeboy?” Thomas slurred.

“Yeah?” Axel said.

“You’re a…a…uhhhhhhhhh…you’re a good friend. I like you.”

“That’s sweet, Tom.”

“Will you…will you…forgive me for the bucket…me throwing a bucket of water on you?”

“I will never forgive you for that.”

“Aw shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”

The group laughed. Thomas joined in although Corsair wasn’t sure he even knew what he was laughing at.

“What about Rohesia?” Corsair asked.

“She went over to the balcony,” Axel said, pointing towards the bar. “Needed air.”

“I’ll go check on her,” Corsair said. He snatched a wine glass of the table, poured out some carrot wine, and chugged it all down. He wiped the beads off his maw, placed the drink back down, and turned to walk away.

“Whoa!” Thomas gasped, pointing at the glass. “Did you see that? Oh my…that was…wowie.”

The group laughed at the drunkard, a sound that faded into the party as Corsair ventured across the ballroom and towards one of the balconies. Most of the partygoers that had loitered outside, drinking and smoking and laughing, had hurried back inside to enjoy the dance. Only one figure remained, peering over the banister and towards the city.

“Rohesia?” Corsair said.

She looked over her shoulder. “Oh. How did the meeting go?”

“Eventful,” Corsair said, stopping beside her. “The rabbits were told to occupy the border towns by Opulus and, when they did, Opulus sided with the clan to invade.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Zakulo had a letter, too, where the kingdom wanted them to cause a coup and take power so East Parabular would be fighting a war on two fronts.”

“And the clan?” Rohesia said.

Corsair hesitated. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. It’s just…”

“Another part of you thinks your father knew.”

Corsair nodded. “I can’t say for sure if he did, but…I can’t say for sure he didn’t, either. Lorenzo keeps telling me that it doesn’t make sense they’d leave the clan to chance when they’re such a military asset.”

“Well…Corsair…maybe we’ve got to start thinking about things that may be uncomfortable.”

“Like what? My dad knew?”

“And that maybe…maybe they killed him.”

The thought was not novel – such a terrible idea had crossed his mind before during fleeting bouts of pondering what had gone so wrong so fast – yet with every second he gave it he felt its awful claws sink further into him.

“Why would they kill him if he was involved?” Corsair said. “I watched him declare war from that podium and then tell me to shut up about it right after.”

“Maybe Tiberius was someone Opulus thought they could control easier.”

Corsair felt his father push his paw away; endured the sting of him refusing to look at his son as he passed.

The victim of a potential murder.

“I…” Corsair said, rubbing his face. “God, what a web we got dropped onto.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to talk about this. Not about him. It doesn’t matter. We’re here regardless of how he died.”

“I understand. Let’s change topic.”

“Yeah. Uh…”

Corsair looked over his shoulder. He watched the partygoers dance and celebrate, feigning ignorance to the struggle and war beyond the confines of the palace. He looked back to Rohesia, saw her face illuminated by the beckoning call of the chandeliers. He saw the blue streak across her eyes, the soft expression accompanied with a small smile, and saw how elegant she looked in the dress. His heart thumped against his ribs.

“Do you…uh…” he hesitated. “Do…dance? I mean…do you want to dance?”

Maybe it was the buzz of the alcohol. Maybe it was desperation to escape the thought of how wide-reaching his family’s undoing truly was. Maybe it was the desire to feign ignorance and, for once in a long time, be blissfully happy. Whatever the reason, the question had been asked. Rohesia blinked, looking back into the ballroom with flattening ears.

“Oh, uh…Corsair, I don’t do well in spaces like that. Everyone would be looking at me. I’d feel stupid.”

“Out here, then. Just us. For a little bit.”

Rohesia’s tail flicked, betraying her. So did Corsair’s.

“Uh…yeah,” she said, smiling. “Sure. I think I’d like that.”

“Great,” Corsair said, nervously chuckling. “You, uh, know how to slow dance?”

“No, I never learned.”

“I’ll show you, it’s easy,” Corsair said, taking her right paw in his and extending their arm out. “That’s one. Now, uh…the other one goes around your waist.”

“My arm goes around my waist?”

“No, no!” Corsair laughed. “No, I mean…mine. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

Corsair eased his other arm around her waist and, with a moment of hesitation he hoped he hid well, eased her close. His arm tentatively rested against Rohesia, an act of restraint Corsair took as to not overwhelm her.

“You can hold me firmer,” Rohesia said, looking at the floor. “Please.”

“Oh right,” Corsair said. “Okay, put your other arm over my shoulder.”

Rohesia did so. Corsair nodded. “Nice. This is how we start. It’s all just swaying. Typical slow dance.”

“Okay,” Rohesia said, exhaling.

Corsair began to sway left and right, tipping Rohesia as he moved. She reciprocated, uncertainty fading in the first few seconds of the attempt.

“There you go,” Corsair said. “Now we start to move. Just a few sidesteps, that’s all.”

“I’ll be very careful not to step on you,” Rohesia said.

“That’s very gracious. The upper-class charm has rubbed off on you. We’re going to have to start calling you Lady Rohesia.”

Rohesia giggled. Corsair stepped left and his partner followed. He stepped right and so did she. They stepped and swayed in unison to the music, mimicking the rhythm of the dancers inside, all the while Corsair fought to hold her gaze.

Is this too intense? Should I look away?

“This isn’t so bad,” Rohesia said.

“You’re doing good,” Corsair said. “Now we start turning.”
The dancing couple pivoted around the point where they stood, stepping in and out while they swayed. Corsair’s heart beat in steady unison with Rohesia’s. He couldn’t stop the smile forming on his face and, evidently, neither could Rohesia.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” Corsair said.

“Is this a dance you used to do at tournaments?” Rohesia asked.

“It’s something I learned when I was young for celebrations. The Raskartz Waltz was something I did more.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Hey!”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult!” Corsair chuckled. “Really. The Raskartz Waltz is an old dance I did a few times at tournament parties and that’s it.”

“Sounds like a boring dance if it’s so old.”

“It can be surprisingly fun. I’ll show you a few moves.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. We’d do a spin.”

Corsair raised up her paw and prompted her to turn with his other arm at her waist. She spun slowly, dress billowing out before rushing back in as she stopped.

“There you go. That’s one move. Then we’d sometimes step out.”

Corsair stepped out, extending his arms and lowering himself a little. Rohesia did the same. Corsair then pulled her back in.

“That’s all?” Rohesia said. “Doesn’t seem that fun.”

“That’s cos we haven’t done the third thing.”

“What’s th—”

Corsair, grinning, tipped her back fast as if to drop her. She hung over the ground, only one hind paw rooting her to the floor.

“Eep!” she yelped, ears flattening with embarrassment. “Corsair, you idiot!”

“What?” Corsair laughed. “You wanted to see the dance.”

“If you dropped me—”

“I wasn’t going to drop you.”

“You sure?”

“Certain. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Rohesia said nothing. Corsair shared her silence. The couple hung there, suspended from reality, as the music faded out and the world around them ceased to be. All Corsair could hear was the slow thump of his swelling heart. He stared into her eyes, felt the anxiety attacking from one side and the excitement assaulting from the other. His breath slowed. His smile faded into a look of mesmerisation. Rohesia returned his expression.

“Corsair?” she said, timid.

“Yes?” Corsair said.

“What’s happening? I feel weird.”

“I do too,” Corsair said. “But…it’s a good weird, I think.”

A moment, pregnant with hope, lingered. Nothing else needed to be said. Rohesia leaned forward. She closed her eyes, bowed her head and pressed it against his. Corsair did the same. Their foreheads rested against one another, their snouts running down together and stopping just shy of the other’s nose. Corsair felt at peace there, felt all the grief and despair and fear dissipate into nothing.

“I’m so happy you’re here with me,” Corsair whispered.

“I am too,” Rohesia said. “It’s been so scary but…knowing you’re there has made me stay brave. I trust you.”

“I trust you, too.”

They relapsed into comfortable silence. Corsair eased her back up but they held their embrace, his arms around her waist and hers around his shoulders. They breathed together, felt their partner there before them, and relished the security and happiness their presence brought. There were many problems he had to face – many threats that would follow him until he set it right – but there, in that eternal moment of harmony, Corsair Sedrid only thought of how lucky he was to have Rohesia by his side.

…

As the party waned on through the early hours of the morning, Thornvallis turned their attention to more important matters. The servant led the way through the stumbling drunks to the premier’s chambers, opened the door and shut it behind them after they entered. The Guild Premier sat alone at his dining table, a look of utter defeat upon his face.

“Oh look,” he sighed. “I have already been swindled of my honour by a makeshift group of thugs. Why not bring a second round also?”

“It’s nice to see you again too.” Dash grinned, sitting at the table and putting their legs up. “Let’s cut to the chase. That deal we proposed.”

The Guild Premier, resigned to his fate, nodded. “While I have been forced to alter the reparations to be lower…you will get your independence. You have a deal.”

The duo discussed the details. Thornvallis glared at the Guild Premier, their imposing silence more than enough to show their disdain for the leader.

“I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out,” Dash smiled. “I’ll remain in the capital for the next few days to see to that lesser exchange of coin you promised. Thornvallis here will direct the guard.”

“Fine,” the Guild Premier said, standing. “If you have nothing else to torture me with, leave me be.”

“Hold your adeuns there,” Dash said, relishing the control they wielded over the Guild Premier. “Your wolf friends. What’s their deal?”

Thornvallis relished how little resolve the rabbit still wielded. Without any further prompting, he explained everything. House Vigilance’s arrival in the north, their travel down south, the proposal they made and the foolish ambitions they were motivated by. The duo thanked the Guild Premier for his ever-so-kind audience before turning to the door and leaving.

Thornvallis stopped before the threshold. “One more thing.”

“What?” the Guild Premier said.

Thornvallis glared, felt the satisfaction of the idiot shrivelling ever so slightly beneath the animosity of his promising stare. “If you try to burn us on this, I’ll be back here. Our meeting will be a lot less civil. Do you understand?”

The Guild Premier, the mighty and marvellous leader now timid and frail, only nodded. Thornvallis exited, following Dash into the corridor and back to the party.

“Well,” Dash said. “Our new friends are quite ambitious.”

“Helping East Parabular in return for raising a new Opulus,” Thornvallis mused. “Not easy.”

“No, it’s not. But I think we have an answer as to whether we’re of the same spirit.”

“You might be right.”

They stopped just before the entrance leading back to the ballroom. Dash turned to Thornvallis.

“So…tomorrow morning we’ll be parting ways once again, friend.”

“Unfortunately,” Thornvallis sighed. “Back into the fray once more for me.”

“I envy you. The Flowering Knight of Yastillot back fighting the good fight. What a sight it’ll be for the newbies.”

“I’ll try not to show off too much,” Thornvallis smiled.

The duo hugged. Thornvallis had to stoop down a little to match Dash’s height, an affair both of them chuckled about, before they peeled off one another.

“Be safe, my dear friend,” Dash said. “And keep an eye on our ambitious northern colleagues. I have a feeling they’ll be of great help to you.”

“Saint Gaspard will be a troubling front,” Thornvallis said. “Let us hope our newfound friends have the stomachs for war.”

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Valour was roused from that persisting nightmare of blood and horror by a voice speaking in New Opulusian, belonging to a legionnaire that sat across from him in the carriage.

“We’re here, comosol,” she said. “It’s best you move on hind paw from here. There will be an aide to take you where you need to go.”

“And my things?” Valour groaned, struggling to pull off his happy hoody.

“We’ll move them into your tent. It’s on the other side of the camp. We won’t break anything, don’t worry, comosol.”

“I trust you won’t,” Valour said, pushing open the side door of the carriage and stepping down as he fought the hood. “Thank you.”

The carriage rode on, trundling down the dirt path of the descending slope and onward to their destination. Ahead, situated in a sizeable clearing before a set of grassy hills, sat a large congregation of tents made of red and white fabric and hastily built wooden structures. Banners belonging to the Kingdom of Opulus and the Clan of the Great Lupine dotted the aisles, proudly stating their sworn allegiance. Figures bustled to and fro with things to do, moving supplies off the backs of wagons to their respective areas or tending to weapons in the mobile armouries. A wooden bailey, hastily erected, held the perimeter. He watched as one flew away to the west, a black dot against the mesmerising clear blue of the midday sky. Birds fluttered up and away from the aviary, a large tent situated on the northernmost outskirts of the camp.

“Commander.”

Valour turned to look to his right. There stood a wolf soldier, a person clad in chainmail shirt with a black fabric tie-off around the right sleeve, who regarded him with a look of utter disdain. Such an expression was familiar to the commander, one that took only a second of deliberate pondering to notice where it hailed from. From nowhere came wooden walls, a staircase on the right leading to a landing that loomed over the dining room, kitchen and fireplace to the left. The wolf eyed his happy hoody with disdain, firmly unimpressed.

“Trouble sleeping is the least you deserve.”

Valour said nothing in response to the disgraced ex-servant of the Sedrid family. He watched as he walked off, stunned, before pulling the hood off his head and following with haste.

…

Camp Umpani was a testament to the resourcefulness of the Forteros chapter. What had once been a stretch of grass and dirt, no more than a romping ground for bugs and critters, was now a fortified position that was as robust as it was pleasant. The outer perimeter was under strict watch by legionnaires of the 1^st regiment, known by title as the Uzalin Guard, who stood guard along the walls of the bailey. Valour was familiar with the history. They were the first and still largest unit of the Opulusian Legion that carried its stalwart legacy in the characteristic downward stripes of purple that emblazoned the helmet, collar and torso piece. Those that did not protect the boundary with crossbows loosely held in paw were turned to more domestic work. Legionnaires heaved baskets of laundry around from tent to tent, weaving around small tables that had been set up in the aisle for soldiers to sit around and relax. Wolves saw to similar responsibilities, committing themselves to many different regimens of manual labour and exertion. It was a pleasant sight for the commander to see the wolves and hounds assisting one another in their menial tasks, not segregated to their own by any animosity or tensions.

The duo walked past the chaplaincy. Valour cast his gaze inside the long tent filled with pews and red praying mats. Hounds lay with heads pressed to the ground, arms crossed over the backs of their heads as if to shield them. Wisps of incense twirled up past the face of the deacon, the old canine preacher of the Pontifesus pantheon that was clad in a red douillette. Behind them stood three marble statues, icons of three gods selected as most appropriate to pray to during times of war and conflict. Years of attending religious prayer at the temple allowed Valour to recognise them with only a glance. On the left was the God of Resilience known as Yisle, a canine of fortitude that kneeled underneath the weight of the world map they carried on their shoulders. On the right was the God of Might, known as Onflectus, a hound formed from clumps of broken rock that could shatter any obstacle with a touch of their paw.

And then, at the centre, the God of Justice. The Great Abyrinsi of the afterlife. A hound whose head had been replaced by a weighing scale, one side made of simple wooden virtue and another side of solid gold vice. One large eye protruded from their strong chest, staring down at those they judged.

Staring down at him.

They moved on past the chaplaincy and continued north. They trudged past the ictharr stables, Krosguard soldiers tending to the needs of their companions. One ictharr stood out front of their pen, patiently waiting as their master dragged a large wooden brush through their tangled fur. Valour delighted at the sight of them, a common creature that he had nary crossed beyond the Clan of the Great Lupine. The four-legged beast was shrouded in a thick coat of dark fur, long ears twitching in response to the many sounds of Camp Umpani and the nostrils of its wet leather nose – sitting at the end of its long snout – flared and shrunk as it sniffed the fresh air. Its tail flicked to and fro in contentment as if it couldn’t use its imposing size to crush Valour under its head-sized paws.

Beyond the stables – past the aviaries and the armouries and the bare-chested wolves practicing their war drum songs – loomed a meandering dirt path. It led away from the clearing and towards a dark cave, its entrance guarded by two raccoon soldiers. Steel morions sat on their heads, smooth metal cuirasses and gorgets shielded their chest and throat, and tall poleaxes stood by their side. Cyan fatigues clothed their bodies beneath the light armour. Before them, clad in silver plate and mail, a Royal Order knight stood idle. Upon her left pauldron sat the insignia of the regiment she worked as the attaché for, a purple castle turret that melded with the top of a front-facing canine’s head. Valour recognised them as they looked his way. He remembered the floppy ears, the intermixing of grey and white and brown fur over their face, the grey eyes and the stubby tail.

“Vax!” Valour said, stepping forward and hugging her.

“There he is,” Sibling Vaxalstis said. “Feeling sentimental at the sight?”

“It’s always good to see an old friend,” Valour said, easing off her. “How’s Erammi? She must be proud of your promotion.”

“She’s as supportive as ever. My days as a Legionnaire Tribunite are done,” Vaxalstis said. “Instead of leading ranks of troops at the front, I now get to enjoy the cushy life at the back like you.”

“That’s good, truly. It’ll benefit your old bones to take it slower.”

“You laugh now but, ten years’ time, you’ll hit my age and you’ll wish more people respected your seniority.”

“I respect your seniority! I respect it enough to recommend you bring a cane with you next time.”

The duo laughed together, sharing a brief moment of joviality before Peter interrupted.

“I’ll wait out here,” Peter said. “The field colonel is expecting you both inside.”

“Correct,” Vaxalstis said. “The commanders of the states’ presence in the invasion are set up north-west at Base Camp Ehtia. The field colonel’s here to brief.”

“If Procyoni ingenuity is anything to go by, I expect great things regardless of who presents them,” Valour said.

The two knights entered the cave. The cavern had been tunnelled into the side of a hill, shovels and pickaxes left strewn in the wake of the rapid excavation that had taken place. The dirt and stone had been usurped by the numerous utensils and tools of a workshop. No inch was spared from the wooden work stations, the bundles of parchments detailing mechanisms and systems that Valour couldn’t begin to fathom, or the sheer number of lanterns used to keep the area lit. None of the engineers afforded the new arrivals so much as a hello, focused on perusing the details of their upcoming projects, while one lone figure addressed the duo.

“Ah! The two hounds I’ve been waiting for,” they spoke in a jolly tone.

Field Colonel Boston Mascarte approached the two knights as if greeting close friends. The old raccoon, decades of service worn upon his weathered face, regarded the two knights with bright green eyes and a wily grin. The fur on his face thickened over the mouth and eyes, almost forming a furious brow and a jolly moustache. A wooden smoking pipe protruded from the corner of his mouth, small bits of smoke puffing upwards from it. The field colonel was dressed in cyan blue garments that puffed out at the sleeves and over the thighs, thin dark stockings covering his calves. He stepped forward and offered his gloved paw, exchanging greetings with both. His bushy tail bounced with every step.

“Field Colonel,” Valour said, accepting his gesture of welcome. “Commander Valour of the Royal Order’s Militaria chapter.”

“Oh, I know of you already!” the field colonel laughed, shaking his paw with energy. “The youngest military commander in the legion’s recent history. Direct advisor to the king, no?”

“The commander is something of an over-achiever,” Vaxalstis said, shaking his paw. “Sibling Vaxalstis of the Royal Order’s Forteros chapter.”

“A pleasure to meet you both! And what better to overachieve in than war, no? The better we do, the sooner this is all over and we all go home.”

“Right,” Valour said. “You received my proposed plans of attack?”

“We did indeed. Our engineers have conjured up exactly what you’ll need to bring this invasion to a close. Right this way!”

The field colonel turned and led them deeper into the caves, passing more federal engineers as they worked with focused fervour. Seconds later they emerged on the other side of the excavated hill, stepping out into a small glade that dissuaded the prying eyes of outsiders with its thin perimeter of trees. Crates of supplies and equipment sat around them, either positioned in stacks or left by their lonesome. A few wooden dummies sat in the centre of the glade, donning the light armour and yellow uniform of the typical rabbit infantry.

“We’ve kept all our new developments out of sight of the camp,” Mascarte explained, reaching into one of the crates. “Less likely any rabbits peering through a pocket scope will spy their encroaching doom, especially for a siege of such importance. Saint Gaspard has quite the reputation. A wall that has never fallen and a citadel that has never yielded. Regular siege weaponry wouldn’t do, I’m sure you agree.”

“It’s one of the most fortified military positions in history,” Valour said.

The field colonel grinned. “Right this way.”

The trio proceeded to the left of the glade, slipping through a gap between the trees and walking down a narrow dirt path before coming to a lapse in the foliage wall. Through it, Valour could see the sun-kissed fields stretching out before the Saint Gaspard citadel.

Before the lapse, stood side by side, were weapons of war Valour could not have possibly conceived.

Mounted upon four thick reinforced wooden wheels, their cylindrical barrels formed from formidable metal plates patchworked together, sat three fearsome siege cannons. The muzzles were more akin to the gaping maws of gluttonous beasts, bent on spewing out fire and death before swallowing the world whole with the precedent they posed. They stood twice as tall as Valour, daring to try and challenge the height of the trees themselves.

“By the gods,” Vaxalstis gasped.

“The Goddess smiles upon us, my dear knights.” The field colonel grinned, sweeping one arm towards the cannons as if presenting a group of wagons for sale. “A new paradigm in siege technology, using small amounts of powder from excavation kegs to propel steel balls at previously impossible speed!”

“And these are?” Valour said.

“Cannons! Fifty-pound siege cannons to be exact. All three were subjected to rigorous testing and improvement before they even entered the country. Many more are on the way and being stockpiled in the base camp as we speak.”

“So, your soldiers will be operating these?”

“No, no. My orders are that no raccoon sees frontline combat. Some of your legionnaires – the ones painted in red – they’ve been trained on how to operate and reload them. But use these with caution. They are short-range and take some time to load. Your brave legionnaires will need to clear a path for them to enter the city.”

“Collapsing the outside wall will be enough to send them running,” Valour said. “One moment, field colonel.”

“Of course.”

Valour approached the lapse in the tree wall and pulled out a pocket scope, peering through the lens as Vaxalstis arrived beside him. He focused upon the Saint Gaspard citadel, the target shielded behind the many stone barriers and reinforced gates before it. He saw movement on the walls; infantry standing ready beside siege countermeasures.

He saw the decapitated heads of slain wolves and hounds mounted on spikes.

“Vax,” Valour said, passing the scope to Vaxalstis. “The civilian populace here. What are the estimates?”

“After the South Padamendastine Plains fell, the city’s citizens were evacuated further east,” Vaxalstis said as she peered through the scope. “It’ll be a solely military presence inside, albeit a strong one.”

“Countermeasures?”

“Typical for a city of this size. Rocks thrown over the walls, pots of boiling water mounted over the gates, forked prongs to shove off any ladders…they’re ready for a conventional attack.”

“And they’d see siege towers coming from a mile away,” Valour said. “And the walls are segmented. Even if we got onto the first, getting onto the second would still be impossible with them. The cover of night will have to do.”

“I think so too,” Vaxalstis said. “Although I’m not sure how we’ll see where we need to fire.”

“I’ve got that arranged with the field colonel, another prized invention of theirs. For now, you need to instruct the legionnaires to fire—” he pointed to the middle of the wall between the two gates. “—right there.”

“And if the wall doesn’t fall?”

“We don’t attack. We’ve drawn in so many troops from the other parts of the front for this. We can’t gamble these numbers on a massacre.”

“Commander!”

The two knights turned. The field colonel stood beside one of the raccoon guards, gesturing back to the glade. “The wolf outside has summoned you. Your presence is requested at the command tent to speak with the Winter Baron.”

Valour faltered. “He’s…I didn’t expect him to be here.”

“Neither did I. I suppose everyone wishes to speak to the great commander himself!”

…

After the few minutes’ walk back through Camp Umpani, Valour arrived outside the command centre tent. It was octagonal in shape, a single point rising from the top of the eight walls. The emblem of the kingdom emblazoned on its side welcomed the commander. The two Uzalin Guard legionnaires standing vigilant outside the main entrance saluted Valour.

“Dominus patria regis, comosol.”

“At ease,” Valour said. “Thank you, Peter.”

Peter said nothing. The disgraced wolf leered at him, turned and walked off.

Valour pushed through the entrance flaps of the command centre. Wolves and hounds of senior positions delegated over maps spread across wooden tables, pointing to areas of interest as scribes jotted down important notes. A central table, one intended for those of presiding leadership positions to sit, loomed in the middle of the space atop the grass.

There they were.

Winter Baron Dominic Tiberius sat at the head of the table as he perused a map in his paws. The winged helmet that denoted his claim to clan leadership sat atop a pile of books and parchments, facing Valour as if to glare at him. Off to his right stood two wolves of unapproachable nature. The first was a black wolf of cruel countenance, shorter and stouter than all else present. Whether such underwhelming stature motivated them to glare at others with unrelenting hatred was a mystery Valour did not care to unravel. Their second was a white-fronted brown wolf that, while leaner, stood far taller. Their expression was less of contempt and more of malicious pondering, conniving as how to get away with whatever brutal scheme they conjured. Valour felt nothing but concern seeing such untrustworthy individuals lurking in the presence of the clan’s highest office.

He felt especially troubled by who sat beside the Winter Baron.

Grinning at him, silently bragging about all he knew, was Lieutenant Maximus Verschelden.

“Good afternoon, Commander Valour,” the Winter Baron said, standing. “It’s good to see we’ve got someone of great qualification leading this assault. Lieutenant, your comrades can leave us.”

“Gregor, Levin, get gone,” the lieutenant said. “We’ll talk later.”

The brooding Gregor and scheming Levin walked past Valour and towards the exit. Levin attempted to bump his shoulder as he left but bounced off him, compelling the wolf to beat a hasty retreat before his defeat became more embarrassing.

“I take it you’ve met with the field colonel?” Tiberius said, walking over to Valour.

“I did,” Valour said.

“And the plan?”

“It will all come together. Seeing in the dark, making our approach—”

“And breaching the wall?”

“I didn’t think they could deliver but it’s looking promising, Winter Baron.”

“When can we expect an attack to commence?”

“Tonight, Winter Baron, provided the cannons are ready.”

Tiberius nodded. “I’m impressed. Lieutenant Maximus shall lead Krosguard elements from the front.”

“I have my own Tribunites directing from the front, also.”

“Excellent. Clearly the trip down here wasn’t needed but, regardless, it has given me a peace of mind for this attack. I’ll take a walk of the grounds, meet with some of the other armies’ leaders, and by nightfall I’ll be returning back to Ehtia. If any major developments are made, the lieutenant shall contact me.”

“I understand.”

Tiberius shook Valour’s paw and looked him in the eye. “I hope what happened back in the capital is behind us now, commander. We get nowhere mourning the past, no matter how tragic.”

“It won’t get in the way.”

The Winter Baron took his word for it. He bid farewell to the lieutenant, turned and left the command centre. Valour turned back to Maximus.

“Commander Valour,” Maximus smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual,” Valour said. “I warned Tiberius about you.”

“And your words clearly affected him. Alpha Marius Kontzagen now leads the Krosguard in the wake of McVarn. I’m still a lieutenant.”

“And you’re here.”

“Under strict orders from the Winter Baron to be on good behaviour and oversee the clan’s side of the operation.”

“Let’s get something clear. It’s my operation and I’m carrying the authority of the King of Opulus. You do as I say. I don’t want blood needlessly spilt because you mandate slaughter above all else.”

Maximus got up and approached his side of the table. “This is a war. Its purpose is to kill people. There’s nothing else to it.”

“This war’s purpose is peace. When East Parabular is taken, when the world can be sure they will infringe upon the free no longer, we’ll all be a step closer to knowing peace.”

“Really?” Maximus said, stopping in front of him.

“Yes. Peace. So monsters like you won’t be able to masquerade murder as duty anymore.”

Maximus paused, expression unchanging, and then spoke. “There’s the difference.”

“What?”

“When I kill, I do it because that’s my goal. To kill them. I ran McVarn through because I wanted that fool gone. Now he is. I do what I seek to accomplish.”

“He was—”

“You kill for peace. Your little perfect peace. What good has that done? Did skewering poor Ophelia bring any peace, Valour?”

Valour snarled. “Don’t.”

“And her son. Frail and weak little Corsair. Was killing him going to bring peace?”

“You’re too stupid to understand.”

Maximus leaned in. His nose almost touched Valour’s.

“I understand clearly, little mutt. You play all mighty and virtuous, but your eyes betray you. You think this is all a crock of sh*t.”

Valour said nothing. Maximus grinned.

“You think that if you point out how bad you feel enough times that it washes away everything. That the blood will disappear. In this world, the real one separate from these great and righteous ideals of yours, that’s not how it works. You’ll never know peace in your soul. You’ll die chasing a version of you that doesn’t exist. To everyone else, you’ll be just. Like. Me. They’ll spit on your grave in the same way they’ll spit on mine. The only difference between us is at least I’ll die wearing all that blood because I had the guts to know what I was. Who are you? Some fool in armour playing soldier, hoping that if he feels sorry for himself enough times his gods will forget he’s a piece of sh*t murderer.”

Valour had nothing to say. There were no words to challenge Maximus. The wolf leaned back and patted him on the shoulder.

“Welcome to the real world, commander, where the blood stays. Looking forward to the siege.”

And he was gone. The commander stood there, humiliated by his lack of rebuttal to the murderer’s philosophical tirade.

He felt the glare again. Felt the Great Abyrinsi’s single eye focused upon his conscience. Felt the omniscience of the deity evaluate all he had done and all he would do. Valour afforded himself only a moment of pity – enough time to wonder if the gods would care to distinguish his failings from sin if they had been made in service of a virtuous future – before he left the command centre and saw to his duties.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

“…rsair.”

Corsair groaned. His head ached and weighed like a boulder. A dull throb emanated from his left side. The groggy aftermath of revelry dulled his senses.

“Corsair,” a voice said.

“Five more minutes,” he groaned, rolling onto his side and curling up.

“You’ve been sleeping like a log since we left, come on.”

Corsair felt someone nudging his back, dragging him further away from slumber with every touch, and after the third prod he growled and sat up. In his state, such a simple act made him reel with nausea and caused him to grimace.

“Ough,” he groaned. “I feel awful.”

“You’re quite the party animal,” the voice chuckled.

Corsair turned his attention to the world beyond his alcohol-hazed mind and alcohol-poisoned stomach. The inside of the barracks transports was alive with movement and noise. Soldiers peered out the windows and conversed on their beds as they prepared to see to their duties. Corsair felt the carriage wheels trundling beneath him, bumping against the occasional stone jutting out from the road. Axel crouched by his bedside, smile on his face.

“I thought you were good with alcohol?”

“I am good with alcohol,” Corsair said, rubbing his face. “I…just can’t remember how much I drank.”

“Well, when you came back from the balcony you seemed in a really good mood. Our ram friend got a whole new bottle because you were drinking so much.”

“God. I didn’t do anything stupid, did I?”

“I dunno, I was a bit sh*tfaced on the way back. Probably nothing stupider than usual.”

“Thanks,” Corsair said, easing out of bed. “How long have I been out of it?”

“Only a day. We pretty much moved out the moment we got back to the convoy,” Axel said, turning and pointing to the beds opposite. “Not nearly as long as he will be.”

Thomas lay on his front, arm dangling off his bunk and snoring face pressed up against his pillow. His mouth opened wide and then closed with each guttural sound of alcohol-induced slumber, a noise that drew the annoyed gazes of some nearby House Vigilance troops.

“He really overdid it,” Corsair chuckled. “The others?”

“Outside. Rohesia’s checking on Ragnar, I think.”

Her name. The dance on the balcony. That moment of intimacy they had shared where their walls crumbled. That was why the air felt lighter, why Corsair’s heart was aflutter with nervous joy. It was such a foreign feeling; unadulterated happiness, besieged by nothing.

“We were filled in, by the way,” Axel said as Corsair dressed. “About the letters.”

“Right,” Corsair said as he pulled on his hind paw socks. “The more I hear about it, the more worried I get.”

“You’re not wrong there. If the Guild Premier and Zakulo had one, who else? It’s a slippery slope of complicity for something we still don’t know the end goal of. Why invade one of the largest landmasses in Vos Draemar?”

Corsair had no clue. The duo stepped outside onto the backsteps of the barracks. The convoy approached the eastern gates of the citadel under the gallery of twinkling stars in the night sky, waved through by miserable soldiers. The towering walls loomed almost menacingly in the dark.

“Here we are,” Axel sighed. “Just in time for our grand arrival.”

Nestled within the exterior walls sat the historic city of Saint Gaspard. The first section shirked the hedonistic tendencies of the capital’s many denizens. There were no casinos, no betting parlours, no racecourses and only the occasional bar. The paved streets were flanked mostly by evenly

spaced burrow dwellings where families had once resided. Corsair would sometimes spy a building that loomed above the surface – a library or a shrine or a school – but the residential district was not much for those seeking pleasure. In the absence of the civilians, many military tents and encampments had been sprouted. Republic soldiers moved with chronic lethargy, every step a great expenditure of energy, and the few that bothered to look in the direction of the passing supply convoy did so with dejected and defeated expressions. War’s toll was etched into their face.

“The place is empty,” Corsair said. “Where is everyone?”

“Evacuated, I think,” Axel said. “It’s an active front. They sent us on a couriering mission. We drop off supplies and pick up important cargo to take back out east.”

“So, no more rations?” Corsair said.

“It’s far from the steak we had at the ball, but at least we’re getting full portions. By the way,” Axel nudged him with his shoulder, “couldn’t help but notice how long you and a certain someone were out on the balcony.”

“Nothing hap—”

“Oh, come on. Stop torturing me!”

Corsair sighed, felt giddy at the thought of even talking about it. “We…I…we slow danced.”

“You slow danced?”

“Okay, and we held each other.”

Axel gasped. Corsair delivered the final blow.

“And we said we trusted each other.”

Axel laughed and hugged Corsair. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about, you smooth talker! You’re such a go-getter, Corsair!”

“It’s not that big of a deal, right?”

“Not a big deal?” Axel said, pulling away. “You courted her, you idiot! You danced with her at a ball and held her in your damn arms. The wedding bells are ring-ring-ringing, my friend!”

“Stop it, you’re pulling my tail.”

“I’m not, I’m being serious! When we stop you two should talk. Stoke the flames of burning romance, my protégé. All I expect is some reasonable consideration for my place at the wedding. Maybe the witness?”

“You’re such an idiot,” Corsair chuckled.

“Come on. Ring bearer?”

“That’d be Quickpaw, I decided that long ago.”

“At least front row!”

“Only if I get front row at your wedding with Len.”

Axel rolled his eyes. “I get amazed by one bicep and suddenly I’m falling head over hind paw for them. I’m not that desperate.”

Corsair found the second section to be of closer resemblance to Saint Luxzancque. The area was far more urban, stone and brick buildings that served as restaurants and marketplaces huddled close together. Lantern posts illuminated the barren streets; public benches sat empty, businesses were closed, and temples had been sealed. The only movement other than the pathetic waving of slouching banners and trudging soldiers was the Lushlocque river. It was funnelled into two different stone lanes, flowing south and cutting the centre of the city into three broad avenues. Clothing lines, once used to hang wet washing that had been rinsed in the river, remained empty.

The caravan crossed a stone bridge offering safe traversal across the ford and took a hard right, pulling up in front of the city hall. The building resembled the Temple of Celestial Truth, albeit its towering lance roof was downscaled in size and its stream of congregation members was non-existent. The tents and camps grouped outside the city hall and left room at the base of the steps, droves of exhausted soldiers sitting on the stairs as they murmured anxiously to one another. A lot of them looked as young as Corsair, weapons and equipment held with the nervousness that came with one’s first time in war.

He saw himself there at the fire, sitting beside Axel, talking before the assault on Pothole Plains began.

The caravan began to disembark, soldiers hurrying out the transports to ease supplies out and free their ictharr companions from their holds. As Corsair stepped down and rounded the left side, he spied a stone statue occupying an open square of ground. A hare stood tall atop their pedestal, a billowing cloak drawn about their illusive figure, and raised a holy tome up into the sky. Their mouth was frozen open, forever attempting to proclaim spiritual truth yet never able to speak it, and their look of reverent determination ruled immortal upon their face. The might of the parabular saint’s zealous sermon was lost on him. What perhaps once he could have gazed upon and felt roused by its presence, felt emboldened by the figure it venerated, he could not experience when in a place so spiritually derelict. More tents occupied the square and, beneath them, he saw battered and weary souls whose plight outweighed any resilience the monument could offer. The historic city had been set upon by a plague of woe and despair, victim of a front that the defenders were not confident in holding.

“Corsair?” Axel called. “You can stop looking mysterious and help me with this crate. Rohesia isn’t around.”

“Shut up,” Corsair said. “One second, I’ll help.”

They heaved the box over to the stairs of the city hall, falling in line with groups of house soldiers that sought to do the same. Lorenzo stood beside the growing stack of supply crates, conversing with two rabbits dressed in infantry armour. Atan stood beside him, translating what the captain said.

“They’re, uh, not sure when they can give us our cargo, captain,” Atan said, timid.

“What do you mean not sure?” Lorenzo snapped.

Atan recoiled in fright. Lorenzo’s harsh demeanour dissipated with an exhale.

“I’m sorry, Atan. It’s okay. You’re not in trouble. I just need you to ask them what they mean. We were expecting cargo to pick up the moment we arrived.”

“O-oh…uh…they said that only the city captain knows.”

“And where is this captain?”

“He’s busy right now.”

“Okay. Phrase this exactly. Tell them to go and get their city captain to get off their backside and come down here to talk to me directly about why we cannot do the job they asked us to come here and do. Exactly.”

“Yeesh,” Axel said. “Poor Atan.”

“Hey, Axel!” Lendausz called from the forge. “Can you come help me with this, please?”

“Okay!” Axel called back. “Go see if the others need help with anything.”

“You’re awfully eager,” Corsair smirked.

“To get away from you? Always.”

The duo parted as they laughed together. The familiar organised chaos of House Vigilance was a reassuring sight, brought some life to the derelict city, yet Corsair almost felt lost in its broad avenues. A group of rabbits heaved a crate to the stairs of one of the transports and, behind them, he saw the familiar shroud of the masked one following along. She glared at Corsair as she walked past, paw close to the grip of her sword as a subtle warning, before she disappeared around the opposite side of one of the transports.

“Corsair!”

The confused wolf turned. Rohesia walked towards him, a bounding Quickpaw hurrying ahead to greet his master with tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Corsair smiled, felt the warmth of his reunion with his companion erode the fringe unease, and hugged Quickpaw as he arrived beside him.

“Hello, Quickpaw,” Corsair smiled. “You okay?”

Quickpaw yapped, tail wagging.

“Good ictharr. Such a good ictharr.”

Rohesia arrived beside him. She moved with some noticeable trepidation and made eye contact with slight reluctance. Corsair’s heart thudded and his tail flicked.

“Good party, right?” Corsair said.

“It was,” Rohesia said. “I enjoyed it a lot. Thanks for the dancing lesson.”

“My pleasure.”

Quickpaw sat down beside Corsair and observed the sudden movements, head turning as he watched people move to and fro before his eyes. The two wolves edged over to the side of the carriage as to not get in the way.

“Um,” Rohesia said. “Corsair?”

“Yeah?” Corsair said a little too quickly.

“What you said on the balcony…about…trusting me and…that stuff…you meant that, right?”

The joy he had felt upon waking that day, accompanied with how almost light-headed he was broaching the topic, answered the question before he even opened his mouth. “Yes. I meant it.”

Rohesia met his gaze. He found such a bewildered yet genuine excitement in her face – in how her eyes shone and the corners of her mouth curled up and how her ears stood upright – and he knew for sure that his heart continued to beat for her.

“I’m so glad. I didn’t want to assume. We both drank a lot that night.”

“I did have an awful headache today,” Corsair chuckled. “But no…I meant what I said. I really am glad you’re here Rohesia and…uh…”

He stammered, unsure of what to say next. The bubbles of alcohol that had emboldened him, made him flow with the spontaneity of the moment, were not around to aid him. Embarrassment seeped in as the silence stretched out, carrying on and on, until Rohesia intervened.

“You just woke up, didn’t you?”

He didn’t hesitate to take that out. “Yeah, sorry. Haven’t been binge drinking in a very long time.”

“I could tell. You’re not usually that much of a lightweight.”

Corsair frowned. “Hey. I’m no lightweight.”

“That wine took you out fast.”

“You were probably on the floor after the second glass, nice try.”

“I helped you into Quickpaw’s saddle. You fell off him.”

Corsair’s bravado rescinded. His left side throbbed again. “You’re kidding.”

“You don’t remember?”

Corsair looked at Quickpaw. His steed growled in confirmation.

“Oh, wow. I was drunk,” Corsair said. “Sorry for being a mess.”

“Don’t be dumb, Corsair. It was funny,” Rohesia said. “And…it was a good night. Something happier, for once.”

She said it with a soft smile. It was reserved, timid, but for someone like Rohesia it was a proud statement. Corsair’s chest fluttered. He could see her again in that dress, that strip of makeup across her eyes, her figure glowing in the moonlight. It had happened. It wasn’t a trick nor a trap. There, on that dimly lit balcony, a bond that endured nightmares and monsters had made itself known; a previously unspoken affection that had become bold enough to step out of friendship’s shadow.

“Corsair!”

Corsair looked behind Rohesia as she turned around. The sight of Dieter riding towards them on Arkzmeyer’s back cut the romantic moment short. Corsair’s body insisted on donning an inimical demeanour; chest puffed, arms crossed and stern-faced.

“Ragnar said he wanted to talk to you,” Dieter said as Arkzmeyere stopped beside them. “He’s at the house down there, bottom of the road.”

“What? Right now?” Corsair said.

“Ideally.”

Corsair looked back to Rohesia. “We’ll talk about last night later. Come on, Quickpaw.”

Quickpaw yapped and stood. Corsair pulled himself up onto his back and hurried off south towards where Dieter pointed. Rohesia watched him go, saw him fade into a silhouette in the darkness of the city.

“Everything okay?” Dieter asked.

“Yes,” Rohesia said, petting Arkzmeyer. “I think everything will be okay.”

…

Ragnar had always wanted to visit the Land of the Sun and Moon’s three cities of the Parabular Saints. Saint Luxzancque was a common romping ground for tourists – who wouldn’t be allured by the entertainment and luxury accommodation they offered, all accompanied by delicious food and dazzling views? The urban tourist paradise’s western counterpart was equally worthy of a visit at some point of his life; the cultured settlement of Saint Hallois. Saint Luxzancque toted the Temple of Celestial Truth, the founding point of the Parabular faith, but Saint Hallois’ rich history was vested in the many hilltop monasteries to its north that dated back a millennium. To traipse through such ancient halls, to bear witness to what the world’s predecessors had built and preserved for the future, was an experience he had excitedly looked forward to his whole life. And who could forget Saint Gaspard? The city of the fiery brimstone preacher Darondeboit Gaspard, the martyr of the sun, whose sainthood founded in vengeance against evil inspired the great pioneers of old to construct the Saint Gaspard wall.

Yet, there he sat. Alone. Stranded between certain death at home and certain death on foreign soil, brought to the place he wished to visit through misfortune and tragedy. Dejected eyes regarded the shadows with disinterest, felt no fear for any of the ghouls and ghosts his younger self may have feared lurking in the dark.

A single night of contemplation, of lying in bed thinking of what Ralwyndr had said, summoned fear around what he was about to do.

I left too many things unsaid.

He heard the crunching of grass underneath heavy paw, heard the approaching trot of Quickpaw. Harangoth stood, prepared to leap in front of Ragnar at any sign of trouble, yet when he saw the white ictharr round the side of the burrow home he relaxed. Corsair dismounted Quickpaw and the smaller beast hurried to Harangoth’s side, greeting him with an affectionate nuzzle and sitting beside him.

“Ragnee,” Corsair said. “What are you doing out here on your own?”

“I needed to talk to you,” Ragnar said, defeated. “It’s important.”

Corsair walked to his side, hesitant yet obliging, and sat beside his older brother. “What’s wrong?”

Ragnar willed the truth out, felt it in his chest, but his tongue refused. The prison did not open. Fear rooted him there.

“Is it your rib?” Corsair said. “Axel said it was healing well.”

“My rib’s fine,” Ragnar exhaled.

“And you’ve been eating?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. How was last night? Fun?”

“I didn’t drink.”

“Oh. Well…what’s bothering you?”

Ragnar tried an indirect approach, to lead himself into speaking of his actions. “It’s about…Mum.”

Corsair’s face didn’t change. “Right. Yeah, I…I didn’t bring it up to you after we spoke because you needed space. I didn’t want to crowd you. Hoped maybe you’d have some time to just…try and digest everything.”

Ragnar couldn’t look at him. His guilt held his face forwards, forbade him from turning his head.

“It’s still hard for me too, Ragnee,” Corsair said. “Even saying it out loud that she’s…you know…it’s surreal. A whole chapter of our life gone, and we didn’t even know it was coming to a close. And I miss her so much.”

Every word his brother said thrusted another bloody quill into his back.

“Right,” Ragnar managed.

“So, is that what this is about? You wanted to talk about her?”

“Yes.”

“What did you want to say?”

Ragnar wilted under the pressure. The weight of everything he knew was upon his tongue.

“It was about…the night. That raid.”

“What about it?”

“I…it was my fault.”

Corsair’s expression softened with sympathy. “No. It wasn’t our fault, Ragnee. Tiberius knew what he was doing. If he hadn’t framed you, he’d have found another way to secure power. I’ve been through this exact thought process. It takes a little time to start getting over it.”

Ragnar paws clenched around his knees as if to shatter them.

“Ragnee?”

“He didn’t frame me.”

There it was. Meek and afraid, spoken no louder than a terrified whisper. The truth in all its glory.

“What?” Corsair said. “I didn’t hear you.”

“He didn’t frame me,” Ragnar said, barely increasing the volume. “What he read out was what I wrote. I tried to get rid of him. I was guilty.”

Silence. Silence broken up by the volatile mix of confusion and betrayal and anger that churned inside the wolf that sat beside him.

“You…” Corsair said, stunned. “You weren’t—”

“No. I wasn’t. I wrote that letter.”

“So, they…they got rid of you because…because that was your writing?”

“Yes.”

Silence. Not a word from Corsair.

“I saw letters, Corsair,” Ragnar said. “Of Tiberius planning to kill me. Opulus wanted me dead. They wanted us gone. The Sedrids…our bloodline wasn’t to be left in the picture. Either we did something or…or they’d…”

The thoughts weren’t coming to him clearly. He couldn’t navigate the mess of that emotional time, of the fear and dread that struck him as he realised the death of his father was only the beginning of the family’s tragic affairs. Corsair picked up where he left off, speaking in a low tone.

“I don’t understand why you’d do that.”

“I was trying to save us.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“You didn’t have—”

Corsair cut himself off with a shaky exhale and stood up. Ragnar closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“To who?”

“To you.”

“What about Mum, Ragnee? What about our mother?”

“I was trying to save us.”

“And I tried to save us too, Ragnee,” Corsair said, volume rising and tone becoming more hostile. “When they took our mother, I tried to rescue her. If you had been there with me, she…I wouldn’t have failed her. She could still be alive if it had been both of us there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, sorry isn’t going to fix sh*t, is it? Is sorry going to bring our dead mother back, Ragnar?”

“I—”

“While you were out plotting without my knowledge, you know what I was doing? Looking after our mother. Our grieving, crying, hysterical mother. And for what? For you to piss it all away because you wanted to be the hero? The big brother? The sibling people saw as the responsible saviour?”

“No. No, I just wanted to save—"

“You didn’t save sh*t, Ragnar!”

Ragnar winced at the scream. Harangoth growled. Quickpaw moved in front of Harangoth, trying to deter his involvement.

“I don’t care what the reason was. Your image, our family, the Winter Baron helmet…I watched her die. Do you understand? I watched that bastard hound cleave a-a hole through her chest. And they blamed me for it. Our people think I murdered our mother. Whether or not Tiberius was coming for us from the start, you. Weren’t. There.”

A volley of quills struck him. They slipped through flesh and into his failing heart. Ink bled from the tips, seeped deep into the feeble essence of Ragnar Sedrid, and congealed over his box of eternal imprisonment.

He had failed her. He had failed him. Intention didn’t matter.

“I know,” was all Ragnar could manage without crying.

Fierce light bloomed in the night sky, casting the city in flickering blue. Ragnar, wincing, looked up. A burning star floated above the citadel, a premonition from the celestial gods, and its presence silenced all those it cast its light over. Quickpaw tilted his head at the mysterious appearance while Harangoth got in front of Ragnar.

“What is that?” Corsair said. “How can—"

Boom!

Crash!

Ragnar recoiled as a deafening blast reverberated throughout the city, shaking the earth he sat upon. The ictharrs yelped in surprise and screams of alarm rose from the west.

“What the hell was that?” Corsair yelled.

Boom!

Crash!

Another blast followed by a powerful impact. Tens of voices screamed to the west. Panic blossomed as the cacophony of chaos rose.

Boom!

Crash!

The group recoiled from the disorienting cannonade. The grief and emotional turmoil dissipated from the powerful shockwaves the barrage inflicted upon the city. Harangoth rushed to Ragnar’s side, glaring into the dark in search of whatever threatened his master.

As Ragnar recovered from the shock, he heard it.

The crumbling stone of the citadel’s first wall, accompanied by the many screams of the doomed soldiers that plummeted with it.

…

The lieutenant hated few people more than he despised Commander Valour. The doberman was a stuck-up façade of virtue. He was so deluded into thinking what he did was any more civilised, acceptable and liberated of consequence that Lieutenant Maximus believed he was addicted to it. The inherent self-pity was sickening.

Yet, despite that, he had to admit the hound’s plan brought him much joy.

The smoking cannons leered at their fallen target as the section of wall between the two gates collapsed, its doom illuminated in harsh blue. Rubble and debris caved in alongside the flailing soldiers that had been unfortunate enough to stand on the battlements, disappearing into a cloud of smoke that ascended from the crash with every new morsel that fell. It grew into a towering plume, reaching up to grasp the glowing star.

“That thing is monstrous,” Gregor said. “That would have taken days of trebuchet fire.”

“The raccoons know what they’re doing,” Levin chuckled. “Dead rabbits and good results.”

Legionnaires aimed crossbows up and fired. Seconds later more flares bloomed overhead, illuminating the interior of the city’s west section whilst leaving the plains before the breach covered in darkness. Maximus could see the glints of the clan infantry’s swords and shields, could see the occasional reflection of the flare in their visored helmets. Ahead of them loomed a large rank of legionnaires painted in strips of orange and adorned in murals of slaughter and death, lances held in both gauntleted paws that were poised to run through all resistance. All soldiers held formation firm, determined to fight until they had no blood left to bleed.

“All of you who fight and die to save our homes!” Lieutenant Maximus bellowed. “Before you is all that holds the cowardly rabbit’s defence together! We storm the citadel, we seize the city, and we slaughter all the stupid bastards that dare stand in our way! Raise our flag! Mount their heads on its spike!”

Lieutenant Maximus raised his sword into the air.

“Drums!”

The war drummers began their menacing rhythm, a musical promise of what the attackers would do to those inside the walls of the citadel.

“Kill them!” Lieutenant Maximus screamed, thrusting his sword forwards to the city. “Kill all of them! Leave nothing but pieces!”

Fearsome screams arose from the front ranks, cries loud and ferocious enough for God to know of their tenacity, before hundreds upon hundreds of shadows broke away from the dark and stormed forth towards the broken city. The second rank followed, then the third, and soon an entire army of banners and blades advanced towards the exposed interior of the enemy’s fortification. More flares bloomed overhead, furious stars letting their rage be known one by one.

Lieutenant Maximus watched the attacking formation of canine and lupine, foreseeing a massacre in their glinting blades, and did so with unbridled glee.

Chapter 13: The Breaching of Saint Gaspard (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter Text

Corsair spurred Quickpaw back towards the convoy, drove the ictharr from one place of chaos in the direction of another. The joy he had felt not too long prior had been distorted by his brother’s revelation, diluted by the anger and grief the newfound knowledge had brought, but he knew he could not focus on it. His brother’s reprisal would have to wait.

The caravan was in chaos. People sprinted back and forth relaying the orders of their captains to their confused compatriots. Lorenzo stood beside one of the barracks and barked commands at passing troops, Kilik by his side.

“What’s going on?” Corsair said, dismounting Quickpaw.

“They’re attacking,” Kilik replied, shooting him an unimpressed look. “What do you think?”

“Shut up, Kilik. Captain?”

Lorenzo turned to him. “We’re trying to get everyone here organised in a defensive perimeter. Saint Gaspard’s troops are going to have to deal with this, but I still need to know what’s going on. Take your friends with you west through the gates, take in the situation, and report back here.”

“Just us?”

“A small group for scouting and reporting, yes. Your mounts are already out, and you know how to ride ictharrs best. Go get your things and get out there. Do not engage directly.”

That command was all Corsair needed to hear. He moved inside the barracks alongside Axel and Dieter, rousing Thomas from his alcohol-induced regret and urging him to get ready. Trained paws put the armour into place in remarkably short time – gauntlets, greaves, pauldrons – and Corsair pulled the House Vigilance tabard over his head and let it drape down his front and back. His cause now flew under a different banner, pledging fealty to the watchful eye of justice.

With this, the rabbits won’t mistake us for attackers.

Corsair hurried back outside. Rohesia had saddled up Quickpaw, Arwenin, Arkzmeyer and Zechter. Blue caparisons were draped over them beneath the saddles, hoods drawn back to leave the faces visible.

“They’re good to go,” Rohesia said.

“Thank you,” Corsair said as he climbed into the saddle, helping Rohesia up onto Quickpaw’s back.

Thomas, Dieter and Axel mounted their ictharrs. The apothecary donned the leather vest Master Brouhard had provided them back in the Deuvick Feldanas, appropriate for his reluctance to fight and backline positioning.

“Where’s Ragnar?” Axel asked.

“Resting,” was all Corsair said on the matter.

A stream of rabbit soldiers carrying pikes and shields hurried to the west, screams and yells of panicked Eposian serenading their counterattack as alarm bells rang and war trumpets sounded from the city hall. Corsair placed his helmet on his head and took up the reins.

“On me! Hyah!”

Quickpaw darted off west, group in tow. Corsair gripped the reins with a trembling strength, felt heavy breath drawing in and out of his lungs. For a moment, the scene shifted. The stone became grass, the walls of the city faded into the stretching horizon, and he could see the lingering settlement of Pothole Plains in the distance. Back then, it would have been fear driving his anticipation. Now, however, fear had no hold on him. All Corsair could think about was her, what the hounds had done to her, and what satisfaction their steel comeuppance would bring.

He wasn’t there to help me then. I don’t need him to help me now.

Corsair bared his fangs beneath the helmet.

I’ll deal with this all on my own.

The group charged on through the open gates. The third section of the city was similar to the first, a quiet residential zone long abandoned by the families that had once inhabited it. The eternal silence they had left behind, however, was interrupted by the ongoing commotion near the exterior wall and the constant hissing of the flares above their head. The area was cast in almost blinding light, driving the shadows away into only the most desolate corners of the area.

“What is that?” Thomas groaned, shielding his face.

“No idea,” Dieter said. “Some form of alchemical lighting?”

A stream of soldiers hurried out, rushing towards the expanding plume of smoke, but an almost equally sized cohort fled back in. They screamed and cried out at the sight of the flares, shielding their heads and eyes as they retreated.

“Hey!” Thomas yelled. “Where the hell are you idiots going?”

Corsair led the group further on. They went right and then left, continuing west until they were in sight of the breach. They drew to a stop, kept some distance from the commotion yet kept their paws close to their weapons.

“God,” Axel gasped. “It’s…”

The section of wall between the two reinforced gates had been decimated by unforeseen power. Chunks of rubble and debris piled up into a large hill of powder and ruin, a post-humous attempt of the fortification to plug the hole that had been so violently punched through its shell. Corpses in uniform, limbs and bodies broken, protruded from the wreckage alongside the destroyed remains of siege countermeasures.

“How’d they get through it?” Thomas said. “I thought this place was meant to be impenetrable.”

No one could offer an answer. A group of soldiers hurried past the lupine troops, glancing in their direction in almost confusion, before they continued on to the broad formation congregating in front of the wreckage. Tens of rabbits took position with long pikes aimed for where the enemy would rush in from, back ranks of archers holding bows ready to fire.

“Okay, well, what are we doing?” Thomas asked, anxious to get involved.

“We’re waiting here and seeing what happens,” Corsair said, easing his sword out from its slumber in its scabbard. “Lorenzo said no direct confrontation but if anyone gets too close, we deal with them. Hound or otherwise.”

The approaching yells and screams got louder on the other side of the wall. The violent beat of the war drums loomed closer. Quickpaw stirred. Corsair petted the side of his neck but said nothing.

“Remember,” Dieter said, forcing air out. “We fought alongside them once…but they’re not going to see it that way. Once they realise we’re not with them, they won’t hold back. You kill who you have to.”

The cohort said nothing. The ictharrs glanced at one another, checked their compatriots were okay, but Corsair sensed they understood the situation similarly.

He stared at the breach. He waited to catch a glimpse of them.

Nothing moved. The howling and chanting and screaming got louder but the breach remained empty.

“Something’s wrong,” Axel said, Arwenin stirring beneath him. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Movement. Corsair’s eyes focused on his periphery, scrutinising a spot he sworn had just moved, yet nothing was there. The rabbit soldiers looked around confused, gazes levelled at the floor.

“What are they looking at?” Dieter asked.

It was only as another flare went off that Corsair saw it. A rabbit soldier stood frozen in place, terrified eyes staring at the space between their hind paws. A brown pouch sat there, wisps of smoke escaping through the top sealed with string. As Corsair’s eyes adjusted to the blinding light, he saw the silhouettes of numerous other bags spread around the rabbit’s hind paws.

Bang.

Corsair recoiled as one of the sacks popped. A small cloud of dust burst out from the shell and then dissipated, leaving a white charring across the stone road. The rabbit soldiers reeled back and screamed. Weapons fell from their paws as they clutched their faces, stumbling over each other.

Bang.

Another went off. More soldiers of the defensive formation crumpled.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

One after another, the soldiers of the frontline fell. The backline shoved their way forward but tripped on their wounded comrades as they advanced, halting the formation’s swift recovery. Some at the front dropped their weapons and turned to run, pushing and fighting with their comrades that held them back not out of respect for their duty but because they didn’t want to be left exposed at the front of the line.

“Holy sh*t,” Thomas gasped. “What is that?”

“Ceramic Shrapnel,” Dieter said, looking upon the atrocity with fearful familiarity. “That’s Ceramic Shrapnel.”

“What?” Axel said.

“Silverclaw soldiers used to make improvised weapons. They’d break pots and vases into small shards and stuff them into linen pouches with small amounts of powder from excavation kegs. Makeshift grenades that sent hundreds of tiny fragments, all burning hot, into your skin where armour didn’t cover. The republic infantry used padded leather and fabric. If the shards are big enough—"

Bang.

It was with the emerging of another hovering star that the extent of the carnage was made apparent. Half the defensive formation lay horribly wounded, trampled on by their own reinforcements that hurried in to replace them, and those that still stood exhibited equal dismay at the sight of their fallen brethren. Their pikes trembled as they did, their voices shrieked in panic, and it was terror rather than loyalty that rooted them to their position.

And atop the debris, charging down through the breach with a sonorous way cry, were the marauders that had come to seal their doom. Rank upon rank of legionnaire thrusted themselves forth with unrelenting courage, maddened eyes glaring at their quarries through the eyeholes of their painted helmets and maws open wide to deliver their barbaric cries. They poured in through the breach, not one step taken with uncertainty or fear, and set themselves upon the rabbit’s decimated defensive line. The light of the flares strobed, and Corsair peered through oscillating light and shadow at the terrible carnage. The front rank was pulverised by the crushing force of the charge, knocked down if not immediately impaled upon the lances, and the ranks behind fared no better. Clangs of blades and dying wails joined the hellish cacophony of war.

Rohesia clutched Corsair tightly around his waist with one arm. Corsair held it to let her know he felt equal fear.

“Oh sh*t,” Thomas said. “This is—"

“Very bad,” Dieter said. “Those legionnaires with the lances are Kin of Hulstod.”

“What’s that?” Axel said.

“Kin of Hulstod are a legion veteran’s regiment that saw and survived the worst of the war. They were the ones that got the brunt of it from the Silverclaw defence, like the grenades. There were always stories of them making their own versions but…”

Dieter trailed off. The veteran peered back in time, watched as innovation on cruelty debuted once more. His silence was haunting as Corsair focused upon the hounds adorned in orange paint. They swept aside the parabular soldiers with embarrassing ease, warriors of imposing physique and might that massacred all who stood before them. The rabbits retreated in droves from the frontline and reformed defensive positions in front of Corsair’s group, but it would do little good. Whatever damage the first line had dealt was immediately recuperated by the sheer number of soldiers pouring in behind them. As archers took position upon the breach and fired at the retreating rabbits, Krosguard riders filed through and followed along the wall to flank.

“Here come the Krosguard. There’re so many of them,” Axel said.

“H-hey! Some are going around,” Thomas said. “They’re going to cut us off!”

“And we’ve got company dead ahead!” Dieter yelled. “Eyes open, get ready!”

A horde of legionnaires and clan infantry surged down the road, lancers charging at the front with sword-wielding wolves behind. The rabbits in front of Corsair arranged a line of pikes to meet them but, as they did, another blue star bloomed overhead. Some of the soldiers dropped their weapons and ran, ignoring the reprimand of their leader. Legionnaires with crossbows behind the charging advance aimed up high and fired.

Corsair saw brown pouches flying towards them in an arc.

“Get back!” he yelled, directing Quickpaw away from the line. “Get back!”

His allies heard him and distanced themselves from the incoming grenades yet the rabbits, barriered from understanding by language, were doomed to endure the barrage. Trails of smoke escaped from the pouches before they exploded at the hind paws of the defenders, knocking over tens of the inexperienced troops. Soldiers writhed with shards of ceramic protruding from their limbs and faces, blood streaming from where the sizzling fragments had struck.

“Help!” one screamed in Lanzig to them. “Help me! Hel—”

Their desperate pleading stood no chance against the screaming death that clashed with the rabbits’ formation. Lances tore holes in the ranks that the sword infantry then proceeded to exploit, slashing through rabbits like they were cutting through woodland foliage. One wolf, numerous arrows protruding from his mail shirt, beheaded a defender and let out a bloodcurdling cry of rage that further emboldened the maddened fury of his allies.

“Flank!” Thomas yelled. “They’re coming in on the right flank!”

Corsair looked right. The flanking Krosguard charged straight for them, lances raised.

“Incoming! Be aggressive, be aggressive!” Dieter bellowed.

Corsair turned Quickpaw towards the approaching group and spurred him on. Quickpaw accelerated, his nimble nature letting him overtake his comrades despite starting his advance a second after. Corsair took the lance off the saddle and aimed for the rider’s chest, resisted the conflicted conscience that tried to steer the weapon away from the target. The approaching Krosguard’s charge slowed as the soldiers regarded the incoming foes with confusion.

“Wait, same side!” one of the riders yelled, waving. “Same side!”

Their confused plea did not stay Corsair’s weapon. Quickpaw accelerated towards the attackers and, in a few seconds, the distance between them was gone. Corsair screamed as he thrusted the lance forward, felt the tip strike the rider’s side as they peeled out the way of the strike. The blow ripped off parts of their armour, sending metal debris bouncing through the grass beside the road, but the soldier suffered no mortal wound.

“That’s Krosguard armour, they’re not rabbit riders!” one rider yelled.

“They’re not with us, either! Kill them!” another ordered.

The Krosguard ictharrs snarled at the traitors. Corsair turned Quickpaw around as one of the Krosguard turned and hurled a javelin in his direction. Quickpaw darted out the way and charged back around alongside Arkzmeyer, lining up for another lance strike.

“Do you know who you’re dealing with, traitors?” one of the Krosguard yelled.

Corsair took aim at one of the approaching soldiers and thrust the lance as he passed by. This time the blow struck true and knocked the rider from his saddle. He shrieked as he flew off the back of his ictharr and landed, a bloody gash left across his chest. Rohesia fired an arrow at a passing Krosguard, sent them reeling in the saddle as the arrow struck their side. Dieter and Thomas hurled javelins, finishing Rohesia’s quarry by sending both rider and mount to the ground.

“Close in!” Dieter ordered. “Finish them!”

“What the hell are you doing?” one of the few riders yelled. “You’re wolves! You’re helping the enemy!”

Corsair gave chase after one of the surviving Krosguard, pursuing alongside Thomas. The target weaved and dodged left and right, avoiding the incoming javelins thrown by Thomas, but their speed suffered considerably under the extensive evasive manoeuvres. Corsair closed the distance, aimed the lance and prepared to send another foe to the ground.

Steel flashed as the Krosguard suddenly turned.

Clang.

Corsair yelled out as the sword struck the side of his head, the lethality of the blow warded off by the helmet yet the force landing all the same. He lurched back, felt Rohesia reel with him, and both fell from the saddle. The Krosguard soldier hurried off back towards the breach, making their escape. Quickpaw turned, yowling for his master, but was blocked from rushing to his aid by an enemy ictharr. Thomas and Dieter were preoccupied with the remaining Krosguard that stayed to fight.

“You okay?” Corsair groaned, standing.

“I’m fine,” Rohesia said, followed by her face falling and her paw pointing behind him. “Look out!”

Corsair turned with longsword ready. Three infantry sprinted from the assault on the rabbit’s defence – two legionnaires and one clan soldier – with weapons poised to strike down Corsair. Rohesia stood and knocked an arrow, taking aim.

They came to a sudden halt.

“Sedrid?” one of the legionnaires said, stunned. “How did you—”

Another flare lit up the night sky. The light illuminated the shadowy face of the clan soldier, revealed the crimson spattered over their sword and the dented face of his square white shield. Corsair’s guard lowered as he recognised the wolf standing there. The kind voice, the senior age, the bad cooking, the simpler times that he had shared twenty years getting through with him, the dedication to his family at the cost of his own life.

“Peter?” Corsair said.

The wolf reacted instantly. He turned and swung at the legionnaire beside him, striking through the plate. The legionnaire snarled and kicked the wolf onto his back.

“You leave him alone!” Corsair snarled.

Rohesia loosed an arrow. The projectile struck the legionnaire in his opposite side, prompting him to turn. Corsair crashed against them shoulder-first, knocking the hound away from Peter and turning to the second. They stabbed forward but, as Corsair went to block, they held the strike back and punched him over the top of the head. Corsair recoiled, stunned.

“I’ll gut you for what you did to Sigil!” the legionnaire snarled.

Rohesia fired again but the arrow deflected off the attacking hound’s shoulder pauldron. The hound advanced step by step, taking a swing and stab with every stretch of ground he covered, and Corsair blocked them while retreating back. The clear clang of metal against metal reverberated in his ears, made him flinch with each blow.

“Die!” the legionnaire snarled. “Die!”

Corsair held his ground and parried. He knocked the swing away and struck at the neck of the foe. The legionnaire’s fierce demeanour failed as the blade carved into the side of his throat. Corsair spun around the legionnaire, carving the sword further through the flesh as he did so, before he completed his spin and swung the weapon out the other side. The legionnaire’s head popped off his shoulders and bounced on the grass, his body tumbling over.

Snapping his fangs, the wounded legionnaire attacked. He raised his sword to stab, to run through Corsair’s chest, but the wolf stood ready. He braced to defend himself, hind paws planted firm, yet found his defence to be all for nought as a blur darted in from the side. The figure slashed at the back of the legionnaire’s legs. The hound yelled out and tipped back. In the little time from the slash to the fall, the assailant spun on their knees behind the legionnaire and thrust their sword up through their back. The blade punctured their torso, the tip poking through the dead hound’s chest, and the foe had no time to notice their swift demise before the figure slid the sword back out and moved out the way of the falling corpse.

The masked one turned her hooded envisage towards Corsair, flicked blood off the curved edge of her Caeli blade while glaring, before turning and sprinting off towards combat.

“Hey!” Dieter called out. “Everyone okay?”

“I’m good!” Thomas called back.

“Fine here!” Axel said.

“I’m okay!” Rohesia called.

Corsair’s mind focused on Quickpaw. He spun around, desperate eyes searching for his friend, and found the ictharr. He stood over the fallen corpse of the beast that had tried to fight him, head lowered in shame. Beside him was Zechter, blood dripping from the fur around his maw and the torn throat of the dead creature deposited by his front paws. Thomas pet Zechter.

“I know, I know. It wasn’t easy to do.”

With the wellbeing of his friends confirmed, Corsair turned back to Peter. The servant turned soldier had recovered to his knees, resting against his sword that he had stabbed into the dirt.

“Peter,” Corsair said, kneeling before him. “Are you hurt?”

Peter met his gaze and smiled. “My…you’re a sight for sore eyes, sir.”

…

The fools didn’t stand a chance.

Lieutenant Maximus watched from the breach, stood to the side atop Thornfang. The ictharr huffed and puffed with excitement, loyalty to her master the only thing stopping her from charging headfirst into the carnage. Levin and Gregor stood beside the lieutenant. Legionnaires and clan infantry decimated whoever stood in their way, leaving a crimson trail of body parts and corpses behind their destructive march. Reinforcements continued pouring in from the breach, an endless supply of fearless warriors that sought to reduce the entire city to rubble.

The enemy were outnumbered. They were outmanoeuvred. The first section was as good as theirs.

And with Saint Gaspard goes any chance of turning this war around.

“Lieutenant, lieutenant!”

His ears stood and he turned his head left. A Krosguard soldier spurred their ictharr up the mound of debris and stopped beside Lieutenant Maximus, pointing to the left side of the front.

“There’s…there’s wolves here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wolves! Enemy wolves, lieutenant! In blue a-and helping the rabbits!”

Gregor and Levin exchanged confused looks. Lieutenant Maximus took out a pocket scope and peered through it. He focused on the front to the left. The rabbits had somewhat pulled themselves together, managing to hold their positions for more than the measly minute they had tried to hold the breach, but their efforts were futile. They were running out of troops and soon the right flank would fold, forcing them to fight on two sides and halving the few soldiers they had left. Behind the line of rabbits, beyond the prospect of the attackers’ inevitable victory, he saw a group of armoured figures sporting blue tabards.

Krosguard armour. Ictharr mounts. Longswords and javelins.

It can’t be.

The pocket scope focused on one figure kneeling in front of another, holding a sincere conversation. In the light of the flares, he could recognise one of them as being the Sedrids’ chore-whor*, the old head servant that clung to his long servitude as a family expendable to bring any semblance of meaning to his miserable life.

And across from him, speaking to the servant with concern upon his face, was that little runt.

“Gregor, Levin, you’re both with me,” Lieutenant Maximus said, putting away the pocket scope. “Soldier, head back to Camp Umpani and tell that mutt commander to get over here.”

The Krosguard soldier retreated out the citadel. Gregor and Levin took up weapons, still confused.

“Something wrong?” Gregor asked.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Maximus said, brandishing a javelin. “Something we’re going to fix.”

…

Corsair pulled Peter up and beckoned Quickpaw over. The ictharr drew up beside him and, upon noticing Peter, yapped a greeting.

“Good to see you again, sir,” Peter smiled.

Bang.

A chorus of screams as another pouch exploded amidst the chaos. The group recoiled in anticipation, all turning to peer in the direction of the thinning smoke cloud.

“We’re going to have to save the reunion for later!” Dieter yelled. “We’ve done all we could here, let’s go!”
“Come on,” Axel said, offering an arm to Peter for him to climb up onto Arwenin’s back. “Pleasant change to find a wolf that doesn’t want us dead.”

The group collected themselves. Peter sat behind Axel on Arwenin and Rohesia returned to her place on Quickpaw’s back, arm around Corsair’s midsection. Corsair turned his steed around and directed him back to the gates. The group filed after him, Dieter standing guard and waiting for the others to pass before taking up the rear. All the ictharrs growled their thanks to Arkzmeyer who issued only a stoic nod in response to each as they passed.

“This is a lot worse than I thought it would be!” Thomas yelled as they rode, wincing as another blast went off.

“They were prepared for this!” Peter yelled. “The Procyoni federal engineers were keeping all their new arsenal in a cave near camp!”

“What the hell knocked down the wall?”

“Cannons! Towering siege weapons! The wall fell in the first few shots!”

“What happened to the others?” Corsair asked. “Ingrid, Sebastien, Dahlia?”

“All sent off to different parts of the front,” Peter said. “They could be here for all I know!”

Corsair grimaced at the thought.

“Uh,” Axel said, slowing down. “Is this the right gate?”

“Why?” Thomas asked, looking ahead and ears folding down. “Oh…no, you’ve got to be joking.”

Corsair looked forward. The sight poisoned his blood with dread, made his heart thud harder in his chest.

The gates were closed.

Corsair looked north and only saw the same denial of retreat.

“They shut us out,” Axel said, giving the gate a shove with his paw. “Oh, damn it, they’ve shut us out.”

“Hey!” Thomas yelled over the top of the wall. “Hey! Open the gates, you damn cowards, we’re dying out here!”

“Keep your voice down,” Dieter hissed. “Do you want to announce to the whole invading army that we’re getting routed?”

“As if they can’t see that the damn gates are shut from where they are,” Thomas snapped. “Time is what matters here, not a game of Nedatic Whispers!”

“Okay, let’s all stop panicking,” Axel snapped. “Peter, you stay—”

Thwack.

Corsair jolted as an arrow weaved through the group and hit Axel in the arm. The apothecary jumped and went stiff for a moment as if struck by thunder, screaming in pain and clutching where he’d been shot.

“Ah, bastard! Ah!”

Arwenin yowled and turned in the direction of the shot but, as she did, another arrow embedded itself in her haunch. She yelped and retreated a step, crimson spreading out across her flank. Peter shoved Axel down against Arwenin and covered the wounded apothecary with his body, pinning the wolf to the steed with both arms.

“Axel!” Thomas yelled, directing Zechter in front of him. “You okay?”

“Of course I’m not okay, I just got shot in my damn arm!” Axel screamed.

“Incoming!” Dieter yelled, readying javelin. “Behind us!”

Quickpaw turned around and darted in front of Arwenin, dropping low on his front paws and baring fangs. Corsair braced himself as three Krosguard riders broke free of the shadows, two knocking arrows into their bows while the one in the centre rode with lance raised.

Corsair recognised the size of the putrid beast before anything else, felt that recognition morph into terror.

“Sedrid!” Lieutenant Maximus bellowed. “Nowhere left to run now!”

“Stay with Axel, Rohesia!” Corsair ordered. “Thomas and Dieter, come on!”

Rohesia dropped off Quickpaw’s back and hurried to Axel’s aid. Thomas and Dieter rallied to Corsair’s side and, upon regrouping, willed their steeds to action by snapping at the reins. Dieter and Thomas berthed left and right, aligning themselves to fight the two accompanying soldiers, while Corsair charged towards Lieutenant Maximus head-on. The paw holding his lance shook not with hesitation but with a far more potent concoction of anger and terror. Quickpaw snarled and howled, fury at the sight of Arwenin being wounded that drove him towards the fearsome ictharr.

With a cry of exertion, Lieutenant Maximus thrust the lance at Corsair. It sparked against Corsair’s own lance, the blow landing with such force that it knocked it from Corsair’s paw. Quickpaw weaved away from Thornfang as they passed, winced as Thornfang snapped her jaws on the open air where his head had just been.

“You didn’t run far enough to get away from me!” Lieutenant Maximus yelled as he turned Thornfang around. “You shouldn’t have stopped!”

“Shut up and kill me then!” Corsair bellowed, readying his sword as he turned Quickpaw back around.

“Don’t worry, Sedrid, I’m gonna cut your head off and hear your dead mother weep from hell!”

The comment bared Corsair’s fangs, summoned greater power into his swinging arm, and filled him with an unfailing aspiration to skewer the monster on his blade. He screamed as he stabbed for Lieutenant Maximus, felt the disappointment of his sword deflecting off his lance. Thornfang and Quickpaw snarled at one another as they passed.

“Ha! With swings like that, it’s no wonder you let poor Ophelia die!”

That horrid image forced itself upon his mind once more, that soul-ruining scene of his undeniable failure, and it only served to manifest a greater rage in Corsair. He snarled and screamed as he turned Quickpaw around and snapped at the reins, felt all desires and promises become eclipsed by the burning supernova of anguish that sought to consume the evil lieutenant’s wretched life in its blast.

“You don’t get to speak her name!” Corsair screamed, raising his sword to strike.

He never got the chance.

As Quickpaw darted to the left to avoid Thornfang’s bite, the behemoth threw all her weight into a lunge. She crashed into Quickpaw’s side with enough force to interrupt his trajectory and send him flying off to the side. Corsair gasped as he was knocked off the saddle, flailing as he spun through the air with yowling Quickpaw and then crashed into the ground. Corsair rolled along the stone and came to a stop on his front, scrambling to get up.

“Get him!” Lieutenant Maximus ordered Thornfang.

Corsair snatched up his sword as Thornfang charged. He raised the blade to swing but couldn’t hope to beat the ictharr. She rammed him again and knocked the wolf flat onto his back, sword clattering off to the side.

“Help Corsair!” Rohesia yelled. “Corsair’s in trouble!”

Quickpaw snarled and lunged for Thornfang from the side. Lieutenant Maximus whistled his command to his steed. She glanced in Quickpaw’s direction, roared, and then turned away before thrusting both hind legs out with startling force. The defensive blow struck Quickpaw mid-pounce between his front legs. Quickpaw yelped and flew back, sliding across the stone. Corsair turned onto his side and reached for his sword, but the futile endeavour was cut short as Thornfang slammed her paws down on his arm and pinned him there. Corsair tried to punch at the side of her face, but she then planted the second paw on his chest, pinning him to the stone road.

He felt the blade against his throat before he saw it. He looked up and saw the darkness of the night, felt the fresh cold against his beaten body, endured the sting of the grand failure he would never shake off. Corsair lay in the snow of that tragic night, pathetic and broken.

“Your bloodline dies with a whimper, Sedrid,” Lieutenant Maximus grinned.

Clang.

Lieutenant Maximus grunted as a spinning ball crashed against him, slashing at his suit of armour and bouncing away. The assailant darted around Thornfang and slashed left and right, whittling their way through the armoured saddle. The beast roared, distracted by the new party, and the lapse in the guard of his adversaries offered Corsair the opportunity needed to escape. He knocked the sword away with his free arm and punched Thornfang across the snout. She reeled back, stunned by the blow, and Corsair wrenched himself free from death’s embrace.

“Quickpaw!” he yelled, swiping up his sword and running to the fallen ictharr’s side. “Quickpaw, hey, get up!”

Quickpaw stirred and rolled onto his front, shaking his head and mewling an apology. Corsair sighed in relief and turned, sword ready in case of a counterattack. Lieutenant Maximus was too preoccupied with the masked one’s harassing strikes to worry about the young Sedrid anymore. He stabbed left and swung right, supported by Thornfang’s snapping of her giant maw, but the hooded rabbit weaved and rolled around their attacks without any hint of exhaustion. Lieutenant Maximus stabbed at the stone where she stood but such an attempt on her life was doomed to strike the paving. The masked one cartwheeled out the way, launched into a spinning jump, and slashed at his arm as she pirouetted past.

“Gah!” Lieutenant Maximus reeled. “Stand still!”

The masked one landed and darted back, jumping left and right, before coming to a stop before Corsair. She dropped low into a stance with legs spread and one paw out in front to balance her. She looked over her shoulder and directed her eyes to the gate.

“Hey!” an accented voice beckoned.

Corsair looked back. Open gates announced the arrival of hope, offering them the chance to once more flee to safety. A line of tower shields, pink rectangles bordered in glinting metal, held the entrance to the centre of the city. Sheep in sallets and lamellar metal scale armour crouched behind the wall with spears aimed forward, pink cowls wrapped around their necks and hanging loose from around their jaws. A rank behind them stood ready with bows aimed ahead.

“Get in here!” one of the soldiers yelled with an accent. “We’ll keep you all covered!”

The masked one gestured for him to run before darting back to strike at Lieutenant Maximus. Corsair climbed into Quickpaw’s saddle and turned him towards the gates.

“It’s okay,” he shushed him. “Run Quickpaw! Go!”

Quickpaw hurried towards the gates although, judging by how he struggled to keep up the pace, the blow still winded him. Dieter and Thomas disengaged from fighting the two soldiers, rallying to Quickpaw’s side. Zechter and Arkzmeyer both offered growls of encouragement, telling Quickpaw to keep going. A voice from the defensive posture cried out and the line of archers fired at the Krosguard marauders. The trio retreated out the way of the shots, deflecting those that did land with armour and shield. The masked one sprinted back in the direction of the retreating wolves and snatched Dieter’s arm as he offered it to her, pulling herself up onto Arkzmeyer’s back.

“Go!” the leader of the line yelled. “Hurry, hurry, come on come on!”

The yells and howls of an approaching horde grew louder. Corsair looked back to see an unstoppable wave of shadows racing in their direction, hundreds of infantry rushing to eradicate the retreating wolves.

“Come on, Quickpaw, we need to go!” Corsair urged.

Quickpaw heaved through the gap in the line and flopped down onto his front in the grass, panting. The rest of the group hurried on through as the gates were winched shut, coming to a stop beside the winded Quickpaw.

“Quickpaw?” Corsair said, voice trembling with concern. “Quickpaw, hey, what’s wrong?”

Quickpaw dragged air in and puffed it back out. He rested his head against Corsair and closed his eyes. The poor thing shook with the terror of death, mewling to his best friend. Corsair hugged him.

“I was scared too. You’re very brave, Quickpaw. Very brave.”

The ictharr growled in thanks. His breathing slowed and his trembling abated. Corsair turned his attention to the group and saw they were equally exhausted. Dieter commended Arkzmeyer for her togetherness, Thomas leaned against Zechter panting, and Rohesia stood beside him with wide eyes focused on the gates.

“Hey,” Thomas said. “Ax…oh sh*t, where’s—”

“He went ahead,” Dieter said. “He’s back at the convoy. We made it, we all made it.”

“Thank God for that. That was…”

Thomas didn’t finish his thought. Their first foray into the convention of frontline combat had many a word of terrible implication to describe it. All that waited for them out there was agonising and excruciating death without dignity, reverence or meaning. The first section had been lost and, with its concession to the invaders, its purpose as a residential zone had soon been usurped by a bloodier dedication to facilitating brazen and honourless butchery.

“We need to get back to the convoy,” Thomas said.

“Yeah,” Corsair said. “We do.”

…

He was here. Of all places, of all holes to crawl in and die, he had chosen here.

Lieutenant Maximus, wincing from the sting of his new wound, rode Thornfang back along the streets of the besieged first section. The ictharr traipsed through the blood and viscera with no regard for the dead, paws stepping over the aghast expressions of the recently deceased rabbits. Yellow uniforms lay in droves, slashed to ribbons and splashed in crimson.

“That Sedrid idiot,” Gregor said. “We almost had him.”

“Almost isn’t good enough,” Lieutenant Maximus grunted. “I want his head. If the coward doesn’t turn tail and run, he’s a priority. You find him and you bring him to me. I want the kill.”

“And if he’s ran away?” Levin asked.

“I wouldn’t be shocked. It takes cowardice to be a rabbit sympathiser in the same way it takes cowardice to flee his own country.”

“Lieutenant!” a voice called up ahead.

Lieutenant Maximus looked up. The Krosguard soldier from before rode in his direction. Behind him was the mutt commander riding an ictharr of his own that he had commandeered from the stables, accompanied by his clingy knight compatriot.

“I summoned the commander he—”

“I can damn well see that,” Lieutenant Maximus snapped. “Get out of my sight.”

The Krosguard soldier did as ordered, riding ahead to the shut gates. Lieutenant Maximus dropped from the saddle as Valour did. The armoured commander stormed towards him.

“Important updates?” Valour asked.

“He’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

“The one that got away.”

Valour’s unimpressed expression faltered. “Corsair?”

“Who else would I be talking about? He’s alive and he’s fighting with more wolves on the side of the rabbits. The ones he escaped Grand Wolf Plains with.”

The commander fell silent for a moment, troubled by the recent revelation. The knight behind him disembarked and stopped by his side, shooting the lieutenant a disapproving look.

“Who is he fighting with?” Valour asked. “What banner?”

“A white eye on blue fabric. Ring any bells?”

“Doesn’t sound like any militia or mercenary group I know of.”

He’s clueless, of course.

“Whoever he fights with, he dies all the same,” Lieutenant Maximus said with confidence. “I had him at the gates and he barely slipped out of my grasp. When the next attack starts, I’ll succeed where you failed.”
“Sedrid isn’t priority,” Valour said. “Whether he falls or not, Saint Gaspard is the objective.”

“I’m making it priority.”

“Then you’re as stupid as you look,” the knight beside Valour said.

“Who invited you to talk?” Gregor snapped. “Keep your mouth shut.”

“You don’t intimidate me.”

“I can change that real quick, mutt.”

“Oh? Well perhaps I should go lay with your mother, inform her of the sh*t-spewing dullard her son has become?”

“You watch your mouth. My mother’s been dead in the grave a long time!”

“Must have fallen on her own blade if she had to suffer your putrid company.”

Gregor went to dismount, but Lieutenant Maximus put out an arm to halt him, shaking his head. Valour spoke.

“We stick to the plan. Have our troops consolidate the land we’ve taken while we open the front gates and get the cannons through. We clear the dead and wounded, we get the siege ladders up here, and we start the next phase.”

“Why are you ignoring Se—"

“Because there’s more riding on this than your damaged ego from one tournament fight.”

Lieutenant Maximus said nothing, only offered a hostile gaze as his response. Valour turned and climbed back into his ictharr’s saddle, returning to his backline position alongside his colleague.

“Stuck-up idiots,” Levin said, spitting into the grass by the road.

The lieutenant’s ears stood. Thornfang growled and turned left, snarling at an alley between burrows. Gregor and Levin pivoted in that direction with swords ready.

Cowering in the shadows, legs covered in blood that oozed from the ceramic shrapnel that cut through fabric and flesh, was an old rabbit soldier. He sat up against one of the dirt houses as he whimpered and sobbed, reaching out to them for help.

“Please,” he begged. “It…it hurts.”

“Gregor, Levin, hold here,” Lieutenant Maximus said. “Thornfang, come with me.”

The lieutenant walked into the alley and crouched in front of the soldier. The rabbit flinched in anticipation, terrified eyes darting from Lieutenant Maximus to Thornfang.

“Lanzig?” the lieutenant asked.

“W-what?” the rabbit stammered.

Lieutenant Maximus grabbed a piece of shrapnel and yanked it out. The rabbit shrieked and went taut, crying.

“Do you speak Lanzig?” the lieutenant asked again.

“Yes, yes!” the rabbit said. “I understand!”

“Those wolves that were here,” the lieutenant growled. “Who are they fighting for?”

“I-I don’t—”

The lieutenant reached for another fragment, but the rabbit interrupted him.

“W-wait! Wait, please!”

“Speak already.”

“Okay, I-I, fine okay! T-they appeared up north days ago. I don’t know their name but there were loads of them. Cats, wolves, a few dogs and bulls and…House Vigilance! That was their name, House Vigilance!”

“Who leads them?”

“Some grey cat! S-she leads them with a hound and a lioness! They got here today, t-t-they were dropping off…supplies for the front. Oh, by the moon, my legs—”

“And what about the wolves? How many?”

“U-uh…four…no, five! F-five wolves in armour!”

Lieutenant Maximus hummed in thought. “House Vigilance. Odd name.”

“Please,” the rabbit sobbed, paws hovering over his shredded legs. “I…it hurts so bad…I-I-I need help.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Lieutenant Maximus said as he stood, looking down into the soldier’s shimmering eyes. “I’ll get you some help.”

The lieutenant whistled and turned out the alley, walking into the bloodied street. The rabbit soldier watched him leave, mouth opening to enquire as to what he was doing, before a ferocious growl made him freeze. He turned his head to the feral and wild eyes of a gargantuan four-legged shadow, the cruel beast’s fangs bared in a violent snarl.

The last thing he ever saw.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

The first place Corsair hurried to, still high off the adrenaline of the fight, was the infirmary. Atan mended Arwenin’s wounded haunch outside the carriage, shushing the ictharr as she whimpered and growled in pain.

“She’s okay,” Atan said. “It’s nothing too serious.”

“Go look after her, Quickpaw,” Corsair said.

Quickpaw needed no further encouragement. He rushed to her side and lay beside her, pressing his head into her side to let her know he was there. She growled in thanks.

Corsair entered the infirmary. Only hours prior the place had been empty, all the beds and cabinets arranged and cleaned to Ralwyndr’s meticulous standard, but that was now but a fleeting memory. Every bed was occupied by wounded rabbits, some having to be laid out on the floor atop spare sheets. Crimson splotches spread across the white fabric, oozing from the numerous wounds the Ceramic Shrapnel had inflicted. Rabbit doctors moved from bed to bed as they examined the victims’ wounds.

“Axel?” Corsair called.

“I’m here,” the wolf groaned from his right.

Corsair turned. Axel sat down beside Ralwyndr’s desk, Peter crouched beside him and Ralwyndr. The deer physician wound fresh bandaging around the treated wound, causing the wolf to grimace in pain. Corsair knelt beside Axel.

“Ow ow ow ow ow ow,” Axel hissed, fangs bared.

“Is it bad?” Corsair said.

“I-I don’t think so,” Axel said, blinking away tears of pain. “As far as getting shot goes…it could have been a lot worse. Your friend shielded me.”

Ralwyndr finished wrapping the bandages around his arm and eased it onto Axel’s lap before moving down the aisle towards the back, too focused on urgent matters to offer greeting to Corsair.

“Your young life matters more than mine,” Peter said. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt again.”

“But Arwie,” Axel said, turning to Corsair. “She’s—"

“She’s fine, Axel,” Corsair said. “Atan’s seeing to her right now. Quickpaw’s keeping her company.”

“Thank God,” he said. “If anything happened to her…”

“I know. I feel the same about Quickpaw.”

“Listen…you need to go and tell the captains about what happened.”

“But you’re—”

“I’ll be fine. I’m all bandaged up. I’ll live.”

“He’s right,” Peter said. “Whoever’s banner you fight under now, they need to know what’s coming. I can help.”

Corsair heeded the instructions. He led Peter back outside and found the rest of the lupine cohort there. The masked one was gone from Dieter’s saddle. Zechter observed Arwenin being treated over Atan’s shoulder.

“How is he?” Thomas asked.

“Ralwyndr’s treating him,” Corsair said. “He’ll be okay. I need to go and speak with the captains.”

“And Ragnar? He’s around here?”

“Somewhere,” Corsair said, hiding the derision. “He’ll be looked after.”
“Go,” Dieter said. “We’ll be fine here.”

Corsair looked over to Rohesia. Concern was etched into her face, lingering fear from how close he had come once again to being torn from their mortal plane.

“You’re not hurt?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” Corsair said. “You?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. I’ll be back in a bit. Come on, Peter.”

“It’s good to see you safe, Rohesia,” Peter said as they passed.

“You too,” Rohesia said.

He led Peter down the caravan. Peter regarded all the transports with a curious gaze, impressed by their size and design, but still kept pace with Corsair. They returned to the front of the city hall. Corsair pivoted where he stood, gaze searching for Lorenzo and Sasha but finding no one.

“Looking for someone?”

Corsair turned. Kilik sat on a box of supplies, a stick of Merchant’s Puff protruding from the corner of his mouth. Amidst the storm of panic and confusion there he rested, as unfettered and miserable as he usually was.

“The captains,” Corsair said. “I need to speak with them.”

“Inside,” Kilik said, regarding Peter with a wary gaze. “Who’s this?”

“A friend,” Corsair said, walking past Kilik. “Come on.”

“This house isn’t an open-invitation club, you know!” Kilik yelled after him.

The duo rushed up the steps. Two rabbit soldiers in front of the doors blocked their way. One raised a paw and gestured to Peter, speaking in rapid Eposian.

“We need to go in,” Corsair said, shaking his tabard. “Vigilance. Vigilance.”

The guards protested, the exact details of their refusal obscured by the language barrier, but their declination was interrupted by the doors opening behind them. The masked one pushed past the guards and beckoned the two arrivals in with her paw. The rabbits’ protests ceased with the arrival of Corsair’s saviour, returning to standing idle beside the door.

“Thank you,” Corsair said, shooting both guards a look before entering.

The inside of the city hall proved considerably less fanciful than its capital counterpart. Cabinets once packed with religious regalia had been stripped bare, left disembowelled atop the varnished wood floor. The wooden doors to the adjacent rooms, guiding new arrivals away from the large circular entrance hall, had their contents ransacked and escorted off to the east. Small trees in their pots stood dead, none of the parabular clergy around anymore to keep the plant denizens watered. The masked one led them up the spiral staircase in the centre of the entrance hall to the next floor, a chamber similarly deprived of decoration and ornament, and then through a door at the back.

Beyond the threshold was a spacious rectangular chamber. Corsair could see the remains of what was once the mayor’s office; the dark wood desk, the comfy cushioned chair, the empty cabinet that once housed their clothes and the looted shelves that once stored many a book on political theory and religious regimen. In the mayor’s stead was a makeshift war room. A large map of the city was spread across the table, many painted wood markers placed at different areas. Lanterns stood at the four corners of the spread parchment to pin it into place. Rabbit soldiers stood on one side, discussing plans in hushed voices, while Lady Riskar and her two captains stood on the right. Beside the leaders of House Vigilance stood the towering figure of Thornvallis Attronieux, one of the rams Corsair had seen fraternising with them at the ball. A gown draped over their imposing figure, their hand on their hip. Behind the desk sat the officer in charge of the city’s defence; a thin and old rabbit that hid her face in both paws. The window behind her sat open and a soldier stood beside it writing a note. A colourful bird fluttered in and landed on the sill. The soldier wrapped the note around their ankle and sent them flying off again.

The most imposing aspect of the ensemble was the silence. The tense quiet that persisted, one that almost seemed to stifle the air. A hopeless cessation of noise, a surrendering of sound in the face of utter defeat.

“Lady Riskar,” Corsair said. “We’re back from the first section. It’s—”

“A massacre,” Lorenzo said, arms folded and eyes scanning the map.

The masked one eased past Corsair and sat on a chair in the corner of the room.

“Right,” Corsair said, gesturing to Peter. “But I have with me a friend of my family. Peter. He knows what took down the wall, he knows what they’re using.”

The room’s focus fell upon Peter. The wolf explained all he knew in a neutral tone. The cannons, the flares, the plan of attack and the overwhelming numbers. Every detail gave new insight but, with it, only made the leaders of the defence realise the increasing hopelessness of the situation. Peter’s testimony concluded with a return to that oppressive silence.

New weapons of war. Impossible numbers. Rabbits who didn’t want to fight. Was there any hope at all?

“Cannons?” Sasha questioned. “I have not heard of such destructive devices.”

“They’re not new,” Lorenzo said. “Using explosive powder to fire artillery has been a lingering idea since the rabbits tried making them for the war in Silverclaw. Public opinion wasn’t fond of republic soldiers being in the desert so that got scrapped in favour of financial support. It’s likely the Procyoni states found the old designs and decided to make them for themselves.”

“As for those blinding beacons,” Sasha said. “I have not a clue. I can only imagine they are a result of some alchemical process, perhaps fired up into the sky by crossbow?”

“The situation is dire, that much is certain,” Lady Riskar mused. “I thank you for your insight, Peter, but your description only serves to further highlight the inevitable.”

“What’s that?” Corsair asked.

“A full withdrawal,” Lorenzo said. “We came here to deliver supplies and we’ve now got new ones to deliver.”

Corsair frowned. “But…if we run away—”

“The contract says nothing about fighting on behalf of the republic.”

“I don’t argue against that but if we leave this front, the wall will fall.”

“The wall has fallen. They’re inside. It’s only a matter of time until they knock down the gates and continue their attack and, when that happens, we cannot be here. The soldiers to the east of the citadel are gone. They’ve run away. There are almost no rabbits left in the city.”

“What did she say?” Corsair said, pointing to the rabbit officer.

“She’s had her head in her paws since the wall came down,” Thornvallis spoke. “How enraged the premier would be knowing all that stood between him and certain death was a group of foreigners.”

Words failed Corsair. Another damning blow to their efforts. Another indicator that all was lost. The rabbit officer said not a word, kept her face in her paws while the diagnosis of their impending doom continued.

“We’re outnumbered at least – at least – five to one in a city we don’t know,” Lorenzo said.

“Right,” Corsair said. “But if we set off east and let the city fall, they’ll have open access to the rest of the country. We’ll be trapped. If we can’t escape west, where would we go?”

“We were in the midst of such discussion,” Sasha said. “The Tabahos Islands, while not affiliated with the Land of the Sun and Moon, may prove to be an appropriate place of which the militia can rest and reassess. Our retreat is imminent regardless of location.”

“And then we’ve lost,” Corsair said.

“We’ve already lost,” Lorenzo said. “Corsair, can you listen to us for once?”

“A lieutenant of the Krosguard, one that’s got the Winter Baron’s ear, just saw me and my friends out there wearing your tabards. They know who you are, or they’ll work it out soon enough. Once they do, the Winter Baron and the king will ensure every army in the realm is hunting us down. Our campaign will be dead before its even really started. Long term—”

“Long term? Long term? We’ve got our backs to the wall against two of Vos Draemar’s most professional armies out there who have siege equipment hardly anyone has seen before. Our forces are either dead, running away, or too scared to do anything. The Yastillot Vanguard don’t number nearly enough to hold off the thousands – the tens of thousands – Opulus has pulled to come down on us. This is anything but long term, Corsair, and staying here means we all die.”

“If we leave, this is all over.”

“Do words just go in through one ear and die? It’s already over!”

“Stop,” Lady Riskar said. “Just…both of you, be quiet for a moment.”

The silence returned. Lorenzo shot Corsair a look but abided by his leader’s wishes. Lady Riskar consulted the map, searched its contents for the sage wisdom she’d need to make the correct call.

“Fleeing Saint Gaspard remains our ultimatum,” she said. “I do not intend to have any member of our house die in this war, one as fruitless as any other. The captain is right regarding such a matter.”

“Thank you, milady,” Lorenzo said. “At least one of us here is seeing sense.”

“Yet we cannot turn to it so soon. There is no guarantee the Tabahos Islands shall treat us as friends. If Opulus were to seize all of East Parabular, we cannot discredit the possibility that, in order to win over favour with the superpower that had now become their neighbour, they would force us over to them. It must remain a last resort.”

“Thank you,” Corsair said, returning Lorenzo’s stern gaze.

“But no member of the house sees the front. Not one. The convoy shall be arranged to the east and prepared to leave should defence become impossible.”

“I wasn’t asking anyone to fight. Just that we looked at all our options.”

“Fighting for us isn’t a problem,” Thornvallis said. “Where you lack numbers, we have them. If we use our strengths as the defender, we can ensure their endless hordes mean nothing. The vanguard stand ready.”

“We’ll need to discuss a defensive strategy we can at least be somewhat certain of,” Sasha said. “In the meantime, Corsair, I would recommend preparing you and your comrades. The next phase of the assault may be initiated at any moment.”

Corsair left the solemn delegation to their planning. Peter followed him out into the entrance chamber. He stopped at the wooden banister overlooking the spiral staircase, exhaling.

“Well spoken, sir,” Peter said. “Opulus’ appetite for conquest won’t be—”

Corsair wrapped his arms around the head servant and held him close. Peter stiffened with surprise, stunned for a moment, before reciprocating.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Corsair said, holding tight. “I missed you so much.”

“Likewise, sir. Truly,” the head servant said, patting his back. “It is good to see you again.”

Corsair eased off him and sighed. “What a mess you’ve stumbled into, now.”

“Unfortunately, sir. Opulus won’t stop until you are all dead.”

“I want anything but to stand and fight this out, but if it’s going to cost us our chance to get back home, free our people from Tiberius, then we can’t make that retreat lightly.”

“I agree.”

“And you helped keep my friend safe. Thank you.”

“Don’t be silly, sir. It’s my honour. Your company is my family, especially if they saved your life.”

“You heard about that?”

“Everyone in the capital knows of the foiled execution. It was a messy affair.”

“I wish it hadn’t been. Right now, all we have is each other. The others? They’re okay?”

“We were scattered across the front, sir. I have no clue where they are, only that they must be doing well. I believe in them.”

Corsair agreed in silence. Peter’s presence dissipated the stress and exhaustion. His safety brought him some peace, as strained as it was.

“Corsair Sedrid.”

The duo turned. Thornvallis approached them, the masked one at his side. Seeing them both standing next to one another only made it more apparent just how tall the former and how short the latter was.

“It is good to see you and your friends here,” Thornvallis said. “We met at the ball although I won’t be offended if you forgot.”

“I drunk a lot,” Corsair said. “Your soldiers saved us.”

“And I know you’d do the same for my people. You have already become acquainted with Belthorpe Acier, no?”

Thornvallis gestured to the hooded rabbit beside him. Belthorpe made no sign of greeting, issued no gesture of welcome, and Corsair sensed it was both the residual hatred she held and the fact they had crossed paths so many times already.

“She saved me out there,” Corsair said, ignoring the phantom sensation of her blade against his throat. “Thank you, Belthorpe.”

She didn’t acknowledge his thanks.

“I have urgent matters to see to but it’s good to know we’re amongst kindred spirit,” Thornvallis said. “Keep strong.”

The duo descended the stairs and disappeared. Corsair faced back over the banister and puffed out air.

“What of your brother, sir?” Peter said. “I hope he’s okay.”

Corsair kept his anger subdued. “House Vigilance helped us save him in the Deuvick Feldanas. They’re good people. Lady Riskar knows me from ten years ago.”

“Where is he, sir?”

“Resting. He’ll talk to you at some point. He…only just learned about Mum.”

Peter lowered his gaze. “Yes. Tragic, sir. All of us were distraught when we heard the news about Ophelia.”

“They killed her and said I did it.”

“A flimsy lie, sir. No one with a brain would believe it.”

“Maybe not many from the capital but…outside it? I don’t know.”

His eyes stung.

“I miss her so much, Peter.”

“As do I. What a remarkable wolf your mother was.”

A loving face at his bedside. A soothing voice coaxing him into the depths of sleep.

“It happened so quickly. I tried saving her after I left but…that knight, Valour…he was about to kill me and she jumped in the way.”

“She loved you dearly, sir.”

“I didn’t want her to save me. Not if it meant that.”

“You could have never asked her to stand by, sir. My sons…as a father, they are my life. My reason for being. If falling on a blade meant keeping them safe, then I would fall upon a hundred. That act of sacrifice was because she loved you more so than she could ever love herself. It was her defiance of a conspiracy that sought to dictate her life, to disassemble all she valued before her eyes. She chose how her life was to end. That’s a freedom she would not let the traitors tarnish…and your life was a gift she could not let them ruin.”

Corsair said nothing. Saying a single word in that moment would bring him apart. Peter procured a closed letter. Corsair took it and recognised the black wax seal that had dried over the lip of the fold.

“She wanted me to give you this. Something she wasn’t certain about when you left. It was written by your father before he travelled to Opulus and died in the crash.”

Corsair shoved it back towards Peter. “I can’t take this.”

“Your mother wrote in it, too. I think it is worth keeping, at least, sir.”

Corsair hesitated. He looked at Peter’s face, saw a sincerity there, and then looked down at the letter. It was thick, many a page housed within the envelope, and he could only imagine the truths within that would unravel him once more.

“Okay,” he said, pulling it into him. “Thank you, Peter.”

“Not at all, sir. It must be unimaginably difficult to hold. What happened between you and your father…perhaps I should have intervened.”

A menacing shadow in the doorway.

“It wasn’t your place to,” Corsair said. “He was leader of the country. Now he’s just a corpse in a box.”

“I understand. You and your family treated us with love and kindness regardless of our station. To have survived long enough to give this to you makes me glad.”

“It makes me happy too. Go get some rest, Peter. Go to the middle barracks and sleep in the bunk on the right.”

“Am I not to fight with you, sir?”

“You are to never see war again. Ever.”

Peter smiled, a sight that lifted Corsair’s spirits despite the dread all around. “Still kind despite it all, sir. I’m happy to have watched you grow up into the wolf you are now.”

With that, Peter descended the stairs and left the prince to mull it all over. A battle they had a slim hope of winning. An enemy that was better, stronger, and more ferocious than them. A group of allies that were disorganised, weak, and terrified. All over a city that Corsair didn’t know and, under other circ*mstances, likely would still not have known for a long period of his life.

Corsair lifted the letter up, turned it before his eyes, and rested his gaze on that wax seal. Curiosity willed him to rip it open, but disdain and spite forbade the prince from entertaining the words of his dead father, even if it meant forsaking those of his mother.

“What did you want to tell me?” Corsair said. “Were you confessing?”

The oppressive silence stretched out. He tempered his expectations and lowered the letter, regarded it with a low growl.

“Or were you trying to spit in my eye one last time?”

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

On the path they had agreed to walk, the one that would lead them back to a home liberated of Tiberius’ tyranny, she knew they would cross death time and time again. In a world where troubles could only be overcome with swift bouts of violent reprimand, she wasn’t surprised nor concerned about the reoccurring omen’s presence in their journey. Yet, as Rohesia stood outside the infirmary, back resting against the side of the transport, she could only think about the sheer destruction the invading forces had wielded. Their opponents were no dagger-swinging hoodlums, no poison-spouting zealots with delusions of righteousness. They were professional killers. Regimented, organised, and fearless troops motivated by vengeance for their wronged people.

Her own people.

The door to the infirmary opened. Axel stumbled out, wincing with every step as his wounded arm jostled in its sling. Arwenin, lying exhausted beside the steps with some short rope by her front paws, wagged her tail and weakly growled.

“Hey, Arwie,” Axel smiled, crouching and fussing over her. “My pup. My brave pup. Oh my God.”

Arwenin mewled and nuzzled against him. Axel hugged her, held her tight and shut his eyes.

“I know it hurts. I know. You’re so brave, Arwie. Much braver than me.”

Arwenin reciprocated his concerned sentiment. Axel sat down beside her, positioning himself among the ictharr group. The poor apothecary looked as shaken as his steed, eyes glancing to her every few seconds as if to check for any more incoming arrows. Quickpaw dozed beside Arwenin, recovering from the winding Thornfang gave him. Thomas sat on a crate across from Axel, head in paws as he recovered from his agitated hangover, and Dieter stood beside Arkzmeyer near the road. The lupine veteran rested his paws upon the pommel of his standing sword, tip pressed into the stone.

“I’m parched,” Axel said. “Any of you got water?”

Thomas passed him a metal canteen. Axel tipped the receptacle back and glugged down the contents for five seconds, scrunching his eyes shut as he freed himself from the shackles of dehydration. He passed it back to Thomas who, upon receiving it, shook the empty canteen with a disapproving look.

“Thanks,” he said. “Really. Thanks. Not at all nursing a hangover.”

“Sorry,” Axel said. “I was really thirsty.”

“You got shot so I’ll let it slide this time.”

“Very generous. Maybe they’ll make you a saint, give you your own city.”

“Sure. Patron saint of alcoholics everywhere.”

The duo chuckled but the laughter fizzled out. Rohesia glanced around at the tents.

Empty. Abandoned by the dead, forsaken by the living.

“God this is bleak,” Thomas sighed.

“We might be pulling out of here,” Axel said.

“Or we may be staying. The soldiers from House Yastillot look prepared enough.”

“As good as they might be, they won’t be good enough to hold back a swarm,” Dieter said. “Saint Gaspard has always been a thorn in the side of western invasions. They’re hitting this with everything they have. There’s no telling how many troops they’ve got outside.”

Axel looked over at Rohesia. “How are you feeling?”

The bedlam of complex negative emotion sought to answer yet she offered a simple shrug in its stead. “We survived a Deathmother.”

“Yeah, well, Ralwyndr can’t use his magical rock on this problem,” Thomas said.

“Look, whatever comes next, fight to survive and keep each other safe. This war isn’t ours to die for,” Dieter said.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Thomas said, looking over his shoulder. “Has anyone seen Ragnar, by the way?”

“Last I saw he was talking with Corsair down the road,” Dieter said, glancing behind him.

“He definitely didn’t come out with us, right?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Just worried we’ve got a wolf with a broken rib running around.”

Before anyone could elaborate on Ragnar’s whereabouts, Kilik stepped around the corner. Rohesia failed to recall a time she didn’t see him with a cigarette in his mouth.

“Oy,” Kilik said, as glum as ever. “Room for one more?”

“Go away. I’m not in the mood for you to give me a bad time,” Axel said.

“Don’t flatter yourself, I don’t exist just to give you sh*t,” Kilik said, sitting down atop a box. His gaze fell upon Axel’s arm and his expression changed into one of genuine concern for the apothecary. “Der’mo, you okay?”

“Lucky shot from some idiot. I’m fine.”

The sphynx almost seemed to deflate with relief. “Good. Last thing we need is you dropping dead. Rohesia, you heard from Lofdawn at all?”

“Not a word,” Rohesia said. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Nope, nothing here either. The leadership are holed up in the city hall wondering if we should run or keep fighting.”

“Any verdict yet?” Thomas asked.

“I’m not the cat to ask. I’m just the fool doing the errands, they don’t tell me sh*t unless it involves waking me up at the ass crack of dawn.”

“What do you think, then?”

“About what?”

“Staying here.”

Kilik mused over the question, gave it a few seconds of sincere thought as he smoked. “Eh…I’m getting older. It’s not ideal but…dying for this cause wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Dying in the name of a new Opulus?”

“A new Opulus, money, just to be a pain in their ass…I don’t know the specifics. Lady Riskar knows the details, she reads those fancy political theory books on her shelves with all those funny terms. I’m just a simple fool with simple ideas. But simple ideas sometimes work best and, to me, fighting for a world less ugly and sh*t than this, back in Silverclaw and anywhere else…it’s one of the last good ones we got left.”

Kilik puffed his Merchant’s Puff again, trying to hide how smug he felt with his response and how it caught the wolves off-guard. She remembered how he had helped her out the Tseontaeg hideout, guided her down the steps as she hallucinated her undoing. Despite his incessant miserable expression and his backchat, Rohesia regarded the feline with a semblance of friendly affection.

“Hearth below, you people are nervous,” Kilik said. “An axe wouldn’t get through the tension here. Isn’t anyone gonna talk?”

“Two of us got shot and the rabbits narrowly failed leaving us to die,” Thomas said.

“Not for a lack of effort on their part, that’s for sure,” Axel winced. “Ow.”

“Well,” Kilik said, procuring a bottle of Aym-Jahar’s Remedy. “I got a treat from the pantry for good behaviour. It’s good.”

“No way, I’m not touching any more alcohol for as long as I live,” Thomas said, pointing to Axel. “Give him some, he needs the painkillers.”

“I’m fine,” Axel said. “I shouldn’t be taking alcohol with medicine.”

“Oh, come on, you coward,” Kilik insisted. “One sip will make you feel a lot better.”

Axel stared at the bottle, winced from the lingering pain, and conceded with a sigh. He took the alcoholic beverage, muttered thanks, and took a swig. He flinched as the strong alcohol kicked him in the stomach hard, grimacing as he offered the drink to the others. Dieter took a swig without any indication of a struggle and passed the bottle to Rohesia who proceeded to tip the bottle back, let the tiniest drop poison her tongue, and then surrender it to Kilik.

“Why do people drink?” Axel shuddered. “Bleugh. That’s horrible.”

“To forget the pain,” Kilik scoffed. “You smoke?”

“No,” Axel said. “And I’m not in the mood to start, peddler of bad habits.”

“Hearth below, come on, people,” Kilik groaned, flopping his arms down in defeat. “I thought wolves were meant to be warriors of the north! You faced parasites no one in Vos Draemar even knows exist. You survived! Don’t be so down on your luck because you think a bunch of idiots with sharp sticks are gonna kill us.”

“They shot me, Kilik.”

“Because they thought you were worth shooting. You lived, idiot! Celebrate being able to breathe. If you’re going to die tonight, you may as well make your last moments fun and stupid. For you, apothecary, the last one shouldn’t be too hard, eh?”

If Axel was impressed by the feline’s philosophical spiel, he hid it well. He regarded the thin bundle betwixt Kilik’s digits with a neutral expression.

“Look…consider the offer an apology,” Kilik said, rubbing the back of his head. “For the whole knife-to-throat thing. These aren’t easy to get and…just take it before I change my mind, I’m not good at this.”

That got Axel’s attention. The apothecary hummed in thought and took the cigarette off him, examined it like he had discovered some form of new and alien life. “If it means something to you to offer…I think I can let the past be.”

Kilik nodded, grateful, and lit the cigarette for him with a match. Axel lifted it to his mouth, hesitant and uncertain, and his attempt to take a puff ended in hilarious error. He inhaled, his eyes went wide as if to pop from his skull, and hacked as the smoke burned the back of his throat. The group descended into raucous laughter, a sound that made even Rohesia chuckle to herself.

“Blah! Pooh! That burns!” Axel said, shoving it back to Kilik.

“Good try, rafiq! Takes time to get used to,” Kilik said, taking the Merchant’s Puff and inhaling without issue. “Gets you relaxed, you know?”

“I feel anything but relaxed! God, I think I just swallowed the smoke.”

“I always see Lorenzo smacking that stuff out your paw,” Thomas said.

“Cos the captain’s never relaxed,” Kilik said. “Still thinks he’s with the Umbrali. He doesn’t hate the smoking; he hates the concept of anyone not being as miserable as him.”

The group laughed again. Whether it was genuine entertainment or a desperation to focus on anything else other than the odds they faced was a question that no one bothered to chase.

“What even is that?” Thomas asked. “The Umbrali?”

“I didn’t know before I met him,” Kilik said. “During the revolutionary days after the war – Dokvaillam Days, you’d say - the Opulusian Legion got involved in quiet ways. Ways you could deny bodies turning up. Cloak and dagger type stuff. For a while people thought it was the work of hearth spirits. Arwhar Domashniye. They never left a trace to suggest it was hounds.”

“And he served in that? Wow.”

“He seems mean enough,” Dieter said.

“Most legion fools are. Beneath it all? Lofdawn’s a softie. I’ve caught him getting really into romance stories, bundled up in his bed like he’s on holiday. Ask him what A Night in Lancouza is. Eediok, ha! He’s such an idiot about it.”

“I’m just imagining him still in his armour while sleeping,” Thomas chuckled. “I never see him with it off.”

“Same,” Axel said.

“He’ll probably get buried in it,” Kilik said. “Some accident happened a while ago that made him leave the Umbrali. He doesn’t like to show his face. Only people he lets bring it up are Lady Riskar and Sasha.”

The group nodded, pondering the captain’s mysterious appearance. Kilik took another swig of the Aym-Jahar’s Remedy and swirled the dregs around at the bottom.

“You wolves aren’t half- bad company,” Kilik said. “Another couple of nights spent near death and we’ll make drinking partners out of you soon enough.”

“Get me something less putrid and I might just take you up on that,” Axel smirked. Rohesia could tell he was still a bit guarded around the feline – an apology and a couple of shared laughs were far from the foundation for a flourishing friendship – but it was good to see that their venomous disregard for one another had rescinded into more pleasant affairs.

Axel looked past Rohesia. “Ragnar?”

Rohesia turned. The sight made her face falter. The older Sedrid stood there, caught as he was walking past with a sluggish and lame gait. Harangoth stood beside the sullen-eyed wolf, offered support to the lupine that shifted his miserable gaze from one person to the other.

“Hey, Ragnar,” Thomas said. “You’ve been gone for a bit. You okay?”

Ragnar turned to Harangoth and spoke with a weak voice. “Stay with them, please.”

Harangoth heeded his master’s words and sat down beside Rohesia. She welcomed him with a scratch behind the ears but didn’t avert her gaze from the dejected wolf. Ragnar turned and continued walking, not another word spoken.

“Ragnar?” Axel called after him.

No reply.

“That Corsair’s brother?” Kilik said. “Huh. Expected more than just some wolf slouching around.”

“Hey, don’t be an ass,” Axel snapped. “He’s been through sh*t, shut up.”

“Whoa, apothecary. Save it for Opulus, eh?”

Axel’s hostile tone rescinded. “Don’t give him a hard time, that’s all.”

Kilik shrugged and continued drinking.

“Did he say something to Corsair?” Rohesia said.

Axel shook his head, knowing gaze levelled at the ground. “I don’t know.”

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Ragnar traipsed up the steps of the forge carriage. A bull with a thick fringe obscuring his eyes looked up from his work unloading a crate, somehow spying the approaching wolf through the fur curtain.

“Hello there,” he welcomed Ragnar with an outstretched arm. “We didn’t get the chance to meet. I’m Lendausz Andrysiak, blacksmith and general assistant in the forge. Call me Len. Ragnar, right?”

“I need to see whoever runs the armoury,” Ragnar said.

Lendausz lowered his hand. “Something urgent?”

“I just need to speak to them. Are they in?”

“Yes, he is,” Lendausz said, tone becoming firm. “But he doesn’t take kindly to people barging in like they own the place.”

Ragnar exhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m just…I need armour. I have nothing. Please.”

Lendausz’s prickly exterior rescinded. “I understand. Tough times. They might be busy but I’ll see if they’re available. Come on.”

The bull led Ragnar through the forge and knocked on the door at the end. An old voice enquired as to who was there, and when Lendausz explained that the master of the forge had a visitor, the door opened five seconds later. The prolific ruler of the iron domain only reached up to Ragnar’s chest.

“Oh, good evening,” the rabbit said, offering a paw. “I am Horatio Ambroise Malnoir Brouhard, although that’s a name you’d want to keep quiet around here. Please, just call me Master Brouhard.”

“Sorry to disturb you,” Ragnar said. “I might be fighting soon, and I don’t have anything to fight with.”

“I see. Please, come in. I’ll see to you in just a moment. Thank you, Lendausz.”

Lendausz left the duo to their affairs. Ragnar followed Master Brouhard inside and shut the door. The chamber was packed with bare shelves, aisles crammed with weaponry and armour only hours ago now ransacked and left naked. Such an absence of sharpened blades and stalwart mail made spying the gargantuan form of Thornvallis Attronieux easy, although Ragnar doubted such a task would have been difficult in a dense forest.

“A good friend of mine from years ago,” Master Brouhard said. “Ragnar, this is—”

“Thornvallis Attronieux,” Ragnar said.

“We’ve already had the pleasure,” Thornvallis said. “Good to see you again.”

Ragnar said nothing.

“I shall be just a moment, Ragnar,” Master Brouhard said.

The hare wandered back over to Thornvallis and resumed their conversation as he searched through the dregs of what armour remained. Ragnar turned to a mirror lurking behind the door, dusty yet still able to reflect a clear image. In that reflection, he saw what he was with resounding clarity: a fool. An idiot. A person unfit to lead himself into the grave, let alone a nation to prosperity.

He had failed his mother. He had failed his sibling. What else was there for him to do? What else could he try to accomplish with such a heritage of defeat behind him? All that was left was to pick up a sword, don some armour, and see whether cruel fate would finally grant him the mercy of a quick demise in battle.

Corsair hated him. Rightfully so.

“Aha!” Master Brouhard exclaimed, hurrying over with a set of armour bundled into his arms. “It’s a little less protective than what you’re no doubt used to but it’s certainly lighter! Blotched gambeson with some interwoven…”

Master Brouhard stopped beside him. The rabbit followed Ragnar’s gaze from its origin point at his bloodshot eyes to its destination at the desolate wolf in the mirror. The hare’s demeanour softened with sympathy.

“Is all okay?”

The answer was a firm negative that needed no announcing. Ragnar was troubled by something. It returned his dejected expression, mirrored his misery, and struggled to even look back at him. It disturbed him and disgusted him and made him sick with hatred.

Maybe he really had been looking at Ragnar Sedrid.

“I’m fine,” Ragnar said.

“Well…try on that armour, let me know if it fits well,” Master Brouhard said, gesturing to the apparel deposited beside Ragnar. “Now, Thorn, you were telling me about Dash?”

“Briefly,” Thornvallis said. “I shall have to get going soon.”

The comrades resumed their conversation, updating themselves on each other’s lives and recent happenings with fervent interest. Ragnar picked up the gambeson and dangled it from its shoulders. The light brown leather apparel looked far less confident in its protective duties, several leagues away from the reassurance Krosguard armour would bring, but he didn’t need to be reassured. He just needed something that worked, something to test fate. The metal plates interwoven into the piece and the mail hauberk protruding from the bottom to cover the thighs would have to do. He pulled it on, winced as it brushed against his rib brace, and saw to pulling the knee-high boots over his hind paws and shins. He fitted the gauntlets onto his paws, flexed them, and then picked up the helmet. It resembled a less elegant iteration of the Yastillot Vanguard’s sallet, segmented into three pointed plates that curved backwards over the helmet. The visor reached to just above the bridge of his snout, providing vision through the numerous holes in the metal as opposed to the single slit the Yastillot Vanguard’s helmets used. He placed the headgear under his arm, took up the wooden metal-rimmed rectangular shield and arming sword and turned to the door.

He couldn’t take a step further. Something forbade him from leaving, from so willingly venturing out towards a battle that he never wanted to be a part of. Whether such an impediment originated from fear, guilt or confusion did not matter. He clenched his jaw.

Those words from a mere night ago.

“It has been great catching up,” Thornvallis said. “I must take my leave. The troops need their dutiful leader.”

“Perhaps next time we can talk over a bottle of wine?” Master Brouhard said.

“A good idea. A dangerous one with me around, even!”

The duo laughed as they neared the door. Ragnar stepped aside, looking back into the mirror.

“All the best, Horatio,” Thornvallis said. “You also, Ragnar.”

The ram ventured out into the forge. Their sudden departure compelled Ragnar to action. He placed the weapon and shield down before following him out into forge.

“Wait,” he said, wincing at his own desperation. “Thornvallis?”

Thornvallis stopped and looked over their shoulder. Lendausz looked up, sensed some manner of serious conversation, and opted to see to his chores elsewhere. Ragnar looked over his shoulder at Master Brouhard.

“Do you mind if we have a moment?” he asked.

“Of course,” Master Brouhard said. “Just knock when you want the rest of your gear.”

The door eased shut. Only the wolf and the sheep remained.

“I’m needed elsewhere, Ragnar, I can’t stay,” Thornvallis said.

“It’s about what you said at the ball.”

Thornvallis’ desire to leave waned. They turned fully to him. “Yes?”

“I…I did something I’m unsure about. Something that may have landed us all here. I can’t tell the others, they’re too close to all of it, so…I need the words of a stranger. I just…”

His eyes stung. Ragnar looked down, watched droplets fall from his face and meet their end against the floor. The shame, the compound of regret and embarrassment that bled across his mind, struck with great speed. He shrunk in size, looked up at the towering world around him that leered at the small wolf with a desire to feast.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t want to die…but there’s nothing else.”

He stood there, shoulders slumped and spirit weeping. Weak. Fragile.

What a horrid excuse for a wolf he was.

“I don’t know all the details but…I assume this is something related to what happened in your clan?” Thornvallis said.

Ragnar offered a brief explanation of all that had happened up until now. His voice was timid, and he fought to maintain eye contact. He obfuscated some details, made it feel less weird pouring out his intense and intimate emotions to a complete stranger, but he spoke all the same. They listened, asked no questions, and waited for him to finish.

“That’s terrible,” Thornvallis said. “I am truly sorry. You’re alone. Despaired. To make sense of it is to go mad. What you did was brave, Ragnar.”

“It cost me everything. I’m nothing. Everyone’s dead.”

“What cost you everything was the greed of those that sought to bring your family ruin. Not you. You can’t punish yourself for falling victim to the treachery of others. You are not all-knowing or all-powerful, which is why what you did resonates with me so much.”

“What do you mean?” Ragnar said.

“You didn’t freeze.”

Ragnar remained uncertain of his meaning. Thornvallis elaborated.

“During times of peril, an animal will freeze. By standing still it hopes it is not seen and that the hungry leer of the predator will pass on. That through inactivity it will be spared. When we face times of crisis, we do the same thing out of the hope of it passing or the inability to do anything. All of us. There is not always wrong in that. But there is virtue in the opposite. In seeing the hungry eyes of conspiracy, in seeing the fearsome fanged maw of greed, and deciding to act. Your movement highlights you out of the herd, it puts you in danger, and it is not a decision to be taken with ease.”

Ragnar said nothing. Thornvallis jerked their head towards the armoury door.

“I will not overshare Horatio’s history – it’s not mine to do so – but we do not speak his name loudly here because he used to work as a pioneer at the Guild of Pioneers. A career he believed would help change the world weaponised by the bastard Avantiers into producing articles of oppression and tyranny.”

“He worked for the regime in House Yastillot?” Ragnar said.

“Indirectly. The sins he carries are all the same. For forty years he froze. Four decades. It is only with this band that he has found greater purpose, in a line of work where he can achieve actual change and not facades mandated by monsters, yet he would equally see the noble nature of what you did. You put yourself at risk with no promise of glory, reward or safety. You did so because it was the right thing to do.”

Ragnar remained uncertain.

“It takes more than a few words to dispel this. It takes time to see the good in the world again…but I promise you, it exists. It’s worth fighting for.”

Thornvallis procured a pink sash from their pocket and eased it into Ragnar’s collar. Half of it protruded out from the gambeson, obscuring the mantra that had been painted on in haphazard black brush strokes.

“What’s this?” Ragnar said.

“A warrior’s sash,” Thornvallis said. “Something I wore for a long time during the times of insecurity, confusion, and fear my years of war brought. It’s Yaori, my tongue. It means ‘know peace’. Wear it. Tie it around your arm, your head, your helmet…put it on during times of turmoil. Keep it safe.”

Ragnar pulled the sash from the collar, dangling it before his eyes and examining the large black lettering. Just pink fabric and paint.

“It will take time to see anything in it, to see clarity of purpose in its meaning. I hope one day it will bring you the tranquillity of soul that it brought me.”

“I…I still don’t know what to do.”

“Fight, Ragnar. If not for yourself then for others. Your brother. Your friends. Your ictharr. Understand that the world failed you and try to stop it failing anyone else. Now I must go.”

And they were gone. The moment had been severed. Back they went into the obscurity of a stranger, a familiar face with little binding them to personal salience. All that hung in the air were words.

Ragnar thought back to his reflection. He saw the weak wolf, saw the glum and defeated expression, saw the person that had been wrapped in chains and thrown into eternal isolation from the world and perpetual estrangement from others. Pathetic, stupid, and ultimately helpless. A person whose only contribution to existence were the damp spots left upon the floor by his tears, shed over his own failings.

He had to be more than this.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Ever since the gates had slammed shut thirty minutes ago, saving the lupine cohort from a swift massacre, the howling and drums had not ceased. The war cries echoed from the lost section of Saint Gaspard, a continuing onslaught of vocals and instruments that intended to keep the enemy unsettled. A lingering reminder of what bloodied carnage they had unleashed upon those foolish enough to oppose them and a persisting promise to do so again to those not smart enough to run. Corsair’s gaze traced the wall’s ramparts back and forth, observing the long stretches of empty space that had been abandoned by the fleeing defenders. A few trembling souls remained sat on the stairs leading up to the defensive positions, told to retaliate only in the event of an attack as to not instigate an earlier assault. Small cohorts of vanguard, undeterred by the intimidating cries of the enemy, saw to reinforcing the areas across the bridges with wooden pavises. Corsair could spy it all from the city hall’s balcony – every indication of the coming onslaught and the risk of death it would bring – yet his mind could not stray from what Peter had granted him.

That letter. The envelope of troubling origin, harbouring the contents of his late father and mother’s final thoughts, sat stowed away in a bag on his belt. He contemplated reading it – for all he knew, it was his last chance to – but he forbade himself from opening the letter. Whatever loving words his mother had put inside could not hope to trump the stinging venom of whatever insulting final words his cruel patriarch had for him.

He can’t have this grip on me. Not anymore. He’s dead. I have to let him go.

The mere thought of that wolf summoned up a swirling concoction of emotion, a raging sea contained within his beating heart that flailed and struggled against itself. He couldn’t fathom exactly what he was feeling, only the vague and general contempt it summoned. Whether it was rage, regret or despair was impossible to discern.

“Corsair?”

He turned from the balcony and looked over his shoulder. Rohesia peered through the doorway.

“Lorenzo’s called us to the war room.”

“Right,” Corsair said, walking inside. “Axel?”

“He’ll be helping back at the caravan however he can. He’s not coming with us.”

“Good. Him getting shot has been enough of a scare.”

The duo crossed the upper floor of the city hall. In one of the empty rooms many of the remaining rabbit soldiers sat on praying mats, heads bowed and clasped paws raised to plead for forgiveness. Purple sashes adorned in white lunar iconography covered their eyes. A rusty metal icon of the crescent moon dangled from a nail that had recently been hammered into the wall, an impromptu idol to beg for salvation.

Across the empty atrium, grouped around the door to the makeshift war room, stood the rest of the wolf regiment. Thomas stood with back against the wall, arms crossed and head tilted up to examine the ceiling. Dieter waited with unsheathed sword pressed into the floor, two paws resting on its pommel. Ragnar loomed beside them, tower shield leaning against the wall beside Thomas, with gaze lowered to the ground.

“There he is,” Thomas said. “Ready for the captain’s master plan?”

Corsair nodded. There wasn’t much to say, not that he would have been in the mood for a sarcastic retort regardless. The group filed in, Corsair leading the troupe to what they all hoped would be a watertight scheme to save Saint Gaspard and themselves. How the situation within the war room had become more dire was beyond him. Only one of the rabbits remained. The young soldier kept sifting through a small heap of notes and tying them to the ankles of arriving messenger birds. The only others who remained were Lorenzo and Lady Riskar on one side of the map while Thornvallis and Belthorpe stood on the other. The ram’s leisurely attire had been shed in favour of a fearsome suit of armour. Their smooth sallet sat atop the table, a pink sash tied around it and accompanied with splashes of black paint. A gleaming cuirass of segmented steel plates shielded their torso, partitioned faulds descending down over their thighs. Two pauldrons were clasped in place over their shoulders, one arm descending down to a gauntleted hand whilst the other stopped short of the elbow. A leather cup encompassed the end of the stub, dark straps running up the shortened appendage and disappearing beneath the shoulder guard. Corsair was unsure if the mantle was for a prosthetic limb or some other manner of contraption.

“You’re here,” Lorenzo said. “Captain Domvichiek is out rallying the troops. Gather round. We’ll need to get through this quickly.”

The team assembled at the end of the table towards the door. Thomas and Dieter stood on Corsair’s left while Rohesia and Ragnar convened on his right. His brother was wise to keep Rohesia between them.

“Where is everyone?” Thomas asked. “Did they flee too?”

“Yes,” Thornvallis said. “This country is a very pious nation. With the Avantiers cutting budgets wherever they can, the education available to the peasantry has diminished greatly.”

“A peasantry the rabbits have been conscripting their troops from,” Dieter said.

“Precisely. Said peasantry derive a lot of their understanding of the world from fundamentalist perspective. So, when they see the sky lighting up with burning stars, what are likely just new alchemical innovations to us are signs of wrath from their gods.”

“Most of the Parabular Republic soldiers are dead or fleeing. Those that are still here aren’t enough to rely on,” Lorenzo said.

“And it’s where my oppressors have failed that my comrades shall succeed,” Thornvallis said. “Our vanguard are already taking positions before the two gates leading into the centre of Saint Gaspard. We have what it takes to fight hoof-to-hoof with the legion.”

“But there’s loads of them,” Corsair said. “You can’t hold them off forever.”

“Not in open spaces,” Lorenzo said, pointing to the map. “We have two chokepoints where the enemy is funnelled into us. The gates and the bridges. At these bottlenecks the number advantage doesn’t matter as much. The vanguard will attempt to hold both lines and keep the legion out of the city’s centre.”

“What about the cannons?” Dieter asked.

“The cannons aren’t a problem unless the infantry are. For as long as we’re keeping their troops out, they won’t move up the siege weapons. The moment they have partial control, they’ll roll the cannons in and fire on whatever is their next target. If the bridges are about to fall, we’ll destroy them. We’ve taken some powder kegs from a storage depot in the easternmost section of the city that they used for southern mining expeditions. If the line is folding, they’ll be set alight and detonate. It’ll stop the advance temporarily and we can assess from there.”

“So, what will we be doing?” Corsair asked.

“Assisting in the defence. The Yastillot Vanguard will see to the line. You need to make sure no one—”

“We shouldn’t do this.”

All heads turned to face Ragnar. None had expected the wolf to speak, a depressive lethargy enforced upon his posture and expression, and his contribution brought the uncertain plan’s explanation to a halt. Lady Riskar spoke.

“What do you mean, Ragnar?”

“You blow the bridge, and they still have these cannons,” Ragnar said. “They won’t stop. They’ll shoot down the city hall and shoot whoever’s left defending on our side of the river.”

“The cannons can’t advance any further, the siege will be halted,” Lorenzo said, exasperated with lupine intervention.

“But the infantry can. Once our side of the Lushlocque is clear, they’ll send bridges across. They did that at Pothole Plains. Destroying the stone bridges will buy the city a few more hours but it won’t stop anything.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Lorenzo said, blowing out air.

“Did they blow down the gatehouses?”

“No, the portcullises are still standing.”

“Why? Have we thought about how big these things have to be to do so much damage? If they’re leaving the gatehouses untouched, waiting for infantry to open a path, they mustn’t be able to move rubble easily. Right?”

Lorenzo stood up straighter. It was impossible to discern intrigue from his expression hidden beneath the dark metal of his helmet, but Ragnar’s observation had roused a more trustworthy idea in the captain.

“And if they can’t move quickly over rubble…” Lorenzo looked over at Thornvallis. “Any idea how strong those kegs are?”

“I’ve heard story of numerous cave-ins caused by one alone,” Thornvallis said. “If there’s anything strong enough to collapse the portcullises, it’d be those.”

Lorenzo looked back to the map. He consulted it as if the answers were vested in the very material of the cartography, nodding to himself.

“Yes…yes, this works much better. We can trap those cannons in. By collapsing the gatehouses, we can cut off reinforcements and stop the artillery from retreating. We can seize them.”

“Why not just blow them up now?” Thomas said. “Stop them from getting in entirely?”

“That will only serve to make our enemy more cautious,” Lady Riskar said, shaking her head. “And what would stop them from merely blasting the debris aside? No, any plan that concludes itself with the legion still operating those siege weapons is not one we can trust in.”

“But this would still be a gamble in of itself,” Thornvallis said. “We only have five kegs. If we wish to be certain the gatehouses will fall, we’ll need to use two each.”

“Only one left,” Lorenzo muttered. “And two bridges still standing. If this fails…”

His conclusion didn’t need to be said. All who stood around the table were aware of the consequences. Corsair clenched his gauntleted paw.

“This plan works better,” Lorenzo said. “It’s riskier, you’re right, but it’s not like playing it safe will work. We get the kegs up to the portcullises, we wait for the enemy to push in, and we seal the cannons inside. Once they’re trapped, the vanguard counterattacks and seizes the weapons. Hopefully losing the cannons will cause a rout or, at least, will take away their biggest threat to us. Thornvallis, you hold the gates for as long as you can before you feign a retreat to the bridges and lure them further inside.”

“I will see that it is done,” Thornvallis nodded. “The kegs were moved closer to the centre of the citadel already, there should be some waiting outside.”

“And us?” Thomas asked.

“The plan’s changed. You’ll be acting as the delivery system for the kegs.”

“A couple of my vanguard shall accompany you, Belthorpe too,” Thornvallis said, Belthorpe nodding.

“As shall I,” Lady Riskar said.

The group turned to her.

“Milady, is that wise?” Lorenzo said.

“I would not withstand an enemy so ferocious at the front, but I shall not sit at the back waiting,” Lady Riskar said. “I shall accompany our lupine friends to their destination.”

“Milady, don’t be reckless.”

“No such word in my vocabulary, captain.”

“Captain Domvichiek will kill me if she knows I let you do this.”

“You shall have to pray our noble compatriots can stave off death’s ravenous clutches, then.”

Lorenzo sighed. Dieter spoke. “So, what’s the play?”

“You get the kegs up into the gatehouses. I’ll send you a signal by flashing a mirror next to a lantern. Milady has a few spare to give you, I believe.”

“Of course,” Lady Riskar said. “They’ll serve a purpose greater than my own vanity tonight.”

“Thank you, milady. Once we flash the signal, you flash it back so we know that you’re ready. If you light this any earlier, Saint Gaspard is lost and a lot more people will die. Do you all understand me?”

The group nodded. Lady Riskar spoke.

“As discussed prior, I will not condemn any of you to perish for nothing. If the plan fails you must make haste for the south-eastern gates where the caravan shall be waiting.”

“Be safe, my friends,” Thornvallis said. “Victory is possible for as long as we stay resolute.”

“Just don’t get killed, milady,” Lorenzo said. “Please.”

“Captain, goodness, I’m offended you would not assume such a gaudy demise to be beneath me,” Lady Riskar said.

The group filed out. Lorenzo patted Ragnar on the shoulder as he trailed after the cohort. Thornvallis, Belthorpe and Lady Riskar followed the wolves onto the landing before Thornvallis disappeared downstairs. Lady Riskar stood with the group while Belthorpe loomed at the back, staring at Corsair.

“Well,” Thomas said. “A bit different to the whole ‘backline logistics’ gig we were promised.”

“I don’t know why I tricked myself into thinking this would be easy,” Dieter sighed. “Ragnar, you should stay with Axel.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Your rib isn’t fully healed.”

“It’s my plan, I’m coming with you. I’m not discussing this.”

The determined stubbornness of his older brother was a surprise to all present, yet Corsair said nothing. Dieter relented their protest with a short silence, nodding in surrender before continuing to speak.

“Is it all right if I take the lead on this?” Dieter said to Lady Riskar.

“I trust in your steel,” she said.

“Okay then. Two gatehouses, four powder kegs, seven of us. Corsair should lead a team going to the north and I’ll head the team going south. Thomas and the vanguard soldiers will come with me. The others are with you, ‘Sair.”

“Sure,” Corsair said.

People moved into their allotted teams. Lady Riskar stood beside Rohesia and flourished with her rapier, examining the thin tip of the blade.

“Now we can’t be sure it’ll be all clear up there,” Dieter said. “Clan doctrine is the use of ladders for the raid of high walls. If they’re coming at us with everything they’ve got, then chances are we’ll have some company. Don’t hold back. Stay calm, stay focused, stay alive. Okay?”

The group nodded. Corsair had nothing to say. An unusual calm had been imposed upon him, a response to a situation that was far from natural for the inexperienced killer. He couldn’t trace exactly what it was that imbued him with such a stout resolve, yet he did not care to track it down. In that moment when they committed themselves to their mission, one rife with danger and violence, he felt ready.

“Hey,” Thomas said, pointing out the window. “Anyone else see that?”

The group looked out the window and up into the night sky. Against the eternal dark, they saw spheres of orange and red arcing through the air, burning comets sent down from the heavens to eviscerate all that remained of the compromised citadel. Alarm bells tolled and voices outside rose into yells. Corsair turned and grabbed Rohesia, running with her to the stairs.

“Get downstairs!” Dieter yelled. “Get down!”

…

Valour watched the trebuchet boulders streak through the inky black as they struck the citadel. Crumbling stone and distant cries of panic emanated from beyond the secondary wall, twisted confirmation that the targets had been hit. He shifted his gaze down to the illuminated battlefield of the first section and found a shifting trail of glinting metal marching in regiments towards the two gates. Krosguard soldiers positioned themselves and their steeds to the sides of the advancing formations, blood smeared over their weapons and apparel. The decapitated heads of the fallen rabbits dangled from their belts, jaws slackened and eyes wide. On the sides of the road, camps had already been erected to tend to the wounded and secure their position within the citadel. Doctors and apothecaries heaved the wounded to and fro on stretchers, transports ferrying the critically injured out the gates and back to Camp Umpani. Besides them sat the ranks of war drummers that bested the fatigue of the flesh, their almost maddened striking of the drums not relenting despite the length of which they had played. Howls interceded the menacing tune to contribute to the intimidating orchestra, supplemented by legionnaires chanting marching songs as they advanced to the gates.

Behind the patient cavalry and marching reinforcements and erected camps sat the three cannons. The 50-pound decimators stood idle as the red-painted crews from the 12^th Ignis Tormentorum Siege regiment ensured no damage or mechanical failings had been suffered during the first volley.

Valour lowered the pocket scope and exhaled. He stood upon the grievous gash cut into the cannons’ first victims, the testament to their destructive potency replaying in his mind again and again. No other invasion had ever felled the wall, let alone stepped inside the interior of the citadel. Now they knew they could see the assault through to the end and the rabbits knew that their time was nigh.

The war wouldn’t last much longer.

“Comosol.”

Valour looked over his shoulder. Sibling Vaxalstis approached, saluting and uttering that sickening mantra he seemingly could never escape.

“At ease,” Valour said. “News?”

“Second assault is set to commence. Legion and clan elements stand ready.”

“Trebuchet?”

“Procyoni batteries firing all they’ve got east of the city hall.”

“Good. Don’t want them hitting the bridges or cutting off our access. Enough of a barrage will hopefully get whoever’s left standing to flee.”

A white flare bloomed over the second wall. Valour winced as the blinding beacon announced the assault’s continuation, giving the enemy something to fear.

“The field colonel’s inventions will see us through, comosol,” Vaxalstis said as she admired the flares. “The Gods are smiling on us.”

Krak-boom.

The light of the flares was bested for a fraction of a second as lightning slashed through the night sky, its arrival serenaded with earth-trembling thunder. Valour blinked as a drop of water landed on his brow, feeling a few more on his head and ears before he even truly realised what he had felt. In seconds, sheets of rain descended upon the holy city with a fervent desire to also advance upon Saint Gaspard and claim it as their own. The flares persisted despite the bombardment, yet their light dimmed in the face of such a ferocious attack.

“The Gods are a dramatic bunch, huh?” Vaxalstis chuckled.

“Seemingly so,” Valour said, eyes focused on the gates.

Beyond those reinforced doors was his quarry. His objective. His step forward to a new life where he could shed that shadowy phantom of guilt, one that manifested in every dark corner, and focus upon the light that his family brought. The light a normal life without conflict brought. With Saint Gaspard would come victory and with victory would come freedom. Yet he wasn’t naïve enough to forget what else lingered beyond the gates, wasn’t foolish enough to plead ignorance to who awaited their attack.

He was here. The legacy of his failings. The proof of that horrible night.

Saint Gaspard had to be taken. Its defenders had to fall. The war had to be won. Only then, Valour knew, would the grief ever abate.

Chapter 18: The Siege of Saint Gaspard (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter Text

Ragnar rushed out after the group into the open and winced as the torrential downpour struck him. He raised his arms to shield him from the bombardment and turned his gaze to the night sky. Burning orange and scarlet streaked overhead as they followed their destructive course to the east of the city, the extent of the damage obscured by the towering walls.

Avoiding the bridges.

“Good thing they moved the kegs already,” Thomas said.

“Let’s all mount up and get moving, come on!” Dieter yelled. “The assault will be starting!”

Thornvallis yelled to subordinates to get the kegs loaded onto the ictharrs. As the group saw to preparing for their imminent departure, Ragnar focused his attention to the west. Across the bridges, the two gates of the city’s central section recoiled and shook as the enemy’s battering rams struck in unison. The sonorous thud of every strike almost blended with the rumbling boom of the thunderclaps. Rain poured down, further fuelling the angry fervour of the coursing Lushlocque river and dousing all those present at the next stage of the siege. Ragnar could see the many silhouettes of the vanguard from across the bridge, figures illuminated by the strobing light of flares and lightning that stood in regimented fashion before the gates. Walls of tower shields had been erected by the crouching front rank, pikes pushed through slim gaps in the shield wall to impale any foes foolish enough to charge headlong into their position. Archers mounted upon adeuns held ground further behind the shields, staying close to the pavises and other defences that had been constructed in lieu of the first section’s collapse. Pink caparisons and layers of lamellar steel plates were draped over their steeds, ram’s horns protruding out from either side of the war beasts’ steel masks. Troops of House Vigilance occupied a similar position, warded away from frontline fighting by lack of experience against a conventional enemy yet remaining close to assist with the wounded and ferry boxes of arrows up to the back ranks.

A few hundred warriors, hardly any of them rabbits, standing fast against an unrelenting tide of invaders.

Harangoth growled. Ragnar turned his attention back to his best friend. Two of the vanguard strapped the powder keg onto the side of the ictharr’s saddle, securing the vital payload in place. The stoic beast cared not for the horrendous rain that pierced his caparison, nor did he care for the unwieldy explosive barrels being attached to his flanks, and stared only at the wolf he had missed for so long. Ragnar pet the bridge of his nose.

The wolf remained unsure as to what had spurred his contribution in the war room and neither did he know why he had been so insistent on participating in the plan’s execution. Perhaps it had been the sense of duty that Thornvallis’ words had rallied in him, this notion that using one’s scars to shield the world from itself was what a good person would do. Perhaps it was the cowardice of his guilt that motivated him, spurring him on to seek a valiant end that would outshine his failings. Whatever it was, what mattered was that they didn’t fail.

The two vanguard stepped back from Harangoth. Thornvallis approached and pointed to the keg mounted on either side.

“Keep the fuse covered until you’re inside the gatehouse!” they ordered. “If this gets too damp, it won’t light and we’ll be in a lot of trouble!”

Ragnar nodded. Thornvallis patted him on the shoulder.

“Remember my words.”

The Flowering Knight of Yastillot hurried off to the front, a trail of vanguard troops following them, whilst a small cohort remained with the newly appointed group of armed couriers. Ragnar pulled himself up into the saddle, wincing as his mending rib complained. He blinked away the water dripping through his sallet’s visor, looking over his shoulder as the group formed up around him. Two vanguard soldiers embarked on Arkzmeyer’s and Zechter’s back. Belthorpe climbed onto Harangoth behind him and steadied herself by placing a paw on Ragnar’s shoulder. Lady Riskar squeezed in behind Rohesia, an awkward fit that would have to suffice for the mission at stake.

Crack!

A chorus of splintering wood, shattering beams and crunching metal rose from the left gates as the battering ram breached. The sight of the collapsing palisade summoned a united cry from the hordes of invaders – a war chant that bayed for blood and viscera – and the centre of Saint Gaspard stood open to those bold enough to brave the terrifying frontline of war.

“We need to go!” Dieter yelled, snapping the reins.

Arkzmeyer shot off south towards the ramparts’ staircase.

“Guess this is it!” Thomas yelled. “Let’s ride! Yah!”

Zechter followed. Quickpaw and Harangoth trotted north. The voice of that tragic soul, his memory forever imprisoned in that accursed throne room, echoed in his mind.

You are trapped in a situation that you never asked for, pushed into action by us speaking of your family’s doom. Whether you pick up that sword is down to you…and I know it’s not easy.

Ragnar snapped the reins and set off towards the wall.

…

Quickpaw moved along with the wall with haste, stooped low to avoid attracting the unwanted attention of those below. The rain struck Corsair’s armour again and again, determined to crack the metal shell with sheer ferocity alone. He felt Rohesia’s arm around his midsection, a presence that clutched to him firmly yet didn’t attempt to suffocate him through the leather padding and chainmail. That physical reminder that she was there with him, both thrown into another harrowing conflict yet again, made Corsair breathe easier.

“Are you two all right back there?” Corsair asked.

“I’m soaked but I’m fine,” she said. “This will be hell to get out of my fur.”

“As it shall be for my dress,” Lady Riskar said. “Hearth below, this blasted rain is most inconvenient.”

Corsair looked over his shoulder, peering past the hunched forms of Rohesia and Lady Riskar. Harangoth padded after Quickpaw. His larger frame was significantly more difficult to hide from prying eyes even while stooped low, the wet caparison clinging to the sides of his body and revealing the stone fortress that lay hidden beneath. As expected of the stalwart companion, Harangoth pushed on without any indication his waterlogged fur bothered him.

Corsair looked to the rider. Ragnar rode forth with head turned to the left, eyes focused on the war breaking out below. Around him, spared the numerous blows of the torrential downpour, lingered a pestilence of grief that Corsair felt repelled from. An infectious air of dismay that, if Corsair got too close, would send the younger brother spiralling back into the despair that had grasped him so tightly in lieu of his mother’s passing. He couldn’t look upon it anymore. Not with hate or regret. He had to remain focused on what lay ahead, of what he had to do to keep them safe.

Quickpaw padded up the last few steps and turned at the top of the stretched staircase, backing away for Harangoth to come through. Harangoth heaved their cargo onto the wall and came to a stop, puffing air in and out. Ragnar patted him on the side.

“Look,” Rohesia said, pointing ahead.

Corsair followed the direction of her outstretched arm. It took a few seconds of squinting through rain and flashing light, but he could make out the silhouettes of two ictharrs and riders on the other side, a few more behind them. One of them waved in their direction before the second one turned and chastised them, bringing a stop to the greeting.

That’s Thomas and Dieter, all right.

“Let’s keep moving,” Corsair said. “The gatehouse is just ahead.”

Ahead it was. Positioned one third of the way along the wall sat the stone fortification, a turreted observation post that had long since been abandoned of hope and only recently abandoned by its occupants. The wooden door to the interior stood open, beckoning the demolition crew inside. Corsair, Rohesia and Lady Riskar dismounted before ushering Quickpaw in through the door, hurrying in after him as Ragnar and Belthorpe followed in on Harangoth. The immediate relief from the storm, the conclusion to the continuing downpour, made the entire group deflate for a moment. Quickpaw and Harangoth checked in with one another using growls and yaps. Rohesia flicked her arms, dispersing a sheet of water across the stone.

“Ugh,” Rohesia grimaced. “I hate this.”

“It is most unpleasant, I concur,” Lady Riskar said. “When all is said and done, perhaps a warm bath shall be in order for all of us.”

“Help me with this, Corsair,” Ragnar said, starting to unclasp one of the kegs on Harangoth. “You all keep watch on the door.”

The others saw to their duties as Corsair saw to his. As he helped free the explosive payload from Harangoth’s side, he examined the room they stood in. The gatehouse’s interior still harboured signs of life; a table with playing cards and a lit lantern on top, discarded weapons on the floor, unattended pots of now room-temperature water stood before gaps in the stone shell and crates upon crates of supplies stacked high against the walls. The fortified hovel had been abandoned in a hurry and, with it, so too had the portcullis winch in the centre of the room. How horrid a thought it was that, in their last desperate act, the rabbits had shut the lupine cohort out and condemned them to a brutal demise.

“Lift with me,” Ragnar said.

“You shouldn’t be straining yourself,” Rohesia said. “I’ll do it.”

“I’m fine. Corsair?”

The two wolves heaved the unwieldy keg up and deposited it beside the winch mechanism, taking to the second barrel and carrying it over to the first. Ragnar grunted as he lowered it to the ground, paw resting against his ribs.

“You hurt?” Corsair asked.

“It’s fine,” Ragnar said, wincing. “I’m fine. Stop asking. We need to stay focused. Lady Riskar, is there anywhere specific to put these?”

“Within the gatehouse seems adequate to me,” Lady Riskar said. “I am no expert on explosive yield, but Thornvallis seemed adamant it would suffice.”

“Okay, fine. Then we should really…get…”

Ragnar trailed off as his ears stood, frowning. Quickpaw and Harangoth both stared at the door, the former’s head tilting with curiosity. Before Corsair could enquire as to what was wrong, his ears pricked up too. While muffled by the stone walls and thunderous storm, he could hear the interceding chorusing of laughter and chanting.

“What’s happening out there?” he asked.

Rohesia said nothing and stepped aside, inviting them out to look for themselves. Corsair led the way with Ragnar and Rohesia behind him, braving the ferocious rain to peer down at the commencing battle. The ranks of Yastillot Vanguard remained in their regimented formation, shields raised and pikes levelled to skewer their foe, yet the sound of raucous laughter confused Corsair. A metal wall stood fast in the openings left after the gates had been destroyed, a shimmering sea of metal-rimmed rectangular shields overlapping one another to protect the legionnaires from swift reprimand. A Ceramic Shrapnel grenade was flung forth from the legion phalanx, hurtling through the air to land in the centre of the organised resistance, but met its feeble end against the rain. A wet lump of linen and diluted powder landed at the hooves of the vanguard. More and more were hurled at the defenders, most meeting a similar end, and the few that endured the weather weren’t spared by the defenders. The vanguard stomped their boots down on top of the burning sacks, dispersing the burning powder and forever delaying their horrid explosions. The hounds’ chanting faltered as the Yastillot Vanguard’s stalwart resistance was made known, realising they dealt with prey far less vulnerable. The vanguard bashed their shields against the ground, yelling and laughing and screaming like wild savages.

“You die tonight!” a ram cried out in Lanzig. “We cut off your head!”

It proved a mesmerising scene. Part of Corsair wished to look away, to deny the familiarity of the war any further stake in his life, yet he found with every passing second that he desired to keep looking. The Opulusian Legion’s zealous belief in victory had been shaken within minutes – no, even seconds – of facing an equally organised foe. Preying upon the weak, upon his people back home, could not help them anymore. There were many different words to describe the righteousness of the hounds being felled – justified, vindicated, damn well reasonable – yet Corsair cared not to think about them.

All he cared to see were the servants of his family’s demise, the accessories to conspiracy that had ended life as he knew it, suffer as he did.

“We’re holding them off,” Corsair said, a small smile on his face. “Showing them to not forget who they’re messing with.”

Corsair turned to Ragnar. “When we drop this on top of them, we’ll…”

The older Sedrid was long gone, having returned inside the gatehouse to see to matters. Rohesia remained crouched beside him but averted her gaze from the battle’s preamble.

“I’ll keep my eye out for the signal from the city hall,” Rohesia said. “You go inside.”

“No, you go,” Corsair said. “I’ll be fine here. Tell the other’s everything’s okay.”

Rohesia didn’t challenge him. She passed over the paw mirror and pocket scope before hurrying back into the gatehouse. Corsair glanced to the city hall, checked for any sign of a glinting paw mirror, before looking back down at the battle and entrancing himself once more with justice’s deliverance.

…

They were unsure of how to welcome the feeling. It was that familiar state of frenzied thinking where every thought came short and curt, no more than a few words conveying information about what they had to focus on and what they were doing. Instinct, honed by years of standing and fighting, governed the ram as if they were an automaton. To them, holding position in regimented formation and rallying their siblings against the march of the oppressor was no more than second nature. As brutal as their business was, it was business that needed doing.

“Hold!” Thornvallis bellowed to the ranks, tower shield raised. “Hold, steady!”

The ranks abided by their leader’s orders, yet they kept up the chanting and screaming, an intimidating chorus that made the enemy understand who they faced. No longer did they butcher and maim conscripts with impunity; now they faced an adversary as fearless of death as they supposedly were. Thornvallis could see their realisation manifest in their halted advance but did not grow complacent. The hounds had been humbled but they remained far from routing.

“Come on you spineless cowards!” a vanguard soldier yelled. “Come and die!”

“A bunch of fools playing soldiers!” another yelled.

“Your gods won’t save you now!” one cried.

“Tu morta!” a voice cried in New Opulusian. “Tu morta!”

“Tu morta!”

The phalanx’s ceiling lowered and from the depths rose a regiment of crossbow-wielding legionnaires. They took aim, rested their paws around the levers, and prepared to fire. Thornvallis wished there had still been enough conscripts to get up on the walls, to toss rocks and boiling water down on top of their foe, yet they knew all forces were needed at the gates if the plan hoped to work.

“Shields!” Thornvallis yelled. “Shields!”

A concentrated swarm of bolts flew through the gates’ thresholds and converged on the defenders. The ranks ducked behind their shields, stopping the projectiles’ rapid advance.

“Fire back!” Thornvallis yelled. “Shoot them!”

“Fire!” a subordinate relayed.

The vanguard’s archers reciprocated the legion’s volley. The crossbows retreated behind the safety of the shield wall, but some shots flew over the reformed palisade and struck the middle of the formation. A few legionnaires collapsed, extremities wounded by the stray arrows where the armour failed to cover, but it was far from a damning blow. Voices yelled in New Opulusian, relaying a message to the back that Thornvallis failed to discern. A naïve part of their self believed it to be a retreating order, that the hounds had found themselves unable to advance and wished to postpone the assault, but Thornvallis did not let such optimism cloud reality.

Clang.

Thornvallis winced as something struck their left arm. A brief glance down revealed what had summoned their attention. An arrow had lodged itself between the metal beams of their prosthetic limb, tip pointed to the ground as an indication of where the projectile desired to continue travelling. Thornvallis shook the arrow free of their steel arm, rattling the spiked flail that dangled from the end of their replacement appendage.

“Shields up!” Thornvallis bellowed. “Arrows, arrows! Above us!”

Ranks behind them raised shields. Their formation didn’t anticipate an overhead bombardment, most of those behind the front toting only pikes and polearms, and Thornvallis heard the result of such a lapse in their defence. A few soldiers yelled out as they were struck with arrows, those whose armour failed to protect them pushed to the back for urgent treatment.

A furious cry surged from the gate ahead. The shield wall broke and the front rank pushed apart. From the dark innards of the phalanx emerged a swarm of lance-toting legionnaires painted in fierce orange paint, front armour reinforced to withstand thorough resistance.

“Brace!” a vanguard soldier yelled. “Brace, they’re coming!”

“Incoming!”

Thornvallis glared through the slit in their sallet at one foolish legionnaire. He charged right for them, the tip of the lance aiming to penetrate the wall and skewer any unfortunate sheep behind it, yet little did the hound know that they had chosen to stir trouble with those that had tasted blood many times before. The legionnaire thrusted their lance and Thornvallis grunted as the powerful blow attempted to knock them back, hooves fighting to remain in place. More and more of the lancers crashed into the front rank, their desperate attacks differing in success as some were pierced and impaled by the pikes waiting for them. Thornvallis’ foe snarled and screamed, pulling the lance back to strike again.

Poor choice.

Instinct guided what came next. Without lowering the shield and exposing themselves to any other incoming strikes, Thornvallis yelled as they swung the flail over the top. The spiked ball crashed down atop the legionnaire’s head with a crunching of metal and a cracking of bone. The hound recoiled, teetered backwards, and collapsed into the seething mass of marauders that fought to take their turn at glory. The potential demise of the felled legionnaire did not cross Thornvallis’ mind – the subconscious hardly even entertained it – and the Flowering Knight pulled their flail back behind the safety of their shield as another legionnaire crashed into them.

“Fight!” Thornvallis bellowed. “Bleed them dry! Bring death to the invader!”

The Yastillot Vanguard cried out in unison, swearing to honour such a call to arms, and took to butchering the enemy. The frontline descended into an incomprehensible mess of screeching metal and splintering wood, all interceded by screams of fury. Arrows and crossbow bolts flew back and forth, an equal exchange of hate between both factions. The sight of their guard standing fast against the oppressor fostered faith in Thornvallis, imbued them with the hope necessary to see the ordeal through.

Yet behind the endless horde of invaders, fearsome body glinting in the light of thunder and flare, loomed the wheeled shadow of their encroaching doom.

…

The shrieking metal and furious screams of the battle below proved hard to ignore, even with them muffled by the stone walls. Ragnar sat at the table of abandoned cards, eyes tracing the shape of the winch mechanism over and over in an attempt to ignore the horrible nature of the tumult outside. Harangoth sat beside him, caparison peeled back to free up his face. He placed a paw on Ragnar’s lap, an attempt to remind the wolf of his presence.

“Thank you,” Ragnar said, patting his side.

Rohesia sat across from him, shaking her cloak free of the water that insisted on nestling deep into the fabric. Quickpaw padded around the gatehouse sniffing the floor, curious as to the state of the fortified position. Lady Riskar peered out through one of the slits in the gatehouse wall while Belthorpe sat next to the powder kegs, eyes focused on something through the door.

“How was he?” Ragnar asked Rohesia.

She turned her head, ears up and eyes open with mild surprise at the wolf initiating conversation.

“Harangoth?”

“Yes. While I was gone.”

“A good ictharr. He looked after me.”

Harangoth turned to look at Ragnar, delivering a single ‘woof’ enunciated with pride at his performance. To have known that his best friend had kept his comrades under stout protection in his absence was exactly what he had expected of the brave beast. Ragnar scratched his chest.

“And Corsair?”

“It was hard for him. He was terrified you were dead. Getting you back has helped Corsair a lot.”

Ragnar nodded, doubts unvoiced. “He saved me. You all did.”

“You saved him too. In the throne room against Zakulo.”

“I guess.”

The small talk faded into silence. Ragnar could feel Rohesia’s searching gaze resting on him as he focused on Harangoth, trying to get a glimpse at what compelled him to his silence. Rohesia looked back to the others before leaning in and speaking in a hushed voice.

“That conversation you and Corsair had. Did something go wrong?”

“Respectfully, Rohesia, it’s not your business.”

The conversation concluded with uneasy silence. War still raged on below, the fate of their campaign and lives vested in that struggle, yet all they could do was sit and wait.

“I’ll go check on the others,” Ragnar said, standing. “Come on Harangoth, come on Quickpaw.”

“You need me to come?” Rohesia asked.

“No, stay with the others please.”

“I shall join you,” Lady Riskar said. “I need to ensure the operation is proceeding as planned.”

Ragnar didn’t know her well enough to contest her, especially considering her superior station. He led the group out the left doorway of the gatehouse. The wall’s rampart stretched ahead towards the shadowy form of the second turret, slick with copious amounts of rainwater. Puddles began to form in the gaps between the stone slabs, crawling out of the trenches and seeking to expand across the surface. Ragnar pulled the ictharr’s caparisons over their heads and led them along the wall. Quickpaw glanced back to the gatehouse, whimpering.

“He’ll be okay,” Ragnar said. “We’re going to say hello to the others, make sure everything is all right.”

Harangoth moved around the back of Ragnar and drew up beside Quickpaw, issuing growls of reassurance. It was a sight a decade old, those two walking together side by side, yet it was one that Ragnar’s indentured servitude had made him miss. Even in the battering rain, situated above a bloodied brawl, to be reunited with that component of a simpler life made him feel better.

“Ictharrs are not native to Silverclaw,” Lady Riskar said. “And I envy that they are native to yours. Delightful friends.”

“They are,” Ragnar said.

“Your companion, Harangoth. You have had him for how long?”

“Since I was eleven.”

“Quite the bond you two have forged.”

“Yeah. It’s nice.”

Ragnar looked ahead. An orange light glowed from within the gatehouse, beckoning through the open door. Shadows moved across the entrance, strobing the lantern light, and Ragnar knew their comrades were there. Quickpaw made a similar observation and sped off, yapping to get their attention. Harangoth watched the excitable ictharr dash towards familiar faces, puffing out air. Ragnar petted his side.

“You’ve been looking after everyone well. Good ictharr.”

Harangoth growled an affirmative, nodding his head.

“When this is all over, I think I can find a treat for you.”

“I shall ensure we receive many treats as part of our deal with the premier,” Lady Riskar chuckled. “It is only fair they be compensated for their tiresome work after—"

Boom!

Ragnar and Lady Riskar recoiled from the tremendous thundering cannonade, shock driving him back a step. Harangoth jolted in equal measure, stooping low and retreating alongside his master.

Crash!

That half second of fright and shock was soon followed by the very ground beneath them trembling. The artillery struck the wall with impossible ferocity and power, chunks of the stone palisade’s face falling under the duress of the bombardment.

Ragnar realised what was happening.

“Quickpaw!” he screamed. “Get back!”

The terrified ictharr turned and fled back towards the retreating duo, yowling.

Boom!

Crash!

Another deafening cannonade, another wall-shaking impact. Chunks of debris crumbled off the side and plummeted to the ground. Quickpaw tripped and rolled but scrambled back up again.

“Run!” Ragnar screamed. “Come on, run!”

Boom!

Crash!

It could endure no more. The third shot issued a catastrophic blow that shattered the structural integrity of the wall’s midsection. The centre of the barricade folded as if to keel over, crumpling as it caved in. Quickpaw flung himself off the failing wall, legs outstretched to land on more solid ground. Harangoth ran forward, Ragnar and Lady Riskar close behind.

“Quickpaw!” Ragnar screamed.

The place where Quickpaw aimed to land broke into pieces. Quickpaw yelped as his front legs graced firm ground but his back legs fell with the stone, half of him disappearing below the edge of the crumbling fortification. His front legs clawed for purchase, to cling onto anything that could afford to anchor him in place, yet no such opportunity was given. Quickpaw yowled as he slipped away from the ledge, doomed to a fatal fall.

“Grab him!” Ragnar ordered.

Harangoth lunged with an open maw and closed his fangs on Quickpaw’s caparison. He put out all four legs to skid to a halt, slowing his swift advance that would have sent him falling over the edge. Ragnar lunged and grabbed onto Harangoth’s harness, pulling his friend with all his might away from a terrifying plunge. As soon as his paws hooked on, however, a faint terror emerged as he felt himself being eased towards an equally lethal descent. Lady Riskar latched onto the other side, but her efforts hardly slowed Harangoth’s advance. Quickpaw yowled and yapped, begging to be pulled up.

“Help!” Ragnar bellowed. “Corsair! Rohesia!”

“We require assistance!” Lady Riskar yelled. “Urgently!”

Harangoth snarled and growled as if to dissuade gravity from its fight, claws desperately holding on. The ictharr fought with increasing ferocity as he inched closer and closed to the edge, yanking back as hard as he could. Ragnar tugged yet the slippery stone slabs sought only to sabotage their rescue effort.

“Hey!” a voice yelled from behind.

Corsair hurried forward and grabbed Harangoth from the other side, pulling back. The march to their doom slowed yet proved equally as inevitable.

“Quickpaw!” Corsair yelled, trying to quell the fear in his voice. “Stay calm! We’re going to save you!”

Rohesia rushed to Ragnar’s side and grabbed onto Harangoth, Belthorpe following suit. The inching of their doom stopped, albeit requiring tremendous strength on part of all present. Harangoth tugged and pulled yet Quickpaw could only be suspended in the air, not summoned up.

“Now what?” Corsair yelled.

“Come on, Harangoth, pull!” Ragnar yelled.

The ictharr growled to indicate that was what he was already doing. Repeated attempts to drag Quickpaw back onto the wall failed to weaken the grasp gravity had on his scrawny friend.

“Nothing’s moving!” Rohesia yelled.

“Quickpaw!” Corsair yelled. “Just hang on!”

“Do not panic!” Lady Riskar yelled. “Remain calm lest we do something rash!”

Ragnar strained, struggling to think while so focused on resisting a nasty fall. “Uh…we need to heave together! Okay? We need to pull at the same time! Use your bodyweight to—”

Rohesia cried out something, but a bout of thunder drowned her out.

“What?” Ragnar yelled.

“The caparison!” she yelled. “It’s ripping!”

…

With the assault having been halted by a foe that didn’t run away at the first sign of trouble, Lieutenant Maximus had expected the mutt commander would fire on the wall and make a third opening of their own. To watch the second wall succumb to the artillery blast quicker than the first was a sight that brought him much visceral delight. It was unlike anything he had seen before and, despite the annoyance it brought him, he had to commend the mutt commander for overseeing the use of such brilliant destructive power. The defenders would have little luck bottlenecking them now.

He sat atop Thornfang, armour donned and his army of Krosguard riders and clan infantry behind him. Banners flew high despite the rain and spirits soared as the wall came to ruin, the army cheering as more war drums began to play.

“Maximus,” Gregor said from beside him, almost confused.

“What?” Lieutenant Maximus said.

Gregor pointed up. Levin followed where he pointed from the other side of Lieutenant Maximus and guffawed.

“Well sh*t, looks like someone was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Lieutenant Maximus frowned and looked up. There, suspended high above the bed of jagged rock, dangled the flailing silhouette of a small ictharr. Muffled voices yelled from the ramparts.

“Is that him, Maximus?” Gregor asked.

“It’s not one of ours,” Lieutenant Maximus said. “I’ll lead the Krosguard through. Levin?”

Levin needed no further encouragement. He pulled out a bow, knocked an arrow, and took aim with a grin on his face.

“Fifty Iggregoms I hit the first shot.”

…

Ragnar peered around Rohesia, and to his dismay, he found that she had been speaking the truth. A noticeable tear grew with alarming speed just below the fabric Harangoth gripped in his maw. Harangoth stopped tugging to pull his friend up and instead held as still as he could, eyes focused on the rip.

“sh*t,” Ragnar muttered, feeling the familiar careful creep of panic move along his spine. “Oh sh*t.”

Quickpaw whimpered and whined, begging to be pulled up.

“It’s okay!” Corsair yelled, staring at the rip. “You’re—”

Ragnar recoiled as an arrow struck the ledge and deflected off, falling to the rubble below. Quickpaw yelped in panic and struggled, furthering the tear’s progress.

“Someone is firing upon us!” Lady Riskar yelled.

“Quickpaw, stop moving!” Rohesia yelled. “Be good!”

Quickpaw was not intent on listening. As another arrow curved past and disappeared into the chaos of the second section, the ictharr squirmed and writhed as if to pull free of the caparison. With every struggling move, the tear’s length increased and the remaining threads of fabric that tethered Quickpaw to the mortal coil became worryingly few. Harangoth growled, asking what to do.

“We need to pull together!” Ragnar yelled. “Heave at the same time!”

“It’ll rip!” Corsair yelled.

“And he shall fall if we do not try!” Lady Riskar yelled.

“Just start pulling already!” Rohesia yelled.

A third arrow whizzed past. The projectile missed the vulnerable dangling ictharr and, to the unobservant, most would have assumed it was knocked off trajectory by the storm. But Ragnar was not unobservant. His eyes rested firmly on the tear in the caparison, and, with mounting panic, he realised what little time that arrow had left them with.

A single thread, trembling under the duress, kept Quickpaw alive.

Ragnar moved before he even understood what he was doing.

“Grab my leg, Harangoth!”

“What?” Rohesia yelled.

Ragnar let go of Harangoth. The ictharr skidded forward again ever so slowly but there wasn’t enough time for the beast to be dragged off. Ragnar dove for Quickpaw’s harness as the final thread could endure no longer, snapping. Quickpaw yowled as he felt his plummet resume, crying out for them to save him. Ragnar’s two paws slipped beneath the torn caparison around the neck and grabbed the harness. For a terrifying second, Ragnar felt nothing hold him back from a similarly terrible plunge. His body slid across the wet stone and down the slight incline to the ledge. He yelled out, taken by such profound fear that it was a completely involuntary action, and his body fell over the side.

He felt a tight grip around his ankle.

Ragnar gasped as his swift descent came to an abrupt halt. He clutched the harness with enough force that his arms trembled, breath coming to him in short and exerted bursts. His rib, roused from its medicated slumber, issued a sting of mounting intensity. Quickpaw dangled from his paws, looking up at his saviour with folded ears and a timid flicking tail. Past the meek and terrified ictharr, Ragnar could see a wave of shadows moving fast across the shattered stones and pouring into the centre of Saint Gaspard. Krosguard riders tossed javelins as they approached, seeking to butcher the back ranks, while archers took position upon the debris and fired volleys through.

“Ragnee!” Corsair yelled. “What are you—”

“Pull me up, shut up and pull me up!” Ragnar screamed.

“We must heave together!” Lady Riskar yelled. “To three! One! Two! Three!”

Ragnar felt it. An ever so slight increase in height. His minor ascent yielded a few floundering embers of hope, ushered in a future that didn’t involve being splattered across sharp rocks below.

“Heave! One, two, three!”

Another increase.

“Heave! One, two, three!”

“Just hold on!” Corsair yelled.

Ragnar recoiled as another arrow curved past his head. He peered into the darkness of the first section yet could only see a mass of shadows advancing towards the breach in the wall, howling and screaming with banners raised. The sharpshooter’s position eluded him.

A rib-shaped branding iron burned into his side. His paws shook.

“You need to pull us up now!” Ragnar bellowed.

“Heave! One, two, three!”

Ragnar felt a hind paw grace the ledge. Then the second. With every subsequent heave, more and more of Ragnar’s body was eased back onto solid ground. Quickpaw’s head peered over the top of the ledge, then his neck, and then his paws placed upon the ledge that helped propel him up onto the wall. The group collectively collapsed onto the wet stone, coughing and groaning from the exertion. Ragnar wheezed, his strained and aching paw against his agitated rib.

“Are we…” Rohesia panted. “Are we all okay?”

“If I was okay,” Lady Riskar heaved, “I would not be sprawled on my back in the midst of a storm…with cutthroats attempting to kill us all.”

Quickpaw whined, lying on his side with chest heaving. Harangoth growled, sprawled flat on his stomach.

“Quickpaw?” Corsair said, crawling to his side. “You idiot, what were you doing?”

Quickpaw mewled an apology. Corsair clutched the ictharr with both arms and hugged him, resting his head against his side. Ragnar watched the duo for a moment, felt the stress and fear alleviate at the sight of both wolf and steed alive, before sitting up.

“Ragnar?” Rohesia asked.

He couldn’t muster an answer. To breathe was to stoke the agonising fire his brazen move had reignited. He clutched his rib brace and curled inwards, trembling.

“Hey!”

Ragnar looked across the sizeable gap. Thomas and Dieter waved to the group.

“What the hell just happened?” Thomas yelled.

“They’re…they’re getting through!” Corsair yelled back. “Get ready for the signal!”

“Don’t get yourselves killed out here, get back inside!” Dieter yelled.

“And you better tell us the whole story after this is done!” Thomas added.

Ragnar concurred with Dieter’s orders. Lady Riskar hurried to Ragnar’s side. She breathed in and out with great exertion.

“Here,” she said, offering her paw. “Let me aid you.”

Ragnar muttered thanks as she helped pull him up. He stumbled after the group as they retreated to the gatehouse. Harangoth ran to Ragnar’s side and let the wolf lean against him, guiding him forward.

“Thank you,” Ragnar said.

Harangoth didn’t reply. The good of such a deed – as well as the grave reality of how close he had come to a gruesome demise – would have to wait to be acknowledged later.

…

Thornvallis swung the flail, letting out a fearsome cry. The wolf soldier screamed as the metal ball crunched into their side, rending flesh and mail, before falling backwards into the seething mass of bloodthirsty warriors. Swords and lances weathered the Yastillot Vanguard’s shields, snapping off the corners and denting the faces. More and more soldiers poured in from the breach, a line of archers trading shots with their backline.

“There’re too many!” a soldier yelled. “We’re getting overrun!”

“Kill them!” a wolf screamed. “Kill them, kill them, kill them!”

One Krosguard rider leapt into the defensive line and knocked back a few of the front rank. The enemy forced their way into the lapse in the vanguard’s defence and took to butchery with great enthusiasm. Lances and swords stabbed and swung at the sheep, sending a few brave comrades to their graves. The line fought to reform, inching back from the attacks. Thornvallis recoiled from a strong swing as it crashed into their shield, grunting.

“Now!” Thornvallis bellowed to the back. “Sound the horn!”

“Sound the horn!” someone relayed.

A horn blew, its wail low and sonorous as it announced the retreat. The vanguard disengaged from combat and fell back as a cohesive unit, shoving off foolhardy attackers with thrusts of their shields and stabs of their pikes.

“Back!” Thornvallis bellowed. “Move back!”

“They’re running scared!” a wolf cried. “Run them down!”

“Get them, Gods’ sake, get them!”

A legionnaire tossed a ceramic shrapnel grenade. It landed harmlessly at the hooves of the retreating soldiers, positioned to detonate under their shield wall, yet Thornvallis let no such attack transpire. They wound their leg back and kicked hard. The ceramic shrapnel grenade back towards the enemy and detonated mid-air. The searing shards struck armour and shattered on impact, yet the explosion still left those in its vicinity dazed, further delaying their advance. Javelins and arrows attempted to give chase, catching the occasional unfortunate soldier and skewering them, but most fell short of their quarry.

Thornvallis knew what came next. Another bout of bloodshed would descend upon the weary souls of the vanguard, manifested in all sorts of sharpened blades and pointed projectiles and whatever new-fangled instruments of destruction would make their debut, but they would stand their ground. Thornvallis had made acquaintance with death many a time before Saint Gaspard and their soul did not waver. Neither did the brave spirits of those beside them.

As one cannon rolled through the gatehouse up ahead, closely guarded by a cohort of many legionnaires, Thornvallis looked up at the broken wall.

“Vanguard!” Thornvallis bellowed, glancing at the other bridge to see the second shield wall forming. “We don’t take a step back from here! You fight until they’re all dead or we are! Show no mercy, give no quarter, and make every fool that stands against House Yastillot pay dearly with their lives!”

Exhausted and fatigued, the ranks of the vanguard cried out once more in unison. Shields struck the ground, horns blasted, and soldiers yelled obscenities at the regrouping enemy.

…

The lieutenant’s longsword cleaved through the neck of the foolish sheep as Thornfang spun, propelling the biting blade through bone and flesh with great force. The decapitated corpse collapsed while their allies fled back along the bridge, regrouping and taking up their shield walls once more. The attacking forces regrouped and prepared to pursue their foe, stepping over the dead and wounded whilst apothecaries and doctors saw to the fallen. Thornfang snarled, spitting out a chunk of flesh she had ripped from the side of an enemy soldier.

“Maximus! Maximus!”

The lieutenant looked over his shoulder. Levin and Gregor rode up behind him.

“You kill that coward’s runt?” Lieutenant Maximus asked.

“Storm knocked off my shots,” Levin said. “They’re still up there.”

“Then we’ll have to deal with him later,” Lieutenant Maximus said, rolling his eyes. “You were always a terrible shot.”

“Wait,” Gregor said, pointing to the left side of the broken wall. “Up there. I saw two more wolves and their mounts. The others from the group.”

“And?”

Furious screams and battle chants rose from the regrouped attackers. Wolves and legionnaires stormed towards the enemy, bows and crossbows firing across the bridge. A second cannon trundled through the gates and drew up beside the first.

“Why the hell are Corsair and his pals up on the walls when everyone else is down here fighting?” Gregor said.

“And they’re completely alone,” Levin said.

Lieutenant Maximus looked back up to the wall. “You said it was just two of them on the left.”

“Yes.”

The lieutenant grinned. He directed Thornfang to the right of the bridge and gestured for the two riders to follow. Delegating their orders to a nearby subordinate, the lieutenant led his comrades to the river bank and positioned Thornfang before it.

“Bridges!” the lieutenant yelled.

A team of wolves hurried forth and slammed the reinforced wooden bridge down. It didn’t reach all the way to the opposite bank but did circumvent the surging water. It coursed with great vigour yet boasted width of far lamer aspiration. Lieutenant Maximus spurred on Thornfang, and the beast raced across. Levin and Gregor followed, a wealth of other riders pursuing along other bridges, and soon a small contingent formed on the opposite side of the bank.

“Encircle them here!” Lieutenant Maximus ordered. “Levin, Gregor, come with me!”

The Krosguard that had crossed rode with haste towards the adeun archers who, having noticed the impending flank, drew their swords in preparation. Armoured sheep from the back ranks retreated to engage the flanking cavalry, arrows already beginning to fly in their direction. One soldier issued a foolish challenge by rushing forth and stabbing with a pike. The lieutenant knocked the thrusting weapon away and, as Thornfang lunged, stabbed downwards. The sword pierced the side of their throat and the fool collapsed, blood spewing from the crude gash. The lieutenant left the grunts to deal with the mounted rabble and, instead, directed himself and his two comrades to more serious business.

…

The collapsing of the second wall was a move that Valour knew would favour the attacking forces. Those that had replaced the fleeing rabbit conscripts proved far smarter, fighting at bottlenecks where the legion’s inexhaustible numbers would offer little advantage, and Valour could not rely on sheer fighting prowess to best them. Through the pocket scope levelled at the breach, he could see infantry rushing through as the attack on the bridges commenced.

“Comosol,” Vaxalstis said, arriving by his side and saluting.

“Tell me,” Valour said, lowering the pocket scope.

“The legionnaires are making their assault upon the bridges now. Some of the Krosguard have crossed to the eastern bank but the enemy have repositioned to prevent any more riders crossing.”

“And the bridges?”

“The enemy have regrouped on both. Our legionnaires hit them with all they had, they’re still holding ground.”

“And the cannons?”

“Two have made entry. One more is awaiting command.”

The orders came to Valour in an instant. “Establish a secure perimeter around the cannons and then send the last one through. Keep the gates clear, use those entrances strictly for ferrying wounded back, and engage the foe on the bridges.”

“Right away, comosol. Anything else?”

“The trebuchets need to keep firing. Keep the flares up and keep the enemy unsettled.”

“Right away, comosol.”

“And what of the lieutenant?”

“I’m not too sure. He led the flanking manoeuvre across the river but made his way up onto the southern side of the wall.”

Valour looked up at the towering fortification.

“The south side, you said?”

“Yes. Should we send siege ladders?”

“No. The mud on the south side is too infirm due to the rain. Putting ladders there would be a risk for those climbing. The north side, however, is suitable to place a ladder and send a small group up. Unfortunately, the breach forbids any of our legionnaires moving along the wall to assist on the south side. You catch my meaning, Sibling Vaxalstis?”

“I do, comosol. I’ll send word right away.”

Chapter 19: Clash at the Lushlocque Crossing (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter Text

“To think I was going to head over and check on them,” Thomas scoffed, shaking his head. “That would have been a bad fall.”

The two wolves hunkered within the standing husk of the gatehouse, Dieter peering out the doorway with pocket scope levelled at the city hall while Thomas leaned against the wall and chattered. The two vanguard soldiers stood beside the kegs and conversed in Yaori. Zechter padded the interior in circles, inspecting all that had been left in the rabbits’ hasty retreat, while Arkzmeyer sat diligently by the other door and peered out at the gaping crevice.

“How’s everything out there?” Thomas asked.

Dieter glanced to the bridges. The vanguard held fast in front of the overwhelming numbers. Legionnaires charged with lances as clan soldiers with pikes followed behind, ranks of crossbows and bows taking position on the opposite bank and firing. Archers of the vanguard exchanged shots with the attackers, bringing down some with concentrated volleys. Vanguard riders fought against the flanking Krosguard soldiers, desperately attempting to thwart their attempted encirclement.

“Going along with the plan,” Dieter said. “The vanguard are on the bridge.”

“They still going strong?”

“Doesn’t look like they lost many.”

“Wow. They talked quite fiery back at the ball…guess they live and die by those words.”

“I’m surprised you remember anything from the ball,” Dieter muttered.

“I’m still remembering the headache. How many cannons are through?”

“Two. We’re still waiting on one.”

Thomas nodded, shifting. “Right, right.”

“You nervous, Thomas?”

“Me? Pffft. I’m fine.”

“It’s okay to be anxious about this.”

Thomas opened his mouth to comment yet all that came was a defeated sigh and a confession. “I…I guess maybe a little. I only really saw action at Pothole Plains.”

“So this is the first time seeing a siege like this. I understand.”
“Not for you though, right?”

“No. Silverclaw saw to acquaint me with this a lot.”

“What was it like out there?”

“Hotter. Hardly ever any rain. No wall-busting cannons either,” Dieter said, voice lowering. “A lot of blood and sand for miles.”

Thomas’ gaze lowered to his stub of a tail. “Is that how you—”

“Yes. To one of those 11^th army soldiers you saw up north. Some large lion swung a big axe to cut me in half, it cost me that to get out of the way.”

“I think that’s an okay trade.”

Dieter scoffed. “You’re not wrong. But it’s not something I’d wish on anyone. Fighting out there day and night, shot and stabbed and set on fire, it’s…a glimpse into something really ugly. Something desperate and mad. After a while, you fight and kill enough to know how to navigate the desperation and madness.”

“Sounds like its own kind of madness,” Thomas said.

Dieter said nothing. Misted eyes watched the carnage below, traced the shapes of the corpses strewn across the stone. The rain did a fine job of hiding the traces of war, washing away the blood so not a speck of crimson was left visible, yet the poisonous fruit of such murderous labour was still visibly born. So many bodies, so many furious cries, so many stories dashed into pieces and tossed across the broken stone.

The stinging bite of an arrow summoned him back from misery.

Dieter yelled out as the projectile struck the veteran in the right shoulder. He stumbled through the entrance to the gatehouse and turned, dropping the pocket scope and fumbling for his sword. Thomas pushed himself off the wall and drew his blade. The few vanguard soldiers summoned their weapons. Zechter and Arkzmeyer snarled and leapt in front of their masters.

The snarls stopped as soon as they saw who approached.

Through the door came a hulking shadow with a grumbling snarl of its own, a guttural rumbling from deep within its throat. It stooped low and crept across the floor, eyes shifting from one ictharr to the other. Two more beasts followed the leviathan through, one going left while the other moved right. The group of wolves retreated a few steps, tails driven low and ears folded.

“Lerik and Fedellis,” the bastard spoke. “Running with Sedrid. I’m not surprised with you, Lerik, but Fedellis? Such a quick change of tune.”

“How the hell?” Thomas said.

Thornfang snarled. The two ictharrs flinched but held ground. Dieter and Thomas clutched their weapons for dear life. The lieutenant’s two subordinates chuckled at the sight.

“Stay back,” Thomas snarled, tail low. “I’ll cut your damn head off!”

Dieter grunted as he snapped off the arrow stub and tossed it to the side, taking up face-on stance. The lieutenant disregarded the duo’s empty threats.

“Tell me where Sedrid is, and I’ll take you prisoner.”

“Shove it up your ass,” Thomas spat.

“Fall on your sword and save us the damn trouble,” Dieter snarled.

The lieutenant remained unimpressed. He summoned the enforcer of his sad*stic malice from the scabbard, easing the bloodied blade out from slumber, and swung it out to the side.

“Fine. I’m sure if I get you to scream loud enough, little Sedrid will come running right to me.”

…

Even minutes of rest following such great exertion failed to dispel the persisting lack of breath Corsair felt. The wolf sat slumped against the inside wall of the gatehouse, forcing air in and out to numb the lingering ache of his body. Quickpaw rested beside him, tongue hanging from the side of his agape mouth as he panted. Corsair’s paw remained firmly on his flank, anchoring his resolve to the ictharr’s continued presence beside him. Rohesia sat close on his opposite side, breaths more controlled yet similarly haggard. Ragnar stood across the gatehouse beside Harangoth, peering out the entrance whilst leaning against the threshold. Lady Riskar slumped over the table while Belthorpe sat silent opposite. All of them had come so close to a gruesome demise, suspended above jagged rock that would have reduced their bodies to mere bloodied pulp, and after surviving such peril there was nothing to say. Near-death encounters had become all too frequent, and the wolf remained unsure of whether it was the close brushes with his end that he feared or the rapid manner of which he habituated to them.

Ragnar’s voice broke the stunned silence.

“It’s here.”

His sudden observation urged the party over to him. Corsair guided Quickpaw to the entrance and stepped out into the storm, peering down with a paw over his eyes to shield them from the downpour. Even without the aid of the pocket scope, he could discern the shape of the newfangled weapons of destruction. The three cannons, twice the size of those heaving it into position, arranged themselves just before the breach in the wall.

“Is that really them?” Corsair asked. “They’re huge.”

“They must be,” Ragnar said, passing the pocket scope to Rohesia.

“They appear terrifying enough,” Lady Riskar said. “What rotten luck we enlist to aid the rabbits just as the paradigm on legislated murder shifts.”

The young Sedrid regarded the towering silhouettes with trepidation. Articles of war, gargantuan and fearsome, capable of levelling formidable walls with repeated barrages. The thought of what such powerful strikes could do to the feeble flesh of soldiers crossed his mind briefly and, in the half-second he had to entertain it, he grimaced.

“Anything from the city hall?” Ragnar asked Rohesia.

“I’m seeing the glint,” Rohesia said. “They’re signalling us.”

Corsair looked over to the city hall. It took a moment of squinting to see it but, as reported, Lorenzo relayed the detonation order with waves of the paw mirror against the lantern light. The signal brought some diluted relief to his battle-weary soul and body. The sooner the powder kegs ignited, the sooner the gatehouses fell, the sooner the offence would be postponed and the sooner Saint Gaspard’s safety would be assured.

“Goodness,” Lady Riskar sighed. “Am I delighted to hear that.”

“We should get ready,” Ragnar said. “Corsair, let’s—”

“It’s not there.”

The group looked back at Rohesia. She aimed her pocket scope south across the battlefield, gaze levelled at the opposite ramparts.

“What’s not there?” Corsair said.

“Thomas’ and Dieter’s signal.”

“You probably can’t see it from there.”

“I can see where they were meant to be standing. I’d see some movement.”

“What do you see now?” Lady Riskar asked.

Rohesia lowered the pocket scope and looked to her comrades with a worried expression.

“Rohesia?” Corsair said.

“A lot of shadows moving inside the gatehouse.”

The implication of such information took a moment to sink in. Corsair exchanged nervous looks with Ragnar.

“You think—” Corsair began.

“We were getting shot at on the wall,” Ragnar said. “You said Maximus was here. Who else would want us dead more than him?”

“Maximus?” Lady Riskar said. “Who is this fiend?”

“Long story,” Corsair said.

“There’re bridges along the river,” Rohesia said. “Like the ones they used in Pothole Plains. They must have started to cross there.”

The group looked back to the city hall. The glinting had become more frantic, the small light strobing in a desperate attempt to get the attention of the southern gatehouse team.

“The captain seems agitated with our lack of response,” Lady Riskar said.

“If we light our keg and theirs doesn’t go off, the cannons will leave,” Ragnar said. “We need to get over there.”

“What about ours? If we go over there and everything’s fine, we’ll miss our chance,” Corsair said.

“I’ll stay,” Rohesia said. “If everything’s fine, give me the signal and I’ll light the barrel here. And if it’s not fine—”

Clank.

The group looked over their shoulder. It proved difficult to spot in the dark but, as flares lit up the sky one by one, Corsair discerned the shape of metal claws extended from the top rung of a ladder that clung to the battlements.

Clank.

Another ladder to the right.

Clank.

A third to the left. Quickpaw and Harangoth, despite their exhaustion, leapt in front of the group and dropped low on their front legs.

“Matters only seek to complicate themselves, don’t they?” Lady Riskar sighed, unsheathing her rapier.

Legion hounds, adorned in orange paint, clambered up the siege ladders and hopped over the wall. The unsheathed short swords of Hulstod’s Kin were clear indicators as to how they intended to dismantle any resistance they found, including the miscellaneous gaggle of militia soldiers standing before them.

“There!” a legionnaire yelled, pointing at the group.

“That’s Sedrid! Kill him!” another yelled.

Rohesia dropped the pocket scope and fought to get her bow ready. One legionnaire rushed towards her with sword raised, but Belthorpe brought their rapid advance to a halt and felled them with rapid slashes of her sword. Another thrusted their lance for the rabbit and, as Belthorpe spun out the way, Lady Riskar lunged and thrusted their rapier through the legionnaire’s throat. The dying hound stood still, held up by the feline’s lethal reprimand, before she swiped the blade out and let him fall.

More legionnaires climbed over the wall.

“Corsair and Ragnar!” Lady Riskar yelled. “We shall meet these fools with sharpened steel! Make haste for the southern battlements!”

“But what about you?” Corsair said.

Rohesia fired an arrow and struck one of the legionnaires. The hound kept fighting, clashing blades with Belthorpe as more of their allies arrived to assist.

“We’ll be fine!” Rohesia yelled. “Get over there quick before those cannons kill everyone!”

The plan had shifted so fast it left the wolf stunned for a moment, lost in the ferocious storm of war and rain, yet he heeded their command regardless. Corsair pulled himself up onto Quickpaw’s back, longsword ready in one paw, while Ragnar pulled himself up onto Harangoth’s. Corsair looked back to the fight. Belthorpe danced between the arriving legionnaires, a storm of flashing metal all around her that summoned streaks of crimson from the rent flesh of her foes, while Lady Riskar dashed all those who dared remain to pieces. Rohesia’s arrows injured their quarries, weakening them for her comrades’ strikes.

Leaving her there felt wrong.

“Corsair, let’s go!” Ragnar yelled.

Corsair rode off with Ragnar. He watched as detail faded rapidly with every step until the fight was a diorama of shadows against stone.

“Listen Corsair,” Ragnar said. “If it’s him, we fight him together. Regardless of what you think of me, nothing can matter more than the present. You understand?”

“I understand,” Corsair said, hesitant. “Listen. Ragn—”

“Now’s not the time.”

Corsair let it be. The light of the flares highlighted the excruciating detail of the battlefield below. Limbs and heads and dented armour lay strewn in pools of crimson leading up to the bridges, all joined by the corpses of person and beast alike. Clouds of smoke and powder plumed from the battlefield, the remains of detonated Ceramic Shrapnel grenades. Some legionnaires and Krosguard riders lay dead on the bank of the coursing Lushlocque, impaled by the pike-toting vanguard standing fast across the river. Corsair’s gaze frequented every corner of the blood-soaked scene, focused on the horrifying detail of the continuing battle, and found justice carved into the torn flesh of every dead hound before him as they descended into the city streets.

Krak!

Boom!

Corsair ducked low against Quickpaw as a trio of cannon shots flew high overhead, pushing the storm aside and crashing straight into the front of the city hall. The feeble building’s front half collapsed without resistance, resigned to its fate as a pile of rubble and debris.

“Oh sh*t,” Corsair muttered. “Ragnar! Lorenzo was in there!”

“We can’t stop, Corsair!” Ragnar said. “We have to hope he’s fine! At any moment they could fire on us, too!”

Corsair looked back to the ruined front of the city hall, a crude gash left across its face, and hoped that Lorenzo hadn’t been standing close to the balcony at the time. He stowed away that fear and followed on after his brother, endured guilt’s sting and pressed forward.

Fwoosh!

Corsair recoiled as a trebuchet boulder passed overhead and crashed into the ground just beyond the city hall, sending tremors across the city. They continued without interruption, a result of a relentless bombardment that sought to devastate all in its path. The flames bled into the sky – fought in this chaotic brawl of fire, rain, smoke and thunder – and Corsair witnessed hell reaching up into the heavens to claim vengeance.

“Ride on!” Ragnar yelled.

The duo pushed on towards the southern ramparts. The two bridges still saw intense combat. Corsair could see the vanguard retreating step by step to the back of the bridge. The invaders let out a united cry and chased the defenders every inch, swinging and stabbing with a certainty of glorious victory that inured them against the terror of death. Vanguard soldiers fell with every step, cut down in the unrelenting assault.

Up the stairs they went. Quickpaw and Harangoth moved with greater speed than they had heaving the powder kegs but the exhaustion of Quickpaw’s almost rapid descent was evident. Both struggled up the steps with tails low and tongues lolling out their mouths. Corsair could feel Quickpaw’s ribcage expanding and contracting beneath him, fighting to pull air in and force it back out for the next fresh batch.

“Good going, Quickpaw,” Corsair said. “We’re nearly there!”

The ictharr didn’t respond. Corsair let his friend focus on the journey and remained silent as the group ascended the stairs to the top of the southern wall, battered by rain and increasing hopelessness. At the top both ictharrs stopped for a moment to rest. Ragnar looked back across the battlefield, an act that urged Corsair to do the same.

The storm was relenting. He could feel it in how the rain’s continuing attack had slowed, the raindrops less frequent and the lightning less willing to show its face. Its gradual retreat from the conflict gave greater leeway to the decimation out east caused by the bombardment. Orange and scarlet spread through the residential area in lieu of the weakening storm, smoke beginning to billow up into the sky. Trails of fiery destruction blazed from the impact sites, crawling out from beneath the immobilised boulders and feasting on all nearby. The flares sputtered into nothingness and darkness descended upon the citadel once more, hiding the gruesome detail of the carnage yet revealing the imminence of its further iterations. Flaming balls of rage streaked through the dark sky, fated to strike the ground east of the front and further wreak havoc on the holy city.

The monstrosities of the Inkblood Malady, unimaginably cruel and torturous, seemed almost evenly matched by the affinity for the murder modern civilisation wielded.

A hunger for violence the Opulusians wielded.

One that had driven them to feast on life as he knew it. On his people. On his family.

On him.

…

Thornvallis spied the head of the pike long before their comrade did. A bloody display of unfortunate familiarity befell the soldier as the sharpened tip punctured their chest, ripping out from the metal gash coated in fresh crimson. The brave warrior fell backwards and convulsed, gargling and choking, before they disappeared quickly beneath the trampling tide of silver and steel. The legion and clan soldiers coursed forth and cleaved at the failing front rank. The vanguard’s once proud palisade was no more than a flimsy wall of splintered wood and dented metal, spattered in blood of both comrade and foe alike. The enemy were upon them in a state of enraptured frenzy Thornvallis had never seen before from the many rabbits they had slain. They howled and snarled and snapped their jaws as they stabbed and swung, some continuing to fight even with many arrows and blades protruding from them.

“There’re too many!” someone bellowed. “We’re being overrun!”

“They’re firing damn trebuchets at us!”

The ground trembled as another barrage struck the city. Thornvallis glanced back. The line had moved several metres from its original position and, with increasing speed, shrank back towards the opposite side of the bridge. No doubt the sight of a retreating foe further invigorated the invaders and with every step they took to back away from ceaseless death, the more obsessed the hounds and wolves became with chasing them.

“Hold the line!” Thornvallis bellowed. “This isn’t a rout, hold the damn line!”

They anchored their fate to such a command and held fast. One legionnaire, blood oozing from one side of their face beneath the mask, leapt onto their shield and stabbed repeatedly at their chest with a dagger. Every blow sparked against the formidable metal armour and the futility of such an assault was made terrifyingly apparent as Thornvallis knocked them to the ground and brought the head of their flail down upon the legionnaire’s skull. Both metal and bone gave way with a sickening crack. A clan soldier stepped forth and stabbed with an arming sword. Thornvallis deflected the blow and swung the flail in an upwards arc, striking the wolf below the jaw. The soldier stumbled back and fell off the side of the bridge, disappearing into the bloodied waters below.

“Kill them!” a wolf cried.

“Attack, attack!”

The horde did not relent. The soldiers charged at once towards Thornvallis, screaming and roaring with such ferocity that Thornvallis had to fight to stay put. Many blows struck their shield and armour, making them recoil and wince. An arrow bounced off their helmet and multiple short swords stabbed at their plating. Thornvallis swung the flail out in a wide arc to create space, but the first enemy caught the head against their shield, ensnaring their prosthetic.

“Get around them!”

“Forward! Move forward!”

“You’re dead, you bastard!”

Clang.

Thornvallis grunted as one of clan soldiers struck their side with a war pick, denting the protective plate under such great force. Thornvallis kicked out with one leg and knocked a legionnaire aside, but the tide did not stop. A pike thrusted through the indiscernible mass and penetrated the breastplate. Thornvallis tensed, anticipated the agony that preceded a horrible demise, but the pike’s head could not proceed further. The metal plates had ensnared it in the crevice, forbidding further entry.

“Thorn is in danger!” a voice bellowed.

“Move forward! Help them!”

Thornvallis, yelling out, yanked hard on their prosthetic. The clan soldier stumbled forward and right into Thornvallis’ metal knuckle. The hardened fist struck the wolf between the eyes, ridding them of consciousness and sending them to the floor. Thornvallis placed a boot against the shield and pulled with all their might to dislodge the flail, fending off the other marauders with swings of their other arm.

Movement in the corner of their eye.

Through the slit in their sallet, Thornvallis saw a lancer laden with the crimson spoils of war charge. The gargantuan weapon was poised to run them through, aiming for the chink in the armour that the pike had left. The towering legionnaire crossed the distance in mere seconds and, stopping just before Thornvallis, pulled the lance back to thrust forth with incomprehensible power.

A mighty roar came from behind him.

The entire front rank, crammed together on the bridge, was sent flying back and screaming by a swing of a monolithic war hammer. The assault halted for a moment as those behind the decimated soldiers recoiled, uncertain of what had intervened in their advance. Thornvallis ripped the flail from the shield and stumbled back, looking to their right. A lioness stood there, clad in gleaming armour and war hammer gripped in her gauntleted paws. A hound in dark armour arrived beside her, armour covered in soot and ash yet spirits unshaken. The lioness raised the war hammer up from the ground and thrusted it forth, screaming.

“Butcher these cutthroats! Levy a blood debt so fierce their descendants will feel its sting!”

A chorus of cheers from behind. Thornvallis looked over their shoulder and vanguard found many House Vigilance soldiers reinforcing the back of the line. Their banners flew high and their spirits soared even higher, prepared for carnage.

Thornvallis looked ahead.

The gates still stood.

Any time now, wolves.

“Attack!” someone screamed in Lanzig. “Attack them!”

The enemy recovered from their stupor and, with haste, charged forth once more. Thornvallis raised their shield as the line reformed around them, shaking off the numbing fatigue of exhaustion.

“We advance to our glory or our graves! Not a step back!”

All those who remained screamed as if it were the last sound they would make.

…

Turning away from the vistas of destruction and death, Corsair and Ragnar mounted the last few steps and carried on along the wall. The southern gatehouse loomed ahead, a menacing silhouette against the stormy backdrop. The brothers stopped and dismounted. Ragnar looked over at Corsair and his brother returned such a wary look. Tails stiffened and ears standing to attention, both crept forwards.

“Stay,” Corsair said to Quickpaw. “We’ll—”

His command was interrupted by an agonised scream from within the southern gatehouse. They halted, bracing themselves for carnage, and a second later a shadow flew out through the open entrance. Corsair and Ragnar stepped aside as it rolled towards them, coming to a stop before the group. It took little time to recognise the short stature and the downward black arrow over his white face.

“Thomas!” Corsair yelled, crouching by his side. “Thomas, hey, speak to me!”

The wolf cried out and rolled onto his side, shielding his arm against his chest. Corsair looked closer and saw the disgusting detail of what left the warrior quaking in pain and fear. Half of his left paw had been mangled, the gauntlet ripped off and the flesh below left vulnerable to whatever foul beast had bitten a chunk out of him. Two of his digits were missing, leaving glistening flesh and cracked bone visible. A fresh bout of nausea struck Corsair and he forced himself to look away.

From the entrance came the rest of the group. Zechter bounded out after his master, yowling in fear for his wellbeing, and after him came Dieter and Arkzmeyer. The former had two arrow stubs protruding from his back and third bloodied one poking out from his arm while the latter’s coat was slick with worrying amounts of blood. Arkzmeyer wobbled and trembled as she followed behind Dieter, ears down and tail low. Harangoth dove in front of her and lowered himself on his front legs, snarling. Quickpaw joined him.

“Get Thomas back!” Dieter yelled. “Get him back!”

They needed no further instruction. Corsair hurried forth, picked up the crying wolf, heaved him onto his shoulder and darted back. Dieter took up face-on stance between the two wolf brothers but struggled to hold it to a similar standard. His body slumped forward somewhat, his arms shook under the exertion, and his ragged breaths came in rapid fashion.

“Dieter,” Ragnar said. “You’re shot.”

“I’m not dead,” Dieter said. “I’m okay.”

Corsair opened his mouth to protest, to urge the wounded veteran back away from the fray, but movement at his hind paws silenced him. His glance downward was swift enough to catch the last dregs of life in the decapitated heads as their roll across the stone slowed. The agonised expressions of the vanguard soldiers looked up at him with the price of their sacrifice spattered in crimson across their faces.

From the darkness of the gatehouse came two ictharrs and their riders. It took a moment for Corsair to recognise the duo from their gambling session almost a lifetime ago yet, the instant he did, he snarled and clutched his weapon tighter.

Their presence all but confirmed the arrival of the third menacing figure.

The hulking beast of an ictharr crept out from the gatehouse. A low rumbling growl accompanied her bared fangs. Her dark form bled from the shadows and manifested before them on the wet stone ground, only the aftermath of her brutality left upon her form. Quickpaw and Harangoth inched back but retreated no further.

That only left the monster himself.

Lieutenant Maximus followed his war beast out onto the wall. His armour and weapons were splattered in the crimson aftermath of his slaughter, sharpened metal that had cleaved through armour and flesh with every step he had taken. From his belt dangled the heads of fallen rabbits, jaws slack and dead gazes levelled at the destruction of their holy citadel. He was a decorated soldier of death itself, adorning all manner of crude trinkets and sad*stic trophies, yet none of it sought to disrupt the cruel smile upon his face.

“Running towards a fight? You’ve gotten bolder since we last met, Sedrid,” he said before pointing his sword at Ragnar. “And I wasn’t expecting to see you crawl back so soon either.”

“You didn’t learn from our time at Ignatius,” Corsair snarled. “I’ll always have you beat. You’re going to pay for all you did.”

“To who? The traitorous Alpha McVarn? He had to go one way or another, Sedrid, and I gave him the merciful option.”

“There’s no merciful option for you today, Maximus,” Dieter said. “You die to…toda…”

The veteran fell to his knees and propped himself up against his longsword, fighting to stay upright. Ragnar helped him back up and eased him towards Arkzmeyer, still facing the enemy ahead. Lieutenant Maximus grinned as his two goons cackled and laughed.

“Careful there, Fedellis. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Stay back,” Ragnar ordered the veteran. “Get yourself and Thomas away from here.”

“No,” Dieter grunted. “I—”

“Get Thomas onto Arkzmeyer, Corsair.”

Whilst refusing to avert his hate-filled gaze from the lieutenant, Corsair retreated a few steps to Arkzmeyer and placed Thomas in the saddle. It was as he was sat upright that his condition was made ever more troublingly clear. Thomas peered at the world through squinted eyes and heaved with every breath, blood crawling down his chest from his ravaged appendage. Dieter looked from the wounded wolf to the showdown, reluctant to pick between either, before cursing under his breath and climbing into the saddle.

“Get out of here,” Ragnar said. “Get Thomas to Ralwyndr.”

“Fine. Just promise me you won’t lose to this bastard.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Corsair said.

Dieter snapped at the reins and spurred the wounded party off towards safety. Corsair spared no time and turned his attention back to the enemy.

Four versus six.

“You really have changed,” Lieutenant Maximus said. “I’m almost impressed, Sedrid. This journey of self-enlightenment has done wonders for you. Now you can stand and fight like a real soldier.”

Lieutenant Maximus procured a matchbook from his pocket, waving it to the party. Corsair’s hardy expression faltered for a moment.

“Thinking of blowing up the gates, were we? Smart idea.”

He tossed the matchbook off to the side. The crucial item flew towards the ledge, doomed to plummet towards the debris and disappear amidst the bodies and stone, but Quickpaw intervened. The ictharr bound forth and caught the matchbook in his mouth, stopping just shy of the edge and darting back behind Corsair.

“Yes, ha! Good ictharr!” Corsair said, smiling.

Quickpaw’s tail wagged for a moment before stiffening once more. The subversion to Lieutenant Maximus’ plan failed to trigger any reaction from him. Instead, the lieutenant whistled and gestured towards Quickpaw. Thornfang lunged forth, the two other ictharrs following after, and darted between the two wolves. Corsair and Ragnar dodged to the sides and turned, anticipating an attack from the beasts, only to find Thornfang’s trio focused on Quickpaw. Harangoth stood strong before them, wedging himself between Quickpaw and the four-legged assailants. Thornfang padded around them and blocked off the steps leading back into the city.

“If you’d let that matchbook fly, Sedrid, maybe your little friend could have survived all of this,” Lieutenant Maximus said, snapping his digits. “Kill him, Thornfang!”

“Run, Quickpaw!” Corsair yelled.

Quickpaw turned and sprinted off along the wall. Thornfang lunged for his back legs but, as she did, Harangoth raised his front legs up and slammed his paws down on her head. She yelped and fell flat on her front, scrambling to get up as Harangoth turned and fled after Quickpaw. The snarling trio gave chase, snapping their fangs at the air.

Please be safe, Quickpaw.

Corsair turned back to Lieutenant Maximus. Rage bolstered his resolve, made retreating even a step an inconsolable act of defeat, and swore him to an oath of vengeance for all who had been wronged by the cruel lieutenant. For all who had suffered as a result of his part in the conspiracy between Opulus and Tiberius.

Gregor and Levin readied their weapons, bracing for combat. Corsair and Ragnar looked at one another – shared a look acknowledging the danger ahead that they would face together – and twirled their swords in unison.

“I’m not scared of you, Maximus,” Corsair said. “I won’t let you hurt anyone else. I’m putting you and your friends to the sword, here and now!”

The Butcher of Tomskon, adorned in blood of both past and present, spun his blade and took up face-on stance. The heads on his belt jostled in fear of the weapon that had brought their demise, the gaping mouths of slaughtered spirits unleashing terrified screams inaudible to the unknowing fools of the mortal realm.

“Oh, Sedrid,” he said, relishing the moment. “You have no idea how bad this will be for you.”

Chapter 20: The Allure of Bloodshed (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter Text

The arrow bounced off the lancer’s cuirass. Rohesia groaned in frustration as she fumbled for another arrow and knocked it, firing again at another legionnaire. It pierced their leg, but they persisted regardless, swinging to slay Lady Riskar. The feline wove between their strikes with prevailing elegance, flicking her wrist to dish out justly reprimand to the fools that stood against her. Justice’s Iris spared the foe no quarter and neither did Belthorpe. The masked rabbit dodged and weaved between the enemy as she swung her sword, slicing apart the opposition with great precision. Two legionnaires swung down at the same time. She caught both blades above her head, knelt and spun. Steel flashed, crimson burst from the legionnaires’ throats, and within a fraction of a second, she was upon another unfortunate.

Yet more kept coming. Legionnaires, galvanised against death’s terror by foolhardy resolve, surged up the ladder and continued their assault. Rohesia reached for another arrow and flinched as she felt her paw close on air, patting around for any stragglers left in her quiver.

“Tu morta!”

“Rohesia, fiend upon your flank!” Lady Riskar called.

Rohesia acknowledged the feline’s warning only in time for said fiend to knock her to the ground. Rohesia rolled with the momentum, evading the downward swing of the towering legionnaire’s blade that sought to carve her in half. The canine screamed in New Opulusian and persisted with their assault, trained strikes slashing through the air to rend her flesh. The aggressive onslaught sent Rohesia’s heart into panic – the legionnaire moved with such certainty in their victory that the possibility of failure in all its bloody and gruesome terror had no hold. Her life was guarded by the frail and short blade of a dagger against the battle-forged steel of a person all too familiar with slaughter. All she could do was backpedal.

A moment of unstoppable inertia. A half-second in which she felt an invisible force, malevolent in its intent, grasp at her ankle and tug. She gasped and stopped just shy of the ledge. All that remained behind her was a chasm of fire and blood. To take one more retreating step would be to reject one demise and volunteer for another of equally gruesome nature. The warrior had her cornered and, with such knowledge at the forefront of their mind, they thrusted their arm forth to grab Rohesia by the throat. The archer, desperate and trapped, ducked beneath the outstretched appendage and thrusted her dagger up at the hound’s throat. The thump of metal impacting flesh, accompanied by the sensation of sinew and muscle caving beneath sharpened steel, told her she had struck true.

Yet no relief came.

The legionnaire, gargling and hacking, swung their sword for her head. Rohesia grabbed the swinging arm and fought against the prevailing strength of the enemy. The duo fell onto their side, arms and legs entangled as they fought for control of the situation. Through the holes in the mask Rohesia could see the ever-persisting spirit of her foe, a soul who could not be stopped by something as feeble as a punctured throat, and how they powered through such a fatal blow on will alone was unfathomable.

“Get off me!” Rohesia yelled. “Ah, get off! Let go!”

With a snarl, she yanked the dagger clean of the gaping wound. The freeing of the blade made the legionnaire go taut, eyes widening as their mortal body finally realised the severity of the wound it had endured. Rohesia snarled as she powered the dagger into their throat again and again, flinching as crimson spattered across her face. The legionnaire gargled, the inextinguishable light in their eyes dimmed, but it was only with one final jab that Rohesia felt satisfied in her safety. She lay there for a moment, heaving under the duress, before she shoved the corpse off. The legionnaire rolled to the side and lay sprawled across the stone.

Rohesia wiped her eyes clear of the blood and stumbled onto her hind paws. The few arrows that had been in her quiver were strewn across the ground beside her bow. She raised her gaze from her discarded weaponry and found more foes rushing forth, Belthorpe and Lady Riskar moving to intercept those they could afford to trifle with.

A wet thump beside her.

Rohesia looked down at her hind paws.

There, fizzing and sparking, sat a pouch of burning linen. In the whisps of smoke that rose from the grenade, barely discernible in all the chaos of rain and starlight, she caught a glimpse of the end. The void. The vast vistas of emptiness, immeasurable in all its infinity, ushered upon her senses by a puff of dust and scorching shards of ceramic. The close proximity of the inevitable unnerved her, supplanted all earthly desire with the interminable need to put as much distance between herself and that ball of ugly death. Her paw moved and grasped the pouch, felt its rage fizzing in her paw as it pushed against the confines of its prison with mounting strength, and hurled it back towards the legionnaires as hard as she could.

Bang.

A grey supernova amidst the burning stars. The Ceramic Shrapnel grenade detonated mid-air above the hounds. They recoiled and tripped, thrown-off by the sudden explosion, yet their armour spared them from gruesome injury. Rohesia clutched her dagger with a shaking paw.

Either we hold them off or we all die.

That moment on the balcony came back to her. A fleeting glimpse of an evening in which she had never felt more alive. She felt his arm around her waist, revelled in how that second of candid conversation between them still made her heart flutter with hope for a future in which they could both be together without the world chasing them down.

Only if they succeeded there, in that carnage she wished to be rid of, could she ever have a chance at attaining that.

Maddened with hope, Rohesia bared her fangs and charged.

“I’ll kill every last one of you!”

…

Along the water-slickened stone slabs the ictharr fled, sprinting away from certain death with matchbook clutched tight in their jaws. Quickpaw ran with haste, air forced in and out to a frenzied rhythm as they attempted to evade not just the ferocious trio pursuing him but also the inescapable creep of fatigue. The toll such strenuous exertion had brought him beset the beast with fierce aching across his entire body, willing him to stop and take a break.

The terrifying snarls and howls behind Quickpaw were far more motivating.

Along the wall, left abandoned by the soldiers once posted there, sat a wagon. Pikes and halberds were left discarded in the back, some spilling out and falling onto the floor. Quickpaw bolted past but, within seconds, he skidded to a halt.

There was nowhere else to run. The walls of the city’s third section stood higher than the ramparts of the centre. All that stood ahead was an unyielding stone face, one that forbade his escape with an uncaring glare.

Quickpaw turned back and his ears folded. Harangoth charged after him, yowling a warning that their pursuers were closing in, and a second later the danger was substantiated. One of the pursuing ictharrs leapt onto Harangoth’s back and bit down on his flank, shaking their head to rip flesh. Harangoth yowled and kicked them off with his back legs, turning and lunging for the assailant’s throat. A second ictharr darted past Harangoth and bolted for Quickpaw. Quickpaw, stricken with fear, darted for the wagon and slid underneath it as the attacker lunged and sailed overhead. Quickpaw had nary a few seconds to pull himself under as the enemy ictharr turned around and lunged, trying to force itself beneath the heavy wagon yet forbidden by their significantly larger stature. Quickpaw yowled for help, wincing with every bite that closed on the air just shy of his body.

With a roar, Harangoth charged in and knocked the beast aside. The enemy ictharr rolled and slid across the slabs, scrambling to recover. The second lunged and latched onto Harangoth once more, sending both tumbling along the wall in a tight ball of bloody violence and anger. Quickpaw watched from under the wagon, filled with fear at the thought of what those two ictharrs would do to him but also admiration for how valiantly his friend fought to protect him.

Quickpaw had a fraction of a second to feel a tight grip on his right ear before the sharp pain struck.

Quickpaw yowled as a mighty force grasped his ear and yanked hard, trying to drag him out from beneath the wagon. The matchbook fell beneath him, shielded by his body. Quickpaw’s front paws clawed at the wet stone for purchase and only found resistance in the wagon’s heavy wheels, pressing against them to steady himself. He looked ahead, whining and crying as a burning ring further sank into his right ear, only to be greeted with that familiar visage of torment. Thornfang’s cold eyes met his, her fierce form eclipsing the starlight, and did not waver as she continued to tug. Quickpaw went taut as the pain spiked and he heard a disgusting rip of his own flesh but willed himself to not surrender, knowing what even greater torture awaited him outside the wagon’s protection. Quickpaw howled and shrieked for Harangoth, calling to his comrade for aid, yet no such help came.

Quickpaw, bracing himself, yanked his head away from Thornfang. The gargantuan beast recoiled and fell onto her side, trophy held snug between her jaws, while Quickpaw shied away from the gap and bared his fangs. Blood trickled down from the fresh wound and onto the right side of his face, forcing him to blink away the thin trails of blood snaking into his eye. Thornfang spat the bloody ear out, licked her mouth clean of fresh-spilled victory, before lunging at the wagon once more. She heaved against it and forced it back, moving it as if it was nothing. Quickpaw grabbed the matchbook and crawled back with the wagon, trying to keep up with the moving cover, but Thornfang let his cowering go no further. She yanked the wagon back in the other direction and tossed it onto its side. Quickpaw’s eyes widened as he realised he was exposed, darting away before Thornfang could close her bloodied fangs on his neck. Harangoth joined the fray and rammed into Thornfang, positioning himself in front of Quickpaw. Quickpaw took a moment to breathe, heaving with every inhale and exhale.

Another burning brand closed on his right hind leg.

Quickpaw’s body stiffened, fur standing upright, and turned to confront his attacker. One of the two attacking ictharrs converged, bloodied by Harangoth’s reprisal yet still frenzied by adrenaline. They tugged on Quickpaw’s leg as if to rip it off. Quickpaw struggled, made manic by the fangs sinking into his flesh, before swinging his body around. The attacking ictharr swung with him, grip loosening as they turned with their back to the wall’s edge.

Quickpaw kicked hard with their left hind leg.

The hind paw struck the attacker square in the jaw. Their grip loosened and they recoiled, stumbling back whilst oblivious to the ledge. Quickpaw hesitated, confronted with what came next, but the fresh pain proved a poignant reminder of what would befall him otherwise. He snarled and kicked out with both legs, hitting the ictharr in the face and knocking them over the side. The attacker’s bravado evaporated, and they let out a terrified howl as they plummeted to certain doom. Quickpaw ripped their gaze from the edge and turned, expecting the second to make their move. To the wounded creature’s relief and fear, their foe lay dead and bloodied across the floor. The side of their throat had been ripped open, flesh rent by Harangoth’s maw, and blood fled the dead vessel through the grievous opening. Vacant eyes stared at Quickpaw.

Harangoth landed beside Quickpaw, laid out on his side. He snarled and grunted as he stood back up, getting in front of Quickpaw once again. The white ictharr peered around his towering friend only to find that shadow of death waiting for him on the other side, hardly phased by Harangoth’s resistance. Thornfang gnashed her teeth, gaze focused on Quickpaw, and took a leisurely step forward.

Harangoth looked back at Quickpaw, his concerned grey eyes drawn to Quickpaw’s bleeding ear. Quickpaw shivered violently, both fatigue and death’s terror sinking its claws ever deeper into the small beast, but knew he had nowhere else to go. He placed the matchbook down and eased it underneath the dead ictharr’s corpse, limping around to Harangoth’s side and preparing to pounce.

Thornfang looked between the two defiant beasts, tail flicking with sad*stic excitement, and bared her bloodied fangs in an expression of great anticipation.

…

Lieutenant Maximus thrusted his sword at the two defiant wolves and bellowed to his grunts.

“Kill them!”

Levin stepped aside and raised his bow, knocking an arrow and letting it fly. Corsair dove to the ground as the projectile flew overhead, rushing back up to his hind paws as Gregor lunged with a swing. Corsair clashed blades as Ragnar charged for Levin, shield raised to catch the second arrow he fired. Gregor moved and attacked like a belligerent drunkard, all strength with no skill, yet with every strike against Corsair’s sword he discovered how Krosguard training had weaponised such brutish nature. Corsair retreated a step for every incoming swing, deterred by the soldier’s overwhelming aggression.

“Stand still, you little bastard!” Gregor snarled.

Corsair backpedalled an extra step more than usual. Gregor’s sword struck the ground, offering Corsair the lapse in his guard to stab forward with his longsword. The tip of the blade struck Gregor’s chest, but the formidable plate forbade further progress. Gregor smacked away the sword and haphazardly slashed in all directions, attempting to dice Corsair into many tiny pieces.

“Come on, Sedrid, you’re boring me!” Gregor cackled.

Corsair yelled and charged forward, swinging up. His longsword clanged against the incoming swing and left Gregor open. Corsair’s shoulder crashed into Gregor and sent the brute stumbling away, arms flailing to counterbalance. The next few steps of his demise came to Corsair without thinking. Corsair swung the longsword down, sweeping Gregor’s legs with the blade’s broadside.

“H-hey!” Gregor bellowed.

Gregor fell onto his back, sprawled out with sword down to his side. Corsair raised the blade up and poised it to skewer Maximus’ peon, preparing to put his entire body weight into the finishing blow.

Clang.

Corsair cried out as an overpowering force knocked him onto his back. He looked beyond the floundering Gregor and saw Maximus there with a javelin ready, the one that had knocked Corsair over lying discarded on the ground. The blow had dented his breastplate, pushing the metal armour inward to rest against Corsair’s chest. Maximus raised his arm to throw again, a gesture that prompted Corsair to roll in anticipation of another blow. Such evasive endeavours remained futile as Maximus waited for Corsair to come to a stop before throwing the second, striking Corsair’s chest plate once again. Corsair yelped, knocked onto his back again.

“Where’s that flashy rabbit friend to save you now, Sedrid?” Maximus yelled.

A flash of steel and the lieutenant was upon him. Corsair swung up with his sword and clashed blades with Maximus. They both jockeyed for position, scraping metal against metal as they shifted their locked swords. Corsair’s arms trembled under the exertion.

“Just think, Sedrid,” Maximus growled. “While you’re here fighting, your little friend is getting ripped open. You should have let that matchbook fly!”

“Get away from him!”

Ragnar shoved Levin away and swung for Maximus. The lieutenant weaved out the way of the sword and stabbed at Ragnar’s shield, striking the wooden face with a splintering crack. Corsair scrambled onto his hind paws as Levin stumbled towards him. The archer had enough time to drop his bow and unsheathe his short sword before the young Sedrid engaged him. His attacks came slower, a far cry from Gregor’s unrelenting savagery, but each one aimed for weak points in Corsair’s armour. He slashed at the eyes and the neck, stabbed at the hind paws and wrists, all of which Corsair struggled to bat away. Corsair jabbed forward with the hilt of his sword, but Levin leaned back out of his reach, countering with a strike against Corsair’s side. The blade failed to cut below the metal but the repeated blows to his armour troubled Corsair as to its remaining integrity.

Levin snatched up the bow and, backpedalling away from Corsair, threw it as hard as he could. The attack caught Corsair in the middle of a swing and he recoiled, startled by the sudden toss. Levin sprinted towards Ragnar, sword poised to be thrusted into his back as he was preoccupied with Maximus. Corsair ran to intervene, but Gregor was back on his hind paws, swinging at him with a murderous vengeance.

“Behind!” Corsair yelled. “Behind!”

With shield still raised towards Maximus, Ragnar turned and swung with his sword. The attack caught Levin off-guard and struck the hilt of his weapon, knocking it from his paw and sending it clattering away along the stone. Levin stood there, dumbfounded by how quickly he had been disarmed, and Ragnar raised the sword up to penalise such loose grip. He hesitated, frozen by some invisible obstacle, before staying his blade and instead swinging around with the shield. The rim caught Levin in the side of the head and knocked him into the stone wall of the battlement.

“Quit napping, Lev, and help me gut Sedrid!” Gregor yelled.

Levin struggled to get up. Corsair focused on fighting back Gregor and, after a few defensive swings, seized his opportunity. He ducked beneath a swing and thrusted his sword’s pommel upwards. The blow struck the bottom of Gregor’s helmet and knocked it from his head, sending it bouncing along the stone until it disappeared over the side. Gregor hesitated, dazed, and that was all Corsair needed to fend off his attacker. A slash of his longsword carved a fresh gash across Gregor’s face, cutting diagonally from just above his eye and down along his snout. Gregor yelped, reeling back and swinging wildly to drive Corsair away. Corsair caught the blade, feinted a swing to provoke the frenzied attacker, and then punched full force at his snout. The bone beneath his metal gauntlet fractured with a crack and the agony of such an injury beset Gregor immediately. He dropped his sword and fell onto his back, both paws up to his snout as he screamed.

“You little sh*t! Ahhh, you broke my goddamn nose!”

A scream from the left. Corsair turned to see Levin charging him once more, paws grabbing at his longsword to wrench it away. He batted at Corsair with his free paw, trying to wrench the helmet off his head and hit him with it.

“Give it!” Levin yelled. “You stupid little sh*t, give it here!”

Corsair yanked Levin across his body, positioned his elbow in front of his face, and jabbed it back hard. Levin recoiled as the blow struck him between the eyes, grip loosening on the sword. Corsair kicked him away and swung hard. The longsword cleaved into the side of their torso, crunching through armour. Levin yelped and shoved the sword away, falling onto their rear with as they shielded the fresh wound.

“sh*t!” Levin yelped. “Max! Help, Maximus!”

Gregor grabbed for Corsair’s ankle, trying to pull him back from Levin. Corsair shook off his weak grasp and kicked him in the side, rolling him onto his back once more. Corsair raised his sword, aimed the tip for Levin’s chest, and thrusted the blade forth with all his might.

“You bastard!”

Clang.

Another flash of steel and Maximus’ blade was yet again blocking Corsair’s, shielding Levin from a brutal death. Corsair looked right just in time for Maximus to grab the rim of his helmet and yank it off, throwing it at Corsair hard. Corsair recoiled and retreated a few steps, shaking off the startling surprise and taking up face-on stance once more.

A lull to the chaos. A still moment in the storm. The aftermath of the initial bout was laid bare. Gregor lay on his back, heaving air through his mouth as blood continued to dribble across his face. Levin sat with his back against the battlement wall, paws resting against the gash in his armour. Blood trickled from the crevice, far less than Corsair had intended on spilling, but it immobilised the foe all the same.

All that still remained was their ringleader.

The Butcher of Tomskon stood between Corsair and Ragnar, longsword in one paw pointed towards Ragnar. The eldest Sedrid heaved from the exhaustion of the affair, what was visible of his face wincing under the strain. The paw holding his battered shield rested against the mending rib hidden below blotched leather. It was only as Corsair observed Ragnar’s fatigue that he felt his own so tangibly weakening him. The dent of his armour pressed into his chest made drawing in adequate air a tiring battle. His arms struggled to hold the longsword up. His mouth hung open in an eternal pant, dry from the rushed breathing and yearning to be quenched by fresh water. How cruel it was that the rain no longer fell with the necessary ferocity to satiate his thirst.

The Butcher of Tomskon regarded both exhausted wolves with a smirk.

“A couple minutes of fighting and you’re out of breath already. What potential did that old idiot ever see in you, Sedrid?”

“In making monsters like you bleed,” Corsair snapped, flourishing his weapon. “Once I’ve killed you, your two friends will be next. You die tonight. You all die tonight.”

The Butcher of Tomskon dragged Levin’s short sword over with his hind paw, kicked it up into the air and grabbed it. He thrusted it towards Corsair, eyes misted over with an emboldening lust for blood.

“I wouldn’t be too sure. It’s just you and me now, Sedrid. No dancing rabbits or Nedatic idiots to get in the way. Running is all you’re good for and it’s the only thing that can save you now.”

Corsair met Ragnar’s gaze. His brother nodded to him, jaw tensed in determination. Before them was another bloody battle to be fought to the brutal end. One slip up, one misstep, and their collective fate would be sealed. So much rode on the beating heart of a monster, too much to let recent confessions get in the way. Lingering animosity could wait. Corsair nodded back and stood ready to decimate the monster.

The Butcher of Tomskon grinned.

“Bravery or stupidity…it’s a death wish all the same.”

…

Thornfang jerked her body forward as if to pounce. Quickpaw and Harangoth recoiled in anticipation but held their ground. The foul beast repeated her false movements again and again, eyes focused on Harangoth, until she broke her façade and lunged for Quickpaw. An involuntary yelp of fear escaped Quickpaw as he darted back. Harangoth lunged to intercept but Thornfang knocked him out the way, her pursuit of Quickpaw guided by an unswaying obsession. Quickpaw retreated as she gnashed her fangs on the air. Trying to dart to the side and escape around her was a fool’s endeavour with such narrow space. Thornfang’s sheer bulk forbade Quickpaw from egress, confined him to the rapidly decreasing space where he would be torn apart by her overwhelming power. His right hind leg issued a profound sting that became more prominent with every sudden movement, further hindering his ability to evade his demise.

Harangoth struck from behind. He pounced atop Thornfang’s back and bit down on the vest, tearing away at the leather shielding the vulnerable flesh below. Thornfang roared, bucking and shaking to throw Harangoth off. Quickpaw willed himself to fight and pounced forth, maw open wide to rend flesh, but his attack was cut short. Thornfang reared on her back legs and flailed with her front, catching Quickpaw during his lunge and knocking him back. Quickpaw rolled and crashed into the back wall, standing just in time for Thornfang to spin and fling Harangoth off her back. Tremendous force struck Quickpaw as Harangoth collided with him, knocking both into the back wall and leaving them in a messy heap. Quickpaw fought to get back up, terror at the thought of Thornfang rushing forward with maw agape, but found her to be converging instead on the corpse of her fallen comrade.

The matchbook.

Bearing the pain through grit fangs, Quickpaw darted for the corpse. Harangoth yowled for him to stop, to not face the behemoth alone, but his master’s words were all he cared to follow in the midst of blood and fear. He grasped onto the little hope he could find, vested in the large rip Harangoth’s assault had left on Thornfang’s saddle armour. With newfound might, Quickpaw leapt up onto Thornfang’s back and sank his fangs into his leathery quarry. Shaking his head as if to fervently decline defeat, the padding relented with a surrendering rip as it fell away from Thornfang’s body. Quickpaw’s eyes fell upon the ictharr’s exposed neck, on the secured future spilling her blood would bring, and opened his mouth once more to eviscerate his foe.

His assault went no further.

Thornfang roared and slammed Quickpaw into the battlement wall. The blow stunned Quickpaw, interrupted his violent plans, and afforded Thornfang a lethal opening. Thornfang darted out from underneath the dazzled ictharr. Quickpaw fell and landed atop the dead ictharr, sprawled on his side.

Before he could even retaliate – before he could retreat from his failed attack – Thornfang closed her mouth on his right hind leg.

The pain was beyond what any wild animal could hope to rationalise, beyond what any being could attempt to endure with dignity. As the fangs sunk deep into the flesh, taking advantage of the damage already wrought by their deceased affiliates, an overwhelming wretched torment assaulted Quickpaw. His body screamed out as it felt such barbaric force rip far deeper than anything could ever be allowed to do so, as this intrusion waged war on the intricate internal arrangement of sinew and bone, and it threw Quickpaw into blind panic. He flailed and howled and shrieked as Thornfang maimed his leg, crying out for Harangoth to save him from the advance of death’s shadow. Harangoth roared and rushed forward to attack, but Thornfang dealt with him easily, letting go of Quickpaw’s leg and batting away Harangoth with her mighty paws.

Quickpaw whimpered. The pain immobilised him, left him stranded so close to a gory passing, and reached that frighteningly clear realisation that there was nought he could do. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide, and he couldn’t fight. All he could do was watched as Thornfang turned, reared up on her back legs, and slammed her front paws atop his head.

…

The Butcher of Tomskon didn’t move for a moment. He remained in place between Corsair and Ragnar, each arm stretched out to aim his two swords at his adversaries, and his expression didn’t shift from that accursed look of malicious glee. Corsair waited for him to budge. Ragnar echoed such an approach.

And move he did.

Lieutenant Maximus turned and swung with both blades at Ragnar. Ragnar raised his shield and caught both attacks but the ferocity of which the lieutenant struck forbade him from a retaliating strike. The lieutenant swung and stabbed from so many sides, alternating between innumerable angles of attack, that Ragnar was swiftly overwhelmed. His shield crumpled and caved in, parts breaking off from the edge.

Corsair charged and swung down. Lieutenant Maximus kicked Ragnar’s shield and knocked him back, giving him the necessary space to shift his focus to Corsair. As swiftly as he had launched his offensive, Corsair found himself on the defensive. With all the deliberate grace of Levin and the brutish power of Gregor, he proceeded to berate Corsair with many a slash and stab. Corsair went to parry one swing but swung through the air as Lieutenant Maximus retracted his arm and stabbed from the other side. Corsair grunted as the blade punctured between the plates and stopped at the chainmail, kicking Maximus back to create space.

“First hit to me,” Lieutenant Maximus said.

Corsair looked past him. Ragnar nodded, having recovered. The duo both yelled and charged forward, swinging at the same time. The lieutenant turned sideways and, with one blade each to face each sibling, batted them away. A lifetime of fighting and killing guided each paw to intercept incoming swings with almost no effort involved. The lieutenant feinted a swing and evaded Ragnar’s deflection, swinging at his head. The strike knocked Ragnar’s sallet from his helmet and sent it bouncing away along the wall.

“Ah, damn it!” Ragnar yelled.

Corsair swung down hard. Grand satisfaction bloomed as his longsword struck the lieutenant’s side. Such glee dissipated as the attack failed to break armour and, instead, summoned the sad*st’s full wrath and attention. Spinning, he slashed down over his shoulder. The combined force of both weapons knocked the sword from Corsair’s paw, landing just between the lieutenant’s legs. Maximus kicked it back behind him and stabbed forward. Corsair ducked and dove between his legs, grabbing his longsword and turning onto his back as Maximus swung down. He caught both blades in that painfully familiar deadlock.

Clang.

The lieutenant yelped as Ragnar slammed the rim of his faltering shield into his side. Ragnar followed up his blow with a stab, denting armour, before using the shield to ram him further back.

“Hey, you okay?” Ragnar asked, getting in front of Corsair with shield raised.

“Yeah,” Corsair said, standing. “The armour stopped it.”

The lieutenant recovered. Levin and Gregor crawled over to him and sought refuge behind, away from the two brothers.

“Not bad, Sedrid,” the Butcher of Tomskon scoffed. “Not bad at all.”

Corsair glanced right to Ragnar. His older brother stood as tall as he could, but his exhaustion was evident in his stance. He leaned forward slightly, his face strained in a permanent grimace of discomfort, and his tail sagged behind him. Breath came in ragged gasps.

“Your rib,” Corsair said.

“It’s not important,” Ragnar groaned. “We need to deal with him.”

They refocused on the lieutenant. That expression of smug amusem*nt remained on his face, unphased by their combined efforts.

“Get on his left side, I’ll hold the right,” Ragnar muttered. “If we can get him against the wall, he can’t run anywhere.”

“Got it,” Corsair said.

Unleashing a united battle cry, the two brothers charged. Lieutenant Maximus swung and the clash resumed. Blade came against blade, mettle against mettle, all to the chaotic symphony of growls and muttered curses. No longer divided, the siblings were able to wage an attack far more effective than their individual attempts prior. Their assault was concentrated, its ferocity greater, and even fighting with two blades the lieutenant was forced to make a far more overt effort to defend himself. Corsair shifted position left and right, weaving out the way of swings and retaliating with his own during the lapses of his guard. With one paw placed halfway along the longsword’s blade, Corsair forced his weapon between plates and wrenched off a pauldron. Ragnar hacked at his side and tore off the plating there. Maximus grunted and groaned as the toll of the attack increased, pieces of armour falling from him and denting inwards. Corsair darted left to Maximus’ side and bashed into him with his shoulder, knocking the butcher into the wall.

“Now!” Ragnar yelled.

Corsair rushed forward and thrusted the sword through the mail with both paws. The blade sank below the protective padding, scoring a hit. The lieutenant went taught and knocked the sword away. The amount of crimson on the tip was disappointing but the penetration was promising. Ragnar trapped Maximus against the wall with his shield and repeatedly swung overhead. The continued barrage pulverised his armour, Ragnar screaming with every swing. The lieutenant had nowhere to go, panic setting in as his defence crumbled, and flailed with both weapons in an attempt to shoo off the assailants.

“Die!” Corsair screamed. “Die, die, you wicked piece of sh*t!”

Corsair slashed at his legs, feeling the blade chew through the diminishing layers. The lieutenant yelped, yanking one leg back. Corsair’s attack had rewarded another crimson dressing along the edge of his sword. The Butcher of Tomskon teetered before his grave, armour failing and will faltering. With him gone they could slay his underlings, find their ictharrs and collapse the gates to halt the unrelenting assault.

As Corsair pulled back his longsword, blade aimed for that window of crimson opportunity, the Butcher of Tomskon raised his blade over Ragnar’s shield. Ragnar’s arm was already up to swing and moved too slow to intercept. An attack unable to be interrupted by either sibling. A strike that none could move in time to parry, block, or redirect.

A downward slash across Ragnar’s face.

Ragnar recoiled as if he had been struck by a battering ram. The shield fell from his arm, clattering to the ground. He gasped, paw up to the left side of his face, and stumbled back.

Corsair froze.

Crimson poured down from beneath his gauntlet, crawling along his neck.

That short gasp was just the precursor to the fresh torture that swiftly followed.

Ragnar screamed, mouth open wide in guttural anguish. His dedication to the attack collapsed as he did, stumbling off to the right and falling onto all fours. He gasped and then unleashed a shriek, a sound that could only be summoned by incomprehensible stinging pain.

“Corsair!” he shrieked. “Corsair!”

The Butcher of Tomskon stepped forward and thrusted his blade to stab Ragnar through the back. Corsair abandoned his attack and dove in front of his mortally wounded brother, catching the bloodthirsty sword.

“Ragnee!” Corsair yelled. “What’s—”

Another shriek of excruciating torment. Blood fell from Ragnar’s face and spattered across the stone, mingling with the water. The butcher stabbed at the sizeable dent in Corsair’s breastplate with his second sword, breaking through. Corsair grunted, saved by leather and mail. He knocked the blade away and refocused upon their clash. The lieutenant shifted the blade one way, and he shoved it the other.

Beyond their stalemate, lingering behind the crimson-slathered metal, that expression of malice had returned.

“Two hits, Sedrid,” Lieutenant Maximus growled. “One more to go.”

Corsair didn’t know what to say. His brother’s pained shrieking interrupted coherent thought, ushered in mounting stress and panic.

“Oh? So quiet, Sedrid!” the lieutenant snarled. “You were so talkative a few seconds ago! No worries, a scream will do just fine!”

With that, the lieutenant shoved their clash up. Corsair’s longsword slipped from his grasp and flew into the air, blade tip pointed to the sky.

Everything slowed.

No rain. No storm. No imminent death.

There he was again. Ignatius’ Mount. The crowds cheered and roared. The vendors peddled food and drink. The sunlight glinted off the spinning skyward blade. Krosguard graduates lined the wall of the church.

His mother and father watched.

Two to two.

One hit left.

Corsair knew what to do.

As Maximus stabbed, Corsair sidestepped the attack. He knocked the arms away, forcing the sword out of his paws, and spun around him. His back pressed against Maximus’ side as he evaded. He felt the crunch of light snow beneath him. The sword reached the top of its arc and floated back down. The audience watched on in anticipation. The sword shone with righteous purpose.

His eyes were on him.

Corsair reached up. His outstretched paw grasped for the heavens, ready to receive the descending wrathful sword.

He’d won in that moment. Yet, from then on, what had he done? Everything had crumbled and failed. If it had not died, it had turned against him. That decade leading up to that very moment had all been for nothing.

Ten years of training.

Ten years of fighting.

Ten years of the best he could do.

Ten years warped and forged into a utensil for blood spilling.

Ten years wasted.

Maximus’ paw reached over Corsair’s and snatched the sword. The rain returned. Reality in all its blood-spattered destructive glory bled back in.

“No!” Corsair shouted, eyes wide.

Corsair lunged to yank the sword from Maximus’ control, but it was too late. The cruel lieutenant held the weapon out of reach and kicked hard. Corsair grunted and stumbled into the battlement wall, disarmed and defenceless.

The Butcher of Tomskon levelled the sword at the vulnerable wolf. Brutal fate glinted in the blade, glimpsed between the spattered dots of blood, and Corsair didn’t know what to do. Encased in compromised armour and with nothing nearby to his aid, his eyes searched for answers to usurp the terrifying one the world had given him. One that he had only half a second to register as the Butcher of Tomskon lunged.

The hit was all but confirmed by Corsair’s guttural shriek.

The wolf went taut. A disgusting squish of flesh and the cracking of bone confirmed the impossible. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open to drag in air yet, with every heave of his chest, all that answered his desperation was blood. Crimson dribbled from his mouth and dripped to the ground, lost in the puddles of rainwater.

He looked down.

There was his sword – his steel trophy case – planted firmly in his chest.

He fell to his knees, eyes fixated upon his demise.

“Yes, Max!” Gregor laughed. “Yes!”

“That’s right!” the lieutenant cackled. “I got you good, Sedrid! Take a long look! I got you good, you tricky little sh*t!”

Whatever Corsair wished to say, it would remain a mystery. He opened his mouth to speak, to cry in pain, but all his failing body could offer was blood. He spluttered and strained, unable to enunciate the physical torment, and could only remain silent as the Butcher of Tomskon grabbed his face and forced him to look into his eyes.

“Don’t look so troubled, Sedrid. I’ll take good care of your brother. Then your Krosguard friends. Then your runt of an ictharr. And then? I’ll go find that little archer friend of yours from the capital and I’ll finish strangling the life out of her. I’ll tell her all about how you screamed and begged for her to save you but she just wasn’t good enough.”

Corsair tried to plead. There was no dignity in the act yet, at the precipice, dignity meant nothing. All that came up was blood.

“Tell your family that Tiberius sends his warmest regards, Sedrid.”

Corsair croaked. Sensation numbed. His vision blurred and his eyes stung. He fought a losing battle to keep breathing, but no air would come. All he could do was sit there, saddled with the terror of a failing body, and choke on his own blood.

“No!”

Corsair, gagging, turned his head left. Ragnar faced him, still on all fours and blood obscuring the left side of his face. He reached out to the dying Sedrid with one arm as if to pull him back from the abyss.

“No!” he wailed. “Corsair! Corsair!”

In that moment, Corsair wanted nothing more than to call back out to him. To cry his name in response, to use his final moments to say something – anything – that was more meaningful than the sounds of faltering flesh.

He was so young. He couldn’t die there. There was too much left undone, too many people left behind. His friends. His allies. His home.

Rohesia.

Ragnar.

Quickpaw.

Time fleeting and life ebbing, all he could do was use the last of his air and life to say one last word.

“Rag…nee…”

His head hung. His vision faded. His heart slowed. His mind clouded. The plague that had devoured his life had finally come to devour him whole.

No more years to waste.

…

Consciousness’ return proved ambivalent. Quickpaw whimpered and panted as the immobilising pain of his right leg faded in and out, willing him out of merciful sleep. He didn’t dare look at how bad his leg was. He rolled onto his front, growling with discomfort, before looking around him.

There she was.

Thornfang stood over Harangoth, no evidence of much harm endured by her other than the ferocious panting the ordeal of bringing down such an opponent would bring. Harangoth lay on his side, eyes closed and body heaving. His caparison was ripped, and blood matted his flanks, a precursor to the torture Thornfang would continue to inflict upon him.

The wicked beast spotted Quickpaw.

It proved difficult to hold his ground as she turned to approach. The lingering torment of his right leg and right ear were fresh reminders of the lethality her bloodied fangs wielded. An involuntary yelp of fear escaped him as she eased her maw over the scruff of his neck and dragged him across the wet stone, depositing him in the middle of the path before Harangoth.

His caparison clung to his soaked body. His delirious and afraid mind wandered. His spirit trembled. As Thornfang retreated a few steps and growled for him to get up, Harangoth mewled that he was there beside him. Quickpaw rested against his friend for a moment, relished the security being side-by-side brought for a few fleeting seconds, before he pushed himself up to stand. He hobbled forward and stopped, head hung and ears limp.

Thornfang snarled, lowering herself down to pounce.

He stood before her weak, alone, and afraid. There was no hope in fighting her, no hope in fleeing while so grievously wounded, and no hope in calling his master to save him. Back to the wall and nowhere else to go, all Quickpaw could do was wait for the end and hope it came quick enough that he wouldn’t have a chance to realise it.

…

He'd failed again.

The sight of his sibling’s corpse issued an unconscionable sting that overrode the searing pain of his slashed face. Corsair rested on his knees, slumped over his own sword with both paws still clutching the blade. The sight was unconscionable. Even when half the world had been plunged into darkness, even when he could only peer at existence through one remaining stinging eye, there was no refuting what he saw.

“Corsair!” Ragnar wailed. “Get up!”

No movement.

“One brother down,” the Butcher of Tomskon said as he picked up his own sword, grimacing. “One more to go.”

Ragnar snarled, fangs bared, and lunged for the lieutenant with arms outstretched. Lieutenant Maximus weaved away from his swinging arms and punched at his ribs. A jolt of pain wracked his system as the blow struck his brace, halting his attack and summoning a cry from him. All his will to fight dissipated in the blink of an eye, and he couldn’t resist as the lieutenant shoved him over, leaving him sprawled across the stone.

“No,” Ragnar rasped. “H-he can’t be…”

“Take it easy, Sedrid, before you hurt yourself.”

Ragnar gasped for air, locomotion impeded by the overwhelming pain of his eye and his agitated rib. Gregor and Levin got to their hind paws and shuffled over to the butcher, groaning and grunting.

“You got the brat,” Gregor scoffed, looking at Corsair’s corpse. “Good shot.”

“No thanks to you two,” the lieutenant said. “You fought like you hadn’t held a sword in your life.”

The two underlings ignored the insult and turned their attention to the final remnant of the Sedrid family. Ragnar stared up at the starry sky, vision dazzled by burning flares and half impeded by crimson and darkness. Immobilised down to his soul.

There they shone. Apathetic. Uncaring. Bathing a world of horrid existence in light that promised hope yet offered nothing but despair. The lieutenant crouched down beside him. He winced as he lowered himself, one paw to where Corsair had prodded him.

“The shining heir of the Sedrid family. The supposed next Winter Baron. The one who tried to overthrow the proper order of things.”

Ragnar continued to stare up at the sky. He couldn’t cry, couldn’t yell, and couldn’t fight. There was nothing left.

“The things people say about you now. Traitor. Coward. Conniving little conspirator. A wolf that gambled all he had on greed. You spent all those years earning their trust and, in one week, it was gone. Taking your head back home would have a lot of people in the taverns drinking like it’s the new year.”

Ragnar said nothing.

“Oh, Sedrid, don’t be too upset. This was going to happen sooner or later. If the Deuvick Feldanas didn’t get you, I would. You never had much of a chance to begin with. It’s not so bad if you were always destined to lose, right?”

Lieutenant Maximus leaned in.

“You were lucky Tiberius felt so guilty about having you arrested. You don’t know how many times I asked to be the one to carve your head off in front of all those people. Tiberius said no. He feels like he has to keep me on a short leash. But the world has a weird way of working back around to how it wants things to go, doesn’t it?”

The lieutenant stood and raised his sword up, blade poised to decapitate Ragnar.

“Here concludes the tale of Ragnar Sedrid. He dies a traitor of the clan he swore to lead, a failure of his people, and with him his poisoned bloodline comes to an end. So long, turncoat.”

Ragnar cared not for his death. To live alone, left with the burning memory of a family devoured by conspiracy and greed, was no better than to die so brutally. He looked past the weapon and continued looking up to the sky. He gazed up at the galleries of stars, shining behind the burning flares, that looked down upon him with nothing but apathy. His end meant nothing to them. His life had been nothing but a flash in a world that would only remember to erode him into a desiccated carcass.

I failed you, Corsair…and I failed everyone else. I just wanted to save you.

He remembered sitting in front of that basket, peering down at the feeble wolf he had sworn to protect. In the end, he had spared none of them from death.

I’m so sorry I wasn’t good enough.

“Wait,” Levin said.

“Levin,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

“No, wait, the other one just moved.”

The lieutenant lowered the sword and looked over his shoulder. Ragnar craned his head up.

Corsair still knelt against the battlement wall. The sword was still thrusted through his chest.

My little brother…he’s…

“What about him?” Lieutenant Maximus said.

“He moved,” Levin said.

“What?” Gregor said. “No way, he’s run through.”

Their confusion roused embers of hope. Ragnar’s eye scanned for any signs of life, any movement that signalled a lingering spirit, but he found none. Whatever Levin had spotted, Ragnar had been too late to see.

“Gregor, go make sure he’s dead,” Lieutenant Maximus said.

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Gregor said. “Wait until I check, maybe we can have a brotherly send-off for both of them.”

Lieutenant Maximus lowered his sword and pressed its tip into the ground, resting both paws on the pommel. Ragnar raised a feeble arm to snatch it, to try and resist, but the lieutenant did not entertain his desperate attempt. The lieutenant pushed the arm away with his boot and then planted it on his chest.

“Get…away from him,” Ragnar growled.

“Really?” Lieutenant Maximus chuckled. “Is that a threat?”

“I’ll…I’ll kill all…all…”

“Shut up,” Levin spat.

“Don’t…touch—"

“I said shut it!”

Levin kicked him in the side. Ragnar yelped but did not let the kick deter his gaze. He trained his eye on Corsair, prayed that he would somehow best the approaching fighter, but still couldn’t find the movement Levin had spoken of.

Instead, he focused on something more peculiar. Something more worthy of investigation. Even at the threshold between the living and the dead, one swing away from being shoved across, his delirious mind managed to rally around one curious aspect.

He had seen so much blood in the last few weeks. He had been witness to violence in all its terrible gratuitous nature. He had been rid of innocence and left with knowledge of civilisation’s most depraved ways of conflict. Yet, up until now, he never remembered blood looking so dark.

Like ink.

Chapter 21: All Back to the Immortal Canvas (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter Text

The first thing he could feel was the cold. It was a gnawing and penetrative chill that struck him at the very centre of his being. All that made up Corsair Sedrid, all that bound the wolf into one coherent and discernible being of mortal living, was set upon by a thoroughly hostile climate.

The world faded in. It was not like the realm he had known for twenty long years. There was no colour, no vibrance. Everything, outlined in the shimmering crude lines of ink drawings, was set upon a background of beige. All that differentiated the ground from the sky was the horizon etched in black by a trembling paw.

And he was alone.

He was hunched over his own blade. The longsword had penetrated the dent in his breastplate, torn the protective padding below asunder and gorged on the flesh beneath, but no longer did he feel that disabling sting. He straightened his back and rested both paws on the blade, anticipating jolts of mortal anguish yet being rewarded with nothing.

Is it over?

A glance around revealed nothing. All he could see was the snowy ground he knelt upon. He stood, bewildered by his ability to do so, and pivoted in place.

“Hello? Ragnee?”

Nothing but the howling winds.

“Hello? Hey! Is…is anyone there?”

Corsair spun.

“Rohesia? Quickpaw? Axel? Anyone?”

None were around to answer. Corsair’s ears lowered and his tail curled down. His breath quickened.

“Someone! God’s sake, hello? Somebody say something to me, please!”

He truly was as alone as he feared.

As his despair mounted and his cries teetered on desperation, lines faded in on the world of parchment. They formed houses on either side of a stone pathway that lead to a square, market stalls packed close together before a clearing around a towering statue, and stables sitting empty outside shut taverns and inns.

Corsair looked up. Julian Krosguard, the first of his princely line, looked down at him with noble determination etched into his stone face.

Even without colour, he recognised it within seconds.

I’m…here?

“Corsair.”

Corsair whirled around, backpedalling into a stall. He looked left and right.

“H-hey!” Corsair bellowed. “What the hell is going on?”

“Corsair.”

Distorted and unclear, as if echoing down a long tunnel, the voice came from his left. A glance in that direction pointed Corsair towards the main pathway cutting through the capital.

“You know where.”

The voice said no more. Corsair didn’t move, uncertain of everything this existence had brought upon him so suddenly, but another sweeping scan of the nearby vicinity showed that he was as alone as he thought he was. No sound or motion.

Steeling himself, he walked on.

Wagons and carts stood still along the main pathway. The harnesses for the ictharrs had been detached and the wares had been removed from the cargo bays. Each one sat empty, and their presence was sparse along the stone road. The doors to every house remained closed even as Corsair rushed towards some and rattled on the door knobs. Peering through the windows showed nothing; no furniture, no signs of existence, no evidence that the house possessed an interior. All he could see was unending beige.

Every step brought him closer and closer. Two decades of walking that path instilled in him an unspoken understanding of exactly where the family house sat. The details faded in as he approached. The empty stables outside, each pen still containing its trough and water buckets. The large square windows that let him peer out onto the path from the living room and the red drapes his mother had gotten to cover them at night. The way the snow nestled in below the doorstep, poking out from beneath where its face was eroded by the traipse of hind paw socks and boots. The lantern that dangled beside the door, glass stained with wax.

“Quickpaw!” Corsair yelled, running to the stables. “Harangoth!”

Nothing but an empty trough inside both stalls.

Corsair rushed to the door and grabbed the knob. Such a mundane act, one that he had committed countless times throughout his life, brought him to a halt. His paw rested upon it as if to question its presence.

It’s home.

A yank on the door knob yielded no budge. He pushed and pulled yet the entrance’s guardian did not surrender. Corsair stepped back, confused, before kicking hard at the door. It still did not waver.

“Corsair.”

He stopped. More ink lines appeared, etching in a familiar path around the side of the house. Snow packed between stone slabs that led a trail to the back of his family home.

A place he knew too well.

“You know where.”

The voice was gone again. Corsair hesitated, paw up to the left side of his neck, but he knew he could not falter. Issuing a longing and regretful look to the unyielding door, he marched on around the house and along the path. The stone slabs carried on towards the horizon. What he expected to be mere seconds became mere minutes. A glance over his shoulder showed that the house was gone, and the capital had receded into beige nothingness. Every step erased one slab from behind and replaced it with one at the front. It was also with every trudging placement of his hind paws that the cold emboldened. Corsair grimaced as he felt himself slow down, crossing his arms over his broken chest to shield his vulnerable frame. It did no good. The freezing winds slowed his advance and, before long, he could not resist it any longer. He fell to his knees and slumped over his blade, life sapped by the chilling gusts, yet whatever otherworldly parallel of death existed did not come to deliver him. He stared at the ground, heaving his breath in and out, as he pondered it all.

He was dead. He had to be.

The others.

“Please,” he muttered. “Just…tell me what’s happening to me.”

A small gasp.

Corsair’s ears stood and he rose his head. His pupils dilated. His body stiffened.

The wolf pup was as tall as him whilst he knelt. White fur settled over his front and lower part of his face whilst black dominated his back. Shielded from the elements by a cloak and padded tunic, the young lupine carried a familiar sword in both paws. The end of the blade rested against the snowy ground, its broadside free of the many scars it would soon have inflicted upon it.

Two wide green eyes, abundant with pup-like bewildered terror, stared at him.

Corsair stared back.

“Who…there’s no way…”

With great reluctance, Corsair eased one arm forward. The pup gasped and retreated a step, tail driven low. Corsair retracted the arm.

“No no no, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m friendly. I…I might look a bit scary but I’m nice. Please don’t go.”

The pup’s trepidation relented somewhat. Corsair offered his paw forward, mustering a smile to his face.

“Don’t be scared anymore.”

The pup stared at his paw, contemplating shaking it in greeting, but such ponderings were cut short. He looked past Corsair, high above his head, and that painfully familiar terror returned. Ink welled up over the left side of his neck and oozed down his shoulder. Tears soon followed as the young pup’s paws rushed to the bleeding wound.

“What…” Corsair gasped.

The pup dropped the sword, crying out in pain and fear, before turning and fleeing into the distance.

“No!” Corsair yelled, reaching out for him. “Come back! Please! Don’t go!”

In seconds the pup was gone. His ink outline disappeared into nothingness. Corsair’s gaze remained focused on where the obscuring storm had consumed him, praying for him to come back. Seconds passed and no indication of his swift return was given.

In its stead came a voice.

“Corsair.”

It was stern. Scolding. One that demanded his full attention and his mounting fear upon hearing it. A tone that was founded in continuing dislike, fostered by ever lingering animosity. Upon hearing it, Corsair’s ears stood to attention and his being stiffened with fraught anticipation.

The snow crunched beneath his hind paws as he moved around Corsair and stopped in front of him. A figure that towered over him, looming as a shadow over his life. As he turned, Corsair recognised the forever disapproving expression. He discerned the furrowed brow, the harsh eyes, the mouth that bordered on a snarl. He saw the arms crossed over the chest, the cloak that billowed around his warrior’s physique, and the stiffened tail.

Words escaped Corsair. He lowered his gaze, endured the fear.

“My expectations of you have never been high…and somehow you still manage to surprise me.”

Corsair stammered out words of dumbfounded desperation. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“Enough, Corsair.”

Those two words. Those two disabling, immobilising words. He couldn’t hope to say anything else. He could only sit there, stupid and silent.

“I gave you twenty years of my life – ten of those offering you all the experience I had to make you into something great – and it led to nothing. Two decades spent trying to turn you into someone befitting the helmet, someone more than just a sickly pup who can’t even look me in the eyes when he speaks. Someone with the mettle you’d expect from a clan wolf.”

“I—”

“And it was all wasted. All of it. You didn’t want to study history, you didn’t want to be responsible, you didn’t want to get a job, you didn’t want to do anything. All you wanted was to ride around in those hills all day with your stupid ictharr and shed the demands of the real world until someone else did it for you.”

He turned his nose up at Corsair. “And now the real world has come for you in force. It’s destroyed everything we had – everything I helped build – because you couldn’t control yourself. In the midst of a conspiracy to destroy our family, what did you do but behave like a spoilt and stupid pup?”

“If you’d just—”

“Why couldn’t you be more like your brother?”

A branding iron pressed into the side of his heart.

“Cos…I’m not Ragnar. I’m me. I’m just…me.”

“And that’s been our problem the whole time, hasn’t it?”

“Stop. Please…I don’t want to do this.”

“You never do. You don’t want to be better. You don’t want to be more. You want to stay as you are, world be damned, even if it costs you everything you say you love. Your brother tried to save you and your mother. But you? You damned them both because you are a fading antique of failure in a changing world. You can’t progress. You can only get worse. You can only become a greater burden.”

“You’re hurting me,” Corsair said, voice hoarse.

“Running through a legionnaire in a tavern only served your feelings. It only helped you. It cost you your mother, your home, your way of life, and all the honour that came with the Sedrid name. And now it ends with you impaled on your own sword.”

Corsair rested both paws on his sword. He felt the cold metal beneath his gauntlets, a javelin of ice puncturing his chest.

“How much damage that blade has done,” the phantom said.

“I fought as hard as I could,” Corsair said, voice low. “I did. You have to believe me. I tried so hard.”

“And it wasn’t enough. Your best isn’t good enough. All your shortcomings, all your insistence on inadequacy, and you’re not paying for it. Your brother will suffer in your stead. Your friends will die. Your beast will be torn to pieces. The free world will be no more. Soon everything you have blighted with your presence – with the mark of your foolishness – will decay and die in the shadows like you. All because you failed.”

There it was. That stinging and bitter betrayal. The mounting realisation that he had appealed to him for nothing. The emerging discovery that all his tribulations to placate the impossible demands of an eternally unsatisfied soul had been for naught and, in the process, had cost him so much. A clarity of mind and spirit that showed him how futile it had all been. A revelation, born from unending sorrow, that unravelled him into the mess he tried not to be.

Corsair Sedrid was a waste of time.

“I tried,” Corsair said.

“You couldn’t save anyone. You let them all die because you were too immature to get a grip on who you needed to be. On the wolf you had to become. You couldn’t stop mourning the life you didn’t get to have instead of shielding the little parts of it you still held. You needed to be a warrior, a soldier, a butcher of your enemies, but you insisted on staying a coward.”

A shadow lay across the wooden floorboards.

“I’m not a coward. I’m not.”

“You could never be that. You could never be a Krosguard soldier. You could never be Winter Baron. You could never be as good as your brother.”

Blood oozed from their pierced chest.

“And you could never be a son of mine.”

Eternally vacant eyes, rid of life and love, condemned him.

“Enough!” Corsair screamed, eyes scrunched shut and body taut with potent grief. “Enough, enough, enough! Stop it! Stop!”

The voice stopped.

“You don’t mean anything to me! All these words, this hate, this frowning down on me for not being the perfect image you wanted…it’s nothing! It means nothing! You’re just a corpse r-rotting in a box, wasting away, like all the years you tortured me for! You always have been dead!”

“And what are you?” the voice said.

“I’m me. Me! The son that wasn’t ever good enough. The son who never got a hug or a nice comment or a-a…a moment where he felt like he had a dad. The son whose reward for trying, for persevering, was a permanent reminder on my neck of how much I could never be what you wanted. And I don’t need you. I never needed you. I’ll fix everything. I’ll save everyone. I’ll kill who I need to – anyone who let this happen – and I’ll do it my way. I’ll cover the whole world in blood to make things right! I’m not weak!”

Corsair’s paws gripped the blade. The cold steel bit at him, gnawed its way deep through flesh and bone to his very heart. He turned his gaze up to that shifting phantom of despair – the marauder that had pillaged mind and spirit for the last decade – and regarded him with an insatiable hatred.

The words came first as a low growl.

“But not for you. Never for you. Not for someone who devoured every waking moment I had with fear, shame and regret. Not for a person that I hate, that I despise, more than anyone else in this broken and ruined world we live in. How could I have ever failed you…”

And then rose into a proud vitriolic oath.

“…when you never gave a sh*t about me in the first place?”

…

It all happened so suddenly.

Ragnar’s gaze shifted from the black blood as he spied movement. Corsair threw his head back and unleashed a guttural wail of anguish, a despaired sound that emanated from deep within his being. His paws clenched around his sword and twisted the blade, yanking it out from its resting place in his chest and planting it between the stone slabs. Black blood congealed over the steel, hardening in place. Green light pulsated from the neck downwards and sparked a bedlam of green fire that reached out from the crevice in Corsair’s chest. The flames clawed at the world with a desire to claim all around it. Streams of tears poured down his face from his two wide eyes, face strained in eternal anguish.

Two eyes that shone with sickly green light.

“What the?” Gregor yelled, retreating a few steps. “What the hell is that?”

Ragnar didn’t move. Transfixed by the terrifying sight, he remained fastened to the ground. Corsair looked up and rested his sights upon the brute before him. With a fierce war cry, one that forced his mouth so wide open it looked as if his jaw would unhinge, Corsair shot to his hind paws and rushed forward.

“sh*t, k-kill him!” Levin yelled, raising his bow. “Just kill him, Gregor!”

Gregor recovered and swung. Corsair darted below the arc of the swing and, with the blade of his longsword resting against the ground, drove the blade upward. The formidable protection of the Krosguard armour was no match for such an impossible show of force. The longsword cleaved upward through Gregor as if he had been wearing nothing, carving from groin to shoulder. A streak of crimson erupted as Gregor was dashed into two halves, both falling away from each other.

“Gregor!” Levin cried out. “How did he—"

“Get back!” Lieutenant Maximus yelled. “Get back, Lev!”

Corsair’s bloodthirst was not sated. With another fearsome shriek, Corsair sprinted for Levin.

“Stay back!” Levin yelled, raising his bow and firing. “Stay the hell back!”

Corsair weaved out the way of the shot and closed the gap between them. Levin tossed the bow in a desperate attempt to halt Corsair’s advance but was left defenceless as he knocked it away with his sword and swung hard for his neck. Levin tried to call out for help, turning to the lieutenant, but Corsair forbade him from another word being spoken. The blade tore through flesh and bone alike with ease. Levin’s head flew off from his neck as his decapitated corpse floundered and collapsed, bouncing along the wall and then rolling off the side.

“No,” Lieutenant Maximus gasped. “This can’t be how—"

Corsair spun, swinging as he turned. The lieutenant ducked below the swing and thrusted his sword for Corsair’s chest. Ragnar recoiled as he watched steel eat through flesh, his brother skewered by his adversary once more. Corsair’s assault stopped as he recoiled, retreating a step.

“No!” Ragnar yelled.

His despair was unnecessary. Corsair, snarling, looked up from where he had been stabbed and locked eyes with Lieutenant Maximus. The Butcher of Tomskon’s grin, certain of victory, faltered as he watched his quarry endure the killing blow.

“It can’t be. Y-you’re…you’re a…”

Bubbling black blood poured out over the blade. The raging inferno hardened the tincture and, as it solidified over the blade, the metal of the lieutenant’s sword snapped like a twig. Lieutenant Maximus reeled back with half a sword as the rest scattered across the stone bricks. Corsair rushed forward and swung from the side. Lieutenant Maximus clashed against the blade but, half a second beyond initial contact, what remained of his blade broke under the duress. Corsair screamed as he ploughed his weapon into the Butcher of Tomskon’s side. The armour gave way and the flesh beneath fared far worse. The lieutenant yelled out as the sword ate into his side and was then ripped out, copious blood pouring from the wound. He fell to his knees, broken sword falling from his paw.

“No!” the lieutenant heaved. “There’s n-no way! You can’t…be like this. You’re not supposed to…”

The Butcher of Tomskon looked up, met Corsair’s burning gaze, and wailed.

“I killed you, Sedrid!”

His terrified disbelief proved a fitting end for a monster who sought so much pride in grief and dolour. There was to be no dignity for the fiend, no quarter given to one so intent on spreading misery, and Corsair afforded him all that he deserved. Lunging forth and swinging upwards, Corsair carved the Butcher of Tomskon into two pieces with a bone-shattering blow. Corsair swung back down and further diced him, another streak of crimson and gore. He swung again and again and again, every strike powered by vengeance and ungodly strength that decimated the monster, before crashing into him with his shoulder. The lieutenant’s body came apart as the pieces of it sailed over the battlement wall and plummeted towards the hard ground below, streams of blood cascading with it.

The Butcher of Tomskon met an end befitting his legacy; a cruel soul dashed into the thousands of bloody pieces he sought to cleave the world into.

Ragnar stared, frozen. Corsair’s body heaved with tremendous exertion, face faltering as he gazed upon his fallen brother. Blood and ink, both copious in their amount, splattered his armour and face. His longsword bore the violent trophy of his three slain foes, crimson streaking across the black webbing that had hardened over the blade.

“Corsair?” was all Ragnar managed.

The fire that spilled out from his chest rescinded into nothing as the black blood sealed the yawning crevice. The dark fluid over the blade softened and dribbled off the sword. The green light that pulsated through him faded and his eyes eased back into the regular shade Ragnar had known for twenty years. The wolf stood there as if he had no understanding of how to hold a sword.

“R-Ragnee?” Corsair’s timid voice called.

His younger brother fell onto his side.

…

A yelp escaped Quickpaw as Thornfang slammed him into the battlement wall. He collapsed onto his side as the beast backed up and snarled at him to get up again, relishing the pain and misery inflicted upon him. Quickpaw stifled a cry for help as he stood up once more, given a few seconds to brace before being knocked aside again. He mewled for his master to come save him, hoped his weak voice would carry back to the wolf who cared for him deeply, but knew such a pitiful call would not be heard. Each attack further weakened the suffering beast, and his mind began to wander as to when his tormentor would get bored and finish him off.

Little time to escape.

As Quickpaw stood again, he spotted the corpse of the fallen ictharr. The matchbook poked out from underneath its body, out of Thornfang’s sight as it cowered behind the ictharr’s front legs. All sorts of ideas came to Quickpaw, each as desperate and hopeless as the last, but one more glance at Thornfang’s bloodied maw foretold his fate if he refused to try anything.

Harangoth would die too.

Shambling forward, Quickpaw mewled and collapsed. He faced the fallen ictharr as he lay on his side. Staring into its dead face proved difficult, to gaze upon the horrid result of the confrontation, but it was a troubling task he had to see to. He nestled close to the corpse and placed his mouth in front of the matchbook.

Thornfang stopped and loomed over him.

Quickpaw fought to not look up.

The wicked beast gnashed her teeth in anticipation, leaning over to cast her deathly shadow over his body. Her eyes darted to the matchbook, the item of their conflict, and her excitement rescinded into mild confusion.

Quickpaw grabbed the matchbook with his mouth and flicked his head back. The matchbook smacked her in the face. It wasn’t nearly enough to stun her, bouncing off her head as she recoiled, but it did provide a half-second window in which her guard was lowered. A lapse in her defence where she was not focused on the wounded beast.

A brief period where her throat was exposed.

Mustering his remaining energy and enduring the ache of his wounded body, Quickpaw lunged upwards and sank his fangs into Thornfang’s throat. The beast yowled in panic, shaking and flailing to force him off. Quickpaw shook his head with all his power. He felt flesh give way and tasted the horrid metallic tang of her blood, fighting to perform the one fatal rip that would seal her fate. The struggle lasted for a few seconds, a clash between two snarling and growling combatants.

Roaring, Thornfang knocked Quickpaw away with both front paws. He yelped as he flew back and rolled across the stones, crashing into the side of the destroyed arms wagon. Quickpaw stood as Thornfang turned away and fought to endure the fresh sting of her wounded throat. While he had not felled her, he had granted himself enough time to conjure up a second plan of attack.

One of his front legs rested on something. Looking down, he found a sharpened pike sitting beneath his paw.

Thornfang, snarling, recovered from the assault and charged for Quickpaw. No games, no toying with her food, no mercy. Once she was upon him, he would be devoured.

Quickpaw snatched up the pike with his mouth. The distance closed. Thornfang leapt into the air with front legs reaching out for him, maw wide to tear his head off.

Raising the pike, Quickpaw darted forth and thrusted the weapon.

A wet thud signalled that he had struck true.

Thornfang’s bravado disappeared. She yelped and flailed with her front legs, snapping her jaws at the air in a vain attempt to slay Quickpaw, but such sad desperation could not stop him now. Bracing himself, he thrust the pike further into her chest and felt flesh give way. Thornfang darted back and threw her head into the air, maw open to unleash one final roar of anguish, before she collapsed onto her side. Quickpaw dodged back and grabbed another pike. He levelled it towards Thornfang with the expectation of the assault continuing. His body shook and his breath laboured yet his spirit remained determined to fight on. As the seconds passed and the silence stretched out, he found his stout defiance was no longer needed.

The blood beneath Thornfang crawled out in an ever-expanding diluted pool, seeping between the stone bricks.

Quickpaw padded over to her, every step taken with the upmost caution.

Vacant eyes stared at him.

He dropped the pike and averted his eyes. He hurried to Harangoth’s side and urged him to stand. His comrade grunted and growled, fighting to get up, but soon they both stood over the corpses of their foes. The words of his master guided him back to the matchbook, bent inwards from being held in his mouth and covered in saliva, before they beckoned them back to the gatehouse.

One paw in front of the other.

The duo limped and hobbled their way back along the wall. Thornfang did not move as they passed her, empty eyes forever examining the minute details of the battlement wall, and the memory of her treachery remained sprawled out in the blood and rain.

…

Ragnar grasped the wet stone and dragged himself over to Corsair. Through all the pain he felt, through the delirium of adrenaline and injury, all he could fear for was his brother’s wellbeing.

“Corsair,” Ragnar said, arriving beside him. “Corsair…answer me.”

Corsair rolled onto his back. Ragnar exhaled, letting out all the dread and terror of the world as relief bloomed, before rolling onto his back beside him. Their heads lay beside one another with snouts turned up to the sky.

“Ragnee?” Corsair whispered as he panted.

“I’m here,” Ragnar said.

“Are you…safe?”

“We’re safe.”

Neither spoke for a moment. The siblings shared fearful bewilderment, set upon by impossible circ*mstances in the midst of their bloodline’s collapse, and such a shared confusion prompted Corsair to feel at his chest. Ragnar turned his head.

Where a horrible crevice had once resided, solid flesh and white fur remained.

“It’s gone,” Corsair said. “My chest…it’s…”

Corsair sat up and peered down. No wound greeted his investigation.

“I’m alive,” Corsair said, mouth open in shock. “But that means—"

Movement behind in the corner of their vision. Corsair spun around, backing up to grab the sword lest they were to ambushed by even more horrid foes, but all they found there were their two noble steeds. Both were matted in blood and viscera, caparisons ripped and bodies wounded.

“Quickpaw!” Corsair yelled, running over and hugging him. “God…you’re alive. I was so worried.”

The beast didn’t answer. Harangoth padded over to Ragnar and sat in front of him, tired eyes focusing on his bloodied face. Ragnar struggled into a sitting position and pet him.

“I’m okay. I’m just…”

Thinking about the potential state of his face only sought to trouble him.

“Corsair,” he called, heaving. “The kegs…light them. I’ll signal Rohesia.”

Corsair hurried over and helped him up. Ragnar leaned against Harangoth and steadied himself.

“Ragnee,” Corsair said. “I don’t know what just—"

“Everything that happened…we can talk about it later. Right now…do what we need to. Please.”

They both looked down to the bridges. The catapult bombardment had stopped but the war raged on. Dead bodies piled up in the river and blood flowed freely along the stone. The Yastillot Vanguard still survived with backline support from House Vigilance but, even as they cut down the assaulting forces, more and more kept pouring through the gates and the central breach. Krosguard riders and vanguard cavalry weaved between one another on the flanks, clashing blades and lances.

“Go,” Ragnar said.

Corsair hurried off to the gatehouse, matchbook in paw. Ragnar endured the persisting sting of battle, felt its searing mark upon his face and rib. Harangoth mewled with concern.

“I’m okay. It’s just…my face.”

Harangoth nuzzled his head against Ragnar’s. Ragnar leaned back against him. In that moment, he was all that stopped him from collapsing.

“My friend…my strong friend…don’t ever leave me…please.”

Harangoth made no sound. The two comrades, a cubhood friendship now forged into an oath of wartime fealty, gazed upon the destruction below.

…

How much longer they could last on the defensive was anyone’s guess at that point. Every piece of armour and weaponry was coated in the blood of both enemy and ally alike. Bodies piled up on either side of the bridge. Endless crimson flowed into the river below and what remained formed slick puddles beneath soldiers’ boots. Their fur was soaked with rainwater and their eyes were dazzled by the unstoppable barrage of flares.

The armour-clad captain of the militia swung another wide arc with her hammer and sent the enemy’s front rank flying. The hound carved the enemy apart with two swords, one picked up from the ground during the fight. To fight side by side with the courageous captains that led by example, to see their fighting spirit rally all those who fought in the name of their homeland, empowered them to keep going.

Yet more and more foes kept coming, as foolhardy as the last.

The cannons still stood.

Thornvallis cast his eyes up to the walls.

No movement.

Where are you?

“Stand firm!” Sasha bellowed. “Be the wall of which these fools break themselves upon! Carve them into one thousand pieces!”

A united cry rose up to respond to their command as another rank of fools charged forward, clashing against them. Volleys of arrows and crossbow bolts fired back and forth although, to Thornvallis’ relief, the incoming fire lessened on the side of attackers.

“Smite them!” Sasha screamed. “Leave nothing left of the—”

Boom.

A tremendous explosion interrupted the battle’s cacophony. The ground shook from the shockwave as a ball of smoke and fire erupted from the left gatehouse. A chorus of screams echoed as the heaps of rubble and debris crashed down upon those unfortunate enough to be beneath, cutting them off as they were crushed. The cannon crews turned and gazed at the expanding cloud of smoke that obscured the details of the aftermath. The enemies on the bridge halted their attack.

Through the hundreds of metal masks and chainmail hoods, Thornvallis spied an expression they had become all too familiar with through their years of revolutionary war. An arrangement of contracting and relaxing facial muscles that evoked mounting certainty in victory.

To see the first signs of fear upon the faces of a fearless enemy was the tactical reassurance they needed.

Boom.

The second explosion followed mere moments after the first. The right gatehouse fell upon those beneath it and sealed off another potential entrance for reinforcements, confining them to one single point of entry.

And no points of escape.

Thornvallis grabbed the decapitated head of a legionnaire off the ground.

“Vanguard!” they shouted, sonorous voice cutting through the looming silence.

They thrust the head up.

“Send these bastards to the next life and acquaint their gods with the failings of their creation!”

And so ended the defence. As the shield wall parted, ranks of pike-wielding vanguard screamed and charged out from behind the wavering palisade. The front ranks of the enemy were skewered as those behind them faltered and retreated, surrendering ground they had fought over for minutes in mere seconds. House Vigilance soldiers followed after them, committed to the battle until the very end, and Sasha led the charge across the bridge as legionnaire and clan soldier fell before them.

“Peo!” a subordinate cried out.

Hundreds of bowstrings fired at the breach as reinforcements attempted to reroute, stumbling over the difficult terrain. Silhouettes recoiled and fell, screaming their last as many sharpened arrows pierced their armour.

The counterattack was in full swing. Where was the Flowering Knight of Yastillot meant to be but at the very front of it all?

…

Too many thoughts to address. Too much to reflect upon.

Too much to have happened so quickly.

Corsair rode hard back through the ruins of Saint Gaspard, spurring Quickpaw east. The ictharr hobbled along with all his fleeting strength, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and half-open eyes staring ahead. Harangoth rode behind, Ragnar slumped in the saddle. Half the buildings were nothing but smouldering wrecks, deliberate and careful architecture replaced by the uncaring and callous catapult boulders that had eviscerated them. Some fires still raged yet their fury was doomed to die, doused by the continuing rain.

What happened up there…

He couldn’t address it, couldn’t confront it. The world of parchment and ink, his appearance, the unstoppable violent fury, the longsword sheathed in hardened black.

That tainted elixir of malformed life bubbling up from his chest.

It couldn’t matter now. His brother had said it right. They had to remember what they had been up there for. In that moment all that mattered was the convoy’s safety. They continued on, navigating the crumbling avenues and streets with anxiety and fear mounting, until they turned a corner and found House Vigilance. The convoy, every piece of the caravan still intact and alive, sat before one of the gates leading east of the citadel. A light detail of guards held a tight perimeter around the convoy. Kilik barked out orders in Captain Lofdawn’s stead. Lendausz and Master Brouhard conversed at the back of the forge whilst Atan comforted an agitated Paetri, harnessed to the pathfinder. Ralwyndr and a gaggle of House Vigilance soldiers dealt with incoming and outgoing wounded, tending to the large group of injured vanguard that had been retrieved from the battlefield. Belthorpe rushed in from the side, another wounded soldier helped over her shoulder, and deposited them at the infirmary before hurrying off.

“They’re fine,” Corsair sighed. “They’re all—”

Quickpaw collapsed. Corsair yelped as he fell forward out the saddle and hit the stone road, rolling ahead of his steed. Harangoth came to a stop beside him, yowling if he was okay.

“Quickpaw!” Corsair yelled, voice strained with despair.

Quickpaw didn’t move off his side. Corsair got up and ran for him as Ragnar got out his saddle and hurried to the fallen beast.

“No no no no,” Corsair said, eyes stinging. “Oh God, please, no. Quickpaw, get up!”

Quickpaw whimpered. His eyes remained half-open, and he could hardly move.

“Corsair,” Ragnar said, peering beneath the raised caparison. “His back leg.”

Corsair moved around to Ragnar. The sight made him recoil. His right hind leg was ripped open, bits of bone visible through the torn blood-laden flesh. A crimson trail marked their journey from the wall to the convoy.

“sh*t,” Corsair said, breath quickening. “Oh sh*t oh sh*t.”

Quickpaw whimpered again, a weak plea for help from his friend. Harangoth moved forward and closed his maw on the scruff of Quickpaw’s neck, dragging him along the ground.

“Hey!” Corsair yelled. “Hey! Help us! Please, he’s dying!”

All heads turned to them. Atan was the first to spring into action. They slithered over with satchel slung over their shoulder as Harangoth dragged Quickpaw to the side of the infirmary. Paetri bounded after them.

“Move aside, sorry,” they muttered, stooping down. “What’s wrong?”

“His back leg,” Corsair said. “He’s bleeding bad. Another ictharr ripped it open. You have to save him, please, he can’t die.”

Atan examined the grievous wound with trained eyes. The gravity of the situation was not lost on them, evident by the urgent manner of which they moved, yet panic did not grip them. Quickpaw whimpered and whined, crying for Corsair.

“I’m here,” Corsair said, kneeling beside him. “I’m here. You’re not alone. Just stay awake, Quickpaw, I need you to stay awake. Okay? Don’t fall asleep. Don’t sleep.”

Quickpaw’s eyes met his. Mr Gregentop’s abode faded in and there he found himself sitting before that frail little pup. He was alone, scared, wounded, and uncertain of the world around him. He remembered how fast his little heart had beat against his paw, how such a tiny little ictharr had braved the scary world and survived.

Corsair eased a paw out in front of Quickpaw. He placed his head against it, still holding Corsair’s gaze.

“Stay with me, Quickpaw. Please. Don’t leave me alone.”

Atan’s hands moved fast to keep the ictharr tethered to the mortal coil. Corsair didn’t dare say another word, didn’t dare make a sound that could distract Atan. He watched in silence as Quickpaw’s life ebbed, as the desperate dregs of a soul that wanted so badly to stay fought against death’s entropy.

Movement behind him. Corsair looked over his shoulder. A totem to anguish and bloodshed looked down at Quickpaw with a concerned expression. From hind paw to ear, every inch of the lupine archer was soaked in crimson. Her chest heaved with the dregs of adrenaline, clenching and unclenching her paws to an even rhythm. Crimson still dripped from the tip of her dagger. Belthorpe and Lady Riskar walked past her, equally as drizzled in the spoils of their conflict, yet neither looked as maddened as she did. Rohesia knelt beside Corsair, overt effort made to not bloody him.

“He’s going to be okay,” she whispered. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“He can’t,” Corsair said, voice hoarse. “He can’t go. I need him.”

Rohesia shushed him. She leaned in towards Quickpaw, met his half-open eyes and managed a small smile. Quickpaw whimpered for her to help.

“You’re okay, Quickpaw. Just slow down. You’re fine. We’re not letting you go anywhere. You’re safe.”

“Don’t get too close, please,” Atan said, glancing at Rohesia. “No blood near his wound.”

“Right,” Rohesia said, inching back.

Quickpaw whimpered. Rohesia shushed him as Corsair pet Quickpaw’s flank. Rohesia’s soothing demeanour helped calm the ictharr. Both wolves watched on as Atan worked to save his life, one of Ralwyndr’s helpers rushing to their side to assist.

The sonorous cries of war still sounded in the west.

“Rohesia,” Corsair said. “All that—"

“It’s not mine,” Rohesia said. “Where are the others?”

“Thomas and Dieter were hurt,” Corsair said. “They must be inside the infirmary.”

“Was it—”

“Yes. I killed him. He’s not a problem anymore.”

“Good,” Rohesia said, eyes lowering to his chest. “Corsair, my God, your armour—"

“It’s fine. They broke the breastplate open.”

“But you’re okay? You’re not hurt?” she said, questions asked with lingering fear as to the possible answer.

“I’m okay,” Corsair said. “We’re alive. Ragnar’s alive.”

Rohesia looked over her shoulder. “And…where is he?”

Corsair pried his troubled gaze away from Quickpaw. Harangoth stood behind them, observing his friend’s struggle with sad eyes, but Ragnar was nowhere to be found.

“He’s walked off,” Corsair said, standing. “He’s hurt, Rohesia. We need to—"

“I’m already on it,” Rohesia said. “You stay with Quickpaw.”

…

It wasn’t that he desired to see it. It wasn’t that the carnage and destruction appealed to Ragnar in any sense or form. It wasn’t that spilt blood and maimed limbs afforded him any depraved comfort or sad*stic satisfaction. It was a glimpse of a life he didn’t want, insight into an existence he never desired to be a part of, and the torturous result of meddling with power that he could not ever contemplate holding onto.

But he had to go back. He had to remind himself.

Stumbling past the collapsed residences and businesses, aching hind paws traipsing along cracked stone brick, the battlefield’s haunting visage came back into view. The collapse of the two gatehouses had spelled the end for the assault’s momentum. Legion and clan forces were forced back onto their side of the bridge, pelted with arrows and jabbed with pikes to cajole them back to the bottleneck. Reinforcements struggled to get through as the vanguard archers continued to fire, riddling anyone foolish enough to push through with arrows. The trickle of soldiers that moved forward with shields ready only spurred themselves into an onslaught, a turning point in which defeat was becoming all the more tangible. The cannons, most crucially, were stranded. The crews had long since fled and left them at the base of the rubble, unable to haul them to safety as vanguard swarmed around the artillery pieces.

But it wasn’t the overarching action that beckoned his attention. It wasn’t the clashing blades, the screeching metal, the acts of valour and bravery. His gaze was drawn to something only the survivors could see, only those fortunate enough to be onlookers could be aghast at.

The bridge was littered with the dead and dying. Clan soldiers and hound legionnaires lay atop one another in heaps, a horrifying mound of blood-soaked stories that had been concluded by death’s sharpened blade, not life’s ink quill. Heads, arms, legs, tails, ears…if they did not lay strewn across the bridge, they floated in the coursing waters below.

Ragnar reached the bridge and came to a stop. A young wolf soldier, bleeding profusely from the fatal ravine in her chest, rested on her back against a few of her dead comrades. Her fallen steed lay across her legs, dooming her to die in that very spot. Gulping and gasping, the dying lupine looked up at him with fearful eyes.

Ragnar’s face fell.

“Dahlia?”

“S-sir…” she gasped. “You’re…alive…”

Ragnar fell to his knees beside her, took her shaking paw in his. He couldn’t muster any comfort. He watched as a vestige of a life long gone died in front of him. She smiled all the while.

“Knowing…the Sedrids live…means I…I did not die for…for nothing…”

“I’m sorry,” Ragnar said, voice low. “I’m so sorry.”

“P-pray…for me, sir…that is all…I…”

It was terrifying how suddenly life vanished. One moment she had been there, sputtering her last, and in the next she ceased to be. A face frozen in melancholic despair looked back at Ragnar, a once spritely visage of youth and joy that had been hollowed out by a soldier’s inevitable end. A pillar of memories – of happy moments tied to the servant’s diligent service and comfy life – crumbled into dust. Another connection to a life long gone faded into nothing.

Ragnar looked past her. The vanguard showed no mercy against the enemy’s diminishing numbers. Pikes skewered Krosguard riders and their steeds. Arrows riddled legionnaires and sent them to the ground. Swords and axes cleaved the heads off the stragglers. Thornvallis’ flail crushed the skulls of those that foolishly opposed them in combat. Vanguard soldiers repeatedly slammed the heads of clan soldiers into the metal frames of the cannons. Everywhere he looked, everywhere his eyes wandered, he saw his people slain.

The fallen lieutenant sat against the pillar, wide eyes on him.

Ragnar said nothing. Delirious from pain both physical and mental. Hollowed by how powerless he was, how feeble he felt, how foolish he had been. From what invisible well did hope spring? Where was the origin of this feeble and desperate faith in the good of the world? All he clung to in his desperate bid to find peace was a lie, a mirage of his own making. There was nothing but violence and death and terror up until his last moments where he could only be left with nothing. Ragnar Sedrid gazed upon the world and was immobilised by the ways it insisted on living.

“Ragnar!”

Ragnar didn’t bother looking back. Rohesia sprinted to his side, panting.

“Ragnar, you can’t be…” she recoiled at the sight of his face. “Your face, you’re—”

“Dahlia’s gone,” was all he managed.

Rohesia placed a paw on his shoulder.

“You’re hurt bad. You need to be seen too now before that gets infected.”

He spoke so quietly he questioned if he had said anything at all.

“How, Rohesia?”

Rohesia frowned but said nothing. Ragnar turned his gaze up to the stars – peered at the uncaring pinpricks that shone without any quarrels for the plight of Vos Draemar’s people. Its light beamed directly into his ruined eye; a mess of blood and fluid he could not hope to ponder without collapsing under it all; and disappeared inside the inescapable darkness it heralded.

“How do I fix this?”

His home. His family. His legacy. Few casualties as part of a plan that would further prey upon the lives of many.

And all he could do was watch.

“I can’t do anything,” Ragnar said, voice trembling. “I can’t save anyone.”

“Ragnar…”

“It all keeps breaking. The pieces. I pick up one shard and it shatters into fifty more and I start…bleeding. How do we…how can we fix the world when all it can ever do is keep breaking itself?”

Whatever her reply was, it didn’t come. The pink sash Thornvallis had given him fell from his collar and floated down to the ground. Ragnar looked down, saw how it had landed almost perfectly in one of the few patches spared from the running blood, and looked upon its black characters once more.

Just pink fabric and paint.

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

Mere hours later, it was as if Saint Gaspard hadn’t been invaded at all.

Looking at it from so far away, separated from the aftermath by the fields of blue flowers sunbathing in the early morning sun, one could mistake the damage as the result of natural disaster. The collapsed perimeter wall and the decimated innards of the citadel, hardly perceptible to the unassisted mortal eye, could have been the divine punishment of enraged gods or the result of shoddy craftmanship. With all that distance, all that separation, the disrepair of Saint Gaspard was a pleasant mystery to be entertained.

From there, you couldn’t see the blood. You couldn’t see the corpses. You couldn’t see the slashed banners, the abandoned weapons, the three pieces of new-fangled artillery that had been left to desperate dereliction and most certainly capture.

You couldn’t see the failure.

But he could. All of it, fresh in the eternal witness of mortal memory. And when he looked over his shoulder, unlike a passing bystander, he could see beyond the grassy expanses and realise how such an extended march had ended in vain. Even with minor legion presence in the breached first section, even with camps established outside the walls to defend their advanced position, he knew the crucial momentum and surprise that had brought down the gates and sent his foes running was gone.

The cannons were lost.

The assault was over.

“Comosol?”

Commander Valour looked over his shoulder. Sibling Vaxalstis stood behind him, saluting just below the small mound he stood upon to peer east.

“Yes, Vax?”

“The leadership has assembled in the command tent. They’re awaiting you.”

He couldn’t muster anything in response. He just nodded, turned around, and walked in the direction of the meeting. The knight followed after him, sharing his oppressive silence, and such a lull in conversation only let them turn their attention to the state of Camp Umpani. Many tents empty, half the stables abandoned, the mess area’s benches sitting unoccupied and the aisles between the soldiers’ camps only full of unclaimed bags and gear. All that saw much activity was the infirmary wing, queues of hounds and wolves wrapped up in bloodied bandages sitting on chairs or lying on stretchers. Doctors and apothecaries moved with haste to remedy the abundance of wounds and injuries, blood matting their paws and clinging to their aprons.

“The mortus scrolls,” Vaxalstis said. “Occupying forces have collected what they could from the fallen.”

“Not past the second wall, I’m guessing,” Valour said.

“No. Just those who died during the initial attack.”

Valour shook his head.

Not even a fraction of those who died on the bridges.

“Keep the queues going,” Valour said, stopping in front of the command tent and turning. “We need everyone who’s wounded treated and sent off west to field hospitals. Keep the Loxworthian chefs working, make sure we’ve got good food for this afternoon, and get me a Kingsbird reserved in the aviary. I’ll need to speak with His Majesty soon. When you’re done, make your way back here.”

“I’ll see to it, comosol. To the end.”

She saluted and walked away. The commander stepped through the tent flaps and found three figures sitting at the central table. A towering red fox, fur pristine and thoroughly combed, sat at the table in a snug orange doublet, a yellow collar springing up around the neck and a white feather plume proudly reaching upwards from the muffin hat upon their head. Beside them was a brown wolf sporting a mail shirt, one as scratched and scarred as their worn face proved to be. Of shorter stature yet with no less of a thunderous expression, the lupine’s lack of amusem*nt at their recent defeat was evident the moment the commander saw him. Across from them both was the field colonel, his once joyful demeanour replaced by an uncharacteristic lethargy and sorrowful fatigue. They nonetheless all stood as the commander approached before sitting down once more as he took the head of the table.

“Not the meeting I had hoped to have,” Valour sighed. “But it’s one we must have all the same.”

“It’s far from the meeting I wished to have,” Mascarte scoffed, rapping his knuckles upon the table. “Commander…all three cannons. All three. They’re gone.”

“And replacements?”

Valour had never thought he could see the field colonel look offended. The raccoon recoiled and scoffed once more, regarding the doberman with a furious brow.

“Replacements? Ay sacremento miacho, you are not paying attention. The Land of the Sun and Moon currently has our cannons. Their pioneers will take them apart piece by piece and find a way to make them faster and better than what we have now. It’s not a matter of if we can replace them, it’s a matter of if we will wake up one morning and find our tents have been blown off by cannon fire!”

“I’m aware of the consequences, field colonel, but unless you’d like me to go and politely request they give them back there’s not much we can do about this. If war was about everything going to plan it would be a game of willpower, not strategy,” Valour said.

“Under your stewardship and guidance, you have lost paradigm-shifting siege technology. Paradigm-shifting! Surrendered right into the clutching paws of—”

“Replacements?”

The field colonel looked away, muttered under his breath, and then turned back to him. “There are a set of cannons stockpiled back in Base Camp Ehtia.

“Get these deployed in an even spread along the front in defensive posture.”

“Defensive?” the wolf captain spoke. “Commander, respectfully, surely we should not be giving the rabbits room to breathe here?”

“Our casualties are not yet known. Based on how many people are missing, we’re expecting half of the attacking force to have died during the siege. We cannot launch another assault with such few numbers, and we can’t risk losing so many soldiers to allow a potential counter attack on Camp Umpani. One single hole in our front could turn this into Silverclaw.”

“We’ve already got enough blood for that to happen. Good wolves and ictharrs died today, commander, it wasn’t just legionnaires we lost.”

“I’m in the business of winning wars, captain, so let’s try not to lose our heads too.”

The captain looked unsatisfied with the rebuttal but relented his protest. The fox spoke.

“As battalion legate of the Monte Expeditis stationed here,” she began, voice firm with determination. “The culinarians are ready to serve as many soldiers as you need, commander. Supply lines are still running strong, and caravans are moving along with schedule. The mighty king and his people pledge a stalwart allegiance to this alliance’s repulsion of the invasion.”

“And the reinforcements that need them will soon follow if all goes to plan?” Valour said.

“I have no reason to believe they wouldn’t.”

“Thank you, battalion legate. Captain, I’m assuming you’ve got clan soldiers on the way?”

“Krosguard and infantry,” the captain said. “When we decide to stop sitting around waiting, they’ll be ready to attack.”

Valour let the comment go and nodded. “I’ll speak to His Majesty regarding the setback and ensure we have the troops we need for a second assault. The city will fall. The defeat stings and…despite the tone we’ve taken with each other, the loss of our soldiers will forever remain equally as tragic. Let’s keep that agony with us as we move forward, remind ourselves of what we don’t want this war to become. Colonel, captain, legate, we’ll convene later to discuss continuing presence in the city. Agreed?”

The three leaders looked at one another, contemplated the animosity failure had bred, before tentatively committing themselves to moving forward. Graves would be dug, pyres would be burned, but that could not delay their war any longer. As the leaders got up from their seats, the battalion legate and field colonel making their way to the exit, the commander stopped the captain. Valour watched as the other two left, making sure they were out of earshot, before turning to him.

“The lieutenant,” Valour asked. “Where is he?”

“We’re not sure,” the captain said. “I’ve got soldiers searching the grounds but there’s every possibility he could still be inside the city. We may not find anything. As I told you after the retreat was signalled, I will be serving as lieutenant until Alpha Kontzagen of the Krosguard arrives to relieve me.”

The commander nodded, solemn. “I hope you find him.”

“Preferably dead,” the captain spat, brushing past him. “Him and the monster he rides.”

With that, the wolf was gone. Valour waited a moment, listened to his fading steps disappearing into the attenuated bustle of the camp, before stepping outside and finding Sibling Vaxalstis there. He beckoned her inside and held the flaps closed after she entered.

“So?” she said. “What did he say?”

“That they don’t know,” Valour said. “Not a clue.”

…

Back up the hill and along the road, they walked away from Camp Umpani. Insects trilled and chirped as they hopped and crawled, sticking to the refuge the grassy undergrowth provided them from the marching giants. How life continued on after such gross failure smarted somewhat. The siege hadn’t worked and that was that. Vos Draemar kept going, as blood-covered and miserable as it had been before, and the thread of time spiralled on.

His first defeat.

Sibling Vaxalstis came to a stop on the left side of the road before a faded dirt path. The furtive narrow avenue, hidden beneath grass and petal, led down a small slope into the concealing canopy of a few trees. Shadows obscured what was ahead, a barrier that piqued Valour’s intrigue as he followed the knight ahead.

“During the retreat, some of the legionnaires from the 12^th Ignis Tormentorum Siege regiment – the ones that had operated the cannons before the gatehouses fell – they were waiting nearby in case we managed to retake the artillery pieces.”

“And they found him?”

“Lying scattered across some family’s old back garden. They came to me, and I told them what you said. Keep it discrete, bring him to the riverside.”

The duo exited the wall of trees on the other side. Enclosed between the towering oak was a stretch of dirt bank that followed along a brief segment of the Lushlocque river. Two legionnaires, armour adorned in stripes of scarlet, saluted the two knights yet didn’t dare raise their gaze towards Valour. Between them sat a small wooden chest, lid closed.

“At ease,” Valour said. “This is it?”

“Yes, comosol,” one legionnaire said. “W-we found him—”

“As you retreated, I know.”

Valour moved closer and knelt in front of the chest. One of the legionnaires, exchanging nervous looks with their comrade, spoke.

“Comosol…we tried to get those cannons out. The rubble heap was too high and w-we just—”

“Losing the cannons was bad,” Valour said, looking up at them both. “But to have had you die hopelessly defending it or, worse, been captured to explain how they worked—”

“It would have never come to that, comosol!” the other legionnaire burst, saluting again. “I would have died before I spoke a word to those invading scum!”

“Easy,” Valour said. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m not questioning your bravery, I’m just glad it didn’t come to that. You did what you could.”

The two legionnaires calmed down. Valour looked back to the chest and, one paw resting on the lid, opened it.

How fitting it was that, even in death, he was as repulsive as ever.

The ruined remains of Lieutenant Maximus Verschelden lay within the small confines of the makeshift coffin. Cleaved into uneven and bloody chunks, his body had been crammed inside to form an abominable and glistening pile of eviscerated flesh. It all marinated in a thin layer of congealing blood sitting at the bottom, shining with an equally disgusting sheen underneath the sun. A stench fouler than he ever could have been made Valour turn his head away, grimacing as he slammed the chest back shut and retched.

“Gods…as horrible as him.”

“It’s not a pretty sight,” Vaxalstis said. “But for someone of his ilk it’s fitting, I find.”

“I agree,” Valour said, looking up to the two legionnaires. “Was it just this?”

“Uh, yes comosol,” one answered. “We didn’t find anyone else nearby.”

“And only you two found this?”

“That’s right, comosol.”

“Good. From now on, you didn’t. You’ll never speak a word of this to anyone else and if you come to either of us about it, we won’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Because…no one ever found him, comosol?” the other said.

“Found who?”

The two legionnaires exchanged another uncertain look, realising the implication, before saluting and hurrying off past the both of them.

“I’ll keep a lid on it,” Vaxalstis said. “Last thing we’d want is questions about the lack of a siege ladder.”

“I don’t think they’ll give us trouble,” Valour said, picking up the chest. “Him and his two minions weren’t that popular, seemingly.”

“You believe them to be dead, also?”

“He would have thrown them in front of him if it meant saving his own fur coat. There’s no doubt in my mind they met the business end of a sword before he did.”

“Can’t have been just any soldier to have struck him down. As cruel as he was, his combat accolades follow behind him.”

As Valour lifted the chest and approached the bank, enduring the stench that crawled out through the minor gap between the lid and box, he saw the walls standing high above him again. Saw that fateful lupine riding away on the back of an ictharr, leaving chaos in his wake. Found himself clashing blades against him in that hallowed grand hall.

Gazed down upon that bleeding corpse.

Whatever fury had driven the lieutenant’s violent demise, Valour asked no questions. He tipped the chest into the river and watched the dismembered corpse collapse into the coursing water, carried away towards the rapids and doomed to be taken out to sea. Valour spat on the bank and tossed the chest into the shallows.

“Whoever it was, they did us all a favour. Let’s get back.”

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

Morning’s arrival was a rude awakening for all of the surviving defenders of Saint Gaspard. The blood toll that had been levied against them had not been short of a king’s ransom – tens of vanguard, many adeuns and innumerable rabbits had been slain during the two stages of the siege – yet the one that had been inflicted upon the attackers was inconsolable. A brief glance implied disastrous numbers, but a prolonged glimpse revealed catastrophic casualties. Hounds and wolves and ictharrs and piled high atop one another, pierced by arrow and impaled by pike and sliced apart by sword. Corpses protruded from the wreckages of the gatehouse, likely to be their final resting places for as long as the debris remained useful for the defence. More bloodied bodies strewn around the base and along the heap of rubble in the centre of the wall, many packed around where the cannons had once stood. Many would gaze upon such a sight and forever be changed by it. To contemplate how one could endure such a vision, how one was meant to just carry on after an event so barbaric and horrifying, was as maddening to consider as it was to experience.

Not Corsair.

From where he stood upon the backstep of the infirmary, parked a little down the road from the ruined town hall, all he focused on were the dead legionnaires. Steel armour covered in crimson, the fur of hounds matted with viscera and blood, the dead eyes peering through the holes in their masks; none mattered. As he watched republic reinforcements heap corpses at the bank of the river and kick them inside, sending them along the coursing waters, he felt vindicated at the sight of reparations being paid. Yet, all of it only sought to remind him of how much had happened in one night.

Hesitant, he looked down at his chest. Comfortable dark fabric, a tunic he had kindly been given by Ralwyndr from his seemingly inexhaustible supply of spare clothes, covered where a once yawning wound had sat. Pulling the collar back, he risked another peek at what had been his unavoidable demise.

No wound. Running a digit along his sternum confirmed the same conclusion.

It couldn’t have been real. The black blood. Through the storm and under all those glaring lights, how could any of them possibly have seen clearly? He had been so exhausted throughout the entire ordeal he still felt out of breath hours later. In such a state of delirium how could one ever trust what they had seen? What they thought they had seen?

But no matter how intense the storm had been, no matter how blinding the lights had proven, he had died. Corsair Sedrid had succumbed to the cruelty of that interminably violent butcher. To even dwell upon the sensation of his failing body, of how a block of sand had formed in his windpipe, made the dread come back. The sickening and imminent doom that he had staved off for a brief time – that love and revelry had relieved him of – hung at the fringes. Acknowledging its advance and ignoring its approach were as self-destructive and futile as one another.

Just when it all was making sense.

Corsair reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded letter. It had been sitting over his chest when the lieutenant had impaled him yet had miraculously survived with a mere flesh wound in the bottom right corner. The hole provided an escape for the mysterious words within, letting the whispering voices of his late mother and father seep out.

Of everything to survive.

“Corsair?”

He looked over his shoulder. Rohesia lingered in the threshold. She regarded him with a solemn smile, one that tried to remind him she was there whilst acknowledging all the last day had brought. A thorough bathe had freed her from the hold of copious blood, an absence that made her appear significantly less crazed.

“You’ve been out here almost all night,” she said.

“Just been thinking,” Corsair said. “Worrying.”

“Atan said Quickpaw’s fine.”

“He was dying.”

“He’s going to be okay. I know it’s tough. Try to think positive for him.”

Corsair nodded but said nothing. Rohesia placed her paw upon his shoulder. Warmth radiated from the spot she touched, summoning back that shimmering memory upon the balcony.

“Axel’s awake. The others are still out of it.”

“Ragnar?”

“Still sleeping. He probably will be all day.”

Corsair followed her inside. All the beds were taken for the grievously wounded, those of lesser injuries mustered into nearby buildings converted into impromptu triage centres. A few of the vanguard’s doctors attended to the beds while Ralwyndr stood at the back of the aisle, crouched beside Axel as he replaced his bandages.

They were all there. All four of his Krosguard comrades. Thomas and Dieter lay in the beds in front of Axel and Ragnar. Peter sat on a chair in the middle of the aisle beside Ragnar. The apothecary’s gaze shifted from one wolf to the other, minding the den of wounded souls. Ralwyndr knelt at his bedside as he finished changing the bandages.

“Ow ow ow ow ow,” Axel hissed.

“All done,” Ralwyndr said. “Apologies for the discomfort.”

“No problem. Not like you’re the one who shot me.”

Ralwyndr turned and spied the approaching wolves. He murmured polite greetings, gaze to the floor, and walked by. Corsair tensed as the deer brushed past his shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” Axel said, wincing. “Hey, Rohesia.”

“Good morning,” Peter said, waving.

“Hey,” Corsair said, sitting on Axel’s bed. “How are you holding up?”

“Well, I didn’t get shot in the face so that’s always a plus. My money maker, you know?”

“Right,” Corsair chuckled, noticing Peter also smile at the comment.

“All in all, I’m okay. Was most worried for Arwie and these three, really,” Axel said, jerking his head towards Thomas. “Thornfang got a chunk out of him.”

Corsair looked to the reckless Krosguard soldier. There he lay, one paw wound in clean bandage as if to be mummified. His face twitched in his sleep, beset with nightmares or pangs of pain, and he murmured under his breath. Dieter across the aisle didn’t stir nor mumble. The relief slumber brought from his wounded shoulder was potent enough.

“I saw,” Corsair said. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“No. For any of them. Especially…well…especially Ragnar.”

One glance to Ragnar’s bed undid such peace. Never before did Corsair think he could see so much bandaging wrapped around a person before.

His brother lay on his side facing the wall. The brace had been removed and more healing salve had been placed over the fracture. A strip of fur had been trimmed short to better locate the injury, which only served to disgust Corsair with how swollen the area had become. It was as if his ribs fought to break free from his chest, pushing out from beneath the skin. Copious bandaging had been wrapped around his head, covering his right eye.

A bloodied face and a broken body, all containing the battered soul that still resided within.

Corsair could feel the rain against him. Could hear the combat raging below.

Could feel his chest bubbling shut.

“Ragnar’s sleeping it off for now,” Axel said. “Ralwyndr had to knock him out, clean away the…debris.”

“So…” Corsair said, fighting to get the words out. “He’s—”

“His other eye is fine. He can still see. The other…no. There’s no way, Corsair, there just isn’t.”

Axel trailed off. The weak jovial atmosphere was gone. Dread scuttled out from under the beds, reached out from the shadows. Encroaching doom whispered to his heart, made it thud in his chest as if it was attempting to run away from what was coming. Corsair exhaled and rubbed his eyes.

“I…uh…I need to get some air. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Axel said. “I get it.”

“You go,” Rohesia said. “I’ll keep Axel company.”

“Take all the time you need, sir,” Peter said.

Pulling himself away felt wrong but to stay in such close proximity to the aftermath of that horrid night was sickening. Marching back out the infirmary and into the open air, he turned himself to distraction. To noise and words and planning. Staving off panic for as long as he was able, he hurried to Lady Riskar’s quarters.

…

“Apologies for my rather unprofessional appearance,” Lady Riskar said, dressed in nothing but a fluffy pink gown tied around her waist and damp fur slicked back. “Blood proves to be quite a stubborn stain in fabric.”

Corsair sat in a chair across from her desk. Lorenzo stood beside her, arms folded across his chest and as miserable looking as ever. Sasha sat on the bed, propping up her head with one arm resting on her knee. Her eyes fought to stay open, breath slowing as she repeatedly drifted off to sleep.

“Captain?” Lady Riskar called, snapping her digits. “My love? Wakey wakey.”

Sasha sat upright and shook her head, stunned by her sudden awakening.

“Oh? Uh…oh, goodness, apologies,” she groaned, rubbing her face. “I am terribly sorry, I…”

She yawned. Covering her mouth with her paw failed to spare the others from its contagious spread. First Lorenzo, then Lady Riskar, and even Corsair.

“Hearth below, let us get through this before we all collapse,” Lady Riskar said. “Captain Lofdawn?”

“Yes, milady,” Lorenzo said. “House scouts on the walls reported this morning the enemy are still outside the walls and are in the first section. They’ve set up a camp to hold the ground they’ve gained but it’s not enough for a second assault. They’re tending to their dead, collecting weapons and armour from the battlefield, and seeing to recovering.”

“So, we did it?” Corsair said. “We repelled the siege?”

“The assault? Yes. With the cannons seized, the gates shut and the enemy’s forces completely destroyed it’ll be some time before they attack again. It’s worth assuming they have secured supply lines, meaning reinforcements won’t take long to get, but with how many soldiers died here…they’re not going to be rushing into another slaughter.”

“And now deprived of that monstrous cannonade, they can only resort to far more mundane methods of besieging the city,” Lady Riskar said. “Methods that are far less swift than they had hoped their new-fangled devices would be.”

“Unless they have more, which is possible,” Lorenzo said. “But losing three to their enemy, who have the means to replicate the design, will make them more cautious. Whatever happens, not our fight. It can’t be anymore. East Parabular has reinforcements here from the villages east. We helped slow this down into a conventional siege. East Parabular has a much better chance of holding the front now.”

“But if the city falls—” Corsair began.

“This is the worst fight we’ve ever been in. People are recovering from wounds, mental and physical. If they are stupid enough to come tonight, we’re leaving.”

“And so shall the Yastillot Vanguard,” Sasha said, stifling a yawn. “They fought valiantly to repel the onslaught, but they suffered troubling casualties. Many a brave warrior died on that bridge in a battle to save a country that despises them and their cause.”

“And, frankly, after facing down at least twenty unseemly brutes attempting to carve my head from my shoulders, I cannot say I am much fond of this line of work,” Lady Riskar said. “Cloak and dagger, backroom meetings, alleyway politics…that is more so my flavour of activity.”

“I understand,” Corsair said. “So, the next steps?”

“Slow down,” Lorenzo said. “We’re all recovering from the worst fight we’ve had in a long while, one we didn’t even know we’d be having. They fired a damn cannon at me in the city hall. We’re not doing anything but resting for a while.”

Corsair lowered his gaze. “I understand. I’m sorry, I—”

“Do not apologise,” Lady Riskar said. “Right now, we are as clueless as you. Turn yourself to respite, Corsair. Spend time with your comrades. Heal. This cannot have been easy for you. Remain steadfast for your brave friend and trust that Atan shall look after him.”

There were so many truthful answers to such a statement, so many ways to reply, yet Corsair opted for silence. He stood, muttered thanks to them for their time, and left through the door.

“Corsair?”

A look over his shoulder and there was Thornvallis and Belthorpe. Still clad in armour that had been hastily scrubbed clean of most of the blood, they approached the steps he stood upon.

“Nothing brought my comrades and I more relief than those gatehouses falling,” Thornvallis said, offering their hand. “You did your part well.”

“I’m sorry it couldn’t have been quicker,” Corsair said, shaking it. “We had company.”

“I assumed so. You did what you could with what you had, which wasn’t much. My siblings in arms fought and died free people. If we all were fated to such an end, this world would be better. Rest well.”

Thornvallis moved past him. Belthorpe went to walk by, but Corsair put an arm out, stopping her. She glared at his arm and then slowly lifted her gaze up to his, questioning how he had dared to halt her.

“I just wanted to thank you for helping on the wall,” Corsair said. “You kept people I hold dear safe and…and you saved my life. Maybe my thanks isn’t what you want to—"

Belthorpe shoved his arm away and walked into Lady Riskar’s quarters with Thornvallis.

Alone again.

Idleness summoned the creeping dread. If his mind could not wander, if it could not be preoccupied, it returned back to its troubled centre. He couldn’t stand there and let it trap him, become the nervous wreck he had let himself be that one night in the barricaded house. Desperate eyes swivelled in his sockets as he searched for something – anything – to distract himself with.

“Hey, Corsair!”

Voices always behind him. Corsair turned around. Lendausz and Kilik carried crates in the direction of the infirmary. Kilik struggled with one whilst Lendausz carried three stacked atop each other.

“Nice to see you made it through all that unscathed.” Lendausz smiled, jerking his head to Kilik. “Help him carry that before he bursts a blood vessel.”

“I’m f-fine!” Kilik yelled, straining. “Ah, you stupid—”

The crate fell and landed on his boot. Kilik yelped and yanked his leg up into the air, hopping around on his uninjured hind paw. A slew of Sikkharan escaped him as he cursed his existence.

“I wonder how you swing that mace around without hitting yourself,” Lendausz sighed. “Corsair, you mind helping?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Corsair said. “Anything you need.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

His senses had been battered into submission by the coaxing numbness of the many painkillers he had been administered. The pulsing ache of his fractured rib and searing pain of his sliced eye were disarmed, unable to wreak havoc like they so desperately desired to.

But the grief – the despair at the loss of his eye, the loss of his life – remained as potent as ever.

How weird it was that the recent days of his life had remained the same; lying on his side on a bed, stranded somewhere he didn’t want to be as he passed the day stuck alone with his undoing. As dusk presided over the city, as people retired to their beds and sought refuge from the exhaustion the siege had brought, cruelly Ragnar still lay awake with abhorrent reality.

Of all the things life kept bringing him back to – of everything he could have possibly been haunted by – it had to be the thing that deplored him the most. The moments of which he wasn’t inundated with the servitude of forever lying on his bed alone were only those of which he fought on a bloody battlefield.

Two days of being useless.

Ragnar winced as he turned over and sat up. Lantern light beckoned through the window by a slight crack in one of the curtains, providing enough illumination to outline the silhouettes of all that rested inside. Thomas, Dieter and Axel slumbered in their beds. Peter and Rohesia were gone, having sought respite in their allotted beds in the barracks. Ragnar peered down to the end of the infirmary. A small candle shone from the desk, but the familiar silhouette of the deer doctor was nowhere to be found, likely out seeing to some manner of errand at the ungodly hour. How Ralwyndr managed to find the time to sleep was a question Ragnar could ponder another time. He moved with all the grace of a drunken gerbeast – a significant improvement on his near immobility two days prior – and peeled the sheets off his body. He planted his hind paws on the ground and steadied himself. To pry oneself away from such abundant warmth proved more challenging than he anticipated.

“Ragnar?” a sleepy voice murmured.

Ragnar looked across the aisle. Axel lay on his side facing him, one eye half open. The apothecary yawned and nestled himself further into the sheets.

“It’s late. Go back to bed.”

“I can’t sleep,” Ragnar said, cautious of his volume.

Axel’s expression softened. “I know it’s a redundant question at this point but…are you okay? Is something wrong?”

A million answers to that question, all options Ragnar wished he could select, yet he knew he could not divulge the specifics. Not yet.

“As good as I can be,” Ragnar said. “Where’s Corsair?”

“I don’t know. I hope he’s sleeping but, knowing him, he’s still sitting outside the Beast Quartermaster’s place. You know Atan?”

“Vaguely.”

“They’re nice. Shy, a bit timid, but nice.”

“I see. I’ll find him fine. Thanks Axel.”

Ragnar grunted as he stood. Axel’s ears rose and his eyes opened fully, sitting up.

“What is it with the Sedrids and refusing to just lie down?” Axel groaned, sitting up. “Can you please just go back to bed? Your rib is broken again, and your eye is…you’re not in a good situation right now. Whatever you need to talk to Corsair about can wait until morning.”

“It can’t.”

“Why can’t it?”

“I really wish I could tell you.”

“Ragnar, God’s sake, you’re going to hurt yourself if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Ragnar turned to walk away but felt a sudden pressure around his wrist that held him in place. He looked back to see Axel’s paw gripping onto him. The apothecary regarded his callousness with an expression of true concern, ears folded down and eyes meeting his.

“Just go back to bed,” Axel said. “Please. I’m worried about…I want you to get better, not hurt yourself.”

Ragnar eased Axel’s paw off his wrist. “I appreciate you’re worried. If this could wait, then I’d wait. It’s been two days. He’s avoiding me. I have to speak with him.”

“I—”

“He won’t come to me about this. He just won’t.”

“If he’s not outside—”

“Then I’ll come back. I’ll wait. But we have to talk. It’s more important than you know.”

Axel’s protests relented with reluctance. He sighed.

“At least you’re a bit more self-aware of your mortality than Corsair. Just…take it easy. For my sake if not yours.”

“I will. You’re a nice person, Axel. Thanks for looking after my brother.”

Axel’s ears flattened and he recoiled. “O-oh, it’s nothing. I know you’d both do the same and, uh, be supportive with me and everything. You know?”

“I know. Goodnight.”

“Right. Uh…goodnight, I guess.”

As the apothecary resigned himself to comfy slumber, Ragnar eased his way along the aisle and out through the door. The convoy had moved to the humbler estate of the third section, steering clear of the citadel’s buildings that were worth hitting with trebuchet fire, and none but a few stood around on watch. Most had turned themselves in for the night, still recovering from the exertion of the militia’s most strenuous fight yet. Ragnar hobbled along, a shadow moving under the glowing street lights, and stopped beside the serpent’s wheeled abode. The curtains were drawn over the windows and no light beckoned from within. Their emergency procedure with Quickpaw hopefully had gone well. It was the least bit of good news they deserved in the slew of catastrophe.

Sure enough, as Ragnar rounded the other side, he found Corsair sitting beside the metal shutters. He wore a dejected expression upon his face, ears low and eyes sullen, but this was soon superseded by alarm as he spotted his wounded brother before him. The proximity was nauseating as the animosity of their last true conversation seeped back into his mind.

“Ragnar?” Corsair said. “What are you—”

“We need to talk,” Ragnar said. “Where no one else can hear us.”

…

It was in the stretch of grassland running between the abandoned rabbit burrows, weaving beneath unattended clothing lines and outside dining tables, that the two brothers found a place of furtive security. The walk over had been short yet rife with painful silence, both siblings having so much to say yet no will to utter even a word. Corsair pulled out a chair from a nearby table.

“Here,” Corsair said. “Sit.”

Ragnar eased himself into the chair and exhaled, resting a paw against his brace. Corsair looked at him for a moment, an unwavering gaze of uncertain emotion that troubled Ragnar with its potential to harbour hatred, before he spoke.

“I didn’t realise it was that bad. All those bandages, I—"

“Please don’t bring up my eye. Just…please.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

“Good. The wall. Tell me.”

Corsair sighed, air released in a trembling exhale, and rubbed his face with both paws. His voice shook.

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“You know about this more than me.”

“And I don’t know, Ragnee. I don’t. Ralwyndr explained everything but nothing about…about what this is. I only ever saw this with Zakulo. I stabbed them and they didn’t die, not without the blue crystal. After Maximus ran me through I-I saw things that…I don’t know if they were real.”

“Then maybe we need to go to Ralwyndr about—”

Corsair spoke in a tone relentlessly hostile to the idea. “No. We’re not taking this to Ralwyndr.”

“Why?”

“Because he’d kill me, Ragnee.”

Ragnar saw Ralwyndr standing at the base of the palace steps again, meek and frail. “What are you talking about?”

“Maximus stabbed me twice. Twice. I got back up each time. My chest bubbled with the black blood Zakulo was covered in. I’ve been infected somewhere, in some way, by them or something else during our trip. Ralwyndr’s people stuffed those they thought were infected or carrying parasites into boxes and let them wither away, do you really think he’s just going to wait to see how this plays out?”

“You’re being rash. He’d quarantine you. Keep you somewhere separate.”

“We don’t know that.”

“So, what do you want to do, Corsair, lie to him? Spend the rest of our lives not knowing what’s happening to you?”

“He’ll kill me.”

“And what if it gets worse? Huh? If we miss a turning point to fix it? Do you want us to wait until things do start crawling out of you? Us pretending nothing happened doesn’t change the fact it did.”

“You’re not listening to me. This isn’t a cold or a fever, we can’t just…you can’t just go to a doctor about this.”

“He’s not a regular doctor, Corsair, he knows about—”

“Exactly! He knows about it enough that he’ll kill me.”

“If we don’t do something about this then there’s no telling how bad it will get. No idea. We’re in this situation either way so we may as well know what we’re going up against. Not knowing doesn’t suddenly—"

“For God’s sake, just shut up and listen to me!” Corsair yelled. “Always being the bigger brother all the time as if you’ve seen what I’ve seen!”

“Keep your voice down,” Ragnar hissed. “You want all of the city to—"

“Don’t shut me up with that! Don’t talk down to me like I’m some idiot! I’ve survived up until now just fine! I know what I’m doing, and I know more about this than you! For once you just need to lean back and listen to me on this!”

“Corsair—”

“For the last ten years you haven’t taken the lead on anything with Dad, letting me be at the forefront, but now all of a sudden you want to be at the helm of things? Leading a plot without me knowing and now trying to diagnose me on something you have no clue about? You haven’t seen half the sh*t I’ve seen, not even close to that, so shut up for one moment and let me finish talking!”

The final part of his enraged outburst came hoarse and wavering. His fiery rebuttal collapsed as soon as it concluded. Corsair fell to his knees and covered his face, sobbing as his body was wracked with fresh grief and despair. Stunned, Ragnar could only sit and watch as his little brother broke into pieces before him.

“Oh, Ragnee,” Corsair sobbed. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m meant to do anymore. I’m stuck between all these different things, and I’m expected to just…just carry on…and I can’t. I can’t. I’m not strong. I just want to go home. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Ragnar knelt in front of his brother. The close proximity brought the barriers down immediately. Corsair wrapped his arms around his brother without infringing upon his rib. Ragnar reciprocated by clutching Corsair to shield him from the world, holding him tight as his side ached.

“It was all starting to make sense,” Corsair cried. “You were back. We had a plan. Rohesia, she…we held each other and…I felt good for once in a long time. And now I…I don’t know what’s going on. They’re saying that…maybe Dad was involved in all this and Quickpaw…he might die…and now I’m…I’m one of—”

“Easy,” Ragnar said. “Take it easy.”

“I’m so sorry. I fought so hard to get you back and I hurt you the moment you were safe. I betrayed you. I didn’t mean any of it, you have to believe me.”

“Stop.”

“Please don’t hate me. Don’t go again. Please.”

Those desperate words, delivered with such overt and real fear, made Ragnar sick. “Stop. Please. Don’t make me hear you plead for that.”

Corsair stopped, abating Ragnar’s pain. Ragnar exhaled.

“You went through so much to save me. As much as me. After hearing about the letter…you…I pushed you further than you could take it. Further than anyone could.”

“You wouldn’t have done that. You’re stronger than me.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You are,” Corsair said, leaning out of the hug. “You always have been. You…I keep trying to be like you and I can’t. I can’t be that strong. But the world doesn’t stop, and it keeps throwing things at me.”

“I understand,” Ragnar said. “I do. More than you know. I wasn’t sure about telling you, but you had to know. Whether you hated me or not.”

“And I did,” Corsair said, forcing out air to depressurise the mounting turmoil within. “I hated you. For the first time in my life. And it sickens me that I could have felt that way about one of the few people who’s done nothing but look out for me. About my own brother. You saved Quickpaw from that fall and I treated you like…it was wrong.”

“I understand.”

“I just…I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

“Because I couldn’t. It wasn’t a thing you’d come home and talk about. I couldn’t tell Mum.”

“What about me?”

Ragnar hesitated, fighting for the right words. “They suggested you…but I said no.”

“Why?”

“You weren’t in the right place. All that had happened with Dad at the tournament and…him dying…you were going to do something rash. I think I was right making that call.”

Corsair nodded. “You were. I did something stupid. I would have been a liability.”

“No. I was trying to give you that moment you wanted. I was trying to stop the world falling on your head. You’re not a liability. Not with me and not with the others.”

“So, what am I, then?”

“Scared. Like me. Frightened that struggling doesn’t have any meaning in a world where all anyone does is die…because…because maybe that’s all we can do. Just die.”

Corsair said nothing. Ragnar knew the words coming from his mouth were the antithesis to a rousing speech – they were cruel and coarse, brutal and morose – but he could not hope to find any energy to pretend to be brave. Not in the jagged crevice where his eye once was, not in the fracture of his agitated rib, and not even in the depths of his heart that had been bled dry.

“Dahlia’s gone,” Ragnar said.

Corsair’s ears stood. “Dahlia? She’s—”

“Dead. On the bridge. I saw her.”

Corsair scrunched his eyes shut. “Oh God. Poor Dahlia.”

The silence hung for a moment. Ragnar was content on letting its deafening reign continue, on absconding from the ongoing reiteration of the doom they all faced, but he couldn’t leave his brother hanging on such a despaired note.

“But…maybe…it means something. If we can’t do anything else, then we may as well try to…fight. Survive. Make our suffering less hollow. Stop the world that failed us from failing those we love.”

“And what does the black blood inside me mean?” Corsair said.

Ragnar could only offer useless silence as an answer. Corsair looked down, sullen eyes searching for some sort of sign in the dirt, but his search proved fruitless. The two brothers sat there even more lost than they had first realised.

“Just…give me some time. Don’t talk to Ralwyndr. Please. I’ll work this out.”

“You have to,” Ragnar said. “This can’t be something we just—”

“I will. I won’t ignore it. Just promise me you won’t.”

Ragnar sighed. “I won’t. I promise.”

Corsair looked west. A longing gaze peered out in the direction of their home, miles and miles and miles away. Ragnar turned his head westward. Past the shattered walls of the crumbling citadel, past the distant lights of the enemy’s camps, past the rolling hills and sprawling plains, past the mountains and the cities and the walls and the rivers, lay what had once been their capital. What had once been the romping grounds of two playful young pups, a birthright shared by all those who lived under the clan’s banner.

What had once been their home.

Corsair procured a letter. “Peter gave me this. Mum and Dad wrote it before…you know.”

Ragnar stared at the antique of a time long ago. “You haven’t opened it?”

“No. I don’t know if I can.”

“Then don’t.”

“But what if you wanted to—”

Ragnar eased the paw holding the letter down. “I want you to be okay, Corsair. More than anything. More than our parents last rites. When we have that moment of rest we need, after you’ve been fixed, we’ll grieve.”

“Right,” Corsair said, lowering the envelope. “Well…I need you to promise me something.”

“Okay.”

Puffy red eyes met Ragnar’s. Despite the foreboding nature of the blood inside him, despite the grim situation they found themselves in, despite the hopeless world around them that would keep burning and dying, Corsair looked at his older brother with a resolute determination.

“That you won’t go anywhere. That you’ll stay with me until the end. That no matter what we see, what we do, what we suffer…you’ll be with me. That you won’t die.”

The young Sedrid was stalwart. Invigorated with defiance. Galvanised against despair by an oath to his brother. Seeing Corsair being so adamant about his continued presence – about having the one person he could always truly trust nearby – imposed a calm on Ragnar. It instilled a tenuous faith that, for as long as the Sedrids were united in resistance, there was a chance to fix things and take back their slice of existence. To establish mastery over their domiciles of consciousness and understand even a slither of their purpose there, so far from home and surrounded by so much blood.

It was a hope in hell. It was the best they had.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Ragnar said. “I promise.”

…

From vivid nightmares, a world outlined in ink cast upon an unchanging background of that forever maddening shade of beige, Lieutenant Maximus Verschelden’s eyes opened. A starry sky welcomed him back to the realm of the living, bathing his awakening in soft moonlight.

He shot up into a sitting position. He sat naked on the mud bank of the Lushlocque, featureless fields of flowers spanning for miles around and reaching to the darkness where the horizon lay. He examined his body and found everything where it was meant to be: arms, legs, head, all digits and paws. A glance over his shoulder revealed even his tail was back.

He rubbed his face and snarled.

“Little sh*t. Just when I had skewered him on the wall, he gets back up.”

Maximus.

A voice spoke. It was soft, ethereal, and came to him as if echoing down a long tunnel. Every word was spoken the same; not so much monotone as it was more so neutral, reserved. The way it emanated from the inside of his head, however, made it feel like his inner monologue had been hijacked. The lieutenant, startled, whirled around and got to his hind paws. A landscape of darkness greeted him, the world cast in shadow until the sun’s gracious return.

A single silhouette loomed before the trees.

“You?” the lieutenant said, astonished.

The figure emerged from darkness’ shroud. Of average height and build that ushered in a sense of innocuity, what summoned the lieutenant’s attention was what adorned them. A dark robe accented in purple billowed from their body as they walked towards him, hiding almost every inch of discernible shape beneath the fabric. Their steps were light, completely inaudible, yet the numerous dangling chains that jangled as they walked may have played a role in masking them. A steel collar, pressed into the shoulders and neck, formed the foundation of which the odd-looking helmet sat upon. A metal cube, every surface’s design and pattern shifting to their edges and then disappearing, concealed the true identity of the being within. Green light dimly shone in the sceptre they held before it died, the expiring embers of a fire that had been ignited mere seconds ago.

The voice spoke again.

A long time it has been, Maximus; yet, whenever we meet, I find it has not been nearly long enough.

“What time is it?” the wolf grunted. “How long have I been out here?”

A day. Your remains were scattered.

“And it took me this long to wake up?”

You were diced into many small pieces. The more grievous the injury, the greater the time required to recover. Why, had it not been for this…

The sceptre’s orb flashed green.

…you may have remained a mere chunk of disembodied flesh for a concerning length of time.

“Let’s cut the sh*t. Sedrid just walked off me stabbing him through his chest and killed me!”

This was unforeseen to me.

“He was up north rescuing his brother. You’ve been there. You’re telling me you didn’t sense something? Didn’t see it?”

Not until mere days before our meeting here.

“And you didn’t think to drop by? To mention that Corsair Sedrid could just shrug off getting ran through?”

Such a revelation was not necessary. Without knowing he was to be here I could not justify time spent away from His Majesty.

“That seems to be all you do nowadays,” the lieutenant snarled. “Talking in the old hound’s ear and disappearing off into the dark while the rest of us do the heavy lifting. Because I didn’t know what I needed to, the runt killed me and my soldiers. Thornfang’s probably dead! My ictharr! How are we ever going to break through into the east, keep everyone occupied and divided, while you float around doing—”

The sceptre’s orb flashed and held steady with blinding green light. The lieutenant recoiled and, as the figure pointed it in his direction, he felt discomfort being sown in his extremities. Then an ache. Then a sharp sting. As he grimaced and snarled, the pain sharpened and became clearer. Hissing, like steam escaping a flask of boiling water, occupied his ears and rose in volume. The lieutenant screamed and fell onto all fours, unable to resist the mounting misery, before his eyes registered what was happening.

The coherent flesh that bound him together was melting into black sludge. His paws and hind paws faded from fur and skin into undiscernible viscous goo, slipping into the mud and being diluted in the stream.

“Stop!” he shrieked. “God, please, make it stop!”

Am I to have you undone, Maximus?

“No! Don’t kill me! I’ll do what you ask!”

Then shed your belligerent attitude in my presence, conduct yourself in a manner that respects my position, or I shall ensure there is no trace left of your miserable existence upon the land.

“I’m sorry! I’ll behave! Please, stop it!”

The agony continued, stretching out for long enough for Maximus to cry out in pain one more time, before the figure pulled the sceptre away and extinguished the light. The pain dissipated as quickly as it had come to assail him. The lieutenant heaved and sobbed, his paws and hind paws slowly congealing back into solid body parts.

Your failure against Corsair Sedrid, however unforeseen, has left you in this position. With almost all of your body destroyed, the scourge has sought to replace what you lost.

The lieutenant looked up through teary eyes, panting. The featureless mask leered back.

This means you harbour a great debt. Borrowed time – and borrowed flesh – are all that sustain you. Behave yourself, do away with your venomous tongue, and I shall see to it that you rule at the end of our endeavours.

Green light flashed through all the indents and etchings in the shimmering metal.

If you cross me…if you interfere in the machinations of my plans…you shall be even less than you are already. Do you understand?

“I…yes,” the lieutenant nodded. “Yes. I do. I do.”

I pray you heed this warning. I shall not be generous enough to afford you another.

“I will.”

The figure turned away.

They assume you to be missing. None have confirmed your demise for there was nothing left to find.

“How?” he asked.

The one you hate.

Lieutenant Maximus frowned, not finding that to have limited his search at all, until the face of Commander Valour crossed his mind. The holier-than-thou mutt. He snarled at the memory of the insufferable do-gooder.

He disposed of your remains to, likely, obscure his involvement in your demise.

“What?” the lieutenant snarled. “He—”

He did not enlist the service of the one you call Sedrid. He likely abandoned you to your death. How such a plan was carried out does not matter. You are not liked. None shall bother questioning your disappearance. Return to your ranks, muster your forces, and continue the siege. In the meantime, I shall observe this newest find.

“Let me kill the mutt. He’s one of hundreds of knights. I’ll make sure he’s impossible to find.”

No. The siege’s failure was unforeseen, but it cannot have been due to his incompetence. He is a skilled tactician tied to the execution of the plan’s more menial tasks. He is not expendable.

He had been too recently humbled to challenge the verdict. The lieutenant lowered his gaze, thought for a moment, and then spoke.

“If…if I may suggest?”

Be quick about it.

“They think I’m missing. Going back won’t raise any suspicion to the plan for anyone other than the mutt. Let them replace me. I want to come with you.”

I am to suffer your pestilent company? No.

“I want Sedrid.”

I cannot grant you that. He is of note to me. I shall assess his worth.

“And his friends?”

Irrelevant.

“Then let me get you to him. With so many wolves he’s probably never out of their sight, right? You let me cull the herd a little so getting in without getting seen will be much easier.”

He had anticipated swift reprimand delivered in that unnerving calm tone; yet, the extended silence was a reward in uncertainty. Either they truly were pondering his suggestion, or they were preparing to smite him there and then.

As grating as your company proves to be…I cannot deny less seeing eyes make for less potential problems. I can count on your good behaviour considering our recent conversation?

“Without a doubt. I’m yours.”

Then make haste for Silverclaw. Judging by how they’ve ventured from the north to the east, logic dictates they shall soon journey west into the clan. Take temporary residence in Xyutar, the province residing on the eastern border, and maintain a quiet presence. I shall keep you informed of their movements.

“How will you find me?” the lieutenant said.

The same manner of which I found you here. Clan Silverclaw is as familiar as the back of my paw.

“B-but, wait, how am I meant to get there?” the lieutenant said, gesturing to his viscous limbs.

Walk.

“But I’m—”

His protest did not matter. As a gentle gust blew and the figure turned away, their fabric and flesh frittered away into dust. The trail twirled up into the night sky and vanished from sight. No trace of the phantasmic silhouette was left.

“Bastard,” Lieutenant Maximus muttered under his breath, enduring the sting of their disregard. “I’ll show you.”

But not all was to be overshadowed by their negative confrontation. As his body mended and movement returned to him, as the new phase of the plan dawned, he pondered the spoils awaiting him with great excitement.

“You’re more than I thought, Sedrid. You may see this as a victory but all you’ve done is given me another chance to kill your friends…and a way to enjoy killing you a second time.”

He stood, crying out to the world with vengeful fury.

“Do you hear me, Sedrid? I’m not done with you! I’ll follow you to the ends of Vos Draemar and all of time! I’ll kill everyone you love, take everything you care for, and I’ll make sure your death is but a footnote in the history of my reign! Do you hear me, Sedrid?”

He threw his head back and screamed, letting his words carry across the fields and mountains so all gods and ghouls would know of his bloodthirsty intentions.

“I’ll eat your heart, Sedrid!”

Chapter 25: Epilogue

Chapter Text

When one thought of the position of king, most would immediately think of the throne. The hallowed and holy seat of which the rightful ruler reigned supreme, a position of which one could preside over the kingdom’s pressing matters in a manner that exuded dignified authority all the while doing so with the expected regal reverence of the sovereign state’s great leader. Yet, for the old and weary king, he had found the heartbeat of his reign to emanate from the royal overlook more so than the seat of power. A place where he was truly in touch with his people, where he could envy the mundane and regular that formed an abundance in their lives. Even at such a late hour he found himself drawn back to that balcony once more.

King Damien Farramor peered down at the city, at the urban labyrinth flooded with the light of street lanterns, and came to a conclusion he had reached many a time before as he smoked a Loxworthian cigar.

This great city never sleeps.

With the families and pups retreated to bed, with the delegates having returned to their hotels from international council, it gave greater attention to those that prowled through the dusk with great excitement. Gaggles of university students flocked to taverns and restaurants whilst others gathered in Silas’ Square, laughter both drunken and sober floating up to where he sat. Day vendors had ditched their morning wares in favour of items more appropriate for the partygoers of the night, peddling drinks and boxes of Merchant’s Puff from open stalls. Royal constables patrolled the streets in pairs, waving to passing civilians, whilst soldiers still took camp outside embassies along the Vaux Italis. A sonorous bell toll rang out from the Vos Galponilex as midnight came to pass. Crowds of the devout faithful exited the temple as they returned home from another night of service.

One would not typically associate urban nightlife with wholesome society and, yet, what the king gazed upon was near paradise. Almost perfect. None would ascertain that a war raged in the east, that negotiations in the council were going nowhere, that every day and night the king was forced to yet again ignore the ongoing complaints of Ambassador Charlemaignot that peace could not possibly be achieved if he remained insistent on his lacklustre diplomacy. What he fought for, what he had compromised himself for, was right in front of him.

The doors to the balcony opened. The king peered over his shoulder to find his two loyal knights peering through the threshold.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” Erield said. “Apologies for the intrusion. We merely wanted to ensure you hadn’t fallen asleep on the overlook once again.”

“It was my idea, Your Majesty,” Dammius said. “You are always my top concern.”

“Perhaps concern is a tad harsh, my fellow knight,” Erield scoffed, shooting her a look. “It implies that he is feeble and unable to look after himself. It is not an appropriate way to address His Majesty.”

“Your fragility and oversensitive nature force you to assume His Majesty would be so easily offended,” Dammius snapped. “Conclude your wanton projection of your flaws onto His Majesty lest it become any more grating than it already is, sibling.”

“Good hounds, please,” King Farramor chuckled, paws up to soothe their argument. “Always at one another’s throats! I am well and shall retire shortly, thank you both for the concern for not just me but the good sleep of the capital’s citizens. If I were to slumber here, I would forbid our people from well-needed rest with my snoring!”

“We understand,” Erield said. “Dominus patria regis, Rex.”

“And good night, Your Majesty!” Dammius said, waving. “Do not hesitate to summon us if you require—”

Erield shut the door. Even with how age had dampened his senses, he could still hear their muffled arguing as Erield scolded Dammius for her inappropriate farewell. The king snickered and shook his head.

Jangling chains from the right.

The king turned to face the dark.

“You can come out, my friend. Our convening should not be interrupted.”

The shadows remained solid for a moment, united in their reluctance to comply, until a silhouette stepped out and made itself known.

I am surprised you would allow such a demeanour in your presence, Your Majesty.

There it was. The voice that seized the mind.

“Nonsense,” King Farramor said, puffing on the cigar. “I care not for such frivolous things. There is truth in a relaxed etiquette, and I would prefer such a presentation of self in lieu of the stilted and stifling method the nobility insists on using. Please, my friend, take a seat.”

The figure leered at him, unmoved by his offer, before complying a second later. Small black tendrils reached up through the balcony floor and grabbed the chair by its back legs, dragging it back for the figure to sit. They sat with knees together and with one arm down by their side, the other pressed into their ribs by fastened chains.

You hardly seem disturbed by my appearance anymore, Your Majesty. Your colleagues regard me with greater fear.

“Your existence does pose quite the poignant question for ours,” King Farramor said. “But such fears of the past cannot get in the way of our hopes for the future. And what is there to fear of someone who is aligned with your cause, however impossibly powerful they may prove to be?”

As eloquent as ever. You prove to be greater company than that experiment I faced seconds ago.

“The lieutenant? Rampaging killers tend to lack pleasant decorum. He remains a peripheral asset, nothing more.”

What do you believe should become of him once the end of the year is nigh?

“You reduce him into nothing. We pursue this path to rid the world of its monsters, not to give them regency over tortured people.”

The figure placed their free paw on the table.

Foolish killers aside, I bring you news.

“I anticipated as much. You do not seem like one to dally with surprise visits of no meaningful import. You speak of the siege?”

Among other things.

“Enlighten me.”

The news came quick, delivered by that ever-persisting neutral tone of neither life nor death. King Farramor felt no disappointment nor relief at what he heard. He puffed on the cigar and waited for the debriefing to conclude.

“The initial failure of the siege is unfortunate but for as long as the east is occupied and remains so, they shall be sitting upon the world stage. Eyes are elsewhere.”

And you remain certain the Guild Premier will not insist upon revealing the manipulated origins of the war?

“The Avantiers party are a collection of fools that care more for political success than life itself. To admit they were directed into a war by a foreign power’s bidding is to admit that the Land of the Sun and Moon – the biggest land mass within a single border – is nothing but a puppet for foreign interest under Avantiers government. There is no alternative angle to spin it that preserves their false dignity founded upon disgusting sordid inherited wealth. All that is left is the truth and there is no more noxious a poison for the conservative wing of parliament.”

Your confidence shall suffice as reasonable assurance. But there is more.

“I am listening.”

Corsair Sedrid.

“What of him?”

He operates with a group of militant vigilantes that oppose your reign. House Vigilance is the banner they march under. They found Tseontaeg excavation camps in the Deuvick Feldanas operated under the domain of the serpent that failed us.

The king lowered the cigar. “Zakulo? The slaver?”

They are dead. Sedrid killed them. Sedrid killed Maximus, forced the scourge to active and sustain him. Unbeknownst to the wolf, he is dismantling parts of our plan with assistance from those around him. If the band of reformed brigands seeks to oppose you…

“Then they’re bringing focus back to us,” King Farramor said. “Garnering support against the kingdom to have the crown taken from me.”

And likely your head with it.

“Then he must be dealt with.”

A single word brought his confident planning to a halt. The visitor’s revelation of what Corsair Sedrid was defied all reason. The king stared at the figure, tried to decipher truth in their words from the apathy of shimmering metal atop their head, yet no further explanation came to follow.

“I…that cannot be possible. You must be mistaken somehow.”

There can be no doubt. He recovered from fatal injury and left only pieces of the lieutenant in the aftermath of his retaliation. The scourge has been activated and is sustaining him now. He shall only grow stronger. He is a mortal foe no longer.

King Farramor stood and walked to the balcony, exhaling. “Gods, I knew recruiting that filth was a poor choice.”

There were few options for sowing instability in the east.

“And this one is costing us dearly. By enlisting the help of that fool, their idiocy in getting discovered only sowed paranoia amidst the sovereignty and has driven them to seek greater support from their neighbours. If not the Parabular Republic, then the Nedatic League and Tabahos. Gods, I should have left them be and watched as they drifted into isolationist zeal like every other fool!”

What good does fearing past failings do for us now, Your Majesty? This is unbecoming of you.

King Farramor stopped himself. Glancing at the doors to ensure they stayed shut, he sat back down and imposed calm with a few steady breaths.

“You are correct. Our thinking must remain forward, not backward. Sedrid and this militia that oppose me must go.”

They shall likely advance into Clan Silverclaw. How do you propose we bring about their downfall?

“You follow them. Keep track of their movements, observe their path, and report all back to me. I shall have to send Commander Valour to dispatch them, let someone else oversee southern operations of the offensive in his absence.”

You do not entrust Sedrid’s undoing to me?

“We cannot risk your discovery. They have likely glimpsed ancient history in the derelict north, but we ensured there was nothing left to expose your existence. We cannot risk you becoming compromised. My loyal commander will see to matters in a manner as discrete as it is fatal, addressing foes both mortal and otherwise. Sedrid and his friends shall be a problem no more.”

And this commander is to be trusted with such an important role?

“While his knowledge of the plan’s every detail has been choicely limited, I would trust such a fine hound with the fate of the world. Take my confidence as reasonable assurance like you always have, my friend. My judgement does not fail me.”

I think it would best to utilise my abilities for more than just mere reconnaissance, Your—

“My judgment does not fail me. You are to not engage Sedrid. That is all.”

The figure didn’t speak. Unimpressed or disappointed with their backseat role in the plan, all they did was stand up from the chair.

I understand, Your Majesty. I have naught else to report.

“Very well. I appreciate your in-depth findings, my friend. When you stumble across intelligence of importance, convene with me at the nightly bell.”

Of course, Your Majesty.

The figure turned to the shadows and approached them, silhouette bleeding into the indiscernible darkness, before they stopped.

All I ask is you stay your course. Maintain your schedule. Do not miss a dose. We have come too far to fail now.

King Farramor said nothing. The figure melded with the dark and was no more.

The king turned his attention back to the city below – to the wealth of oblivious citizens enjoying the night – and opened his locket. He saw her before him, felt her warm embrace and heard the lingering voice of her spirit whispering into her ear. Their chance meeting, their marriage, the many nights spent talking into the early morning…each memory was as fond as it was excruciating.

“Oh…Havannah, my darling love…if only you were still here. Still here to listen to my laments, to hold me close as I cried for the crown forever held in the grasps of greed and fear at the expense of so many. Still here to tell me I was trying my best…”

He closed his eyes.

“Still here to dream about a pup. To dream about a fulfilling life spent raising the next great monarch. To lovingly dote over our young, to hate how they grew up too fast to appreciate their innocence…to enjoy them before the world spoiled their happiness.”

No answer. All he could do was talk to the air.

“To insist I resign myself to the burgeoning realisation…that in this impossible fight to save the world from itself…I had been truly powerless the whole time.”

King Damien Farramor closed the locket and downed another vial of blood.