As the celebration grew to a fever pitch, Hassan was the life of the party - he was always in the middle of things, serving drinks, dancing with the most comely nuns and even attempting to sing in time with the band for one brief ill-advised stint, though at his insistence, nobody but Stina laughed.

He was sitting in the corner with Stina, nursing what was probably his third drink after drinking more stopped being a good idea while his comrade spoke with a strawberry blonde sister – or maybe she was just speaking to him while he drooled? Hassan was past the point of really caring. He sobered up quickly when the pirates walked in, however.

It probably came as little surprise that Hassan had always been keenly in touch with power dynamics; he knew who was in charge in any given situation or relationship, not just because it was usually him (at least when he wasn’t with the other Inquisitors). When the armed men entered, the energy of the room shifted fast, and Hassan furrowed his brow at feeling his power over this room ripped away from him. He hated being usurped, and he bit down on his immediate instinct to order the patrons in the inn to fall upon the newcomers and savage them bare-handed.

He was still stewing as the Secular Army Lieutenants approached them, but he forced a pleasant smile onto his features as they whispered their request and Stina slurred a response with drunken volume. “Of course!” Hassan said and rose to his feet quickly, maybe too quickly – in hindsight, he maybe hadn’t sobered up as much as he thought. “We are always happy to help.”

---

Viveca immediately felt as though she’d asked a stronger question than intended. Mother Indira seemed to reel for just a moment and by the time the new priestess was ready to dismiss it, her mentor was answering. It didn’t take long for Viveca to be enraptured by her story, opening up about her ashe-ran; though the words were brief, it was probably a deeper, longer glimpse into Mother Indira’s life than the young Omestrian had ever been given. Then, as soon as the window was opened a crack, Indira slammed it shut, recounting all of her words, her wisdom, and dismissing it as a silly phrase that she took up to fit in.

The young woman frowned and nodded, “I doubt I’ll forget it, Mother, but I’ll not pry.” Had she not looked up in time, she might have missed it; there wasn’t a doubt in Viveca’s mind when she looked up and saw the look of worry, of… guilt? Yes, it must have been guilt, in Indira’s eyes, for Viveca herself had held it in her own gaze many times under the wing of the kind Inquisitor before her education at the Red Seminary. She hadn’t even registered the young military officers walking by – upon her Culmination, they’d be daft to stand against so much as a look from her. At least, that was how she viewed it.

And again, as though Indira knew exactly what she was thinking, Viveca couldn’t even ask what was wrong before her mentor’s hushed hiss filled her ears. Her stomach flipped over in her gut and the new priestess had rarely heard such urgency in Indira’s voice. In the same, nearly inaudible tone she asked, “Not here, then.” Her mind flashed to those young officers and she gave a soft shake of her head, “Perhaps we should relocate?”

And the small sense of nausea filled her, Viveca couldn’t help but speculate. Were they going on a suicide mission? Was it really so uncommon for Inquisitors to travel into the unknown like this? They were so new, she figured this would be dangerous, but no more so difficult than what she’d been trained to handle… Suddenly, Viveca felt as though she was so much happier only thirty seconds ago. Pining now for the bliss of ignorance, she followed her teacher, unable to control her nervous habit of reaching back and stroking the ribbon behind her head for only a moment. It reassured her. It was, in all of its essence, hope for her.



"Come."

Indira turned and walked towards the balcony.

The night's festivities seemed to be dying down and the dance floor was growing emptier by the moment. The grand ballroom of the Great Basilika was a colossal hall of dark obsidian and shining azure crystal, its opulence at odds with the rest of the spartan yet mammoth chambers that filled the ancient cathedral. As they made their way to the balcony, Indira couldn't help but notice the blue jewels inlaid within the glossy black walls and floors of the ballroom. She had been drinking all night and hadn't taken a proper look, but in that moment she couldn't help but admire the beauty and irony of it all. The black marble interior like a swath of night, the jewels like constellations blinking in the heavens... Indira scanned the room and picked apart every Lanostran-- Astraia standing in the shadows watching, Ziotea dancing quietly with Rodeon, Galahad standing around looking bored while flocked by three female soldiers, Indira wondered if they were aware that this ballroom had been carved with stones and jewels wrested from the sacred mountain of their homeland. They were all traipsing upon stolen ground.

There was no one on the balcony except for a young servant girl smoking a cigarette. When she caught Indira's eyes, the servant bowed and hastily made her way inside.

The two inquisitors stood by the gilded railing of the balcony and gazed down upon the world. From on high they could glimpse to where Magnagrad's boundary, that burning gold horizon of etherlight, ended and where the darkness of the frozen icelands began. Indira thought back to her own Rising Ceremony, back when she was a skinny twig of a girl. No one had asked her to dance that day. Except for Creid...

Indira turned to Vivica and sighed, her breath turning to fog in the frigid night.

"We're all going to die," she said suddenly.

The words seemed to hang in the air. Viveca stared at her blankly. There was no look of shock nor fear in the young Inquisitor's eyes. Only a sort of grim acceptance.

Indira smiled.

Good. She's felt it as well. The disquiet. But you don't truly understand, Vivica. You don't understand what's waiting out there.

Somewhere far away, past the Godsfall and into the deeper wards of the city, an entire sector went dark, its etherlights blinking in erratic rhythms before shutting off completely. Indira spared a moment to grieve for those who would die of exposure tonight. It would take at least a day for the Church to send out a team of engineers to repair whatever infrastructure had broken. Indira breathed in and allowed herself to take in the enormity of Magnagrad unfolding itself before her. She tried to picture the entire city with its hundreds of sectors and wards in shadow, but found that she couldn't.

Instead, she envisioned the city in flames, just as she had all those years ago during her Culmination. She found that the image was still there, burned into her eyes.

"Before you say anything else, I want you to listen."

She turned to Vivica and gazed at the young inquisitor, admiring how the years had forged her pupil into a shrewd and powerful woman, but had not robbed the Omestrian girl of her beauty. The light cast from the ocean of ether bathed the young inquisitor's hair in gold and sapphire light, but the darkness of the colorless Varyan night framed her other half in shadow. The blue ribbon that she had worn since she was a girl hung lazily in the wind.

"Father Creid... and Father Antonin." Indira stopped then, as if to brace for the words she was about to unleash upon the world. "They committed a grave crime-- a crime against Lord Varya and all the Gods... and I helped them."

She paused again, as if to recover from the dark admission that had passed from her lips. Seemingly in response, the wind began to howl.

"I'm sure you have heard rumors of what Father Creid is capable of. I will tell you, what you have heard doesn't begin to capture it. Father Creid is capable of great miracles. He is also capable of causing irreparable damage to the world...

Imagine having the ability to gaze upon the future, to see with your own eyes what tomorrow brings. That is what he decided to do after Lord Varya decided on sending the better part of the empire's inquisitors and soldiers to invade the eastern continent. Whether he did it to sate his own curiosity or to prepare his own class of inquisitors for whatever is awaiting them, I don't know... but with Antonin's help, Creid was able to... travel forward in time. I know it sounds crazy, but it's real. He stepped aboard the Durandal, the ark that he is destined to command, and for three months he observed what was to transpire aboard that ark, unable to change anything. At the end of those three months the armada had made their way far beyond the Narrow Gates, but had not reached El. It was then that it happened... It was then that he saw it."

Indira's eyes darted to the balcony entrance, and when she was satisfied that not a soul could hear, she leaned in close to Viveca and whispered the words into her ear.

"Vai'roth."

The two words danced in Vivica's head. She could not immediately grasp the meaning of the ancient Omestrian sounds. She thought back to her childhood, to the words of her ancestors spoken in secret within the shadows. It was then that the meaning came to her, and her soul filled with dread.

Vai'roth...

Hellfire.



"Quickly! Indira!"

Antonin's screams echoed across the darkened infirmary ward. The summoner stood frozen, gazing down at the ruined body of her former mentor. Father Creid lay motionless beneath her. He was strapped to a bed with sheets stained in crimson. His mutilated body was covered head to toe in blood. Apart from his missing limbs, large sections of his abdomen were missing, the flesh and muscle tissue gone from him. Reddened shards of bone were visible under his pallid translucent skin while the chasm in his chest cavity showed the pulsing mechanical heart that gave him life. The white ether that emanated from the mechanism seemed to be fading with every beat. All around her feet his appendages lay strewn about. Behind her his clockwork limbs lay smoking in a ruined heap, while in her hands, his bronze mask was coated in blood. She could feel it staining her fingernails.

"He is going to die! I need your ether now."

She found herself turned around and staring at Antonin's sweat-streaked face. His face was paler than it had ever been, and his pupils appeared black in the shadows of this place. They appeared to glisten. Whether the man's eyes were moist from his friend's blood, or his own tears, Indira couldn't tell.

"Of-Of course."

Indira drew in a sharp breath. She raised her hand in front of her face and tried to center her concentration. With her mentor dying there next to her, Indira found the summoning of a spellblade more difficult than it needed to be, but this was Creid-- the man who had guided her since she was a girl, who had taught her the value of cloaking one's faith, of enduring and keeping the spirit strong.

Indira closed her eyes, and an instant later, opened them. With a flash of pale blue light a short blade of ether manifested forth from her fingertips. She bit her lip and fought her natural instinct to summon a paling around her, but with a warrior's grace she quickly guided the blade down through her wrist, severing her own hand. She watched as it fell on the floor and immediately kicked it under the bed. No matter how many times she had lost a limb, be it in her own experiments or through aiding Antonin, she had never quite gotten used to seeing her appendages lying on the ground beneath her.

The pain was there, but Indira had grown accustomed to the feeling by now. She hovered her amputated wrist over Creid's blood-covered body and watched as her Omestrian blood flowed forth, melding with his own. Beside her, Antonin held aloft his catalyst and began to channel his own ether into a blood transfusion spell. It would take time, but Creid would live.

It was several hours before Creid awoke and called out to them.

"Indi. Toni."

Antonin was looking over Indira's reattached hand when they heard his voice. Antonin jumped up from his stool and hastily made his way to Creid's side. He brushed the dark hair from his friend's face and slapped him gently across the cheek.

"You damned fool. I hope that was worth it."

Creid attemped to sit up, but found that he couldn't. Instead, he craned his neck to stare at Indira sitting on the opposite bed. He smiled at her.

"Tell him, would you, dear? I've never gone forward before. How was I supposed to know this would be the result?"

"You're a fucking idiot," she fired back.

Indira got to her feet and walked over to her mentor, where she placed her reattached hand on his shoulder and squeezed. The things I do for you. Antonin had done a masterful job of healing him, but whatever insane chronospell Creid had cast had taken its toll. There was less of him now. And there was no getting that back, no matter the strength of Antonin's healing magic.

Creid stared down at his abdomen, where the gouges of missing flesh and bone still remained.

"Hm. Suppose I'll require some skin grafts. I hear they're quite reasonably priced these days. Wait, why am I slurring?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It also took part of your jaw," Antonin answered.

"An acceptable bargain for what I saw--"

"What did you see? Tell us already," Indira spoke up. Something told her that Creid was dreading what he was about to say.

Creid was quiet for a moment before speaking again.

"You should sit down. Both of you."



At the mention of those two unholy words stuck together, Vivica's eyes widened in fear.

"Father Creid said it was quick. One moment the armada proceeded onward, arcing across foreign ice... the next, destruction. He claimed it came from the sky, something hot, burning, a ocean of that unknown force flooding over every ship, every soul. Creid described what it felt like. His flesh disappearing. His bones smoking and turning to ash."

"He doesn't know what annihilates the grand armada, or whether this catastrophe will truly come to pass, but, if there is something out there that can kill Creid and Gregoroth both... you, Ilya, Oren and the rest of Warband Phoenix must prepare for it."

---

In the skies above Sapharan a lone ethermoth fluttered through the clouds, its emerald light fading as dawn cut through the mist like a sharpened blade. Some aberration within it was causing it to malfunction, thus it remained out past the night's end. With a loud spark its gossamer wings froze in place and it tumbled down to earth, landing at the feet of Galahad as he stood alongside Tatiana, waiting for the third of their company to arrive. It was still dark out when the two had met in Bridgetown, and there, in the wide gap between mountains, they could gaze upon the open sky and the world below them. Somewhere beyond the eastern clouds a nameless star appeared on the horizon, its pale radiance sweeping over the land, turning darkness into morning. The shadow of the titanic mountains began to retreat as the tide of sunlight set the world beneath them afire with gold. The sight of the sun rising upon the motherland, it had been missing from their lives for too long.

As they waited, Bridgetown began to stir with life. T'saraen townsfolk milled about the packed-in streets, the strange disquiet in the High City missing here in the hustle and bustle of the conclave. Squadrons of children in thick parkas waddled to school, many of them carrying rolled-up pieces of parchment under their arms. A lone little girl wearing a parka that was way too big for her smiled a toothy grin and waved hello to Tatiana as she walked by. Men and women gathered in the halls of their homes, the roar of laughter and debate spilling out into the streets from within. By the time Astraea arrived the streets had become too crowded and noisy for them, and thus they decided to make their way to the High City to plan their next move. The transports heading to the shipyard were leaving soon and the trio needed to make haste if they wanted to begin the first leg of their return journey without further delays.

After they arrived at the High City, they found it different from how it was the day before. The streets were crowded with Varyan soldiers readying their weapons and equipment. Armored transports lined the streets, the red circle of Varya painted on them gleaming in the morning sun.

"Make way!" they heard a woman cry out. Immediately, the crowd of soldiers began to part, leaving the main street open.

A young woman wearing a black inquisitor's coat rode through the street on a black horse. There was someone strapped to the back of the stallion, bleeding all over the saddle. Galahad, Tatiana and Astraea could see that the wounded young man was also wearing a black coat. He was also an inquisitor, it appeared.

The rider dismounted the horse and immediately yelled for a medic. An older man wearing the red coat of an SA officer shuffled forward.

"Take him to the war hospital. Don't let him die," she ordered.

"As you command, Mother Elisheva," the medic answered with a stiff salute.

The inquisitor was tall and slender, with wide powerful shoulders and short blonde hair. Her face was one of angles, with high cheekbones and a prominent aquiline nose. Her black coat fit around her lithe limbs and torso like a second skin. Twin swords sheathed in decorative black scabbards were strung across her back. Black steel gauntlets covered her arms from fingertip to shoulder, but she wore no other armour.

After the medic had taken the wounded inquisitor away on a gurney, the woman known as Mother Elisheva turned her head sharply and stared at Galahad, Tatiana and Astraea. When they met her eyes, they found that they were mismatched. Her left eye was the winter blue of Varya, while the right eye was... red, like blood.

"You three. I need your help."

She made her way into one of the empty houses lining the main street. As they followed her inside, all three could smell it. The familiar scent of blood drying in the frigid winter air.

Elisheva walked into the abandoned living room of the squat house and casually sat down on an old couch at the center of the room, gingerly removing her swords and placing them down next to her. She cursed silently as she undid the upper fastenings of her coat and peeled apart the layers of enchanted cloth. Her chest was stained red.

"Apologies for interrupting your leave. I understand you three aren't here on official Church business, but aside from Father Killian, who you saw out there bleeding all over the street, we four are currently the only inquisitors in Lanost-- Vitsk! This stings."

She removed a small vial filled with a pale colorless liquid and began dousing the wound on her chest with it. The gantleaf potion immediately went to work disinfecting the wound.

"Late last night, something happened at the Black Glacier. Or rather, something happened to the Black Glacier. The red veins... they turned blue. Which, if I remember my history correctly, has never happened before," Elisheva said, grunting. "The Glacier garrison then reported that a new species of demon began to spawn from it. That Garrison is now dead. Couldn't fight them off, and couldn't escape in time. All of them young T'saraen volunteers...."

She breathed in then, as if to offer a moment of silence for the fallen.

"Rather than put the lives of these SA grunts at risk, Killian and I ventured out there by ourselves to handle it. We figured we could. Demons are no big deal for inquisitors, right? Well, we were wrong."

Elisheva gazed at her swords, then her mismatched alien-like eyes stared directly at Astraea.

"Well, what do you say? Two of us weren't enough. Perhaps four will be."

Rodion followed the duo as they led him down to the Karamzina. Passing the Grace, Rodion could not help but to comment on the ship. “Deva, I must commend your work on the Grace. Functionality is beauty, and in that sense, your Grace is truly a looker.” His emotionless voice carried out from his pale throat. However, he stopped breathing as the Karamzina came into view. It was an absolutely beautiful ship.

Her sleek back curved gracefully, looking more like a beautiful glass sculpture than a machine of war. The long, thin fins stretched down underneath her. The engine rooms were located towards the front, underneath the main body of the beast. The Red Circle of Varya being the only thing to truly mar the beautiful creation. The fins, working as the hearth systems, circulating the ether throughout the ship, heating it with the engines themselves. “T’sukasa, that is, quite possibly, one of the most beautiful pieces of machinery that I have ever seen. Being biased, I must say that Madrys here is more beautiful, though.” Rodin’s attempt at humor failed as his face refused to change its expression. The dead pan features, sharp and handsome, though cold and distant, could not hide the light in the man’s eyes.

Walking up to the glass wall, Rodion studied the ship as well as he could. “T’sukasa, by chance, may a have the priviledge of seeing her blueprints?” Rodion’s breath began to fog up the glass, obscuring his view. Tearing himself away from the great, metal leviathan, Rodion’s eyes met Deva’s. Light blue and a blue that rivaled the ocean behind him. “That goes the same for you, Deva. If I may, I would like to study the Grace as well. If I remember correctly, you have been assigned as its head engineer, correct?” Rodion looked at the Karamzina from the corner of his eye. It truly was a beautiful machine and Rodion doubted if even T’sarae could have made it better.

Rodion tugged at the goggles around his neck. He couldn’t wait to get on the ship itself. As soon as he could get his feet on board, Rodion would be able to truly ‘see’ the ship. He would be able to feel the ether pulsing throughout the ship’s systems. The weight that had been riding on his shoulders lifted slightly as he began to anticipate the wondrous machinery within the vehicle. Undoubtedly, Rodion would be able to convert some of the principles into his own work. Ideas, unbidden and flowing, began to grow in Rodion’s mind. Thousands of ideas, combinations of different systems, grew in Rodion’s mind. Imagine, a core big enough for the Karamzina, a beast to hunt the great oceans. Yes, Rodion was a child of Varya. He was hungry, insatiable, but T’sarae also influenced him. His insatiable hunger wished for knowledge, creativity, and all things new.

She slept on top of the world.

Her aimless wandering, fuelled by paternal resentment, had reminded her strongly of her childhood. She chuckled softly at fond recollections of spirited competitions to stay atop the peak for as long as possible wrapped in nothing but a cloak. A foolish game for children with little imagination and even less funding for their limited free time. Whoever stayed out the longest apparently had the greatest connection with the Lady and it was said that if you could stay out all night the Lady would appear to you and, with her breath, warm your bones for ever more.

Most children failed within the first hour, others, more determined, were dragged home by parents with cold stares and angry mutters. Astraea's parents had never dragged her home and on her longest run she had awoken to find herself in a hospital bed with ether being pumped directly into her veins. Her father had lashed her for every coin she had cost him and she had never dared try again.

Tonight; despite the waves of emotion that crashed against the barriers of her self respect, the dull resonating impact sending shivers down her spine, sleep came easily to her.

She awoke to gasps and huddled mutters; the blazing light of the morning sunshine causing her to shield her eyes as she searched sluggishly for the source.

"Do you think she...."
"She looks fucking freezing if you ask me"
"My da says...."

A gaggle of children stood in a ragged semicircle around her, spears at their sides, eyes bulging with excitement. As she turned to face them, uncoiling like a snake from a basket they followed her sinuous movements transfixed, charmed by the very possibility of a myth bursting into reality.

She kept her face serene, enjoying the tiny gushes of excitement that coursed through her. So much hope... so many dreams. She breathed it in and the raging storm of her troubles seemed to wash away.

They were petrified, held immobile by their own excitement and she held their gaze standing resplendent on the edge of the world, sun blazing off her armour, casting her features into shadow.

A little girl broke first stepping forward hands twisting in her skirts, eyes downcast as she shifted in a guilt ridden two step.

"Did ya see her miss... did ya see the Lady?"

Astraea let her face break into a wide smile and winked.

___________________________________________________________________________

Galahad was already there, resplendent in a freshly pressed and immaculate uniform and though he gave no indication that he knew or cared of her arrival she half wished he had. His attention was not her goal but she longed for any excuse to enquire about the weapon clasped to his belt. Beautiful and ornate, the hilt alone showed incredible craftsmanship. For a moment she shuffled, eyes looking at her own trusty spear. Unfussy and unordained it had a point at the end and a haft to break teeth with. She couldn't help but smile, though it was morphed and distorted into a jealous leer. It was all she had ever needed and was certainly all she would ever have but to see such a blade so close.... yet so far made her stomach lurch.

She had considered heading to Galahad's once it had been clear she had no place to stay. They were not firm friends yet she had little doubt he would have offered her a bed. One look at the high arching gates of the manor house, still so impressive even a hundred meters away had sent her off in the opposite direction.

He was the son of a General, she the daughter of lowborn if noble warriors. He had his place and she had hers.

She felt the pain first. There was a sharpness to it, a raw animal anguish that struck her on the most primal level. She struggled to breathe her chest suddenly tight, throat choking on grief. Tatiana bounded forward an overeager puppy yet the pain seemed to ooze from her like fresh stab wounds.

Astraea knew she was not the only one who had suffered last night.

Before she could move, more pain, excitement tinged with anxiety and a loud voice bellowing through the silence

"Take him to the war hospital. Don't let him die,"

The man was moaning softly, trussed to the back of a horse like a fresh kill and he cursed loudly as he was pulled onto a stretcher. She was up and moving quickly yet a figure blocked her path, black coated and imposing she found herself looking into a mismatched gaze, a single blood red eye clashing with the cool wintery blue on the other side. It was entrancing in its own way, both eyes seemingly at war with one another, perhaps sign of a conflicted soul.

She reached out gently and felt no concern only a driven focus tinged with flecks of resentment and even jealousy as she looked upon the three. Curious she allowed the Inquisitor to steer her away from the wounded man and into another building.

She would come back for him later.

The woman took the couch and Astraea took postion against the mantle of a disused etherfurnace leaning at ease spear in hand, happy to take a power position in the centre of the room.

The woman worked and talked with a practised and uncompromising air, dousing a wound that had coated her chest in blood yet Astraea felt no discernible pain or discomfort until the woman had thoroughly doused the wound. She was business like, uncompromising and practical and Astraea merely nodded until

"Late last night, something happened at the Black Glacier. Or rather, something happened to the Black Glacier. The red veins... they turned blue. Which, if I remember my history correctly, has never happened before,"

Astraea gave a little shudder standing straight. Was this the sign... the sign that the Lady's power in her own land was dwindling and a new type of daemon. She ran her finger over the tattoo on her neck.

Lady protect them... a worse thought. She gave a small shudder though she forced herself not to look round. She did not want.... her... to find another type of daemon to summon.

Perhaps the Inquisitor noticed Astraea's sudden intensity, perhaps the tattoo of her mark however she met Astraea's gaze. Astraea sensed shame and distaste even as the woman stared at her swords. This was a woman resigned to ask for help with this new threat though every word seemed to cost her.

"Well, what do you say? Two of us weren't enough. Perhaps four will be."

She met the inquisitors gaze

"Four will be plenty."

She withdrew her talisman from her pocket her tone suddenly business like though there was a fire blazing in her eyes.

"I will heal your colleague immediately for the 4th."

She jerked an accusatory finger at Tatiana as she moved towards the door

"but she is not coming!"

Tatiana braced her body, a shaky exhalation condensating in the cool air before her. There may have been pain beneath her gaze, but atop it was a mask— the typical idyllic smile and happy eyes of Tatiana’s face. She knew her pain was well hidden, but Galahad had known her a long time. So when he’d reached up to grasp her shoulder, she nearly conceded to explaining the ordeal to him. Alas, Tatiana took a moment to think. The activity was criminal. What happened would not bode well for Lanostran authorities, and with the reputation her and her father had for their certain… Focused studies, it would be all the worse. Tatiana knew her comrades would be there for her, but she still felt alone in the ordeal. No, she couldn’t bring Galahad into such a mess.

“I hope your visit went well, your highness.” As Tatiana spoke, her eyes shifted downwards and she leaned back a bit as she walked alongside Galahad, obviously focused upon his mechanically confusing saber. “Are you and the folks finally trying to show some affection towards one another?” Her query came with thoughts of Tatiana’s limited knowledge on Galahad’s family. “I wouldn’t say a sword is as good as an ‘I love you’, but to each their own. You better have thanked them properly.” Her seemingly serious motherly attitude was mostly a jest. Tatiana knew her colleagues would know her better than to chide them, but Galahad was close, and she couldn’t help but try to bring humor to the air that surrounded her. An instinctive gaze was shot towards Astraea, who Tatiana deduced was either suffering some sort of heartburning pain or empathizing with her. Tatiana didn’t know which she would have preferred. As quick as the glance came, Tatiana’s eyes awkwardly flicked elsewhere wordlessly.

Of course, perhaps Tatiana would have at least tried to make conversation if they had thought about it. Her focus was swiftly drawn elsewhere as they neared the High City. This is the Lanostre she was used to. It was almost calming to the young inquisitor to see the hustle and bustle of her childhood city. It was much easier to focus on the task at hand with the telltale clanking of soldier men passing around her. The children even seemed quite interested in Tatiana as an inquisitor. To be seen as a role model was a delight for Tatiana, though she did feel enticed to cover her insignia. She would be hard pressed to say the minute fame wasn’t the best part of the job. _{Maybe the only good part...} The most peculiar sights, however, were the masses of Varyan soldiers. If Tatiana didn’t know better, she would have said it looked like they were about to go to war. Another missed opportunity to spark conversation, it seemed, as the soldiers all started to shift and part for a pair before Tatiana could speak up.

Another inquisitor? The harrowing coat was a telltale sign. She rode forward only to pause before the trio of young inquisitors. More questions pierced Tatiana’s mind, but it was then that she noticed the black clad being leaving a trail… A trail of red. Tatiana’s eyes went wide and she offered a step forward. What was she going to do? She had no idea herself, but the mere sight of such a battered individual left her with an obligation. Tatiana shot a look back to Galahad— a look he had surely seen plenty of times before making her intentions of helping, and thus his assistance clear. Of course, the rider soon called for a medic and Tatiana’s goals were shifted to helping elsewhere, though still helping of course. The arriving medic gave Tatiana more information she sought when the rider’s name was announced formally. Elisheva… Just a cursory glance at the woman gave off an air of majesty. This woman was a warrior— one of great valor. She would have immediately guessed Lanostran from the choice of visceral weaponry, but as Elisheva turned to them, her eye color made Tatiana correct herself. Tatiana’s conscious attention was redirected to the wound rather than her good eye, though. Tatiana adjusted her posture— which was most certainly lacking beforehand— as the trio was addressed by their fellow inquisitor. Tatiana made haste to follow her off towards the shell of an old house.

The young inquisitor’s stomach turned at the iron-y scent of drying blood. She was an inquisitor, yes, but that by no means meant Tatiana was good with viscera. Surprising for a commander of the most visceral and bloodthirsty beasts in the land… Elisheva seated herself, but the urgency of witnessing the whole ordeal had adrenaline rushing through Tatiana’s veins. She remained standing, pacing side to side on occasion throughout the conversation. So few inquisitors in Lanostre? Under normal circumstances, Tatiana may have challenged the idea, but the sight of Elisheva’s disfigured wounds had her focusing instead on not throwing up in front of her friends.

The Glacier… Changed? I should go tell... Tatiana’s thoughts halted altogether and she felt a pang in her heart as if she truly died for a moment. She was a summoner. She could try to help. She had to be enough… Tatiana’s eyes went wide at the prospect of new beasts spawning from the Glacier. All of her anxious thoughts seemed to be put on hold as she listened. Killers… Demons were killers. Tatiana’s eyes almost started to well up at Elisheva’s words. Simultaneously, the girl recalled her vision of I-XVII. Two inquisitors wasn’t enough. That much is certain, but those two inquisitors were missing something only a Leviatan understood. A calm overcame Tatiana. She… She had forgotten about the past for a moment. Duty called, and she could finally put to work the toilings of two lifetimes. Everything was.... Right! Tatiana went to speak up, but Astraea beat her to it.

“Four will be plenty… -but she is not coming!”

The words rang through her, almost seeming to echo as Tatiana played them over and over in her memory. Her body froze. She could feel the a cold sweat breaching her brow as she stood locked in place. Memories once momentarily forgotten of a day past all rushed back into Tatiana’s head. This was his legacy.

That day...

A once gentle hand would twist into a fist…

She nearly screamed right there. The once still and jaunty inquisitor visible gritted her teeth, nearly growling as she turned to Astraea. A surge of potential energy in Tatiana’s body was almost visible, as if she would charge at Astraea at the drop of a hat. That hand posed at her side let its nails dig into the flesh of Tatiana’s palm. Perhaps it was just the tension in the room that gave off an offputting air… Perhaps it was that dreadful feeling that accompanied the summoner’s ability whenever her friends were ready to be let loose.

“You… R’heon… Your title requires the subdual of a single demon. My abilities have halted hundreds!” She stumbled and stuttered over more words, trying to find something to say to Astraea, but conceded to a pained grunt.

“Maybe she’s right.” A moment of calm crossed Tatiana. Her anger was still present, but her battle-born attitude paused, searing within rather than outside. She, too, moved towards the door as Astraea did.

“Four is plenty… Four will succeed.” Tatiana moved to exit the building, disregarding obstruction if Astraea or Galahad didn’t willfully halt her.

“But one is enough…”

---

The alley behind the Shadow & Storm stank of garbage and piss, which, Dragonov supposed, was par for the course for most alleys in the slums of Magnagrad. From the other side of the backdoor he could hear the roaring of the music and feel the vibrations of the crowd as they dance and stepped along. Good, he won't hear us coming.

The alleyway was a thin crook of space wedged between the converted bunker and the building next door, barely allowing the small congregation of priests and SA soldiers enough room to gather together. Lev stared at Father Stamenkovikj's massive frame drunkenly swaying there in the middle of the pack, his head and shoulders towering above all the others while Father Qureshi, who was also deep in his cups but managing better than his companion, tried to steady his companion by holding his arm. Dragonov wondered if this would really work. The unexpected arrival of the inquisitors had thrown an ark-sized wrench into the logistics of the sting, but in truth, Lev considered it a blessing in disguise. Kadenza's gang were ruthless and the chance of there being casualties among his men was high, but if these two inquisitors agreed to aid them, perhaps he didn't need to lose any of his own people at all.

Joining Lycaon, himself and the two inquisitors were six SA soldiers doing their best to stand at attention in the cramped alleyway. Most of them were young and freshly out of the academy, too inexperienced to be ordered to El, but Lev didn't mind one bit. He liked his followers young and uncalloused, thus these dregs would serve him nicely. If they survived tonight, he would mold them into fine soldiers.

Lev stepped toward the two inquisitors and saluted. It was strange how swift and practiced a movement it was, a motion as clockwork as the hour hand striking midnight. It was a true soldier's salute if the two inquisitors had ever seen one.

"Your Reverences. Please pardon me for interrupting your leisure time. I understand that the two of you, along with Father Hjálmgrímr, are due in Cero City in six days and that this is your final night before beginning the long journey to T'sarae. Had we known that you would choose this specific establishment to enjoy your night off, we would have reached out beforehand to inform you of the operation we had planned here--"

Stina's eyes began to droop. At that point, Lycaon stepped in.

"Allow me to cut to the chase. What Lieutenant Dragonov is trying to say is, we would appreciate your help in apprehending a criminal-- one who possesses vital information concerning a certain apostate priest. Father Dara Valtyr, the summoner..."

Behind Lycaon the group of SA soldiers could be seen stealing nervous glances at each other. Father Dara. It was a name that had spread throughout the empire like wildfire. The renegade summoner, as he was known, was currently the most sought-after criminal in all of Varya. For the past twenty-six months his young, emotionless face had been plastered on wanted posters all over the empire, and for good reason. Dara was one of only three summoners in all the continent and was said to have been stricken with madness just days before his Culmination. Power and insanity melding together was a recipe for destruction, as Dara demonstrated when hunters from a town in the southern outskirts of Lanostre were massacred by what witnesses claimed to be a shadowy dragon-like creature, the same demon that Dara had been known to summon during his time within the Red Seminary. The boy was a murderer with untold power at his fingertips, and the empire needed him dead.

"As you know, for the past two years both the Church and army have been scouring the empire for any trace of him, but there have been no leads. Until now."

Lev pulled out his sword, a thin-bladed saber gleaming black in the shadowed alleyway. He walked ten paces down the alley, the soldiers parting to let him through, where he touched the tip of his sword to the bunker wall.

"We've learned that he and a group of mercenaries obtained a coffin ship with the help of the smuggler Kadenza Rami, who at this very moment is gambling in the backroom of this pub, right here on the other side of this wall. He is being protected by a gang of ice pirates-- Raw, faithless men who know nothing but killing for money. Your strength and skill would be invaluable in our fight against them." Dragonov told the inquisitors, his tone remaining neutral. If what he had read about these two inquisitors proved true, Father Qureshi and Father Stamenkovikj would be ideal for this sort of operation.

"If he's smart, there will be civilians in there with him. We'd like to keep the casualties to a minimum," Lev said, turning his face to shoot a glance at Stina.

One of the SA soldiers approached Lycaon and handed him a massive gunlance, which the Lanostran cocked and hefted over his shoulder.

"Will you fight with us?"

Stina burped, and willed himself to focus through the haze of alcohol with the power of Varya (and perhaps a bit of his own ether). "It is our duty to protec-tect the empire; anywhere, any time, any...any...any..." Stina trailed off, forgetting the rest of the sentence. "I am, however, mostly unarmed and unarmored," he observed, noting that his axe, at least, was still attached to his belt. He didn't remember bringing it with himself, and he was glad he had now; with that and a bit of ether, he could probably make up for the lack of shield and armor. He stared off into the distance for a moment, thinking about planning strategy, thinking about the possibility of civilian casualties, then realizing he had no idea what the room looked like.

"What do you know specifically aaa--aaaabout the room? Any back doors, any oth-oth-other ways in? How large is it? and do you have any ether I can use?"

Galahad pulled at the edges of his Inquisitor's Coat absentmindedly as the three Inquisitors made their way to the High City, straightening out minute creases that the human eye would normally just pass over. Though vain wouldn't be an incorrect description of Galahad, he didn't consider his pride of his appearance to be vanity rather than the personal responsibility he had to represent both his family and the Inquisitor's Order as the noble and respected positions they were. He listened seemingly absentmindedly as Tatiana asked him about his stay with his family, his eyes rapidly hardening into an irritated scowl before softening and returning to its relatively neutral state. Somehow, Tatiana, even more than Ragnar knew how to push his buttons. However, unlike the Aegis bearer, Galahad could never be irritated at the young summoner for any more than a passing moment. He resigned himself to a bemused sigh.

"Affectionate is... not the way of my family." Galahad admitted, "This was a gift from my father. He is currently away on campaign."

Conversation died out as they reached the High City- the sight they saw wasn't stunning, but it was a sharp surprise from yesterday's silence. The High City was filled with Varyan soldiers, more than Galahad had seen the entire day yesterday. The soldiers grasped at their weapons nervously, seemingly preparing themselves for a harrowing warfront, though to Galahad's knowledge, there was no war being fought in Lanostre. Not anymore.

Seemingly, as an answer to his questions, the soldiers parted for a pair on horseback, one bore the black coat of an Inquisitor, the other bore the same coat, but covered it in blood and was collapsed and inert in the saddle. As she dismounted, he passed her companion off to a Secular Army medic. From a distance, her appearance was striking, a strong figure and hair gold, much like himself. Her eyes however, were completely different- one ice blue, the other blood red. Immediately upon seeing them, she ordered them to follow, and Galahad found that he had no choice but to comply. Powerful he and his companions were, but ultimately they were but novices in the grand scheme of things that was the Order.

The house she led them into smelled faintly of drying blood and decay. The smell, though familiar, caused Galahad's nose to scrunch in disgust for a moment, before he forced it to settle. Like his companions, he remained standing, in the center of the room his posture was slightly relaxed and his arms crossed across his chest. He watched and listened in silence as Mother Elisheva treated her wounds and explained what had befell her.

Galahad, like the others had studied the history of the Black Glacier extensively as a part of his studies- an understanding of the lands controlled by the Varyan Empire was integral to controlling it. As such, the tidings of the changing color of the Glacier's veins and the sudden appearance of new more powerful demons were ill tidings indeed. Galahad's hand subconsciously reached for the handle of his new saber, thumb tracing the revolver cylinder embedded into the sword's handle. As the senior Inquisitor asked for their aid, it seemed that Galahad would have an opportunity to test out his new weapon sooner than he had expected. He opened his mouth to confirm her request for aid and state that it would only be natural that they provide aid to their senior, but Astraea beat him to the punch.

"But she is not coming!"

Galahad's expressionless face blinked once. Then twice. Despite his even face, it didn't take an empath to read Galahad's incredulousness. Time seemed to stand still as Galahad's eyes flitted to Tatiana. Galahad felt the young Inquisitor's ether flare, and took a step forward, ready to calm and subdue her should she let loose- though truth be told, Galahad had only ever faced her demon once, for a practice fight: an ill conceived plan through and through. The somewhat stuttery vitriol surprised Galahad, despite knowing her well Tatiana's displays of anger were rare enough that they still surprised him.

“Four is plenty… Four will succeed.” Tatiana continued, her voice calmer now as she exited the home, “But one is enough…”

"Tatiana!" Galahad managed to blurt out, his voice momentarily losing its usual even tone before the door closed shut.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Galahad shot a glance at Mother Elisheva, who was still seated, finishing up the treatment of her wounds. His eyes shifted to Astraea, his cold green eyes somehow even colder as they gave the woman a hard stare. Despite his calm appearance, Astraea could sense the faintest hints of anger rolling around deep inside of him. With a sigh, Galahad turned to Mother Elisheva and brought his fist to his chest, dipping forward slightly in a bow.

"Of course Mother Elisheva, we shall join you." he said formally, voicing his agreement to her requests. He glanced at the closed door that Tatiana had disappeared behind. "Each of us in our own way."

He too made his way to the door, the Inquisitor's heavy boots stomping against the dry wood of the house. In the silence, the echoing steps seemed almost louder than they should be. As he reached the door, Galahad stopped right in front of Astraea. Their chests almost touched, and he brought his face close to hers, his lips grazing her cheek, breath warming her face. His voice was soft, audible to only Astraea.

"We're supposed to be a team." Galahad said plainly, his voice calm but possessing a hard edge, "Not bickering schoolchildren."

"I suggest you remember that." he said with a tone of finality, as he pulled away and exited the home.

---

Closing the door behind him, Galahad immediately began scanning or Tatiana- it couldn't have been that difficult. She was a small thing, but her coat was easily recognizable amongst the sea of uniforms that were the Varyan SA in the High City. Sure enough he found her ahead, he moved to catch up with her- not breaking into a run, as it would look undignified and unfitting of his status. Instead, he relied on a brisk walk, his long strides easily crossing the distance of Tatiana's smaller ones.

"Tatiana, slow down!" he commanded, his voice possessing authority but also the chiding tone one would expect from an older sibling. He clasped his hand on her shoulder as he sought to slow her forward momentum, eventually relenting and instead satisfying himself by merely keeping pace with her. "What has gotten into you?" He asked her- half rhetorically.

"The situation has changed beyond our current understanding. You can't expect me to let you go off to the Black Glacier on your own- and before you say it, no the Demon does not count."

Galahad shot look at the home before looking back to Tatiana. He was well aware of the animosity and inherent mistrust between the two. He didn't doubt Astraea's resolve to leave Tatiana behind despite her abilities and his objections. Astraea was a Rheon, and her hatred of demons was extremely deep seated. Likewise, Tatiana while generally sweet and agreeable was also fairly strong willed and seemed surprisingly set on heading off into the Glacier despite Galahad's chiding.

"Besides." Galahad said, finally relenting to his younger friend, taking her by the hand. Gently enough that she knew he was there for her, but strong enough that she couldn't pull away particularly easily. "The stables are that way. Unless you intend on walking all the way to the Black Glacier. Come along."

Letting Tatiana go off on her own was tactically unsound regardless of Astraea's feelings towards her. Especially considering that Father Killian- a veteran and likely very talented Inquisitor- came back rather grievous wounds, the idea of letting any of their number wander off into the Black Glacier alone was unacceptable. If Astraea had misgivings, she'd have to deal with it. Besides, Ragnar would never forgive him if he allowed Tatiana to come to harm.

It would have been a lie to say that Hassan was listening very intently to the briefing. Mercenaries, a smuggler, a ship, an apostate priest, a summoner - it was all very much to process, and even though he felt he had sobered up significantly, Hassan found his attention wavering. "Bad men, smuggler, potential collateral damage. Got it." He yawned and clapped his fellow inquisitor on the back as the ever-practical warrior began drilling the soldiers for information.

"Alright, here's the plan. We kick in the door, I tell everyone to leave, we declare this man under arrest, Stina tears his bodyguard's arms off, and I will get him to tell us... whatever it was we needed him to tell us. Something about where someone was? Whatever." Inwardly, Hassan felt for his reserves of Ether and found that they were rather lower than he would have been entirely comfortable with - perhaps he really had been overdoing it. There might still be enough to tell these 'ice pirates' to drop their weapons... but he had to admit Stina was probably a safer bet.

With a flourish, he drew one of his curved daggers out of his belt and waved it around his head. "Try to keep up! The Word of God goes to do His work!" With a shuffling sprint, the intoxicated inquisitor rounded the alleyway to the front door of the inn and crashed into it with his shoulder, immediately sprawling on the floor. He picked himself up in a hurry without checking to see if his allies were behind him; his second impact on the door managed to knock the bolt off of it, and cold air blew into the establishment as Hassan stood in the doorway.

Calling on most of what remained of his ether, Hassan opened his mouth and let the beautiful Word flow. "Everybody get the hell out!"

Viveca’s fingertips lightly brushed the walls of crystalline onyx as they approached the balcony. Her heart leapt into her throat as anxiety filled her to the core. She watched Indira scan the room and, for had to be the millionth time just that night, had to wonder what was in her head. The newly ordained inquisitor had such difficulty reading her mentor – the woman was stone cold, and yet so caring, so thoughtful.

As they left the building onto the balcony, Viveca looked up at the stars, twinkling like the gemstones in the walls. Indira dismissed a serving girl but as she walked past, Viveca lightly placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in. “I’m really sorry, but… I’m out and, would you mind if I borrowed one of those?”

The girl seemed a little frazzled by the request at all; two phenomenally powerful women talking to her beyond a simple thanks for a drink or food. She fumbled nervously for a moment to draw a cigarette holder from her uniform and pass one of the sticks over. Viveca placed it delicately between her lips and the girl lit it for her before going back inside and back to work.

Leaning on the railing, the new Inquisitor took a long drag from the cigarette and let it blow over the scenery, hazing it momentarily from her view. Glancing at Indira, she waited for the story and listened intently when it came. Father Creid and Antonin did what? And they insinuated Indira in it? Viveca did everything to prevent her anger from pouring out into the conversation. All of it sounded so unbelievable – time travel? Hellfire? No, nothing, none of this could be true.

Sucking the cigarette down to the halfway mark, Viveca turned back to the sprawling scenery from the balcony. “No, Mother Indira, I can’t believe this… All of the fictitious details aside, the absolutely impossible events, the-the… the heresy from the three of you…” She had lowered her voice to a whisper before continuing on, “I mean… I’m not here for Lord Varya, but you’re playing with fire here…”

Taking a breath and another puff, Viveca slowly released the smoke from her lungs before letting out a gentle sigh. “I’m sorry… It’s not that I don’t believe you, I’m just trying to wrap my head around it. What can we do?” She asked, pausing before shaking her head, “I know you wouldn’t tell me any of this – you’d let me live in a happy ignorance until the day I died – if you didn’t think that there was something we could do. We can fight, we can research, we can learn about it before we go. There must be something; it might not be in popular recorded history, but this can’t be impossible to avoid. I just… I’m sure you wouldn’t tell me if it was impossible…” She began to ramble, placed her head in her free hand, leaning against the railing for support. The world spun and she felt nauseous after the news.

“Mother, what can I do to help?” She finally asked, locking eyes with her mentor before snubbing her cigarette against the iron rail, flicking it out into the abyssal night. “Anything you ask, I serve you; I can fight for three of the people I believe in most. Even if it lands be back into an ether mine.

---

As the three of them walked through the long tunnel that led into the bowels of the great silver ship, Deva found it difficult to pry her eyes away from the mechanical wolf that walked along its master. Since the Forge had been informed of the inquisitor's visit, rumours had begun to spread of the living mechanism that had been born within the Red Seminary's walls, but Deva, being eternally enshrined within her own world of ether efficiency experiments and hearth systems, didn't pay much mind to any of it. But there it was, the Madrys, a machine moving independently of its own accord. Part of her was jealous of the inquisitor's creation, but what filled her heart then, to its brim, was awe. It was a marvelous design, she admitted to herself.

Being born in Cero and having never left the Aegisdome, Deva had never seen the creature that the Madrys so beautifully reflected, for wolves were native only to the frigid wastes of Muraad and the ancient boreal forests of Lanostre, but she could still appreciate the artisty that went into crafting such a beast. This was the first wolf that she glimpsed with her own eyes and possibly the only one she would ever see, and she was more than content with that.

“Deva, I must commend your work on the Grace. Functionality is beauty, and in that sense, your Grace is truly a looker.”

Father Rodion's words dragged Deva out of her musings and the young engineer smiled at him in response, pride surging through her. It was a slightly crooked smile, one corner of her lips drooping slightly lower than the other. Upon noticing this, Rodion looked closely at the engineer's face, and for the first time, caught sight of the track of feint scars lining the right side of Deva's jawline.

"Glad someone around here appreciates the old girl. But, I actually didn't have anything to do with the armor. That was all grandma. I worked on Gracey's guts. That's more my thing," Deva told him, her fingers playing with the chrome wrench in her satchel.

When they reached the entrance of the long entrance port, Rodion could see the Karamzina in full and he was now close enough to ascertain its true size. As he stared through the transparent enclosure of the tunnel, he could see the lights from the lab behind them reflecting off its powdery white hull. The ark was smaller than other modern warships, but it still cut an impressive silhouette.

“T’sukasa, that is, quite possibly, one of the most beautiful pieces of machinery that I have ever seen. Being biased, I must say that Madrys here is more beautiful, though,” the inquisitor said, turning to the middle-aged head engineer. There was no humor in Rodion's voice, and his expression remained placid and still, like the silent icefields that spread out around them.

"T-Thank you for your kind words, Your Reverence! It is high praise coming from an engineer of your caliber. And yes, it is as you say. The Karamzina is but a humble pleasure barge compared to this miracle machine you've created... Madrys, is what you called it? Incredible!" Amir exclaimed breathlessly.

"I don't know dad. I think the Zina is way cooler. The Madrys is pretty amazing, but, it doesn't compare to it at all. I mean, the Zina is a--"

"Deva. Please. Father Rodion is a peerless engineer and artist--"

"Yeah, he's pretty great, but, look what you built!" Deva said, practically shouting in excitement. She gestured with her hand to the ark floating in the icy water ahead of them.

The shipwright gave Rodion the same sad, pleading look from before. As if to say, please, she doesn't know what she's saying. The old shipwright expected a pair of scathing eyes to stare back at him, but instead, Amir was met with a sort of bemused look on the young inquisitor's face.

“T’sukasa, by chance, may a have the privilege of seeing her blueprints?”

"Ah! O-of course, your Reverence! You needn't even ask. The Karamzina belongs to you and the rest of Warband Phoenix. My daughter and I are here to serve."

"Yup. If you need anything at all, just ask. Me, dad and the rest of the crew will get it done," Deva added, flashing the same half-crooked smile.

“That goes the same for you, Deva. If I may, I would like to study the Grace as well. If I remember correctly, you have been assigned as its head engineer, correct?”

Deva mimed a salute.

"Sure. Let's do it after dad shows you around."

***

The grand tour of the great ark had taken them the better half of two hours. Amir led the inquisitor through the bowels of the ship, with an informative, if not well-rehearsed spiel explaining every facet of the ark's features. The head engineer was proud of the ark he had designed, this much Rodion could tell, but there was something in the feigned, almost subdued way in which the head engineer ran down the particulars of his creation that gave the inquisitor pause. There was a slight edge of fear and disquiet in the head engineer's voice and mannerisms, which Rodion, being an inquisitor, could sense like a shark smelling blood in the water.

As they reached the massive engine room, Deva jogged ahead of Rodion and her father.

"You ready for the main event?" she asked with a proud grin, turning back to face them.

Rodion stepped foot through the massive bulkhead at the engine room's entrance, the closed-in corridors of the ark opening up to reveal a great vertical chamber which stretched downwards, past the lower exterior hull of the ark. Rodion stepped to the edge of the main platform, where a dozen engineers were working diligently to finish the ark's final tuning phase. He stared down towards the yawning base of the engine room, where deep below, the Karamzina's massive slave generator hummed quietly. The mechanist could feel it immediately. Power. Restrained. But still there. Collected in one single point. He could feel it pulsing like a heartbeat.

It was singularly unique in its design-- completely at odds with the bulky industrial engines and generators back at the capital. It was like something from another world.

The Karamzina's slave generator was sleek and beautiful-- a massive white sphere, pearl-like in its beauty, coursing with waves of feint golden light which spread throughout its surface in graceful controlled pulses. The sphere floated gently, suspended in place as if held there by some invisible vice, above a mechanical pedestal inlaid with gold and azure crystals. As if through instinct, Rodion craned his neck to look upwards, and saw a second crystal pedestal suspended from the ceiling of the engine room, lined up to oppose the one beneath it. He could feel the waves of ambient ether generating from the two pedestals, and immediately he realized that the pedestals acted as powerful anchors to moor the slave generator in place-- not only physically, but to restrain the incredible ethereal energy that resonated from the engine.

"We call it the Ura," Amir said, walking up to join him. "It is the first, and so far, only, of its kind. A slave generator in the truest sense of the word. It is capable of recirculating Omestrian ether..." The head engineer paused. He looked into Rodion's dark blue eyes intently, as if searching to find some meaning within them.

"... and creating more of it," the head engineer told him in a whisper.

"Herein lies the future of our world. Perhaps one day, we might use its power for greater things."

---

Up above them, past the impossible cliffs that surrounded the Corpseland and the ruins that stood upon it like a sprawl of gravestones, the pale sky was darkening. As shadows fells upon the ruins, Ziotea felt it.

Somewhere in the hollows of this fallen place, tearing through the world like lightning, there was a spark of ether manifesting.

East. It had come from the east.



The flare of ether caught her attention and Ziotea turned to face it, going still as she stretched her senses out to see if she could determine anything further. It had already faded. She considered briefly telling Father Oren what she'd sensed, but her lips pulled back from her teeth at the thought. There was no good reason for her anger at him, but there was also no reason to set it aside so soon. She adjusted her grip on her spear and started eastward without a word to him. If he wished to follow, let him.



Fire... is death. Yes... perhaps that was true. But still, the Omestrians lived on... didn't they? The crunch of the ground broke this line of thought before he could pursue it. Ziotea was walking away from him... and with purpose, to somewhere else. Oren tilted his head at her back. Unlike him, this place seemed to be causing a plethora of emotions. And clearly, she was angry at him - perhaps even wanted nothing to do with him. But, even now, he would not suggest travelling alone. So, in silence, he took one last look around the area, and then, turned on his heel and followed his companion.



They headed eastward, where the the ruined city of Iddin-Mar sprawled throughout the rest of the sunken valley.

The tall buildings were all scorched and twisted, but even in that distorted and ruined state the beauty of their architecture was still apparent. Oren recalled that during the invasion, the city of Iddin-Mar had already been reduced to this state by the time the Varyans broke through the Marian Gate-- the strange barrier-like aegis that once protected the land of Omestris. Most historians agreed that the Omestrians seemingly decided to destroy their own city before the invaders could step foot within it. For what reason, no one knew.

They ventured through wide roads lined with destroyed houses and neighborhoods covered in leafy crimson overgrowth. They walked through what appeared to be a major commercial center and saw dozens of rusted amber-colored steam chariots.The chariots all bore the same marking, a circular rune which translated to "transportation". Up on the scorched buildings they saw the remnants of ancient billboards, advertising what seemed to be plays and public art projects.

The two made their way past the entrance to an underground tunnel when Ziotea felt the pulse again, coming from somewhere beneath her feet. They could hear footsteps coming from within the tunnel. Ziotea could feel the signature of one person, a child by the feel of their ether.



The flicker of ether came again, and Ziotea recognized that it came from somewhere underground. There was a crumbling stairway they'd just passed, and she turned to head for it. A child...possibly others, it was hard to tell if they weren't making use of their ether. The one she felt, though, that child was strong enough that they'd be a candidate for the Inquisition. Could she force a child to join, if they didn't wish to? She should -- if she didn't, and someone found out, it would likely mean trouble for her. "Be ready," she told the Inquisitor following her. "There's people, and I'm not sure how many."



Oren's hand curled around one of his daggers... he was not fond of Ziotea's wording. People? Were they of malintent? If so, were they armed? He knew that Ziotea couldn't possibly know these details, of course, but, still, he didn't like it.

He turned to the stairway they'd just passed. He had heard the footsteps echo out from below, but... they had been light, regardless. Small. And only belonging to one.

He stepped on to the first of the stairs, beginning the descent.



When they reached the bottom of the steps, they found themselves in a half-flooded tunnel, the beautiful filigree and ornamental stonework decorating its walls scarred to oblivion by whatever ruin had befallen the city. The stagnant water was waist-high and covered in patches of ancient red algae. Pools of detritus floated along the water's surface, while thin shafts of light shining down from the grates above cut through the darkness, allowing them a vague idea of the surroundings.

The tunnel led to stone steps which brought them into a large open chamber. As they climbed the stairs their footsteps echoed through the spacious cavern. What awaited them, was wholly unexpected. Most of it was submerged underwater, and it was difficult to see with how dark it was, but there was no mistaking the shape of the massive train-like vehicle that lay twisted and misshapen beside what could only be a station platform. The area beneath the platform was flooded with filthy water but the platform itself was completely empty... Or so they believed, until they stumbled upon the three bedrolls spread flat on its surface.

The ether signature had long faded to nothing and apart from their own, the two inquisitors hadn't heard any more footsteps. The ether flare Ziotea felt and whoever it belonged to was nowhere to be found. Clearly people had been staying in this station, but if they were still here, Ziotea would've felt them again by now. Had she made a mistake?

It was then that they heard it. A sound so familiar to them that they were as accustomed to it as the sound of their own heartbeat. For more than a decade, on the blood-drenched stones of the training yard the telltale airy hiss of a spellblade being summoned had filled their ears. And now, that same sound echoed throughout the underground station.

Up ahead, a hundred feet from where they stood a golden shaft of light, cruel and sharp, pierced the darkness. It was shorter and thinner than most spellblades they had seen-- about the size of a large dagger. Its golden light illuminated the gloved hand wielding it. The hand was small, the size of a child's.

"Go away," a voice spoke to them. It belonged to a girl, no older than twelve. "Go away or I'll kill you," the voice demanded again, resolute yet calm.

She was wreathed in shadow, only her vague outline was visible in the dark. From the jagged edges of her silhouette, the girl was wearing some kind of armor. She was not very tall, from what the two inquisitors could see, but the girl had summoned a spellblade, which immediately made her a threat. Was she an apostate? They had not heard of any young trainees fleeing from the Seminary recently.

Ziotea and Oren heard the girl take two steps forward. Whoever this child was, there was not an ounce of fear within her.

The girl pointed the blade at them, the motion of its arc illuminating her face for a split-second. It was all they needed to see her eyes.

They burned gold.



At first, Oren was sweeping the tunnel with his gaze, trying to determine what this used to be - though, the twisted scrap of the train lent itself quite easily to figuring that out. And the bedrolls told him quite quickly that people had been using it as a shelter, as well. But with the poor light, and the smell of damp and mould, he couldn't tell how long ago.

His answer was found quite easily.

"Go away. Go away or I'll kill you."

The spellblade breathed itself into existence, and in time with its appearance, Oren felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. And he saw her. She was... young. Small. But her stance and her voice told him that she was deadly. Or at least, that was how she appeared.

And when he saw her eyes, the course of action he should take became clear. Child or not, his priority was to get her to stand down.

Oren slowly began to walk forward, determined to appear non-threatening. Holding his hand high, he brought forth a small spark of light, enough to show his face. He glanced briefly to the bedrolls. And speaking softly, he asked her, "Are you alone?"

The girl took a half-step back, the ashen-haired man's response wasn't something she was expecting. She breathed in, the blade crackled in her grip.

"Y-Yes. Now turn back the way you came if you know what's good for you!" she shouted.

Oren paused at the sudden flare in her power... but he wasn't afraid. He stopped walking, but he didn't stop meeting her gaze.

"But why? What happened here? To you?"



As the ashen-haired priest's questions left his lips, the girl allowed herself a moment to look upon the two inquisitors. The tiny sphere of ether levitating on the man's palm was casting a pale light which barely illuminated the entrance to the tunnel where they stood, but it was enough for her eyes.

They were young. Younger than all of the other hounds who had hunted them thus far. An emblem of a red phoenix, cruel and savage-looking, stained the black hardened armor that covered the man's chest. The woman, who was about her height, was covered in heavy-looking armor. That lance, she could tell, was a marvel of craftsmanship. It was a beautiful weapon and the girl couldn't help but admire it. Even still, she knew that one hit from that and it would--

Her hair.

The girl's eyes widened.

"You," the girl said. Her pupils were fixated on the woman's red and orange locks, but she still clung to the crackling golden blade.

"Why is your hair that color?" The girl asked, trying to make her words edged with iron and defiance but unable to hide the wonder in her voice. Without waiting for the woman to answer, the girl reached up to her head-wrapping and pulled it off. Still pointing the blade at the ashen-haired inquisitor, the girl raised it a few feet higher so that its light shone directly on her face.

The golden light of the spellblade made the girl's hair appear like fire, the same blaze of red, orange and gold as the armored woman's, but looking more closely, the girl's hair was different. It was wild and unruly, a tangle of curls, and it was the color of blood, not flame.

"Are you of the Hand?" she asked, the echo of her voice reverberating in the tunnel. Almost by instinct, her eyes shifted to look upon the woman's left hand, but found it hidden underneath her shield. Suddenly, her heart began to race, only for it to calm itself after the girl took a breath. Just like before, Ziotea felt the ether pulsing from her, like a sudden gale of wind. Just as quickly as it began, it died out.

Behind the girl, the sound of light footsteps began to echo through the hall. In the darkness of the tunnel, a pair of golden eyes appeared like two shining jewels in the darkness.

"Rose? What's all this yelling?" an old woman's voice asked.

"No! Grandmother!" the girl cried out, but it was too late.

The old woman's words were tinged in an accent that neither of the two inquisitors could identify, but as the she stepped forward from the shadowed tunnel behind her, past the girl and into the reaching light of Oren's ethersphere, the woman they saw was garbed in what could only be described as "traditional" Omestrian robes. They had seen such robes in old history texts, but never with their own eyes. After all, Omestrians had no culture and no fashion to call their own. But the woman's robes seemed ancient in their own way, as if they had come from another time. Decorative but understated, the robes were comprised of overlapping layers of scarlet and azure, the two colors melding together, no... embracing one another, as if each belonged to the other.


As she stood there, the darkness of the tunnel seemed to brighten. Oren and Ziotea could see all of her, there was no hiding.

"Good afternoon," the old woman said to them, a gentle smile touching her lips.

"I am Essa, a keeper of these ruins. And you've met my granddaughter, Rose."

She turned to Ziotea, her eyes focusing intently on her hair, before turning to face Oren.

"Fire and frost. What an interesting combination! May I ask you your names?"



The underground station was wet and wretched, with the sounds of their passage far too loud. Ziotea kept her ether humming through her, ready to handle whatever they found. There were traces of people, three rumpled bedrolls and a few other things.

The sound of a spellblade summoned to someone's hand made her react with the well-honed instincts of a warpriest. Her own ether responded at once, spreading into her shield and through her muscles, waiting only on need to turn her from a slight woman into an immovable fortress. It didn't matter that the fighter before her was a mere child; Ziotea knew better than most that appearance did not necessarily reflect ability. The child wore armor, and she was able to summon a spellblade; in all, likelihood she'd had some sort of training. At the least she had some measure of skill.
She demanded they leave, stepping closer to the two Inquisitors. Either she was brave, or putting on a show of being so.

Father Oren approached her, the female Inquisitor a soft shadow behind him. He asked if the girl was alone, and she lied -- the bedrolls said as much, even if the others were not around just then. Ziotea tensed, her grip tightening on her readied spear. If the child did not wish to talk, she would not waste time. Such a child...she was too old to be accepted into the Inquisition, as had happened to Ziotea. Her heritage doomed her to a harsh life, and her ether would make it the harshest of all. The life of an ether slave was nothing but suffering and misery. The young Inquisitor would kill the girl sooner than she'd doom a child to such a fate. At least she could make it a quick, clean death. The ether factories were death by slow degrees.

The child addressed her, wide-eyed and marveling. The Inquisitor bared her teeth in a wolf's smile, and summoned etherlight around the blade of her spear, letting the golden-amber light drive the shadows from her face, even as it answered the question. Her hair, her ether, her eyes: her Omestrian heritage ran strong in her blood.

The next question was puzzling. The Hand? A group, but allied or opposed? Her frown deepened in thought. Given that Omestris was said to be the left hand of the ice titan, perhaps a group of Omestrians? By the time she'd thought of that possibility, the old lady that came to join the child was making introductions. With no further need for her etherlight, Ziotea let it fade, but she did not relax.

"You may ask," she said, the words clipped short, "but I do not care to say. Mine is hardly a name you would know." Her gaze flicked around the room again, before returning to consider Rose and then Essa in turn. "What is it that needs keeping? And where is the third member of your little family?"



Fire... and frost.

Oren looked from the woman to Ziotea. From Ziotea, to himself. And from himself, to Essa again. Her sudden appearance discounted the girl's - Rose - earlier claim, but still... this place was incredibly... solitary. He couldn't imagine being in a place such as this.

Ziotea's refusal to reveal her name made him hesitate, but, the atmosphere, here... so far, he could sense no danger. "I... you may call me Kanus, for now. Anymore, I cannot give."

Fire... and frost. Yes... an interesting combination. All four of them here were born of Omestrians. And their hair; two, red and orange like the supposed flame. And the other two, frosted white, one by birth, and the other by age, as the entire world had come to be. But there was also the woman's robes. Red, again, intertwined with blue. Fire... and frost. What did it all mean?.

“Names are curious things. Ours are resilient. Through a thousand weathers, ages of ice and oblivion, they have endured. Kanus... It is as ancient a name as there has ever been, and it suits you,” the old woman told him with a smile.

She turned to Ziotea.

“As for why I linger in these ruins, well, I suppose old habits die hard. These ruins are my home, and I would not give them up. Now, If you would indulge an old woman’s curiosity, how did you come upon my granddaughter?”



"She's rather hard to miss." Again the Inquisitor was reluctant to part with and kind of information. She felt a dull stab of jealousy. She'd come to terms with her heritage, her nature, but to have a proper home -- even to have a name that meant something, these were things she envied. "Is the Hand just native Omestrians then, or have you started recruiting others?" Ziotea likewise avoided having to confirm or deny whether she herself was a member.

The old woman regarded Ziotea with a curious gaze. The young inquisitor, with her hair of autumn and ember, stood defiant and ready. She held the spear firmly, aiming its point at the young girl even as her attention shifted toward the Omestrian elder.

Essa turned to Rose and frowned. The girl's etherblade crackled violently with ethereal energy, the bolts of amber light dancing chaotically along the blade's edge. There was anger and fear roiling within her, this much Essa could tell by the state of the girl's etherblade.

"Sheathe your weapon, my dear. You are brave, but you would stand no chance against an inquisitor of the empire."

The elder and young girl's eyes met, their gold pupils like a constellation shining in the dark. There was no argument from Rose. As the girl turned to Ziotea she offered the slightest nod of surrender before allowing the spellblade to extinguish into nothing. Satisfied, Essa once again turned to address the two inquisitors.

"You have so many questions," the old woman said, regarding the two of them with a look of amusement. "It is good to see such curiosity in young inquisitors." Essa reached into the folds of her robes and quickly retrieved a diamond shaped object. She held the diamond in front of her, allowing it to tumble slightly around the open palm of her hand. Its surface was like a mirror, the shadows reflecting themselves within it, black as an abyss. As it caught the glow from Oren's lightsphere, it seemed to shimmer with a soft blue light.

Upon seeing the object, Ziotea and Oren immediately took a half step back. This was pure instinct, for they knew exactly what the diamond was and the danger it presented. An inquisitor's catalyst being used on the battlefield was oft the harbinger for great death and destruction. It was a personal totem, unique to each warpriest, for it bonded with their own ether and allowed them to call their greater miracles into the world.

"Please, be calm. I am offering you my catalyst as a gesture of peace and goodwill," Essa said as she surrendered the weapon to Oren, raising her palm to the young man's face. She smiled at him and nodded, as if assuring the inquisitor that it was safe for him to pluck it from her hand.

"If this is to be an interrogation, perhaps we might do this in a more comfortable setting. My solar is just up ahead. I will answer your questions there, and in return, perhaps you might answer some of mine."

The old woman smiled at them once more.

"Does that sound agreeable to you?"

---

"There came a time, when the world quieted but for the hail's thrum beating through the mountain, and a Goddess wailed for the blood spilt, a woman's lament, the song of the frozen dawn."

"Darling Lanostre, lady of the spear, unfurl thy skirts, unclasp thy cuirass, and allow the Hungry Lord thy secret heart!"

As Kadenza hummed along with the final verse of the Lady's Favor, Sister Mel looked at him and felt the old hurt bubbling up to the surface again. The two of them were sat at his table in the gambling den of the pub, surrounded by a ring of Godless pirates from the icefields. Around them, the other tables were occupied by men she recognized as gamblers, smugglers and other neredowells from Tale's End as well as other slums. Mel paid little mind to them and to the dangerous-looking ice pirates who stood with weapons drawn surrounding their client. The only thing that mattered to her at that moment was Kadenza. And there he was, casually leaning back in his chair, seemingly unfazed by the threat she had just warned him about.

"If you just surrender quietly they won't--"

"Please, Mel," he cut her off, bringing an ether cigar to his lips and drawing on it, "I'm trying to relax here, and quite frankly, you're ruining my night. I mean, it's nice to see you again after all these years but--"

"There aren't just soldiers out there. There are two inquisitors. Right now they're being enlisted to help bring you in. You won't be able to buy your way out of thi--"

"Have I mentioned... How proud I am of you? Making it through the first three years of the Holy Academy. You're a star, Mel. Always have been."

He smiled at her then. And just like that, she was back there in 8-D5, huddling alongside him and the rest of the street children within the isolated bowels of the Pipeworks, stealing the warmth that radiated from the blooding machines. All those winters.... He had saved her from them and from worst. Now it was her turn to save him.

"Listen to me. I've been on the lam my entire life. I know what I'm doing. Do you honestly think I'd come to a place like this just to play cards? No, Mel. I don't even like gambling. I came here because I knew I'd be followed. In fact, I am exactly where I want to be right now. And, so is Dragonov."

"W-What are you talking about?"

At that moment, the music in the bar stopped abruptly, and the sounds of people scurrying out of the pub could be heard. The men around them stood from their chairs with worried looks. Kadenza calmly rose from his chair and made his way to the back of the room, where he reached down to the floor and flung open a metal cellar door.

"Kadenza, is somethin' up? What's going on?" one of the gamblers asked.

Ignoring him, Kadenza turned to Mel.

"You should come with me. Don't freak out, but you definitely won't want to be here in the next five minutes."



Hassan was sitting on the plush couch while petting the wolf absent-mindedly, his attention focused on the book he held with one hand. Whatever he was reading, it surely must've been interesting, for Hassan wouldn't answer him no matter how much Ragnar called him. Stina was sprawled on the carpeted floor, his massive frame sleeping peacefully next to his wolf. At the far end of the room, Tatiana stood by the high window, the starlight bathing her the same blue as the mountains. She was gazing at the misted city, her own wolf sleeping at her feet. Ragnar called to her, but was met with silence.

It had been a long time since Ragnar, Hassan and Stina accompanied Tatiana on her demon taming quest, the years blurring the memories of the cloud-covered land of Lanostre into vague recollections. There were trees, he remembered. And Bridgetown, with its silly mechanical fireflies. He remembered walking through those impossible mountains, jealousy roiling within him, trying to keep a smile for Tatiana. His own homeland was a squat flat land, of... nothing. All that existed in Muraad was cold and emptiness. Nothing like this place... with its grand crystaline city, its castles and towers and epochs of history. The Lady of the Trident had bequeathed all her love to this land, while the Heart Lord had only passed on his... Ragnar didn't know the answer to that. What part of himself had Muraad gifted to his people in return for their love and worship? Had there ever even been an exchange?

In his dream Lanostre wasn't the hate-inducing place he remembered it as, but instead, it only stretched as far as the walls of Tatiana's bedroom. They had stayed in her family's manor during the trip, and Tatiana's room was much like he remembered it. Large, but oddly sparse. Was this how rich people lived?

She turned to him finally, and smiled.

"I think the wolves want you," she said, winking at him.

He opened his eyes and found himself lying on the church steps across the road from the pub, the ancient metal staircase digging into his lower back painfully. How had he managed to fall asleep out here of all places? He wagered it was way past his usual bedtime and well, keeping the Aegis drained him of a lot of energy. Perhaps this made him naturally tired. He was typically the first to bed among his brothers and sisters. Maybe there was something to this theory.

After rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Ragnar noticed the wolves cubs trembling within his cloak. The blue one, with its strange amber eyes, was practically growling.

"Hey, hey. Calm down, little ones. Pop-Pop is here--"

Ragnar could barely finish the sentence before the cyan cub jumped from his lap and rocketed into the air. He could feel the strength of the cub's hind legs as it propelled itself forward, and as he sat there slack jawed, he caught a blur of blue speeding up the road.

"Wait! Come back!" Ragnar yelled as he scooped the rest of the wolves into his cloak and ran after the azure escapee.

He made it halfway up the road when he saw that the cyan wolfcub had stopped in front of an old dilapidated warehouse. The wolf cub was staring directly upwards, its golden eyes focused on an open window near the top of the warehouse. It was growling angrily, barking at whatever was up there. Ragnar slowly made his way to the wolf cub, and as he approached, he noticed with a mix of fear and amazement the size of the cub's fangs. Even at such a young age, its fangs were--

There was a mechanical hissing sound, and an instant later, a rocket sped forth from the open window of the warehouse.

Ragnar's dark violet eyes widened in horror. It took a split second for him to realize that the rocket's trajectory was carrying it to the pub, where at this moment, Stina and Hassan were...

Almost automatically, his body shifted into gear like one of Rodion's machines. He turned and ran as fast as he could back towards the pub. Concentrating all his ether on the muscles of his legs, Ragnar sped down the street, his white furcloak making him look like a b bolt of fuzzy lightning. He could hear the hiss of the rocket above him, inching closer and closer by the second. No matter what, he could not allow it to overtake him.

In one swift motion, Ragnar spun around and threw his hands forward. A sudden burst of light erupted from his palms, the luminous waves of azure magic cascaded upwards, interlocking and intersecting into a wall of powerful iron-like ether. The paling, appearing like a transluscent wall of blue ethereal light, quickly grew in size until it encompassed the entire street. Ragnar could feel the burning in his veins, the ether being stripped from his blood sending waves of scalding torment up his arms. He gritted his teeth, both to cope with the searing pain, and to brace for the amount of force that the rocket was about to unleash upon his paling.

The rocket collided with the paling and the resulting explosion annihilated the shield, shattering the magical construct into innumerable shards that rained down over the street and dissipated into azure mist as soon as they touched the concrete. The force of the explosion sent Ragnar flying backwards, his body crashing painfully against the facade of the pub, but somehow, he remained conscious. His arms burned painfully and there was probably something broken in his back somewhere, but he had stopped the rocket from reaching the bar.

It was the first time he had ever had to use a paling outside of training. Somewhere deep inside of him, he felt something akin to pride. Maybe it wasn't all for nothing... All around him, people were leaving the bar, their faces stuck in strange, confused expressions-- none of them seeming to care about the violent explosion that had just occurred outside of their bar.

Summoning his strength and ignoring the howling pain in his arms and lower back, Ragnar struggled to his feet and ran back up the street towards the warehouse.



"I thought your friend was supposed to be the calculating one?" Dragonov asked Stina while side-eyeing Father Hassan, who was now swaying in place in front of the open doorway. Within the bar, the patrons were leaving in organized droves. Lycaon peered inside and found the band abandoning their instruments and stepping off stage, calmly joining the rest of the procession.

"Incredible," Lycaon whispered to himself.

"Sigh... We won't have to evacuate the place, thanks to you, but, this gave away our one advantage. Kadenza will know that something's up," Dragonov said to Hassan, trying his hardest to keep a measured voice. "If it's between capturing our target and allowing some lowlife slummers to get caught in the crossfire, I'd be perfectly comfortable with making that sacrifice. And so should you, Your Reverence," the Varyan officer added.

"Lieutenant. Father Qureshi has his own methods. In any case, he's not exactly of sound judgement at the moment. We can't blame him for that either. After all, this was his night off," Lycaon said, walking over to Hassan.

"Here. This will sober you up. Drink quickly."

Lycaon handed Hassan a small metal vial, before tossing one to Stina as well.

"Don't worry. It tastes like sweet virrigo tea," one of the SA grunts, a golden-eyed young man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, said with a smirk, "Just like grandma used to make."

Dragonov walked towards the doorway and readied his gunlance.

"We'll have to hit them hard and fast. The ice pirates are fair game. Kill them all and leave the targ--"

The sound of a massive explosion rocked the alleyway. The windows on the building opposite the pub shattered and the sounds of screams began to ring out all around them.

"On your guard!" Dragonov yelled as he dashed into the pub, Lycaon and the rest of the SA grunts not far behind him.

The dining room of the bar was in complete disarray. Whatever caused the explosion seemed to have spared the pub itself, but its shock waves had sent chairs, tables and other furniture scattered across the room. The instruments on stage were completely destroyed, while the large sword hanging from the wall had been displaced from its plaque, its massive blade now half-buried at the far end of the pub.

Dragonov was the first inside the dining room, and as soon as he entered, a storm of bullets fired upon where he stood. Almost instantaneously, Dragonov jumped behind cover, narrowly avoiding the spree of gunfire.

Six ice pirates were positioned at the opposite side of the bar. All of them were wielding heavy rifles with large, cruel-looking blades strapped to the muzzles. Their old-looking armor clanked together as they swiftly maneuvered from cover to cover, dodging the SA soldier's suppressing gunfire.

"You two! Be careful! That ammunition is enchanted and it'll tear right through any kind of paling!" Lycaon yelled to Hassan and Stina. The Lanostran was inching his way closer and closer to the pirates, jumping to and fro from cover. His weapon, the traditional Lanostran gunlance, worked best at medium-range.

"Come on. Show us your stuff, big man!" the golden-eyed SA grunt said to Stina, flashing him a violent grin.

The rage was a tsunami, the torrents of anger swept through her to break on the barriers of her own self control. They held firm, the deep resounding thud of her heart beat reverberating in her ears as the fiery summoner swept towards her. Astraea halted eyes closing for the briefest second as she embraced the anger allowing it to sweep through her, blood rising as she searched, hoping for that moment when the anger turned to malice, when the summoner would reveal her true colours and Astraea would finally have her chance to strike. She would not hesitate, the moment she felt the fires of anger morph, those blazing flames sullied by blackness.

“You… R’heon… Your title requires the subdual of a single demon. My abilities have halted hundreds!”

She stammered and stuttered before her, eyes blazing burning at the deep green pools of Astraea's emotionless face. She held it deliberately hoping to provoke a response yet the anger died down to a simmering heat trapped beneath a pool of cool water.

“Maybe she’s right.”

The woman pushed past her and Astraea did not impede her, not deigning to turn round her attention turning to the group before her.

She had known Tatiana's reaction, expected it even relished in the potential explosion. It was the rest of the room she had to convince.

“Four is plenty… Four will succeed.....But one is enough…”

Very epic, Astraea suppressed a smirk even as she heard the door bang open and the summoner disappeared.

Her mouth was hardly open even as Galahad blurted out the summoners name. His instinct stung a little. She was always polite and respectful yet their bond was nil to even distaste on his part. Her prowess as a warrior was impeccable she knew that... yet he seemed to have more respect and affection for a half breed summoner whose slovenly ways and undisciplined air spat in the face of Lanostran tradition.

Galahad seemed tired and drawn as he addressed mother Elsiheva with the slightest of bows expressing his empathy of her plight and their support, his eyes filled with dissapointment as he brushed past her his words for her alone. They bit at her

"We're supposed to be a team. Not bickering schoolchildren. I suggest you remember that."

The last vestiges of Tatiana's anger spurred her to retort at full volume her voice chasing him at the door.

"You know much of war Galahad but if you knew what I know about what fuels the heart of daemons the thought of her summoning a new breed that can wound 2 of our brethren would make your toes curl"

She turned to Mother Elisheva, the anger draining away her own face drawn and tired.

"I am outvoted by my group but I would give you the same warning. Would you really feel easy knowing that a single slip and you would find those creatures you faced today tearing at your flesh?"

She gave a small sigh and turned to the door.

" I will attend to your colleague and be at the stables shortly."

---

From within the ballroom, the cacophony of voices, clinking glass and music had abruptly stopped, the low roar of the wind's murmuring the only sound the two inquisitors could hear. The cause of the silence inside the ballroom was immediately clear to the two inquisitors standing on the balcony. Neither Mother Indira nor Mother Viveca had been blessed with the gift of ether sensing, but in that moment, they had both felt it. It was if they had been dropped into a frigid ocean and were now lashing at the waves, their chests heavy with the weight of the water, their lungs struggling to draw in air. Both of them turned their heads in unison to face the glass doors of the ballroom.

"Bishop Aleksandre! Y-Your Eminence! We were not expecting you!"

The short, wrinkly old cardinal who had been holding court for the evening was bowing before a tall blonde man in armored black and crimson inquisitor's robes. Bishop Aleksandre, Lord Varya's Champion, the Lion of Lanostre, the Great Vanquisher of the South, and whatever other lofty titles the empire had gilded him with, stood silent in the middle of the ballroom, a feint smile touching his lips as he appreciated the stolen walls of the grand ballroom around him. His eyes were dagger-sharp and his pupils were great pools of a blue so dark they almost appeared black. Those fathomless oceans, now trained on the pale, frozen face of the cardinal, seemed to encompass the entirety of his eyes, there was nary a trace of white in them.

Bishop Aleksandre gazed downward to observe the old cardinal with a placid, almost curious expression, his eyes narrowing, as if the peerless sorcerer was trying to remember who he was. After a moment, his emotionless face broke into a wide pearly white smile and the bishop bowed his head in deep reverence.

"Cardinal Valentin. It is good to see you in good health. My sincerest apologies for interrupting the celebrations--"

Indira immediately turned to face Vivica. The summoner's face was a mask of determined calm, but Vivica could see the fear in her mentor's eyes.

"He cannot meet you, do you understand? He will know you are involved, just by staring into your eyes. I will distract him, and you will leave."

Indira placed her hands on Viveca's shoulders and squeezed them. She then drew her pupil into a close embrace, and brought her lips to Viveca's ear. "Listen to me... The azure circle. No matter the Aspect, no matter the inquisitor, we who carry the embers within our blood glimpse it in our visions at Culmination. Some ignore it, some are cowed by it, others are drawn to it. You... You must use it."

Indira raised her right hand to Viveca's face, the scar from her earlier amputation still visible around her wrist, and formed a tight fist.

"It is a weapon," Indira whispered, her words near silent but determined, "and it lives and breathes within each of us." The summoner lowered her fist and pressed it gently to Viveca's chest, above her heart.

"The armada is to depart soon and Aleksandre suspects something is amiss. He is watching Creid, Antonin and myself. There is nothing you can do for us now. But... I pray you might save yourselves from whatever oblivion awaits us out beyond the Narrow Gates. I have sent coded transmissions to Oren and Mother Tatiana of Warband Phoenix, informing them of what I told you. Seek them out on the Karamzina."

Mother Indira broke eye contact and turned to face the ballroom, where she was met with Bishop Aleksandre's strange opaque eyes staring directly at her. She flashed that perfect smile of hers, the same one she made use of when being interviewed by the empire's top publications and science journals, and the great bishop smiled and nodded in return. She bowed her head at the bishop, and casually turned to face Viveca one last time.

"In the deepest levels of the archives beneath the Seminary, there is a lone text. If my information is correct, it is one of the few historical texts that survived Iddin-Mar's destruction. You must find it, Viveca, and pray that it holds the knowledge we need."

Indira took Viveca's hands in her own, stealthily placing the key to the catacombs within the girl's pale palms.

"Veshi'maru, vashi'mara," Indira whispered to her with a smile. The words were gossamer, their every forbidden syllable as quiet as a grave.

Viveca turned her gaze at the mention of The Vanquisher. It wasn't unthinkable that he would come to the ball, certainly, but that doesn't mean he was expected. Aleksandre was a busy man, he could have had any number of things to do. She'd never seen him in person, but now that she had, something told her she didn't want to. Then, Indira told her that she didn't want to. Furrowing her brow, the newly ordained inquisitor looked to her mentor, confused.

"I don't understand," She stated outright, shaking her head, "None of what you just said, Mother, makes any sense..." At least, it didn't feel like it made sense. All she could put together was that Aleksandre was stirring something up involving the trio's sojourn into the future. There wasn't time to explain, because Indira had to move on. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Viveca shook her head, "Yes, yes, Mother... Seek them out, find the book, don't meet Bishop Aleksandre..." She agreed, repeating the instructions back to show that she understood it, even if not the reasoning.

It was... a weapon? How did Indira know about the circle in the first place? Viveca couldn't help but think she was getting involved in something far more dangerously political than she'd ever planned to. She was here to fight an injustice that she'd lived through, not to be a part of some kind of coup or secret society. And this, of all things, felt dangerously heretical. Her mind burned with questions, but she knew Indira wouldn't stick around to answer them, nor was this the place.

"Veshi'maru, vashi'mara," She repeated back, giving a solemn nod.

As the woman went inside, Viveca looked down, what were they going to do to her? Where did she find the courage to face such a fate at the hands of the Varyan empire? And now, Viveca would be following in her footsteps, following this trail of breadcrumbs that could land her back in an ether mine. A life hooked to machines, staring down an endless hall of horrors and people just like her - tubes running in and out of her body like a web of nightmares. She shuddered and pulled the sheer, glittering scarf from around her neck and wrapped it over her head, concealing her with what little she had to do so. Slipping back into the ballroom while Indira spoke to Aleksandre, she stayed close to the wall, and any servers who walked by were used as another form of cover. She kept her back to the duo, going so far as to stop at several tables to socialize pleasantly before moving on.

It seemed like forever before she could get back to her room, change into her uniform, and pack a few days' worth of rations and water. She didn't have long before the deployment, and if what they said about those archives were true, she would have a hell of a time finding what she looking for. This was worse than a needle in a haystack, it was like finding a piece of straw in a haystack. Fastening her falchion to her belt, Viveca headed beneath the Seminary, using the key she was gifted to get inside and locking the door behind her. If everything went as planned, nobody would know she was ever down there.

A small light rested on the shelf Viveca was examining, she'd been down here an estimated three days... And still nothing. Nothing that seemed remotely related to the Azure Circle or secret societies from Omestris... There were things that probably wouldn't go over so well if they were made public, but it wasn't what she was looking for. Viveca extinguished her conjured lamp and summoned a new one over her shoulder. Her eyes peeled through the aisles of the archives... These subterranean tunnels were killing her, they seemed to go on forever and she didn't have a map of any kind. She wandered into a room that just... felt different than the rest of them. It was ornately decorated, with beautiful vines and exquisite masonry. Her eyes were drawn to the elegant pedestals in the middle of the room, varied slightly in size, and appeared to be more than simple posts or stands. They were sarcophagi. There couldn't be anything in there she was looking for - books belong on shelves. But what could be inside? Bodies? Why would the Varyan Administration keep something like corpses in the tunnels under their church unless they were ancient clergy who requested such a burial.

It might be disrespectful, but Viveca's curiosity got the best of her. Respect the dead, but as an Inquisitor, she just had to open the coffins. It took a minute, but she finally pried the first one open, revealing an adult man dressed in... She covered her mouth, he was in Omestrian finery of overlapping blues and reds, just like she'd read in historical texts before. It was even more beautiful than she'd imagined, her fingers softly stroking the fabric with fascination. What she would give to see Omestris in its prime. So perfect. Perhaps the book Mother Indira had talked about was here somewhere.

"What are you doing here, old timer?" She asked with a small smile. It might seem macabre - a skeleton in a gorgeous tomb under the church of a country that had laid waste to its homeland... But there was something both pleasant and melancholy for her. "If I could just find what I'm looking for, maybe it'd answer those questions as well." Gently, she closed the lid to the sarcophagus and moved to the next, which held what she was certain was a female skeleton. Closer examination didn't reveal much else. The third coffin held the most interesting thing of all. A child, in some kind of strange blue garment... A child... Viveca knelt low, resting on her knee as she fingered the robes curiously.

"This... This feels wrong..." She muttered quietly until something caught her eye. Lying at the bottom of the sarcophagus, beside the child's remains, was a book. It was in shockingly clean condition, the pages were preserved well and the cover was hardly battered or torn at all. Her brow furrowed, looking through the book's pages. This wasn't written in Varyan, Muraadan, T'saraen, or Omestrian... It was unintelligible, but there were a few pictures. Maybe it could be decoded, given time and study. Then she found it, her eyes settled on a circle of brilliant blue, scrawled onto a page that was nearly empty otherwise in a tool that was not the original writing utensil. The letters in the book seemed akin to the dialect of Omestrian that she was familiar with, but not entirely, and it was certainly a different language.

"What is this..?" She asked in a whisper, her finger tracing the circle and settling on a clumsily drawn silhouette of a man. It made her skin crawl, but she could actually make out the letters below. Only three days before, Indira had been telling her a story and had said this exact word. It said grandfather, but the letters were written as a name, not a title. She couldn't remove the image of the circle and man from her mind as she said the word aloud.

"Ashe-rahn," It surprised her, as well, when she said it almost as a command and not a curious reading. With a resounding 'thud,' the book fell to the floor and Viveca doubled over in pain. She let out a cry before her throat felt closed up and prevented her from making a sound. Her hand clutched at her chest, she felt cold... Her blood feeling like it was solidifying in her very veins. The pain came in an endless series of waves, wracking her body with cold. To her horror, upon looking down, ice was forming from her very palms, starting to encase her arms. It spread quickly, and her eyes grew wide.

"No, no... Why, why, what did I do? Mother Indira, what have you sent me to do?!" She called out, betrayal gripping her stomach. From everywhere and nowhere all at once, she hears laughter... Was it in her head? In the walls? Viveca couldn't tell, but the ice spread to her shoulders. This was it, this is how she would go; on her knees in front of a child's sarcophagus, reading a book that the woman she trusted most in this word had told her to find. A warm, salty tear rolled from her eye, "I can't... Not like this, please Omestris, not like this... I'm not ready..." How could somebody trained for so long to face death be afraid of it now that it was here?

Stina was rather unsure of what to do in this situation before Hassan ran in and drove away all of the patrons. He was surprised, but pleased. they'd be facing these pirates hand-to-hand shortly. "I thought your friend was supposed to be the calculating one?" Drogonov asked, and Stina couldn't help but break out in laughter as he rounded the corner and saw everyone slowly filing out. he didn't know why he found it so funny, but the whole situation was just.... hilarious.

He eventually straightened up in time to get tossed the metal vial, and be told it tasted good. He knew better, but also knew that he needed the stuff to fight these people, and was grateful for it. He swallowed and grimaced before turning to Drogonov, who looked read to talk, while pulling out his axe. The explosion hit and Stina immediately moved for cover, really cursing not having his shield. Timing his movements around the pirate's reloading as best as he could, he began to move towards close range. Progress was slow though - too slow - frustratingly slow. The last straw was the SA egging him on.

"c-c-cover me," he replied, flashing an even more vicious grin back. focusing his inner ether, he channeled it into his limbs and core. Focusing not on a paling, but instead on his own muscles, he felt the magic coiled and ready to burst as he readied himself. "NOW!" he yelled, as he suddenly burst across the clearing, slamming a pirate hard into the wall as he reloaded. Sidestepping the panicked turning slash of that pirate's companion, Stina cleaved him in half with his axe, gracefully spinning with the blow. Avoiding the thrust from a third pirate with this move, he continued the momentum of his previous hit into this new attacker, his axe shearing straight through the man's right arm, embedding itself in his spine. Instead of trying to free the axe, he left it for the moment as the man waivered and fell, the light leaving his eyes. Drawing his most easily accessible dagger, Stina shoved the table this pirate had been using for cover into a better position for him, as he analyzed the situation with the remaining pirates. He should have given the others enough of a distraction to deal with the remainder, but it was best to stay on his guard until he knew for sure.

He also hoped one of the soldiers was carrying some ether on them. He could probably only do that once more, and he didnt know what else they might be dealing with.

---

After a brief exchange between older and younger, the girl let her weapon vanish. But Oren could not help but wonder if it was wholly due to her grandmother's command. The nod in Mother Ziotea's direction was at least one indicator of that. But when the woman turned to him once more, the thought was put aside.

When she brought out the catalyst, he was, for a moment, afraid. His body tensed, preparing for a battle true for the first time. Old this woman may be, but one experienced with ether was far more dangerous than a brash young girl. But that one singular moment was misplaced. Essa instead proffered it to him, its surface glimmering. And then her smile. Her smile. It caused a twinge of pain in his heart, and he knew why. The last time he had seen such a smile was when he knelt before the Aspect, during Culmination. It seemed so long ago, and like it had only just happened. This was not Iddin-Mar, but...

Slowly, he reached out his hand, and between a finger and thumb, lifted it from her grasp. Holding it near to his light, he twisted it, observing it. The indigo surface shone, slightly, and he caught a glimpse of his own eye in the reflection. Even through the layers of his gauntlet, it was chill to the touch. This... was a Varyan catalyst. Only the inquisitors have them. Which meant... no, it couldn't be. Closing his fingers around it, he looked back to the elder as she spoke.

"If this is to be an interrogation, perhaps we might do this in a more comfortable setting. My solar is just up ahead. I will answer your questions there, and in return, you might answer some of mine. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

Oren mulled the offer over in his head. The idea was not adverse, but nor was it benign. To allow comfort, he would have to relax more and thus lower his guard. But in turn, the woman and the girl may open up more, and give answers readily. And either way, they were already deep enough into 'enemy territory'. Going deeper may reveal others - the potential third member of their party was still unaccounted for - and perhaps even traps.

"You speak as though you have had encounters with inquisitors before." he said, tasting the words as he spoke them. "More than one, at least. But that would be a question for which I would have to trade an answer, correct?" He glanced to Mother Ziotea. "Which I am... unsure if I can give. The offer you make is generous, however... Might my companion and I discuss it?"



She was glad that the child stood down when asked, but Ziotea did not relax, and rightly so. She knew what the old lady held the moment it came into her sight -- at this range she could feel the ether bound up in the totem. It mattered less why she had one -- only warpriests had them -- and more that the woman /did/ have one. Oren stepped back in fear. Ziotea shifted her weight to her rear foot in preparation for the burst of force that would send her forward. Had the old woman been any slower in her reassurance, she might not have survived, for Ziotea had already gathered her power, and had to twist it aside at the last moment. Her control was vastly improved from her days of unrestrained havoc, but even so she could not reabsorb a burst with such short notice. A crack like muffled thunder echoed through the tunnels, a brief gust of brisk wind pulsing outward from where she stood, tugging at her hair and the hem of her long jacket. Her lip curled in a snarl, and she adjusted her grip on her weapon, watching old woman and child as the former handed over the mirror-bright stone.

She watched them still as Father Oren spoke, and she did not look away as he drew her aside to discuss the offer. "I don't like it," she told him at once, before he could even ask. She kept her voice hushed so it would not carry, but her inflection was all leashed violence. "I do not care to go anywhere with either of them, and I've no intention of answering her queries. Our duty here is clear. We locate the third one, determine if there are any more and if so how many, and we bring them in. And if that addlepated guard knew about them and said nothing, we bring him in as well."



Oren's face was calm as he countered Ziotea's arguments. "It's not a question of bringing them in, I would say. We just need information from them. And in either case, you can't deny that if they are in a more comfortable environment, one they believe they have control over, they might be more willing to talk. The woman, at least, we need to know more about. She has a catalyst." He holds out the crystal. "So there may be more to this than meets the eye. As for her potential questions, you needn't worry about that. I know perfectly well what we can and cannot give. I do not fully trust her either."

He glances to where Essa stands away from them.

"You needn't worry about letting your guard down - nay, feel free to raise it higher. I am glad that you're not of the same mindset as me, at least - it allows for a wider range of options."

Not waiting for her answer, Oren strides back to the two. "We accept your offer." he said. Don't let it be a mistake, he added in his head.



Ziotea and Oren found themselves being led through the tunnel. They walked in silence, the tunnels growing darker as they walked. All the while, the Omestrian quartet's eyes, like miniature amber lanterns, glowed eerily in the shadows. Essa was leading them, humming a tune to herself, completely at ease, while Rose walked apart from Oren and Ziotea, her eyes glued to the two inquisitors as they walked onward.

There in the darkness, lit by the feint glow of an etherlight sphere floating gently above Essa's outstretched hand, the molten gold of Rose's eyes appeared different to the two inquisitors. The fiery gold flecks within the girl's pupils were reminiscent of their own. It was pure, burning, and elemental-- the unmarred gold that existed within the eyes of Omestrians who had never been drained by the bleeding machines. Whatever life Rose had escaped from, it certainly wasn't that of a common slave's, that much was certain.

After traversing through the dark underground, they spotted lights up ahead, and further in, they saw that the tunnel opened up into a large open space.

"I repaired this power grid myself. It all runs on my own ether," Essa called out behind her. "You'll see for yourself once we head further in, but this place was once an underground shopping complex connected to several transport stations that ran all throughout the city. People would come down here and--"

"Why are you telling them this, grandmother? They're the enemy," Rose interrupted, glowering at Ziotea.

"That may be the case, but they are also Omestrian. They deserve to know about these ruins, especially the boring parts," Essa answered with a laugh.

When they reached the end of the tunnel, Oren and Ziotea found themselves looking up at a vast circular mall. They were standing at the ground level where crimson roots and moss covered the destroyed tiling. Across from them, there stood a comparatively intact entrance to what appeared to be an old aquarium. The mall rose around them, stretching several stories upward, each of the levels damaged and half-crumbling, while directly above them, there was a shattered ceiling which allowed them an open view of the fading orange sky. The least-damaged levels of the mall, including the ground level, were lit up by what appeared to be old ether lamps.

"It isn't pretty but, the lamps keep the darkness at bay. Now come."

***

"Welcome! Please, relax yourselves. I know the train journey can be exhausting," Essa told them as she led them into the main lobby of the aquarium. Whatever this place had looked like a century ago, it certainly didn't look that way now. The lobby, or "solar", as Essa had refereed to it, was a comfortable-looking chamber beautifully decorated with all sorts of plants and fanciful-looking lounging furniture. It appeared more like the relaxed courtyard of some Varyan countess rather than the lobby area of an aquarium. The only thing that betrayed the room's former purpose were the massive water-filled crystalline tanks that acted as the walls of the room. Strange plants danced in place while schools of tiny ghost-like fish, almost as transparent as the water itself, flitted around within them.

At the far end of the chamber was a doorway that led further into the aquarium, and half-hidden in the darkness of that hall, Ziotea and Oren spotted two pairs of eyes peering out at them.

Noticing this, Essa smiled and called out.

"Fie, Vahn, we have guests."

Upon hearing this, Rose immediately went pale and started to panic, but before she could say anything, Essa placed a gentle hand on the girl's armored shoulder.

"It is okay, my dear. Trust me, everything will be fine," she said as two young children nervously came out from their peeking place. The two children didn't resemble each other, as the boy, who appeared no older than eight years old, was almond-skinned, with silky black hair. His eyes were a sapphire-like blue. The girl, who appeared to be about the same age, had skin as pale as snow and her hair, a silvery blonde, was cut short. Her eyes were a vibrant jade, and as she made her way into the lobby, they seemed to be glued to Oren. The boy was visibly terrified, while the girl seemed to be doing her best to hide her fear.

Rose walked over and stood in front of them, in between the two inquisitors and the children.

The elderly Omestrian woman gestured at one of the plush couches, inviting the two inquisitors to sit, before taking a seat herself in an ornate looking chair.

"Rose, Vahn and Fie." Essa spoke the names, clearly and succinct, allowing them to hang in the air, to exist. She looked over the three children, a glint of sadness in her eyes, before turning to face Oren.

"Have you ever heard of the Scarlet House?" she asked him suddenly, despite knowing that a recently ordained inquisitor wouldn't know of such a place.

"It is a pleasure house located in the highest reaches of the Godsfall, hidden within the shadow of the Great Basilika itself. It is an old, tenured establishment with a rich and exalted clientele. It is different from similar high-class establishments however. The Scarlet House only caters to the most wealthy and powerful noblemen and clergy within the empire."

"Can you take a guess as to why it only accepts patronage from people of such stature? Well, allow me to explain," the old woman said, tilting her head towards Rose, Fie and Vahn.

"This is Rose of Great House Id-Maryan, heiress of Iddin-Mar. The handsome one is Vahn the XI of the Sareffi-Astra family, Prince of Cero, and the pale beauty next to him is Lady Fionna of Legion Saphar, princess of Lanostre."

The three children, upon being formerly introduced, immediately lowered their eyes to the floor, as if their names burned them with shame.

"These children all carry the most mighty and powerful names ever gifted to humanity, and if you've read your history, you would know that the ruling families which they belonged to were put to death by the empire after the Gods of their respective nations were felled. But, no, that isn't quite the truth of it."

"Not all members of the sovereign houses of T'sarae, Muraad, Omestris and Lanostre were slain. The queens... the daughters... They were taken from their palaces and castles, brought back to Varya... and used as breeding slaves."

Essa spat the last word out, but the expression on her face was one of calm. "As you know, Varya has no human kings or queens of its own. Thus, for decades, the progeny of those women have existed only to be used by the nobility and the church to give birth to Varyan children with "royal" blood and to... well, I need not go further."

The elder turned to look at Rose, who was now visibly shaking in anger, her gauntlet-ed fists balled into iron. Essa stared at the girl until Rose finally met her eyes, and wordlessly, the Omestrian princess straightened her back and turned to look at the two inquisitors, her eyes filled with an accusatory rage.

"The three of them were born to that vile place, but they resolved to escape it. And so, Rose fled with Vahn and Fie. It took years of planning, but she managed to lead them out of Magnagrad. Together, the three of them made their way across the frozen wastes, all the way to these ruins, the home of her family and her birthright. By chance, or, perhaps it was fate, I found them and offered them sanctuary."

Essa then turned to face Ziotea, and her expression changed from one of gentleness to one of pure ice.

"That peace offering I gave your companion. It was what I treasured most in this world. It is the last link in the chain that connects me to those forgotten days. Whenever I grasp it, I think back to my warband and the times we spent together in the Seminary and beyond it." She then turned to Oren, "That isn't a catalyst you are holding there, young man. It is my own heart."

She then focused her attention on Ziotea again.

"Heed these words, Reverence, I care more for these children than I ever have for that silly old thing. I will not allow any harm to come to them. If you cannot agree to these terms then I will kill you both. Slowly."

At that moment, Essa stared deeply into the fiery-haired inquisitor's eyes, and allowed the paling that enshrouded the extent of her ether to dissipate. Within her, a storm of ethereal magic swirled chaotically, and for a moment, Essa strengthened her ethereal aura, causing it to pulse violently. For one terrifying instance, the entire underground began to shake.

"Agree to them, and I promise that no harm will come to you. Now, I hope we can now properly introduce ourselves. I am High Inquisitor Lyessa al-Nors, former protector and leader of Warband Ifrit, and, I suppose, current babysitter and renegade," the elder said, nodding towards Ziotea in respect.

"What is your name, Reverence?" Essa asked Ziotea once again, "Your friend Kanus was more polite, even to an apostate such as myself. I wonder if the two of you are from the same warband. Back in my day, war-siblings were of one mind. Different times, I suppose," she said with a grin as the storm within her subsided.

"Er... Grandma. I brought tea. For your guests."

Vahn seemed to appear out of nowhere and placed a tray of ornate-looking teacups as well as a pitcher on the plain-looking wooden table in front of where Oren sat.

---

Warband Phoenix... Father Creid's newest crop of heralded inquisitors. Like many of her order, Elisheva had heard rumors of the recently ordained warpriests who fought under the Brave Man's Fear's ethereal bird banner, and Father Cillian himself, who had been placed under her charge had often spoken of the raw skill that many of them showed during training exercises with his own Warband Leviathan, but the two young women and their childish infighting were doing everything in their power to dash the hallowed reputation of their famous fraternity into the mud.

Elisheva sat on the dusty old couch and observed the clash between Mother Tatiana and Mother Astraea. She was tired, wounded and pissed off. Cillian had been gutted open under her watch and now she and these three rookies were the only inquisitors left in all of Lanostre to deal with this mysterious threat. They had very little time for... whatever this was.

"I am outvoted by my group but I would give you the same warning. Would you really feel easy knowing that a single slip and you would find those creatures you faced today tearing at your flesh?" Astraea told her as she exited the house, not bothering to wait for a response. Galahad and Tatiana left the house soon afterwards, leaving Elisheva alone to stew in her quiet desperation.

Much like Elisheva, the silvery-haired R'heon seemed to be utterly exhausted, dark circles wreathed her eyes, and there was pain in her voice that was raw and red. Whatever recent hurts the Lanostran had suffered, Elisheva could feel them clouding the young woman's perspective on the mission. When faced with enemies like the ones who had ripped open Cillian, suitable weapons were needed. Mother Tatiana was a suitable weapon.

The wound on her chest stung as a cold wind blew through the now empty house. Through the open windows she glimpsed the sky, a pleasant powdery blue, and wondered how such a violent night could give way to such a beautiful, serene sight. Her thoughts returned to the massacre, all those young T'saraen men and women, lying butchered in the snow. Elisheva's ragged breath misted in the frigid morning air as she collected herself before rising to her feet and making her way out of the house.

When she stepped foot outside, Elisheva glimpsed Tatiana and Galahad walking toward the stable.

Tatiana's pace gradually declined, but the young girl didn't seem to spare a glance back towards her dear friend. As the two proceeded along, Tatiana momentarily held her tongue. Galahad's gentle beration had settled some of her anger, but she was still displaced, unwilling to completely give in and apologize, and by no means was she ready to turn back.

"Then come with me. We're strong enough to manage— you know that. This is my area of expertise, Galahad." She momentarily locked up after her response. Galahad's tugging on her hand was enough to will her alongside him. Perhaps she was a bit apprehensive of her original plan for one reason or another. Either way, she surely didn't intend to make her friend mad. Tatiana knew she wasn't one to plow through legions of men by herself, but with her demon at her side facing other beasts of the Black Glacier, she had no fear. Either that, or she was blinded by her progenitor's vocation. The research of the Glacier was her father's primary work. It was his legacy. Things were finally starting to make sense to the girl. The entire scenario was so clear, but the maelstrom of her internal thoughts seemed to prevent her from consciously comprehending it. She didn't want to understand the ordeal.

"Lead on."

Elisheva couldn't hear the rest of their conversation, as the small transmitter attached to her collar began to buzz with static.

"Speak," Elisheva demanded.

"Mother Elisheva. There has been an incident at the Leviatan manor."

The Varyan inquisitor's eyes widened in horror as she listened to the report. Mother Tatiana's father, a heralded scientist, was found dead in his home. Elisheva looked on at Tatiana and Galahad, who were standing near the stables, the morning's first snow falling gently around them. The two of them seemed to be arguing, but Elisheva was focused directly on Tatiana. Did she know? No, the girl had seemed untroubled the first time Elisheva had laid eyes on her.

It was then that Elisheva remembered.

Father Dara.

Her former Seraph warbrother... and current king of apostates. Dara had studied with Tatiana under Mother Indira for many years and together, the two of them were the only graduates of her heralded Summoner's Circle. The two fledgling summoners shared a connection, and Dara had last been seen in Lanostre, where gruesome reports had come in of his demon, the shadowy black dragon he had wrested into submission all those years ago, being sighted massacring hunters in the outskirts of the queendom.

Could Dara have been responsible for the murder of Tatiana's father? Elisheva's heart filled with sorrow for the girl, and unhealing wound that Dara's disappearance had rended within her long ago began to bleed anew.

She was making her way to where Tatiana and Galahad where walking when a boisterous crowd of what looked like rowdy Lanostran natives suddenly marched onto the street, flooding the open promenade of the city center. There were about a hundred men and women altogether, all clad in the armor of Lanostran soldiers, but one glance at them and Elisheva could immediately tell that those marching weren't career fighters. No, these were merchants and artisans, townsfolk and militiamen. At the head of the crowd stood a man and woman, their composure and countenance immediately marking them apart from the rest. Elisheva could immediately recognize them as the only actual warriors in the band.

As the crowd surged onto the street, a line of Varyan garrison soldiers formed up and halted their advance.

"Let us through! We demand answers!" a voice cried out from within the mass of people before being drowned out in a chorus of angry yelling.

"Halt! Halt!" a Varyan soldier demanded.

One of the leaders turned around and, without much effort, pacified the crowd. He was a broad-shouldered man, shorter than any Lanostran Elisheva had ever seen before, but the warrior was sturdy and well-muscled. He wore a suit of armor covered in faded emerald scales and black fur. A thick bramble of red braided hair covered his lower jaw, and his bald head was covered in faded scars.

"I am Thanasis, Commander of Legion Agarem, and this one is Phaedra, Admiral of Legion Ilpharos. We've come to the capital to seek an audience with whoever rules here. I know not who you Varyans have sat on the throne these days, but whoever they may be, we must talk," the bearded one spoke, his voice as still and calm as a frozen lake.

Commander Phaedra stepped forward, fury flashing in her eyes. The head of Legion Ilpharos, which once comprised Lanostre's former navy, was a storm of anger and seething frustration. She was an older woman, approaching fifty, Elisheva estimated, but her age did nothing to hide the former admirals's ferocity. Phaedra wore a suit of light armor made up of what appeared to be the bones of nautical beasts. "Coastal villages have been attacked by a new breed of demon, and now there's been talk of the T'saraen garrison being slaughtered. Your puppet government has ignored the Lower City for long enough. The Lady as our witness, you will part before us or you will bleed," she growled, striking the bottom of her harpoon into the snow.

An angry roar resonated from the crowd and they rushed forward a few steps. It was only a show of strength, and the terrified Varyan garrison, made up of young inexperienced conscripts, responded in kind. They raised their rifles.

"S-stop where you are!" a Varyan soldier yelled, her voice trembling.

Elisheva quickly approached Galahad, who stood alongside Tatiana watching the commotion.

"Father Galahad. These are your people. Your father led them. You know them better than I ever could. Do something about them," she told him. As much as she wanted to deescalate the situation herself, Elisheva was a Varyan inquisitor, and thus was probably the last person this crowd of angry Lanostrans wanted to talk to.

She placed a hand on Galahad's shoulder and leaned in close, so that only he could hear.

"Mother Tatiana... Something happened to her father. I understand she is your companion and you will want to console her, but you must deal with this first. We might have a fullblown riot on our hands if we don't treat this delicately."