---

The city of Sapharan was still in chaos as the returning inquisitors and the surviving conscripts stepped out of the Skyway lift. The streets were filled with squadrons of Varyan soldiers and native Lanostrans alike, the two groups of people momentarily united in the face of the morning's mysterious attack. Beyond the city walls, massive plumes of azure-colored ethereal exhaust stretched skyward from the battlefield below. Even from the apex of the mountain, the aftermath of the destruction could still be seen.

During their ascent the inquisitors had received a quick debriefing from the Varyan garrison's headquarters. The true identity of the attacking fleet was still unknown, but the Silver Fleet, as they were now known, had decimated an entire blockade of Varyan warships. No Varyan had survived the assault. Strangely, the native Lanostran ships had been seemingly spared from their wrath. General Thanassis and Admiral Phaedros were now being held at the palace for questioning.

Elisheva tried desperately to focus. In the course of one morning, the empire had changed. In twenty years no such attack had ever occured against the Varyan empire. No one had the power, nor the will to carry out such an attack. Who was behind it?

Father Dara...

No. The young man had never demonstrated any ability beyond his ethereal magic at the Seminary. He was an unspeaking simpleton who could barely read or write, if the rumours were believed. If not for Mother Indira he would never have survived the Seminary. The Man in Black claimed to be his protector... But why? What was so important about Father Dara? And why would he be at the command of an enemy flotilla who's sole mission was to destroy the Varyan fleet in Lanostre?

She stared at the three Phoenix inquisitors as the group made their way to the palace. The high clerics had insisted on Phoenix Warband coming in to report the events at the Glacier. What would they say? The attack seemed to be tied in some way to Mother Tatiana. Would they devulge all that the Man in Black had said to them? It was their duty to answer to the high clerics that now ruled over their homeland, but she would not fault them for keeping the information to themselves. After all, a warband was family. And right now, Mother Tatiana's ties to Father Dara would place her firmly under the clerical branch's suspicion. She might even be imprisoned and held on charges of treason. Would Father Galahad and Mother Tatiana allow such a thing to come to pass?

The three inquisitors were quiet as they walked, their silence at odds with the storm of activity around them. Cillian proceeded at their side, his golden eyes watching over Mother Tatiana like a hawk.

Elisheva stopped walking and placed a firm hand on Cillian's shoulder.

"You three continue to the palace. Father Cillian and I must look after the conscripts," she said, her voice clear over the raucous noise of countless soldiers marching down the road.

"But, Mother Elisheva, the council requires our report as well--"

"That can wait," Elisheva spoke, her mismatched eyes meeting Galahad's gaze.

She nodded at them and turned around and proceeded back to where the conscripts were waiting. Cillian remained, his eyes narrowing at the three Phoenix inquisitors before he turned and followed suit.

Elisheva made her way down the road, turning a corner. When Cillian followed, she pushed him hard against a wall, her gauntlet-clad hand pressing down on his chest, holding him in place.

"You will corroborate whatever they say to the high clerics."

Cillian's mouth was a hard line. His golden eyes shone bright in the afternoon sun.

"An inquisitor must speak the truth."

"That he does."

Elisheva leaned in close and her armored fist moved down to his abdomen. To the wound.

She pressed into it. Gently at first, but then harder. Cillian gritted his teeth.

"Who knows if those military surgeons could have repaired the damage. Mother Astraea might have very well saved your life. You owe her. That means you are indebted to Mother Tatiana as well."

Cillian sucked in air through his nostrils, trying to steel himself against the pain.

"Mother Tatiana might hold the key to the attack. You would ask me to lie on her behalf? To relay false information to a council of high clerics? You are no servant of Lord Varya."

Elisheva's eye flared a brilliant crimson. She twisted her fist into his stomach.

"Lord Varya has no truer servants that those who's oaths were sworn from His own blood," Her eyes peered down at the scarlet inquisitor's circle adorning Cillian's plate. "We of the inquisition might serve in different warbands but each and every one of us are united in purpose and in power. We have been brought together and given His strength to wield in unison. Not like them," she spat, gesturing to the palace.

"They are a hive of starving rats. Too busy eating each other when they should be carrying out Lord Varya's will."

"... The clerics are at the head of the inquisition. We can't--"

"You are young and have much to learn, Father Cillian, thus, consider this your most important lesson. You are a Protector. You must protect your own."

((By @CollectorofMyst and myself, with help from @LoveJoy))

Oren stilled, his eyes locked on the elevator door. Without thinking, he stepped back, one leg forward, the other to the side, and a hand at his belt, closing around the hilt of a knife. He wasn’t trying to see something. No, the best way to do that is to not try at all.

The only things in the area were Ziotea and the wind. Sighing, and berating himself internally, Oren stood straight. An overreaction. Current events were already complicated enough without him freaking out, and yet his immediate solution was to draw steel? It was idiotic.

He coughed slightly, before glancing towards Ziotea. “Either the private got cold and tired, or there’s something to yesterday’s events. Fact or falsehood, I would like to know what is happening. Can we agree on that, at least?”

“I wouldn’t have expected him to stay the entire night down here. But whatever the truth, I mean to find it,” she replied. “There’s definitely something going on.” Ziotea pushed the button for the elevator, waiting impatiently for the doors before them to open. “I mean to confront those three. Unless you’d rather take the lead?” She had a short temper, and suspected she’d quickly lose patience. At least if someone else was asking the questions she could just hold her tongue. That was easier, if only marginally.

He paused, but as the elevator doors rattled open, Oren had to concede that not many other options existed. He nodded. “I am… not the greatest of speakers, but… I’ll see what I can do.” He stepped inside, then took a roll of leather from his belt. Unfolding it into what was essentially a quiver, the inquisitor began to draw on some of his inner ether and call forth the same spectral energy that a spell blade was made from. With a flash, it materialised, floating above his hand - an arrow, long and thin, and emanating a soft reddish light. He looked at it for a moment. A second flash and it dropped into his hand, crystalline. He repeated the process for five more arrows, depositing each into the quiver. It was better to be… prepared. Especially if there was a mad god - rather, a madder god pulling on the strings.

Ziotea watched Father Oren make his arrows without comment. When the lift doors opened, she stepped out and strode down the wide tunnel towards the barracks. The handle that released the door’s seal was far easier for her to turn than it had been for the young private on their way down, and she pulled the door open with a solid yank. She let Father Oren precede her, and tugged the door closed behind them after a moment of thought. Whatever they faced, she was sure they could handle it -- and if worse came to worse, she could blow the door off its hinges, seal and all.

She was surprised to see that the barracks had been cleaned. She’d not expected that, but then again, they’d been gone longer than she’d anticipated. The three soldiers had leapt up from a game of cards as the inquisitors entered, and now stood smartly at attention. They’d even laundered their clothes, and the one -- Mikhail, she thought -- had shaved. What purpose did that serve, if they were just tools of Lord Varya’s Aspect? Ziotea curled her hand tighter around her spear, feeling a stab of anger at the thought of being used. Whatever was going on, they would find out what it was.

“Reverence!” Seminov yelled in surprise as Oren stepped into the barracks. His cards lay scattered all over the floor, his gaze switching from them back to Oren and Ziotea, unsure as to whether he should pick up the cards or remain at attention. Veena flashed him a displeased look, and Seminov straightened his back, kicking the cards under the table.

“Er, a pleasant morning to the two of you!” Mikhail said, placing a fist over his heart and lowering his head. His eyes however, remained locked on Ziotea’s spear. She made no effort to look less menacing.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Veena asked in a nervous voice.

Oren looked at the woman, one eyebrow cocked. “I don’t recall saying we were going to look for anything.”

He moved over to one corner, taking a look at the warming suits hanging from a rack there. Nothing unusual about them; some standard wear and tear to indicate that they’d been around for a while. He turned sharply to face the three soldiers.

“What do you know about the ruins, might I ask?”

Mikhail pulled his gaze away from the spear. “How d’you mean?”

Oren shrugged, trying to keep his movements casual. “In regards to anything, really. History, layout… inhabitants.”

Ziotea bared her teeth just a little at the last part of Father Oren’s question, and fixed her gaze on Seminov. The private shifted uncomfortably, but shrugged and offered, “We know pretty much what everyone knows, really.” He wilted under her stare and fell silent again.

His eyes flicked towards the boy, before Oren walked back to Mother Ziotea’s side. He looked at each of the soldiers in turn. They really did seem like ordinary people, but he didn’t believe that. Things were always much more than they seemed. His brow creased, and he asked some more questions about what they knew, what their orders were, and even a few about their lives before enlisting. The answers were exactly what could be expected.

The silent inquisitor didn’t buy it for a minute. If Oren was suspicious, she was borderline confrontational, and the apparently reasonable -- though intimidated -- responses only whittled away at her patience. Something wasn’t right. Putting aside what Lady Essa had told them, something felt wrong. The three were supposedly ordinary soldiers, but their ether signature was off. Right in the middle of one of Father Oren’s questions, she suddenly interrupted. “Seminov. Veena. You both have mentioned looking for something in the ruins. What, exactly, did you think we’d find?”

The younger soldier floundered, but the woman was quicker with an answer. “You must’ve had a reason for coming, yeah? So...just, whatever that reason, if you--”

“No. No, something’s wrong here. What with the war in El, why are there even people guarding what is essentially an abandoned outpost?” The tiny inquisitor narrowed her eyes as all three soldiers squirmed unhappily. But Ziotea didn’t waver. Something was very wrong -- she could feel a pulsing, something no normal person would have.

Father Oren cast a glance in her direction. Then, slowly, he asked the three, “What do you know about Asherahn?”

Ether flared, and Ziotea recognized the pattern at once. It felt like an inquisitor summoning an aegis.

“Father Oren, ’ware!” She barely had time for a warning as awkward body language turned into writhing, jerking movements. Then, a sickening crack. Veena’s leg had snapped backwards, putting it at an entirely new angle in relation to her body. Then the other.

Neither inquisitor would ever admit it, but when they took a few steps back, it was in horror at the sight before them. The three soldiers were changing -- changing into something… unknown. They shot upwards, taller than both inquisitors combined. Blue crystal blossomed across their skin, their clothes, their faces - leaving their only feature to be a jagged, bestial maw. The nearest pulled back a dark arm, more blade than limb, and swung at the pair of them. Ziotea moved in front of Oren without thinking, her spiked shield and a flare of paling absorbing the worst of the blow, though it pushed her back into the other inquisitor. She countered at once, but her shield bash glanced off a paling no normal soldier could have summoned, and she snarled in annoyance.

Oren was knocked backwards, his back hitting the wall, and he blinked as spots danced in his eyes. Just as he took in what had happened, he darted to the side and unsheathed a dagger, just managing to deflect the second creature’s attack. Whatever they were, they were strong -- and decidedly unfriendly. The smallest of the three -- not that the designation said much -- charged forwards, but its two companions were in the way, and it tangled itself in their legs. Seizing the opportunity, Oren grabbed Mother Ziotea’s arm, and pulled her around their assailants, giving them considerably more room to work with. She sliced at the monsters with her spear as they repositioned, an attack that did little harm but kept the focus on her weapon instead of the move.

The two inquisitors backed up, giving themselves space to swing their weapons, and Oren drew his second, slightly smaller dagger for the offhand. He was also slightly regretting not having chosen a larger weapon. A grim smirk crossed his face. He’d have to make do. Especially since the slender one of the three was making another swipe at him. He dodged to the side, then backwards, and then blocked the overhead cut with a dagger.

“Not so fast, Veena.” he spat, before knocking both of the creature’s arms aside, and jabbing directly at her stomach. To his terror, his knife stopped short of her crystal hide, the only sign of it being a small dent. He only managed to process this for a second, before an icy arm crashed into him, sending him flying across the room.

Ziotea attacked in a flurry of ether-backed blows, giving her companion time to regain his feet and chipping away at Veena’s paling. She paused only for a moment, and that to fling the former Private Seminov across the room and slam him through a door. Judging by what lay beyond the damaged frame, it lead to where the three slept. She caught Veena’s blows on her shield, grunting with the weight of them. The damn things hit harder than even Stina, and for the space of a brief thought she was afraid, afraid that maybe she wasn’t as strong as she liked to believe.

No. The young inquisitor banished the thought even as it occurred to her. She wouldn’t be afraid anymore. She slammed her shield into Veena, backing the blow with enough force to send the thin creature flying, and felt a prickle of satisfaction when the thing’s paling wavered at the impact.

And then an arrow flew past her ear, surprising the largest of the three creatures as it closed in on her. Its aim was true, and it flew straight for the thing’s - likely Mikhail’s - shoulder, knocking its attack off-course. Oren had gotten back up, as Ziotea intended, and now he stood with his spellblade at the ready. Or rather, spellbow. A curve of white-gold illuminated his face, and as he fired his second arrow, the creature took it in the chest, staggering back.

“We can’t do much with this paling!” Oren called, grasping for a third.

“Oh, watch me,” Ziotea growled, adjusting her grip on her spear. Orange etherlight burst from the tip, and danced across her shield. She might not be able to summon a weapon from the ether, but that didn’t make her weak. A burst of force sent her plowing into the biggest of the monsters, the one Father Oren had knocked back, and she struck with force far greater than a small woman like herself should have been able to manage. She loved sparring with Stina, and this beast moved much like him -- strong, but also less nimble than she. It managed a solid hit two separate times, but Ziotea’s shield kept them from leaving anything beyond aches she’d feel for the next couple days, the brunt of the blows shunted aside. The moment she felt a crack in the thing’s paling she struck with her ether, first knocking the thing back, then targeting inside, blasting one of its blade-arms off in a shower of ichor.

Oren, meanwhile, had been left to deal with the other two. He darted around the room, finding what cover he could, kneeling, nocking arrows, standing, firing, then moving on to the next overturned table or crate. He didn’t dare stop, lest he be forced into close combat again. He was capable enough, but Oren had already accumulated more bruises than he was comfortable with. It helped that he was running effective circles around them - but as he slipped behind the remainders of a bunk, he reached into his quiver, and - fuck. He only had one arrow left.

A crystalline spike burst through the mattress right next to his head. He grit his teeth, and then looked up. And there it was. A slight mist escaped his lips as he caught his breath, the two of them locked in some standoff, predator savouring the last moments before it caught its prey. Oren’s grim smile returned. Unfortunately for Veena, she wasn’t the predator. His fingers closed around the arrow. Just as the creature’s jagged maw descended, he thrust his arm upwards, driving the tip up and into its mouth. It clamped its jaw shut around his wrist, and as hot blood began to trickle out from his gauntlet, he activated the arrow. In a small burst of ether, the monster’s head disintegrated. Its body slumped, and black ichor oozed out of where its neck used to be.

Oren’s arm dropped, and he curled his injured hand into a fist. Without pain, there was no gain. He felt a lot of pain. And the other creature was still focused on him. Climbing to his feet, he saw her attempting to skewer the thing that had once been Mikhail. Her spear scraped along the remains of its paling, but did minimal damage.

“Ziotea!” he yelled, not bothering for the formality in that moment. “Use your ether! Lots of it!”

It only took her a moment to figure out what he meant. She wasn’t a strategist, but she knew how to listen to one. “Get to the door. I’ll cover you,” she called back, using a quick burst of power to send the third monster flying out of his way and into an overturned table.

He dispelled his bow, and sprinted for the ladder, tossing what barriers he could in the remaining two’s way as he went. Even with the ice-like pain burning in his wrist, he made good time, and scrambled up the ladder.

“It’s not open!” he shouted.

“Then open it, and get outside -- and out of my way!”

It was difficult to turn the seal on the hatch with only one hand, but not impossible, and with a soft grunt of effort Oren finally heaved it open. He fell out into the snow, and as the door fell back down with a clang, he took a deep breath. Not long after, the hatch slammed back open, and Ziotea shot into the air. She landed lightly on the snow and inhaled deeply. “HA!” With a shout, she thrust her hand toward the open hatch and the ground under them shook with the force of the blast she unleashed below. She tilted her head and listened for a moment, then nodded. “I don’t sense them anymore.” The small inquisitor turned to look at Oren. “‘It’s not open’ -- no, really? It’s freezing out here. Of course they closed the damn door! It was closed when we arrived too.”

Oren lifted his head from where it was imprinted in the snow. “Forgive me for my lapse in memory.” He dropped his head back down, took another few deep breaths, and then sat up. Carefully extricating his hand from the metal glove, he inspected the bite.

“Not too serious. Scars, probably, but it shouldn’t cause me any lasting damage. We probably shouldn’t mention those… well, whatever they were, to anyone at the Seminary.”

“No?” She tilted her head, considering. “I’m not sure I agree with you on that, but do as you like.”

Oren looked at Ziotea from the corner of his eye. “You can tell your lover, if that’s what you’re worried about. What I’m saying is we should keep quiet about it; you and I both know that they had something to do with the Shield.”

Ziotea turned away with a snort, entirely done with the conversation. “If you’re not badly hurt, we should be going.” Without looking back, she headed for where the train waited.

Oren got to his feet, clumps of snow falling from his armour as he took a last look at Iddin-Mar. He didn’t know nearly enough about any of this to properly process it, but… well, it was a problem for another day. Shaking out a crick in his shoulder, he fell back into his usual self - after all, El awaited him.

---

Something felt as though it had shattered in Tatiana during the battle and the massacre that followed. Even as they made their way back into the streets of Lanostre, her stomach felt like it was twisting in knots. Looking around, she felt as though the world around her was a foreign abstraction of what was— maybe it was. In her mind, echoic replays of the devastation that had taken place just kept looping through her thoughts. Tatiana could hardly focus on what she and her fellow members of Phoenix Warband were generally being herded to do. That much was obvious by the sheer catatonia that wracked her as she traveled. She hardly spoke a word, even to Galahad and Astraea. For the time being, Tatiana focused solely on processing the sights unfolding before her.

Varyans, Lanostrans, soldiers, and civilians all crowded chaotically about their path. No one had any information, but all of the populace thirsted for it. Some sought a sign that things would be okay. Others frantically scurried about the streets in hopes to get word of surviving comrades. Some were met with the opposite of their hopes, laying splayed on the stones with tears in their eyes and voices broken from incessant yelling directed skyward as if some celestial God or Goddess would come to their aid. Tatiana knew better. She grieved, for she knew there was very little up above with a benevolent hand in Humanity's affairs. No one would help them. Not anymore. There were no Gods— only Demons.

Even beneath the heavens, Tatiana knew there were only demons. She had seen them today as they slaughtered man in ethereal explosions without regard for life and death. She had seen them only hours before in the aftermath of Leviatan Manor. She had even seen them in a man she would have previously called her comrade. Was he responsible? For any of it? For all of it? Tatiana was unsure. She was unsure about a number of things— almost everything in recent times. She did maintain certainty on one thing, however: she was only moments away from being tried by the high clerics as a demon herself. Even that was not her greatest worry at the time, though. For throughout the traumatic battering of the day's events, Tatiana had watched her grasp on reality crumbling. Were the clerics going to be right in their verdict? Had she really had something to do with the fall of the Leviatan family? Who was to blame for the loss of Tatiana's last connections to her bloodline if not for herself? The distant Dara? Could he have really influenced Lanostre so acutely from his enshrouded position? Or perhaps it could have been someone much closer to her— a bearer of the Leviatan name. Even the clerics themselves began to grow ever more suspicious on the warband's short journey.

When Elisheva and Cillian had finally dropped beyond the group of lifelong comrades, Tatiana's gaze finally rose from the broken stones in the pavement below them. Her eyes rested heavily upon Galahad, as if she wanted to bring herself to conversation— to put up the facade of steeling herself above all else, but as she opened her mouth, few words fell from her lips. Instead, she offered only one bit of rhetoric, coming from her as a wavering whisper. "What have we done, Galahad?"

---

Tatiana was nigh silent in the chambers of the high clerics. Their pseudo-interrogation of the Phoenix Warband dragged on, but still Tatiana would hold her tongue, allowing her two cohorts to answer whatever questions weren't directed at her. In that endeavor, Tatiana divulged as little information as possible. It was appearing as if her mind was fogged by the battle, she was too ill in the mind during the scenario to remember anything. Of course, this was how it appeared, but deep in her subconscious Tatiana was still playing over and over the moment where the demonic entities spoke in tongues she could understand. It was like a vision— a hallucination, but in the same vein it was based entirely in reality. These thoughts started to overtake Tatiana during the meeting. She seemed to zone out, wracked with thoughts of what could have possibly happened to her and whether it was real or fake.

By the time she knew it, the high clerics were getting around to adjourning the congregation. An unspoken offer was extended to the inquisitors to take their leave, and Tatiana was the first to step from her position towards the door. After momentary farewells, the rest of those present seemed to follow suit in their conclusion of the report. Tatiana would have thought herself completely fine in the moment had one of the central high clerics not spoken up.

"Inquisitor Leviatan— if you could stay behind a moment, we have some questions for you about recent transpiring events."

The words struck her like a wave of electricity jolting across Tatiana's body. No matter what queries the clerics were going to have, she wasn't going to enjoy the meeting. The more she thought about it, the more her thought process would morph the concept of a final interrogation with the clerics into something that was less of a meeting and more of a showdown. Her eyes narrowed and she paused in her stride. Before her companions may have had a chance to pass on words of reassurance or protest the high clerics, Tatiana spoke up herself. Strangely enough, it seemed it was at this point that her voice reverberated with the most confidence Tatiana had since the meeting began:

"Just leave this to me... I'll meet you at the edge of the city when we are prepared to make haste towards Cero." With that, Tatiana swiveled back towards the panel of high clerics all lined in offset positions on an elevated level in front of her. Something about the whole situation made Tatiana feel like she was facing a court of judges in something more akin to war than questioning. She prepared herself to recall her cloudy memories as best she could only hoping that she remembered a truth that was accurate rather than losing herself to a quaking mental state. Even then, she meditated on dangerously troubling scenarios whether possible or impossible. What might they do if her testimony was refuted? Before she had the chance to get to lost in her own thoughts, though, one of the high clerics spoke up:

"Inquisitor Leviatan, I'm sure by this point you're likely aware of why we called you here. The news was given to you earlier in the day before the ordeal at the glacier, yes?"

"My father is dead..." Tatiana's voice, despite its harsh topic, felt empty. She knew that they wanted to hear that much, and she had no intention of letting it perturb her.

"And as you may know, he was killed in a most gruesome, demonic fashion. Only hours after your arrival in Lanostre with your fellow inquisitors." The statements through Tatiana off. Not necessarily because she wasn't expecting the cleric's words, but moreso that she just wasn't ready to unearth feelings that had been so frozen earlier.

"I—... I wasn't there when it happened. I just saw the body." Tatiana felt almost like she was choking her sentences forth. She felt her fist tighten, and if she hadn't consciously forced herself to stop, the hateful energy that brings her companions may have arose as blackened auras around her.

"So you've been there within your short visit to Lanostre? And you didn't report your findings to any superiors..." As the words fell from the cleric's mouth, Tatiana's tired and strained eyes couldn't tell if he was smiling or if she was just twisting his appearance in her mind. It was all falling apart... All looking so desolate.

"I didn't do anything! I would never! You should be looking for an actual killer!" Tatiana's sentences came automatically, fired off one after another without a second thought. Her voice grew loud to echo from the walls of the massive chamber. She was just where the clerics had expected her to be. If only she could have controlled herself a moment longer...

"You are a killer, Miss Leviatan. Not only that, but you carry one of nature's greatest killers alongside you at all times." One could sense anger even in the cleric's voice at this point. Another one of the cohorts soon broke in before Tatiana could get more words in. She was too busy fumbling over her own thoughts in anger at her judge's words. Something within her broke down— a wall, a barrier. Something that prevented thoughts of the idea the cleric had brought up. It was something built into her at the Seminary. She was a child taught to wield her gift without regard for what she was doing. She was... A pawn in the games of the Inquisition?

"Inquisitor Leviatan, the high clerics intend to keep you for further questioning. You'll be held for an indiscriminate number of days in Lanostre before a further verdict is determined." The shocking revelation made Tatiana cut in right after:

You can't do this. I have orders! My colleagues are waiting for me..." Her words were futile in the clerical verdict. The word resonated in Tatiana's mind for a long while. She got no less loud as she was seized as peacefully as the clerics of Lanostre could manage to move her from the grand hall. A familiar sense of desolation was overtaking Tatiana, but some underlying feeling still prevailed. Something deep inside her was rising up to fight back against the world's odds stacked against her. Something was present that let hope remain: Defiance.

---

In the snowstorm weather high up on the mountain, Tatiana was corralled by an escort of Lanostran warriors as she was guided towards the bridge to the monolithic gates of Polarpike, a Lanostran prison of awe-striking magnitude. Being ingrained in such a war-like culture, the Lanostran populace had notoriety for a prison of such epic proportions, and Tatiana was only a short walk across the precariously picturesque high bridge that offered a walkway between two mountain peaks from seeing its rarely described inner workings. The sun was just nearly falling over the horizon, leaving its final rays gleaming off of the Black Glacier in all its mightiness. As she was goaded onwards, Tatiana found herself overlooking the battlefield she had found herself immersed in only hours beforehand. She wondered if it was still littered with corpses or if the snow had since covered the remains of their fallen foes and allies alike. She wondered what her colleagues were thinking at that time. Were they pondering themselves as killers? No. They were probably readying themselves to depart, waiting expectantly for Tatiana to join them. With such a fate as her current predicament it wasn't looking likely that she would. Tatiana felt pained at the thought of abandoning her mission— abandoning her friends.

No. It wasn't just pain. She couldn't do it. She had come so far— too far to just give up her inquisitor's life. She didn't have it in her to repent for clouded memories. She didn't have the time to ponder who or who may not be a killer. She was not a judge. Tatiana was a phoenix, and like the phoenix, she would rise. Rise up from the desolation around her in a blaze of ethereal glory and reform herself in an evolved shape. The pheonix was insurmountable. No fell verdict would perturb it. Nothing would stop it— killer or not.

Tatiana felt the energy well up inside her as she was prodded to step onto the start of the high level bridge. For a moment, she paused in her stride, glancing around to the five or so men that escorted her towards her destination. Along the side of the bridge, a number of patrols made the journey to and from Polarpike. To them, this bridge was something entirely different— a daily trek back and forth, futile in most senses. To Tatiana, it was something more: a death sentence. Not in the traditional sense, but providing a death of who she was. As she crossed that threshold, stepping the first step towards desolate death, her senses became overpowered by her own will as her own dark ethereal energy coursed through her. She felt that death wash over her, and in turn allowed the rebirth and resurrection breath life into her.

A reactionary life of fighting repetitive unfortunate circumstances no longer defined the phoenix. No longer would she take to being under the command of those who watched idle by. In her moment of rebirth, the Phoenix saw another flash realization. Perhaps it wasn't her vision that was skewed by the demonic and vile lifestyle she had been forced into. Perhaps it was she who saw the truth. Even in that realization, the Phoenix knew that in this desolate world that she was not making the decisions. She saw truth but didn't hold the power to invoke it. No more...

"No more..."

Tatiana's hand ripped forward as she turned around to face her own psychopomps. Flashes of the Red Seminary's martial teachings flooded her brain and without even thinking, her hand surged to ensnare itself around the throat of one of her escorts. He made a motion with his sword, but Tatiana caught the blade with the forearm of her offhand, causing a surge of red to paint Polarpike Bridge as a gash ripped open where steel met flesh. She was unperturbed. She was the Phoenix: an avatar of her warband.

Torrents of black smog-like energy coarsed through her arm and throughout the air around her tightening palm. It would have obscured her surroundings had the Lanostran mountain wind not been so powerful. As her other escorts began to draw their weapons, Tatiana felt a sheer cacophonous cry evoke itself from her lungs as the demonic energy flowed through her like a conduit. Her voice cracked and echoed across the mountain summits that surrounded her, but even then it was soon replaced by something even more terrifying to the present company. In the culmination of the deluge of her ethereal energy, the damned and baleful roar of the Terviclops, scoured Tatiana's surroundings, echoing so far as to reverberate with the very base of the mountains and their surroundings: the Black Glacier...

All at once, the blackened pooling energy exploded into its newfound fleshy form, falling from just high enough above the crowd to cause a rumbling in the secure stones of the bridge. In one moment, the escort Tatiana had seized had wounded her and threatened another advance. The next, he slumped downwards, his skull bisected by the lumbering spear of the Terviclops in such perfection to avoid even glancing Tatiana's extended arm. Yells of the guards tore through the wind-lashed surroundings around Tatiana. It took less than seconds for bells of warning to awaken reinforcements both at Polarpike and from behind her towards the clerical complex. Tatiana cast her mutilated arm outwards as a silent guide, and in a swift movement the Terviclops swung his spear widely to slam into another of the escorts to cast him over the bridge and send him tumbling towards the mountain's base. Tatiana took the opportunity to shoot backwards towards the clerical complex a few paces to put Terviclops between her and the rest of the escorting clerics.

Her upperhand didn't last forever, though. Another roar pierced the sky as it was cast out to the very horizon when three missiles fired from balistae found their target center mass in the back of the Terviclops. In a moment of distinct humanity, the lumbering creature turned its decaying body towards Tatiana as black blood spilled from its already necrotic form. Their was pain in his eyes— a pain only a seer of truth could witness. Tatiana glanced back towards the approaching brigade of soldiers with fervor in their eyes. Any chance to slay a demon was taken by the Lanostran laymen. Tatiana was surrounded on the chokepoint bridge. Something overcame her that moment: a killer's own humanity.

"Terviclops..." That was all she managed to order towards her companion as Tatiana waved a hand across the bridge, any remaining wisps of dark energy flittering towards the demon to metabolize him back into whatever shadows from whence he came. Tatiana couldn't let her friend be taken by the clouded thoughts of the blind. A final demonic cry screeched forth from Terviclops' twisted lungs. This one was different, though. Not a cry for mercy, not a cry of battle rage, but something different. Soft, but unrecognizable to the summoner's ears. He deserved a fate far better, but in doing so, the inquisitor left herself alone in facing the approaching vanguard all looking to oppress her phoenix fate. The advancing forces began to back the lone girl into a pinned position at the bridge's edge. Tatiana looked over the edge. At this point in bridge's closest position to its origin mountain, the drop was no more than twenty-five feet, but what awaited after one impacted the snow was nothing more than a deathly tumble down the sheer cliff-face. She glanced back to the desolate army encroaching on her position. With hands slightly raised, it appeared that she had conceded, but still she saw the bloodthirst on some of the faces of the R'heon around her. One militant seized the inquisitor's wrist. A thousand bloodcurdling cries pierced the air:

"She's a demon!"
"Take her to Polarpike!"
"Lock her away!"
"Traitor!"

And a thousand cries more pierced the air thereafter. Tatiana paid each one no heed. Nor did the rest of the gathering mob. Instead, all were focused on one particular baleful cry previously unrecognized by Tatiana's ears until only moments beforehand. It started as a loud rumbling, but there was a softness to its tone. Tatiana could have sworn her mind was playing tricks on her again— that Terviclops was calling to her from somewhere deep in her mind, but there was one subtle difference. Accompanying the vile call was a faint buzzing growing ever louder as it caught the attention of the crowd.

It's presence was made known as a struggling deformed black mass fluttered from beneath the bridge on bent and broken wings, barely able to carry itself in the winds. With it, the creature hoisted a massive stone greatsword chipped nearly in half but still matching the size of its body at least. In its surprise appearance, no sword could react fast enough to stop its eldritch form from launching itself upwards and sending its massive weapon crashing down into the crowd. As the demon landed, it seemed to meet Tatiana's gaze, and finally she recognized the creature. It was one of the locust-like winged seraphs that she had spilled blood with. She remembered that specific gaze. It was the face of the creature that she and Terviclops had bested until Tatiana gave the order to move on without killing the injured and fallen creature. It was the demon she had shown mercy. In that moment, Tatiana knew she was a summoner. She knew that Mother Indira's teachings in her art were sound and present in her mind, for she knew exactly what to do.

In the mass confusion that came in the bridge-shaking impact, the crowd struck out against the demon, but it was quick to begin picking itself up on its fragmented wings. Tatiana wasted no time. As her hands began swirling with black energy once again culminating around her forearms, she sent a stiff palm towards the diaphragm of the man that had seized her wrist. He let go near instantaneously. The panic throughout the riotous crowd singled out no man. Without another thought, Tatiana took a quick breath and launched her frame backwards as she threw herself from the bridge.

With eyes shut tight, she awaited impact, and soon found it in the layers of thick snow that pillowed her crashing down. Tatiana managed only one simple roll before she was sent skidding down the sheer cliff. In that moment, she could have sworn that terror would overtake her, but her mind remained clear as she tried to slow her fall. It was as if all the training— all the mindless sessions of mental torment with Indira and the harsh physical punishment of the Seminary had been training her for this specific moment. As she fell faster and faster, a torrent of black ether particles scattered behind her in trails from her hands. She cast her gaze skywards and saw the demon soaring down back below the bridge. It wasn't after the crowd of Lanostran R'heon. It was after her.

Tatiana threw a fist up towards the buzzing demon's shape as she was obscured by the loose snow thrown around her. Throwing herself onto a hip for just a moment, she sent the culmination of her ethereal energy towards the creature as if blasting him with its force. As Tatiana connected with her target, she let her arm fall back down and began to freely tumble without much control. Her ether seemed to leach into the demon, and what followed was the greatest and most strenuous battle that Tatiana had ever faced. It wasn't physical in nature, but instead the communing minds of hu-killer and demon both vying for control on a mental plain, and on top of that, Tatiana was lost in an uncontrollable spiral as she closed her eyes, diverting all of her focus to her mind.

Hate


Agony


Slaughter


Desolation...



Just as Tatiana found herself grounded back in reality, she was thrown from the mountain's incline into a sheer drop, but in a short free fall, she found herself slammed into by the demon's massive form, a deformed arm securely wrapped around her they flew towards the Glacier glinting in the distance. During the journey, Tatiana found herself fading in and out of consciousness, but as she flew over the mass grave she had called a battlefield only hours before, she was shaken back to reality.

"Northwards... Towards the gates."

Before she knew it, Tatiana was spiraling towards the ground in the arms of her newfound companion. As precarious as it looked, only a second later Tatiana was planted firmly on the ground in front of the road that led to the gate. In her ultimate fatigue, Tatiana had no focus to pay respect to her savior. In a shared silent moment, the two creatures met eyes and Tatiana cast the creature into her ethereal mists. In a swift estimation of the sun's location, Tatiana had presumed that Galahad and Astraea would have already been rallying at the gate waiting for Tatiana's arrival, and she knew that if the Lanostran clerics were to send someone to them before their departure this would only get messier than it was. The broken inquisitor hurried towards the road only to scare the wits out of a man travelling by ramahk with her disheveled appearance, abrupt and unannounced arrival. Tatiana felt her eyes grow as cold as the rest of her freezing form. Without hesitation, she fumbled for a weapon, coming only upon the mutilated horn of the Terviclops that had been severed at the Glacier. She held it as though it were a wicked blade. Allowing the demonic energy that was nearly drained within her to well up in her opposite hand.

"Get off now... Do not test me." Tatiana could have sworn there was something wrong with her voice as she spoke. There was a hint of demented desolation in her words. She caught it herself, but it was too late. Warped by fear, the stable hand dared not deny the inquisitors request and in only a few short minutes, she was set to leave. A softness then came over her as she realized what she had done. Tatiana spoke a few final words before departing with as much haste as she could. "I— I'm sorry. Find it at the gates in an hour's time."

When Tatiana rode up to the gate to find her colleagues, she wasted no time in calling for their departure. She must have looked like she had seen another battle just as bad as the one they'd participated in before, but she would not explain herself. A parasite of fear and hurt and desolation melted away from her upon meeting her old friends.

"Galahad..."

"We must make haste. I apologize for my tardiness, but I was requested to be present for some business at the Glacier. I've word from our clerical friends to move off at a speed..." As Tatiana finished her short speech, she found herself doing her best to obscure her wounds beneath her now red inquisitor's coat. She had made it. Sending a glance back towards Lanostre, she couldn't help but feel it was her last. A phoenix had seemed to awaken within her, and the Lanostran within her was dead. The Leviatan family was dead.

Tatiana Leviatan was dead.

---

T'sarae was a land seemingly out of time.

Astraea observed the passing snow fields with a middling fascination as the old train sped them towards their destination. Untainted by the smoke and black steel of Magnagrad, the pale snows of T'sarae's frozen plains called to mind the lowlands of Lanostre, but it was different here. Sapharan was the capital of Lanostre, but the queendom itself was populated by countless smaller settlements in the lands surrounding the great twin mountains. T'sarae, on the other hand, was completely empty. It seemed like the only place that mattered here was the grand metropolis they were currently journeying to.

The three inquisitors had left the Mountain and the Glacier behind in chaos and uproar, their roles in the mysterious attack already spreading throughout the SA's ranks, and therefore, the empire itself. Tatiana had killed several soldiers during her escape, and if what the summoner said was true, the clerical branch would be hunting her down. Astraea smiled at the notion. Let them come. We will fight them tooth and nail.

The R'heon stole a glance at Tatiana and Galahad as they sat across from her on the train. It was an old steam machine, like all Varyan trains were, dating back to before the war. Back then it was used to ferry Varyan conscripts to the Lanostran war front, but today it was filled with SA soldiers and civilians, nervously gossiping about the three inquisitors currently occupying the empty car near the back of the train.

Tatiana and Galahad had been conversing quietly the entire trip -- planning and strategizing for whatever awaited her within Cero. Astraea understood why she was being kept out of the conversation. She and Tatiana were cordial at the best of times, but the summoner and Galahad were as brother and sister in the truest sense. Tatiana's escape, her defiance against the lord clerics, it was a problem that would affect the entire warband, but for now, it was an issue that affected Tatiana specifically, and that in turn meant it affected Galahad as well.

The sound of footsteps approaching from behind brought Astraea out of her revery. A young SA soldier, part of the Engineering Corps by the emblem on her lapel, approached them nervously.

"Your Reverences. We will be arriving at Cero within the hour," the young woman said, her eyes quickly glancing at Tatiana. The soldier bowed and hastily left the car.

Galahad sighed. He spoke something in Tatiana's ear before rising from his eat and following the young soldier to the rear car. Probably off to order the communications officer to give him information about what awaits us at that train platform, Astraea thought.

She wondered if the clerics would really attempt to pursue Tatiana all the way to Cero. The city itself enjoyed a certain amount of independence from the Church and if she had heard correctly, the clerical branch didn't even have a temple there. Would Tatiana be safe in such a place? The summoner was an ordained inquisitor on an important mission, nay, a grand mission, known to all the empire. Many of its citizens knew her name, and many more worshipped her as the heir to Lady Indira. Would court marshalling Mother Tatiana Leviatan prove the wisest decision for the Church? Astraea didn't think so. But still, there was a chance this could all go wrong. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

The R'heon got up from her seat and approached Tatiana.

"You really got us into it," she said to her, a faint smile forming on her lips.

Tatiana’s eyes had remained glued to the snowscape that sat beyond her window. She was lost in thought until Galahad had managed to goad her into conversation. When he had gotten up to deal with his business, Tatiana could have sworn there was a certain air of fear that came over her. No, that couldn’t have been right. She knew she was safe here, but something permeated her very being after the trial. It didn’t leave her. As Astraea moved to speak to her, her gaze did not move at first, but soon Tatiana broke her perpetual trance with the endless fields of snow to avert eye contact and look down towards herself.

“There was a lot of blood shed on that bridge. More than just demon blood.” Tatiana pursed her lips as she finished. She had barely finished comprehending the situation herself.

Astraea gazed at the young summoner. Always so cheerful, so full of laughter. Astraea remembered the raven-haired girl running through the halls of the Seminary with Ragnar when they were children, the two of them keeping the entire warband up at night with their giggling. The thought of the girl killing human soldiers, of killing anyone, was like some sick joke. Tatiana seethed with ethereal might, that much was obvious, but for her to turn a blade on other humans. It felt wrong.

“I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t think any one of us have. You’re the first.”

Silence filled the air, the low rumble of the train tracks the only accompaniment to the uncomfortable moment between them. It was always awkward, whenever it was just the two of them, the gulf between their personalities as vast as the gap between the twin mountains that separated their homes back at Sapharan.

“How do you feel?” the R’heon asked. Tatiana knew that Astraea didn’t need to ask her that. The R’heon’s strange ability to sense emotions from those in her proximity gave her all the answers she needed. Still, she hoped Tatiana would reach out on her own.

Astraea’s words carved through Tatiana’s chest like a long blade piercing directly her heart. She had killed people. Tatiana suddenly seemed to feel the weight of the gallons of blood that had covered Polarpike bridge. Was it regret that overcame her? Guilt? Embarrassment? It didn’t matter. When Astraea asked her question, Tatiana felt herself impulsively speak up.

“The demons, I meant. One of the glacier’s creatures. It came and… It slaughtered a swathe of men…” Tatiana couldn’t help but subtly shake her head as she spoke. To lie to the empathic inquisitor wasn’t easy when she was prepared for it. Now, things were even worse, but Tatiana couldn’t admit it. She wasn’t ready to explain herself to her warband like that. Not yet.

“I don’t know. The clerics, the R’heon—” Tatiana cut herself off. Her greatest enemies also included her fellow inquisitor among their ranks. To speak badly on them, Tatiana wasn’t sure she could do so openly. Not now at least. “Just act like it didn’t happen.”

Astraea lowered herself to sit next to her warsibling. She leaned in close and placed a gentle hand on Tatiana’s shoulder. Outside, a sudden flurry of snow blasted across the plains, covering the window in white.

“It’s going to be alright,” she said to her, Astraea’s voice barely above a whisper, as if to hide the summoner from the train full of soldiers around them. “You need time. Gods know all of us do. Just know that…” her words trailed off. She remembered their argument the previous morning before the battle, when Tatiana’s raw, untested power concerned the R’heon to such a degree that she drew a line and challenged the summoner to cross it. Tatiana would not come with them to the battle. It could prove disastrous, she remembered thinking.

“But one is enough…”

The summoner’s words rippled through her mind. Tatiana was alone-- a summoner in a warband of warriors. Even with Galahad and Ragnar at her side, no one could understand the unseen tides that continuously crashed against her. The price that needed to be paid in exchange for such a gift. No one except the two people who made the summoner who she was. Her father and Lady Indira. Both of them gone.

“Just know that I am here for you if you should ever need me,” Astraea spoke as she gently squeezed her warsibling’s shoulder.

Tatiana felt another torrent of pain internally batter her. Time… She couldn’t imagine she’d ever heal from such a break in her mental abilities. She was always the collected one— the light in the Seminary’s dark halls. This was all wrong, and the worst of it was that Astraea was right. She knew about the ticking time bomb that was her ally. That only got Tatiana thinking… Could things have been different? Could a more peaceful outcome have been achieved if she had heeded the words of her allies? Did she deserve to fight alongside her fellow inquisitors? Tatiana supposed it didn’t matter.

“I’ll… Be alright. I’m never alone. I know…” The words came out, but then Tatiana repeated herself, speaking much softer this time: “I know…” Of course, her thoughts didn’t refer to her comrades in the Seminary. No, a twisted vision occupied her mind. She wouldn’t let it be known. “Don’t let me be a setback… Don’t let me hurt the warband.” Just to speak the words brought a watering to Tatiana’s eyes. She couldn’t believe that she dared defer to Astraea. They had so commonly butted heads, and now Tatiana found herself locked at that spot where she had to accept what she had done. She didn’t know if she ever would…

“You could never hurt us, Tatiana. Galahad might be warleader, but you are our guiding light. As much as I find your… “companion” disconcerting, Warband Phoenix is nothing without its summoner. I will never let anyone hurt you,” Astraea said. It was a promise she intended to keep. There was a writhing something within the young summoner, a bramble of thorns continuously cutting its way through her. Could the act of killing had bothered her that much? Was the concern over the clerical branch’s response the cause of it? Astraea couldn’t be sure and resolved to not pry any further. If Tatiana ever wished to unveil her terrors, Astraea would be ready to listen.

The two of them sat together quietly as the train continued its journey eastward to the coast. Galahad did not return. Astraea wagered he was busy communicating with the church officials in the city. As warleader it fell to him to liaison with the clerical branch, a job that she did not envy in the slightest. She wondered how he was getting on.

Soon, the snow that had built up on the windows began to melt away and a pleasant warmth began to envelope them. As the train approached the city, a subtle glow began to emanate from outside the window.

“Look. There it is,” Astraea said, her breath caught in her throat..

High in the sky above them, stretching for miles down the coast, the Aegisdome rose from the pale mist. Within its crystal golden canopy the skyline of the First City of Cero could be seen, hundreds of skyscrapers erecting from the ground. It was unlike anything Astraea had ever seen. The Elder Mountain, with its azure spires and forests of emerald pine, was what occupied her mind when she envisioned beauty, but the Aegisdome was certainly challenging her concept of it. That something so beautiful could be built from the ruins of their world was… astounding.

“T’sarae…” Despite her heritage, Tatiana had never experienced the city of her father’s roots. The Seminary had always taken precedence. Her eyes widened to reveal that a certain striking of awe had seemed to melt away her negative thoughts if just for a moment. Was this her home? Of course not… She wasn’t T’saraen. “It’s… So different.”

“Hm. Different… and similar at the same time. I still feel it -- the emptiness that darkens every inch of Magnagrad. The Ravenous Lord’s influence still claws at this place. There is no freedom here.”

---

It was still morning by the time the train pulled into Xegatris Station, the main hub of terminals at the center of the city. Scores of military personnel streamed out of the old train, desperate to escape its enclosed confines after an entire day’s worth of travel. To their surprise, there was no one awaiting them on the platform. No squad of clerics ready to collar Tatiana and drag her into a T’saraen prison, no inquisitors, no soldiers besides the ones who were leaving the train.

All seemed normal.

Galahad bid the two of them farewell, leaving Astraea and Tatiana on the platform. He made his way into the station, his black inquisitor’s coat immediately setting him apart from the throng of regular soldiers who now crowded the platform. He didn’t quite tell them where he was going or what he was doing, but this was normal for him. Galahad was burdened with a lot of responsibilities, and, if their schedule was correct, the entire warband was considered to be “on leave” before the dockside ceremony that would be taking place later that night. He deserved his time away from the warband, Gods know they all did.

Besides Rodion, Tatiana, Galahad and herself were the first to arrive in the City.

“I’m going to pay a visit to the barracks. I need an update on the Silver Fleet and how things are going back hom-- back in Sapharan,” Astraea corrected herself, unfastening the clasp from the collar of her inquisitor’s coat. She was not accustomed to the sudden warmth after days on the Mountain.

“Hm…” Tatiana merely gave her comrade a nod of acknowledgement, absently peering about the station. The whole city was a bit overwhelming— more new concepts than Tatiana had seen in a long while. She had a lot to do, but wasn’t quite sure if she could settle down to start on all of her work.

“I’ll be heading to my quarters soon. Just… Some rest would be nice.” Tatiana wasn’t sure how much of the truth that was herself. Tatiana met Astraea’s eye for a long moment, but after that, she found herself turning off and walking away. Tatiana had been one of few words very recently, though perhaps it was more an issue of the summoner wishing to conceal her intentions from her warband.

The summoner’s steps were swift as she treaded off into the city. Her eyes furtively analyzed each passer by. Whether it was paranoia that had overtaken her, or goals that were much more grave, Tatiana moved with purpose into the crowd, and a demonic intention in her eye.

---

It was a beautiful and terrifying thing, the Aegisdome.

All around him, the city of silver spires gleamed in the grey radiance of the impossible barrier that hung over it. Earlier that morning a hard snow had begun to assail them just as their train reached the domed city. Since then, the sky had erupted in a vicious icestorm that was now pummeling the aegisdome. Ragnar had spent the entire afternoon gazing up at it. Boulder-sized hail crystals assaulted the monolithic crystalline barrier, sending faint pulses of light dancing across its surface. It was of course impossible to hear the sound of the hail smashing against the dome, but Ragnar winced all the same, imagining the shearing chorus of millions of remnants of ice shattering all at once. He wondered how many storms the barrier had withstood in the centuries since its construction, and how many it would take to turn it into cracked glass.

He finally tore his eyes from the terrifying sight above him and eyed the crowds of T'saraen civilians walking the city streets. He observed the native people with a jealous and somewhat scornful expression as they traversed through ONE Centre, the city's largest plaza. It was a vast open space surrounded by tall gleaming buildings and elevated highways, while strange metal trees covered in silvery crystal leaves had been erected on manicured pits of hard earth all around the plaza, giving it a natural yet strangely manufactured atmosphere. Ragnar and Stina had converged on a platform overlooking Xegatris Station, the great train terminal where the remaining members of Warband Phoenix would be arriving.

This was the young Muraadan's first time in the Land of the Skull Remnant, and to his surprise, the people here weren't what he was expecting. He remembered the T'saraens who had crowded around Tatiana when she returned to Lanostre all those years ago on her summoner's expedition. Even now he recalled the warmth in their smiles as they welcomed her home, how they danced around her and stared in awe at the enchanted shadowcloth of her inquisitor’s coat. The T'saraens who had found a home in Lanostre's Bridgetown were a loud and gregarious lot, a people not unlike his own Muraadan clansmen, but the men and women who walked through the beautiful pathways of the First city were silent and stone-faced and didn't so much as spare one look at each other. Not even the icestorm raging just outside the barrier elicited any response from them. They seemed to be solely focused on getting where they needed to be and little else. And thus, despite being surrounded by crowds of people, there was a strange lack of noise in the plaza. It filled Ragnar with a strange unease.

He remembered the Tale's End slums in Magnagrad with its dark steaming alleys choked with dirty people crowding over barely-working etherlamps and its children hawking stolen blood in exchange for food. Cero wasn't open to folk like them, of course. The slumrats of Magnagrad were destined to live and die in the mechanical abyss that sprawled within the city of blood and steam. The native T’saraens on the other hand would never have to worry about freezing on a street corner. These people lived safe and measured lives, free of the cold that clung to every inch of the world. The Aegisdome kept them warm and safe while their beautiful city offered them enough freedom and infrastructure to allow them to work on their miracles and machines...

Why couldn't Magnagrad be turned into such a place, Ragnar mused, not for the first time.

"It's nice here, isn't it?" Ragnar said to Stina, trying his hardest to fake a smile. They had been stuck on a cramped train for the past two days and so it was a welcome relief to be able to stand out in an open plaza, despite the circumstances. Stina nodded in agreement. “Too….. too many people on that train.”

Ragnar turned to smile at this warbrother. Stina had chosen to stay with Ragnar as he waited for the other members of the warband to arrive. Hassan and Vivica didn’t seem to share in Stina's desire to keep Ragnar company and both left soon after their arrival. The young Muraadan had greatly appreciated his brother's company. Despite them being stuck on that train for so long, Ragnar didn't want to be alone. He never wanted to be alone.

Allowing the pent up air to escape his lungs, his eyes fell on a pair of T'saraen teenagers waiting to cross an intersection.

"So much death and yet it never seems to reach this place," he thought aloud, desperately hoping that Hassan and Viveca weren’t getting into any trouble.

Across from them a small group of Varyan soldiers marched through the plaza in lazy, ill-formed ranks. The soldiers were whispering among themselves, not paying much attention to their surroundings, when they finally noticed Ragnar and Stina in their inquisitor's coats. The soldiers saluted them and hastily turned to walk in the opposite direction. Ragnar couldn't help but notice the look on their faces. It was the same look on everyone else's faces, T'saraen native and Varyan soldier alike. There was a disquieting rumor that something had occured in Lanostre, but the Church had been blocking all information from escaping the Queendom.

At that moment an old train covered in steaming ice pulled into the station. Ragnar's worried expression suddenly melted away, a giant smile forming across his face as he turned around to face the train platform.

The train was an ancient beaten down machine, its faded steel exterior covered in giant hunks of ice. It had come from Magnagrad, Ragnar understood. No other journey would cause the train to accumulate so much ice build-up. As the train slowed to a stop the ice covering every inch of it began to crumble and fall apart. Ragnar gripped the railings of the platform in anticipation as the train doors slid open with a mechanical hiss.

Mother Ziotea and Father Oren stepped out of the train.

In truth, it had only been about two weeks since he had last seen the two Omestrian inquisitors, but it had felt like an eternity to him all the same. He began to hop in place, disturbing the three wolfpups who had been cuddling near his feet, and then proceeded to wave his arms like a crazy person. He shouted at the top of his lungs, not caring if all the world heard him.

"Oi, you two!" he shouted, his voice seeming to cause the entire plaza to stop and stare at him with a confused expression..

The two Omestrian inquisitors turned to face him, their eyes still squinting at the sudden influx of light given off by the massive aegisdome looming in the sky above them. Ragnar looked back at his giant companion and waved him over. "Come on Stina, let's go welcome them!"

Not bothering to wait for Stina, Ragnar jogged down the steps of the plaza to the train platform.



Ziotea stood alone, while Oren was conversing behind her with the small crew of the train that had brought them here. The pale inquisitor bowed his head, presumably as a gesture of thanks, though his lips moved so little and his voice was so low that it was difficult to discern what he actually said. Seeing Ragnar approaching, Oren turned and made his way to where Ziotea stood at the edge of the platform.

There was something off about Oren's gait. Ragnar had only been in close proximity to the Leviathan spellranger for a few weeks since Oren and his Leviathan warsiblings were transferred to the warband, but in that short time Ragnar had taken note of each of their physical quirks. He had to make certain that if something was off about any of them, if they were wounded or needed help in any way, he'd notice -- and thus, Oren's slight limp immediately raised an alarm.

Ragnar's violet eyes narrowed, and he cast an accusatory glare at Ziotea. Hearing Stina's loud footsteps behind him, Ragnar's courage flared. Good, I won't be alone in this.

"What did you do to him, Zee?"

“To him? Nothing.” She didn’t exactly look pleased to see them, but then the small woman rarely did. She was though, that much was obvious, at least to Ragnar. “Saved his ass, probably. I’ll have to tell you about it later.”

“Why is he limping? You two visited those ruins right? Those quiet, safe ruins?”

“The ruins were fine. It was after we came out...look, it was weird as hell, and we’ll tell you about it, but not right now.”

“I knew I couldn’t leave you alone with him. I tried to warn you, Oren.”

The Leviathan’s gaze shifted to beyond Ragnar. “Unfortunately, she has the truth of it.”

Ragnar turned and, seeing Stina standing behind him with the wolf pups trailing him, the Muraadan protector took one of them and lifted it proudly in front of Ziotea.

“Wolves! From my homeland! Aren’t they precious? We bought them in the slums!”

Ziotea eyed the animal warily, but when all it did was squirm and stick out its tongue she shrugged. “I guess.” She was trying hard not to be dismissive of her friend but she was clearly distracted. “Did you go on a trip after all, then?”

“We went to that pub and I saved a bunch of civilians from a rocket. But I’m sure you will hear about it soon enough. The soldiers can’t stop talking about how much of a hero I am.”

“Already? I’m jealous. Here, let me rub your head for good luck~”

Ragnar happily allowed her this gesture, and she gave him a smile.

Stina, somewhat suspicious of Ziotia’s unwillingness to share information, looked downwards at her, as she rubbed Ragnar’s head, with a small measure of hostility. “I hope tha-tha-that you will not forget to tell us. Someth… ...ing that harms an Inquisitor is something we should all be aware of.”

“Look, I said I’ll tell you all, and I will tell you all, just...when I can tell all of you. I’m still processing. Besides, if people start turning into weird blue giants, I’m sure you’ll notice.” Ziotea paused long enough to deliver a playful but solid punch to Stina’s arm. “Bigger than even you. Kind of hard to miss.”

Stina grunted and shrugged his shoulders. “Do not let your emotions distract you frrrrrrom protecting us as well with information as you do on the battlefield.” It felt like he had more to say, and he paused despite still holding the attention of the conversation. Perhaps it was something about respecting her need to understand a trauma before being able to verbalize it, but he didn’t have the vocabulary to even fully comprehend the thoughts he was trying to convey. He instead settled for softening his facial features, and resting his hands in the pockets sewn onto the inside of his cloak.

“Blue giants, Zee?” Ragnar shook his head. “Really?” the young inquisitor asked with an incredulous expression. He threw a quick glance at Oren for any hint of confirmation to this ludicrous lie. When the Leviathan inquisitor gave him only an impatient glance in return, Ragnar frowned.

Oren folded his hands together behind his back, his eyes trained on Ziotea, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Is the open really the best place to discuss recent events, Warband Phoenix? We can talk about our encounters later; at present, we need to make sure we’re ready to leave.”

Ragnar breathed a heavy sigh. He was very much looking forward to hearing Ziotea and Oren’s account of their visit to the Corpseland, but the pale-haired inquisitor was right. Now was probably not the right time to speak of their visit to that place. Still, their reticence to speak on the matter picked at him. Hm. Whatever had happened to them in those ruins, it has to be important, Ragnar thought to himself. Ziotea wouldn’t be drawing it out so much if it wasn’t. Still, the events at the Shadow and Storm pub were too monumental for Ragnar to keep quiet about. Ziotea and Oren had traveled to Cero on an empty train and thus they had no way of knowing about the “Butcher of Tale’s End” and the justice he had dispensed at the legendary tavern.

“I suppose we do have places to be right now, Father Oren, but you must at least listen to Stina’s story,” he said, slapping Stina on the forearm playfully.

“Go on. Tell them about the ice pirates!”

“What, that louuuuuusy lot of heretics?” He laughed,. “After training aagainst you lot for so lo-o-ong, cutting through them was like a…. a walk in the park. Honestly the best part of th-th-th-the whole thing was right at the beginning when Hassan just w-w-waltzed in and cleared out all the civilians with a single sentence.” He thought back to the night again. It really had been wonderful: no repetitive training, no teacher yelling at you for holding the sword slightly too low on the handle, none of the politics involved in talking to people. Instead there was just battle - and the hunger he had just now discovered, but that still sat, eagerly, deep in his soul, crying to get out. He grinned as he continued, though the smile seemed to hold a little bit of the bloodlust within him.

“After that, a-a-a-a--- sssssshort shootout, before a Secular Armyman encouraged me to charge the pirates. It wennnnt poorly for them.” He stood there, collecting his thoughts for a moment before continuing. “This one,” he said, nudging Ragnar, encouraging him to tell his own part of the story, “stopped a huge explosion, aaand Hassan caught up to- t’their leader. Got some important information about the apostate Dara.” He finished with a scowl, as if the man’s name had a bitter taste to it.

The mention of the lost apostate seemed to bring Ragnar back down to earth.

“Father Dara... He was last sighted in Lanostre, wasn’t he?”

His thoughts returned to Tatiana and the others. All the crazy rumors going around about an attack on the Varyan flotilla blockading the Lanostran capital and about a young inquisitor being involved had filled him with trepidation.

“I know you and Oren have been secluded up there in Omestris but, have you heard anything about Lanostre?” Ragnar asked Ziotea. “I haven’t met with Galahad, Astraea, or Tatiana yet but, there are rumors. Weird ones.”

“Nothing,” Ziotea answered. “We just got in, only had most of a day at the Seminary before heading out again, and I wasn’t listening to the gossip.”

“There’s been all kinds of talk about some kind of attack. The lord clerics are keeping a lid on everything, of course.”

“Of course. Bastards.” Ziotea spit in the snow at the mention of the clerical branch, causing Stina to break into a smile.

Ragnar recoiled instinctively, immediately scoping the area for anyone who might have caught sight of the blasphemous act. He leaned close to the Omestrian warrior. “There is something strange happening. I can feel it.”

“I hate being toyed with,” she growled, feeling the skin on her arms prickle under her vambraces. “There’s definitely something going on, I can tell you that much. I just don’t get how it fits together.” She frowned for a moment, then made herself relax. She was back with her warband, and together they could face anything. “We’ll discuss the details when we’re all together, yeah?”

He nodded, cuddling the wolf in his arms.

“I met with Rodion earlier. Tried to bring him food but he shooed me out of the room. Some new ethereal toy has him ensnared, I bet. I’m certain he’ll make time for you though.”

“You did?” Her face lit up at the mention of the engineer. “I suppose I’ll have to track him down, then.”

“He is aboard the Karamzina, our wonderful new state-of-the-art steam ark. It’s a beauty, Zee. Sharp as a blade and and sleek as a spear. It’s docked at the Forge, the special drydocks at the southeastern edge of the city.”

Ziotea nodded, and split off at once. She’d not seen Rodion in far too long.

For a few moments, Oren watched after her. Whether or not she saw it, Ziotea’s eagerness was all too plain. Well, so long as the watcher knew what to look for. He turned to look at the other two, and with a small grimace, he said to them, “Well. As nice as it has been to talk to you, Father Ragnar, Father Stina… I need a bath.” - and then started to walk.


Finding her way to the Forge and the Karamzina was simple enough. Ragnar was right about the ship, and she made a note to head outside later and fix the image in her mind to paint. For the moment, however, Ziotea was far more focused on locating Rodion. She’d not seen him for two weeks, and yet it wasn’t until Ragnar mentioned his name that she realized just how much she’d missed his company.

She followed the sense of his ether through the ark to the door of what was probably his workspace, opening the door without bothering to knock. The furnishings were nicer than what they had back at the Seminary, the portholes set with Lanostran glass.

The rest of the room was all Rodion: notes, diagrams, papers everywhere. He seemed absorbed in whatever had caught his attention and so for the moment, Ziotea just watched. The absent half-smile on his face, the focused manner he had as he flipped through a set of designs -- the last time he’d been this into his work, he’d been finishing Madrys.

It was almost as if she’d never left at all, and yet she knew better. The kiss they hadn’t discussed...her talk with the bishop. Suddenly it was all in her way and she couldn’t bring herself to speak, to break the perfect scene before her.

Moments passed. Rodion’s attention was focused on a particular blueprint hanging on the wall above his bed. That’s when he saw her. Out of the corner of his periphery, a splash of orange bright against the half-lit gloom of the hallway. She was standing there, in front of him. Suddenly, he found himself taking a step backward, the back of his legs hitting his mattress. The sight of her knocked him backward.

“You’re here!” he exhaled. The words hung in the air, silence filling the room. He clumsily reached for a pocketwatch on his work desk and fumbled it open. “I was expecting you tomorrow.”

“I’m a day late, Rodion. When was the last time you ate?” And just like that she could talk again, though the wild gleam in his eyes concerned her. “You’re shaking.”

“I…”

He bit his lip. The taste still lingered. Bread crumbs still lay scattered over his work table. He tried his hardest not to glance at it, for he knew she would notice.

“I’m not hungry. I haven’t been hungry since… Well… I’ll tell you later. Please, sit.” Rodion gestured toward his bed.

Ziotea set her spear, shield, and bag aside, and settled on the bed. “What new project has you all wound up?” she asked, as she started unbuckling her pauldrons.

His eyes drew away. She wore her inquisitor’s coat beneath her armor, but the casualness in her movements as she removed her equipment still disarmed him. He could feel the air in the room shift. The idea of “heat” was unknown to him, but he had read about the concept in many historical texts. Rodion wondered if this was what it felt like.

The engineer looked at his gloved hands, stretching the fingers on his right hand. He turned to her and sighed. “Don’t speak of this to anyone else.”

He removed the glove on his right hand and lifted his palm up to the light. The blood shone like rubies. The wounds penetrating his palm were still fresh.

“Do you remember -- before I started wearing gloves? Do you remember what first caused these wounds?”

Ziotea was confused and more than a little concerned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rodion, but I do know you wear the gloves for a reason -- so you don’t cut up your hands! Why weren’t you wearing them this time?!” Armor forgotten, she pulled out a handkerchief and grabbed his wrist. “You should have gone to Astraea!” Bitch or not, the healer was...well, a healer.

He slowly pulled his hand from her grip and rose from the bed, droplets of blood splattering on his sheets. He began pacing the room manically, his breath misting in the cold air. There was a sudden change in him. His shoulders began to tremble, his face grew paler than usual. His lightning-blue eyes flitted around the room, focusing on the different diagrams and papers decorating the walls.

“I need to tell you something. But I fear what may come of it if I do. There is something on this ark, Ziotea. Something… extraordinary and terrifying. I gazed into it and--” He lifted his crimson palm once again. He smiled at her. He looked so tired.

“It remembered us,” he whispered, droplets of blood falling to the floor, splashing red constellations on the pristine white papers beneath.

“Rodion, whatever you have to tell me, I’ll listen. But sit down and let me look at your hand while you do. Please.” No, this wasn’t the flurry of energy he’d had for Madrys. This was something else, something that worried her. What had happened while she was away, Ziotea wondered. And why did it feel like it was taking her best friend away?

Rodion saw her eyes. Like lanterns in the dark..

“I… I’m sorry.”

He sat down beside her once more. His breathing began to slow, and the strange glint in his eyes disappeared. Rodion turned to his warsibling, ashamed for having worried her.

“Can you help me?” he said, offering her his wounded hand.

“Whatever you need,” she answered at once. That he asked her instead of seeking out Astraea was a small triumph, though she knew her work was far inferior. She frowned down at the injury, channeling a thin stream of her ether into the cut and sealing it. Ziotea was not very good at healing, and it was more than a minute before she leaned back with a sigh, the task complete. “I don’t just mean for you hand, either,” she added, looking up at his face. “I’ll listen to whatever you have to say about your project, but first I want you to just sit with me for a bit, alright?”

She accepted his silent nod as an agreement and scooted a little closer, leaning her head against his arm. They’d sat like this many times as children, huddled close to keep away the chill. Ziotea let her thoughts drift, waiting quietly until Rodion was properly calm.

It was perhaps half an hour later when she finally spoke again. “We should get you something to eat. I know there’s the big dinner tonight, but if you haven’t been eating, a bit of something now won’t hurt.”

He grinned at her. “I am pretty hungry, now that I realize it. I’ll have something brought up.”

Ten minutes later a crewman knocked on the door to his cabin, bringing them a small meal of T’saraen figs and bread. Rodion ate quietly, allowing his thoughts, his obsessions, to drift away from him.

“I didn’t think it would be so different. Your absence. I believed it would be comfortable even, to have some time apart. But, to tell you the truth, it just felt… cold.” He was unable to look at her as he spoke. It was a strange thing to confess, but it was the truth. More than anyone else in the warband, the two of them had endured their years in the Seminary as one. Her being gone for those two weeks had turned the world askew. There were foundations of his reality, and part of it had gone. He felt unmade.

Ziotea watched him, nibbling on a fig she’d swiped from his plate. “I’m not sorry I went,” she said slowly, thinking the words through even as she said them. “But it was a long time, by the end. Especially the day at the Seminary, without you there. Even in Omestris, I kept wondering what you’d think of things. All the questions you would have had about what I saw.” She smiled and looked down. “I’m glad to be back.” It was the simple truth, presented despite her niggling misgivings. She wasn’t strong enough yet, and how long before the strength she needed to defend what she cared about meant she’d risk destroying it herself? That can wait until we reach El, she reminded herself, shaking the thought away. “I’ve missed you.”

Rodion grinned, his cheeks stuffed with food. He tapped the top of her hand twice affectionately. It was a gesture from their youth, to signal that it was safe to continue onward.

“I don’t want us to be apart again,” he said in a quiet voice. “I should have been there with you.”

For a moment his eyes caught hers and she felt trapped, but not in a bad way. More like the safety of a bolthole with the exits blocked to keep out the cold. Ziotea couldn’t think what to say, her memory unhelpfully supplying things like how he’d looked against the dark backdrop of the sky at the Rising ball and the sounds of him working in his ether forge, sweat darkening his shirt. Instead of saying anything she caught his hand and squeezed it.

I’m here.

“Was it everything you thought it’d be? I’m still not sure exactly why you chose to go there,” Rodion said. Outside, a light snow began to fall as a frigid gale blew across the ark’s prow, causing the entire ship to lurch in its moorings. The Karamzina’s hearth systems had been disabled in preparation for tomorrow’s heavy engine burn and the sudden drop in temperature made the engineer shiver lightly.

“Tell me about the ruins.”

“It was a strange place. I have more questions than I did when I left, honestly.” Ziotea laced her fingers through his with a sigh. “The ground was covered in plants, the buildings too. There were trees with leaves the color of my hair...there was even a river without any snow or ice in it. I’ll have to paint it, once we’re underway. It was beautiful. ...But not what I was looking for.” She sighed again, leaning closer. “I still don’t know what that is.”

Rodion leaned his head against hers, his bare arm brushing against her shoulder. He was freezing, but he found that this didn't bother him as long as Ziotea was near him. He turned his head slightly, so as to lightly rest his chin on the top of her head. Her hair smelled of virrika leaf extracts, a pleasant scent of of smoke and citrus.

“However dead that land is, those plants, the river, there’s still a heart beating within that place. I wonder why the plantlife was the same color as your hair? Heh. Maybe there’s a part of you within those ruins somewhere... An ember.”

“There were embers there, but not mine.”

Rodion raised an eyebrow. He drew away from her, a puzzled look on his face. “What did you find?”

“I don’t even know where to begin. A ‘retired’ inquisitor. Children of the defunct royal families. A forgotten god.” Ziotea paused, then slowly, carefully, began recounting her adventure in Omestris from the beginning, answering Rodion’s questions as best she could along the way. By the time she finished twilight had dimmed the light from the portholes, and she shushed the rest of his questions.

“You need to stop now if you’re going to get any kind of sleep before the dinner tonight,” she said. “Let’s clear off the rest of your bed so you can lie down, and I’ll wake you up when it’s time.”

Rodion thought he wouldn’t be able to calm down enough to sleep, but by the time they’d put the papers scattered about into some kind of order and he actually lay down with Ziotea perched at the end of the bed, it wasn’t so hard to close his eyes and drift off.

((collab between @Lovejoy and myself))

Eyes... There were eyes all around her. On her? She was unsure. The only thing she could discern was that each gaze of the hundreds of beholders she passed in the streets bore into her. Was she being watched? Were all eyes on her? Or was it all in her imagination..?

Tatiana shivered, pulling her inquisitor's coat around her body. Even in the confines of the T'saraen aegis, she was still cold. That was how she always was. Varya, Lanostre, and now here. She hated the cold, but she could never escape it in the tundra landscape that scoured the world. At least the endless sea of white was now out of her sight and thusly out of her mind. She tried to focus on the T'saraen landscape. The world around her seemed so right with her. Tatiana always knew she was more T'saraen than Lanostran, and in that moment, it felt like she was as far from Lanostran as anyone could ever be. Of course, even in her subtle feelings of calm, Tatiana didn't feel at home any more in Cero than she did in Sapharan City. Rather, she felt quite the opposite. The summoner, as much as she felt she was in the Seminary, in her home, and among her fellow inquisitors, was an alien.

Despite her extremely fatigued demeanor, Tatiana felt like she was on high alert. Her bloodshot gaze flicked back and forth as she took swift steps down the street. It couldn't have been that everyone was looking at her, could it? She was an inquisitor, so that much might have drawn attention, but there had to be something more to it. Tatiana tried to convince herself that the paranoia was all in her mind. No one was after her. She had left Lanostre, but the events that had transpired had stuck with her and she couldn't imagine the clerics had so easily forgotten either. Of course, that couldn't account for every off glance she received. Looking down, Tatiana finally noticed the faded red stains that had still bled into her coat's fabric. She had very little time to collect herself in between Lanostre and Cero. Self-consciously, Tatiana pulled her coat more tightly onto her form as if she could hide her disheveled appearance. It was something that would have to be dealt with. Tatiana knew that, but getting herself back together was a long process and washing clothes wasn't the first thing on the list.

Now was the time for more basic recuperating. Tatiana hadn't eaten anything during her whole transit. Too many thoughts had distracted her, and the crippling fatigue was finally starting to overcome her. She could have sworn a hazy blur was overcoming her failing eyes. Any time she second-guessed her vision, though, she merely shook her head to further maintain her wakefulness. What else could she do? It certainly didn't make her feel any safer, but Tatiana knew she couldn't let paranoid thoughts dictate her actions. The back of her mind was still hanging on to the events on Polarpike bridge. There were some things that she just couldn't let go of. She hoped that a good meal and perhaps a night's rest would help alleviate that. Of course, she hadn't really known where to start in those tasks. The entire city of Cero was a mystery to her. Its labyrinthine streets, while entirely a spectacle, were confusing to the foreigner. It must have shown.

"Looking for anything in particular, miss?" Tatiana's eyes shot towards the T'saraen man that had paused in his stride, offhandedly speaking toward her. For a moment, she just stared him down. The man was as nonthreatening as they came, but Tatiana was thrown off regardless. He saw something in his appearance... Something too similar for comfort.

"Why do you ask?" was all Tatiana managed in reply, holding back the full wrath of her accusatory tone. It wasn't panic in her eyes, no. More like some sort of subtle alert. Thoughts jumped through the inquisitor's head like lightning. What did he want? Why did he approach? Did he recognize her? The mystery character chuckled in response.

"You just look a bit lost, inquisitor," His eyes studied Tatiana's form. "And you don't look to be in the best shape..." The T'saraen man nodded in Tatiana's direction while his eyes drooped unto her coat. Tatiana reflexively covered herself even further, trying to conceal the stains on her clothing. She was surprised if anything. Had the man not feared her for her appearance? In a moment of weakness in her often steely resolve, Tatiana gave into the kindness of the stranger.

"Just... Seeking a nice place to find a meal and some peace and quiet. Business and the like. I'm sure you'd understand." Tatiana spoke with a hidden hostility in her tone. The moment she noticed her own voice, however, that changed.

"Waste less time, inquisitor... My brother's a proprietor of a restaurant only a block or so away. The best meal you'll have on this side of Cero, if you'll excuse my bias." As he finished, the mystery man was left staring at the pondering Tatiana. She wished she'd dare refuse, but having the sort of day that starts with a prison break doesn't put one in the sharpest of moods. It wasn't a moment longer before Tatiana conceded, following her newfound friend down the road with a sense of direction and purpose in his step. It wasn't a long journey, but it was long enough for Tatiana to get the name of her citizen escort: "Malek", or at least that was all he offered her. Food was brought out to the pair before they could have much in the way of conversation, and much to Tatiana's surprise, was on the house for Malek's inquisitor friend.

Service was beyond expedient. Tatiana would have been wholly impressed had she the mind to think about such mundane topics. She was still somewhere between a sleepless dream-state and her adrenaline-fueled combat mode. Every so often, Malek would attempt to make small talk with the frazzled inquisitor, though the replies he received were mostly short-lived and uninformative. Perhaps he was remaining purposefully brief in his questions considering Tatiana's flighty demeanor. She had been glancing about the establishment, taking in its sights for the entirety of the conversation. Particularly, Tatiana was keen on observing the cook, who was visible rather clearly behind the restaurant's counter. She couldn't help but be put-off by the burly man. Every glance Tatiana covertly took over her shoulder, it always seemed like his pallid face was looking back at her just as inquisitively. Could it have just been that she was an inquisitor? Tatiana certainly didn't get the warmest welcomes everywhere she went. Not to mention she and Malek were two of the very few patrons at the moment. Only a moment later, he then made eye contact with Malek. Perhaps it wasn't just her. Tatiana took a breath. She had to relax.

"I apologize, dear friend, but I don't believe I got your name," Malek lowered his head he spoke as though gesturing apologetically. Tatiana poised a surprised look onto her face. All this time, she hadn't even offered her name to the man. It wasn't at all his fault. Finally, Tatiana seemed to recognize her rudeness, dropping her guard if only for a moment.

"Mother Tatiana Leviatan. A pleasure, Malek." As Tatiana finished, Malek extended a hand over the table, and Tatiana went to grasp it in a shake. There was a moment of silence as the two did so. Tatiana's eyes were locked on the back of Malek's hand, upon which a strange tattoo was inked. Tatiana squinted a bit. The design seemed uniquely familiar to the girl's eyes, but her attention was quickly diverted as the cook from behind the counter reached a pale hand across the table to place down plates before Tatiana and Malek. And there it was again... Upon the forearm of the cook, a similar tribal line-work design that formed some sort of Eldritch symbol. Tatiana recognized it this time, and immediately, all her inhibitions left her. Ether flared through her body as she focused her pool to coarse like lightning through her veins.

All of a sudden, Tatiana was eternal grateful for her paranoia, for had she not immediately started focusing her withered ether pool, she may not have noticed the next move of 'Malek'. Everything seemed to slow as Tatiana's reaction time was augmented by the magic in her bloodstream. Malek tightened his grip on Tatiana's hand and her eyes shot back to the mark of the R'heon emblazoned on his skin. In that diminutive moment, Tatiana caught but a glimpse of his offhand, drawing up the knife from his table setting and slashing it towards her arm. Under normal circumstances, Tatiana would never had noticed it in time, but now, adrenaline activating every twitch fiber of muscle, she was ready. Without even a moment to think, Tatiana's free hand shot up to grasp Malek's hand in the air. She was sent straight into combat mode, leaving her entirely unaware that the knife nicked her palm, scarring it with a long red gash.

Simultaneously, the inquisitor exerted her dominant martial knowledge with both hands. Locked in Malek's grasp, Tatiana's fingers spread wide and shunted back from the handshake to break the grip while her offhand guided the knife directly downwards to meet its mark skewering the R'heon tattoo. Malek's pained scream reverberated on the establishment's walls sending any other patrons fleeing from the restaurant altogether. Of course, there was one man that had no intent of leaving his fellow R'heon. In the heat of combat, Tatiana had entirely forgotten the 'cook' until he had his muscular arm wrapping and constricting her throat. Before she knew it, she was pull from her seated position in his guillotine grasp. Tatiana knew she had a limited amount of time before the air was choked from her lungs, but she was no match for the man's strength. This was exactly why she learned the underhanded tactics of close-combat at the seminary.

The inquisitor's hand shot towards the pistol holstered at her waist. In the haze of her disoriented state, however, she was for once too slow. The R'heon's hand knocked the holster clean off of her belt with one mauling swipe. New plan. In her struggling for breath, Tatiana caught visions of her previous combats flashing before her eyes. She was always protected by her demon. All throughout her life, she had relied on the eldritch entities. Was that a bad thing? Was she not self sufficient? Obviously the Terviclops couldn't help her now... Or could it? Again, her body moved automatically. Tatiana felt her hand clench around the severed horn of the Terviclops belted at her waist. The brute hadn't even noticed. He already had her beat, vision fading, limbs drooping, but Tatiana knew better than to give in. In a final strike, she threw all the force left in her body into her arm as it slammed backwards to impale her weapon into the gut of her assailant.

Another spray of red colored her inquisitor's jacket. The man's grip released. Tatiana collapsed to her knees, gasping for air. She thought it was over; she thought she could pause momentarily, but Malek dared to rise and stand against her, blood pooling onto the floor from his mutilated tattoo. He moved swiftly at first, but Tatiana was quicker. Just as he came to stand above her, in between the inquisitor and her only exit, Tatiana's hand gripped the fallen pistol and ripped it up through the air only to stop when its barrel was set upon her assailant's skull. Her finger ached on the trigger. Malek froze, panic in his eyes. Tatiana rose to her feet. The cook had stopped his assault as well now that she had brandished her weapon freely. For a long moment, Malek and Tatiana stared into one another's eyes. Was she going to do it? Even Tatiana herself was unsure.

Until finally her thoughts broke her from her battle trance. No... Not again. She wasn't a murderer... Tatiana's gaze softened as the adrenaline began to crash from her body. It was only then that she seemed to notice the wound on her own hand, marked by the knife. The blood dripped from her skin and covered the stock of her firearm. Tatiana clenched her teeth. She had no questions for the men. She knew why they came, but she didn't want to kill them and dealing with an official report was completely disregarded in Tatiana's mind. That much was true, but she felt retribution boil up in her blood. Without any words, Tatiana dropped her weapon's aim low, firing a shot right into the hip of the man called Malek. Tatiana coldly gazed upon the wound as it exploded with a swathe of blood, painting the exit behind her target. The minute movements of the cook caused the inquisitor to spin on a dime, readying her weapon aimed at him. He immediately stepped back raising a hand.

Wordlessly, Tatiana stepped over the groaning man to the door. For a moment, she paused, raising a hand up to wipe the splatter of blood clear of the glass that separated her from the streets of Cero. In the reflection of the pane, Tatiana was met with a strange set of eyes staring back at her. There was... something wrong with the reflection. It was like it wasn't hers. There was just something in the eyes— something she couldn't name. She quickly pushed open the door, relieving herself of the image now wired into her brain. As she stepped back onto the road, she holstered her weapon. All of a sudden the fatigue from earlier had left her completely. All it took was the heat of battle to clear her head. That thought worried Tatiana, but she was too occupied with greater worries to ponder it.

The road offered her the perfect place to lose herself in her thoughts. Tatiana wanted to keep alert. What if another attack came? Unfortunately, the lethargy began to take hold, leaving her drifting into state of daydreaming. And who were they anyways? Only two logical answers came to Tatiana. The Clerics could have sent clandestine hunters already— or maybe they had T'saraen agents. It would be hard to ever prove. Other than that, and equally as likely, the pair could have been relatives of... victims. Tatiana pushed the thoughts from her mind. No matter their relation to her, she wouldnt let them get to her. The inquisitor found solace in her strength, and she recognized her own talent. How long could she save herself, though..?

When she finally reached her Salvation— the Karamzina— Tatiana felt strangely absent. The entirely walk there was a blank space in her memory. Nonetheless, her hope was that the worries would melt away when she arrived, but she was wrong. Tatiana felt safe, yes, but the plague in her mind only further distilled. As she boarded the ship, Tatiana was greeted by one of the crewmen. A handshake was offered, but he quickly pulled back upon looking at Tatiana's hand. The man grimaced.

"You should really get that checked out, inquisitor. May I ask what happened?" The question itself was harmless, but Tatiana stumbled over her words in responding nonetheless:

"Oh... Just an accident in the field." Before Tatiana could get any more caught up in her own cryptic response, she began walking onward into the massive ship. It was a marvel the likes of which Tatiana had not expected to be possible. Walking through its cramped passages sent shivers through her spine. She was inside the intestines of the steel beast. This was humanity. Just like she sought out the eldritch pieces of nature's reality, they sought to augment it with machines. Their beasts were steel, motor oil, gears. Tatiana was different, though. She was vilified, strange, taboo— a priestess of flesh, blood, and viscera... Was it wrong to favor the twisted reality over the fabricated reality?

Tatiana pushed the strange visions of abstract musings from her head, directing herself deeper into the bowels of the beast. Following the signs, it wasn't long before she came to her own designated quarters. The pain eating away at her limb was entirely disregarded. Tatiana didn't seek healing— just solitude; just peace. Alas, the unattainability of her goal was what made it so sought after. Upon immediate entry, Tatiana didn't even inspect the claustrophobic space. Her eyes were instead drawn directly onto a letter prominently placed upon her desk. It held her name just above its folds and carried a seal that Tatiana was very familiar with: that of her teacher, her mentor, Indira.

Just what Tatiana needed... Omens... Indira's words spoke of more dangerous toilings of Warband Phoenix's head instructor. Creid had always been a man of interest to Tatiana, but at the same time, she recognized the fathomless power. She never doubted him. One might go as far to say that fear was involved in their relationship as well as spite. Tatiana was fighter, and Creid was as well, but he never lost. A part of Tatiana wanted to be uplifted at his predicament, but the situation was too dire. Omens... Omens of lives being lost en masse. Omens of inquisitor's perishing without consequence or battle. Omens of the Phoenix Warband following in their stead. Tatiana set the letter down, stepping away from the desk. She found herself staring into a mirror that was mounted on the room's wall while she gave into her own thoughts. Why? Why was Indira telling her this? What was Tatiana meant to do? She was a fighter, but to prevent the death of her entire warband from a threat that was wholly undefined was a momentous task. Tatiana did know one thing, however. Indira rarely clued her in on the goings-on of the inquisition without belief in the young summoner. But why? Tatiana was left wondering that very same question as she stared into the eyes of the woman glaring back at her in the mirror. What was it about those eyes? Something was off— something Tatiana just couldn't put her finger on.

Tatiana was once again dragged from her thoughts when a strange drip assaulted her shoe. Another splatter of red. The knife wound carved through her palm was more gruesome than she originally thought. Flexing her hand, Tatiana grimaced in pain. With a determinant step, the inquisitor stepped hurriedly back out of her quarters, following the maze-like halls of the massive ship in an aimless pattern. Tatiana weaved back and forth in the labyrinth. Her intent was to find its medical bay, but as time ticked on, that was looking like more and more of a momentous task. In a moment of rage bubbling up in the inquisitor, her fist smashed itself into the steel wall that entombed her on all sides. It was wholly a harmless gesture, but it did draw the attention of a nearby mechanic, peaking in from a large chamber that appeared to be a bay for workshopping the ship's machinery. He offered a few words of concern before Tatiana waved him off, but her interest was then piqued.

Stepping into the mechanical room, Tatiana found that a number of mechanical crewmen were at work on various tasks that she could do little to comprehend. As Tatiana's presence became clear, it seemed that her disheveled and blood-ridden appearance only made the mechanics work harder, averting their eyes from the inquisitor. She surveyed the scene, particularly taking time to observe the tools strewn about the floor. Her eyes rested for a long while on a heavy duty staple gun seemingly made for holding together various plates of steel. Tatiana rested against the wall for a moment as she watched its use in the hands of the trained mechanists. Once it was set down, however, she clandestinely grabbed it up then leaving the room with haste. She didn't imagine she'd need it for more than a moment as the idea formulating in her head was but a nascent concept.

As Tatiana found herself a safe distance from the machine room, she took the industrial tool up, placing it at the laceration across her palm. Blood still oozed from the drying wound, even more so as Tatiana squeezed her hand to force her skin back together. Without much thought, the inquisitor pressed down on the trigger of the tool. As she felt the steel staple impale her skin, she immediately dropped the device, groaning in pain. With watery eyes, Tatiana brought her hgand up to her view, defeated. Seemingly her makeshift treatment had succeeded, albeit leaving her with shaky breathing. As her wound was sealed, she rested against the steel hallway wall. She knew she had to go back to her room. She had to look at the letter. She had to discern what her plan of action would be, but not now. No. Tatiana knew what she had to do, but found herself moving the opposite way nonetheless. A new idea had come into her mind— one that was urgent if only in her twisted view of the world. Her first stop was the mechanical room once again. Tatiana found herself grabbing a number of the unoccupied tools that would suit her needs. She gathered as much as she could carry before hurrying off. Intention drove her onward in the lethargy.

Another bout of wandering took place, and this time, Tatiana didn't stop until she found herself curiously entering one of the Karamzina's top floor rooms. Tatiana was mesmerized by the sight of scattered papers atop desks in the room. It appeared to be some sort of research room that served a purpose the the summoner would never discover. When she noticed the stains of red rusting the ship's metallic interior in one of the corners, however, she knew this massive chamber would suit her needs. The door was locked from the inside. Tatiana dropped her lot of industrial tools save for one rather heavy duty rivet gun. Meanwhile her other hand began to pool with black smoke. Tatiana could feel her limbs burning, her eyes struggling to stay open, and her legs ready to give out beneath her. Nonetheless she pressed on, and as the clouds of smog began to amass, a loud crash shook the hull around her. The Terviclops stumbled into the wall as it was summoned into the enclosed space.

Tatiana's partner was in grave condition. Immediately black blood and viscera splattered to the floor as it shed from the demon's broken body. Pain evoked itself in Tatiana's heart just at the sight of her fallen comrade, and the thought of what was to come next only further tightened her chest. Of course, at the same time, she found a strange sense of enticing curiosity tingling in her brain. Was it excitement? She dared not admit to it. A single word echoed from her mouth: "Kneel," and the Terviclops followed command, splaying its broken body torn open with exposed bone fragments against the wall. Tatiana brought the rivet gun up to her aim as she surveyed the wounds of the fell creature. Then, her work began.

Her inquisitor's jacket was nearly indiscernible from its original black shade now. In her observation of the mechanics, Tatiana had come to a number of realizations. Humanity did with its base metal elements marvelous things that would in turn empower them beyond belief. They smithed mighty guns, monolithic walls, and titanic steam ships. Humanity augmented its reality with machines, but none had ever dared augment the twisted life of nature's own creations. No one had smithed flesh on such a grand scale. Tatiana knew that she and the Terviclops wouldn't be enough to defend their entire warband. No, they would die trying... But what if she could create something more?

As the summoner stared into the pained gaze of her subject, something snapped inside her. A barrier had disappeared. A realization had come. That look in her eyes— she finally recognized it. She saw it here, in that vile room, right in the eyes of the demon before her. She saw the same look that had graced her in so many mirrors, and she had seen it in the crushing gazes of passers by. She saw it everywhere. Tatiana finally recognized what she saw in the eyes— what had put her off for so long. It was an omen, of sorts... For her warband, for the world, for herself... She'd never know, really, but she recognized that omen nonetheless. For within the demon's eyes, Tatiana saw Doom.

Hassan had noticed her scar... Of course somebody had, Viveca hadn't done much to hide it, but considering the scars of her comrades, she didn't think any of them would take much interest. He had looked right at it though, and he had asked - Ragnar was her saving grace, pressing on for details about the story. She let them tell their tale, it was amazing... They went out and had a real day of Inquisitorial work. Envy welled inside her momentarily, but she just lightly smiled at them. The topic wasn't brought back to light.

So, they'd managed to accidentally fall head-first into the investigation on Father Dara, and she had... scoured an archive for days only to narrowly escape death at the last minute... Alone and cold beside the rotten corpses of a family to only come back with a single tome that she was terrified to open. There was some small talk after Hassan left, but Viveca did not stay long. She finished her hot drink and took her leave; talking to her warsiblings was more draining than expected and she wanted to walk the halls one final time before they took their leave on the morrow.

Phoenix Warband had lived in a compound nearly identical to her own, the memories were harsh, yet surprisingly pleasant. The nostalgia washed over her, giving her a brief reprieve from the thoughts that had been plaguing her mind all day. That was when she came upon the residential hall and there, at the end, was Hassan. She furrowed her brow - his room wasn't that far down, but whose was it? She watched as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. As she approached, the familiar blue moon and star on the door told her what she needed to know: it was Father Ilya's room. She sneered - what could Hassan have to be doing in there? She peered through the door that Hassan left ajar and tilted her head as he rummaged through the man's belongings and moved along, not taking anything.

What does he think he's doing? Ilya would have nothing they could want, certainly... She thought. Something scampered past her feet and she jumped away from the door as a small wolf pup ran awkwardly inside. Son of a bitch, She cursed silently, ducking around a corner just in time for Hassan to step out of the room with the pup in his arms. Bewildered, but still of sound mind, Viveca returned to her room and locked the door behind her. She abhored Ilya, sure, but Hassan's invasion of his privacy seemed unprovoked.




The train rumbled along the tracks, almost entirely unaffected by the weather outside. The station to board had been nearly empty in the hour they had left and there were few passengers. Viveca absently wondered whether the train would have even made the trip were it not for the four Inquisitors boarding. As most of them were, the model was a little older, but it would get the job done. They were warm, safe, and comfortable for the most part. That morning, she had donned her coat and packed the remainder of her gear, keeping a satchel at her side for the book and other odds-and-ends.

The first leg of the ride was easy enough, mostly silent. There was some discussion about when they would arrive and the events of the night before, but it wasn't long before Viveca excused herself and found an empty compartment a short distance up the passageway. She locked the door behind her and pulled the book from her bag once more, taking a deep breath.

It's safer here, if something happens, somebody will find you quickly... I can't just carry it around if I'm not going to do anything with it... She thought, steeling herself against the hesitation as she pulled back the cover and began flipping through pages once more. When she found the azure circle once more, her eyes moved right passed it and she turned another page. More archaic Omestrian... Gods, what was this? The book was a phenomenon in and of itself - did it have its own storage of ether? Was it bestowed power from an ancient art? She'd never seen or heard of anything like it - at least not in the way it acted... She felt a presence in the pages.

Page after page of runes and symbols, artistry that she didn't recognize or couldn't call to mind. That is, until she found a page that contained one large illustration - not a single word. A brilliant white sphere hovered, as though suspended or falling, over a massive city. The architecture was vibrant and beautiful, but this was no photograph; details and uniquities were missing, it felt like any cityscape, really. However... If this was an Omestrian book, it had to be Iddin-Mar, the Ruined City and former capital of her homeland. Furrowing her brow, Viveca readjusted her seating and looked more closely.

That sphere... Was it a star? It looked vaguely familiar, buffeted by a brilliant azure dome as it attempted to crush the city under its weight. Omestris had another ruin, Syddon-Mar, far to the north of the city. It was a sphere, allegedly, buried halfway into the snow. They were too far apart - this couldn't possibly be a drawing of Syddon-Mar clashing with Iddin-Mar, could it? Not to mention, she'd never heard of any protective shield around Iddin-Mar, keeping disasters and the cold at bay.

She spent what felt like hours, though probably only minutes, studying every detail of the drawing when she heard a click. Snapping back to reality, Viveca looked up and slammed the book shut, trying to nonchalantly return it to her satchel.

"Oh, Hassan, it's just you. Everything okay?" She asked quizzically, leaning back in her seat as she watched him enter. Did he really unlock the door and come in without any kind of greeting? Why was he like this?

"Yeah... What are you reading?" He shot back, leaning against the doorframe of the compartment.

"Something I found in the archives - it has some old script in it. Looked Omestrian, I didn't want to leave it behind and never find it again. But seriously, can I help you? What are you doing here?"

He sighed and shook his head, "Look, I noticed yesterday that you had some scarring on your neck. It's still there - did you get into any trouble back at the Seminary? Anything we should be worried about?"

Viveca pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head, giving a small chuckle to brush him off. "With the state you guys were in, I'm surprised it was even worth noting. I'm fine. In fact, I couldn't help but notice you leaving Father Ilya's room... Care to... elaborate?" She requested carefully, deciding not to show her whole hand at once.

He blinked, a bit confused at first before just shrugging. "Curiosity, mostly. It was quiet, peaceful in there... Just one last walkabout for nostalgia's sake." He was so quick to answer and confident that at first Viveca almost let him go.

"No, Hassan. You were trespassing; it's no secret I... don't take kindly... to Father Ilya, but unless you have reason to believe he's doing something wrong, you shouldn't be rifling through his things," She scolded.

"And you shouldn't be stealing books from the archive and not telling us when you get into a spot of trouble," He spat back, pulling himself from the wall. "I guess we all have our secrets, don't we, Sister?"

As he closed the compartment door and walked away, Viveca let out a sigh... Tensions were high, that's all. It was just nerves, she reminded herself, everyone was going to calm down once they were underway. Besides, she was relieved that he left without much more digging. Taking a few more minutes to peruse the book, she packed it away again and returned to the group's compartment. Ragnar was jabbering away about his excitement for T'sarae and Hassan seemed to pretend nothing had happened, mostly trying to deflect or keep Ragnar from going off the rails.

Viveca decided her best course of action was going to be a nap - the night before had held less sleep than she had hoped. However, being able to open and close the book without the same experience was decidedly calming. She closed her eyes and her warsiblings drifted away from her mind, soon to be replaced by Azure circles and whispers of Ashe-rahn... The most her siblings would get from her would be similar mutterings and a loose shake of her head, but nothing panicked or frightened.




As the four Inquisitors disembarked the train, Ragnar's excitement was rekindled. Viveca felt rather rejuvinated.

"Hey, could you guys keep an eye out for Father Oren and Mother Tatiana? I have something to talk to them about, for Mother Indira. Just, if you see them or anything - I'm going to the Karamzina to get settled in," The woman asked quickly, before apologizing to Ragnar for separating. Mother Indira, what have you got us into..?

Cero was a more beautiful city than she could have ever imagined. Walking through the streets, she marveled at the gorgeous architecture - something of a niche fascination for her - and the seemingly artificial foliage that dotted the wide streets. Men and women of all ages walked with their eyes forward, so intent on reaching their destination that sometimes one might think they couldn't see anything else. The sight of massive hailstones striking an unwavering dome was cathartic in its own right. Something about the idea of the Varyan winter being kept so easily at bay was amusing to her.

She stopped in her tracks and looked back up at the dome once more... Wait... and azure dome? Large, white stones falling atop it... Viveca's stomach fell and she shook her head - this book was ancient. She hadn't found an omen of Cero's demise, hopefully, but she may have found an explanation for the azure shield in the book. If the illustration was the once-great Iddin-Mar, then perhaps it once had protection for its capital just as Cero does. The legend said that the T'sarae itself had crafted this beautiful dome in the first place, who's to say that Omestris hadn't done so as well? Regardless, she needed to speak to Oren and Tatiana. Oren had been in Omestris this week, if she wasn't mistaken; maybe he'd learned something. Not to mention, they needed to hear Mother Indira's story.

Viveca decided not to make any more stops, apart from snagging a quick bite to eat from some non-descript restaurant before boarding the Karamzina. She was greeted with exceptionally polite professionalism and even an escort to her room. They explained some of the parts of the vessel while they went. Walking by one room, the man stopped, as did Viveca, while somebody else called out.

"Oi, sir!" A mechanic, covered in splotches of grey and black poked his head out, "Don't mean t'bother ya, but uhh... Well, seems we're missing some tools, y'aven't seen nothin', 'ave ya?" He asked, his accently thick and rustic.

"No, 'fraid not... You guys misplaced them?" The escort asked with a small laugh, ribbing a curious Viveca as though sharing some kind of inside joke. It didn't really register until she realized that he probably wanted her to join him in chuckling about the Engineering Corps.

"No, no, nothin' like that... We put 'em right back, but when I went t'get summin' off the table, I noticed a few were missin' is all. Somebody probably nicked 'em and took 'em to another department. We'll hunt 'em down, thanks!" The engineer replied cheerily, tipping his head to Viveca before disappearing into the room once more.

After what seemed like an impossible number of twists and turns, Viveca had arrived to her state-room. To be honest, she was absolutely floored with how comfortable it looked. Considering the kind of deployment this was, she had assumed even the higher ranking SA officers would be left with little space, but... She was wrong. There were ammenities to spare; it was better than her old room at the Seminary. Maybe not the one she got as a senior student and Inquisitor, but certainly nicer than when they had to live in the barracks for most of their 'studies.' SHe could get used to this - Tatiana and Oren would probably be around soon enough, she'd go looking once she'd unpacked what little she had brought.

Cero was a beautiful city, the only one of the subjugated lands to really stand up to the grandeur of Varya. Usually Stina would be straight to the Karamzina, and ready and rearing to go, but for once.... he wasn't quite feeling the need to be as rigid and on time. There was a pang in his heart, a sadness about leaving behind the glories of the homeland. The fearless beauty of civilization in the heart of this world of dead ice.

A memento, he decided. He needed to find something to remember this place by. Shopping for himself was not something Stina had ever done. On his few trips home, his mother or father inevitably found some sort of reason to drag him to some high-class tailor or cobbler or something, even if he insisted that the activity wasn't necessary. It was always an uncomfortable adventure, not in the least due to the long, awkward pauses, whichever parent brought him along simultaneously expecting him to lead the conversation, and getting frustrated at him every time he stuttered. For all their talking up of his inquisitorial school, they sure weren't very quick to accept the damage he had to take to be ready to protect Varya's great mission.

He shook his head. Too much of a focus on the past. He didn't have to get clothing anyway, he thought, as he unbuttoned his coat. heir official garb was good anyway. He wandered his way into a market square, perusing the area, looking for anything of particular interest. Stall after stall, most of them selling basic provisions. He picked up a small block of cheese along the way. The woman selling it seemed nice.

He came to the center of the square, passing by a small shop, the entrance to it squeezed between two market stalls. out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse, the first something to drive his interest. he turned to look more closely. In the window of the little shop, a bunch of rings, assumingly a jeweler's store. the one that had caught his eye was a small wooden band, the wood only covering the top and bottom forth of the ring. connecting the two wooden half-circles was a strange substance - colored resin, something with which he was not familiar - white and blue, capturing perfectly the look of ice. He walked inside, stooping to make it through the doorframe, to take a closer look.

"an aether ring. That's what that is." a man, wrinkled, hunched, and at least two feet shorter than Stina came up beside him. "Or at least that's what I was told when I bought it meself. Woman came through, seemed a bit out of sorts. Said her husband had died, was looking for ways to keep the kids fed, was selling off some of his old stuff. She said he wore it in his years in the army, was supposed to enhance his inner aether. 'Course, he wasn't an inquisitor or anything like you are, sir, so I personally doubt he would have noticed the difference if it did help." Stina smiled at the respect the old man gave him. The shop owner reached out to Stina's hand, and he obliged, giving over the ring. "It is quite beautiful, is it not?" he said, and both silently contemplated the object for a few seconds.

"'Course now I work in metals, got plenty of rings in here where I can tell you just how I put 'em together. That's a good thing, ya know, since I gotta teach my grandson how to do this before I go on to whatever's next. His pa ain't no good, but he's a good kid, respects his elders, and his betters." He pauses for a moment, regathering his train of thought. "oh yes. I can tell you all the ways someone can put together a ring outta metal, but wood? first ya gotta find that stuff, and then he's added in this blue stuff in between. Iffn I wasn't a ringmaker meself I could see how someone would think it magic. At any rate, that's why it's more expensive than the others. Kinda partial to it meself, too," he said, handing the ring back.

Stina smiled. "I leave soon, a-a-a-and it may be a long time before I return. I.....I will remember you, and I wiiiiiiill remember the glory of Varya's cities, and the strange beauties you can find even in-in their smallest corners." He pulled out his coin purse, payed, and took the ring for himself. "May......y-... you bask in Varya's hunger" he said as he left. Surprisingly, it managed to fit his pinky perfectly - he realized after the fact that he hadn't even bothered to try it on, something he really should have done considering how much larger his hands were than the average individual. He smiled. He didn't feel any changes to his aether, but he did feel his purpose returning, and he strode confidently to The Forge.

Oren disrobed in silence, wincing slightly any time he moved a touch too quickly, or a touch too far. Each item he discarded revealed another bruise, a colourful array of brown, purple, pale green and yellow, against a canvas of white. They were across his back, his ribs, his legs - all impacts from the fight that had yet to fade. His entire body ached, but that was no new sensation; it was just like after a good training session. Except for the giants made of ice and the threat of death.

With a whispered cry of both pain and relief, Oren sank down into the hot water. It burned, but he couldn’t care less right now. His eyes half-lidded, he leaned back against the side of the tub. It was… nice, to be in the water. He didn’t know why, but he enjoyed it - it almost felt as though he and his troubles were weightless. Oren could focus solely on his thoughts.

Well, not quite focus. More… reflect. The past few days had brought no end to his questions, and not enough of them had answers. It was more than likely he’d forget all about them, eventually, but there were a few things that lingered. This… Asherahn, for one. Again, Oren reflexively closed his hand. Why did he care? All he had to do was just dismiss the whole business from his mind and it wouldn’t trouble him - but he couldn’t ignore it, either. Conflicting gods, Titans of Ice and Fire, war, hate, destruction, all of it - it was intertwined with his path. Oren was an Inquisitor of the Hungering Lord, a warrior bade to carry out his will. He was never going to escape that - only through death.

And yet… Lady Lyessa lived free. Lady Lyessa al-Nors, High Inquisitor, former member of Warband Ifrit. She had gone her own way, despite her past.

Oren groaned, sinking deeper into the water. No, this wasn’t helping. It wasn’t helping at all.

“Just… retrace your steps, Oren.” he murmured. “Always retrace your steps.”

---

---

Two acolytes walked past, and Oren ducked his head, holding his breath ever so slightly. There was no general worry - he outranked them, and people were far more likely to believe a fully realised Inquisitor than a fledgling one. Still, when the majority of the Seminary was empty, every pair of eyes meant risk, especially when he might be walking away with stolen items. He tweaked the edge of his hood, but didn’t pull it up - he’d only look suspicious like that.

He passed by the training yard, and stopped momentarily to look at the crowd of youths sparring with each other. All of them had blunt iron weapons of their various preferences - and they pulled no punches, either. The memory of Father Gregoroth was still fresh in their minds, and the pressure was high enough with the void the Inquisitors left behind. Among the acolytes, a tall figure paced - a dark haired Muraadan Inquisitor, his hand on the sword at his side, some slight stubble coming through - unusual for him, but Oren could only assume that the increased workload meant that he’d had less time for personal grooming.
Oren watched for a few moments longer as one of the students was knocked from her feet, winded and bruised. The man swiftly made his way over to her, and bent at the knee so that they were on more equal level, not even taking note that everyone had turned to watch. He said something, and the girl replied, wiping spittle and blood from her chin. After a few moments, he reached out his hand to help her up - and when she took it, swiftly pulled her into an armlock. Oren winced in sympathy for the girl as she grimaced, even though the man’s grip wasn’t too harsh; there were a few more words, and then she pushed herself away. The issue resolved, the Inquisitor began to go back to his routine… and his eyes met Oren’s.

Oren flinched and stepped away from the door - he’d lingered too long. Increasing his pace, he closed his eyes and shook his head. He wasn’t here to watch teenagers attack each other. He was here for Antoni-

Oren walked straight into a solid metal wall, and stumbled, tripping over his own feet, and fell backwards onto the ground. Opening his eyes, he glanced up at the Inquisitor that had so swiftly cut him off. Purple-grey irises bored into amber, and Oren felt the tips of his ears flush pink, his mind racing to find a way out of this situation. But Marius Valtari, warleader of Warband Leviathan, was already holding out his hand.

“Sorry, Oren. You should really look where you’re going, though.” he said.

Breathing heavily, the tips of his ears tinged with pink, Oren looked at the extended arm. Reluctantly, he grasped it. “...I hope you realise that I’m not going to be as easily restrained as your students.”

Marius let out a laugh as he pulled Oren to his feet. “I wouldn’t expect less. You can be as slippery as a fox when you want to be. I’m just glad I caught you - I thought you’d be in Cero by now.”

“I just returned from Iddin-Mar this morning. Mother Ziotea and I have a half-day here until we can leave.” Oren cocked his head. “I see you’ve taken well to your new role, Marius. You seem to be doing as good a job as the Great Bear.”

The taller Inquisitor rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I don’t think so. He hasn’t been gone long, and I haven’t even got half of his experience or skill, and definitely not his strength. And I don’t think Gregoroth would ever run off to speak with a friend.” His mouth twitched. “Could always turn into the bear, though. I wouldn’t be any better a teacher, but it’d probably scare the kids more.”

“You underestimate Father Gregoroth’s influence.”

Marius blinked, before his brow creased slightly. “Is there a reason you’re being so formal with me, Oren?”

The pale inquisitor tensed, fumbling for words, his heart pounding at an alarming rate. “No! I just… it’s…”

Marius’ frown grew, and pulling Oren by the arm - since neither of them had let go - he walked into an empty room and shut the door behind him. Oren expected him to be angry or stern, but when Marius turned to face him, all Oren could see was worry.

“Is it the dreams?” Marius asked in a low voice. “Are you having them again?”

Oren hesitated, then shook his head. “No, Marius, it’s not tha-”

Marius caught Oren by the wrist, and twisted it upward. A small red mark was clearly visible, showing exactly where Oren had put the needle. “Then why are you still taking Gantleaf? You said you’d stop.”

Oren looked down at the ground. “I also said I’d stopped a year ago, and it wasn’t true then, either. I’m fine, Marius.”

Booted feet walked closer, and he was pushed into the wall. A hand fell on his shoulder, and the other was pinning his wrist to the stone.

“Oren, please. You’re going to be gone for months. Don’t make me worry about you for that whole time.”

His heart was pounding, and blood was rushing in his ears. Oren knew his face was reddening with shame and embarrassment, but he still met the taller man’s gaze. And he regretted it instantly. Marius’ eyes were filled with concern - and the love Marius had for all of his warsiblings. It shot through Oren like an arrow, but it hurt so much more. Why? Why did his heart hurt so much?

...Oren knew why. Even though he’d tried to deny it for years. Even though it wasn’t, couldn’t ever be, permitted. He drew a deep breath… in through the nose, and out through the mouth. Then he looked at Marius, golden eyes colder than the ice.

“I’m going to die out there, Marius Valtari. Forget me. It’ll save you a whole lot of trouble.”

The other man’s face turned to shock and hurt, but his grip loosened, allowing Oren to slip out from his grasp and leave.

---

Oren was, for what must have been the hundredth time in these past few days, looking at his palm. Instead of contemplating the azure circle, however, he was watching blood trickle down his arm. Four crescent-shaped wounds marked where his nails had dug deeply, his entire hand sore from clenching it so tightly. Sighing, he drew on a small amount of ether and healed what he could; leaving just little red marks instead. It was time to bury these feelings deep.

Dipping his arm into the water to wash the blood away, he turned over to grab something between finger and thumb. Holding it up, he turned the indigo-black diamond around, letting it catch the light. To any other, this might have looked like a simple game piece, and well, it was. But to Oren, it was far more significant. After all, Lady Essa’s catalyst was just like it. There was more to this mystery yet.

---

In the darkness to the east of the city a lone ship sped across the white expanse.

The Sword of Dawn, betraying its namesake, was a jet black steam craft, its form sleek as an arrow, its ethersails like shadowy wings beating against the night.

Dmitri stood at the helm, frozen hands gripping the wheel, his bright yellow Omestrian eyes resolute as they focused on the shining horizon dominated by Cero's massive crystal aegisdome. He was shorter than most men, and didn't look like much a soldier. For a decade he had trained for this. Behind him, his master sat on the deck cross-legged, shirtless.

Even knowing that Master Ilya had spent all those years in the Red Seminary, seeing the young inquisitor sitting there near naked, defiant against the violent cold, was unnerving to the Omestrian soldier. Dmitri knew the cold, as all soldiers did, but to treat it with such disdain as Master Ilya did, here outside the aegis' protection, bordered on insanity. And yet Ilya sat there, his bare skin bathed in the aegisdome's intensifying light, smiling.

Master Ilya had been gone too long, and the man that returned was not the boy who left.

The sun began to break through the clouds just as the Sword neared the Ceroan forelands. In the pale light of morning the black ship appeared like a dark serpent on the ice. A tiny serpent, for it was a speck compared to the hundred or so Varyan steam ships floating on the frozen water outside the city.

The Second Armada wasn't as grand as the First, but seeing the black and steel vessels dotting the Ceroan coast was both a grim and empowering sight. Several months from now, these ships would follow Master Ilya's own ark, the Karamzina, eastward. The second invasion wave... Dmitri wondered if it would even be needed.

A gruff voice, tinged in the southern lilt of T'sarae, spoke through the radio, bringing him out of his thoughts. It demanded to know the Sword's docking credentials. In response Dmitri offered a sixteen-letter code. The voice on the other end of the radio remained silent for a moment.

"Welcome to Cero, Your Reverence" it spoke before guiding Dmitri to the nearest open dock.



It had been a short yet arduous journey, and Father Ilya's mood had been as mercurial as the water that he lazily shifted to and fro while standing at the deck's edge. In the first few days, during their journey southward and across the hallowed sea that stretched between Varya and Lanostre, Ilya had been bored and restless. Sailing across what the Lanostrans called The Wounded Sea, through the final resting place of thousands of soldiers and dozens of inquisitors-- Dmitri thought it would be enough to rouse the young lord from what he called his "post-Graduation stagnancy", but alas, Ilya spent most of the journey through the Wounded Sea in his cabin.

It wasn't until the Sword had to sail through the ice tides east of the Wounded Sea that Ilya returned to his usual self. The bright season was fast approaching and thus the sea itself was changing. Crossing the tides during the summer wasn't something even the most seasoned Lanostran sailor would willingly do, but Father Ilya Bjornley wasn't an ordinary navigator, and the Sword of Dawn wasn't an ordinary ship. With an entire glacier plateau breaking apart around them and a particularly vicious summer hail storm threatening to perforate the ship's tiny but powerful aegis, the Sword barely made it through the tides. It had been an afternoon of non-stop sailing since then, and Ilya's blood still ran hot.

He needed a drink.

"Leave it to the natives," Ilya said as he stepped off the Sword's deck and onto the first solid ground he had been on for the better part of a week. He was still shirtless, for the increase in heat within the aegis bothered him, or so he claimed. His pale blue eyes looked across the busy port. It didn't take him long to find the tavern he was looking for.

Dmitri looked to his master with uncertainty, his arms hefting a large crate full of Ilya's belongings.

"I don't trust these folk. I will unpack the ship, my lord."

Ilya approached him, his crooked smile widening.

"Don't worry. There's nothing here of importance," the young inquisitor said, placing a surprisingly warm hand on Dmitri's shoulder. "To be honest, I don't care if they toss it all into the sea. Now, let's go drink."

With that, Dmitri sighed and shoved the crate on to a passing T'saraen sailor's arms.

"This is the ship of Father Ilya Bjornley, Inquisitor of Warband Leviathan. See to it that all his belongings are safely delivered to his chambers aboard the VSS Karamzina. If anything should go missing I will personally come and find you, T'saraen," Dmitri spat to the sailor, staring down the lad.

"A-Aye, sir. It will be done," the sailor stuttered before yelling at a group of uniformed men to follow him onto the ship.

"Right then. Let's go get drunk," Ilya said before walking in the direction of the tavern, not bothering to wait for Dmitri to catch up.



It was a nice enough place, Ilya thought. He had spent the last decade of his life getting drunk in secret with passing SA soldiers at the Seminary. Thus sitting down at an actual pub was a lot nicer than sneaking around in dark hallways where Marius couldn't find him.

It was shameful, a sin according to some clerics, to partake in alcohol while serving under the shadow of the Red Shrine, but Gods what else was he supposed to do in the Seminary? Ilya was not meant for such places. He was meant for the battlefield and the sea, to be among soldiers. As he walked through the pub, Varyan soldiers saluted him. This is more like it.

"Barkeep! I will pay for everything," he said to the T'saraen tavernkeeper as he passed him by. The Varyan soldiers cheered him on in approval.

"Your Lady Mother would never approve of this," the young Omestrian warned as Ilya took a seat at a table at the front end of the tavern.

"Approve of what, man? Her darling son celebrating his Culmination? Perhaps me drinking in honor of the successful maiden voyage of her newest, most shiny steamcruiser would be enough for her to turn a blind eye."

"You are an inquisitor, Master Ilya. A champion of the Varyan people. And this place is... beneath you. It is disreputable. The city is crawling with men from the Imperial Chronicle, if they see you in here--"

"Let them see me! Look at my abs! Look at these arms!" Ilya yelled, laughing out loud, flexing his well-toned muscles. He took a swig of his drink.

The shame on Dmitri's face was palpable.

"Sit down, why don't you? I don't see you for ten bloody years, then Mom forces us on that ship without giving us a moment to catch up... but now we're finally here. We can relax, take it easy for a while," Ilya spoke, his pale eyes regarding his young servant warmly.

"Have a drink with me. Or several."

Dmitri leaned in, his lips inches from Ilya's ear.

"You very well know that I can't do that. Now please, at least put a shirt on."

Ilya smirked in response and said nothing more. He continued to drink as the hour passed. He invited soldiers and T'saraens both to his table, drinking merrily with them, asking for the latest gossip. He learned of rumors regarding a black-haired summoner who had escaped imprisonment in Sapharan, and of the whispers surrounding the destruction of the small Varyan fleet patrolling Lanostre.

His eyes stared unblinking as he heard tell of these rumors. Dmitri remained silent.

"What about you, Reverence? Are you excited for the journey?" a young Varyan conscript asked him.

"Pft. Of course I am! Wouldn't you be?"

The conscript looked around cautiously. He took a drink and took his time placing the glass back on the table.

"I... I think... If I may speak freely?"

"You may."

"I think it's a mistake. There is... darkness across the sea. It's a place of demons and devils and... people who consort with such monstrosities. Our Lord has already brought all of the peoples of the world under His protection. This strange place beyond the storm -- the people there, why do we need to bring them into our flock? They are no better than the Omestrians," the young conscript spoke in measured words, his eyes falling on Dmitri with disgust.

Ilya's smile disappeared from his face.

"Hm. I'll have you know that I have served with Omestrians and I can vouch for their strength and tenacity. They worshiped the wrong God, of course, but they themselves aren't so bad."

The conscript cleared his throat, and once again stared at Dmitri.

"I didn't mean any disres--"

"Dmitri here has served my family since he was a child. He was born in the pipeworks. His parents died in them, giving a lifetime's gift of their ether to us. He was destined to do the same, until my parents saw in him a calling for something greater. Do you know what that means?"

The conscript stared back, unsure of how to answer.

"For an Omestrian to rise above cattle, they must prove themselves of having extraordinary potential. Thus, if you ever come across an Omestrian who is free of his chains and serving the Empire proudly, nod to them in reverence, for each one of them is a treasured pearl worth several of us Varyan men."

A derisive laugh rang out loudly from a table at the far end of the tavern. The pub immediately fell to silence, and all collectively turned to face the one who would dare laugh at a Varyan inquisitor.

A dark-haired man sat alone at a table, sipping from a martini glass. He was dressed in ordinary civilian's clothes, but there was no mistaking him.

Ilya smiled. "Father Hassan," he said, his voice reaching throughout the quiet interior. The T'saraen inquisitor stared back silently. He was leaning back in his chair, the shadows were still around him, his lightning blue eyes like two sapphires in the dark.

"I didn't notice you come in," Ilya cried out.

"You don't seem to notice a lot of things," Hassan answered, chuckling to himself.

Ilya rose from his seat. He found that he had become... cold for the first time since entering the aegis. He glanced at Dmitri, and immediately the servant removed his own officer's coat and draped it around Ilya's shoulders.

Hassan was on his feet. His lips were curved into that dagger smile of his and as he began to walk towards Ilya the Varyan inquisitor felt his ether begin to surge within himself, a natural instinct, but when Hassan greeted him with a warm embrace, Ilya allowed the magic in his veins to dissipate.

"It's been a while. Shame you didn't join us on the journey down here," Hassan said, clasping Ilya on the shoulder.

"Believe me, I wanted to. But... family obligations," Ilya answered, glancing at Dmitri.

"This your man-servant?" Hassan asked, turning to regard the Omestrian with a curious gaze. "Ah. You have clear eyes. Not as sunlit as most I've seen. They're very pretty. Take care of those," he added, winking at the servant before turning back to Ilya.

"Come on then. We have much to discuss."

Without turning back, Hassan walked out of the bar.

---

After talking to Oren and leaving a note for Tatiana, Viveca returned to her room to meet them. She shut the heavy, metal door behind her, taking a first look at what would be her new home for the coming months. She breathed a sigh of relief… good, they hadn’t gone overboard. Part of her had worried that it was going to be ornately decorated and overbearing, but surprisingly enough, her room was rather modest. However, the Inquisitor had been quietly warned by Mother Indira that this was originally meant to be her room, so truth be told it was bigger than Viveca would have requested. She wasn’t going to complain, by any means. She could tell a few edits were made before her arrival - they’d received her shipment of affairs. A closet was lined with uniform items and an assortment of clothing, mostly sleepwear. Two weapon racks and a few displays adorned different corners of the rooms; one carried several spears of varying lengths and tip-types while the other had several types of curved swords - sabres, falchions, cutlasses, and even an old khopesh that her “father” had sent her once. It was rather impractical as a weapon, being so old and produced from an inferior blacksmithing technique to modern styles, but it was really cool and she appreciated the gift.

She reached for a vent and opened it to ensure the room would have plenty of airflow before finally taking in her surroundings. The entryway of the room opened to a rather cozy, unexpectedly large floorplan. Her bandmates would probably be a little surprised when they arrived. Viveca wasn’t the type to need a lot of space to herself, but Mother Indira had given her one of the largest rooms on the ship. The metal deck of the ship was covered in laminate designed to appear as hardwood. Wood was preferable, but this was just fine, a couple rugs of intricate red and gold designs padded the floors.

Running perpendicular to the doorway was unmistakably a bar. Viveca blinked - no way did they actually put a bar in her room. She owed Mother Indira big time. Striding around the side to look on the shelves underneath, she found more than enough liquor, at least for herself, and a few sugary mixers. Fresh fruit was at a premium on the ship, so she would have to ask the galley for it herself if she wanted some, but there was even salt and several different types of glasses secured to the underside of the bar.

On the far end, there were a few cartons of cigarettes which Viveca had purchased and sent ahead of time to meet her here. Double checking her vent once more, she removed a pack from one of the cartons. Lighting one of the cigarettes up, she took a few minutes to enjoy the silence and solitude. The stick dangling from between her lips, she placed a tumbler and a bottle of scotch on top of the wooden bar. Two ice cubes and a splash of liquor later, she finally felt relaxed. Just five minutes, that’s all she needed, then Oren and Tatiana could come in. She placed the journal she had found on the desk and pulled out two more glasses for the others. Viveca removed her coat and hung it on a rack by the door before taking a seat behind the bar to wait for the others.

No sooner had she done so than a knock came from outside. Viveca sighed - oh, how quickly five minutes turned into ninety seconds. She rose from her seat and slowly made her way to the door, blowing one more puff of smoke toward the vent before grabbing the handle and pulling it up, the bars slid back, and a pale-faced Oren walked into the room. With a trembling hand, he showed her a piece of folded paper, and with a soft voice, he spoke to her.

“What does this mean, Viveca?”

---

Tatiana nearly stumbled from her feet as she exited the room. She felt as though she was struck by a plague, having an underlying sickening sensation all throughout her body. Was it her work or herself within which that cruelness found its origin? Tatiana would never know, nor would she truly want to. As she padded back through the labyrinthine halls towards her room, she pondered the thought of what was to come. Was it true that a storm like no other would obliterate the forward armada? Would the Karamzina fall in line and become the successor to the same fate? Again Tatiana was unsure. How often that was the case.

Tatiana struggled with the heavy steel door in her fatigued state, but it wasn’t long before she entered her newfound living quarters. She couldn’t have said that what she then saw was unexpected, but just witnessing the space that Mother Indira had created for her left Tatiana with an odd sensation. At first, she couldn’t place it. She just felt distant. The room itself was very homey: spacious, decorated and carrying with it an uplifting atmosphere. Tatiana couldn’t help but feel out of place. Luckily, she didn’t spend much time there. A note had been left on her mantle, more particularly a summons. It felt like ages since Tatiana had last talked to her friends in Warband Leviathan, and as much as she wanted to be alone, the eerie sensation that made her skin crawl in the room made her want to leave just as quickly as she’d entered.

Without bothering to do much more than wash the blood and viscera from her skin and face, Tatiana stepped from the room. Her inquisitor’s coat looked as though it had been through each of the Varyan conquests. A close eye might even catch the subtle black-crimson tint to its originally muted colors. Tatiana’s very presence seemed to carry with it an aura of the death and pain the coat had seen inflicted in the past days. Maybe Tatiana didn’t notice. Maybe she didn’t care. Even she was unsure as she stepped further into the maze of hallways to seek out Viveca’s room.

---

Meanwhile, Viveca was staring placidly at Oren, who seemed to almost fall through the threshold. She motioned toward the bar.

“Is that your letter from Mother Indira? It means exactly what it says. We’re all facing a suicide mission if we don’t do something about it. I hope you used your time between graduation and now wisely, Brother,” She said, a small smile forming on her lips finally. “Because we’re about to have a very exciting few months. I would like Tatiana to get here before we start diving too deeply into our Good Mother’s message, so…” She pulled the journal she had found in the catacombs out of her things and placed it on the bar.

“Take a look through this, let me know if anything stands out to you… It’s proven itself rather dangerous, so don’t try to read any of the ciphered words out loud if you can help it. What’s your poison of the night, Oren? Or are you abstaining?” The Inquisitor asked, swirling her glass before taking a small sip and putting out the butt of her cigarette. Get here soon, Tatiana…

Oren opened his mouth to retort, but the words died before they even left his throat. Silently, he sat down, resting his forehead on the knuckles of his right hand. He… could understand where Viveca was coming from, there. If they were to meet, then it’d be best to pool all of their knowledge at once instead of having to repeat things when Tatiana arrived. Making a circle in the air with his index finger, two bottles - rum and water respectively - shifted forward on their shelves.

“I… so much has been going on these past few days, Viv. I have a thousand questions and I can only piece together the barest minimum... and I don’t understand any of it. First Iddin-Mar, and then Marius, and now this? I feel like I’m going mad.”

Oren paused, looking up. He swallowed a gulp of air. “I’m scared, Viveca.”

Tatiana took no pause at the door to her comrade’s room. Within just a second, she pushed the monolith of steel inwards, bracing herself as the groan of the metallic scraping resounded around the Karamzina’s empty hallways. Clasped in her hands, Tatiana carried Viveca’s note at her side.

Viveca lightly placed a hand on Oren’s before moving to the shelf to grab the bottles he had motioned for. Pouring him his drink, she sat back down, “Me, too… Don’t worry, we’ve at least got the knowledge that something could go wrong, we can work forward, right?” She asked, keeping her tone as calm and reassuring as possible. It wavered slightly - she was terrified too. Of the book, of the story, that Indira had told, and of a demise so shortly after their graduation. “We ca-” She stopped as the door creaked - good, now they were all here.

As Tatiana stepped into the room, she spent a long moment in silence, letting the air be pervaded only by the echoic creaking of the door as it soon shut behind her. Her solemn eyes lay upon her colleagues with a certain degree of sorrow locked behind them. Tatiana fiddled with the note between her fingers as she spoke. She made no attempt to tread further into the room from the door.

“It seems omens have become commonplace in the lives of those that tread our path…” Tatiana bit her tongue for a moment. “The future doesn’t look upon Varya’s servants well.” However much she tried to hide it, Tatiana couldn’t fully conceal the doubt that pervaded into her tone. With haste, she shook her head, switching to a more upbeat tone of voice. Facade or not, she was trying. “But never mind that. Sorry. It is good to see you two again…”

Viveca gave the best smile she could muster at the sight of Tatiana. It wasn’t much. She rose to her feet, “I agree. It’s bleak. You both have been through Hell the last few days, it looks like,” She gave a weak laugh, reaching an almost shaking hand for her drink. So had she, but by the looks of it, they had all experienced very different things. “I’m glad you’re okay, I’d hate to see the other guy,” The woman pointed out, looking her friend over before ducking behind the bar to fish out a bottle of rimerite.

“I don’t want to go first, if you don’t mind… Oren, I’d really like to hear about Iddin-Mar. I desperately wish I could have gone too, what did you find?” She glanced to Tatiana, sliding the journal down the table, “At leisure,” She added quietly, tapping the cover of the forsaken literature.

Oren paused as both women turned to him. Right. His would sound the simplest of the three, at least in concept. Taking a deep draught from his glass, he turned in the chair so that he faced halfway between Viveca and Tatiana. He cast one last look at his hand before beginning to speak.

“You both presumably know why I went to Iddin-Mar. I wanted to connect myself to the history there, experience it at least once. In hopes of forming a tighter bond with Mother Ziotea of your warband, Tatiana, I asked her to accompany me. I am grateful that I did that, now, because otherwise, I don’t think I would be alive and well here before you. Or perhaps I would - either way, I almost was not. So allow me to explain.

“On our journey north, we were met by a young soldier, Private Andrei Semenov. He didn’t look much younger than us; half a dozen years or so. Reportedly, he was to accompany us to Iddin-Mar - I didn’t question it. Two Omestrian-blooded Inquisitors headed for an old ruin ought to warrant something, wouldn’t you agree?” Oren shook his head. “Andrei wasn’t there for the Seminary, or the Clerical Branch, or even the Secular Army. Keep that in mind.”

“When we got to the ruins themselves, the Marian Gate was mostly deserted - just two soldiers, Sergeants Mikhail and Veena. They seemed surprised by our arrival, as anyone would be - we hadn’t exactly sent word.”

Viveca intently watched Oren as he recounted his story, nodding now and then. “Seems odd, though… a Private accompanying two fully-fledged Inquisitors to Omestris? Even if he was Secular or Clerical, what could he have possibly done to protect you or stop you from doing anything he was ordered to prevent..? Doesn’t seem like a very well thought-out excuse,” She pointed out with a shrug, taking a sip from her drink, waving her hand - she didn’t want to overshadow Oren, sounded like they had quite a few twists and turns to buckle in for.

“Well, my thought process - and his - was that if Semenov were not to return, that would be sign enough. When we made our way down, he attempted to… cosy up to me, I suppose. He showed me a pendant of some kind, with Mother Indira’s symbol, claiming to be… some sort of acolyte of hers, I suppose. I’ll tell you now that he wasn’t. So I told him to stay at the barracks - Ziotea and I went into the ruins alone. And in there, well...”

He bit the inside of his cheek, pondering what to say next. Should he tell them? He had no reason to lie to them… Mother Indira trusted them enough to let them in on her grim, though uncertain, fate. When he thought of Fie and Vahn’s faces, though, it made him hesitate. His eyes flitted to Mother Tatiana… the unknown in his equation… maybe the best option would be ‘not yet’.

“We met a woman. Lyessa al-Nors. Old, but an immensely powerful apostate, or ‘retired inquisitor’, as she put it. She… well, she surrendered her catalyst to me, in exchange for amicable conversation. I believe that Ziotea was… wary, as any of us should be, but I was more curious. And, well…” Oren took another gulp of his drink. “She told us things about Omestrian history… or even Varyan history, to look at it in another way, that have been all but forgotten, now. And about an azure circle, that every inquisitor of Omestrian blood sees in their vision at culmination… that is why I believe her. I saw that circle on my hand - almost engraved upon it.” His fist clenched, almost involuntarily, but enough to hurt. He carried on. “Ziotea claims to have seen one of her own. And I know that you must have seen one in yours, Viveca.”

Viveca nodded, “I most certainly did…” She shuddered, “I’ve only felt it twice… Once in the vision and once while looking through this book. A cold unlike any other followed it closely behind - in the vision, it was branded to my chest,” She explained, absently stirring her drink with one hand as the other rested gently upon the splotched mark on her neck.

Oren nodded at her, even as his eyes tracked her hand to the mark. But here came the part that he shouldn’t dare utter. Even though he knew it to be true, it was heresy against the Church he served and the God he owed his loyalty.

“...What she told us last, is what we need to think about… We know that Lanostre devoured C’eione, the Right Hand that held her. We are told that Varya consumed Risgyn the Right Leg, Retmis the Left, Phiiuss the Eyes and Kirana the Soul, while T’sarae and Muraad watched on, and that Omestris awakened around this time. What Lady Lyessa revealed to us… she told us about another god… the brother of Omestris. The Shield, Asherahn. A being that burned with the hate of the Fire Titan… and how he planned to betray his sister. How T’sarae, Varya, Muraad and Omestris united against him, to imprison him… and how he might still be influencing Omestrian Inquisitors through our Aspects.”

“Another god…” Tatiana interjected briefly, but soon trailed off again. The thought of the Broken Pantheon splitting even more made her head hurt, but it also offered insight into what may have been before her at the glaciers of Lanostre. “Sorry. Go on.” Tatiana shook her head, then gesturing to Oren.

The pale inquisitor bowed his head towards Tatiana in turn. “…but I am inclined to believe her. Because on our way back through the garrison, we… well, we were attacked by Seminov, Mikhail and Veena. But not as I thought they were… I can’t quite explain it… they were almost like demons - but also not. Armoured bodies that our weapons could not pierce. Crystal arms that were more blade than limb. I admit to being shaken by their appearance - and by how close I came to death.”

“The crystalline warriors… More godlike entities… We’ve dealt with very similar things in Lanostre.” Tatiana’s mind once again began to wander as the fog of her mind overcame her will to offer any words. She half expected to fall back into another sort of trance-state with all the talk of the demon-like creatures. Glimpses of the memory rushed back to her, and for a moment, Tatiana felt as though she could once again see the fell creatures and their reinvigorated form in her dream-state.

“I believe they come from the East— the creatures, I mean. I don’t know what they are, but demons never before identified inhabited the Glacier. They were harbingers of the Varyan fleet’s demolition…” Tatiana bit her tongue. The aching pain cutting through her head gave her pause as she tried to recall the most important details of her journey with Galahad and Astraea. So much had happened that she was unsure of how to sift through important and unimportant bits of information. Regarding her time around Polarpike, though, Tatiana was apprehensive to even mention it.

“Much… Very much has happened with regards to the Varyan troops and inquisitors stationed at Lanostre, but we should also discuss our other business. Has Indira given word to the two of you?” Tatiana palmed the letter in her hand with the seal of her mentor. A part of her knew how much she failed to offer her fellow inquisitors. Another part of her recognized that she was redirecting her focus for a reason.

Viveca drummed her fingers slowly on the bartop, her brow furrowed in thought as her eyes would glean the cover of the forsaken tome apprehensively. “I did not receive a letter… She told me the story in person and bade me to find you two once we arrived to the ark. What Father Creid saw may be our very same fate if we don’t find a way to stop it… or prevent it. Because nothing we say is going to keep these arks from taking off,” She pointed out, running a hand through her hair.

“I haven’t read the letter, but Mother Indira told me everything they saw… She dubbed it Vai’roth… I’ll save you the time, because it took me a moment to figure out, it’s Omestrian for Hellfire.” She shuddered at the words, “It came from somewhere in the sky, so fast… so imperceptibly fast, it decimated the ark, causing destruction at every turn, disintegrating all in its path. She said it took but moments… The way she described it made it feel so real - as though the thought alone of looking at it was enough to cause a severe burn.” The Inquisitor reached to the back of her head and carefully brushed her ribbon, reassuring herself.

She sighed, “If we’re to do anything about this, we only have today to gather what little resource we can find. We’re on our own starting tomorrow. And that armada was doomed before the blueprints were even complete for its creation.”

A nagging at the back of her mind caused her to turn back to Oren, “But you mentioned Asherahn, right?” She asked, resisting the chill down her spine at the word, “Look at this. Be careful,” The Inquisitor warned, pulling her tome’s cover aside and flipping pages until she came to the one with the circle etched on it. The word Ashe-rahn was written inside. “When I read this, a terrible cold enveloped my body… I froze, literally, almost completely encased in ice…” Viveca sighed, “It was horrifying, I’ve never been so helpless to death… I was certain I was going to die in the archives… I found the book with a family in these strange sarcophagi. And on the way here, I found this too.”

She flipped a few more pages and revealed the image of a brilliant white sphere colliding with an azure dome, shaped as a perfect circle encapsulating a cityscape. “I have no way of knowing for sure… But what do you two think? This here,” The woman pointed to the city, turning the book so they could see it, “Looks like Iddin-Mar. If I had to guess, at least, it’s the only city I could think of it being anymore. And this,” She moved her finger to the sphere, “I don’t really know… I wonder if it isn’t Sydon-Mar, but that doesn’t make much sense… If it is, how was Iddin-Mar protected and how did Sydon-Mar end up so far to the North? Lastly, based on this azure circle business we’ve all been looking at… the dome protecting the possible Iddin-Mar, could it be a blessing from Asherahn? Thoughts?”

Oren studied the picture for a moment, before a stray word flashed through his mind; fallen. Lyessa had called it the ‘Fallen Star’. And he shook his head. “I believe not, Viveca. Or if it is a blessing, it has since become His curse. The woman spoke of it as the Fallen Star - and, if I am correct, its trajectory could have been what made the Scar, before resting at the northern end… and eventually becoming Sydon-Mar. What this ‘Star’ truly is or how it ‘fell’, I cannot say. But we only have half-truths and fragments of the past to go on…”

Tatiana tapped her hand idly on the countertop. She almost seemed imperceptive to her own movements as her thoughts had swallowed her whole. When she finally seemed to break away from her listless gaze off into distance, she spoke in a low and quiet voice, as though talking to herself. Tatiana’s tone soon picked up, though, her random thoughts finally starting to offer pieces of a solution.

“Hellfire…Vai’roth… There must be a way to escape it. That place—the east— there must be a cause of it there.” Again, Tatiana took a long pause in her speech. She wrestled with herself in an attempt to force herself to reveal more detail about the events at the Black Glacier. “I may have some insight into what lies beyond. Perhaps not the cause of the ‘Vai’roth’, but about what’s behind it.” Tatiana’s eyes flickered open and shut a few times. Her mind wandered to her vision at the Glacier, or at least she tried her best to recall it as perfectly as she experienced it.

“There’s something, or someone rather over there. A people— a society even. I saw them through the strangely new demons at the Glacier. One of our colleagues at the Red Seminary is even there… I think. Father Dara, the other summoner. I’ve been wondering since first reading Indira’s letter… They must be controlling or at least aware of this ‘Hellfire’s’ causes.” Tatiana still had not met the gaze of the Leviathan inquisitors until that point. Just as her eyes flashed over those of Oren and Viveca, however, they just as quickly flicked away to stare at the empty glass before her.

“The people over on that other side, they even spoke to me. They were a king and queen on wooden thrones… They—and Dara—could be related to whatever eradicated the first armada.” Tatiana sighed with finality. “I don’t know. It was like our visions at the Seminary… However crazy that may sound.”

At this, Oren let out a hollow smile. “Everything that we have been discussing sounds insane, Mother Tatiana, if not heretical. Fire, and dead gods, and demons of the like that no one has ever seen? We have no answers, no explanation, and we haven’t the time to search for them… not here, in any case.” His smile dropped, and he stood, turning away from them to face the window, looking out over Cero. “...So what are we going to do? We cannot keep this to ourselves, that much, I am sure of. Father Galahad will need to know.” He thought back to Ziotea’s insistence on letting her warsiblings know what was going on. “...And perhaps a few others.”

Viveca drummed her fingers on the table once more in apprehension, finally putting her cigarette out in an ashtray. She picked up her glass and refilled it, offering more to anybody who needed a drink with her to cut the tension. She listened to each of them in turn, absently pulling the ribbon from her hair and weaving it between her fingers in different patterns. It helped distract her and, more importantly, kept her from lighting more tobacco as the conversation only festered more anxiety.

“Nothing anybody has said sounds so crazy when we’ve all experienced some form of incomprehensible bullshit in the last few days. I agree that we should talk to some more people about this… Ziotea probably deserves to know. Tell who you will, everybody has something to give, but we also don’t want to sow chaos if we can avoid it, right?” She bit her lip, staring at her drink as the lone ice cube swirled around the glass in her hand. Her amber eyes remained fixated for a moment. Now came the hard part - deciding what they could possibly do about it with what they know now.

Viveca took a long inhale, shuddering slightly as she let the breath out. “I don’t like this - what I’m about to say… But Tatiana, I feel like you’re one of few people who can help with the hypothesis. You know I’ve never had much… flashy power with my ether… But maybe your experience with summoning can lead to something here. Like I said before, I called forth some wretched power from that forsaken tome. Perhaps it was lack of experience, perhaps it wasn’t summoning at all, I know nothing of curses nor summoning, but do you think it’s worth looking into? If it can be controlled, maybe it has something to do with this shield and if I’m not the only one who can do it, we might be able to use it among other things.” She placed her glass back on the bar and pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment, shaking her head, “I really don’t know, and I really don’t want to try, but if it could help and I wasn’t alone, maybe I could try to do it on purpose.”

“Are you willing to take the risk?” Oren asked quietly. When Viveca looked up to answer him, she saw a glint of steel behind his eyes, and the hand that held his drink was white-knuckled and shaking. “Are you? I am not. Whatever this… book, this thing did to you; you said it almost killed you, and you want to try again? If it is tied to Asherahn, and I believe it is, then it is more than simply dangerous.”

Viveca met her old friend's eyes, solemn for only a brief moment before a renewed determination fortified her gaze. “We have very little choice than to experiment if this is our fate. I've a few scars from the ice, I pushed it down once, with help I'm sure it's worth looking into. If it can stop this, then we have no choice.”

The two stared at each other for a few moments, an unspoken battle of wills passing between them, before Oren broke away. “So be it. Tatiana?”

Tatiana eyed the glasses spread across Viveca’s bar despite her empty hands. In the end, she recognized the thirst not for any one spirit, but for an escape. Tatiana turned around in her seat, examining the rest of the room instead. She pondered the question that Viveca proposed to her. Could her summoning succeed in finding a solution to the hellfire? While her odds didn’t seem likely, Tatiana hadn’t yet found a problem that her and her abilities couldn’t solve.

“I would try to assist with the book should you believe I can help... What would you have us do?”The thought of her warband within the mighty Karamzina braving the endless cold was foreboding alone, but what Tatiana saw of Dara, of the demons, of the strange king worried her even more. The Vai’roth was just one more problem to add to the mix.

“Perhaps there is something we can do to stop it…” Tatiana stopped at that thought. She didn’t have any particular strategies in mind. Her absent gaze must have telegraphed that. “Perhaps those that traveled before us will have somehow stopped the threat. We won’t know for sure until we set off— until we run into it…”

Tatiana’s thoughts traveled back to her strange encounter on the bridge to Polarpike. She wondered if the solution was in the hands of the inquisitors. She wondered if perhaps the message received from the foreign emissaries could be a solution on its own. “I may find a way yet… One of us must.” Tatiana balled her hand into a fist as she spoke, determination pervading onto her rather stalwart expression. “We ought to start looking—sifting through what we know, what we’ve learned, and so forth…”

Tatiana nodded her head at her own words, rising from her seat as she did so. “There are things I could study, things I could explore. No matter where the solution is hidden, perhaps we shouldn’t be looking for it in drinks.” Tatiana eyed the door before looking to her colleagues for their input.

Oren looked at his glass - though a fair portion of it was empty, the dregs of his drink still swirled at the bottom of it. He looked at Viveca. He looked at Tatiana. “...I think I have a plan.”

---

As the nameless sun began to set on their final day within the empire, the inquisitors of warbands Phoenix and Leviathan stood in a singular row on the decorated pier. Behind them a small army of pale-faced men and women stood in ceremonial formation. They were dressed in the dark crimson of the Secular Army and the grey and scarlet of the Imperial Armada; and though their clean and well-pressed uniforms made each of them look a proud warrior, the fear and worry in their eyes was all too apparent.

Facing the First Elurian Mission, on a raised ceremonial stage of Lanostran obsidian, Lord Inquisitor Ilyon stood, his grey wrinkled hands gesticulating to the sky.

"... It falls to you." He spoke with a voice like a hiss of smoke, his strange lightless eyes gazing at the collected soldiers, sailors and war priests who, in the coming months, would set out to brandish the faith of Varya across the sea.

It was the first time Ragnar had ever laid eyes on a Lord Inquisitor of the High Council, and the visage of the ancient priest filled him with awe, terror, and what could only be described as a quiet disgust.

The Lord Inquisitor appeared tall and gaunt, his limbs thin like wire under the folds of his unadorned black cloak. He was taller than even Stina, which Ragnar thought impossible, but there seemed to be few things natural about Lord Ilyon. The Lord Inquisitor appeared human only in passing. He was old-- older than anyone Ragnar had ever seen. His back twisted in a strange angle and one of his long branch-like arms trembled on occasion. Despite this, and the thin depleted voice that struggled to escape his throat, Lord Ilyon's face was completely smooth and free of wrinkles or any specific markings or color. It was void of expression or emotion-- a circle of grey skin, eyes, a nose, and a mouth, wreathed by the folds of his cloak which stretched over and around his head.

Ragnar had heard the legends of the inquisition's heralded bishops being granted an increased life span by Lord Varya, but nothing concerning similar enchantments being bestowed to the lord inquisitors, who were lower ranked in the church hierarchy. What divine gift, if one could call it that, did the Ravenous Lord impart on the lord inquisitors?

As Lord Ilyon spoke, Ragnar could not help but look at them. A pair of grey, thin hands hanging limp at the lord inquisitor's side.

Those hands...

That the fated children who would eventually unite to form Warband Phoenix and Leviathan had been allowed to suffer through the Seminary's brutal years at all, that they had been plucked from their corners of the empire and brought together-- all of it had been ordained by Ilyon and his brethren, all had been guided by those long, pale hands.

Ragnar forced himself to look away.

Standing behind Lord Ilyon a blonde woman dressed in the white and crimson dress of a cleric-mother stood with a smile, and flanking her were two younger sisters of the clerical branch. At his side, Ragnar felt Hassan leaning forward slightly, his deep azure gaze falling on one of the sisters, a young woman with wild black hair and dark storm-colored eyes.

"That nun there. She was at the pub. I saved her from a smuggler," Hassan recalled, seemingly to himself. Ragnar looked at Hassan's hand. It was still bandaged. Apparently he had received that wound shielding a young nun from a hand cannon blast. Ragnar tried to remember that night and found that he couldn't recall most of what had occurred. He had been too excited by the whole stopping a rocket with a paling thing to pay attention to anything else.

On a raised platform above the stage behind Lord Ilyon a chorus of young acolyte children dressed in white and red stood with blank faces. Ragnar looked on at their faces curiously. Each of the children was expressionless and all of them seemed to be missing the scars and bruises that he and the rest of his warsiblings had amassed at that age.

"... It is a land engulfed in shadow." Lord Ilyon's thin voice could barely be heard if not for the complete silence, and yet it captured Ragnar's attention.

"Since His reunion with the lost pantheon our Lord has dreamt of Eluria's ebon frontiers. Our Emperor has glimpsed with His all-seeing eyes the darkness that chokes at Eluria's heart. Its people suffer in silence, waiting for their savior and it is Lord Varya's salvation that you shall bring them. You shall be the dawn that brings light to shadow."

From the corner of his vision Ragnar could glimpse Hassan rolling his eyes at the Lord Inquisitor's speech.

"We'll bring salvation to them, alright. Right after the First Armada cuts a swath of destruction through the place," Hassan whispered to himself.

"Are you really doing this now?" Ragnar hissed at him with a venomous look in his eye. Hassan smiled and winked at him.

Ragnar allowed a burdened sigh to leave his lungs. Despite the timing of it, Ragnar couldn't help but agree with Hassan's musings. The fact that the First Elurian Mission's aim was to convert the people of the wild continent after the invasion had never sat right with him. It reminded him too much of the invasion campaigns in Muraad. Of course, it was all comparatively ancient history, and the chieftains of Muraad's myriad clans had officially acquiesced to the empire's sovereignty, but still...

What if the Elurians didn't want to embrace Lord Varya's light? What would follow?

"Warleader. Come forth," Lord Ilyon turned to gaze upon Galahad, who stood at the center of the inquisitor line.

His warsibling bowed and made his way to the raised obsidian stage. As he walked forward the crowd of reporters and press standing at the far end of the pier began to murmur and take photos. Ragnar scoffed.

"He hasn't even done anything yet," he said dejectedly.

"Have you really not heard tell of our little escapade in Lanostre?" Astraea asked bemusedly. He turned to face her with a confused expression. As always, she towered over him.

"I've been busy helping plan this entire thing so no, I haven't heard anything. Not like any of you idiots will tell me anything."

"Well, when you get a chance, read this morning's paper," she answered with a wry smile.

Ragnar frowned and turned to face the stage once more. Galahad was kneeling in front of the Lord Inquisitor, his palms outstretched, waiting.

"Inquisitor Quaid of the Phoenix. By your hand the will of Lord Varya shall be done. Through your strength the people of Eluria shall be brought into His bosom."

The blonde cleric-mother dressed in the formal white and crimson robes approached the center of the stage where the Lord Inquisitor stood towering over Galahad. Resting on her palms she carried a decorative sword forged of what appeared to be shining ruby. The sword's blade gathered the light of the falling sun and shone beautifully in the growing darkness. It seemed to flicker as Lord Ilyon took the sword from the woman's grasp and placed it resolutely on Galahad's open hands.

"With this sword you wield the divine voice of our Emperor. Do not fail."

The crowd of onlookers at the far end of the pier began to cheer and applaud for Galahad as he rose to his feet. Ragnar wasn't certain if such a thing was allowed at these ceremonies, but it didn't seem to matter to the Lord Inquisitor. As Galahad turned around and stepped down from the stage, gaudy jeweled sword in hand, the chorus of child acolytes began to sing and with that, the roar of the crowd began to grow louder. It was in that moment, Ragnar realized, that the people gathered there had chosen his best friend and rival as their hero.

His heart aching, Father Ragnar smiled and clapped along with them.

---

Night had fallen, the tables had been cleared, but the grand ballroom within the Sareffi-Astra Palace, former home of the dead kings of T'sarae, was still alight with music and the murmuring of laughter and conversation.

The state dinner had been a night-long affair, and Ragnar, to his surprise, had found himself enjoying the pomp and circumstance of it all. It was nice to finally get to relax with his war siblings, even if such a thing was truly impossible. All of the uncertainty, fear, his jealousy... Not even the smiles and laughter of his beloved siblings could make him forget it all. But of course, he couldn't let them see. He was their Protector and thus the bright cheerful eyes and friendly grin had not left his face all night.

He was sat alone at one of the high tables on the second level of the ballroom. Compared to the ballroom at the Great Basilika where the Rising Feast took place, this chamber wasn't as massive or ostentatious. While it was lacking in the Lanostran-obsidian walls and tiling and the shameless display of the Church's prosperity and power, it had one thing going for it. It wasn't as cold. Of course, the ballroom at the Basilika was located fathoms above the glowing sectors of Magnagrad, at the greatest heights of the Godsfall where the Church made its home. The T'saraen palace was modest in comparison; a beautiful estate by the coast of Cero City, but hollow, small, and, if Ragnar had heard the servants correctly, mostly abandoned.

The wolf pups were growing restless again. He had sneaked them some food below the table during the feast, and for a time they had been content to lay at his feet, but something was making them anxious.

"There, there. Calm down, little ones," he urged them softly. He reached down to stroke each of their backs, and to his surprise, they calmed down. Ragnar giggled to himself. He really did have it. Not even a decade spent in Varya had stripped him of his Muraadan-born gifts. He could calm any animal he wanted. This was proof. He'd have to brag to Ragnar and Tatiana later.

Beneath him, the floor of the ballroom had been made into a makeshift dining area. Soldiers, sailors, and select members of the Varyan and T'saraen nobility were sat at their tables or mingling around the room. Some members of the press had managed to finagle their way into the feast as well. Ragnar could see them scurrying around the dining floor, trying to speak with his warsiblings. None of them had wanted to speak with him yet, which picked at him to end.

I'm the Protector, godsdammit. I'm easily the most important member of the warband. Why won't they even take my picture? It's because I'm Muraadan... and short... and still look like like a child half my age. I hate this so much. I wish I liked drinking. I wish I could just get drunk and forget how I feel. But you can't forget, Ragnar. You can never forget. You can only bury it.

He forced his eyes shut.

Ethereal light cycloned within the deep indigo of his pupils and then faded. He guided the light inward, through the grey flesh of his brain, into the hollows of his skull, and allowed it to awash in the pit of his stomach, where all the burning anxiety lay. He formed the light into a miniature aegis and collected all of his failures, his hatred, his shame and jealousy, picking them up like trash washed up on a shore and gathered them all in his arms and dropped them within the aegis, imprisoning the refuse of his emotions where they could no longer hurt him.

That would do for a while.

Ragnar opened his eyes and found them wet. Hastily wiping the moisture from his eyes, he rose from his seat, leaving the pups sleeping beneath the table. He walked to the edge of the floor and leaned out over the gilded barricade. He felt better now, but something still hung over him.

Fear. There was no getting rid of that.

He looked down at the dining floor, where many of his warsiblings were mingling with the rest of the members of the expedition. The barbed thorns were gone from his stomach, but he was still terrified, and he didn't know why. He wondered if his warsiblings felt as scared as he did.

He searched for Ziotea and Rodion first, but couldn't find them. They were probably spending their last free night together in the city. Part of him wished he had joined them.

In a dark corner of the dining room, standing in the shadow of a balcony, Oren observed the rest of the floor, his pale gold eyes like a pair of stars obscured by a clouded sky. He had been quiet, almost silent throughout dinner. But, then again, that was normal for him, Ragnar mused.

Elsewhere, at the bar, Hassan and Stina were drinking with a crowd of secular soldiers. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the soldiers, who up until then had been grim-faced and nervous when in their company, appeared to be laughing and telling jokes. Perhaps it was just the drink, but it was ideal for the warband to form a certain connection with their military support. Creid had taught them, year in and year out, the importance of this. Ragnar wondered if Stina and Hassan were intent on keeping to Creid's teachings, or if they just needed drinking buddies.

Ragnar's eyes were then drawn to the center of the floor where Viveca stood ensconced within a gaggle of the nobility and what appeared to be high-ranking militarymen who weren't part of the expedition. She had a drink in her hand, and someone was telling them to gather together for a photograph. Ragnar smiled. At least she had the right idea.

Standing apart from the collected crowds, Ragnar immediately caught sight of Tatiana's black curls as she made her way through the floor, stopping and talking with important-looking nobles and journalist, then moving on. She seemed to be slowly heading to one specific spot. Ragnar's followed her intended path to the far end of the room, where Galahad sat at a lone table with Commander Zoya Kiriyev and her two lieutenants, Dragonov and Lycaon.

The table had been completely cleared and the three of them seemed to be in a serious discussion.

Ragnar had not been able to meet Commander Kiriyev due to her being so busy preparing for the journey. In fact, she didn't seem to have much time for any of the inquisitors, except for Galahad. Despite them technically outranking her, Ragnar was getting the distinct feeling that this fact mattered very little to her.

She and her two lieutenants sat stoic and calm, speaking directly and confidently to Galahad. Despite the warleader of Phoenix Warband being in their presence, the three officers didn't seem to be cowed by him at all. In fact, it was strange, but it almost seemed like... they were looking at him with something approaching disdain. Or boredom.

Commander Kiriyev reached into her red officer's coat and brought out what looked like a miniature version of a tactical map. She placed it on the table and stabbed at it with her finger.

It was at that moment that Tatiana reached the table and slid onto the chair next to Galahad with the casual grace that always seemed to come so natural to her. She leaned forward on the table and began to look at Kiriyev's map. The three officers glowered at her silently, then at Galahad. Tatiana said something then, which Ragnar could read from her lips as "carry on".

This was too interesting, Ragnar thought. A mischievous smile formed across his lips as he gripped the barricade tightly. He leaned out as far as he could while summoning a bit of his ether. Turning his head, he enhanced his hearing, trying to focus it on the table where Galahad and Tatiana sat.


"You mentioned their leader-- this "man in black", heading eastward and warning you not to pursue. There is only one known path through the glacier sea. If he should follow it, there is a high probability that we will encounter the Silver Fleet," Lieutenant Dragonov spoke in a cold, measured tone. His eyes, a blue so pale they almost appeared grey, focused on Galahad and then Tatiana in turn.

"According to the church reports he has allied himself with the apostate, Father Dara. Should we cross paths with this individual, what is your plan? Do we fight? Do we allow them passage?"

Before Ragnar could hear anything else, an armored hand pressed on to his back and lightly pushed him forward, causing him to jerk himself backward from the edge of the railing.

"Hey!"

"Spying doesn't suit you, Ragnar. Leave that to Oren and Hassan," Astraea said coyly. She was standing behind him, holding what appeared to be a half-empty bottle of virika.

"Are you drunk?"

"Halfway there," she said, holding up the bottle and giving it a light shake.

She strode up alongside him, leaning over the railing to stare down at their warsiblings and the three secular officers. Ragnar's attention was drawn to Astraea's bare muscled arms. He rarely got to see them, with her always wearing her armor, and thus when he caught sight of the horrible-looking half-healed scar that covered her right bicep he couldn't help but reel back in shock.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Lost my arm in a battle at the Glacier. Had to restore it through ether. It was my first time doing it. Kind of made a mess of it," she said, glassy-eyes staring at the wound. "Antonin would be ashamed of me," she added, strangely bereft of humor. Her eyes were focused on the three officers sitting with Galahad and Tatiana.

"You need to tell me everything that happened. Gods, everyone's been so quiet since we got here. It's strange."

When she didn't answer him, Ragnar looked down once more at the table, burying his chin in his arms. The battle in Lanostre... He hoped Galahad and Tatiana would tell him about it eventually. They had spent their entire childhood together. The three of them were closer than most.

"It's really happening," Ragnar said, "Galahad is finally going to take charge of the warband... officially, I mean. Those three don't seem too impressed by him though," Ragnar wondered aloud.

"Those three."

Astraea took a swig of virika, speaking in a tone Ragnar had only heard once before, when she had learned what Father Magnus had done to Ziotea all those years ago.

"Those three can die slowly, if the gods are just."

Ragnar looked at her in confusion.

"What-- What are you talking about?"

She took a deep breath. Ragnar could see that she was trying to calm herself down, but was failing.

"The blonde one-- Dragonov. He did things during the war... things that not even war can justify. Children..."

Astraea did not go further then that.

"And his master Kiriyev let it all happen."

"Astraea--"

"The other one. Lycaon. He was one of us. A Lanostran, born and bred. Before the war ended he abandoned his comrades and turned to piracy. While loyal soldiers remained to face the Varyans and the inquisitors, he fled and spent the next twenty years reaving his wounded homeland. "

Astraea's eyes burned emerald. "Fucking coward. Fucking oathbreaker," she spat beneath her breath.

Ragnar was silent for a long moment.

"We've done worse," he whispered, "the inquisition has done worse."

Astraea stared at him, the shame in his eyes mirroring her own.

"I'm done here. Let's get some air."

It felt like there were reporters everywhere. Ziotea and Rodion had ditched the ballroom as soon as they could get away with doing so, and still the press hounded them. They were mostly focused on Rodion, asking where Madrys was, what he was working on now, and a hundred other questions. At first the young man tried to answer them, but there were so many. His tone never changed, but his chest grew tight. He didn't want to be talking. Couldn't they just leave him alone?

At his side Ziotea glowered at the various people that intruded on their personal space, like scavengers crowding around a fresh corpse. The way they acted was similar, like they all wanted a piece of Rodion for themselves. She tried to ignore it -- this was T'sarae, after all. Rodion was a genius engineer; it made sense that they'd want to know more about him. Her dislike of the press had no bearing if he wanted to talk to them, and for a time it seemed like he didn't mind. So Ziotea kept her breathing steady, her grip on her spear merely firm instead of tight, and tried to think of other things. She watched Rodion, saw the slow creep of tension into his stance, heard the stress that edged his voice. Should she step in?

She had just decided that enough was enough when Rodion felt for her free hand and tugged gently at her index finger. The old signal meant that they should get out of there, that it wasn't safe. Ziotea couldn't have agreed more. She stepped in front of her companion, gently pushing him behind her. She wasn't so gentle with the reporter that tried to shove forward after Rodion, pulling her hand free and planting it on his chest. It took no effort at all to knock the man off-balance. The questions turned to focus on her, but she barely heard them. Instead of addressing any of them individually, she released a gentle burst of force, enough to stagger all the reporters back.

"Enough!" she snapped, eyes flashing. Silence fell in their part of the garden, and Ziotea felt the uncertainty of those she faced. The fear. Even here they'd heard some of the stories, it seemed. Whatever. She'd use what she had. "Get the hell out of our faces before I make you."

The reporters scattered like blown papers, even the boldest deciding they'd rather be elsewhere when Ziotea fixed them with a cold glare. Once they'd gone, she breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to Rodion. He was smiling down at her, blue eyes warm, and a little thrill ran through her. "There. That's taken care of." She returned his smile, taking his hand again and squeezing it. I am here. They stayed like that for a long moment before Ziotea felt her cheeks growing warm and sought something to say. "Would you like to dance, Rodion?" she asked. He nodded, and she set her spear aside, then stepped close. They didn't do anything fancy, just a simple sidestep back and forth, but it was still wonderful.

---

Ragnar rested his hand on Astraea's lower back as they walked through the open threshold and out into the empty balcony. He felt silly trying to steady her as she stepped unevenly on the decorated tiles-- After all, Astraea was a R'heon, a hunter of demons. But like him, she was young and scarcely removed from the shadows of the Seminary. Ragnar wagered they were all inexperienced when it came to drinking, and he was worried she might have overdone it.

"Careful," he urged her nervously. She shot an incredulous look at him, equal parts threatening and bemused.

"You are not my milkmaid, Ragnar," she warned him with a dangerous smile.

He grinned in response and brushed a hand over his shaved scalp, a nervous habit of his. Behind him, the three wolf pups sat on their haunches watching Astraea intently. They were always nuzzling up against his legs or playing with each other. Ragnar found their silence unnerving.

Astraea leaned against the balcony's edge, gazing out at the abandoned royal gardens sprawling out beneath her. Ragnar joined her, gripping the stone railing of the balcony with pale, trembling fingers. The gardens were like something out of a dream. He had never seen so much green before, so much "nature". A hedge maze extended outward to the edge of a high cliff and past it Ragnar and Astraea were afforded an unobstructed view of the eastern sea and the frontier that awaited them. Out there the frozen water appeared like a black mirror, reflecting the aurora of celestial light cast off from the crystal aegis that hung over the city. Above them, the night sky was awash with stars.

The beauty of it was paralyzing. That such a place could exist in this world, it made Ragnar's heart ache with sadness and spite. This world didn't deserve such beauty, he thought to himself.

A loud boom came from somewhere far to the east. It was so loud and resonant that the Protector could feel it crash against his chest. As the ringing in his ears began to subside, he caught sight of it; a flash of piercing violet light shining from beyond the swirling mist that curtained the eastern horizon.

Aethereal lightning.

Antonin had explained it to them along ago. Great manifestations of chaotic ether with the capacity to gouge impossible mile-long craters into the ice. The fact that they could see and hear it from this far away made Ragnar's heart weak.

Astraea on the other hand, was grinning.

"Incredible," she whispered. The lighting strike had seemingly sobered her up, for her emerald eyes were now alight with determination.

With all he could, Ragnar tried to avert his gaze. He could not face it. The waiting storms, that darkness to the east where the countless stars in the T'saraen sky seemed to suddenly vanish. His skin turning cold, he gripped the frigid stone railing tightly, trying to find some impossible warmth in whatever he could.

This was a mistake.

The words echoed in his mind as his heart began to race.

They were not ready for this. Warband Phoenix was just a few months removed from Culmination. They were being rushed out into the thick of things. And the Karamzina... It was meant to be Mother Indira's... Now it was theirs... Was something wrong with it? Creid, Antonin, Indira... They seemed caught unawares by their assignment to join the invasion armada... The three of them were the very best teachers in all the empire, those who would shape the future of the inquisition... Why send them?... Why was everything happening so suddenly? Were Warband Phoenix being sent out out to die? Was *he* being sent out to die?

Varya sees. Varya hears. Varya knows.

Did the Ravenous Lord know...

... about him and his myriad sins?

The paling within him cracked, and out began to seep the hidden things. Father Ragnar, protector of Warband Phoenix, began to choke.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder. A distant voice called out to him. Ragnar stood silent, breathing as fast as possible. A thousand tragedies unfolded in his mind. All of them would be his fault. All of them his punishment.

"Ragnar," the voice repeated, this time loud enough that it seemed to pull him from the darkness. He seemed to jolt awake then, and when he turned to face Astraea she looked down on him with what appeared to be annoyance.

"Get it together," she told him.

Ragnar took a deep breath, and found that he couldn't. His lungs seemed to be made from stone. But he stood straight as an arrow all the same, trying to emulate Stina's resolute insistence on standing proud after the Great Bear's cruel attacks on the training yard. Like he always did, the young Muraadan forced the troubles within him deep into the darkness, and attempted to smile.

"I'll be alright. I've just..."

"Whatever it is you're going through, you need to conquer it," she said before he could finish. It was spoken without emotion, as if it was an order she would give a soldier out on the field. As if it wasn't something he hadn't been fighting his entire life.

"I'm fine," he said, the smile on his face as genuine as he could make it. "It's just... I'm a bit worried. It's our first mission, after all."

Astraea regarded him with a curious look before turning away and looking down at the garden, where Ziotea and Rodion had just emerged from one of the entrances of the hedge maze.

"You're our Protector. We need you to be resolute and calm. If you lose it out there, even for just a second, people will die. The paling needs to hold."

"It will hold," Ragnar responded, trying to sound casual and non-plussed about it. He looked down at Ziotea and her companion, who was pointing outward at the horizon, where the flash had colored a small patch of sky.

"After all, can't let anything happen to Rodion," he added with a light smile, glancing at Ziotea.

Astraea chuckled. It was strange hearing her laugh, Ragnar realized. She had always been so stern and aloof, and could be downright standoffish if the mood took her. She and Tatiana had gone through their fair share of arguments and scrapes growing up. Maybe the R'heon was still a bit drunk, he wondered.

Astraea's laughter trailed off into silent contemplation.

"Those poor fools," Astraea said, a mixture of sadness and pity in her tone. Down below, the two of them were standing together, watching the frozen sea in silence.

Ragnar understood the sentiment, but winced at the R'heon's wording. Noticing this, Astraea glared at him.

"You're close to both of them. You know what it will lead to. He will only be hurt, and she will only grow more hateful. If you truly cared for them, you'd try to do everything in your power to stop it."

He had never been comfortable with Ziotea and Rodion's relationship, that much was true, but he could never get in their way. Ziotea was angry most of the time, and he didn't blame her. Ziotea didn't deserve the life she was given and she didn't belong in the seminary. She was like the wind, sometimes calm, sometimes destructive, but she was meant to be free all the same. And Rodion... Well, it seemed like all things in this world were lightless and dead to him, except for her.

"They... They belong with each other. And they aren't stupid. They know what they're doing," Ragnar said, trying to convince himself as much as he was Astraea.

"The Church will see through whatever facade those two put up. Neither of them are native Varyan. They'll force them, Ragnar. Force them into having a child... and then that child will suffer the same as we did--"

"I believe in them, and so should you. They deserve to be happy," Ragnar interrupted, trying desperately to not think of such a future.

Astraea stood quietly, swirling the bottle of virrika around. She began to raise it to her lips, but thought better of it and placed it on the railing. Sensing his chance, Ragnar tried to change the subject.

"So... What about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

Astraea scrutinized him for a moment, her expression stone-like. A moment passed before a bemused smile cut across her face.

"A few individuals, but nothing serious."

Ragnar couldn't help but be surprised.

"A few? Hm. If you don't mind me asking--"

"No one you, nor anyone else in the warband, would be familiar with. And I prefer to keep it that way."

"Fair enough," Ragnar answered. He shouldn't be shocked, he realized. After all, it wasn't unheard of in Lanostre to have multiple partners before settling down.

"And you?"

The question came like a dagger. Ragnar, caught completely off-guard, began to sweat immediately.

"O-Oh... Me? I..."

He wasn't sure if he should lie or not, and thus, an awkward silence began to fill the air.

"Come on, tell me! Does Ragnar have a special someone? Did he get lucky at that pub with Stina and Hassan?" she asked, digging her elbow into his arm, a wry smile on her lips.

"I..."

"Why are you so nervous? Every one does it, you know. After Culmination, before first assignment, every inquisitor goes out and gets laid. That's the unspoken rite."

"Er... No. I don't... I mean, I just haven't gotten the opportunity is all," he tried to say, but Astraea wasn't having it.

"You're still a virgin? Gods, Ragnar. Stina and Hassan have utterly failed you as brothers," she said, laughing. She slapped him on the arm.

"Please stop hitting me. And no, it's just... It's not important right no--"

"Those two idiots... Now, it'll be more difficult. Everyone on those arks is either a warsibling or a direct subordinate, and you remember what Indira said about that. Can't do it, it's immoral."

Ragnar let out a tormented sigh.

"Come now, cheer up. I'm sure there's a nice cute girl in El just waiting for you to sweep her off her feet!"

At the mention of the word "girl", Ragnar winced, his face turning even paler than usual. Upon catching sight of his sudden change in expression, Astraea's boisterous laughter stopped.

"Ragnar..."

Realizing his grave error, Ragnar looked at Astraea with a pleading look. He took a step backward, retreating from the R'heon as if they were in a duel. Behind him, the wolf pups began to snarl.

"Please... You can't..." Ragnar's voice was a low whisper.

After glancing around them to check if anyone was nearby, Astraea strode toward Ragnar and gazed into his eyes.
The realization, the shock, the horror. It was writ plain on both of their faces.

"You... You're..."

Ragnar couldn't face her. His gaze drifted downward and stared at the tiles. They were so beautiful, despite their age, and they covered every inch of floor of this empty husk of a palace, where the feet of strangers and invaders were now traipsing upon.

"Yes," he whispered.

For the longest time, he didn't even know himself, but at that moment, he understood the truth of it. And some small part of him, the remnant of his life before Varya, when he was just a boy climbing mountains and running alongside his sister in the snow fields of Muraad, felt a great rush of freedom to allow this part of him into the world.

But that didn't matter, for with this confession, he was now putting his entire warband in immense danger. The practice of having or seeking relations with members of one's own sex was a grave sin, prevalent and celebrated only in the heathen nation of Omestris, and in the Lord Varya's eyes those who shared in this sin deserved the most severe of of punishments.

"They could excommunicate you," Astraea whispered, her expression hardening.

"They won't. Not if... Not if we keep it a secret," he pleaded, still unable to face her.

"Look at me, Ragnar," she spoke, placing her hands on his shoulders, and squeezing hard. The tips of her fingers dug into the muscles of his chest. "Tell me the truth. Is there anyone you've been seeing?"

"No. Of course not."

Her eyes narrowed. Anger flashed within them. He was putting them all in danger. He understood this, and yet, Ragnar finally stared back, meeting her growing rage with defiance.

"This changes nothing. I am the Protector, and I won't let anything get in the way of that," he said.

She blinked once and left him there on the balcony without another word.

Ragnar stood alone. For a few fleeting moments he felt utterly terrified.

Tatiana...

Galahad...

Everyone...

but he then realized that he wasn't as terrified or sad as he thought he would be. No, true oblivion was what awaited them beyond the meridian.

This didn't kill me, he thought to himself with a smile. If I survived this, maybe I can survive what's coming up next.

He walked toward the stone railing, picked up Astraea's discarded bottle of virrika, and began to drink.

---

"In that land there’s a winter."

We tell this to our children, to teach them of the cold in between the continents, to scare them into behaving, to warn them of what happens when Varya’s light leaves you. But thus far, here on the third day of our journey, miles removed from the continental aegis, the so-called frontier has proven more a gentle Muraadan midsummer than the black storms of legend. The arks that ferry us across the frontier, I can scarcely believe they exist. The ships that we squeezed into like rats, those deathtraps that carried so many of my comrades to the spears of the Lanostrans across the Bleeding Sea would have never survived this cold. Truly the marvels of T’sarae are miraculous indeed.

The crew, and the blackcoats themselves, seem perturbed by our surprise guests. The Dominion, her young nun, and the newspaper man are all liabilities, but if sending non-combatants to certain death is what the halos desire, then I won’t raise a fuss. My orders were to provide support for the blackcoats on their mission across El. Nothing more.

I am tired. I wish for this foolishness to be done.

Tomorrow the Karamzina and Grace shall reach the Narrow Gates. Beyond that the Meridian, where the skies grow darker.

I suppose things haven’t changed since Lanostre. A different shore and yet the same fate awaits so many of us.

- Three weeks before the calamity,
From the recovered logs of Commander Zoya Kiriyev



He had taken to coming up to the tower during his off-duty hours to gaze at the sprawling white before him. In the hazy distance a stretching wall of blue glaciers lined the horizon, and if Ilya focused hard enough, he could convince himself that he could in fact spot a long thin cliff cutting right down the middle of the icewall. There, in the place between the twin ice shelves, eternally shearing against one another in a brutal embrace, lay the Narrow Gates, the only existing passage to the East.

A broad smile filled Ilya’s face. The same smile he wore every time he climbed the tower deck to gaze out at the approaching glacier wall. Tomorrow would be the day. Upon crossing the gates, a new world awaited him.

Them, a voice reminded him from somewhere deep in his subconscious.

Oren and Viveca. They are here with you too. Along with everyone else. The ones who didn’t matter.

You are not alone.

His mood souring, Ilya cast his eyes downward to the mid deck of the Karamzina, where a score of soldiers and sailors were working on preparing the ark for tomorrow’s journey through the glacier wall. There were so many of them. Fifty, he remembered. This should be my journey, he told himself. I was born to pierce the veil. To break through the Meridian. To be the first to do it. It was all he had thought about as a child. It was what drove him through the long years at the Seminary. And now there he was, at the cusp of his great odyssey, burdened with the lives of his beloved warsiblings, and those he could care less about. Not only that, but the First Armada had beat him to the punch.

“Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” a voice rang out from behind him.

Ilya turned and saw Father Ragnar along with that annoying reporter standing beside him. Ragnar was irritating at most times, but there he was, that bloodsucking leech from the Chronicle like a lost puppy standing behind his coat, eager for whatever scraps he could get. The short, bloated sack of a man had somehow been allowed to be embedded into the expedition by the clerical branch. He had spent the past three days pestering everyone onboard the Karamzina, desperate for whatever drivel he could spew on the pages of his stupid newspaper.

“Lord Bjornley—” the man began, holding a pen and notepad.

“Not a lord anymore. Also not in the mood to talk,” Ilya interrupted, turning away from them.

“Please, would you let him ask you a few questions?” Ragnar pleaded. He was holding a wrinkled newspaper. Ilya sighed and turned to the young Phoenix Protector. Ragnar’s face was paler than usual and the hollows of his eyes were a wine red. Had he been crying or something?

Suddenly, it flashed in his mind again. He’d been trying to ignore it, but there it was, as clear as it was during Culmination. He and Ragnar standing alone on the abandoned deck, the paling gone, the cold breaking him apart from within. And above all, the living darkness breathing down on them.

Ilya narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer.

“Something wrong with you, kid? You don’t look too—”

“Yes, something is wrong. I know you’re not fond of it, but take a look at this,” Ragnar answered, frowning. He handed Ilya the newspaper.

Ilya paid little attention to the Chronicle. On most days it was filled with salacious headlines trying to smear his family, on other days it championed other inquisitors that weren’t him. If he had to see Lior Lightningsong’s stupid face one more time-- What he saw on the front page made him smirk. This must be what everyone is talking about, Ilya thought. His gaze turned toward Ragnar and he saw the young man looking on in annoyance, waiting impatiently for Ilya to get on with with reading the front cover.

Ilya sighed and scanned the front page. The paper was from three days ago and printed on its cover was a photograph of Mother Tatiana in full inquisitor’s regalia, probably taken at the Rising Ceremony. Above the photograph in bold text the headline read “ROGUE INQUISITOR SLAYS VARYAN PEACEKEEPERS”.

“This is going to ruin her. It’s going to ruin us,” Ragnar said despairingly, ripping the newspaper from Ilya’s hands and quickly tearing it up. The newspaper man, a short stocky fellow with a thick black mustache, raised a quivering pen in protest but thought better of it.

“Us? What is us?” Ilya asked, watching the pieces of torn paper floating off in the wind.

“Our warband!” Ragnar replied in a confused tone.

“Last time I checked I was in Leviathan.”

“You are. But you, Oren and Viveca are part of our family now. And now the empire thinks we’re all tied up together in this… whatever this is. Tatiana doesn’t want to talk about it. Not even to me or Galahad. We need to get the public on our side, like they were before. Mr. Ovinski is writing a profile on Warband Phoenix as part of a larger piece and I think it would really help our image if—”

“Listen here, little squirell,” Ilya interrupted as he leaned forward, towering over the shorter inquisitor. His winter blue eyes stared into Ragnar’s own.

“Oren, Viv and I are only here because your psycho of a lancer has proven herself a liability and you need the backup should she have another accident. We are not Phoenix. We are Leviathan. Unlike you lot, we know what we are and we’re sure as hell not your “family”, so don’t try to rope us into your bullshit drama.”

Ilya walked past the young protector and began climbing down the stairs of the tower.

“Also, do your warband a favor and stop focusing on what happens back home. None of it matters anymore, only El. Now, come on, we’re going to be late for the commander’s briefing.”

Ragnar stood silently on the tower deck, his hands still gripping at the torn fragments of the newspaper. Ovinski the reporter stared at him, unsure of what to say. Finally, he patted the young inquisitor’s shoulder reassuringly and left him there alone.



“Where the hell have you been?” Ilya asked Dmitri once he reached the doors of Commander Kiriyev’s warroom. The Omestrian had served Ilya’s family since the inquisitor’s birth and had sworn himself to Ilya as a child. He had joined the SA, enduring the rigors of its military academy to be able to serve Father Ilya adequately as part of his military staff. He was as loyal a servant as there would ever be, and thus Ilya wondered why Dmitri had been missing for the past three days.

“The Grace, Master Ilya. The Commander has transferred fifteen men to the ark. I was one of them.”

“How dare she? I made it quite clear to her that you are mine. She doesn’t get to order you around.”

Ilya was already annoyed, and this was making it worse. Kiriyev was a war hero, a veteran of a hundred battles in Lanostre, and the commander of the SA attachment, but she had no right to give orders to his personal staff. He would have to give her a stern talking to—

“Bjornley, is that you out there? Get in here, you’re late!” he heard Father Hassan shout from within the room. The doors were slightly ajar, and when Ilya opened them, he saw that everyone of importance was already within, save for himself and Ragnar.

Smiling his carefree grin, he glided into the room and took his seat on the large rectangular wooden table in the middle of the room. Astraea was sat next to him and regarded Ilya with an unamused look.

“Where were you, boychik? Looking for your missing manservant?” Hassan asked with a laugh.

Ilya was about to respond when Lieutenant Dragonov asked where Father Ragnar was. The lieutenant had had to endure Hassan and Ilya’s bickering for the past three days and was nowhere near suffering any of it. He was a standing at the right hand of Commander Kiriyev, who sat at the head of the table looking over a stack of documents and a large map. She was so focused on the map that she didn’t seem to notice anyone else in the room.

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m here,” Ragnar cried out as he jogged into the warroom. “One of the pups got out of my room,” he said before taking a seat next to Ziotea.

“Good. We can begin,” Dragonov stated, his voice measured despite his obvious annoyance. He was as tall as Ilya, and just as quintessentially Varyan. He had a thin but powerful frame, a warrior’s set of shoulders, and wore his dark red officer’s uniform as though he had never taken it off. Indeed, it appeared as though Dragonov would be comfortable dying in his uniform, and even more at peace with being buried in it. His half-lidded eyes, greyer than most Varyans, turned to Kiriyev, a sign that he had ceded the floor to her.

The commander cleared her throat and rose from her seat. She silently picked up the large map and hung it on the blank wall behind her. That she would do this herself instead of ordering someone else to do it was curious, Ilya thought.

She was a woman in her middle-age, clad in a loose-fitting and brazenly sloppily grey uniform with crimson accents. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing a pair of mechanical arms that hissed and squealed silently whenever she moved them. Her hair was curly and black, barely held together in a loose bun. Her skin was a deep bronze and her eyes were a violet so severe they almost appeared red. Ilya had heard tales of people with her coloring before. If rumors could be believed, the commander was a descendant of the Nastrondr, the long dead Muraadan clan of dragonriders who were among the first to be wiped out in the northern invasions.

“Tomorrow we reach the Narrow Gates, the only known open pathway to the east. It has been the empire’s policy to sugarcoat the Gates as a relatively safe journey through an icy corridor and then, the frontier awaits with open arms. It is a lie. Painting the Gates as a simple, straightforward obstacle is good for the recruitment drives of the secular army and imperial armada, but the truth of the matter is that we could all very well perish tomorrow.”

At that moment, a wave of worried murmurs spread throughout the room, mostly from the back of the table where the heads of the engineering corps and some of the lower-ranked soldiers sat. Ilya remained all smiles however, and despite how annoyed he was at the commander for her removal of Dmitri from the Karamzina, he appreciated how straightforward Kiriyev was being with her staff.

“This first step of our journey will be a difficult one, and we must all prepare for whatever may come. The Gates are treacherous by themselves, but there are reports of… other unforeseen obstacles as well.”

It was then that Kiriyev looked to the far end of the room, where there sat a somewhat elderly blonde woman wearing an absurd ballroom gown colored white and crimson, the colors of the divine clerical branch. The woman smiled broadly, her teeth catching the light of the room. Ilya groaned.

Mother Yonah Levshin, the Sixth Dominion of T’sarae, stood from her chair with all the grace a woman of her standing demanded. She appeared much younger than whatever age she was, but some of the wrinkles on her face were still faintly visible (a result of countless magical alterations, Ilya theorized) and as she got up and walked to the front of the room with a young nun in tow holding the train of her gown, she smiled and nodded at each of the inquisitors as she passed them by, greeting them each by name.

“Darling Ilya, how good it is to see you from out behind your mother’s skirts,” she said to him in a voice so high and lilting that everyone in the room could hear. Astraea chuckled next to him and he flashed her a scathing look. By the time he turned back to Mother Yonah she was already at the head of the room.

“Dear me, how many fresh faces,” she said with a pearly white smile, gazing out at warbands Phoenix and Leviathan. Most of them had never met this strange garishly dressed woman before, but they had surely heard of her. The Sixth Dominion of the clerical branch, Mother Yonah, had until very recently been the appointed governor of T’sarae for the past twenty years. In her youth she had been the first Varyan to attend and graduate from the MUSE academy and in the proceeding years had helped expand the vaunted hall of learning into what it is today. If the rumors could be believed, Mother Yonah was the foremost expert on the fields of ethereal research and development in the empire today. It was all very impressive, Ilya thought, but why had she chosen to be a part of their mission? If she wanted to go to El, why not join the First Armada instead?

“As our stalwart commander mentioned, tomorrow’s journey will be anything but a ride down the Skyway. The corridor beyond the Gates, or what we call the Meridian, is a long and twisting trail which snakes in between the two glaciers. Some of my former colleagues in the academy believe the splitting of the glaciers to have been caused by an errant blow during an earlier clash between two or more of our Gods. My money’s on Lanostre’s lance, but I digress. The bright season causes the ice that builds up in the Meridian to crumble and melt somehow, thus allowing us passage. However! The warming temperature causes the two glaciers to break free and shift around as well, and as a result, our two tiny arks will be forced to maneuver through a shifting narrow corridor where the walls can easily crush us.”

Kiriyev pointed to the map, which showed an illustration of the Meridian, a thin line twisting and turning chaotically in-between two massive glaciers. Ilya leaned in closer in his chair and noticed a large number of smaller black circles dotted along the length of the corridor. One of the circles, at the forefront, was the largest.

“This is the First Armada. Twenty-three arks in all. At its head is the Ravenous, the fleet’s grand flagship, larger than any ark under the empire’s banner. It appears there was some manner of miscalculation, and the Ravenous could not adequately fit within the Meridian, thus the Church saw it fit to allow the use of its ether torches to carve a way forward. This resulted in a weakening of the corridor walls, and massive chunks of ice began to fall on the arks beneath it. Word from up high is the Armada lost three of the smaller arks to the ice. ”

“Those brutes,” Mother Yonah interjected. “The Meridian is a delicate operation. We mustn’t repeat their mistake. The Karamzina is one of the larger arks within the empire’s fleet, and thus we must navigate through the corridor as carefully as we can.”

Kiriyev then placed another large document over the map. On it was a depiction of a strange fanged creature with a model of what appeared to be an adult man next to it.

“There was… also word about strange creatures prowling within the ice. They attacked one of the arks and an unknown number of crew members lost their lives trying to fight them off. There are rumors that an inquisitor might be one of the casualties. We’ve not had any confirmation on this, but we should take adequate precautions all the same.”

“Who was it?” Ragnar asked suddenly.

“We don’t know.”

“Hm.” Ragnar’s leaned back in his chair, growing silent.

“Those things tore through the paling and the armor of an ark. And also possibly killed an inquisitor… This will be fun,” Hassan mused out loud, his face a mask of seriousness. It was weird not seeing him with that stupid grin on his face, Ilya realized.

“If we need to fight those things, we can’t use any powerful ether. Not if we don’t want to damage the corridor walls and have giant pieces of ice falling on us,” Astraea said, eyeing the rest of her warband.

“Any ideas on how we can all make it out of this alive?” she asked her warsiblings, stretching out the fingers of her repaired hand.

---

Five more minutes… Just let me enjoy the warmth for five more minutes…

The only thought drifting through Viveca’s mind dawn first began to break over the horizon was that of a simple wish to stay in bed. It was warm here… and safe… Free from the discussions, planning, and ceremonies of the last few days. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and very gradually began to sit up, suddenly struck with a cotton-filled mouth and a spinning room. Before the Inquisitor could even reach for her timepiece, she felt a violent twist in her stomach. Wrenching herself from the sheets, Viveca darted for the attached washroom.

Through bleary eyes, she looked up from the porcelain bowl and blinked in surprise, gathering her bearings, and only had one question come to her mind: How much did I spend on this room? It was far more opulent than anything she was used to… She could remember as far as stumbling into the hotel, but most of the night after a couple rounds of shots with a group of SA soldiers was little more than a blur. While gently rubbing her temple, Viveca leaned back over the bowl, catching her breath, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. In a moment of shock, she wrenched away and fell on her ass, leaning against a bathtub, her gaze met by the visage of a very tired-looking woman. Should she recognize this person..?

“Viv? Are you… okay? It’s so early…” The unknown person spoke with naught but concern.

“I… Uh… Y-yeah…” Came her rather shaky reply before she wipe the edge of her mouth and climb out of her vulnerable position, holding her head with a free hand to keep the growing pressure at bay. “I mean. Yes. I’m fine, just under the weather. What are you doing…” That was when she remembered – a cheery girl, probably only a year or two her own junior from the ceremony. One of the older SA soldiers’ daughters, though at this point, Viveca wouldn’t be able to tell which one if her life depended on it. She had long black hair, a mess from a night in the bed. “Up… so early,” She finally finished her sentence as the pieces fell into place. This girl was an odd choice, she realized as the antics of the evening caught up to her.

“You leapt out of bed so fast, I’d have to be a hibernating bear not to wake up. Now come, you need more sleep…” The soft-voiced woman proposed, reaching out to help Viveca to her feet.

The Inquisitor shook her head and used the edge of the tub as a support. “I’m fine.” What was this woman’s name, anyway? Too late to ask, maybe it would come back to her later. “I need to get dressed, we’re getting underway later.” In another world, on a better day, the previous night would be more than a few glimpses of moments, but in this moment Viveca only knew she had to leave… and hopefully find her coinpurse with a little heft to it still. Maybe they gave her a discount?

In a stumbling rush, Viveca began to collect her affairs. While putting on her uniform, she felt like her brain was expanding, pressing against the sides of her skull. Never again, she lied to herself. Struggling to pull a boot over her foot, the other woman reappeared, lending a hand. Why was she so pushy about being helpful? Had she any idea with whom she was dealing? With a reserved sigh, Viveca allowed her to help and pulled her coat over her shoulders.

“You can’t stay for just a little bit?” The woman asked quietly, a small smirk on her face. Lucky her, she clearly hadn’t had half as much to drink as the Inquisitor. “Your folk really can’t stop working, can they?”

“No. And I pray you’ll never have the displeasure of realizing it a second time.” Finally, Viveca rose and checked her equipment one more time. It seemed she had packed very little. She tied her hair back in her signature ribbon and headed for the door. Halfway over the threshold, she froze and looked back.

For the first time in that short morning, she saw that the girl wore a pained frown. “I…” Viveca sighed and averted her gaze, “Thank you for making my last night in T’sarae a memorable one…” It was a white lie, for now, but she was certain that a little water and a nap on the ark might help jog her memory. “I’ll see you around.”

Her name was Rebecca, Viveca later remembered. She spared only a few minutes ruminating on the exact implications of the night they’d shared, but with the festivities at a close, there were only two things on her mind, as there had been all the way here.

Vai’roth and the elusive Ashe-rahn…

---

Viveca sat in her stateroom, pouring over the journal that she had found under Indira’s instruction. It felt like so long ago now, and yet she hadn’t discovered anything new in its pages. The past three days had been nothing but a monotonous dredge of meetings, briefings, and only a shred of time to sleep or think about anything but the present. An ironic twist, considering the future was where Warbands Phoenix’s and Leviathan’s fates lie. She hadn’t had time to contact Oren or Tatiana about their plans for Vai’roth or their thoughts on this gods-forsaken book in days. What she would give to have all of the Inquisitors gathered without prying eyes for just a single meeting… maybe somebody else had insights they could all use.

Her eyes scanned every page, but she couldn’t make out any more words than she had when Ashe-rahn, or some figment of him, had attacked her in the catacombs. She also had no new information on the shapes or sketchings outside of the possible depiction of the mysterious man’s shield.

“I can’t go on like this. Somebody has to know something!” She cried out in frustration, “I’m obsessed with this stupid thing, which might be a dead end anyway! I’m just toying with my own curse, waiting until I uncover my death…” The Inquisitor mused aloud to herself, flipping several pages over in the hopes that she would land on one she hadn’t seen a dozen times before. Finally, in a moment of desperation and frustration, she slammed it shut, picked it up by the spine, and rose from her seat.

”FUCK!” She shouted, hurling the tome at one of her room’s walls. Immediately, she crumpled to the ground with cry of anguish, clutching the back of her neck as needles and swords pierced her repeatedly. It felt like ages, but in mere seconds it subsided, and she remained on the floor, taking deep breaths. A quiet sound rang out from all around her before it began to crescendo. Laughter filled her ears from every direction, sounding like it was closing in on her with every moment. That, too, subsided mere seconds later and she pulled herself, shaking, to a seated position on the floor. Her eyes stared daggers at the book she’d thrown… Why was it taunting her like this?

“What do you want from me..? Why did Mother Indira tell me to find you? You’ve been nothing but a pestilence!” She shouted, finally getting to her feet and striding to the book. As she reached down to pick it up from the ground, she saw that it had fallen open to the page with the burning azure ring, the word Ashe-rahn staring back at her menacingly. Did the book feel pain? Perhaps a very real part of Ashe-rahn was inside of it, and he felt it when abused… But where could he, or it, or… whatever it was get the power to harm her back? She checked her timepiece – this would have to wait… That wretched book, if nothing else, knew how to reel her back in as soon as she was ready to burn it.

Viveca closed the door to her stateroom and checked that she had everything with her. Her ribbon held her hair back in a conservative ponytail while her falchion rested in its scabbard at her side. She placed a gloved hand upon its hilt and the other upon the leather satchel strapped over her shoulder, containing the tome and a few odds and ends for the day. Mayhaps she would find time to discuss getting together a meeting of the warband so that they could all make sure they were on the same page.

She entered the warroom rather early, giving her enough time to find a seat and take her place before the gaggle of last-minute arrivals came rushing in. Truth be told, she felt a rush of satisfaction as Ilya was called inside, lightly chastised for his tardiness. Then, finally, Ragnar arrived and they could begin. It was the song and dance of upper-echelon militants, Viveca observed – tell the troops that things are going to be smooth-sailing and easy so they don’t panic, then let the decision-makers know that they could be utterly screwed if anybody makes a mistake. She maintained her silence and composure – anybody who thought that this trip wasn’t going to be massive obstacle after massive obstacle was kidding themselves. If they were going to shudder at the thought of the Narrow Gates, then any mention of the impending doom would induce absolute mutiny. The thought of it alone could break some of the officers on the ark, based on their reactions to this news. However, the mention of malfeasant undesirables being noted to board and attack arks did pique her interest.

Viveca glanced to Astraea as the floor was opened to any wishing to put forward a plan. Silence cut the room for several tense moments as everybody rolled the words around in their heads. Finally, she stood up and felt several pairs of eyes immediately fall on her. Clearing her throat, Viveca spoke.

“So, with only rumours to work from, we’re left with a few possibilities – and please, join in if I miss any. I’m a warrior and I don’t have Father Galahad’s skill with strategy. Right now, as far as the walls go, I don’t have a lot to put forward. Engineering is more Father Rodion’s wheelhouse. I will say as far as this mysterious creature goes, though, that we could be dealing with at least two options: firstly, an insurmountable number of relatively small cretins throwing themselves at the hulls and paling until they find a weak point they can push through as a group. I’d say that seems plausible, since it would make it easier for them to flood an ark or overwhelm any individual soldier. Conversely, it could be a handful of larger creatures and, if the alleged fallen Inquisitor made a misstep, they got lucky in one-on-one combat. If we have an option for reconnaissance, it needs to be taken. Maybe a small contingent of Inquisitors could investigate – catch one, even.” She looked around the room for reactions and saw a few uneasy stares from the officers of the ark. “Look, I don’t want to risk any of my Brothers or Sisters, but this kind of business is our intended purpose. We may be valuable, but we’re useless if we aren’t doing everything we can to prevent harm to the ark before it comes to our doorstep.” With that, she sat back down, turning the floor back over with a wave of her hand. Hopefully it was as obvious to everybody else as it was to her that this was also her volunteering for the perilous mission as much as it was her suggesting it.

---

In the three days since their departure, Ziotea had spent most of her time with Rodion. Some of it they spent talking, some in companionable silence. Sometimes she watched him work, and sometimes she brought her art supplies over, or one of her books. The important thing was that they spent the time close, where she could feel the brush of his ether. After her week in Iddin-Mar, they both needed the time to reaffirm their bond.

There was more to it than that, at least for Ziotea. Many times she thought about bringing up that all-too-brief kiss at the Rising ball, but it still didn’t feel like the proper moment. The thought of becoming something more than just friends appealed to her, but it scared her too, just a little. Eventually she’d have to face that, but perhaps not just yet.

Early on the third morning she roused, dressed, and sought out Galahad. Father Oren had made it clear that he thought they should keep their encounters in old Omestris to themselves, but Ziotea didn’t agree. She’d considered just telling the whole warband despite Father Oren’s request, but in the end she agreed to give him a few days, and then tell just her warleader. Galahad could decide what they did with the information from there.

She found him at the bottom of the engine tower in the generator room. It was a strange place, more like a chapel than a room of machinery. Galahad was staring at the URA in an obvious trance, eyes aglow. He looked dishevelled and in need of sleep, and that surprised her. He’d always tried to be calm and collected in the past, and she found his unkempt appearance disconcerting. What could possibly be bothering him so much, she wondered. There was really only one way to find out.

Ziotea laid a heavy gauntlet on his shoulder and gave Galahad a shake.

In a flash his hand was at the handle of his blade. It was the same lighting-quick motion she had seen thousands of times on the practice yard, but there was something different this time. Fear. When he looked at her, the diamond-hard courage that had glinted in his eyes since he was a child was gone. For an instant, Galahad was afraid, but as soon as he saw her ember eyes looking up at him, his face returned to its characteristic placidity..

He looked away from her, a faint redness blossoming in his cheeks. He could not let his siblings see him that way. Galahad was the warleader. They looked to him for his strength and resolve.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, unable to face her.

“We need to talk,” Ziotea replied evenly. “About what happened in Omestris. And, apparently, about when you last got some sleep. I thought I only had to keep track of Rodion, but it seems I was mistaken. What gives?”

Galahad smirked.

He turned to her, giving his warsibling his full attention. Some part of him still remained in the machine, he knew, but Ziotea was more important. She rarely came to him for anything and it was uncommon for Galahad to speak to her in turn. Ziotea was as integral a part of their family as anyone else, but there had always been a distance between them. Ever since that day. Since Magnus.

“I’m busy, Ziotea. As much as I would like to hear about what you and the Leviathan ranger got up to in Omestris, I have important work to do.”

Ziotea’s eyes narrowed, and her voice hardened. “I wasn’t asking. This is important too.” She paused a moment, making sure Galahad was listening, before she continued. “We were attacked in Iddin-Mar, by what initially posed as SA men but turned into crystalline beasts--”

“What did you say?”

The Phoenix warleader grabbed her by the pauldrons, a feverish glint in his eyes.

“I said we were attacked by blue crystal giants,” she replied, using a hand to dislodge his grip on her. “There’s more to it, a lot more--”

“Show me,” he urged her in a commanding tone that sounded foreign coming from his lips.

He turned from her and approached the URA, his footsteps echoing in the dark empty halls of the engine room. The white glowing sphere seemed to react to his presence and pulsed back to life, waves of golden light dancing across its mirror-like surface.

“I assume Rodion told you about Him,” Galahad whispered, his restless eyes gazing at their reflection in the white sheen of the URA’s outer shell.

“No.” Ziotea took a step back. “I mean, yes he told me, but no, I’m not going to show you that way. I don’t like the hold it seems to have on you.”

“Zi…” he began. He only called her that when he needed something from her. “You don’t know what happened in Lanostre. What we saw there. We are dealing with forces that we are not prepared for. The URA is a weapon and I mean to use it to protect our warband… our family.”

Without warning, Galahad reached out and touched the engine.

A quiet explosion of light enveloped the two of them. The engine room, the sounds of the ether coursing through the steel pipes, the low hum of the frontier winds pushing against the arks -- all of it faded to silence.

When the two inquisitors opened their eyes, the sky was awash with death and the dark ice all around them was littered with the bodies of the fallen. Soldiers were screaming, running across the ice, firing at winged creatures made of azure crystal.

“This isn’t the worst of it,” he said. Galahad didn’t wait for her to answer as he walked forward, his form a spectral ghost among the broken bodies on the ice. Ahead, the Black Glacier awaited them.

Ziotea looked around, oddly impassive. It was a gruesome sight and yet it moved her less than the sight of the Black Glacier itself. Still, she followed after Galahad.

When they reached their destination, the shadow of the Glacier darkened the ice, making it appear as dark as shadow. The wall of the Glacier, scarred with pulsing red veins, hummed its eternal song as what looked like Galahad, Tatiana, Astraea and two other inquisitors faced off against a group of towering crystalline knights.

Just as before, the knights suddenly explode in a flash of ice and ether, and the Man in Black made his appearance.

“Him.” Galahad spoke, his eyes flashing with hatred and fear. Ziotea’s grip tightened on her spear, but she knew better than to try to attack. This was a memory, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

Galahad grew quiet as the mysterious man spoke of the purpose of this attack being only to destroy the Varyan garrison fleet patrolling around Lanostre’s coastline, so as to give the apostate, Father Dara, a free path to escape from the continent… and head eastward.

"Warleader. Do not interfere in my work. Within moments the Varyan fleet will be purged from this world and my fleet will continue eastward to our destination. You and I are heading in the same direction, but I plead with you. If you value the lives of those under your command, do not follow in my path. Let this be our final meeting."

The voice was as clear to him then as it had been in Galahad’s vision.

He turned to Ziotea then, his breathing erratic, and pointed at the Man in Black.

“This is our enemy. Whoever this man is, he is allied with Father Dara and commands an entire fleet of arks that can easily cut a path of destruction through a Varyan blockade. When we come across him once again, we will be ready... Not like that day in Lanostre.”

“A fleet of arks? Where would he even get them?” Ziotea was confused and concerned. “But those things, they look a lot like what I encountered.” She hesitated, then nodded. “Fine, I’ll show you. But I’ll start at the beginning. I think context is important.”

Galahad nodded, letting out a breath. As he did, Ziotea focused on Omestris, and the scenery shifted to the greens and golds of Idden-Mar. She lead the way through the ruins, towards the elevator, explaining as she did the identity of the woman they’d met there and most of what they’d been told. She left out the identity of the children, treating them as incidental, but she covered what they’d been told of the azure circle, the involvement of the Aspects, the history Essa showed them in the water --- all of it. She didn’t know enough to draw conclusions, and if she left something out it might end up being important.

At the elevator stood her memory-self and Father Oren, discussing what to do about the three soldiers that shouldn’t exist. Ziotea stepped into the elevator with them, motioning Galahad to join her.

From there things proceeded as she remembered. The confrontation with the three false soldiers, and their wrenching, twitching transformation.

“There, see? Not quite what you encountered. But similar -- and Lady Essa thinks an Aspect is behind it.”

Ziotea might as well have been a thousand miles away. Galahad was awestruck by the twisted giants. They were the same. Different forms, but the exact same as the knights from Lanostre. What was the connection?

When the smoke had cleared from Ziotea’s explosion, the bunker was a mess. Large crystal fragments were embedded on the walls and the furniture had been shattered into splinters. The revelations were still spinning in his head and Galahad found it hard to stand. He felt weak. Whether it was his fatigue or the realization he and his warsiblings would be facing down a massive *unknown* threat that had them squarely in its sight, he was uncertain.

He allowed himself to collapse on the floor, propping himself against one of the walls. It felt good to let the weakness and the fear take him over.

“It is all connected. The demons from Lanostre, the Man in Black, the soldiers from Iddin-Mar…” and worst of all he thought, “the Aspect.”

They were said to be angels, direct agents of the Remnants themselves. If an Aspect of Asherahn, or any other God, was aiming to use them for its own purposes, the entire warband and expedition would be in mortal danger.

“This woman, the apostate… where is she now?”

“Probably still down in the tunnels where we found her. She didn’t seem like she intended to leave any time soon,” Ziotea replied. “Do you want to see her?”

“No. We musn’t wait any more time. There are other leads we must pursue.”

Galahad reached out his hand. He felt too weak, too unlike himself, to stand up on his own. It took Ziotea a moment to realize this and help him up, with a single solid pull. “Other leads?” she asked. “Galahad, you need to rest. So help me if I have to tie you to a bed I’m making you take a nap after the meeting with the crew.”

The Phoenix warleader breathed out, the air from his lungs fogging in the darkening engine chamber. The URA was powering down, and as its strange eerie light dimmed, their reflections faded from its exterior shell. The reality of it still terrified of him but also filled him with a strange yearning-- to learn, to overcome what awaited them. If what Rodion said was true, the URA was a broken fragment of the Remnant known as Agaetys, the lost shard who took the form of the Black Glacier eons ago. Once, in a time forgotten, it existed as the Ice Titan’s memory, but now, this lone white pearl was all the life that remained of Him.

“Asherahn isn’t the only dead god we know about,” Galahad said, gazing at the motionless sphere as it floated in front of them. “Mother Indira knew that the Karamzina would be home to this machine, and that we would find out the truth. She left it for us.”

He turned to her. His eyes frowning as he remembered the nights when Ziotea would be gone from the Phoenix compound, training alongside Tatiana and a handful of others in what would become Indira’s Summoning Circle.

“Did she ever… mention anything about this? Did anything ever seem odd to you about her?”

“Mother Indira? She and I never got along.” Ziotea’s eyes narrowed in distaste. “I can’t say there was anything strange about her, though. You’d have to ask Tatiana, or the Leviathans.”

The warleader frowned. “Tatiana doesn’t speak much of the Circle and the Leviathans are loyal to their teacher. It will be difficult to pry information from them. In any case, Indira is connected to all of this. Dara was her student as well… and the Man in Black was protecting his escape.”

Galahad turned away from the URA and began to make his way to the elevator.

“We must keep this within the warband. For now we’ll attend to the Commander and her war council. Afterwards I will convene a meeting with our warsiblings and we will decide on how to proceed.”

“Alright. And then you are taking a nap -- I mean it, Galahad, you look a disaster. Go clean up before the meeting, or the SA will give us a hard time.”

He smiled. It was a genuine one, something that was rare to see on his face.

As the lift doors shut close behind them, Galahad leaned on the railing and closed his eyes.

“The world has gone crazy. Here you are, telling *me* to get some rest. Usually it’s the other way around. But… I will try, Zee. I will try and put aside the fact that there are not one, but two dead gods we must contend with, and I will try and get some sleep.”

He was tired, he admitted. Perhaps a quick rest would do him some good. In many ways the fate of the entire expedition lay on his shoulders, a fact that he was altogether comfortable with. Since the day his warsiblings had elected him warleader, he knew it would be solely up to him to make certain each and every one of them safely returned from battle. He had grown calloused with that reality, so much so that in time, he began to view them less like family, and more like delicate pawns under his command. Distance was a necessary evil, a comfort. But sometimes, he was reminded of those early days in the Maw-- the eight of them huddling together for warmth. A warband-in-making, children lost and children sent away, freezing in the dark with the fullness of winter collected on their naked skin, swearing an oath that the night would not outlast any of them…

He smiled at her, and remembered then. She was his sister. And it felt good to remember that she cared.

~~~

At the meeting Ziotea gave Ragnar a small smile as he hurried in. She listened to the discussion in thoughtful silence. More monsters was fine with her -- there was only so much she could do to keep her skills sharp on the Karamzina while worried about damaging the ark. And then Astraea said that they couldn’t use powerful ether, and Ziotea threw her hands up in disgust. She fumed quietly while Viveca proposed scouting parties before finally speaking up. “I’d gladly go scouting. Farther away from the edge my combat style should be less of a problem.”

Father Ragnar nodded at Ziotea, and when no one else spoke he cleared his throat. “I would also like to volunteer for this reconnaissance mission. You’ll need an aegisbearer. After all, who else is going to keep you lot from freezing to death?” Ragnar happily announced, his high excited voice in contrast to the calm tone of his fellow inquisitors and SA officers. He flashed a challenging grin to Galahad and Tatiana, who both sat near the head of the table.

Hassan smirked. “They say the Narrow Gates are home to the coldest temperatures ever recorded. Think I’ll sit this one out,” he said with a half-yawn, leaning back on his chair before turning to Ilya.

“What about you, Bjornley? One of your warsiblings is going out there. You’re not going to volunteer?”

“Mother Vivica is more than capable of handling herself,” the Leviathan sniper answered while swiveling slowly in his chair, not bothering to meet Hassan’s penetrating glare. “I will support her from a distance, as I’ve always done.”

Galahad sighed to himself. He had been silent the entire meeting, his tired eyes focusing on the table, seemingly unaware of anything happening around him.

“You’re not going,” he said suddenly, turning to Ragnar.

Confusion and anger flashed across the young Muraadan’s face.

“What the hell do you mean I’m not going? They need a protector,” the diminutive inquisitor spat back. Galahad was his warleader, but Ragnar didn’t care. His stupid brother-in-arms wasn’t going to take this from him.

“One of us was killed by these things. An inquisitor, Ragnar. You are too important to the warband to risk sending on a scouting mission,” the warleader replied with the all-too familiar calm but endlessly aggravating tone Ragnar had heard all throughout his childhood.

“Do you really think I won’t make it back?”

As warleader, it was important for Galahad to be honest with his warsiblings, and yet, he found himself unable to answer Ragnar. The silence told the young aegisbearer all he needed to know however.

“Well, if I don’t go, they’ll freeze. The Narrows are colder than anywhere else the inquisition, nay, all of humanity has ever been. Whoever leaves this ark without me accompanying them is going to die in minutes.”

“Not exactly. It’s true this ark wasn’t equipped for far-ranging scouting expeditions, but we do have an unexpected asset which will allow us to reconnoiter those trapped arks without putting you in unnecessary danger.”

Unnecessary danger? Ragnar glared at the Phoenix warleader. For years they had been true brothers, among the closest within the warband, and for just as long they had competed against each other. Galahad with his mastery of beautiful and deadly offensive arcana, Ragnar with his flawless control of an aegis-- these were their weapons, and since they were children the two had wielded them against each other in a bitter rivalry to claim the glory that each believed they deserved. Losing out to Galahad as warleader had been a blow, and it was Ragnar’s obsession to make up for it. This was going to be his chance…

“If you’re referring to Father Ilya’s ether-racer, the fancy black ship docked in the Karamzina’s hold, then maybe you aren’t as up to date on things as you should be, Galahad,” Ragnar snarked, doing his best to mimic one of Hassan’s devilish grins. “Rodion and I inspected it this morning. That ship may have one of T’sarae’s modern hearth engines keeping it warm, and it just might save its passengers from the cold, but according to Father Ilya it has just endured a three-day journey from the western coast of Magnagrad to the docks of Cero, all without stopping once in order to allow Ilya to arrive on time for the expedition. Its engines were burning ether the entire journey, and well, they’re absolutely shot. Rodion can back me up on this.” Ragnar looked to the T’saraen artificer excitedly.

Rodion had deigned to move his seat to a darkened corner before the meeting started, and he had to lean forward to be seen in the light of the overhead lamp. He stared at Ragnar, and then at Galahad, annoyed to be drawn into their childish rivalry.

“Ragnar has the right of it,” he sighed. “The Sword of Dawn’s engines are in dire need of repair. Father Ilya signed off on it this afternoon.”

Galahad nodded in grim acceptance, sighing silently.

“Whoever ventures out into that cold, they will need Ragnar,” Rodion added before sliding back into the shadows of the room.

The people stood, as they always did, amidst a ring of broken flesh: hunks of thigh and calf and shoulder and neck, black and red and hard as stone.

And the people, as always, were no softer.

"Where are the furs, boy?"

An exhalation. A whisper. A puff of silver breath on the wind, ripped away in an instant. Eyes as cold and gray as the snow watched the people. Watched the ice. Wept cold tears that froze on reddened cheeks.

"Where are they?"

The question came a little louder now, a growl sitting hunched like a hungry wolf, between the words, a whimper just behind them.

There were more people now, cloaked figures stark against the snow, the broken bodies scattered between them, unheeded. Ahead, a thin, high whining sound, like bone against glass. Instinctively recognized as frozen flesh against ice.

This time, a rising cry swallowed the words. Now only the answer came: "I don't have them!"

Before her, knelt between the bodies (both living and dead), a boy. A figure towered over him, another knelt beside him, and between the two smaller figures, there was a block of ice. It, too, was stained red.

"This is your last chance, child," and the voice was strangely serene now. "You found it difficult to mine the ice before?" The laugh put a stake through her belly, shooting cold up and done her spine. "Try it with no thumb."

It happened quickly then, as it always did. She moved, as if to step forward, or perhaps to run -- it never mattered. Before she could go anywhere, something broke the endless, gray waves of earth and sky, a swift, dark blur from the huddle of figures at the center of the ring of frozen, fractured flesh. The thing was no blade, had no edge, but in this kind of cold, that was almost a boon. It went up and then down, and somehow, the sound of overripe fruit being smashed drowned out the cry that should have come.

The ice went a little redder, the frostbitten flesh a little blacker. The pile of flesh grew.

Far away, something seized up from the earth, dark and vast as the sky itself.

And in the same instant, she felt the ice beneath her boot shatter like glass, sending icicles like needles into her blood stream until the cold swept up and over and she was gone.

---

Banou woke to a film of sweat cold and thick as mud coating the space between her belly and her shift. She imagined she could feel it freezing then and there, tiny crystalline fractals spreading over her stomach, creeping around her ribs to join at her spine, spread up and down until she was armored in ice like some great, terrible golem, fit herself to shatter or be shattered.

But the thought was gone as soon as it had come, leaving only a frown and an impatient huff in its place.

"Don't be ridiculous," she chided herself, ignoring the way her breath puffed white in front of her nose. The stove in the corner kept the cabin she shared with a small handful of other soldiers warm, but not near enough.

But then she had always liked the cold.

With that, she sat and placed bare feet upon the even colder floor, letting the chill that raced up her spine wake the rest of her body with it. Even when sitting, Banou tend to remain at attention. It was just easier, and anyway, you never knew when you might be needed.

For the moment, anyway, her limbs nearly trembled with a restless sort of energy, a need to move, and far beyond the bounds of this vast, bloody ship they'd all found themselves on. Not that she'd ever complain. Mother Yonah had been eager to complete the trip, and so, so was Banou. She had her orders and needed little else.

Quickly, professionally, she stood and dressed, pulling her long, dark hair back into a bun tight enough to make her eyes water. When that was finished, she grabbed her canteen and her spear and struck out to find a quiet space to practice. It was hours yet before Mother Yonah was to rise, but Banou had never had much of an interest in sitting still. If she was awake and not eating or meditating, she was training, and if she was to accompany Mother Yonah through the untamed lands to Varya's men might spread the blessed word, it would not do to go in untested.

Outside, the wind howled across the ice, whipping eddies of snow into tiny typhoons. And somewhere far, far away, a shadow rose from the ice.

Permanency…
What is deserving of such a title and what is exile to eternity?

By the time Tatiana finished her work, her black inquisitor’s coat was unrecognizable. Rivers of red had washed over its dark mesh, discoloring it to a crimson brown. Tufts of matted fur stuck to the jacket like sharp bristles. Tatiana peeled off her gloves and tossed them to one of the large chamber’s workbenches. Ever since the summoner had arrived aboard the Karamzina, she had wondered what uses all of these massive spaces throughout the ark could have been meant for in Indira’s eyes. Tatiana wondered what audience Indira might entreat within the room. Was it a human audience or had the summoner taken to just the place that Indira had expected her to?

Tatiana had been quiet from the moment the Karamzina disappeared into the icy horizon of the east. Perhaps the only times she’d been seen since her meeting with Oren and Viveca were in her frequent wanderings throughout the Karamzina’s echoic hallways. She looked… catatonic, disassociated as she stumbled with seemingly no aim. Rarely could her fellow inquisitors catch her for a conversation. Ever since the strife in Lanostre, Tatiana had closed off. While others may have noticed the difference in the usually cheery Phoenix’s personality, Tatiana seemed oblivious to the fact.

”Looking for Galahad,” she’d say on occasion if approached in the labyrinth of the Karamzina. Her close friend and warleader was absent, however. Tatiana was unsure if they’d not spoken about the incident in Lanostre since departure because of their overloaded agenda or something more apathetic. Nonetheless, she did continue searching each day the inquisitors were aboard, but Galahad wasn’t the only thing Tatiana was looking for. Maybe she was looking for—

“Permanency,” she said.

“Beg your pardon?” It was hard to hear her over the sound of rattling metal and welders that echoed throughout the hangar.

“I said, do you think these vehicles are permanent? How long will they last?” She wasn’t quite sure what she was asking. He was.

“They’ll last months out in the storms. Surviving that long in one is another question.” The SA engineer smeared a stain of grease from his palm across his jumpsuit. Tatiana had come to visit the Karamzina’s engineering bay a number of times since she’d arrived aboard. She stepped further into the hangar, running her hand along one of the ice skiffs awaiting its occupants. “Looking to flee the ark and die in the snow?” The engineer smirked. Tatiana stared him down long enough to take note of the silence.

“Not just yet, Seminov. I just got finished with my secret inquisitor work.”

“And you came here? I feel so special.” Seminov rolled on a set of protective gloves before turning back to the project on his workbench.

“What are you working on? I’m surprised you can even make a chunk of metal into so many little broken pieces.”

“Just another side project, Tatiana.”

“It looks like a weapon.” They shared another silence. She broke it. “A broken weapon.”

“I’m sure the inquisitors think a lot of weapons and tools they don’t understand are broken,” Seminov said. Tatiana felt like asking him what that was supposed to mean. She didn’t. Seminov finished wrenching a component into the hull of his mess. “But speaking of secret inquisitor business.” He fidgeted for his multitool to occupy his hands. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

Tatiana paced between the nearby vehicles awaiting maintenance. Her eyes traced the detailed and masterworked features of Father Ilya’s racer. “What is it?”

“You must hear a lot.”

“I try to make it that way.” Tatiana thought back to the Seminary, where she became an expert at prying information out of Galahad. Her skills carried.

“The SA only gets the rumors… Tall tales spread throughout the crew every day. New stories and gossip— even on the Karamzina if you’d believe it.”

“Like what?”

“Like, soldiers are going missing, Tatiana. Right out of the SA and into oblivion. They vanish without trace. Officers won’t say a thing.”

The Red Seminary was a dangerous place. Well… Maybe not so dangerous as much as ephemeral. Children, soldiers, and clerics appeared and disappeared at will. No explanation. One day you knew someone, the next, they never returned to the Seminary. Tatiana didn’t meet Seminov’s eyes. “What do you think happens to them?”

“Have you not heard anything in your meetings with the commander or your time in the Seminary? My brother Andrei was conscripted by the SA. Six months later, no one had ever heard his name. He was fifteen, Tatiana.” Seminov had forgotten about the weapon on the table in all its pieces.

Tatiana imagined a young soldier, wiped from history. Andrei Seminov. The name conjured up the memory of her meeting with Oren and Viveca. Three soldiers transformed into crystalline warriors. There was a new force populating these lands and it was all wrapped in the scattered fragments observed by the inquisitors. “There are monsters, Seminov,” Tatiana said. “They’re hurting people everywhere. I saw them in Lanostre.”

“That’s what destroyed the armada?”

Tatiana tapped against the metal of Ilya’s racer. The resonant sound of her knocking barely carried, drowned out by the mechanics spread about the hangar. “I heard of a Seminov who,” she pursed her lips, “encountered one such creature.”

“Andrei?”

“I don’t know.” Tatiana wouldn’t look him in the eyes. She favored tracing the ornate skiff of her wealthy colleague.

“These… Demons,” Seminov said. “Tatiana, you control them. Can you not stop them? Oh, Andrei…” He trailed off, but didn’t stop mumbling lamenting moans for his brother.

Tatiana lost track of Seminov’s words. Can you not stop them? It echoed in her head, clanking along with the sound of the skiffs, and blowtorches, and creaking gears and wrenches. Tatiana didn’t know the answer. She rarely ever did. Control—it seemed so foreign. Now and even back then. She remembered:



“Go?” Tatiana asked.

“What was that, dear?” Seminov spoke up over his welder. Once their conversation had given way to Tatiana’s silence, Seminov returned to his work.

“I said, where do you think the Terviclops goes?”

“What?”

“Like when he’s not with me…” Tatiana said. “Where does he go? Does he exist somewhere else? Is he permanent? He must be. Ever since I met him, my life… It was a series of inevitabilities that all culminated—all led here, aboard the Karamzina.”

Seminov grinned, and waited a long moment before responding. “Where are any of us going now might be a better question.” Scarcely ever would Tatiana zone out enough to go off on her tangents, but he had determined that was when she would open up to him the most. Alas, it seemed she was done today. “You might want to worry about more epochal concerns these days, Tatiana. Don’t you inquisitors have a meeting with the commander soon? You shouldn’t show up late again...”

Tatiana’s eyes went wide. She’d lost track of her plans again. “Oh… I—” Rather than explaining herself, Tatiana offered Seminov a courteous nod. Seminov bowed his head in response.

“Not much looks permanent these days, dear. Not aboard this ark… Be seeing you, Tatiana.”

Tatiana was ignorant to Seminov’s words. Her eyes, instead lingered over Ilya’s racer and its sleek metal chassis, communicators and other metallic barrels protruding from its edges. She stepped from Seminov’s view.

And Seminov heard the heavy snap echo throughout the hangar. Other engineers must have as well, though when he turned to investigate, Tatiana was already walking towards the ship’s labyrinth of hallways, albeit holding her inquisitor’s jacket tightly closed as she did so.

“Tatiana,” Seminov called with some authority. She stopped, but didn’t turn. “You seem to have spilled something red on your jacket. Is everything quite alright?”

After a long pause, Tatiana said only “I’m fine,” and disappeared into the Karamzina.

---

Tatiana didn’t have much time to clean up before the meeting. That, of course, didn’t stop her from bursting into the commander’s war room like she owned the place. Her eyes caught on the crimson and white silks of the clerical representative. She hid herself off to the side, shrewdly hiding in the periphery. Tatiana met Mother Yonah Levshin’s eyes and didn’t break her dead, intent stare with the woman as she crossed the room towards the others. For a moment, small contrails of black smog rose up from her hands, barely visible. Those who noticed the diminutive flow of the black ether from Mother Tatiana’s hands visibly tensed.

Then she heard Galahad’s voice. The smog dissipated and Tatiana shook herself away from the gaze of Mother Yonah. She suddenly recognized the sorry state of her coat, peeling off a patch of what appeared to be fur and viscera stuck to the jacket. The fervor and rage of the Terviclops weren’t the only forces that called to her anymore. Someone… different lingered with them. Tatiana seated herself next to Lieutenant Dragonov. She sat upon her knees in the chair, turning it to face Dragonov as she leaned against an elbow on the table. “Hello,” she said, painfully clear in her lack of any titles of address. “You’re sitting next to Galahad, where I normally sit. I’m like his best assistant, since we inquisitors trust each other so much. I guess we have to be next to each other today. I’m Tatiana. Have you heard of me?”

Throughout the start of the conference, Tatiana seemed to blink in and out of focus, staring off into her own imaginary trances at will. Really, that was nothing new. The summoner had a tendency to daydream and miss details. She always caught the most important information and stepped in at the most important times. Or at least, that’s what she insisted whenever Hassan or Ragnar would bring it up.

It wasn’t until Galahad started speaking up that Tatiana really started listening in. He was right, as always, she knew that much. If Ragnar had accompanied any forward scouts, the scouting parties risked the futures of every warsibling they left behind in the Karamzina. Tatiana could hardly suppress her muffled laughs as Rodion mentioned the state of Ilya’s racer. She knew something was up with it. Now there was just something else up with it as well.

“Don’t worry Galahad. I’ll join them in the forward party and guard Ragnar.” Tatiana raised a fist of solidarity with Ragnar, though the gesture was as much ironic and boasting as it was encouraging to her dear friend. “Out on the ice, I think me and my friends will have the greatest mobility and presence. If we’re overwhelmed, I can be sure to get him to safety.”

Tatiana winked to Ragnar in the most unsubtle way imaginable.

She had said friends. She didn’t think anyone had noticed or understood.