---

Ziotea followed after Father Oren, still watching the strangers warily. She listened to Essa with half an ear, though she was unable to comblepely conceal the shudder that ran though her at the thought of the woman bleeding herself to power the underground complex. She smiled to herself when Rose labelled them as enemies. The girl was correct, and from the Inquisitor's perspective she seemed to have more sense than her older companion. But perhaps age made one less concerned over simple things like mortality.

They'd managed to turn this part of the rooms into a comfortable, homey sort of place. It was impressive, all things considered. But Ziotea firmly set her artistic eye aside. It wasn't the time for admiring the architecture or furnishings. The other children emerging from the shadows were not what she'd expected, but their presence was less surprising. Both were scared. Good. Fear would keep them sharp.

Ziotea didn't sit when invited, instead standing just behind Father Oren's chair. The mention of the Scarlet House elicited no recognition, and she had no idea why the people frequenting the place were important, save to indicate the relative merit of the place -- such as it was. But the names of the children took her aback.

Royalty.

Well. Royalty after a fashion. The houses were essentially dead. There was no value to carrying a name like that. If anything, they were as much a curse as Omestrian blood. The news that members of the defunct houses were kept as pleasure slaves and to indulge Varyan whims was, though distasteful, not surprising. She'd long ago stopped believing there was anything the followers of the Ravenous Lord would not take from those they saw as lesser. This was simply another stanza in the same bloody epic. She didn't flinch away from the fury in the child princess's eyes, matching it with her own anger and will. It was impressive, leading two other children across the bitter tundra on a journey that must have taken them half a year or more. Planning and executing such a scheme demonstrated considerable intelligence as well. It couldn't have been too many years prior, or they wouldn't have made it -- and with years of planning, the girl must have started very young. Impressive indeed.

The display of power might have frightened some, but for Ziotea, it only made her angry. It was split-second before her instincts caught up with the rest of her, and despite the woman's defensive words the Inquisitor had initially reacted to the demonstration by falling back into a battle stance. The old woman was strong, and if she had been an Inquisitor -- had trained as one, and graduated the Seminary to serve as a warpriest, then she was most likely more than Ziotea could handle alone. Perhaps more than she could handle even with Oren's help -- they were still young, and the apostate had the advantage of age and experience.

But she was only trying to protect her royal strays. Interesting. Definitely something High Command would want to hear about -- though the fate that awaited the children, should they be captured... "No threat save to those who threaten your charges? Fair enough, I suppose. Besides, I don't like my chances against a former High Inquisitor, with or without your catalyst." Of course, she'd picked fights she had no chance of winnning before, but that was beside the point. "Who knows? Maybe you're even strong enough to actually protect them for a while." She said the last line more to herself than to anyone in the room. Oh, Essa wouldn't be able to protect the children forever -- if nothing else, she'd die eventually. But a High Inquisitor...that might just be enough to give them a sliver of a chance. And maybe she could train the little rose to use its thorns. The real question was whether she reported them, as she knew she should, or let them continue their little game of pretend without interfering.

The request for her name brought her focus back to the conversation, and a frown back to her face. "If warsiblings were truly of a mind, then yours would be here beside you," she snapped, before she could even consider whether she might be better off holding her tongue. The words hung between the two women like jagged shards of glass, but Ziotea didn't take them back. She wasn't about to be frightened into cowardice, and she spoke the truth -- even among the members of Warband Phoenix, there were differing opinions. She stood by Father Oren all the same, did she not? That should be enough.

But a name, perhaps that she could do. "Elpis," she said abruptly, using her middle name instead of either of the ones she was called more commonly. She returned Father Oren's glance with a glare. "What? Just because I don't generally use it doesn't make it any less my name." It could well be he'd never even heard it. Certainly she didn't offer it often. But she doubted it mattered much which part of her name she shared, unless for some reason Essa wished to track down more information about her after they'd left. She was still unwilling to offer her trust. Not attacking someone didn't make a person a friend, after all. And given that hers was clearly a Lanostran name, she doubted the old woman would have anything interesting to say about any of it. If she was being completely honest, Ziotea had no wish to find out how rare or common or even well-known her last name might have been, back before Essa had turned traitor. Let her mother's relatives remain a mystery. The woman had given her life and a name, and then given her up. Like this place, Ziotea lacked a meaningful connection to her. And there was no way she was giving her first name. It was far too personal a detail to share under the circumstances. Her expression wasn't quite a dare to quibble over her interpretation of the question, but it came close. Anyone that expected courtesy from Ziotea was bound to be disappointed.



At first, Oren was without words. The notion that the royal bloodlines hadn't been exterminated just like all the Clergy of the other Remnants... it was beyond imagination. But, as Rose straightened her back, rolled back her shoulders, and looked at them with hard eyes... yes. Yes, he could see that she was a princess. Marred by the cruelty of this world, but royal nonetheless.

The next revelation - Essa's identity - was a little more understandable. She carried a catalyst, after all. And as her power trembled through the ancient halls, his nerves were instantly set on edge, and he fought the instinct to draw steel. That was not his aim here. Not yet, anyway.

He glanced at Ziotea when she let slip her midname. But, he didn't question it. Clearly, the woman was holding some sway here. And the three children... his eyes lingered on them. They were thin but strong. Their ordeals had carried them through much. Even though they had naught to hope for, they seemed determined, of a kind.

Oren bowed his head to the boy, in brief thanks for the tea. Then he looked back to the elder. "...Mother Lyessa al-Nors," he said, sounding out the name. "I agree with Elpis on this. A Warband with the same mind would stay as one, even when their thoughts differ. And from time to time, even Inquisitors who are not from the same circle stand together." His hand flicked towards Ziotea.

With his other hand, he picked up one of the teacups, and turned it, examining the porcelain surface. "I think we three all know the damage that you could do. Inquisitors do not break away from the Seminary so easily, and those that do often do not live for long. And here, today, you have my word that my hand will bring no harm to Rose of Id-Maryan, Vahn of Sareffi-Astra, or Fionna of Saphar."

He set the cup back down, undrunk, and met Essa's eyes. "After today, and by anyone else, I cannot say. As for my civility... the ice that is not stepped on will not break. You are no threat to me, so long as I do not 'step' upon you. And as of now, you are no threat to Varya, either."

He looked at the three children and spoke in a low voice. "It would be in your best interests to stay as such." Letting that hang in the air for them, he leaned back in his chair, and looked once more to the elder woman. A thought had occurred.

"Since I sense we may soon outstay our welcome, I must ask... Andrei Seminov? Do you know him? He is young, a fool, and stationed at the outpost."

Essa raised a curious eyebrow at Oren's query.

"The outpost at the Marian Gate has been abandoned for weeks. There is no one currently stationed there. Certainly no one named Seminov."

The three children behind Rose glanced at each other, worry beginning to cloud over their faces once more. Rose turned around and began to quietly console them.

"Tell me, who... exactly did you meet there?" Essa asked Oren, her voice beginning to harden.

Oren tilted his head. "One might say the same of the ruins. It is not often you find people in these places, yet here you all are."

He paused again. "I will trade you your answer, if you give me yours. Why does it concern you so?"



Ziotea subsided again into bristling silence, though she was privately grateful when Father Oren backed her up. And then Essa dropped her little bombshell, and the young Inquisitor tightened her grip on her spear.

"The answer -- at least some of it -- is obvious. There are people hunting both her and the children. Even if they're not hunting them, having people here is a risk. She doesn't have enough information to assess the threat." Ziotea's eyes narrowed, and her thoughts buzzed. It was proceedure to send someone with Omestrians visiting Omestris, that she knew. So the private himself wasn't exactly out of place -- and she had trouble seeing his wide-eyed idealism as anything but the truth. But he knew the other two, and they him. If there was not supposed to be a garrison here, then what was going on?

"I don't think it matters to us if she has additional concerns. Whatever the people upstairs are up to, I don't believe they're a threat at this moment -- assuming her information is up to date in the first place. The worst that might be done to us is to sabotage the elevator, and I can handle that easily enough," she said to Father Oren. "We'll need to discuss how to handle it, though. Later." Her bright eyes flicked briefly between the different members of their audience before returning to Essa.

"The private was assigned to accompany us. ...He will get himself killed, and endanger you and your charges, if he continues as he has." Ziotea's eyes narrowed above a thin smile. This was little enough to share, particularly if it helped her find out what was going on with the outpost. "We encountered only two of his comrades, both seargents, neither particularly disciplined. Mikhail and Veena." Even as she spoke, she let her ether whisper out of her, her eyes unfocusing slightly. "If they're strong enough to be a threat, I'll sense them before they get close." Once more she looked at the old woman. "You were pleased that we had questions. That means you have some interest in answering them -- though I'm sure there's some you won't." Such as who the Hand are -- if you've any sense.

She considered. She had so many questions, but at the same time...how many of them really mattered? Whatever happened there nearly two hundred years before, did it really matter? Yet she wanted to understand, and of all the questions that came to mind, that one was the most pressing. "What's so important about this place?" she said at last. "Not them." She nodded at Rose and the other two children. "They're incidental. And not that line about old habits. The addlepated buffoon said Omestrians dream of coming here. There's no frost on the ground; there are plants and flowers all over. What is this place? What happened here?" Ziotea had not changed her stance, and her tone remained sharp, but there was something about how she asked the question that betrayed her. She was far more than just a seething ball of anger, and despite knowing she had to put her duty first, she did want answers.



Essa closed her eyes as Ziotea spoke. The old woman listened intently, occasionally nodding in agreement to the ember-haired inquisitor's assesments, other times parsing her lips in uncertainty, as if to say "Hm. Not sure about that one!". This one was like an engine, Essa thought, churning constantly, unable to cease its functions. Though the girl was talented at hiding her ether, the high inquisitor could sense it galing within her, clear and bright as summer. It was a beautiful sort of ether, Essa mused. Dangerous, graceful in its chaos. It was a tempest. The warnings winds of the coming storm.

When Ziotea was finished, Essa opened her eyes and regarded the girl with amusement.

"I must say-- Good work! They've trained you well. All of that makes a certain amount of sense, except for one thing. I am a High Inquisitor, one of the few throughout history who has earned the blooded circle. Do you really believe that the Church, in all its infinite power, doesn't know where I am at this very moment?"

Essa turned to Oren and shook her head in mock disappointment.

"I called myself an apostate earlier, but in truth, I think of myself as "unofficially" retired," Essa said, chuckling to herself. "In other words, the Church knows full-well where I am and who I am. They are keenly aware of the mother hen who roosts here. 'Iddin-Mar belongs to Lyessa al-Nors the Oathbreaker, as it has for the past hundred years'. These words are scripture and covenant. Thus, it is not to their benefit to send starved hounds to bear their fangs at my little coop. Unless they require more corpses for the foundations of their horrible city, in which case I am more than happy to help," Essa said, taking a sip of her tea.

"Now, before I answer your questions, I would like to revisit the one at hand-- Just who are these "soldiers" you met? This Private Seminov. He is not an attache soldier. I know the identity of every soul who steps foot on this land and... I don't know of this boy. I believe he is a liar, and a damned good one too, if he managed to fool the both of you. And his two comrades? They are not soldiers either. As I said, this is my home and the Church understands that fact."

The old woman leaned forward, making the ancient couch creak beneath her weight. "I was once at the head of entire legions, and while most wouldn't remember me, some do. I still have eyes and ears in the Basilika, and I know what happens on every blackened mile and inch of this place, especially that garrison. Nearly every able-bodied soldier in the empire has been given orders to be packed on a steam ark to fight in El. None have been spared for the Marian Gate."

"So, who are they then?" Rose asked, more curious than anything, "They're dangerous, right?"

Essa took a moment to consider the girl's query before focusing her eyes intently on Oren and then to Ziotea.

"Tell me. Have either of you had any interesting dreams lately?"



Oren felt the corner of his mouth twisting. The Red Seminary was afraid of her? He did find that hard to believe, but it was also... amusing. Or, it was possible, that like him, they considered the unprovoked wolf to be a harmless one. So long as the three royals made no movement to stir rebellion, the old woman and her three wards were not going to do anything but survive.

When the notion was posed that Seminov, Mikhail and Veena were not as they seemed... it changed the smirk into a frown. That... was irritating. The idea that he had been hoodwinked was unpleasant. But he couldn't deny that it had an air of sense to it... the outpost was a mess when they arrived. The two sergeants, too informal and unprepared. They would have been informed, surely. But... it didn't seem possible. The private had been sent to escort them... hadn't he? Yet he fumbled when Oren told them they needed none... and it was only the boy's words they had to go by... so was he telling the truth at all?

The two thoughts churned within him... but he set them aside when Essa's eyes fell on him.

"Tell me. Have either of you had interesting dreams lately?"

He inhaled, as the image of a shining blue circle imprinted itself in his vision. ...Yes. Very, very interesting.

"You speak of Culmination, don't you?" he asked. "If so, you must know that it is nigh on undeniable."

"...As for our issue with the three at the outpost... Andrei Seminov believes himself to be an advocate of freedom, of sorts. He wears my mentor's emblem around his neck, Mother Indira Al Sayed. You may know her as 'The First Summoner', among other titles, if you have heard many things at all. His companions most did not express similar sentiments. None are what I would call able-bodied or quality soldiers. Perhaps Mikhail and Veena are pirates or wanderers; perhaps they were sent ahead due to our visit; perhaps your information was wrong. But I shall leave the ordeal of discerning their reasons for being there down to you."



Essa listened to the young inquisitor as he spoke. When he was finished the elder rose from her seat and made her way to where he stood. Years beyond number had passed before her eyes, but Mother Lyessa possessed the look of a woman still in her 80s. Her skin was the color of burnished copper and her bone-white hair had been done up in slightly clumsy-looking braids, as if the locks of hair had been knotted into place by a child's fingers.

"I asked about your dreams earlier because, well... this is going to sound crazy to you but, I wonder if this is all not the doing of your Aspect."

The inquisitors stared at her. Silence filled the room.

"The two of you have seen it-- The azure circle. Every Omestrian inquisitor that came before you has encountered the circle in their vision, and every one that will come after will feel its touch as well," Essa spoke in a hushed, almost reverent voice.

She turned to face Ziotea, regarding her with a curious gaze.

"Ours showed me death. Endless death. The azure circle at the center of it all. Had a sick sense of humor, the bastard," she said with a knowing grin, "But that's besides the point."

"Aspects are strange and powerful beings. They are as unknowable as the Pantheon themselves," she continued, "It is my theory that some Aspects don't actually carry out Lord Varya's will, but instead act as tiny remnants of those the Starving One has consumed. Thus, maybe it is not the Ravenous Lord speaking to inquisitors through his Aspects, but T'sarae, Lanostre, Muraad and Omestris themselves," Essa spoke, her eyes focused on their faces as she drank from her teacup.

"I... I don't completely understand what you are speaking of Lady Essa, but... these soldiers, you are saying they aren't... real?" Rose asked suddenly. Her arms were still draped closely around Fie and Vahn's shoulders.

"Real... That depends, my dear. They could be divine constructs engineered to act as hapless soldiers by our guests' Patron Aspect, or they are three regular people who've been... "borrowed" by said Aspect in order to play a part in... whatever this is. One thing is for certain however, no one has been ordered to man that garrison, and I would wager that there hasn't been a replacement for the former Omestris attache officer either. She, along with the rest of the Omestrian garrison, were sent to fight in El."

Essa took a sip of her tea, which was now cold to her lips.

"I believe that, perhaps, your Aspect has took it upon themselves to send you here to me and the three soldiers have been given the role of 'shepherds', to make certain you made your way down into the ruins. Why go through all that trouble? I think I know the reason why--"

Rose cried out then.

"No, Lady Essa! You can't tell them--"

"It's fine, my dear. Knowledge shouldn't be kept hidden," the elder answered, cutting the Omestrian girl off before turning to face Oren and Ziotea.

"I have known a great many secrets for a great many years... Secrets that the Church hides from its flock, secrets that could change the empire itself... but even after a century of visions, not one Omestrian has visited my doorstep. Until you two came along. Perhaps your Aspect wishes for you to know more than you currently do."



The question of dreams made Ziotea huff a small breath through her nose. Father Oren's suggestion that Essa spoke of Culmination elicited an outright sneer. That was a deeply personal thing, or it was supposed to be. Damned if she'd share the details with just anyone, particularly a stranger.

But the woman continued with words that bordered on madness -- and with uncanny accuracy. Were it not for that one detail, she would dismiss all of this as beyond sanity. But the blue circle. She had seen it. Had Father Oren? Had the other Omestrians? But why? Her disdainful expression faltered into confusion as she looked over at her companion, before it settled back into mere wariness.

"You're right. You sound mad," Ziotea said at last. "Remnants of Remnants acting as Aspects? If that was the case, would the Church stand for it? Would Lord Varya Himself? If every Inquisitor with Omestrian blood sees this circle" -- she didn't quite manage to remember to exclude herself from that number, though she'd meant to avoid acknowledging that she had seen it -- "then it must be not some, but all. That, or it's unrelated." The Inquisitor paused, and again she seemed less than certain. "I'll admit I do not understand them. The older Inquisitors never really said much about what, if anything, their bands' Aspects did, or how they involved themselves in the lives of those Inquisitors." She'd asked Father Antonin, but he'd never been very forthcoming, and she'd been reluctant to press him on it. Father Creid had avoided the question entirely.

"I have difficulty believing that we're the first to come here. And even if we are...I've no idea why this blue circle should be a summons of any kind. Father Kanus invited me to come with him." She looked over at him again, bright eyes shadowed by her frown. "I suppose once you decided then these...constructs, or whatever, might have gently influenced things. Here instead of a different site. Opening the elevator -- it'd explain the poor repair, if it wasn't often used. Still."

Ziotea pursed her lips as a particularly distasteful thought occurred to her. She tugged his sleeve gently so he would move his head close enough for her to speak without being easily overheard. "If your Aspect, or mine, is not in fact following the will of the Ravenous Lord...are we sure we wish to listen?" Her bright eyes were shadowed, uncertainty warring with a longing as strong as Varya's own hunger. She wanted to know what it was the woman had to say. What the secrets were. Maybe her answers were in there somewhere. But she knew better than to charge ahead blind. And maybe it wasn't some piece of another Remnant but Varya himself, and if it was, then she resented his meddling. She could have waited for Rodion to finish in the city and they could have gone somewhere together. She could have gone to Lanostre -- the land of her true heritage, whatever her appearance might say to the contrary. Was this normal for Inquisitors, to be toyed with by their guiding Aspects? It was a baseless assumption, but the young woman found her opinion of Phoenix's Aspect plummeting. She was no longer a child, and she didn't like being made to feel small. She'd relaxed her grip on her spear, and now it tightened again, even as she waited for Father Oren's reply.



"The two of you have seen it-- The azure circle."

Oren felt a chill run down his spine at those words. Almost subconsciously, he looked down at his right hand. He could practically feel the circle there, despite knowing it had only existed in the vision. For a moment longer, he stared, before closing his hand into a fist, and turned his attention back to the elder woman.

Her thesis on Aspects was interesting, to say the least. And she certainly sounded out of her mind, to all of them here. And if she was in her right mind with this, what did it mean for the structure of the seminary? The whole structure would be rife with cracks, from the foundation to the walls that hold up the roof. It could fall apart. The idea that Varya would allow even the slightest chance was... unimaginable.

And then her idea of the three up in the outpost being... controlled, in a way. Oren only knew of one person capable of manipulating others in such a fashion, and even then, Hassan only had a measure of influence, and it wore away after a time. If they were just puppets moved by the hands of the puppeteer... well, that brought only more questions. It certainly didn't sound incorrect, but... it still sounded different than it should.

This was swiftly followed by the altercation between Rose and Essa. His face went a little paler than it usually was. Knowledge of what kind? Secrets of what degree? Everything she had said so far made sense to him, in one way or another... but this was different. That was provoking the wolf. Walking out onto the thin ice... to learn what the Church chose to hide... but would the outcome be so bad?

He shoved the thought aside. Not now. Stay calm, and keep the mask intact. He knew how to conceal his thoughts, right? Do it now.

After that, Ziotea presented her thoughts. He frowned at some parts, nodded at others, and otherwise, just listened. When she murmured in his ear, Oren cast a cautionary glance at their host, as while she appeared out of earshot, it was just as possible that she could hear their whispers.

"I... Aspects One-Seventeen and One-Nineteen are beyond our grasp of understanding. Even if both our warbands pooled their knowledge and their visions, it would hardly fill a thimble of what the Aspects are. As for their intentions... Mother Elpis, we both know that humans as a whole have a hunger for knowledge, but in this case... the coin could fall either way. We could decline this woman's offer, and let the fact that knowledge has passed us by torment us for whatever short years I feel we have left. Or we accept, and either are fed poisonous deceit, a truth we were never meant to know, or something that endangers us and those we care for, if we let slip that we ever learned of it. And in this instance... I... I don't know."

His voice faltered, and then trailed away as uncertainty set in. This was a precipice of chance, and Oren had no idea on which side he would fall.



Maybe it was foolish, the desire for some sort of answer. Maybe it was her temper getting the best of her. Maybe Rodion was not always a good influence, and his thirst for knowledge had affected her. Maybe she just wanted to regain some measure of control.

Whatever the reason, Father Oren's uncertainty served to solidify Ziotea's resolve. It would hardly be the first time she'd tread the borders of what was permitted, if it came down to it, and her opinion of the Church was not a particularly flattering one. And the thought of the knowledge being dangerous to her and the people she cared about...

"Rodion and the rest are more than capable of looking after themselves. As are we. But forewarned is forearmed."

Mind made up, she squared her shoulders and turned again to the old woman. Her chin lifted in subconscious defiance. "I'm listening. What is it you think we should know?"



"Vahn, Fie. The fish in the Merakis Exhibit need tending to. Would you be dears and feed them for me?"

Fie turned to leave without a word, but Vahn remained.

"Um, do you mean the little orange ones--"

Fie frowned, turned around and grabbed the young T'saraen heir by the collar, dragging him back with her into a hallway leading deeper into the aquarium. Essa watched the two children leave with a peaceful smile. When Vahn and Fie were gone, Essa reached into her robes and pulled out a small container. It was an old thing, scarred and dented, but the craftsmanship was something to behold. It seemed to be made of a material that neither Oren or Ziotea had ever seen before. Black and glass-like, similar to the walls and floors of the grand ballroom at the Grand Basilika where the Rising took place, but shimmering with a crimson hue. When it caught the light from the etherlamps hanging on the walls, the two inquisitors glimpsed an emblem of what appeared to be a human skull with a crown of interlocking hands resting on its brow etched on the container. Immediately, and to their shock, they recognized it as the emblem of the White Necromancer, Father Antonin.

Essa didn't seem to notice the recognition in their eyes, as she had opened the strange container and was now removing a pinch of what looked like finely cut red and purple herbs. The two inquisitors remembered that they were of the same color and weeds growing in parts of the ruined city. The old woman carefully measured the amount of gantleaf she removed from the container before adding it to her cup of tea. She held it aloft in front of her.

"To the brave and foolish ones who made it their life's goal to help those children attain their freedom," she declared, before downing the cup of gantleaf-infused tea in one gulp. Essa placed the open container in front of the two inquisitors before allowing a moment for the drug to course through her veins.

She remained sitting absolutely still with eyes closed, Rose looking at her with a disquieting expression. Clearly this was something the young girl had never had to deal with before. It was a few moments before Essa finally leaned back on the couch, exhaling with pleasure. Her eyes still closed, she breathed slowly, her chest rising and falling. The old woman remained like that for minutes as silence filled the room, when suddenly her hands became tout and rigid and she began to dig her nails into the fabric of the couch.

Her expression, one of peace and bliss, became strained. She began to sweat. Her eyelids squeezed themselves closed in painful remembrance. Her breath came in quick rasps.

"His name was Elder Reulodia. He grew mad when he glimpsed what our eyes must not see. But in return for his sanity he witnessed a dread memory. Through ages it has been passed down like a flickering ember, from the hidden hands of Our Lady's Blood, to the cupped palms of the enslaved, and now I bequeath it to you, Father Kanus and Mother Elpis."

Essa's eyes opened. The sunset pupils were gone, instead replaced by pale discs of moonlight. She was blind to the two inquisitors as she stared toward some infinity beyond them. Her fingernails scratched into the cushion beneath her, cutting into the fabric. The water in the tanks around them began to churn violently.

"In this land the ancients once called North Ura, there were Eleven, all desperately alone, all wanting to become whole once more. Among the Eleven, there were the two called the Twins-- Hand and Shield, Brother And Sister. Wild Gods scalded by the Burning One's hatred and His Sword of Fire, the Twins cared not for culmination, instead they longed to annihilate all that breathed in this world. Spine, Eyes, Right Arm, Right Leg, Left Leg, Soul-- they grew fat on the blood of these gods, until only three were left. Heart, Mind, and Stomach."

At that moment, water exploded from the tanks, arcing upwards toward the high ceiling of the aquarium and forming a watery canvass which hung above their heads. Fish still swam within the suspended water, but deep within its depths a feint light began to spread. Essa trembled, her hands now shivering as if assailed by some unknown cold, her milky pale eyes still staring towards somewhere far away.

As the two inquisitors looked upon the wall of water hanging above them, the light encompassing it began to shape itself into discernible images. First, the light bloomed until all the water bled white, and when it began to ripple, displacing small bits of light and making them dance across the surface, Oren and Ziotea realized what they were looking at. It was the entirety of the continent. They could make out the southern edge of T'sarae's coastline, as well as the the barren wasteland of Muraad to the north. Indistinctly, they looked to the west, and saw that Magnagrad was not there. What did they see, were small villages dotting the continent. To the east however, they glimpsed the beginnings of a city. Iddin-Mar. This world was younger than their own.

Suddenly, the view shifted to a barren icefield. Three dark shapes appeared on the snow. At first, they were indistinct shadows, but as they slowly shifted into focus Oren and Ziotea immediately recognized who they were.

One was as large as two men and broad as a steam tank. He was clothed in beautiful silks of vivid scarlet, while lustrous black hair fell like curtains of darkness across his colossal shoulders. A prominent black beard covered his jaw and chest. There was no mistaking the visage of their lord. Only in this vision, Lord Varya, even with with his size, appeared small amidst the massive field of snow around him.

Beside him a young boy stood defiantly against the cold with bare skinny arms crossed across his chest. His clothes were in tatters, slick with what looked like mud and foliage. His eyes, so often depicted in Varyan texts as smears of faded purple, were shining like jewels. Even as he stood, tiny compared to the two figures opposite him, Muraad the Heart Lord didn't appear cowed in any way.

The third figure appeared unlike anything the two inquisitors had ever seen, but they knew his name. Lord T'sarae had never been physically depicted in his nation's texts, nor in Varyan propaganda. The strange inhuman apparition that stood opposite Lord Varya and Lord Muraad manifested in their minds as an ever-shifting amalgam of different concepts, one moment a cloud of language, then manifesting as music in their ears, another moment appearing as a shadow blacker and more profound than any abyss. T'sarae was unknowable.

The three stood, waiting. Until finally, the blizzard stopped. Two great shadows spread along the snow, darkening the three deities as they turned toward the two figures casting them. A young man and woman approached. With every step, the snow melted and was replaced with crimson brush, flowers and thorns. As they made their way to the three, Ziotea and Oren could glimpse the twins more clearly but alas, the two inquisitors found that they couldn't recognize them.

The twins appeared as reflections of each other, beautiful and elegant, like angels made flesh. Their faces were the same, their long crimson flowing hair stirring lazily despite there being no wind. The only difference in their appearance was their clothing. The woman wore a red robe, beautiful if not understated, while her brother wore the same robe, but colored azure.

The woman's pale gold eyes looked upon the three with bored disdain. Her brother's eyes were different. They were a burning, elemental gold. The shade of forbidden fire. There was outright hatred scorching within those eyes.

The twins said nothing, and in answer, the gods Varya, Muraad and T'sarae bowed down to them.

"It was Lord T'sarae who had warned our Lady Omestris," Essa's spoke, her voice seemingly coming from far away, "... of her brother Lord Asherahn's coming betrayal."

It was then, at that moment, that Omestris turned to her twin and plunged a blade into his chest. Her brother cried out in a mixture of anguish and shock as plumes of fire erupted from the wound and quickly extinguished. With the blade still buried within him, the god Asherahn grabbed at the throat of his twin and began to choke her.

"He was the First Aegis. The Protector who shielded the Ice Titan from the Burning One's attacks for nigh an eternity. He absorbed every ounce of the Fire Titan's rage, every storm of hellfire, every single attack, until he couldn't any more. He shared the brunt of what he endured with the hand that held him, but Asherahn the Shield remained with most of it. The Fire Titan's malice became his own."

The three remnants, in unison, rose from their positions in the ground, summoned their weapons, and immediately fell upon Asherahn, slashing at and beating him until his grip around his sister's throat loosened.

"For the better part of a century, Lord Asherahn held them off, but even a God tires. Even as his strength drained from him, Asherahn's hatred and anger never subsided."

Within the vision, the great sphere of Syddon-Mar, came into focus.

"With the help of Varya, T'sarae and Muraad, Lady Omestris imprisoned her brother within Syddon, the fallen star. Once a remnant of some unknown god, it is a place where the living cannot exist. As long as he is trapped there, the Shield is dead to this world, but we as a people were born from Omestris and Asherahn both, and thus part of him lives on in all of us. Just as we of the Hand belong to Lady Omestris, we belong to Lord Asherahn as well."

With that, Essa's shoulders slumped, and the floating pool of water above them dissipated. Jets of water gracefully returned to their tanks, and Essa's clouded eyes returned to normal. She shivered, letting whatever magical energy she had used to control the water to fade from her.

Rose, who had remained silent the entire length of Essa's story, rose from her seat and went to one of the back rooms of the aquarium. Soon after, she returned with a blanket and draped it over Essa, who sat trembling on the couch, her eyes half-open.

"Asherahn is cruel and malignant beyond even Lord Varya at his cruelest. He who desires nothing more than the end of everything. The ancient Omestrians fought a great civil war over his worship, with some of our people hailing themselves "Ashes" and striving to return him to power. Many Omestrians died needlessly during this conflict. It is a dark time in our history, and thus our ancestors chose to expunge the Shield and his worshipers from their records. They even changed the meaning of his name, but alas', Asherahn doesn't want to be forgotten," the old woman spoke in a thin, depleted voice.

Essa gazed into Ziotea's eyes, before turning to face Oren. The elder seemed to be growing weaker with every passing moment. She struggled to raise her hand in front of them, and with her trembling finger, attempted to draw an imaginary circle in the air.

"Somehow, the Aspects are being influenced by him, and in turn, Asherahn is influencing Omestrian inquisitors. I don't know what the meaning of it is, but it can't be good. There were legends of certain so-called Ashes being able to summon his power through dark rituals, and those same people being responsible for many deaths during the civil war. If unknowing Omestrian inqusitors were ever swayed by his power... Seduced by him appearing in their dreams...."

Essa began to cough violently. Rose rushed to the elder's side.

"Lady Essa! Are you alright?"

Essa closed looked upon her young charge and smiled.

"Forgive me. Takes a lot out of you, the 'remembering'... I wanted to show you more but... They're catching up to me... The years..."

Essa closed her eyes. Rose turned to the two inquisitors.

"Lady Essa needs rest. You are both free to stay here for the night. I think she has more to tell you, but it'll have to wait. If you do wish to remain here, speak to Vahn. He'll show you to your room."

Ziotea was not expecting to see Father Antonin's emblem, not here. The herbs themselves held no particular meaning to her, not when container was of far greater interest. The toast was an interesting one, and she had to wonder if the healer was one of the ones Essa spoke of. She also wondered if the children mentioned were the three heirs, or if the old woman meant something else.

And then quiet that stretched out long enough to be unpleasant. The young inquisitor glanced over at Rose a few times -- she'd no idea what was going on, but the girl apparently knew enough to be uneasy, so Ziotea held her tongue. When the change came it was sudden, and Ziotea tensed in response, her hand tightening around the shaft of her spear, her feet shifting automatically into a stance closer to that for battle.

Madness? Something passed down from one generation to the next among Omestrians?

But I am not Omestrian. The mother thad did not keep me came from Lanostre, as did the two that raised me until they were taken.

Again, Ziotea felt like she did not belong here. Father Oren was the one who'd been guided here -- she'd come with for reasons of her own, selfish ones. Perhaps she should have let the matter be, instead of asking. She was the wrong person to ask to carry on some sacred heritage.

The aquarium water sloshed in its tanks and the young women whirled about, spear lifted and free arm reaching for her shield. She dropped her arm when she realized it was Essa doing it, her ether filling the water and making it roil. Moments later she reached for her shield again and this time swung it onto her arm, watching the water above them warily.

The series of images that passed through the water was...unbelievable. The devoured gods, and Lord Varya Himself, and...another for whom she had no name. Omestris had a twin? The two together had...what, consumed other gods never mentioned in any of the texts she'd been required to read over the course of her education, nor any of the forbidden volumes she'd looked through when she and Rodion snuck into the deeper levels of the library?

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the second twin's eyes. Yellower than her own, yes, closer to gold than warm amber, but the intensity of the hue was the same, a brilliance that not all cursed with Omestrian eyes shared. Rose had it too. It wasn't something she saw often, and rarely in such jewel-bright tones. But the hatred there, the sheer loathing for life, shook her just as much. The burst of what could only be fire made her heart beat faster, and it took an effort of will to keep her focus on what Essa was saying. The words only confused her. Was this forgotten Remnant still in the fallen star? Had Lord Varya taken him out and consumed him? He must have, if Asherahn was influencing Inquisitors somehow -- assuming the old woman was right.

But the blue circle of her vision had been secondary to the call of the flame, even with the sense of wrongness and the pain. She was starting to realize just how messed up her very nature was, beyond simply destructive. These were not the answers she had hoped for -- and yet there was something more, something beyond the malevolent, consuming wave. Something less hateful, less wicked.

The questions were written all over her face as Essa looked right at her, but even Ziotea wasn't a complete jerk. The woman was exhausted; she would not be saying anything further just then. She made a noise that might've been a sigh but was more likely a snort, and turned to look at Father Oren. His expression told her all she needed to know. "We'll stay. But you, girl. I want a word." The Inquisitor paused, her gaze roving over the weary old woman seated on the couch. "After you're doine seeing to her," she allowed, before turning to go.

She left the room, moving out of earshot and making sure the other two children weren't around before turning to Father Oren. "You saw that blue ring she mentioned?" she asked him softly, still struggling to digest everything they'd just heard. It felt like she already knew his answer before he said it. "Mm," she murmured in reply, looking pensive. He didn't ask her, but after a hesitation she told him anyway. "So did I. Briefly. But mostly, what I saw was fire."

---

A part of him felt invincible.

His heart trembled, as it always did, but there was a newborn courage blossoming within it. He had blocked a rocket. Sure, the paling had been shattered into a thousand pieces, but still... He had saved them. Not only his friends, but everyone at the pub as well. It was undeniable. He was a hero! He couldn't wait to rub it in Galahad's face.

Ragnar allowed himself one final glance at the pub as he ran ahead toward the warehouse where the sharpshooter was located. While Ragnar's heart swelled with pride, his brain was swimming in questions. He had no idea what the hell was going on. Why had a rocket been fired with the express aim of blowing up the place where his friends drank? How was the cyan wolf cub able to warn him in time? And, perhaps most importantly, why the hell were there sounds of a fight now coming from within the pub? He supposed none of those things mattered at the moment. All that mattered was the bastard sharpshooter. Ragnar had to reach him before he could reload.

Something in his spine moved in a way it wasn't supposed to. He had endured worse, but here, in a live fire situation, an injury like that could prove disastrous if he allowed it to get in the way of his movements. He did his best to square the discomfort away in some dark corner of his mind.

Twenty feet ahead of him stood the warehouse. There was open window at the top floor where the rocket must've been fired from. Ragnar cursed silently, wishing Ziotea had been there beside him. She would be able to jump to that window instantly, or fling him up there. Ragnar smirked, wondering how she'd react when he told her about this night.

Ragnar maintained his stride, not daring to make himself faster through his ether, as he would need as much of it as possible in the coming fight. When Ragnar reached the entrance of the warehouse, he unleashed a spark of ether in his right palm, summoning his etherblade and in one swift instance he swung the silver-colored sword horizontally across the rotting doors, immediately cutting them in half before plowing through them to the warehouse's interior. There was a chance they weren't locked, but he couldn't risk slowing down.

Ragnar's pace slowed as the darkness of the warehouse overcame him. A singular shaft of light bled into the shadowed space from the open doorway behind him, but whatever this warehouse held within it, he couldn't tell. Ragnar quickly raised an open palm and with a flick of his fingers a glowing sphere of light manifested itself in the air above his outstretched hand. The ethersphere gave off a pale sapphire light, pulsing gently at first, but then blooming violently until its luminescence lit up the entirety of the warehouse floor.

Ragnar paid no mind to the countless crates stacked all across the floorspace. In the instant after the place had been lit up he had scanned the room and spotted a staircase at the far end of the floor.

Before he could reach the first step of the staircase, a scream pierced through the musty air.

It was a man's voice, crying out in pain. It had come from somewhere high above him.

Ragnar listened intently, but he could hear nothing else but the sound of the wind coming from the open doorway behind him. He made his way up the steps carefully, one by one, his etherblade humming softly in his right hand.

When he reached the top floor of the warehouse, he saw her.

The artificial etherlight spilling in from the open window painted her and the corpse of the ice pirate at her feet in a hazy amber light. She turned to Ragnar and though she stood a distance away and the light from the ethersphere was now too bright and he could barely see anything in front of him, he knew that her eyes were staring deep into his.

The sound caught in Ragnar's throat.

"Y-You... You're the girl from before. You sold us the wolf pups," the inquisitor said.

"One hundred-sixty gia. Not enough for a girl struggling to survive in this city," the girl spoke in a voice that was not hers, but seemed to belong to a hundred separate people at once.

Ragnar's heart was beating so hard it almost hurt. Whatever he was witnessing was... not natural. There was something off about the girl, as if he was seeing her through one of Rodion's micro lenses. Her body was like mist, and as her lips moved the air around her blurred. With a sickening horror he saw the splatter of blood framing her mouth. His eyes then focused on the man lying crumpled at her feet and at the horrifying wound on his neck.

"Who are you?" he asked, his eyes daring to gaze at the strange apparition in front of him .

The girl turned away from him and stared down at the pub where his brothers were.

"Everyone," she answered.

---

There was a gloved hand holding on to Dragonov's ankle, a sliver of bone sticking out from where the wrist had been severed. With a sneer the Varyan lieutenant bent down and pried the ice pirate's fingers from his boots.

He was covered in blood. Everyone was. Everything was.

The fight against the ice pirates had ended as quickly as it began. Quite simply, it had been a massacre. All of the SA soldiers had survived, and none had been so much as wounded. Dragonov wagered the real wounds would be psychological in nature.

"Once, during the war, a Lanostran prisoner broke free, got his hands on a frag grenade and threw himself into a crowd of our conscripts. The result of that particular incident didn't compare to... this," Dragonov said to Stina, taking a cursory glance at the mounds of viscera and bone that now decorated the dancehall.

"Well done, I suppose," the Varyan lieutenant said with an appreciative smile, clasping the inquisitor on the shoulder. The inquisitor might've still been drunk, which would probably explain the horrible mess he had made of the ice pirates, but he quelled the threat with ease and for his efforts, Dragonov's men would live to tell the tale.

The giant inquisitor had tore through the ice pirates with such ferocity that even Lycaon and Dragonov had been left slack-jawed by what they were witnessing. After the fight, Lycaon had quietly asked Dragonov if this had been Father Stamenkovikj's first live combat encounter, and when the blue-eyed lieutenant answered yes, Lycaon was taken aback.

"I feel sorry for the Elurians," the Lanostran officer responded.

"Indeed," Dragonov agreed.

"What now? Kadenza managed to slow us down long enough for him to escape," Lycaon said quietly.

"Don't worry. If I know our other friend as well as I think I do, Kadenza won't be getting very far."



The cellar stank of old virrika and dead rats.

Their footsteps echoed through the old stone tunnel. Above them, Sister Mel heard noises. Screams, gunfire, armored limbs being sliced off and falling to the floor. The cacophony of death and slaughter that was taking place just a few feet above her head was terrifying to her ears, but she couldn't allow it to frighten her. She was a Sister of the Varyan Church. It was her duty to bring people salvation, and that was what she intended to do.

"They're all supposed to be blown to bits. What the fuck happened? Why do I pay these useless fuck ups?" Kadenza muttered to himself.

"Will you stop for just a bleeding second and listen to me?!" she screamed, her voice resonating through the dark tunnel.

The smuggler ignored her and continued onward, his hands buried in his pockets. Sister Mel remained where she stood.

"Kadenza," she called, tired and desperate.

Finally, he listened. Kadenza turned to face her, and for the first time, she could see the terror in his eyes.

"What?"

"I know what they'll do to you," she said.

"So do I."

"No. You don't."

Mel wrapped her arms around him. She rested her face on his chest, hearing his heartbeat. It came in quick violent pulses, like the music that had been ringing in her ears just a half hour ago.

"They'll take you to the Ice Vault in Muraad, where they'll keep you in a frozen cage until your body decides it doesn't want to bother anymore. That's what'll happen if you don't go along willingly," Mel spoke the words candidly, as if this was a known certainty. "I don't know why the SA is after you, but you're a valuable source of information for them. If you cooperate and agree to work with this Lieutenant Dragonov, they'll spare you," she pleaded.

He smiled.

"All those years at that nunnery and you still don't know a fuckin' thing about anything," he answered, pushing her back violently.

"I'm in deep! You've no semblance of an idea what'll happen to me if I talk," he spat, his face contorting with fear and rage, "You think a cold cell scares me? It doesn't compare to what they'll do--"

"And just who are 'they', exactly?" a voice spoke from the darkness behind them.

"Who's there?!" Kadenza screamed, his voice breaking. When Mel turned around, Father Hassan was standing a few feet behind her, a smile touching his lips.

"Father--"

"Take your friend's advice and get out of here," Hassan said, cutting her off.

Fighting back the tears in her eyes, Mel nodded at the inquisitor. Taking one last glance at Kadenza, the Sister began to make her way past Hassan when a glint of something shiny flashed in the dark. As if in slow motion, she watched as Kadenza raised the jeweled hand-cannon he had been gripping behind him and aimed it at Father Hassan.

In the eternity between seconds, Sister Mel knew. That weapon, at that distance, was powerful enough to blow both her and Father Hassan apart. He didn't care if she was in the way. There was murder in his eyes, and nothing would stop him from pulling that trigger.

As the realization hit her, so did the explosion. She felt the blast of force rocking her backward, and in the instant before she blacked out, she saw a dark blur moving with an inhuman quickness in front of her.

Mel found herself on the cold stone floor. Her ears ringing. Her vision obscured by flashes. It was as if a bomb had gone off in her head. She tried to get up, but realized that she couldn't. Something was holding her in place.

When her vision finally came into focus she found Hassan kneeling in front of her, one hand gripping her arm tightly, the other stretched out in front of him. A pale gold light seemed to be resonating from his open hand. A paling, she realized. To her horror, she realized that same hand was a bloody mess and was missing several fingers. The inquisitor was still smiling through it all. Sweat was collecting on his brow, but somehow, Hassan was soldiering on through the injury as if it was nothing. Whether the man had trained to be able to endure such pain, or if he was just insane, Mel didn't know.

Kadenza was writhing on the ground in front of them screaming, a curved dagger buried hilt-deep in his shoulder. Hassan made his way to the smuggler and with his one good hand he grabbed Kadenza by the collar, picked him up and slammed him hard against the wall.

"You and I, we're going to have a conversation," the inquisitor spoke.

Kadenza continued to scream in agony.

"Stop screaming, please."

In an instant, Kadenza closed his mouth and ceased his wailing. His eyes seemed to relax and though he still trembled from the pain, the same cocksure attitude returned to his face.

"Tell me about your dealings with Father Dara, the apostate summoner," Hassan demanded.

"Didn't deal with him directly. He was weird. Didn't talk at all, seemed terrified of everything. There was someone else. He wanted me to find Dara a vessel and a crew. They wanted to cross the sea. To El."

Hassan paused for a second, seemingly to take that last bit of information in.

"Who was this other individual?"

"No one important. Some stiff servant. A proxy."

"A proxy for whom?"

Kadenza stared at Hassan unblinkingly, then scowled.

"I'll die if I tell you that," he answered matter-of-factly.

"I don't care. Tell me who this servant was working for."

Kadenza smiled then.

"He was cautious. Did a decent job of it. Erased his tracks, but nothing gets by me. If I want to know something, I find out. It took me a few months of digging but eventually, I discovered who he's working for."

The young smuggler leaned in close to Hassan with an impish look in his eye.

"Lady Ophelia Bjornlie. Head of the Bjornlie Ether Stock. She's financing the apostate's journey to El, and she's keeping him hidden."

---

The crowd of provincials began to howl louder as the Varyan infantrymen raised their rifles. Elisheva could not fault them. The Church had its eyes firmly set on the invasion and all else had fallen by the wayside. The land of Lanostre had long been pacified and its strongest warriors, R'heon and warpriests had been folded into the empire's ranks, but even then there were always whispers of dissent within the nation's former military. Leaving the queendom to be watched over by this thin garrison, it was folly. Elisheva was no strategist, she was a warrior bred for the frontline, and even she knew this. What manner of catastrophic failure had occured within Church's leadership to allow Lanostre to fester in sedition and rebellion?

She afforded one look at Galahad. The young inquisitor was the son of a great Lanostran general, and these people would know him. She hoped beyond hope that he would be able to qwell the crowd's anger before things got too out of hand. She decided to place all her faith in Galahad for the moment and then turned to Mother Tatiana, who stood by watching the crowd as they grew more and more boisterous. The young woman seemed a bit calmer now. Whatever Galahad had said must've gotten through to her.

Elisheva walked to the young summoner's side. bracing with every step. The pain was still there, but she did her best to ignore it. She had to be strong. The next words out of her mouth would demand it.

"Mother Tatiana. I've just received word from the military police. Last night, there was an incident at your family's manor," Elisheva said. She breathed in, and in that moment, she realized that she was afraid. Afraid of the young woman's reaction, afraid of how the words would come out. She had been forged for combat, not for this.

"Your father... He has been murdered," she finally said in a low whisper.



As she stood at Galahad's side, Tatiana's looked braced and on edge. The riled crowd did little to soothe her frayed nerves, and more than most, Tatiana knew that as inquisitors, she and her colleagues could step in and attempt to resolve the conflict that escalated before them. It was almost as if the slowly building tension that seemed seconds from snapping into violence had captivated the inquisitor. She was so focused on the scenario as it unfolded, that she almost would not have even noticed Elisheva approaching her and Galahad. Was there something entrancing about the violence? No. Tatiana wasn't that sort of person. She didn't think so at least, but for the few trained inquisitors in her proximity that had been around the likes of her before, they may have noticed that Tatiana was surrounded by that palpable. Such a tactile feeling in the air signified only one thing in the summoner's presence. It was a telltale sign of her summoning process, as if Tatiana was on the brink of bringing forth her beast on a whim. Something held her back, though.

As Elisheva stepped to her side, Tatiana didn't have great hopes for what she wished to convey. There was too much misfortune in the young girl's life at that point. Perhaps Elisheva was going to call off Phoenix Warband's expedition to the glacier. If only it was that simple. If only it was another order she could defy like at the Seminary. As Elisheva finally spoke up, Tatiana's blank face seemed stagnant. There was little surprise splayed across her face. Instead, Tatiana's visage sported a certain emptiness. Her pain, however, was plainly evident, but it was by no means a usual way for the bright-minded Tatiana to express frustration or sorrow. Something was off.

"Father..." One word was all that managed to broach her lips as the news reached the young girl. While it may have looked like Tatiana was then lost in her thoughts at the breaking of the news, there was something different going on in her head— or rather there was a distinct and uncharacteristic nothing going on. Whatever Tatiana felt was not present in her head. She was instead just lost. Tatiana's eyes flicked in between the growing riotous crowd and Elisheva. She didn't dare lie so plainly, but Tatiana knew better than to explain things to Elisheva.

"We need to go to the Glacier. There could be survivors... wounded..."

"I understand. You only wish to do your duty, as any inquisitor would. Still, I need answers from you, Mother Tatiana."

The summoner's response had not been unexpected. The concept of parents and anything else that belonged in the chasm of their old lives had become a blurry abstraction long ago. Elisheva barely remembered her own mother and father, or the family that she was born into. All that was, all that had been, was the Seminary. She was comfortable in that. Had the warmth of home faded for Tatiana as well?

"Tell me of your whereabouts last night. Did you not spend the evening at your family's manor?"

I need an answer... The words echoed around the head of the young inquisitor. She had been there. Was there anywhere else she could have been? Why was she lying? Why was she going to keep lying? The questions roiled through Tatiana's mind, but she had no answers. Maybe she didn't want answers. She just wanted it to stop— All of this.

Tatiana glanced around after Elisheva first replied. Her eyes shot towards the ever expanding crowd, though more particularly, her gaze landed on Galahad. Busy. Her one bastion to fall back on had been elsewhere. Tatiana was alone. It came as an empty feeling in her gut, as if you were cornered by your greatest fear with nowhere to run or cower. She wanted to just release it all. That's what she would have done if she were the same person she was only one night ago. No. She was changed. Her voice was meek, but after a long silence interrupted only by the cacophony of riotous forces only meters away, Tatiana spoke.

"I-It was locked. I never made it in..."

Tatiana averted her eyes from Elisheva once again. No. No. It wasn't enough. There would just be more questions. Tatiana didn't want more questions. She knew who killed her father. She didn't need one of her pupils to try and fight her battles. At her side, a hand would twist into a fist...

"Look, 'Inquisitor'... You're doing your duty, are you? Because from my eyes, it appears like you're trying to interrogate one of the few people you could call an ally in this mess while your brothers and sisters in arms are not only dying at the hands of the Glacier, but also trying to stop a riot without you to command them! We don't have time for this."

Elisheva met Tatiana's response with an unmoving stare. Her one crimson pupil stared unblinking at the summoner as she lashed out. The Lanostran inquisitor was acting strange, and doubtless she was hiding something. Elisheva could feel it. Despite that, the girl was right. There was no time for this.

"Inquisitor Tatiana Leviatan," Elisheva spoke the young woman's name, allowing her exhaustion to creep its way into the words. She was tired, hurt, and wanted nothing more than to get back out into the ice and slay those bastards. But this was more important.

"Your father is dead. I thought to be delicate, but I can see that approach is not needed here. Thus, I will get to the heart of it."

Elisheva felt the old pain boiling in her chest. It wasn't the wound that stung her, but the memories. She closed her eyes for a split second and pictured his face. Gaunt yet evergreen. He never seemed to age. His eyes were pools of black. She had never seen someone with eyes like that.

"Father Dara. The apostate summoner. You trained alongside him under Mother Indira for years. The wretch's demon was seen in these lands not long ago. According to reports it tore through a hunting party of native Lanostrans, leaving the snows slick with blood. Dara appears in Lanostre, your father loses his life, and the Glacier awakens. Surely you can see that something is amiss here. Something that could be the key to whatever is happening."

Elisheva's face was still, as placid as ice, but she could not keep the old hurt from burning in her eyes.

"I recall the talk surrounding the Circle in the Seminary. You were Indira's prized star, her chosen heir. Dara was... something else. Did he hold a grudge against you? Did he ever wish you harm?"

Elisheva's reiteration was all it took. Another mention of her father and just like that, a certain subtle trembling awoke in the young inquisitor. Her breathing faltered as she held back a tears. Again, she looked well kept compared to what occurred inside her, but there was no doubt in her mind that Elisheva would notice her demeanor. She shook her head a bit. If Elisheva thought her unfit for combat then that would just further complicate things.

"Dara..."

Tatiana knew the name well. Summoners in the Seminary weren't a dime a dozen, and the few prodigies Indira did find were well acquainted. The pair were for all intents and purposes complete opposite. Dara's silent demeanor only further guarded him from Tatiana's attempts to befriend him. Warband Seraph was above Phoenix anyways— Tatiana thought so at least. She could still recall the day it all changed, though. Once one summoner snaps and turns tail, support and belief in the training of summoners altogether. Was Tatiana mad? No. She pitied the boy. She always had.

Dara wasn't a great man. That much was obvious, but was he a killer? Tatiana wrestled with such thoughts, but she still had little doubt in her mind what had happened just last night. That didn't matter, though. Elisheva was right. With the strange occurrences revolving around the Glacier, the most obvious explanation would be that he was involved. After all, Tatiana knew well that there were a very select few people that would support the awakening of the Glacier. The thought gave her a weird feeling— like what she was just wasn't right.

The thought of Dara coming after her family amplified her that unsettling feeling. Tatiana finally let her stone-faced facade fall, revealing a pained expression beneath. It seemed like a definite possibility, but that shred of connection the two summoners shared held Tatiana from speaking. Did she identify with him?

"No... No, Dara wouldn't do something like that, but the demons... That's more like him..."

Tatiana didn't say much further. It was hard enough to choke out the few words she'd managed to.

There was a hurt in the summoner's voice that Elisheva felt all too familiar. Whether this was due to Dara or her father's passing, Elisheva wasn't sure. Still, there was a clarity in the girl's eyes that wouldn't betray her words.

"Very well. I will send word to the Church about your father's murder, but I will not question you further about the apostate," Elisheva told her. "I am sorry. He was a good man. The people here loved him," she said with a conciliatory smile.

---

"Why else do you think I'm here?" Galahad replied, "Death is something I haven't feared for some time now. But all the same, I'd rather us be overprepared than to have our journey cut short before it has even started. Area of expertise or not, the Black Glacier isn't some place you just charge into without a plan- you should know that better than most."

Despite his chiding, Galahad regarded Tatiana with a warm look- or rather about as warm as a look from Galahad could get. He placed a gloved hand on top of the shorter girl's head, brushing off the snow that had collected atop the girl's dark hair. He would've spoke further, but the two were interrupted when a large crowd of what looked like Lanostran locals stormed onto the promenade. It was rather surprising, as in their short time in the city, Galahad had never seen more than a dozen locals roaming the streets at any one time. Had they not been an angry mob, Galahad would've been happy to see them.

"So, the city lives after all." Galahad murmured in slight bemusement as he regarded the crowd- Varyan state soldiers running up to form ranks and halt their advance.

Galahad frowned as he looked at the state of the Varyan soldiers. Conscripted men and women, young, inexperienced, and with shaky fingers on triggers. The officer in charge was an old codger, no doubt experienced in some form of warfare, but unable to run or hold a rifle himself- or at the least unable to fire a weapon without breaking his collarbone. Was this all it took to keep the grand city of Sapharan in check? Surely not. Galahad looked at the ironclad military transports around them with disgust. Had he known then what he knew now, Sapharan wouldn't have fallen.

He was brought from his thoughts as Mother Elisheva approached the two of them and spoke.

"Father Galahad. These are your people. Your father led them. You know them better than I ever could. Do something about them,"

Galahad scoffed. "I haven't been home in 10 years. Not to mention I'm an Inquisitor as well. What makes you think they'll listen to me?" Despite his remarks, Galahad took a step forward anyway to begin descalating the situation. Before he could get very far, Mother Elisheva held his shoulder and spoke softly to him.

"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."

Galahad's eyes narrowed instantly, and it took every fiber of his self control not to immediately shoot a look of concern in Tatiana's direction. She'd know immediately that something was wrong if he had. He sighed and regarded Elisheva with a tired expression.

"You tell me this now? Could that not have waited until after I stopped a riot?"

Not waiting for an answer, Galahad strode off towards the increasingly raucous crowd, his heavy boots ringing clear against the cobblestone despite the noise of the crowd and the soft layer of snow that covered the floor. He passed through the line of Varyan conscripts who looked at him with confusion and bewilderment. His eyes quickly scanned the line and fell upon a young, shaking woman who stood next to him- her shoulder bearing the patch of a Corporal, the highest ranked soldier in the line.

"Stand down." He said to her.

"W-what? Are you crazy?" The shaken woman demanded of him, shouldering her rifle and resting her cheek on the stock to take better aim- before Galahad lifted the barrel of the rifle up and twisted the weapon out of her hands.

"If you fire this rifle, you will have just signed the death sentence of yourself and the rest of your squad." Galahad spoke, louder this time so the rest of the line could hear him.

"Now. Stand. Down." he repeated again in a withering voice, handing the corporal back her rifle. Seeing this exchange, the rest of the line of riflemen took a careful step back and began lowering their rifles.

Galahad stepped forward until he was halfway between the line of soldiers and the front of the crowd of Lanostrans. He ignored the crowd but regarded the two leaders that stood before him. Recognition immediately flitted through his eyes. The first was Commander R'oyn Thanasis, of Legion Agarem. Thanasis was the closest thing the Quaids could equate to a family friend. He and his father had joined the Lanostran military at the same time, and had been harsh rivals and close friends ever since. As a child, it was he who taught Galahad how to hold a lance, how to swing a sword, how to fire a rifle.

The second was Admiral Desdemona Phaedra, of Legion Ilpharos. A famed tactician and strategist known for her ruthless and dogged command style. She was harsh on those under her command, yet compassionate and as loyal to them as they were to her. She had taught him almost everything he knew as a child, from strategy and warfare to workings the Royal Court. At a time that seemed like ages ago at this point, Galahad would’ve worshipped the ground she walked on, and in a way he still did- he liked to think his style of leadership was based off of and refined from hers.

“Master Thanasis, Master Phaedra.” He said as a manner of greeting. Master was a simple term signifying someone’s position and skill- in other parts of the world. In Lanostre, the title ‘Master’ itself still bore the same meaning: it was a term of honor, respect, and acknowledgement of one’s martial skill and expertise. But when dozens upon dozens of warriors in Lanostre could be considered ‘masters’ in other realms, the title of ‘Master’ here in Lanostre was reserved for a select few. Galahad believed both Thanasis and Phaedra to be two of that small cabal.

"You've returned," Thanasis said in a gruff voice as he took the measure of him. Those emerald green eyes, as Lanostran as the aegis that still hung over the land, were set on a face Thanasis didn't recognize. The hair was the same, and so was the small scar on the chin he had given the boy during his first day on the yard, but the man who stood before Thanasis, surrounded by trembling Varyan infantrymen and clad in the black and crimson of the Ravenous One's inquisition, appeared a stranger to him. Thanasis had dragged the boy through thorn and frost, he had beat his hands bloody with cane and rod until he could wield sword and lance without falter, had fashioned him into a warrior worthy of his father's name, but the Seminary had carved him into something else entirely. There was a darkness within him that could only spawn from that place.

What have they done to you, laddie?

"It is good to see you home, Father Galahad," Thanasis said with a sad smile as reached his hand out in a solemn gesture of greeting.

"Yet you march into the city with lance and sword." Galahad replied somberly, as he reached out and clasped the man's wrist. "Clad in battle armor and with a small army at your back."

Galahad's eyes stared through his old master's, scanning the gathering crowd behind him. The men and women of their small army were clad in Lanostran steel and bore lance and sword alike. They seemed prepared to use their weapons, but were untrained, unhoned and unblooded tools of war. These men and women were not Lanostran army- which had long been integrated into the Varyan army, stripped of their traditional armor and weapons, and reforged into the Varyan war machine- many of them sent over across the ocean with his father. The ones that remained were militiamen, laborers, and even plain townsfolk. Of course, every Lanostran, military or not had the spirit of a warrior in them, yet a spirit alone did not a warrior make.

"What is it you seek, Masters?" Galahad asked plainly, his voice cool and even, "What did you wish to speak about to whatever peon sits on the throne, armed and armored for war?"

Thanasis met Galahad's response with cold, steely eyes. His breath misted in the frigid morning air. Ice was collecting on his great bushy beard.

"There have been tidings of a massacre at the Glacier. Our T'saraen brothers at the garrison have been silent, and now there is an imperial blockade around the coastline, forbidding any native ships from making the journey across the ice to investigate."

The old soldier took a step forward, so that his face was inches from Galahad's.

"Your red masters have deigned to leave all of Lanostre in the dark. They refuse to answer our queries. Tell it true, lad. Is this some Varyan plot? Or has the Glacier awakened once more?"

As Thanasis stepped forward, Galahad remained unmoving, unflinching. There was a time that Galahad would cow before the man, that time had long since passed. They stood for a moment, pupil and mentor, Galahad was taller than Thanasis now, by several inches at least- but Thanasis stood as tall as ever despite his age. A part of Galahad's eyes held regret- maybe in Thansis' eyes too. In another age, they would've been comrades in arms, perhaps Thanasis would even have been proud of how Galahad had grown. Such an age this was not.

"There is no plot, Master Thanasis. The T'sareen garrison is dead, and the Glacier is very much alive." Galahad replied, his voice low and quiet. "I am on my way to the Glacier right now to see what has happened- or I was, before..." Galahad gestured to the mob behind Thanasis as a point.

"Dismiss this mob, Master. I will find the answers you seek." Galahad said. He took a step to turn away and return to his comrades when Thanasis grabbed his arm to spin him back to face him.

"This is not over, boy. The Glacier is a place for Lanostrans, not Varya and his enforcers." Thanasis said with a low growl.

Galahad's eyes steeled over as he returned his gaze to Thansis' eyes, the emeralds in his eyes colder than the ice itself around them.

"Do not threaten me, Master. I respect you, Master. I do not fear you." He said coldly. "If you have your mob cut down the Varyan garrison here, do you think life will become easier for them? Do not force me to end the lives of my countrymen Master, send them home." He said with finality.

He turned on his heel and began walking back towards Tatiana and his other Inquisitors.

"You may be Lanostran boy, but these are not your people. They haven't been your people since you donned the red and black." Thanasis called after him. Galahad stopped, but did not turn nor reply. After a moment, he began to hear the shuffling of feat, as Thanasis and Phaedra reluctantly began ushering the mob back out of the city. Galahad felt a warm liquid trickle down his hand, and he looked down as he unclenched his fist, only vaguely aware of a small drop of blood dripping from the palm of his hand.

"You say that as though I had a choice." Galahad whispered softly.

---

In that place, in the hours before dawn, the stillness and silence felt alien. The servants had long been called away, and if his count was correct, there were only four inquisitors in the entire compound. In the cavernous hall behind him, further in, he could hear the quiet voices of Hassan and Stina echoing throughout the common room. It felt strange. The compound had never been this deserted before.

Ragnar stood in the spacious kitchen, rubbing his arms as he peered down at the breakfast he was preparing. It was always cold in this place, no matter where you were. Though the compound was more comfortable to him than anywhere else in the Seminary, with large open spaces, personalized rooms that catered to each individual inquisitor, soft beds, and a staff of servants to answer their every whim, the Phoenix compound had still been constructed with a certain amount of enmity in mind. "They will not want you at ease," Galahad told him once, and he had been right. It was spacious, but the lamps installed within its fixtures were dim, leaving much of the compound in half-darkness. Cold seeped through its stones, and always, there was the sound of churning machinery rumbling through the air, as the engines that powered the Seminary were said to be enshrined nearby. They could never sleep peacefully because of it. Ragnar wondered if anyone hated the compound as much as he did.

Beneath his gaze the ether burned the synthetic meat black, just as Stina liked it, and the vegetable platter Ragnar prepared for Hassan had been expertly seasoned to his taste. He gathered the trays of food and made his way back to the common room, but stopped abruptly near a lone doorway.

Vivica's room.

He could sense her within.

The etherlight spilled out from the bottom of her door. As far as he could tell, she wasn't sleeping. The Omestrian girl, with her dark blonde hair and striking golden eyes, had met Ragnar, Stina and Hassan when they stumbled into the compound after returning from their little adventure in the slums. She had stared at them blankly, not answering when Ragnar waved hello. It was as if she hadn't seen them at all. She blinked once and calmly walked into her chambers. The girl's silence was strange. Mother Viveca had been friendly and sociable when she and her two warsiblings were first transferred into Phoenix Warband. On one occasion Viveca had even helped Ragnar prepare a late night meal as a celebration of the two warbands coming together. Why was she acting so strangely?

Perhaps she was weary about the long journey tomorrow and the even longer expedition that would follow. The sun was soon to rise, and with it, they would make their way to the military station, where they would meet up with Ziotea and Father Oren as they returned from Omestris, and together they would take the last train to Cero, where everyone else was already waiting. Ragnar put the thought out of his mind and proceeded to where Stina and Hassan sat at the common room. He flashed them a warm smile as he placed their food on the table in front of them. They were most likely starving, especially after using their ether during that fight in the pub.

He sat down next to Stina and watched his giant of a warbrother stab at the mostly burnt piece of meat and tear into it with his teeth. Ragnar smiled. It overjoyed him whenever he could cook for his siblings. Usually the servants handled that task, and they certainly didn't like it when he tried to take over their duties. The intense feeling of happiness began to fade as Ragnar watched Stina eat. He stared at the cut pieces of synthetic flesh on Stina's plate, and his stomach began to turn.

He could still see them. The bodies. And what was left.. All those limbs, floating like little islands in an ocean of oily blood.

"S-So, what was it like?" he asked nervously, trying desperately to make any kind of sound that would distract from the sound of Stina chewing.

Stina stared at him uncertainly, as if he had little idea as to what Ragnar was talking about.

"Did you enjoy it? Killing those ice pirates, I mean. You didn't have to hold back this time, not like in training."

Ragnar's stomach began to growl. He was also starving. He looked down at his plate. The meat glistened in the light of the etherlamps. It looked revolting. But he could not waste the flesh.

"It must've been... liberating," Ragnar said as he stabbed at a strip of meat with a fork and brought it his mouth.

Viveca sat upon her bed, the uniform she wore earlier lying on the ground with small tears and tatters covering it. She couldn't wear it anymore, she would have to pack extras and possibly be one short, if only to avoid questions. The woman pulled her knees to her chest - it was cold but she hadn't found it in her to change after returning, preferring instead to expend a bit more of her ether to stay warm. Her room was aglow with her own light, slipping out through the cracks in the door as she buried her forehead against her knees. Even now, a couple short hours after returning, she was in just her skivvies. Try as she might, Viveca couldn't piece together what she had experienced, that unholy book lying askew at the opposite edge of her bed. The Inquisitor couldn't leave it there, though it instilled fear deep in her heart - like it was waiting for her to try again.

Ashe-ran...

The word rang in her head; it was more than a family figure here, but why was it in the book? She wiped the tear from her cheek, the last few hours just a blur as she rushed out of the catacombs, clutching the evil tome. Her pack of cigarettes rested on the end table nearby and Viveca grabbed another, lighting it shakily as she leaned against the wall running flush with her bed, letting the wispy smoke from the end of the stick drift out of the slightly cracked window. With a sigh of relief, she finally readjusted, scooting closer to the window and tucking her legs beneath her. It took but a minute to finish and she put the tobacco out. Shutting the window, she shuffled to her wardrobe and began to pick out evening-wear; having changed into a simple, tailored green gown and long black gloves, Viveca checked the mirror again. Thankfully, she had managed to cover and cure most of the frost damage to her body. Her skin below the neck had grown rather red, some of it even remained lightly speckled with ice particles. She'd been working to heat the symptoms with her ether, but it was a slow process. In the moment, the enveloping ice seemed to last an eternity, but it did not appear that the effects would be permanent. Her skin was covered in nicks and a few scars, but they wouldn't tand out if one wasn't looking closely.

After closing the window tightly, Viveca looked over to the door to spot a shadow moving about. She began to extinguish her lights - no visitors... Not now. They didn't knock and she sighed, relieved and free from social obligation. Taking her ribbon from the bedside table, she pulled her hair back and tied it into a tail, looking herself again. The only thing she couldn't hide was the raw, red skin that had been climbing her neck in the catacombs. Nobody would ask, they all had their own loose ends to tie up before they left, of course, right? Nobody seemed to be in perfect condition when she saw them earlier; however, she hadn't really focused on them, her eyes still filled with the image of her doom. First from Indira, then from the azure circle. How could she trust Indira after that?

Vashi'maru, vashi'mara.

Because she had to. She had to trust Indira. She had to protect her warsiblings. And she could not let them know that anything was wrong - not yet. Not until she knew what to do about it. The shadow had disappeared, but she decided to talk to them anyway, reaching hesitantly for the doorknob. The door clicked and Viveca opened it slowly, with a measured patience that was nearly graceful. Her slippers made no sound apparent from the muffled thud and shuffling of her feet as she crossed the floors, wrapping a light black shawl around her shoulders to keep away the cold. The common room was just down the hall and she emerged to find Ragnar, Hassan, and Stina beginning to dig into a platter of food. She realized just how starved the last three days had left her.

Viveca calmly took a seat of her own in the circle, once again tucking her legs beneath her. She ran a hand through her hair and listened patiently; where had they been anyway? It sounded like they had found a lot more excitement and pay-off than she had. Down under the Seminary she had found nothing but anguish... "Ice pirates? Sounds like you all had quite the eventful day..." She added, finally speaking. Her words rarely felt rushed, each one rolling from her lips, deliberately placed with seemingly meticulous scrutiny as she spoke.

She realized how empty her hands were now and the Inquisitor rose to find a mug of coffee, hoping for a recounting of the story. Anything would be better than where her thoughts had been going previously. Finally finding a pot on a table in the common room (where the four remaining Inquisitors, the only people left in the compound right now, had moved the machine and beans for convenience) with only a little bit left, she emptied it into a mug. It was filled only halfway to the top before the pot was left with naught but hot air and droplets. Viveca sighed and prepared another half-pot to prevent wasting the resources. With a hiss, the machine began to work its magic and she returned to her seat, blowing softly on the liquid as she waited to hear what the men had to say.

While they spoke, she glanced over at Ragnar, cocking an eyebrow. Why had he been hovering outside of her room before? Did he know that she had noticed him - Stina and Hassan would have a much more prevalent shadow through the door, it couldn't be anybody else. Not to mention, they wouldn't care, they would take the food for themselves and actually hope she didn't come out trying to get some.

When Oren saw the healer’s crest, his eyes widened in brief shock, but a number of explanations jumped to mind and calmed him. Gantleaf was known for its medicinal properties. Father Antonin was a healer, and where ether failed, concoctions might succeed. And both the White Necromancer and their host had a number of years to their name – perhaps they, in their time, had served alongside one another. As Brother and Sister, or as comrades, like Oren and Ziotea. Perhaps the container was a keepsake given during that time; perhaps Essa had stolen it as she fled the Seminary; or perhaps Antonin pressed it on her as a parting gift. It was not so farfetched to imagine one of those as the reason.

He had dwelled on that thought for so long, he only noticed Essa was in the midst of what looked like a fit. But he kept his expression plain, and the moment passed, as she started her tale. Oren had his curiosities, and as he craned his neck back to properly see the ceiling of water, he drank in what he saw. Varya. Muraad. T’sarae. And the twins. Discomfort coiled in his stomach when he saw the male of the two. Something about this Asherahn was… incorrect. It did not belong on the ice.

And in the following image, he saw the dome of Syddon-Mar. For a moment, his vision was superimposed over the scene – the smiling faces of the Omestrian people, beckoning him, accepting him. But he blinked, and they were swept away – because they were only imagined. As the images faded, and the water returned to its tanks, he closed his eyes, and let out a slow, shuddering breath that he hadn’t realised was held. Was all of this true? It went against everything that he had ever been told… but Essa’s story held root. It was not outlandish, or impossible. But the chords it struck were sensitive all the same. And if any part of this was true - like a boulder balanced on the very edge of a cliff - there was a great potential for danger. Loyal to Varya or not, this Asherahn could represent a threat to millions. The thought stung.

Oren looked up when Rose spoke. An invitation to stay the night. Yes… yes, that might help him clear his head… his thoughts were too clouded right now. He glanced sideways at Ziotea momentarily. He could sense the questions bubbling, brimming, boiling beneath the surface. Just like himself. Their eyes met, and before he could speak, she turned back to the girl.

“We’ll stay. But you, girl. I want a word… After you’re done seeing to her.”

Ziotea twisted on her heels and made for the door. Oren switched between looking at her and then at Rose, before inclining his head to the young girl and followed Ziotea, as she clearly expected him to. She didn’t waste any time, either.

“You saw that blue ring she mentioned?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but instead, he grit his jaw. She’d know.

“Mm… So did I. Briefly. But mostly, what I saw was fire.”

Oren swallowed and looked down at his right hand. “…Then we both know that there is something to this.”

He slowly traced a circle around his palm, over and over, not meeting her gaze. Somewhat difficult, given their comparative heights.

“I do not know what to do in this instance. This information isn’t by any means insignificant. And it would appear that there’s more that our host might tell us. And why does my Aspect want me to know this if this is true? I am not so easily… influenced… by dreams.” Not anymore. “We have some choices to make when we return, also. Do we tell others? Or keep it secret? Should we seek out verification, of some kind? The archives hold many forgotten things. I am blind, for all intent – I see no easy paths.”

He looked at Ziotea. “Do you believe her? About this other god?”

Stina considered his friend's question at length before answering. Ragnar seemed worried... off-put... there would be much more where that came from... we were trained to kill... In the meantime Viveca entered. A strong girl - and a clever fighter. Hard to believe that such a strong person could be born from the weakling aether cattle, but then it wasn't really his place to question. He nodded to her before leaning back and looked up at the dark, cobwebbed ceiling, and let the sounds of the Seminary wash over him for a moment. The Seminary was always moving. There was no stillness. There was no quiet corner, and he had learned to love that. He had learned to always be ready. He had learned how to tolerate cold, discomfort, and endless pain. He had learned to understand that he was built in his god's image, to protect that god and act in his will. He had learned how to fight, and how to die. He had learned to how to bring glory to Varya, and to defend those who deserved defense. The only thing the Seminary could not teach him was how his god felt. The hunger...

"It was at the same t-t-time liberating, and the most restrictive thing I've ever done. When... wh...when I was in there, up close and personal killing those heretics... It was the cl-closest I have ever been to Varya. Iiiiiii knew his hunger... I knew why we must keep going, why we caa-a. can never stop." He clapped. "And like that. Gone. No one more to kill. But the hunger - still there. Clawing inside of me. De-de-de-de....demanding to get out. But there was no one left for me." He looked straight at Ragnar. "Aand for a moment, I was truly afraid that I couldn't stop. but the lust subsided. For a ti-ti-tiiiime." He looked back to his food, and smiled. "They were lousy fighters and predictable. But it was still more fulfilling than playfighting. Imagine when we--e--we get a real challenge." He paused for a moment, almost able to process the severity of his thoughts, before they passed for the time.

He turned to address Viveca directly, punching Hassan with mirth in his eyes. "This nutcase got a-a-an entire bar dancing like the devil, and then go-t-t-t-t all of them to run out the doors when we ffffffound out about the pirates hiding in the back." He then nudged Ragnar "And get this - th-th-th-this fucker stopped a RO-R-ROCKET!" He stopped to collect his thoughts, shaking his head, getting frustrated with his stutters again. "I-i-i-i-i-i. Do not remember aaaaaal of iit - and Hassan is th-th-the storyteller." He said, giving the floor over to his friend, too excited remembering the events of that evening to really recount them.

"Those decisions will not be easy. The archives...there might be something, but I have no idea where to begin looking. Rodion and I would sneak down there sometimes, when we could get away with it." A flicker of a smile crossed Ziotea's face as she remembered the hours down among the stacks, alone save for each other and things so old the dust stung her nose when they disturbed them. "I never came across anything like this, and really...I don't know if the church would care to keep them around. To say there was an appetite that exceeded Lord Varya's treads close to heresy." The gentleness in her expression faded, turning cold, and she twisted the haft of her spear in her hand.

"I don't know what I believe," she admitted at last, not liking to sound uncertain but finding no better answer. "I can't dismiss this out of hand, but there's too many questions still unanswered for me to accept it. But even if it isn't true, we would do well to learn all we can before leaving, now that we've begun -- especially if we need to deal with the three upstairs as well." She glanced around, tapping a gauntleted finger on her spear before adjusting her grip and swinging the point downwards as she turned to go. "I'm going to find the boy, and see where we'll be sleeping. I mean to talk to Rose after." She paused, glancing over her shoulder. "If we were guided here, it was Leviathan's Aspect that did it. ...You should know, Father Oren, I don't see any of this as my heritage. I am Varyan because that is who claimed me. Lanostre is the ones that abandoned me, but Omestris...Omestris is the heritage that was nothing but a curse. I am not one of you." She faced away and headed off.

---

The floor of the trauma ward was awash in red. Men and women in medical scrubs scurried through the ward, treating the dying and wounded. Astraea stood there among them, her boots were slick with blood, as were her hands.
As soon as the inquisitor stepped foot into the ward a young medic, seemingly not noticing her uniform, yelled for her to apply pressure on the oozing wound of a pale-faced conscript. Astraea did as she was told. She stared intently at the conscript, a young blonde Varyan girl. The terror in her eyes- it was a foreign thing to look upon, something she knew that was real but had never witnessed herself. For many years Antonin had put her on medic duty, tasking her with healing the broken bones and weeping gashes of countless other pupils who had suffered wounds on the training yard, but all of them had endured their injuries with the steely solemness that the Seminary had beat into them.

The conscript looked into her gaze, and for the first time Astraea met with the eyes of someone fearing death.

Without effort or ceremony, the conscript's wound closed beneath Astraea's palm. There were no bright lights or ethereal energy resonating from her hands, only flesh, nerve and tendon returning to its original state, as if time was being rewound. She didn't even need to think about it now. Injuries like these were nothing compared to the wounds that her warsiblings had sustained on the training yard.

"W-what?" the young medic stared at her in disbelief, as his eyes finally noticed the black and crimson coat she wore.

"There was an inquisitor brought here not too long ago. A Father Cillian. Where is he?" she asked, eyes searching through the ward.

The medic took a moment to respond. He motioned toward a space at the rear of the ward. "Back there."

Astraea nodded at the medic and left.

All around her there was chaos. The medical staff was struggling with the influx of wounded conscripts and as she made her way through the maelstrom of overworked medics and healers her lungs breathed in the exhaust of machines pumping distilled ether into the depleting veins of wounded soldiers. Astraea wondered just who was responsible for this massacre.

She passed by a small group of T'saraen engineers huddled in a corner with grave expressions on their faces. They wore the furlined parkas and turbans of Bridgetowners, and her ears picked up some of their conversation as she walked by.

"Word is Tsukasa gave the order to power the machine to its full capacity last night," one of them whispered.

"The traitor," another spat.

"Could it have been the cause of what happened?"

"Don't speak such things. Not aloud."

She didn't understand what the engineers spoke of and thus didn't pay it much mind, and as she opened a curtain in front of her she finally caught glimpse of him. Father Cillian lay on a blood-stained bed, situated in a secluded space away from the rest of the ward. He was surrounded by a surgeon, a young Varyan nun, and the old medic whom Elisheva had ordered to bring Cillian to this place.

The protector of Warband Leviathan was conscious, his cloudy amber eyes staring at the ceiling in forced concentration, his chest rising and falling in controlled breaths. Astraea stopped in her tracks. she could hear her own heart beating in her ears. Cillian's pain was absolute, she could feel a small echo of it coursing within her, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming. He appeared calm, but sweat streaked his dark skin. When she looked down at his bare torso, the inquisitor couldn't help but wince.

Cillian had been opened up like a purse, a massive gash ripping through him from his chest down to his groin. A blood-splattered blanket covered his lower extremities, and Astraea shuddered to think as to how the rest of him looked below the waist. With a start Astraea remembered something Ragnar had once told the warband, about how Protectors could create ethereal shields to block anything, from the cold, to the ethereal magic of other inquisitors, to individual pain. Was Cillian keeping the pain from becoming too much to bear through his use of a paling? If so, he must have been expending a worrying amount of ether.

Astraea hurriedly approached the wounded inquisitor.

When his eyes fell on her, they squinted, as if seeing some mirage in the distance that he couldn't be sure was real. Even then, there was genuine relief in his eyes.

"You can tend to the others now," he said to the medic, surgeon and nun.

The three of them, standing around Cillian, turned to look at Astraea. The surgeon gave the Lanostran inquisitor a quizzical look.

"Excuse my ignorance, but, who is this?"

Cillian tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but a sudden tremor of pain made him decide against it.

"This is Mother Astraea of Warband Phoenix. Apprentice to the White Necromancer. She can heal me," he told them.

The Varyan nun, a young girl who looked no older than fifteen, suddenly gasped.

She gazed upon the R'heon's mark on Astraea's neck with rapt fascination, and then took in the inquisitor's platinum hair.

"The White Huntress," she whispered with breathless amazement.

Astraea cocked an eyebrow, unsure as to how her exploits in the Seminary had reached the ears of this young nun in the clerical branch. The surgeon and medic nodded at her solemnly and left, taking the astonished nun with them.

Astraea looked down at Father Cillian. He seemed to be ecstatic to see her. He did not smile, but his eyes did.

"It's been a while, Mother Astraea. Good to see you," he said in a ragged voice.

She didn't answer, instead she kneeled down in front of him and placed her palms over the cavernous wound.

"You came in the nick of time. I was just about to undergo a painful surgery. If you hadn't come they would've had to stitch me back together themselves. I would've had to remain awake for the procedure in order to keep the paling."

Astraea paid little mind to what he said, as she concentrated all her efforts on repairing the damage that had been done to his body. She had one vial of ether at her belt, and the diamond-shaped catalyst embedded within her hunter's bracer began to tremble as it channeled the Omestrian ether into it. It then coursed through her palms, and with her guidance, flowed onto the wound.

Cillian breathed out, as if a great burden had been lifted from him. He was finally able to let go of the paling that was keeping the worst of the pain from reaching him.

"Tell me about the demons," she said, her emerald eyes aimed at the wound as it slowly began to repair itself.

Cillian turned away from her and stared at the ceiling again. It took him a while to answer.

"They were... strange. Beautiful in a way."

Astraea shot him a glance.

"What?"

"My garden, back at the Seminary. I grew roses, lillies, irises. Dead plants from the old world. With my ether I could bring them back to life. These demons, they were the same."

Cillian tapped a finger to his wound, seeping it in blood. He then brought his fingertip to the wall and began to draw on it.

A humanoid figure. Three pairs of massive wings erecting from its back.

"What is that? An.. angel?" Astraea asked, uncertain of what she was seeing.

"... A seraph."

"What are you talking about?"

"The "Soldiers of the Gods". You know the tale. Before humans were given life, the Remnants fashioned warriors from the ice and breathed into them the ether from their own souls, granting them power and purpose. These saints waged war in the name of their Lords, but apparently, failed in this task and were abandoned, their lifeless forms left to be swallowed by the ice."

Astraea looked into Cillian's eyes.

"Are you saying the demons you fought are the seraphs from the legends?"

"I can't be certain they are one and the same. But they are similar to those we've read about in the history texts."

Cillian turned to the wall once again and began to draw more winged figures, each of them regimented into separate groups.

"You understand the Black Glacier more than I ever could, thus you are aware that historically, the demons your people have hunted have been little more than bestial creatures-- highly dangerous, but predictable in their movements."

Astraea looked at the crimson etchings on the wall. The winged figures were lined up in familiar patterns. It took her a while, but finally, she realized. The "seraphs" had been drawn in battle formations.

"These are not guileless beasts, but in fact, sentient and intelligent soldiers who use tactics to overwhelm their opponents. They even have a hierachy, with commanders and generals. I was in the rear, keeping the aegis for the Varyan soldiers under Elisheva's command, and I saw everything that transpired. Elisheva, unfortunately, vastly underestimated them, and this was the result," Cillian said, gesturing toward the countless wounded conscripts throughout the trauma ward.

"What about you? How did this happen?" Astraea asked him, focusing on the wound again

"They are fast. Much faster than ordinary men. If you don't use your ether to match their speed they can easily overwhelm you. Their wings are deadly weapons, sharper than any blade. I learned this the hard way."

"Seraph or not, the demons of the Black Glacier should never be faced without the utmost care and preparation. You and Elisheva learned that today, but we won't be taken off-guard next time," she told him before rising from her kkneeling position.

"I've healed the worst of it. Thankfully none of your major organs were damaged. It will leave a hell of a scar, and you'll be in some amount of pain for many days, but you will be able to fight."

Cillian listened intently, and once she was finished, he tried to get to his feet. He struggled, but eventually was able to rise from the bed.

"R'heon, you have my thanks."

"Get your gear together. It is time we rejoin the others."

---

The world was quiet but for the lashing winds. The descent down the Elder Mountain was an arduous journey for most, but for Father Galahad and Mother Tatiana, it was like a stroll through childhood lanes. The two inquisitors had chosen to ride their ramahks down the mountain, while Elisheva and the meager forces that remained under her command were carried down the Skyway, a massive elevator cut into the Elder Mountain itself decades past by the engineers of Bridgetown. The ramahks were agitated, unusual for them, but something dark was in the air, and the two inquisitors could feel the massive horned beasts tremble under their saddles as they carefully rode them down the mountain path. Even with the strange agitation of the ramahks, the journey had been a sobering one. It had been more than a decade since either of them had traveled down the Mountain, but the miles of stone and ice, the familiar fortresses and waycastles standing sentinel through the path, the scent of evergreens filling their nostrils, and the icy sting of the mountain air, it had all managed to lift their spirits somewhat.

Before they had set out Elisheva had given a fleeting report of the demons that awaited them at the Glacier. She was able to kill several of them, but was overwhelmed after they swarmed her forces and cut through them like a blade through parchment. She also told them the demons holding a defensive position around the Glacier and only attacked after she approached. She wondered if the T'saraen research garrison was wiped out due to them being in too close proximity to the Glacier.

She promised to go into more detail once they reached the perimeter where the demons stood in a defensive formation, but at that moment, Galahad and Elisheva wrestled with the knowledge that these demons were unlike any that had come before. They were intelligent and cunning, capable of organizing into battle formations and seemed to fight under a command hierarchy. What that meant, and how it threw into disarray the understanding of the Glacier-- it was a change that Lanostre was not prepared for. The two of them couldn't help but wonder what the Queendom would look like upon their return from El.

The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the Circle Keep, the formidable fortress that ringed the Elder Mountain and acted as Sapharan's first line of defense against invaders. Elisheva and the twenty seven shivering conscripts that comprised the rest of their forces had arrived a short while before them. The three inquisitors, together with the force of conscripts, then made their way into the Circle's armory, where Elisheva, Galahad and Tatiana outfitted themselves with ammunition and extra ether vials. It was there that Mother Astraea and a pale-skinned Father Cillian met them.

"Galahad, Tatiana," Astraea spoke their names in greeting, nodding her head at Tatiana. This was the only acknowledgement the summoner would recieve from her that morning. It alone would have to do. It meant that their earlier arguement was behind them now. They would put things aside, and fight together as a warband, as they always had.

"Father Galahad, Mother Tatiana, may I have a word?" Cillian called out. He was sitting down on a bench. Mother Astraea made her way to him and kneeled down beside him, checking his wound. The Protector was gripping his abdoment, trying to keep his breathing measured.

"Neither Elisheva nor myself were the warleaders of our warbands. Elisheva is our senior, but she is more a soldier than a tactician. She will differ to you during this operation. As will I," he said, staring intently at Galahad.

"Please heed what I say. This musn't be a battle of attrition, but a swift destruction. We must kill them quickly, otherwise they will swarm us and... it will not be a pretty sight. These demons are not invulnerable, but in fact, are brittle like glass. However, they are faster than any inquisitor I have ever faced in the Seminary. If there is a way to destroy them all at once, before they can spread out too far and cause too much damage, we must consider it a prime strategy."

"I will fight in the front. I've hunted the Glacier's spawn before and I will do so again," Astraea said, flashing her eyes at Tatiana.

"And I must uphold the aegis, less we all freeze out there, but I can take a few of them down myself. Galahad, Tatiana, what are your thoughts?" Cillian asked, his golden eyes focusing on the two of them.

Nothing was comfortable...

Down to the simplest fiber of her being. Tatiana writhed in her ramahk's barding momentarily, shaking herself free of the restless thoughts. As much as her issues were inside her own head, even the inquisitor's uniform seemed to bother Tatiana. There was just something about it— as though she didn't fit into it anymore. Despite this, nothing was going to stop Tatiana from keeping her fervent shifting as clandestine as possible. Perhaps it was the duality in her mind that allowed her to mask herself so well, for all that Tatiana's nerves and
discomforts were weighing on her mind, equally heavy were her thoughts of indomitable determination. With what had occur in just the past few hours, Tatiana felt almost detached from who she was before. Such simple changes, and still she had felt as if she had lost everything. Well... Everything save for one aspect of herself.

Tatiana couldn't keep her mind from the mission. New demons. New rivalries. Everything was all new, and she wasn't sure if she was ready to handle it all, even after all of her promises back in Lanostre. Lost in the worrisome thoughts, Tatiana sent a glance towards Galahad who rode just at her flank. She had remained silent for most of their time on the mountain, but that was surely something Galahad had been used to when around an agitated Tatiana. It was the direness of the situation that seemed to escalate the scenario. Even her mount seemed to notice the unsettling air around the inquisitors and their destination, but Tatiana dismissed it. She knew demons, and she surely didn't fear them.

"Are you scar—" The words just came from her mouth without hesitation. After another momentary lull, Tatiana corrected herself and continued, turning to Galahad as she did so. "Are you nervous?" Tatiana wasn't sure why she asked the question. She wasn't scared. She didn't think she was scared.

"These demons aren't like Terviclops. At least, that's what Elisheva said..." Another long break came after Tatiana's words. She was lost in thought again, but it wasn't long before those thoughts came to surface in her voice. "But they aren't as strong as he is. I know that much. I'm the expert."

Upon arrival at Circle Keep, Tatiana hastily dismounted from her ramahk. She had always preferred working with her partner when it came to mounted combat. She didn't offer Elisheva much, however uncharacteristic that might have been for Tatiana. It was when she cast her challenging gaze over her fellow inquisitor's militia that Tatiana finally spoke.

"Don't hurt my friend out there."

As the three inquisitors headed to arm themselves, Tatiana met Astraea's gaze. A simple bowing of her head would suffice to return Astraea's greeting in Tatiana's mind. The two didn't need to talk. Tatiana had a good enough idea of how Astraea worked, and she had no reason to challenge the other inquisitor any further. It was finally time where her actions could speak for themselves. Tatiana's time in the armory was short after that. Save for her rifle and a few munitions and refill of her ether vials, she was ready to go. Her light and almost reckless armament may have appeared peculiar to those outside of her warband, but her brothers and sisters knew her well. Tatiana was quite an irregular sight in combat.

Tatiana would have left the Circle's garrison immediately had she not been stopped. The anxious inquisitor was ready to battle, and after Tatiana got in her battle mindset, it wasn't easy for her to leave it. Nonetheless, she turned and strided over to readily listen to the male inquisitor's words as he called to Tatiana and Galahad. Not much emotion washed over Tatiana's face as Cillian spoke, at least until he brought up his knowledge of the demons. It was subtle, but Tatiana lifted a barely noticeable smile onto her face. This was her element, and she intended to show just how much she thrived around the glacier. Tatiana didn't much react to Astraea's words. Already, the young inquisitor was formulating her plans, but it was Tatiana that was quick to react when Cillian asked her and Galahad for their input.

"I'm quite familiar with the Glacier and its inhabitants. I'll be most useful as far in the fray as I can get. After all, I'm sure none of your companions can match my friend's raw speed and strength."

"Omestris is the heritage that was nothing but a curse. I am not one of you."

Somehow, when Oren heard those words, it stung in a way he hadn't expected. He himself was disconnected from his culture, in a way that couldn't be reversed, but to hear Ziotea say that, in so casual a tone... it shook his core. He blinked, twice, three times, as the shorter Inquisitor walked away. He took some deep breaths. Yes, he could see where she came from. But it only made him feel all the more alone. He sighed, before setting off into the tunnels himself.

Eventually, he came across a partially collapsed tunnel, exposing it to the open air. He sat down on a pile of rubble, lost in thought. Did his Aspect really want this? This kind of knowledge could kill him if the wrong person found out, if he confided in the wrong man. But not knowing, shoving it to the rear of his thoughts and forgetting it... that seemed just as dangerous. And the secret would not be so hard to keep, with the impending voyage to El. He was somewhat withdrawn among even his own Warband, let alone the others.

In the quiet, he could feel the pounding in the back of his skull all the more strongly. Oren grimaced. It had been going on for about an hour, now. Glancing side to side, he drew his knee up to his chest, and reached into his boot. Taking out a syringe and a vial, he fitted them together, before jabbing the point into the crook of his wrist and pushing down the plunger. When he pulled the needle out, he used a small bit of ether to heal the mark, and then concealed the two pieces once more.

That task done, Oren looked up at the sky. Unlike in Magnagrad, the sky was clear, here. Unfettered by the smog of the city. The deep indigo expanse was dotted by the occasional bright point of light. Each one a star. His mind went back to Syddon-Mar. Was it really what the old woman said it was? A prison and tomb for a forgotten god?

He felt fatigue wash over him. For all his training, the trials ahead seemed insurmountable. And only time would tell if those trials would become easier or harder. As the drug took effect, he closed his eyes, and let his troubles float free. He'd reflect on all of this later. He needed a break for now.

---

He had been patiently waiting in the shadowed hallway leading to the back rooms of the aquarium, trying to keep himself from listening to the two inquisitors as they spoke. But now the ashen-haired one with the sad eyes and the scary women had finished their conversation, and thus his lifelong lessons in obedience and servitude kicked in. Vahn approached the red-haired woman and tried his best to smile, just like the masters at the Scarlet House had taught him.

"My Lady, if I could show you to your room," Vahn said to the red-haired inquisitor. He had spoken those words countless times to the patrons in the salon of the House, but never to a woman before, and never without the fear piercing through his insides. He was still scared now, but Vahn didn't believe that this woman would beat him for stuttering or for spilling a bottle of virika, and thus for once, he felt a strange sort of pride in his young heart. The two strangers looked tired to him, and it would be nice to show them to a room where they could rest.

Vahn led the woman back through the darkly lit hallways, passed the kitchen and the room where he and Fie slept, to a small chamber that Lady Essa-- or Grandma, as she wanted them to call her-- had told him was once called a "break room". Vahn didn't know why there needed to be a specific room to break things, but Lady Essa had turned the small chamber into a comfortable bedroom with three cots and a nice etherlamp within it to ward off the cold.

"H-Here is where you and your companion will be staying, My Lady. The Break Room. Usually, Rose sleeps in here, but tonight you and your friend can make use of it," Vahn told her with a deep bow before stepping into the room and straightening out the wrinkled corner of an otherwise tidy bedsheet.

"I was in a hurry making your beds, s-so..."

Vahn didn't seem to know how to finish that sentence, so instead, he bowed once more and hastily left the room, his eyes still glued to the floor. As he exited the room, he nearly bumped into Rose, who placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder, stopping him.

"What did I tell you about always looking where you're going?"

"R-Right. I'm sorry."

"Go tend to Lady Essa."

Vahn nodded, and went on his way. Rose watched him scurry down the hallway, making certain that the boy's eyes were facing forward. When he disappeared into the solar, Rose turned to gaze at the inquisitor standing within the room, and found the woman's eyes staring back.

Rose broke her gaze from the inquisitor and stepped foot in the room. She made her way to one of the beds and sat down, where she unstrapped her gauntlets and absent-mindedly threw them on the cot, as if this was a routine she had done countless times. From wrist to fingerstip, Rose's hands where covered in tightly wrapped bandages-- clean but frayed and beginning to yellow.

Rose opened and closed her fingers repeatedly, bringing them inward and then stretching them outward again. As she did this, her brow furrowed in controlled discomfort. When she was done, she reached down to the space beneath the bedframe and brought out an old steel box, which she then opened and began to carefully remove the bandages from her hands, placing each strip into the box.

As Rose peeled apart the bandages, the deep orange light from the etherlamp hanging on the wall rippled over the black glass-like appendages that had replaced every finger on both of her hands. The appendages were not like most prosthetics the scarlet-haired inquisitor had seen, for the strange black stubs didn't look like functional fingers, but were instead small curved pillars of a dark glass-like material. The skin was marred by old scars where the appendages connected to the rest of her hands, as if the black artificial fingers had been forcibly inserted or bolted onto her palms without much care placed into the procedure.

When Rose finished placing each of her bandages into the box, her eyes flitted upward to meet the inquisitor's, but only for a brief second before Rose lowered her gaze to the floor.

"I am sorry about challenging you earlier," the girl said suddenly, an odd sheepishness coming over her voice that hadn't been present before.

"I know I wouldn't have had any chance of beating you. It was a distraction, to keep you away from Vahn and Fie. If you had attacked me, Lady Essa would have heard it and she would have taken them to a safe place. I never would've imagined she would come into that tunnel..."

As Rose spoke, she softly clacked her fingers together absent-mindedly, the strange glass-like material making them slide against each other in a strange, unnatural way.

"It was dangerous of her to do that, and I still don't quite understand why you are here, or why she tbelieves you two are so important... but, thank you for listening to what she had to say. I don't know what her plans are, but she has kept us safe and I will do anything to repay our debt to her."

The girl's eyes, burning like sunset, focused on the crimson circle adorning the scarlet haired inquisitor's breastplate.

"Even if it means helping the ones who killed our friends."



Fie watched him

Well, she had been watching him since he stepped foot into the aquarium. Rose called it spying, and it wasn't good to spy.

The master used to order her to spy on the rich men at the salon, to record every word that left their lips. Spying was a good thing then, especially when she did a great job of it, but Rose had to remind her time and time again. The House was in the past, they were in the present.

But still, she couldn't help it. She found him endlessly fascinating, sitting there by the upturned pillar, the rays of light from the open ceiling shining down on him. He was like a prince-- a sad, sleepy prince. When he suddenly called out to her, Fie's heart jumped to her throat.

He told her to come to him and then asked what she was doing.

"Watching you," she told him. "I mean! Spying on you," she corrected herself.

When he only stared at her in response, she could see the mist in his eyes. Her mother had once told her about the Elder Mountain in Lanostre, and how it was the only place in all the world where once could see the sun in all its glory, hanging high above the clouds. The inquisitor's eyes must've looked like that sun, Fie decided in that moment.

Suddenly, she remembered. Spying was bad.

"I mean! I was spying on you for a good reason! You looked really tired, and if you fall asleep out here on the cold stone floor, you won't be comfortable. And so, I was going to wake you up and ask if you wanted me to show you to your room."

Fie suddenly scrunched her nose.

"That thing you put in your arm. It smells like Lady Essa's special herbs. Is it medicine? Are you sick?"

"Don't call me that," Ziotea groused at the boy with a frown. She followed without comment, noting the turns, the places where ambushes might be set, the places that would be easier to defend. She glared at the third cot like it was offensive, and made a noise of disapproval as Vahn again called her "my lady". "Stop fussing with the sheets and get out," she told him, bothered by his fretful timidity. Had she ever been so grovelling? She didn't think so. Even at her most frightened, she had always been angry.

He bowed and left and nearly slammed into Rose as she entered. Ziotea watched her, trying to sort out the complicated emotions she felt. Respect for the girl's determination. Jealousy, perhaps, for having escaped when she herself had not. Disgust, because in the end it wouldn't matter. There were other things, but she couldn't put names to them.

And then surprise at the strange prosthetics, followed by a guess at what had happened. "Frostbite," she said quietly, not quite a question. "And no modern facility to handle setting the implants, or perhaps someone with limited skill." Rodion would wonder what they were made of, how they worked, why they were different from most replacement body parts, and the thought of what he would do if he were here made a faint smile flicker across her face. But Ziotea was less interested in those answers. She noted that the fingers resembled decorations in the ballroom back at the Seminary, and moved on.

"Don't thank me; I listened for my own reasons." Ziotea looked away for a moment. "I might be wondering why I bothered coming myself," she added softly, before again meeting the child's gaze. "You were right to challenge me. I would have tracked you down otherwise, once I sensed you here. But you should have done it before we reached the bedrolls, if you meant to keep your friends safe." She gave the child a cold, wolfish smile. "You probably wouldn't have survived it without Essa's help, but I might have lost interest after." She considered the girl again, the anger directed at her comfortable, even familiar. "You said it yourself: we are enemies, you and I. Not because of anything either one of us did, but because of who we are." She leaned on her spear with confident nonchalance. "Listen close, little briar. You are brave, and I can respect that. I would kill you anyhow, if Essa was not here, but she's stronger than I. Perhaps she's right, and the Church knows she's here and doesn't care, but that could change. She won't be enough to protect you forever. She will die, or someone stronger than her will come along, and they will crush her and take your friends back to the Scarlet House, and you...." Ziotea trailed off, remembering not the ether factories but rather Rodion's face during one of their misguided efforts. "You are too strong to leave at that, and you are too old to become an Inquisitor. Whatever suffering and humiliation you saw there, it is nothing compared to what your fate would be now. It is not something I would wish on anyone, however vile. So by all means, become as strong as you can, but if you should find you are not strong enough...killing you now would have been a mercy, compared to the living death that awaits you." The twisted smile faded from her face, and she spoke with simple intensity. "Be sure you die, rather than let them take you."

Oren wasn't quite sure when he became aware of her presence. But he did feel her watching him.

"I know you're there."

If he hadn't known, the sudden reaction would have given her away in an instant.

"...There's not much point in hiding. Let me see you.

Fionna stepped out from her hiding space, and approached him gingerly. He watched her, tracking her movements. There was enough reason to believe that she did not trust him - after all, he was a stranger, and a dangerous one at that. But a child's curiosity doesn't outweigh fear.

She stood before him, avoiding his gaze as he searched her face. But, with his mind clouded from the drug, he couldn't discern her intentions. Sighing, he decided to be direct.

"Do have something you wish to tell me? About what you were doing?"

"Watching you - I mean! Spying on you."

He gazed at her. Spying. For Rose or Essa? Or neither? He needn't accuse either of them - for all purposes, they were being kind, kind enough that there was a measure of respect between them. At least, that was how Oren himself felt.

He let her ramble for a few moments before she told him that she had noticed. She had noticed him administering the drug. His heart pounded, his eyes wide, and he snapped his head to the side. Ah... breathe in... breathe out. This... wasn't good. He turned back to face Fie.

"...It is a medicine, yes." he said quietly, choosing his words before speaking. "As for whether or not I am ill... my body is sound. I am not injured, nor infected." He tapped his temple with one gauntleted finger. "This is... an ailment of the mind."

He looked at the young girl. Eight years. Maybe nine. Maybe seven. He couldn't tell. But she had already been through a lot. And he could see the marks of that life in her. He had a brief moment of clarity.

"Fionna of Saphar. You might have realised this, but the world is not gentle. You will never know ease or comfort in this life. Time cannot be your ally. Danger and hardship await you every day, even if Mother Lyessa protects you from them now. In body, heart and mind, you will need to grow strong. Stronger than you might imagine. But you must also admit your weaknesses, lest they consume you. You will need those things to survive. I hope you understand that."

And then it passed. He looked down at the stone floors... and let his eyes wander across a stylised pattern that had worn and faded over the years.

"Now let us speak of it no more. I need some calm of mind, so I will stay here for a while. Stay if you must, but please, do not talk. I would appreciate the quiet."

---

As the inquisitor spoke, Rose could feel the familiar stinging in her hands. Every word that came out of the woman's mouth held some truth to it, the girl conceded, but still, the inquisitor could not know the severity of it all. The years, torment, the raping, the goodbyes, the punishments. The inquisitor had experienced no small measure of suffering as well, Rose understood.

But there was an off-handedness to the woman's words that picked away at Rose's calm facade. The woman smiled as she spoke, as if Rose's experiences, the House, the escape, the journey-- had all been some entry in a ledger she had read somewhere. This was unacceptable. All her suffering, her truth, to be reduced to a few words in a trifling lesson. No, this couldn't stand. Rose had been taught of the Seminary, of Warbands and warsiblings. Surely the woman understood in some deeper way that there was no plateauing in becoming stronger. No rest. No giving up. Not when it came to protecting family.

"Choose death?" Rose asked, an incredulous look flaring in her golden eyes.

"You say that as if I have a choice. As if you have a choice. This world doesn't offer us the luxury to choose. I have no path set in front of me but the one that leads to my brother and sister's safety. And you, you can't stray from your path either. You must kill for your Lord, do his bidding, follow the creed of his rapist clerics. But you must also fight for your warsiblings."

Rose dropped the steel box unceremoniously at her feet and kicked it under the bed with her heel. She got up and without fear or reservation, marched to where Rose stood.

"What would happen if your strength failed you in battle? If you made a mistake and your warsiblings had to pay the price? Could you bare to think of what your death would mean to those closest to you? The consequences it would have? I wouldn't even entertain the thought, because such a thing coming to pass is unacceptable. When the lives of the ones I care about are on the line, nothing else matters."

Rose's eyes focused on the inquisitor's hair, vibrant even in the half-darkness. She then turned away, a mixture of sorrow and anger gleaming in her eyes.

"I heard you speaking to your companion earlier. You claimed that your Omestrian heritage was a curse. That you weren't one of us."

Rose was quiet for a moment.

"Why?" she asked the inquisitor in a low voice.

No, none of them had a choice. Not really -- not one that mattered. She'd had no say in what happened to her, what she'd become. "I follow no creeds." Words she would never had uttered at the Seminary sprang unbidden to her lips. "I have one thing in this godsforsaken world that no one can touch, and they may shape me as they see fit and against my wishes but they cannot make me believe." Ziotea looked down at the child, not so much shorter than she herself, and the wolf's grin returned, this time with a wild gleam in her eye. "If my strength failed me I would die. Or someone else would. We are all of us destined for death in the end. And I will go fighting with my last breath, because I can no longer remember how to flee." She tilted her head. "I could die for my warband. If you have the strength to languish in an ether factory on the behalf of your friends, then you are braver than I -- and far more cruel."

The girl's last question was unexpected and unpleasant, and the thought of her spying made Ziotea angrier still. The air around her shuddered. "Omestrian eyes are a curse on the street. Omestrian hair, all the more so. I am only half Omestrian, yet I am marked more than most. If not for the power that keeps me from feeling chill, I would have perished as a child. It might have been better that way. Certainly it would have been simpler." She scowled. "The factories are full of Omestrians suspended in agony. The stories are nothing compared to the real thing. And where is their god? I told you. I will not believe, not when it is not deserved." Her anger roiled within her, seeking something to destroy.

"You asked what would happen if I made a mistake and my warsiblings paid the price? I have made many, and nearly always, they were the ones to pay for it." She tossed her spear aside and shrugged her shield onto her shoulder, a precise burst of force pushing the steel box from under the bed. "I was never strong enough. I was only stubborn. Stubborn and destructive." Hardly a thought and the steel shattered, showering the room in jagged fragments. Her instructors would have let the younger girl fend for herself, but Ziotea remembered how that had been. She sheltered them both with shield and paling. "I destroy whatever comes near. Friend, foe, it doesn't matter. That is what Omestris means to me. Do you understand? Abandonment and destruction. I will give no loyalty to something like that."

_{Written by Lovejoy and Vietmyke}

The ramahk's bobbed in regular intervals as the two Inquisitors made their way down the Elder mountain. Had they not been heading off to battle, Galahad would've almost welcomed this excursion. The quiet, cool air around them, the familiar scents and scenery, these subtle reminders of the home that was no longer theirs only served to sour Galahad's mood and that sense of longing he had for so long been able to suppress. Coming home was a bad idea, all it had brought them was trouble- Tatiana's father, the demons in the glacier, his own reunion with his family, he would've been better off being ignorant to all of it. But alas ignorance was never Galahad's way, and he contented himself with brooding as his fist clenched and relaxed around the reins of his mount.

Tatiana was abnormally quiet during their travel- though given the recent circumstances he couldn't quite blame her. Galahad himself was never one for idle conversation, and generally fell into the role of a quiet companion for most trips. Only when the silence was too much, too awkward to bear did Galahad finally open his mouth to break the silence, but before he could say anything, Tatiana spoke first.

"Are you scar—" she started before catching herself and rephrasing the question, "Are you nervous?"

At this, Galahad chuckled, it was odd- the idea of a man as serious as Galahad chuckling, but in the company of just Tatiana or Ragnar, Galahad was always more casual, more open- to a moderate degree anyway.

"Scared?" he said, completing the question that Tatiana hadn't fully asked. "Believe it or not, there are many things I fear: That I'll fall before I reach my full potential, or before I finally have the answers to the questions I've asked my whole life, that the years of training we've been through at the Seminary will fail me in our first true battle, that I'll be unable to protect you or the rest of the members of our warband."

He paused for a moment, "But I know these demons are but a stepping stone on my path to glory. And though my formidable prowess at current may not be enough alone, that's why I have you- and though I may worry for your safety, that's why you have your demon. I will be the greatest mage this world has ever witnessed, and I will not die before I've made my mark on this world, of that I am certain."

"Am I scared? Perhaps. Am I nervous? No."

They rode on for another moment before Galahad spoke up again.

"Though if you ever tell the others that I have admitted to feeling fear, I will hunt you down."

---

As Galahad and Tatiana arrived at the Circle keep, he couldn't help but frown as he saw that forces they had at their disposal. Aside from Elisheva, there were less than thirty shivering conscripts among them, rifles in hand and packs on their back. A paltry force at best if the threat was as credible as they said it was. As they stepped into the armory, Galahad helped himself to a generous number of ether vials- he had more need of it than the garrison did. Alongside the ether vials, Galahad found a box of ammunition that matched that of the gun attached to his saber, and pulled a dulled breastplate over his chest.

Astrea and Cillian met them in the armory not long after, Galahad nodded towards Cillian, then to Astrea. He had words for her, but they were not for here or now. Instead, he waited as they armed and armored themselves.

"Father Galahad, Mother Tatiana, may I have a word?" Cillian called out. He was sitting down on one of the benches.

"Neither Elisheva nor myself were the warleaders of our warbands. Elisheva is our senior, but she is more a soldier than a tactician. She will differ to you during this operation. As will I," he said, staring intently at Galahad.

Galahad merely nodded to him as he explained his knowledge on the demons so far. Elisheva also chimed in at this point. "The demons themselves are not that hard to kill- sustained rifle fire from our conscripts can down them, and their armor seems to only exist for ornamental purposes, for it is weak against powerful melee attacks. The main issue is that there are so damn many of them, and that once they close the gap, they can be extremely deadly. Their wings can easily rend through limb and armor, and they are faster than most inquisitors I've seen. I recommend that we augment our own agility with ether, or we will be in for a great deal of trouble."

Galahad remained silent as Cillian asked for their thoughts, taking all of the knowledge known thus far into his mind to form his own battle strategies. In his place, Astrea and Tatiana both offered their own preferences for their deployment. Galahad merely nodded in acknowledgement, he would not make a plan before seeing the force the enemy had to bring at them.

After their short discourse, they proceeded to board the transport ship to the Black Glacier. The trip was quiet, as conscripts in the main hold whispered to themselves and checked their weapons over and over. Galahad and the other Inquisitors sat in the main hold slightly separated from the conscripts themselves. They went through many of the same actions, Elisheva checked her weapons for signs of damage, and Astrea clutched at her spear moving in slow circular motions to get her bearings. Galahad himself drew his own blade and loaded it with rounds, holding it before him and testing its weight and balance.

A slow swing around himself and a flourish was all he needed, the blade felt perfect in his hand, an extension of his own body. His thumb traced the edges of the weapon, as he wondered how they could've made such a fitting weapon without his presence to test its weight to begin with.

"Father Galahad! Father Galahad!" came the voice of the ship's radio operator. His high pitched voice shattering the tense silence on the ship's hull. Turning, Galahad saw a rather portly young navy corpsman trot up to him with a pair of telegrams in hand.

"We've received two telegrammes-- both of them addressed to you. One arrived from the Seminary. The second was sent through a coded Lanostran channel, but directly to our vessel. I believe it was sent from one of the Lanostran ships on the other side of the blockade." the radio operator said breathlessly as he handed Galahad the two slips.

The telegram from the Seminary was monogrammed with the holy emblem of a blue moth- immediately recognizable as the emblem of Father Ragnar. Galahad smirked but pocketed the telegram. He didn't know what Ragnar wanted, but it could wait until after he'd won his battle. The second, from a Lanostran ship seemed much more pressing, and opening it up, Galahad recognized it as from Thanasis.

Young Galahad,

As per your wishes, we will not interfere in your Varyan business. As your former master, I only ask this of you. Avenge our T'saraen brothers. Gift them the vengeance that we could not.

Phaedra's ships will remain deadlocked against this pathetic blockade, but should you need a helping hand, we will not turn away from one of our own. Give the word and we will break through these Varyan ships and make sport of these demons.

May Your Blade Strike True,
General Thanasis

Galahad allowed himself a small smile, after all this time, it was... comforting to know that he could still depend on "his own" when he needed. It was nice to keep in mind, especially given that all he had at his disposal were a score and a half of conscripts. But they had himself, Tatiana and Astrea this time around, and they'd be just fine.

The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful. As they passed through the emerald light of the Lanostran aegis, the temperature dropped suddenly and all around them an inhuman cold was suddenly present, as if all the warmth within them was suddenly snuffed out. The unbearable cold only lasted for a split second, as Cillian summoned his Protector's aegis and their body temperature returns to more manageable- though still cold levels. As they neared the Glacier, they got a better look at the land before them: the ice slowly began to turn a dark color, strange black inky tendrils reaching out from the Glacier itself. That in and of itself wasn't surprising: it was what this place has looked like for as long as any Lanostran can remember, The only difference now was the Glacier itself. From their position a fair distance away, they could see the formerly crimson "veins" that ran throughout the Glacier glow a brilliant blue, pulsing like a heart. The blackened ice surrounding the strange monolith was stained with blood, and the Galahad could see the remains of those Elisheva and the survivors couldn't bring with them.

Spreading out from the north, Galahad spotted a line of four Varyan warships. This must have been the blockade that Master Thanasis spoke of, preventing native Lanostran ships from interfering with the Glacier.

"Say, why don't the warships just bombard the demons? Sounds better than sending us to deal with them." called out one of the conscripts, there was a sound of general agreement from many of the other conscripts before Elisheva cut in brusquely.

"Because, the cannon fire might damage the Glacier, and I can assure you that is something no one wants."

The conscript that spoke, a pale faced private grew even more pale and gulped, but otherwise returned to silence.

As the transport finally arrived as close as it could, Galahad and the others stepped out to see their foe with their own eyes. In front of the Glacier stood three squadrons of these winged-demons. They appeared almost beautiful in a way, not like the misshapen demons that the Glacier usually manifested, but rather like artistic sculptures carved from glass. Their faces were human in appearance, carved of ice, blank and expressionless, dark eyes peering into nothing. Their armor was glass and reflective, but cut in a strange ornamental style that looked almost alien Galahad and the others. Six massive wings, gossamer yet sharp like the edge of a blade, sprouted from their backs.

The seraphs stood at attention- eighteen seraphs in each of the squadrons. Behind them, three individual seraphs sat atop strange throne-like edificies. These seraphs were larger and more formidable than the others, and their armour more ornate. They were also the only seraphs wielding weapons. One of them held a massive broadsword, another wielded a tri-tipped spear, and the last clutched a greatbow, a quiver of frost-carved arrows on its back.

"Soldiers of Varya, hear me." Galahad spoke, while his voice lacked the bark of a commander, it held a gravitas and seriousness that one could only stop what they were doing and listen. "This battle must be quick and decisive. Drop your packs, and bring only your weapons, medicines and ammunition."

There was an echo of thuds as conscripts dropped their packs of nonessential supplies.

"They outnumber us, and to face them we must use the terrain and range to our advantage." He gestured towards a shallow ridge in the ice, that wound around the flank and led towards the left most squadron. "If we can force them to come at us from fewer directions, we will have the advantage."

"First and second squads will advance through the ridge, and will provide a base of fire, while the third squad will advance along the side of the ridge. Rifle fire from two angles will force these demons to take to the ground to engage us, neutralizing their flying advantage. Cillian will advance with the first and second squads, while Elisheva will lead the third squad along with the machinegunners from first and second squads. Rifle fire should be focused on those in the air- picking off Seraphs who refuse to come to ground and preventing any friendly fire. Be prepared for a melee, and stay alert, orders my change on a battlefield and I expect you all to heed my commands."

"Tatiana," Galahad addressed his younger companion, "You will advance with Elisheva, when enough Seraphs have been forced into the ridge you and your Terviclops will jump down and catch them in the flank."

"If she's gonna take the flank? Whose gonna secure the front?" asked one of the conscripts, raising a nervous hand.

"I will." Galahad replied with finality and a withering cold stare.

"Astrea," he said, turning to the remaining Inquisitor, who regarded him for a moment before straightening up slightly.

"With me."