---

Within moments, the surviving guests and remaining Nezamnissaries rushed across the hallways to unleash rampant death upon the doomed Baktrian Azads and their Zhayedan retinues. During the engagement's dramatic turning points, the Prince lost his balance and fell backwards against the crumbled debris where he once again found himself alongside a familiar companion's location. His lungs burned while his body ached in near indescribable conditions … and yet ... his hand managed to gently brush against his Al Mayrin companion's forehead. Ona's pale complexion, weakened motions, and labored breaths were clear signs of the girl's condition; however, given his lack of elemental or medicinal prowess, he could do little in the realms of physical treatment to remedy her deteriorating state of mind. Any direct treatment attempt would shatter her concentration and expose their locations into Conqvist's seer's vision.

Lucius wearily spun around and barely managed to raise his pistol as he was cut in mid-sentence by nearby movement. The large debris that lay near Ona shuddered to unveil a hand that began to emerge through the planks, wood, and marble. As the rubble scattered aside, the large Al Mayrin rose and bellowed in agony as both arms shot into the air. Several large screams echoed through the chambers as the man, though impaled through the chest, languishingly clasped his head. His eyes winced as blood streamed down his eyes and nose before groaning brought the man to his knees. His giant hands wrapped around the green eyed Al Mayrin's soft hands and through sputtered coughs of blood, weakly wheezed, “There ... the other magician … she … she ... won't ... trouble us ... any ... longer.”

Through incredibly labored pants, the man bellowed loudly and collapsed to his side, attracting the remaining Valanian leaders to his side. “My time has passed, brother and sister V..Valanians! Do … do not waste your … stamina,” he wheezed as his hands emptied an object into the blonde, Al Mayrin's palms, “I … I do not even know your name, but I know that we … are of one blood. The Nurlia … need a leader and your aura … is strong. I can feel it and … perhaps ... as a free Kanal … you will find a way to guide our … dwindling tribes ... our dwindling people ... to ... the...”

Grimacing, the man exhaled softly and slowly slumped over before falling completely motionless. His eyes stared aimlessly and brought a lingering silence throughout the staircase chamber. Some time afterwards, a hand gently wrapped around Ona's shoulder before a sympathetic sigh and quiet murmurs followed suit. Having achieved several devastating small-arms fatalities against the Baktrian Azads and their accompanying Zhayedans, chants rang out across the staircase as each present leader of the surviving Valanian circles kneeled to offered traditional Augurian prayers as was customarily reserved for the old Valanian Kingdom's heroes and martyrs.

“Ona, don't look,” Lucius softly remarked whilst comfortingly wrapping both arms around the girl's shoulders, “We can't do anything for him now. Best let it be and rest yourself...”

Ona did not think the sight of the man would ever leave her brain. It was burned there, permanently. The feel of his hands around hers. The way the pressure of the other seer suddenly went away.

She didn’t even look to see what he had put in her hands. She had heard his words but she couldn’t concentrate on them.

She was free of the woman, free of the other presence. They were safe to run, to leave this place.

All that was left now though was immeasurable sorrow. She didn't think she had the energy or will to run. Lucius held her, urged her not to look. Her body was so exhausted, her mind equally so. Her heart was filled with sadness, with loss.

Her head rested against Lucius. There were voices speaking prayers, things she did not know or understand but recognized as sacred.

They were praying for him, for one of her people. Had he been their friend? Had he been one of them, a brother in arms?

It seemed that way. That made Ona’s heart hurt even more. His one last act was to help her, to help them all.

Her hands still clutched what he had put there. Her body leaned heavily into Lucius ...

---

The roar of fires and din of battle assailed Uriel's ears as he hurried up the stair, breath coming in labored pants like the sudden clashes of the blades echoing almost imperceptibly for the inferno. An occasional weapon lay abandoned on the ground-as did bodies. Too many, his mind too hazy like the smoke-filled air and too rushed to recall whom the colors and designs belonged to right now, the mind-numbing agony in his forehead too distracting. He blinked hard, bringing his hand up to hold his eyes in blessedly relieving darkness for a moment-and began to hear voices. Close ones.

Uriel gritted his teeth. Not now... with anger in his sight, the bastard knelt to pick up a side-sword from the hallway steps and began to trace the edge of the wall to hide as long as possible. Slowly, he rounded the corner-as something began to trouble him. He knew one of those voices... a young man's. Familiar, linked to danger yet also care and gratitude... to whom did those words belong? Could this encounter, by some miracle, not be a threat to his life?

Then again... it might even if there was once something between them. Enemies and allies-who did he know was which as the burning walls began crumbling down? Uriel held his sword poised high, ready to strike if need be as he moved his head past to see an assembly of soldiers, guards and a nobleman knelt besides a woman laying on the ground. His glittering eyes scanned over them all, racing to understand-before one of them saw him with a sword raised near the presumed lord and pointed to him with a cry.

During the same instance the armed men and women vengefully drew their weapons, the finely dressed, Valanian nobleman rose and inched through the blinding smoke and fumes towards the armored man. As all eyes and cocked weapons pointed towards the new arrival, the nobleman shouted in an attempt to demand restraint and order. His words made little effect for a loud bang echoed through the Grand Staircase chamber. The effect was rather immediate in persuading the Valanians to lower their weapons in respect to the approach of a particularly imperious bearing lady. Her appearance marked characteristics that included straight ahead glance and a dignified posture to mark her formal bearings. Her arrival sparked enough of a resolve that brought the finely dressed within the armored man's vicinity and a look of curious familiarity.

“The Cometesse de Pompadour wishes to convey that the Comte de Le Crosse would at least offer his bearings as matter of proper courtesy,” the breath-taking lady addressed through a modest aristocratic nod, “Though fate has commanded, your meddlings here are beyond our understanding, though it's quite evident you have a way with words. Seems you and friends also levy a natural habit for locating the resistance and its dignitaries!”

Upon returning the lady's gesture through the proper male greeting, the nobleman's eyes darted between the Valanians before hissing, “Etiquette be damned; you are all, completely mad! Cometesse Mirabelle, did it ever occur to any of you, that your arrivals might have stirred a few heads, most notably the Lord Sovereign? There presents no such ordinary coincidence that the resistance assembled under one roof?”

“How could we possibly refuse an invitation from the Ecuyer D'Aubigne,” the Cometesse affirmed? “Gold and minted coins don't exactly grow on trees and acquainting the D'Aubigne family's renowned financial backing isn't a terrible stretch is it? Though I do suppose we are of one breed given that your associations are ever more flamboyant.”

“Unbelievable,” the nobleman offered his armored companion a nod before coldly answering, “Did you really believe you could sway the head of Aubigne family and…”

Through vision that occasionally swam Uriel listened, eyes darting back and forth between the two nobles quarelling with little comprehension, if mentions of fate, a resistance... then back to insults and matters he was not privvy to. At the least, he lowered his sword partway for the seeming lack of hostility...

... to gape slightly when the man retorting to the pompous woman's remarks nodded to him, revealing his face-one etched into his mind as though it had been carved into stone. With a tentative voice that carried a stronger note of raw, tender hope than he wanted, Uriel spoke out.

"Lucius?"

Squinting through the hazy smoke, the Prince's eyes strayed towards the scars along the man's neck and wrists. There was no mistaking the poor fellow's treatment and past wounds sustained during the harrowing nights, the two narrowly escaped Orad with their tails between their legs. Since the two split, it was the last Lucius saw of the man. There was little he could whilst on the run from many hundreds of Sarifen Sipahis and accompanying companies of mounted hunters. He'd hoped the young companion had escaped into the land where his talents could be put to good use away from vaunted killers and Sarifen soldiers.

"Magi!" he hissed through bewildered incredulity and throated gasps, "I don't know what you are doing here or your motives, however, I do hope you've good reason to explain your presence here or it seems we may likely all die here!"

The 'magi' looked back to him, his mouth a grim line. Of all the men to run into... probably the only one in the world besides his lost teacher he could rely on here and now was Lucius. With his free hand, he lifted a hand to his neck and extends a curled finger, pulling it to the side as though it were pulling on a collar. "I was captured-related to the same reasons as my fleeing when we met."

With a sigh, he took a step forward-and nearly stumbles, blinking as the blood in his body once again moves in dizzying circulation. A weak, ironic smile broke over his face. "I know not even where I am. Right now, my motive is survival."

An Ivalian screamed as she pointed towards the ceiling under where a man and a dishelved young noble lady emerged. The flames and embers fused together in a maddening inferno that not only spouted noxious fumes, but brought every trapped inhabitant gasping for air. Shouts and cries for help from respective deities all sounded at once as the survivors all dashed for cover. In the end, it all proved futile when a large groan sounded as part of the ceiling came crashing down, crushing various members of all parties.

"I'm sorry, magi." Lucius glanced sadly towards the armored man as he moved backwards, "However, I'm afraid survival is for out of the question. We are out of time ..." Just before the ceiling beams inverted upon the staircase chamber, the Prince defiantly glanced towards the ceiling and wrapped his arms around a panting, green eyed female companion.

The unknown bastard grit his teeth as Lucius put his arms around the woman and clenches his hands hard. With a slow head and quick eyes, he scanned over the maelstrom of fire, wood, stone and steel throughout the room before glancing down with a hard, harsh look. A moment passed before he spoke, his haggard voice carrying an edge that burned like the fires around them.

"... there's a path below. While it, too, is aflame... I know it leads to escape."

---

The heavily armed aristocratic man's warnings proved just enough to alert the regrouping Nezamni Warriors the time to scatter towards the grand staircase as the ceiling above the hallway collapsed in a flashing display of sparks, wood grains, and sharpened debris Flames and fumes began to lick upon the ceiling and through the mist filled plumes an ashen faced man carrying a beautiful young lady limped laborious towards the assembled group. His face appeared badly blooded and his arms shot with splinters and gashes. How he and the young lady had survived the initial bombardment or the poisoned refreshment was beyond anyone, however, the collapsed ceiling's slanted angle proved the ultimate culprit towards their continued existence.

“Let it end!” the bloodied servant cried through throaty coughs! His words did little to ease the young woman's groans, yet still he managed to hobble onwards before collapsing to the floor. “Oh Lady Heurassein … when you had mentioned that arms would control the world, I did not believe you, but this?! I was a fool … and you were right! People are savages and they will do anything to gain power. Gunpowder is the future …”

Adrianna's eyes flickered open to a blazing hell. She could vaguely recall the dream she had. A vision of calm, peace, and warmth. She could even less so recall the events that led her into this sorry state. As her consciousness slowly returned to her, the sound of a blabbering buffoon bombarded her ears. Mustering up what was left of her strength, she pushed the servant aside and leaned against the nearest wall to steady herself.

"I don't know who you are, but I don't like being touched." Hidden underneath her dress, strapped to her thigh was a small silver pistol with an elaborate ivory handle; which she brandished, making her intentions clear.

"M-milady! It is I, Edgar!" he exclaimed in shock.

Adrianna narrowed her eyes and pulled back the hammer on her pistol. "I don't know any 'Edgar'"

"How can you not remember? Annalise hired me nearly two years ago!"

"Oh, you must be one of the lackeys. But Annalise, where is she now? She is alright?"

"I don't know, but we must regroup with the others" as he said so, he stepped closer to Adrianna to help carry her but was met by the end of her pistol.

"I said I don't like being touched. Just lead the way." She was in no mood, nor was time on their side. The flames and fumes make it that much more difficult to carry on. Adrianna was no soldier, it was thru careful planning that she avoided situations like this. That's why she was confident they weren't trying to kill her. She'd have to thank the person they were trying to kill for the lively festivities.

Nodding, Edgar scrambled through teary eyes and hacking coughs to lead his master through the blazing wreckage and swirling mists towards an assembling group. The staircase chamber stood as a reminder as to the residence's elegance as opposed to its ruined condition. Hands and legs from the motionless Banquet victims sprawled out across the floor, earning the manservant looks of sadness and recognition towards their former Ivalian conversational companions. They had just reached the Grand Staircase when Edgar noticed the ceiling completely slowly buckle downwards. Within minutes, the Chateau would collapse into a raging inferno where the flames would consume anything and everything ...

---

“Councillor Gisgo,” the light haired Ivalian, Barekbaal throatily addressed through sputtered coughs, “The fates are against us and delaying any further will mean everything we've done was for nothing. There ...”

Tears began streaming down the Dorkim Kdoshim's face as she offered the Councillor a hug, “There is no other way.”

“Barekbaal, no!” the Councillor screamed in horror, “Please!I forbid it. I … under authoritative Median torat...”

Her words trailed off into mindless gibberish as she began to hack into uncontrollable fits. Through labored attempts to stifle her tears, Barekbaal bravely repositioned along the debris along the upper staircase and shouted, “As an authoritative figure of the Dorkim Ivalis Kdoshim Aloophim, this situation overrides the Median torat and has forced the decision of toph to safely ensure that a Ivalian Councillor of the Four Hundred and Four returns to Midia to warn the Queen and the Council of Four and Four of Sarife's treachery. I, Barekbaal of the Ivalis Kdosim, invoke Topheth in accordance with the Queen's decree, the Shophet's ten commandments, and Athirat's holy acceptance in preservation of the Council of Four Hundred and Four!”

Sorrowfully, the surviving Ivalians, both aristocratic and bourgeoisie alike gathered near the center and began to repeatedly chant an odd and somber prayer, “We worship Athirat who presides over our beautiful Ivalis, in that we may have come hither with good omen as to this business of our own; on which we have come. Blessings and prosperity, ye Mother Athirat! Live forever and grant us your wise guidance; in that you may permit us to join our ancestors and family while our sacrifice keeps our peoples safe.”

The females amongst the Ivalian lot formed together into a circle around the beleaguered Councillor and embraced in comfort while the men offered a synchronous humming mantra. The light haired Barekbaal quickly made her way around the assembly and passionately embraced lips with each lady whilst brushing the men with kisses along both the cheeks. This followed with a harmonious acapella between the high pitched ladies and the soft, low pitched chanting men.

The embraces quickly ended, where upon, Barekbaal disrobed and made her way around the circle in a frenzied sprint. Through each passing lap, the chanting grew louder while articulations hastened in enunciations. Each round, marked another rapid incantational elevation and louder came each chant until soon the sprinting Barekbaal began to sweep around the circle in a display of near impossible physique. The voices all spoke in complete unison and in a blinding rush, the Councillor wailed loudly as a large and thunderous boom engulfed the entire chamber in a large and deafening crack. Chanting furious, the Ivalians rose as one and completely disrobed as a red pillar of fire ejected down upon the bawling Councillor before splintering off into separate streams upon each Ivalian's chest.

All at once, the Ivalians lurched forwards as one and all at once, many terrifying, ear-splitting screeches burst overhead. Within several moments, each Ivalian, save the Councillor, toppled to floor amidst the continuous, deafening shrieks. A strange sight soon followed suit as large grey shades emerged out of each Ivalian and split off in every direction; many rushing into the walls and ceilings to push aside the licking flames and fumes. Elsewhere, several shades rapidly rushed through the walls where moments later, ghastly screams and curses could be heard from the distant Chateau outskirts occupied by the Sarifen conscripts. Wincing through the deafening screeches, Lucius agonizingly lifted his ailing Al Mayrin companion off her feet and shouted heavily for the others to follow as he maneuvered through the windswept opening leading down into the cellars ...

---

There were many evenings where the Prince found death screaming at every turn, however, the evening's festivities had brought such a definition to new heights. He found screams errupt from nearly every corner and the eerie shades barely sweep the inferno into streaming fountains of fire. The beautiful sight nearly caught his breath, however, it was the sheer sight of his struggling companions and the surviving guests' suffering that delivered the daring instincts instilled from days following Valania's defeat at the Battle of Vercelli.

If their imminent demise hadn't already presented a sound case for departure, the ear-splitting screeches attuned his senses enough to find a most riddling desire for escape. Above the mortal cacophony, words exchanged between himself and their young lady assassin regarding deliberate instructions that would proceed in his untimely demise. No other words followed, detailing a mutual understanding involving the pair. A short time later, his eyes strayed towards the parted space that kept the flames at bay before his complete attention turned towards their mysterious, armored companion. With whatever ounce of strength still within reserved from within, the Prince stumbled forward and shouted, “Magi! You mentioned you knew of way out?”

Uriel grit his teeth. "I do. Below," he said as he turned hallway towards the cellar and taking a heavy step towards it, "There is a cellar. A nobleman who certainly knew where to go fled through it... although it was blazing. Still, better to risk an inferno and possible enemies outside than face certain incendiation here." Sighing, he waved with his hand as he gestured for the Prince to follow-gaze dark and grim as he began to descend the first of the stairs.

De le Crosse... a pseudonym. However, one that seemed to carry genuine weight... and the woman did not say it in pretentiousness. Whatever name it was, it carried a certain respect to it. Whatever the matter, though, there was too little time, too little attention, to be given to Lucius's current supposed family name. Still panting softly, he cast a glance upwards to be certain the man on his mind was even behind him.

---

Lucius felt the relative urge to simply collapse and rest. The strenous aches and fatigue plaguing through his body were near as great as the fire burning through his pounding chest. He had given everything to simply commit to their renewed survival and found a tempting urge to simply surrender himself to Yadin-Hamon and Athirat's kingdom above. His sights swept towards the raging inferno, the shades as well as the dead and dying. His labored steps carried him through the screeching shade covered stairs. The girl that leaned into him, his Assassin companion, the unconscious Councillor Gisgo, and the Valanian resistance leaders that had begun to gather under the pulsating shaded ceilings. Elsewhere, his eyes swept towards the remaining, hardened Nezamnis that had already regrouped and carried their wounded towards the stairwell.

If it ended here, what would he tell his holy father and mother upon arriving to their kingdom? What would justify what had come of the Delacroix family and how would he justify his actions? How would he explain himself and how he and the last of his line carried themselves during their last moments? Certainly, they would judge him for how quickly Valania had devolved from an age old realm to a debauched wasteland only fit for the treacherous highborns and their ruthless pickings. Nothing would have come of his sacrifices, the shattered Valanian kingdom's suffering, and the injustices that had followed the War.

The manner in which the Château burned proved just how far the vile reaches petty Sarifen aristocrats turned to achieve their means. To this end, it seemed likely he would die a broken man of a dead lineage. It was how the Prince of the fabled jewelled Principality of Kronzewall, the proud Seville's of the now shattered city-states of Tyrun, the successors of Folken the Great, and countless others throughout what was known as the Age of Nobility. If a live existence could present a case, the fallen retinue that had accompanied Councillor Gisgo was the display of how power had surrounded each civilization's aristocratic order. The few ruled over the many and seized the finest riches as long as illusion, prestige, and rewards followed in their wake. For all it was worth, he, Lucius Delacroix, Prince of Valania and heir to the throne had once commanded an entire Kingdom before his fall from grace by the hands of others.

His face quickly became covered in ash as he moved his way down the cellar steps, carrying Ona through the thickened haze of grey smoke. Cries for help amongst the Valanian resistance rang out and the few remaining leaders that had managed to survive the collapse quickly made their way under the pulsating shades to find cover. As Lucius moved his way downwards, smoke began to cloud a debris strew opening where flames began to emerge and lick through openings along the battered cellar ceiling beams. The staircase chamber roared from behind as the blazes of the raging inferno burst into hungry flames and suffocating fumes. The air grew thin as many of the chamber's occupants began to cough and sputter from expanding clouds of immense grey fog. Through sputtered coughs, Lucius violently slammed into the walls before shouting, “Bâtards consanguines! To hell with them for trying to burn us alive!”

“Magi,” Lucius panted as his eyes swept away from the bald headed man's corpse and back towards the mysterious armored man, “I did not even catch your name. When time is permitted, perhap you can offer it.”

---

Uriel glanced back and upwards to Lucius and looked to him, mouth a thin, grim line. "... in its fullness and when privacy permits, yes. For now..." he smiled weakly to the Prince, an expression of weariness-weariness from torture, from the weight of demons and fate, of persecution and nobility and the guilt of his own arrogance. "... you may call to me as Uriel."

With that, he steps up the stair a bound to right next to Lucius-and offered him an outstretched hand; his voice, however, rang both of shattered nerves and hope. "Weak as I am right now... I am not going to let you collapse. Let me help you."

There was no time for Lucius to be hobbling after. Scared as his mind was, as the fear and anger boiled in his blood, some part of him thrived in this den of carnage and cacophony of destruction and screams-perhaps the demons, perhaps for whatever was inside of him that attracted them so to him. He knew not, in the end; however, neither did he have the time or care for even that mystery right then, not while one of the two men in all the world who he held some dearness for stood so close to his death. Desperately, he looked pleadingly to Lucius, praying to whatever God had chosen to forsake him and whatever demons plagued him with their strength for the man to trust him. There was not time for Lucius otherwise and damned be the fires and heaven itself, he was not going to just abandon him here.

"Keep behind me, my liege."

Balthazar advanced ahead of the group, mildly curious as to why these strange...shadows were helping them escape. Flames roared behind them, in the ruins of the Chateau, yet these shades were somehow pushing them back. He wasn't complaining; a road made easier to travel. With raised blade he moved forward, peering into the darkness past his lit torch. The passageway was dark, damp and cramped. The smell of mold and dust hung heavy in the air, which made him shudder to think if the fires behind them caught up. They'd roar through the tunnel, consume them all.

He had to get the Prince out before that happened.

The road to get to the tunnels had been hard fought. Earlier an explosion had rocked the Chateau just as he and the Prince were getting ready to fight their last. That, and the mysterious man's sudden appearance, were enough to give the Prince and his entourage a chance to escape. He'd taken that same chance and followed swiftly behind the Prince before the Chateau had collapsed around them.

Balthazar gave a soft cough as he raised the torch ahead of him. The lone flame flickered and bit at the wooden beams above his head as he kept on trudging forward. After a while, he glanced back at the group he was escorting, past the Prince and at the man who knew of the tunnels. Uriel.

"You. You who suggested these tunnels. How long do they go on for?"

---

The descent proved just as terrifying as it was eerie and if ever there was a time in which he could not fathom the ghastly evidence of the supernatural, no other point in his life could quite match the present moment. Much remained unexplained, yet there stood one unquestionable realization and it stemmed from the reality that certain players had conspired to considerably lengths achieve their goals. When it would all end was when the Prince and his companions' fortunes finally dissapated or they somehow capitalized upon their sacrifices to escape this charade of a Banquet turned incendiary execution.

He couldn't imagine how his companion, Balthazar could muster the energy to move onwards, however, perhaps it was the reason the former retainer still lived. The ache that coursed through his body proved too much to bear and in them, Lucius felt his legs grow heavy as stones. The seer in his arms could barely walk, let alone move and it seemed that with every step, he too found himself facing a similar condition. It was fortunate Balthazar and Dae still remained in their stead or it seemed he would've stood utterly alone amongst the fates. In an unexpected gesture, the armored man offered an outstretched hand, however, the words that spilled out of his mouth sent a flashes of recognition through his mind and for a moment, the Prince believed he'd recognized a man he'd long believed dead.

The same words said on the night King Lothair and many great of the Kingdom's advisors and loyal retainers fell to assassins sent by none other than his own uncle. During that exact moment of suspicion, his hand wretched away in hesitation and in that moment, the Prince tottered as he felt his legs begin to buckle. His grip upon the seer began to slip as his balance began to wobble back and forth before a missed step that not only threatened to unbalance the armored young man, but sent him careening down the flight of stairs. Stars clouded his vision as he somehow managed to shield the brunt of the damage from Ona's way. Before he'd reached the cellar's bottom stairwell, he'd already determined he'd made a grave mistake, however, the deeds were done and nothing could change the fact that his body ached like never before.

"You'll excuse my idiocy, Uriel but I believe I can ... manage!" Lucius loudly lied amidst groans and pained gasps. His arms reached out towards his Al Mayrin companion, however, the adrenaline rush had begun to fade and immense exhaustion and aches began to overtake his muscles. His eyes glanced upwards as he found the smell of fumes descending from above. The pulsating shades had begun to fade as quickly as the ear-splitting screeches had begun to dim.

"You," he heard his towering former retainer voice, "You who suggested these tunnels. How long do they go on for?"

"Yes," Lucius grimaced, "I suppose perhaps you could offer guidance if you know of way through this spirits stockage otherwise I'm afraid this cellar will become our eternal resting place ..."

Uriel glanced upwards to Balthazar with an exasperated sigh-however, then Lucius withdrew, startled, before falling and tumbling down the corridor. He stared on in horror as the man collided into the wall, chasing dumbly after him several steps before slowing when the Prince commented back. He stood there, mouth a grim line as he responded to the two. "We're about halfway down the stair to the cellar where I was being kept. There is a corridor there that a high noble who was aware of what all was going on fled through. How far or where exactly it leads, I know not-however, as he took it, I am certain it leads to some way out."

The soft light and shadows danced over his face like fires, strange shadows seeming somehow unnatural playing about him, around him as he stepped down to the cellar's floor and began to walk in the direction of an archway lit in red, orange and yellow hues. He stopped near the entrance and looked back to Lucius, concern and on-edge impatience in his face. "Through here, specifically," Uriel said, sweeping a hand softly, open-handed and palm upturned to the passageway as a particularly bright flare burst somewhere in the tunnel to cast him in a strange play of fiery light and shadow. For a single moment, shapes of shadow painted the wall like wings, almost like an angel holding a flame-then flickered as though something writhed from within and somehow seemed sinister as the image faded for the dying fire, almost demonic. It happenened so fast, though, it could easily have been an illusion, even something from pain and exhaustion-induced deliria.

"There's no more time. We're already going to have to find our way through there; come...!'

---

---

“T'as pas de couilles, (You don't have balls)” a burly, bald headed leader shouted as he emerged through the collapsed ceiling wreckage, “Apprendre à se battre et se développe quelques balles vous Sarifen porcs! (Learn how to fight and grow some balls you Sarifen pigs!)" The man quickly unholstered two pistols, stepped into an fissured opening within the Chateau walls, and aimlessly emptied his firearms into the distant Sarifen lines before bellowing a string of venemous curses and barbed insults. The man's spirited taunts did little more than earn several precise arrow vollies into his gut and in a little under a minute, the last leader of Le roturiers de la rue mob resistance circle resembled nothing more than a bloody, writhing pile of dying meat. Several other Valanians emerged from the wreckage and slowly began to seize the situation before stumbling their way through the ruined chambers.

Moments later, the shaded wisp filled staircase chamber pulsated ever more intensely, following a disheveled figure that aimlessly crawled through the wreckage. The ceilings had collapsed only moments after the other Ivalians had invoked Topheth Councillor Gisgo had awakened and managed to creep through motionless corpses that once resembled accompanying elements of Ivalian society. Her gutteral cries and wails for forgiveness fell on deaf ears given how thoroughly Barekbaal and the surrounding Ivalians had fulfilled Topheth. Outside of the shade strewn chambers, the inferno raged ever so viciously and after several meters of pitiful wriggling, her sights laid upon a girl she'd trained and once considered her own.

“Daedhel!” she tearfully winced as she grovelled across the ash strew floor. A glance towards the others and their descent into the cellars spurred the Councillor to her knees. “It's come to this, hasn't it? Our children are dead and have forced my return to Media to persuade our colonies to seek other markets. I cannot stay here and would ask your allegiance in this matter. The Council must know of the volatile nature of our business with Sarife ...”

The disappearance of Lucius, into the cellars from what Dae could see, forced her decision. Her gaze offered no sympathy as she glanced over at Councillor Gisgo. The corpses of the Ivalians only added to the increasing numbers of the dead. It was not something that bothered her, nor had it been something that had bothered her for a long time. Death happened. If she took too long to think on it she was sure that she would soon find herself among their number. That was something that she would rather avoid.

However considering the pitiful state that Councillor Gisgo was in Dae was unsure how far she would get helping her. "I will help you, however I have no interest in going to Media myself," as Dae spoke, relatively quietly, she bent down to offer the Councillor help to stand. She had no plans to return to working for the Ivalians. She had more personal things to pursue. "I am assuming you cannot walk by yourself? How much protection with these creatures," she glanced at the wisp, unsure what to call it or what to think of it, "...Offer? For we do not have much time to get out of here."

“I realize you haven't lived long enough to understand the customs amongst our peoples, Daedhel, but ... our children are not creatures. They are the spirits that inhabited my people before they ...” the Councillor paused and covered her mouth, swallowing heavily as tears once again streamed down her face, “...gave their lives for me.”

In respectable gesture, the prominent Ivalian glanced back towards the circles of motionless corpses and offered a prayer. When she'd finished, the lady laboriously crawled forwards and teetered heavily, but somehow managed to stand. It was known amongst the Council of Four Hundred and Four that they should show compassion for the fallen, but to remain strong for Ivalis. As such, Councillor Sofonobisbal never looked back and just as quickly, wiped away her tears to the cold and calculating expression most other Councillors were expected to wear.

“Their spirits will soon dissipate,” she voiced upon glancing towards the pulsating shades. The clouded had begun to fade and provoke a brief shudder from the Councillor's lips. Her forehead lathered with sweat and she soon found herself leaning heavily upon the Valanian killer's support, “Lead on and if Mother Athirat permits ... we will discuss mutual interests later ...”

Dae merely nodded at the explanation. She did not give much thought to it, nor did she try to understand exactly what was going on with these spirits. There were more important things to think about such as how they were going to get out. The route that Lucius had taken seemed like it was probably their best bet. A fire raged around them and she didn't fancy trying to go through it.

"Then we must hurry, otherwise their sacrifices will have been in vain," Dae spoke with a frown. Though it was going to be difficult to move quickly with the state that the Councillor was in. And it wouldn't be easy for her to defend them if needed.

Without saying much more she proceeded to move forward, quickly finding the passage of sorts that Lucius and the others had taken. It didn't seem like it had collapsed yet and it was the least risky way out. Silently she entered it and began to move as fast as the Councillor seemed able. She could only hope that she could find some kind of safe place afterwards. She needed rest herself, considering the injuries she had sustained not too long ago, and the Councillor was not in a state to go far.

---

Edgar was not a servant that sat idly and allowed others to seal his destiny. He served Lady Heurassein in all shapes and manners to engaged tasks that furthered the company's needs as those of its lady owner. When the roof came collapsing down, he'd been the first to leap over to shield and brush the Lady from harm. It was no small wonder when the groaning beams crumbled less than spectacularly where only half the Château collapsed and left part of the Grand Stair Chamber intact. Some did not rise after the roof completely fell upon them, however, others had somehow survived in miraculous fashion.

The fortunate few that had managed to escape the ceiling's crushing descent rose to find the entire chamber bathed in horrific inferno that clouded the entire vicinity with noxious, suffocating fumes. The clouds should've suffocated the surviving guests out of the mortal world, however, various eerie shades had since emerged from their Ivalian vessels to pushed back the inferno proved how strange and unpredictable fortunes could swing.

As a servant of the Heurassein Powder Company, Edgar glanced towards the general vicinity of several Valanians that had begun to make their way through an opening leading downwards and into a hidden cellar. His face ashen and his appearance unseemly, the only Heurassein servant present within the entire district threw his hands towards removing the piles of rubble blocking their path towards the safety.

"Lady Heurassein," he cried upon ripping aside several floor planks, "It seems Yadin-Hamon is offering us both another chance at life and we must make meaning of it by not idling any longer!"

"Well what are you waiting for you oaf, run!" Adrianna said, prodding him along lest the inferno make a meal out of them. She took to wrapping her scarf around her face to filter out the smoke. Her forehead was moist with sweat and eyes squinted thru burning tears. But their salvation was just in sight as they saw several other party-goers piling thru a cellar entrance. Adrianna and Edgar snuck in behind with the last of the escapees and were greeted by the coolness of the stone cellar. I wouldn't be long before the others realize they had and extra pair, so Adrianna pulled Edgar aside for a brief second to hand him her pistol.

"Take this. If things go south, don't miss" she said, as she brandished a spare for herself.

Without hesitation, Edgar reservedly accepted the pistol and glanced upon Adrianna with both admiration and desire. He hadn't found himself in the company of many strong women, not noticeably those of Lady Heurassein's caliber or resilience. Owing to her reservedness and iron willed determination, fewer still could survive or manage such a large, self-sustaining business as the woman before him and he found that his service under the Lady extended far beyond the motley villages he was almost destined to rot in.

The servant quickly scrambled to his feet and followed in the survivors' direction until one such Valanian stumbled and nearly threatened to force him into a similar descent. What followed instead was a series of rather awkward steps that eventually unbalanced the Heurassein steward into a rather unlikely t within the cellar's inventory. The sight and smell of strongly flavored fruits and soured grapes filled his senses as he found himself drenched in a fine liquored wine of a particularly rare vintage. Glancing upwards, the stewart stared towards the perfectly intact wine cask that had blunted his movement as well as the large crack spewing perfectly fermented wine upon his head. In an inviting gesture, is hand outstretched towards his patron whilst wine continually soaked his body under the pulsating shades.

“A sip to clear the mind before we depart, milady?”

"Clumsy oaf!" Adrianna muttered, unamused by Edgar's antics. The smell of wine did not sit well with her since she was poisoned earlier. In addition, she didn't much care to stand near someone soaked in alcohol whilst in a burning building. And if the other survivors hadn't noticed them, they surely did now. If anything, the fumes had begun to descend upon the cellar passage and Edgar was no fool. Without another word, the stewart quickly composed himself and stepped alongside his employer with the intent to depart and preserve the Heurassein Powder Company's survival ...

---

Lucius found himself glancing towards his exhausted Al Mayrin companion whilst the shades screeched from above. His injuries and fatigues were more than an average day's engagements in the field, however, he had seen worse. All other incidents had certainly exceeded all his harrowing life threatening encounters and beyond. Movement from behind provoked a weary sword draw only to discover his female companion and a somewhat distraught, albeit emotionless Councillor Gisgo stalk through their location and towards the cellar opening.

“Balthazar,” Lucius screamed through pained gasps and coughs, “I beg of you! Please ... you must help me lift Onatha. I alone ... I ... I cannot carry her any further."

The shades had begun to quickly fade just as suffocating fumes had begun to descend back downwards and onto the assembled survivors. His face wrinkled as he half limped, half staggered towards Onatha and lifted her arm around his neck. His eyes burned as glanced towards the opening where he found himself staring towards the clouds that had began to engulf the ceiling. They had one chance and one chance only to brave an escape.

"Of course, my liege!"

Balthazar hastened to the Prince's side and made to relieve him of his burden. Gripping his scimitar between his teeth, Balthazar bent down, hoisted Onatha onto his back and resumed his forward march. The smoke grew steadily closer as they carried on, the shades losing power every minute they dallied.

"Do not worry, Prince Lucius! I will carry Onatha! Go with the magi and find us our exit, hurry!"

He coughed softly as the smoke oozed over their heads. They had perhaps minutes to spare before the shades weakened and the fires consumed them all.

Lucius offered an acknowledging, albeit weary grunt and made his way past the several burnt out wooden husks that once resembled wine casks and collapsed shelves littered with shattered bottles and smoldering wood and soured grapes. His vision remained clouded at best, but in desperation and outright anger, the Prince stumbled in the direction Dae, Councillor Gisgo, Uriel, and the other survivors had seemingly poured through. A nagging feeling that screamed of discomfort and vulnerability burned through the back of his mind, however, his fatigued predicament forced his hand in pursuing escape and safety over lingering thoughts of predicated suspicions.

---

Boluk-Bushi Untirr Thaksin had been through countless engagements throughout several wars and had not survived this long to have left his men to die. When the ceiling came crashing down, it happened with such fury that it left less than several unforgiving moments for his brother subordinates to find cover. Miraculously, the nobleman that had proven instrumental to their counter-attack once again reaffirmed his worth through wisely alerting Untirr in time for the officer to issue necessary precautions before himself finding cover.

The Nezamni subordinates followed orders exactly as specified and to the letter without complaint or unnecessary delays. Such was expected of the soldier corps that commanded the respect of countless Sarifen Emperors and their Aryanpur descendents. They left no man behind and within reason, considered each other equals to where an understanding of duty to the Emperor of Sarife, self-discipline, and an oath to their Zendricaanist sect were valued above many other responsibilities.

The ghastly shades had proven somewhat of an unexpected development that had mostly prevented their demise. As a commanding officer of his orta, Untirr had ordered the surviving men to bring the wounded towards the cellar opening where it was determined that they would initiate their last stand. Cellars were known to withstand the worst of collapsing buildings while serving as an impenetrable refuge against numbers six to seven times their own.

With luck, they could at least tunnel their way through while a rear party withstood the cellar's chokepoint from the warring, traitorous Azads and their swine. They rushed through the opening to find the brave Valanian that had aided their efforts against the Baktrian Azads sprawled across the floor alongside an assembly of his companions and a battered opening leading someways downwards. An alternative route into the Voltisian depths had presented itself and seemed a much better outcome than previously expected.

“Nezamnis!” the officer shouted, “Those still able to walk, I want three formations assembled into separate rank and file. One, guarding the stairwell entrance, one wedging our middle as a reserve to guard our wounded, and one as an advanced party to the opening leading away. Inform the men to a wall of orderly retreat. Corbaci, what is the status of the wounded?”

“The dead were left where they fell, however we have recovered all of our wounded. The men are battered, but they will hold even without sufficient munitions.”

“Then we are in good hands, Corbaci. We will not leave until the last living brothers have escaped.”

Saluting, the Corbaci returned to issue orders amidst barked orders and hand gestures that sent the men into triple lined formation. Within mere moments, the remaining Nezams had quickly formed three solid ranks. In orderly fashion, the soldiers peeled away as one rank offered cover, while the others retreated towards a more defensible position. Despite operating under rapidly descending, fumes, the covering retreat unfolded without complications and in minutes, the maneuvers happened in a very short time period. The warrior aristocrat had found his way into the cellar passage where the commander and the last Nezamnis offered acknowledging nods.

“You of the Noble order,” Untirr firmly addressed as he beckoned an arm forwards, “We are retreating through that opening and we hope you will find your way out. We will not stop otherwise.”

The survivors movements and strained expressions only offered a modicum of comfort as the ear splitting screeches and the pulsating shades suddenly faded. The entire cellar engulfed into a mess of clouded fumes and wall licking blazes. The fumes filled the cellar in a noxious cloud and plunged the entire underground dwelling into a sea of yellowing flames. The remaining Nezamnissaries had wasted no time in withdrawing moments before the flames arrived, however, several straggling and aristocrats screamed or toppled to the floor as the flames wholesomely consumed them.

Then, as if by supernatural intervention, the fumes licked even further to spread across the cellar passage. There was little mercy given how rapidly the fumes retched upon the survivors. As if matters couldn't worsen, a lingering stench of moss, bile, feces, and the deities knew what else had begun to fill the air. They journey had brought the lot through the sewers and it quickly proved evident that if the fumes failed to suffocate their existence, the stench surely would.

Long ago, the hindsight of the reigns involving earlier Delacroix kingships had delivered an expansive sewer system that had coated the valley through which Voltas expanded. The aged Voltisian sewers had since fallen on immense disrepair and piled with horrific public sanitation fit not even for demons. They'd little choice and what was a simple intelligence eves-dropping had quickly culminated into a scramble for dear life and in lue of the murderous inferno, his eyes quickly swept across the quasi-national sight of disheveled survivors hailing from differing lineages both aristocratic and soldierly alike. There was little bickering amongst the Nezamnissaries, the defiant looking aristocrat amongst their retinue or the remaining Sarifens whilst most of the surviving Valanians not only eyed each other distrustfully and largely kept to themselves with the exception of Comtesse, whom appeared as irritated as she did another, shorter, albeit venemous looking female companion.

The assembled group largely fell silent silent as the sudden sounds of clattered footsteps, barked orders, and large rings of drawn steel filled the air. Those still able drew steel and fumbled about as anticipation towards immediately combat lingered. It seemed there was no end to this night and even after escaping one inferno, the fates only brought them into yet another. Another confrontation against heavily armed and directed Sarifens was surely one they wouldn't likely win and under the surface, it seemed that both Yadin-Hamon and Athirat had saved their end for a battle in filth ...

---

What immediately followed proved incredibly unexpected as the survivng Nezamnissaries and few remaining, retainers amongst the aristocratic guests found themselves greeted by ... nothing ...

Gasping, Lucius raised his sword and exhaustively stalked ahead found himself staring down upwards towards a large drainage grill that offered a brief gust of fresh, albeit dank air that reeked of smoke and debris. A hand raised amongst the Nezamni commander as they heard movement from an opening above their heads.

Through wide eyes, the Prince glanced towards the ungainly sight of a small party of disheveled, aristocratic men and women stumble across the streets only to scream as a sea of arrows suddenly planted into their backs. Several young men of Sarifen descent cried for mercy only to find more arrows pierce their necks. The rest were cut down by arrows or blades from fast moving mounted cavaliers wearing Almain rivets similar to those worn by the Crown Watch. Clattered footsteps, barked orders, and metal clanks followed in their wake, announcing the arrival of yet another group of trained and armored foot soldiers.

“Tany ard tümen, uls orny mökhökh ni khezee ch boltugai,” a silky, albeit, heavily accented female voice affirmed from atop a mounted saddle.

“Bénédictions du Athirat et Yadin – Hamon, honorés Kheshig,” a female voice politely addressed. Torchlight flickered as the female figure stepped into the light to resemble a steel plated lady wearing raven dark hair and a commanding expression. Her arriving retinue consisted of a gathering of other, ladies wearing similar plates and. as she glanced towards the broken and bloodied bodies, “I would assume zat your actions were justified in dispatching those innocents? We are treading through uncharted grounds and carrying ourselves across a matter that is beyond our calling. I assume this ees a good reason our sisters were dispatched in the Crown Watch's stead, oui?”

“We do not share your value in peasants that treat their own like cattle and feel it as every reason that it is wise to exact justice as seen fit. At the very least, you should know that if tigers eat at each other, Grand Master; both you and your Lord Sovereign must set an example as is required of you. It will soon concern your fate as do all creatures and kingdoms laying beneath treading horse hooves.”

The sounds of whistles, multiple directives in a foreign language, whips, and loud horse neighs soon followed suit as the ground with horse gallops and steel clanks. The mounted horsemen and women headed in the direction of what appeared to be loud weeping. Several wails escaped amongst various sole female survivors whom tearfully mulled over amongst their slain aristocratic lovers as they were dragged atop the horses and carried away into the night. The cries soon drowned into the background as the sound of rumbling ballista fire, cries of triumph in Emperor Aryanpour's name, and faint, distant cannon fire drowned out the fading horse neighs.

“Best not question the Lord Sovereign's directives, Eugenia,” another nearby figure murmured through the clattering footsteps, “Our exchanges yesterday were suspicious enough. And of course … there's more o'them than you.”

“Cela està juste titre, Bastien,” the Lady Grand Master answered, “I'm well aware of the territorial hand over involving our little charade and I must complement your theatrics. Our arrangement involving the brothels spells that they aren't merely whore houses, but locations to train more sisters in waiting. A mutual partnership for which we may keep more of our numbers under the guise of prostitution.”

“Une varicelle sur toi,” the pocked-marked street ganger remarked as he too stepped into the torchlight, “All in a day's swoiree ... then again ... that part about my ... ehm ... farking was a little 'arsh, no?”

“Au contraire, Bastien,” Eugenia sighed as more plate wielding sisters quickly made their way through the streets, “I find your words regarding his late Sovereign Lothair equally vile! Par jambe atrophiée de mon gammer! That one murderer got away, didn't she?”

“Far as I'm aware, yes,” the pock-marked Bastein grumbled, “Salope! Made usurping le gambers colporteurs mob a 'erible mess. Oh … and you should know that your sister's bolts almost killed several of my own boys.”

“Oh, but it happened for a reason and was enough to hunt down the bastard le gambers mob to a man. At the very least, it seemed convincing enough, did it not? I am as short on time now as I was previously and it's best that we speak in the morning. For now, please survive the night...”

“Never … again ...” the ganger mumbled sternly as the Grand Master barked strict orders and departed into the night alongside several complements of disciplined Melitan Sisters. Grumbling the scarred ganger sorted amongst the slain aristocratic corpses and seized trinkets and gold before stalked into a dark alley leading into the Merchant's Quarter Walls. For a while longer, the gutter grill opening brimmed with clattered footsteps and horse gallops rang out through the cobbled streets ...

---

During the harrowing moments below the surface, the surviving men and women of differing heritage, backgrounds, and social standings had somehow managed to support each other in a glimmer of humanity. The filth proved more than they could bear, however, given the circumstances, there was little they could do, but wait out the violence, distant chants, armed deployments that raged from above.

The footsteps and gallops fell silent sometime into the night and after a time, the Nezam Commander's hand gestures quickly brought the Nezams to action as they peeled into formation towards a sewer tunnel directly under the grill and away from the Noble's Quarter. As the remaining Nezamnis began to reassemble their ranks and retrieve their wounded, the other survivors quickly following suit. Their headcount proved incredibly paltry compared to their more populous retinues only hours before and their shattered expressions spoke of hardship and trauma in the hours and days ahead.

Amongst their retinue, their colleague Daedhel L'Fevre had somehow managed to have supported the ailing, albeit alive Councillor Gisgo whilst emerging unscathed alongside a beautiful, albeit steely eyed lady aristocrat and her servant. Some paces ahead of the rest, the man in the iron mask, Uriel had managed to guide the survivors through the sewers where all, save the Nezamnissaries themselves, looked to him with weary desperation and guidance.

Several paces away, the Al-Mayrin seer, Onatha, appeared heavily exhausted, yet otherwise alive having proven more than her worth to uncover various necessary truths that would've otherwise remained hidden within the defiling Banquet gathering. Without the towering man that now carried her, it was doubtful she would've survived the inferno and as one of the only surviving retainers of the once feared and respected Garde de Delacroix, Balthazar remained composed and reserved during the ordeal leading up to the harrowing exodus through within the Voltisian sewers. The sole Nezamnissary commander, Untirr, his remaining soldiers, and the defiant Sarifen aristocratic cavalier accompanying their retinue had immediately begun to compose themselves in preparation for the coming morning, despite having suffered severe casualties amidst a suicidal encounter that would've left most others dead.

Lucius proved amongst the last to inch forward and depart, having glanced back towards the grill opening, the smoke plumes that had begun to cloud the night sky, and the battle cries that hailed justice for Emperor Aryanpur. His eyes lit in fury as he glared towards yet another grill opening that offered a hazy, yet clear view of the Palais du Voltas. Through escaping the night's traumatic massacre and finding weary beyond belief, a spark set above the Prince's mind. There was still time and space to exact a blow of defiance against the vile pupeteers orchestrating above ground and it all started with a potential pre-emptive strike against the traitorous Lord Regent's own residence …

---

“Lady Heurassein,” a young, finely dressed Sarifen aristocrat addressed as he ushered several of his hobbling companions through the filth and towards the ravishing, powder company's negotiator and her esteemed stewart, “It seems your tenaciousness is much greater than you are given credit for! Of course, I'm unsure of how Sarife will far in the coming years, in fact I believe these are truly times, in which I question the validity of Sarifen reputation for dignity. I did not want to think that our brethren would kill each other, much less regard their own as meat, but this?! No, I believe we've seen enough! When brother Sarifens butcher each other for reasons of this kind, it seems that the only means of business, much less survival lay within vast purchases of shot and powder.”

“Come now, Radin,” winced another aristocrat sporting gash wounds, “Did you really think that the Bozorgan of Baktria or the Houses of Surena, Seleucidae, Sasan, Arsaces, and Achaemenid wouldn't exact what is necessary to remove their enemies? We are not in Orad or the Emperor's good graces! Tookhmeh sag! We are in a dying, piss riddle necropolis where vultures prey on each other for scraps of food and coin.”

“Careful what you say, nobleman,” a small, albeit venemous looking young Valanian girl as she brandished a sharpened stiletto. Her motions were halted as the Comtesse Mirabelle issued an authoritative hand gesture and a frown that sent the girl back into a corner amongst a small group of Valanians.

“For your sake, Sarifen,” the Comtesse coldly addressed as she turned towards Radin, “I hope your journey is as comforting as your stay in Voltas. I hear the open roads and Valania's thick forests are filled with the prowling wolves that resemble your own kind. Banditry and unpaid conscripts are a beast onto their own.”

“Ha! See here! Not all of us are as vile you may think, Valanian. And of course, if you look around you, Voltas is hardly a place to raise a family or seek a way of living, no matter your standings,” the gashed aristocratic spitefully retorted, “Come now, Rashid. We should follow our brother Nezamnissaries and fellow Azad, Lord Isfendiyar or we will surely meet Yadin-Hamon before today's.”

“Yes, you're right Navid and sadly, this is is not our home,” the curly haired Rashid answered as he turned towards Lady Heurassein, “These are not the deserts and steppes that encompass our beautiful Sarife or its peoples. This why I tell you, Lady Heurassein. I will tell you as the sole head of House of Ur-Nammu that I believe that the Heurassein Power Company's munitions and arms are what are needed in this day and age to ensure that our branches remain in business! When there is time; whatever you can sell … we will purchase what we can. We are following Lord Isfendiyar and the Nezamnissaries. They will know what to do and where to find safety.”

“Lady Heurassein,” Edgar announced, “The House of Ur-Nammu holds prominence amongst Sarife as a respectable owners of legal branches in every major populous city. They are renowned as upholders of the law.”

Murmurs spilled amongst the remaining Nezamnissaries as they assembled around their commander, Untirr. The tassel bearing warriors had seen little reason to linger and under the direction of the other subordinate officers, the remaining Nezams gathered near the sewer entrance leading towards the Merchant's Quarter. Their silhouettes cascaded amongst the moonlight that streamed down from the grill above their heads. Many had already gathered their wits reloaded the last of their munitions, stood in formation.

“Lord Isfendiyar,” the Orta commander, Untirr addressed, “I will see what we can do for you once we've made our way to a safe location, but for now, this is not a place we should linger. A lot of my brothers are dead and still others wounded. We will be doing what is necessary to contact the Emperor and if need be, fight our way back to Sarife. I assume you know of a location where we can go and ...”

Untirr paused as one of his subordinate corbacis suddenly whispered into his ear regarding survival without munitions or shot. Nodding swiftly, the commander straightened himself and briefly excused himself from the stoic Bahram's company to bring himself towards the powder company's lady liason.

“Lady Heurassein,” the Nezamni commander firmly addressed, “I am a Boluk-Bushi of the Nezamnissary Corps. I hear your company sells munitions and if you've branch that stores powder and shot within this city. With your permission, we will see to it that you are escorted out of harms way in exchange for powder, shot, and arms. Provided you can offer munitions to my men, you have my word that I will deliver a request for notable favor to hear of your services reach the Emperor's ear ...”

---

Amidst whispers amongst the few surviving Sarifen aristocrats, Lucius' breath escaped his lips as he trudged towards the grill that offered a clear view of the Palais de Voltas. Vengeful eyes stared up towards the towering, marvel of former Valanian architectural ingenuity mixed with touches of a flare of Sarifen flourishes and domed characteristics. Something brought the Prince to a death-defying stare. Having spent several hours to relieve his exhaustion, a new born restlessness seemed to ignited the former Prince in fanatical manner that only Yadin-Hamon and Athirat could know.

As the survivors moved towards the assembling Nezamnissaries, the Prince somehow rose to his feet and rushed to block their path carrying only a single torch. The fires that cast around him gave the man a more pronounced and commanding presence amidst the sewer's pitch black darkness. Several Nezamnissaries glanced in his direction with watchful eyes and hands wrapped around their curved, Khilij sabres.

“Do not be alarmed. I do not wish to bar your path nor do I wish to intrude on rather delicate discussions, however, we all know what we saw at the Château.”

His piercing eyes swept across the weary party, most of whom had ample to time to have caught their breath and some form of rest, despite the smell and several terrifying hours spent laying beneath moving hostile soldiers and mounted cavaliers. Several such Sarifen aristocrats had simply looked for any escape route whilst the Nezams tended to their wounded. The remaining Valanians continually eyed each other with suspicion and contempt.

“Whomever else amongst this party desires a slow and prolonged death … you are free to move on past and towards the Merchant's Quarter, however, know that the moment you cross, you will be butchered like animals … that is … if you survive the night. It is to my belief that whatever awaits you there may prove even worse than what you earlier saw at the Château.”

“Yes, Comte Le Crosse, that much is obvious,” the hobbling Councillor Gisgo flatly voiced as she leaned upon Dae, “I'm not certain if I follow though. Mother Athirat receives all in life and death and unless you know of another, lesser known escape route, I believe we shouldn't linger here.”

“You don't realize how gingerly our woes have played out, do you?” Lucius questioned as he stalked away and across the cobble-stoned walkways beside the filth canals that stretched along the Voltisian sewer grounds. Through curled lips, the Prince glanced up towards the grill that offered a view towards the Palais de Voltas where upon his hands reached through his belt to retrieve a loaded pistol. Just before several Nezamnissaries retrieved their rifles, the Prince offered the former retainer a shoulder pat and his loaded pistol before retrieving and stuffing the guard's emptied pistol with shot and powder.

“The Lord Sovereign, Richter von Conqvist,” the Prince began again, “Is much more dangerous than we thought and commands a seer within his ranks whom...”

“A seer …?” the Councillor interrupted through raised eyebrows and picqued interest amidst murmurs amongst the other survivors.

“An individual whom commands the elemental ability to eavesdrop upon whomever he wants, whenever he wants!”

More murmurs amongst the survivors and Nezamnissaries as the Prince nodded before continuing, “Yes, given that elemental forces are now part of the equation, I need not explain how dangerous such a latent supernatural power may present itself and if we do not strike now, what we endured in the Chateau will only happen again and again … and again and again until we are dead and the great Sarifen Houses and the Lord Sovereign seize what they want. Those that ... wish to seek an escape are free to go as they please for I wish you all the best. Otherwise, come with me to strike into the Palais de Voltas and seize this seer so we may end this nightmare ...”

‘’You know, despite all that you’ve been through just now, Korkud, this doesn’t even come close to the worst. It’s just funny, really. Like, Kafkaesque?’’

The weathered, tired man’s brow rose and his muscles moved as his mind whirred its dictionary to find the word Kafkaesque, and failed.

‘’What?’’

‘’You know, nevermind. You wouldn’t understand.’’

The man sighed, and the tips of his mustache fluttered slightly as he did so.

‘’What do you take me for, a child?’’

‘’Yes, I do.’’ There was a pause. Korkud was not amused. ‘’Well, no, you’re a grown man now, growing old, even, but you were just a kid when we first met. First impressions are hard to erase, you know.’’ Korkud listened intently, for old times’ sake. ‘’Well, that’s irrelevant. You won’t understand, though. I’m dead, and you are not.’’

There was another sigh. Korkud’s shoulders fell, as if dazed by a blow, and his movement suddenly became more sluggish.

‘’You’ve got to accept it. You’ve got to let go.’’

And there was yet another sigh.

-

Korkud did not mind the sewer. His boots, albeit old, were still strong enough keep their waterproof qualities. And his mind was preoccupied with too many things to actually reflect on the horrible scenery and the stench. He was hungry. He was sleepy – in fact, he was exhausted. His plans were on the verge of ruin. Someone knew he was alive. Someone wanted him dead. She was dead.

That last one echoed in his head once more as he walked alongside the group, dazed still. Fifteen years and he still hadn’t been able to get over it. Then again, anyone would be bitter about getting their life burnt down to the ground.

The Nezamissaries wanted to contact the Emperor. Korkud had to prevent this. At this current point he would not be able to integrate himself into court life well enough – his fall from grace had occurred years ago, but the Nobility did not like having the balance of power disrupted, and he was thought of as a collaborator with a heretic still. Then again, the Emperor could possibly appreciate his unification of the Akha Mountains. It was too risky for now, but their mention of the subject nonetheless filled Korkud’s head with ideas. It would be best to stall them until they made it out of the city. But their commander had not let go of the initiative completely yet, and was still talking to the other survivors to get some help for his strivings. The man had moved to talk to that merchant woman Korkud had talked to earlier so quickly Korkud hadn’t even noticed the commander’s absence beside him for a few seconds. Korkud couldn’t help but admire the man’s resourcefulness.

As Korkud observed the commander, he couldn’t help but notice another figure, a young, striking man, appeal to the crowd. He moved from his spot to better hear the man. His ears were still battered from the rather deadly commotion that had occurred earlier.

‘’The Lord Sovereign, Richter von Conqvist, is much more dangerous than we thought and commands a seer within his ranks whom...’’

What came off as shocking to one of the surviving noblemen wasn’t all that much of a shock to Korkud. His paranoi-foresight had made him think of this. Everything had happened so fast. Their horses stolen, his identity known… The only other possibility was having a spy in his ranks, and that was impossible. Fadl would’ve rooted him out, and Korkud knew he could trust Fadl. The man was too content with his post to strive for anything else. It all pieced together.

The young man had a rather bold proposal, to storm the Palace amongst all the commotion and then get rid of the seer. It was suicidal, yet also, it seemed to be the smartest option. As long as that Seer was in place, they wouldn’t see the end of day – especially not after this failed attempt to wipe them all off the face of this earth.

‘’The proposition is sound. But what about the actual plan? We can’t just go knocking on the front door, can we?’’ Korkud asked with a hint of mock in his voice. In truth he had simply been too exhausted to actually care about the importance of the manner. Then again, when you save yourself from the middle of a warzone and your best bet after avoiding death is to attack a Palace alongside overwhelmed noblemen and the battered vestiges of an army unit, that tends to happen.

Uriel listened cluelessly to the beginning of Lucius's speech for how much of it was related to events he could only surmise-whatever lead to the inferno and slaughter above the stair. His mouth stayed in a thin, grim line as the story progressed-and then came his mention of storming the Palais de Voltas of all places.

Quietly, he niped and sucked on his lower lip while the other prince went on to reveal to him that he had discovered among Conqvist's assets a seer able to discern their location at any time. It certainly would explain aught-and make his situation far more dire. There may be no playing Conqvist's game to his own advantage with that pawn at his employ. Then there was that he would die within a day without aid regarding these additional demons he was newly host to... and that all was without even that he was among Lucius's best chances of surviving the Palais-and damn him by every word for a fool, he desperately wanted him alive like a crying child clutched to their mother.

With a grim, narrow mouth and furrowed brow, he stepped forward at step, just past the rest of the ensemble towards Lucius. "... I will go. And I may be able to help in entering. I use elemental magic suited for combat and destruction... if I am admittedly unstable and weak at this moment. Even so, I am with you."

She had fully comprehended what was going on. Her mind shut down not that the seer was not pushing against her and vice versa. Ona was being carried and for that she grateful. She didn’t think she could walk, even if she tried.

Her hand was clutched tightly around the small item in it. The man had put it there, before he died. The man, one of her own people. She had lost hope that she would ever see anyone like her ever again. Now she was sure she was alone.

That thought filled her head as she closed her eyes and let the man carry her. She didn’t know where they were going but she did not care.
*****
Ona did not exactly sleep so much as simply pass out. She woke to find herself sitting against a wall of some kind. She stood, slowly and looked around. There were people everywhere. Lucius was talking.

She couldn’t help but note it was like he was holding court.

Moving off to the side she took a moment for herself. Lucius mentioned the seer and Ona wrapped her arms about herself. Her hand was still tightly wound around what she had been given. She was almost afraid to look at it.

Around her people talked, murmured and made plans. She was concerned with one thing.

Her fingers opened revealing the small, ornate whistle on a chain. She choked back a soft cry as she stared down at it. It was an Al Mayrin object. Nurlia. The tribe she was supposed to be married into, the marriage was supposed to help bring a truce to the fighting.

Ona bowed her head and her shoulders shook at the memories. Her family, her tribe, the fighting, the slaughter, her capture…It all came flooding back.

She wasn’t even supposed to be here. Not now, not in this time. Yet here she was. Here this was. How or why she did not know but she knew that it mattered.

Ona wiped her face before slipping the necklace on. The cold metal rested against her chest as she tucked it into her dress.

Something else was bothering her but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Something poking at the back of her mind but she could not pinpoint what it was.

Swallowing she walked over to where Lucius stood. He was proposing that they strike out, find the seer. She shivered a little.

There was no question though, she would go with him and face this other seer. Some questioned a plan, some simply gave their arm to the cause. Ona did nothing more than put her hand on Lucius' arm, letting him know she was there and on his side.

“Lady Heurassein,” Edgar announced, “The House of Ur-Nammu holds prominence amongst Sarife as a respectable owners of legal branches in every major populous city. They are renowned as upholders of the law.”

HA! Since when has Adrianna respected the law? Or any authority for that matter? If there was anything Adrianna hated, it's being told what to do. But given the present company, perhaps its something better kept to herself.

“Lady Heurassein,” the Nezamni commander firmly addressed, “I am a Boluk-Bushi of the Nezamnissary Corps. I hear your company sells munitions and if you've branch that stores powder and shot within this city. With your permission, we will see to it that you are escorted out of harms way in exchange for powder, shot, and arms. Provided you can offer munitions to my men, you have my word that I will deliver a request for notable favor to hear of your services reach the Emperor's ear ...”

As much as she hates throwing away money, there doesn't seem to be much other choice in this situation. To attack the Palais de Voltas is suicide, pure foolishness. Why would she risk herself in a quarrel that doesn't involve her? No, the sooner she could return to her usual business the better.

"I don't have any stores, no. But if you can reach one of my warehouses or ships, they'll most certainly be stocked and free for the taking; in exchange for safe passage of course."