The wind whispered as the sun began to dip below the horizon. Intricate patterns of ice floated weightlessly downward from the pure white sky above, each flake swirled and danced,as the icy wind carried it across the whitened landscape. That morning’s hunting party had yet to return, and Mother Fiana grew anxious as each hour passed.

She leaned against the cold metal of the makeshift bunker, with one leg propped up against it, and looked out over the frozen terrain. Her breath created little puffs of smoke as she lifted a hot cup of liquid to her lips. She closed her eyes and savored the rich, bold tea. It helped to dull the throbbing of her migraine.

Nearby a group of soldiers, on watch duty, huddled together for warmth. Just like the wind, they whispered. Their voices were like white noise in her ears as they spoke words of awe and fear about her presence. They all knew that without the assistance of Warband Goliath, they would have all perished weeks ago. Not only from the cold but the several Icekin barrages that have caused extensive damage.

Mother Faina was unsure how much longer her Ether would last. She was dangerously low already, and she had to resort to borrowing from others. That couldn’t last much longer without making more sacrifices. The almost constant migraines had created a seemingly endless cycle of sleepless nights and exhausting days. When she did manage to sleep, her dreams were haunted by the visage of her brother.

The vision given on her Day of Culmination drifted through her mind and caused her heart to palpate in nearly the same rhythm as her head. The memory of a newborn’s wails overshadowed the whispers of the men nearby. She saw her mother’s exhausted and sweat dripped form laid out on the edge of an elaborate four-poster bed. Faina stood at the edge of the bed as if she actually been there. The room was dark except for the light of a small lamp. Shadows skipped across the room and her mother’s face as she had a momentary respite. An elderly lady Doctor was crotched at the foot of the bed, holding the newborn Fiana. The doctor had just cut the life cord away from newborn Faina as a dark figure appeared from the shadows and loomed over the women. Faina had instinctively known it was her father, even though she had never seen his face. She could barely see it now, as the shadows partially obscured his features. He said something in a low deep voice and reached out to take his daughter into his arms. Then her mother began to scream again, and both the doctor and her father turned in surprise. Gently the doctor reached out and touched her mother, a gentle glow emanating from the woman’s hands.

“Another will be born this night,” she said with a concerned tone and quickly began to prepare for the second birthing.

Suddenly Faina felt a presence, and she turned to see a young man standing beside her. He was staring attentively at the vision that continued to unfold in front of them. He had shoulder-length dark hair, just as she did, and his features were strikingly like her own. At first, she had thought he had been part of the vision, another person in the room during her birth. But then he turned to stare straight at her. She could feel the anger being burned into her as she looked into his bright blue eyes. However, that anger seemed to melt as he reached out and touched her hand.

The touch was like a bolt of lightning running the entire length of her body. It was forever seared into her memory. Suddenly the hole she had felt her whole life had been filled. For what seemed like an eternity, they stared into each other’s souls, and Faina knew without question who he was.

“I will find you,” her twin said, and then he turned back to the commotion of the vision. In those moments, Faina had lost track of what had happened.

Now her mother lay motionless on the bed, the sheets stained scarlet. Faina’s newborn brother screamed in the arms of the doctor. Her father was as pale as the snow outside as he cradled newborn Faina and stared horrifyingly at the lifeless body of her mother.

Mother Faina opened her eyes slowly. The real world returned with soul-crushing reality. The Hunting Party had still not returned, and the soldiers were still huddled together. Though the vision had been months ago, she could still feel the bond that had been sparked between her and her brother. The anger she had felt from him would resurface like a wild animal threatening to savagely tare its prey apart. In those moments, she lost herself. She had been lucky so far that none of her war siblings had noticed, or at the very least, they said nothing.

Mother Faina reached into the folds of her robes and pulled out a small flask. She poured a generous portion of its contents into her tea. She smiled and chuckled to herself. Alya had better never find out about this, or Faina would never hear the end of it.

---

“Vayra’s light has left us, hasn’t it?” The soldier said, parroting what many survivors have asked since the collapse. Survivors? Months ago, they were soldiers, not survivors, ready to go on an epic crusade for the sake of Lord Vayra's holy sustenance, to bring warmth to the cold and cruel lands of the east. Now, they are candles in a blizzard. Does anyone even know they're here? Does anyone even care?

Father Solim was as motionless as the ark below their perch. His eyes, however, looked left and right, up and down, drawn to something the soldier couldn't see, and that worried him.

“What are you looking at, Father?” A tinge of panic was heard in his sore throat. The soldier squinted, moving around the cramped crow's nest to survey the landscape, but couldn’t make out a discernible object beyond the ice wall.

“T-Those damned things aren’t back again, are they?” He said in between coughs.

Though ice barren, energy peels throughout the layers of the environment like festive ribbons, driven by unseen currents in the ticker tape parade that celebrates life. Here, even in this dull wasteland, energy exists, moving before Solim’s eyes like bright floating rivers. This was one of the Omestrian’s gifts: Sight beyond sight, as if he were looking through a special lens, one that reveals ether still tethered to this world.

“Vayra’s light, Lt. Gajevic,” Solim began, giving the soldier his full attention, “Might feel dim and even absent in such trying times, but it’s always here. That will never change, and when we die? Our bodies will freeze, but our ether will bathe in the eternal light like all things do.”

“As for the Icekin? Well,” Father Solim shrugged, “They’re probably sleeping. Something you ought to be doing right about now.”

The soldier was visibly relieved to know another Icekin attack wasn’t happening. He rubbed the feverish sweat off his brow.

“I’m fine, Father. A cold is all I have, unless my company displeases you?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Lieutenant! I very much enjoy your stories about home, your nagging wife, your six demon children, and all of the things that need fixing around your dilapidated two-story flat, but your temperature is rising, and all of that talking isn’t helping the sickness in your throat.”

Lt. Gajevic was surprised the Inquistor even remembered any of that.

“Go, my friend.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very much so."

“Thank you, Father Solim."

"Drink some warm tea and rest near the aegis engine. I'll wake you when the hunting party arrives.”

"You know, you're too kind for this world.”

“Oh, I’d say I’m the right amount, but if your snoring gets any louder, I’m blaming you if the Icekin attack.” Father Solim grinned.

The soldier rolled his eyes, gave a firm salute, then made his sluggish decent from the crow’s nest ladder. Solim watched as the man’s ether tailed behind, the lethargic swath of velvet, now waning and translucent. Such was the case for many survivors of the collapse. Immobilized by chunks of displaced ice from Vayra’s war machine, the brave few that are left, are held at an impasse between surviving the cold, and the ice beasts that yearn for their warm flesh.

“Lieutenant?” Father Solim called out, sensing a rift. He peered over the rails to find Gajevic on his knees. The soldier tried to prop himself up with his arms, but his strength had left him. Father Solim gasped as the lieutenant collapsed face down, his ether, dimming upon impact.

“Hang on, Gajevic!”



Lt. Gajevic was as pale white as the sheets he was wrapped in. Despite the many layers pooled from those willing to give away their blankets, Solim included, the soldier was still quivering, his lips now bruised to a bluish-purple.

“It's probably pneumonia, septicemia, or both.” The medic told Father Solim.

Gajevic groaned. At first, he called out the names of his wife and children, but now, he wasn't making any sense.

"Tale's...End."

“He shouldn’t have been out there in the first place.”

“Stubborn as he was, the heating barrier's radius must be dwindling. I should have sensed this, but I was...distracted.”

“Hell, Father, we’re all distracted in this fu-” The medic stopped herself, took a deep breath, then apologized. “Sorry. This infirmary, if you even want to call it that, has had its fair share of distractions."

“Don’t apologize for my sake, Staff Sergeant,” Solim said, glancing at the bunks crammed with the sick and wounded. “I’m actually surprised you lasted this long without cursing, and even then, you showed restraint! That’s far more pious than some clergymen I know.”

“Don’t you go fixing me up as some kind of saint, Father; I scream all the profanities in the world into my pillow --- when everyone’s asleep, of course.” A smile was all he needed, and she gave him that much. Lt. Gajevic’s moans grew louder, forcing them back to the reality of the situation.

“We’re low on meds,” The medic whispered, “Whatever infection the Lieutenant’s fighting, it’s not pulling any punches that’s for sure.”

She chose her next words carefully.

“He won’t make it through the night, and with Father Boris preoccupied with more important matters, I can’t ration out anymore antibiotics, or painkillers. As much as I’d want to send him off in peace, Father, I’ve got people in far worse condition-”

“Don’t worry.” Father Solim put a hand on her shoulder. He felt the stress weighing heavily on the medic's conscious, so he offered to carry some of that burden.

"No, Father. You should help the Aegisbearer." She insisted, but Father Solim wouldn't budge.

“I’ll make sure he gets home.”



Solim stared in awe at the dapper man tap dancing to his heart's content. He wore a dark brown, three-piece suit, his hair was combed and parted with slick oils, and the ends of his waxed mustache were twirled to perfection.

“I’ll say this, Jovan Gajevic, you sure do clean up nice.”

“And I’ll say this, Father Solim. I'm loving those bright threads over your usual gloom and doom.” Jovan said, finger-gun pointing at Solim’s attire. The Inquisitor was still wearing his traditional turbankaut garb, but this one was hued in vibrant whites, blues, and reds. It even had trinkets attached to the headpiece, chiming in the slight breeze as they strolled down the sidewalk.

“Is this it?” Solim asked, stopping at the Queen Anne-style, two-story building. Its overhanging roofs were propped up by decorative support brackets, blending into the grey brick walls stacked around stain glass windows, framed throughout its asymmetrical architecture.

“You betcha.” Jovan said, affectionately. “My great grandfather built it with his own two hands, all from the ground up. This was before Tale’s End added a Slum at the end of it, back when Magnagrad provided for anyone who was willing to work for it.”

“You want to come in?” Jovan asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t just yet, lieutenant.”

Before he could ask Solim why, the pearly white front door of the house flew open. Out came six dark-haired children, all racing down the steps to try and reach Jovan first. The father hugged each kid, kissing their cheeks and foreheads, as they screamed for his attention.

“Daddy!”

“You’re back! You’re back!”

“Play marbles with us, pop!”

“You bring back anymore doodads, dad-dad?”

“Dad, fix my ark toy, will you? Dudley broke it trying to be an Ice monster.”

“No I didn’t!”

“Hold your horses, you little demons!" They laughed at their given nickname. "I just got home, for crying out loud! Can I kiss my wife before you tear me apart? In fact, where is sh-“

Jovan’s jaw nearly dropped to his suede shoes. A thin and cheery lady waltzed out the door, her curly brown hair, bouncing along her exposed shoulders. She wore an extravagant dress that looked as though it were made out of sun-kissed clouds. His obnoxious children were drowned out by a saxophone, playing Jovan’s favorite song. It was coming from inside the house, most likely from his old record player in the living room. Jovan ran up to his wife, spun her around, then drew her in close for a kiss.

“Welcome home, darling.” She said.

He glanced back at the Inquisitor. Father Solim was in black and red again, damp from the melted snow. In this surreal moment, he suddenly realized why the Omestrian declined his invitation. Jovan was dying. The lieutenant started to cry, but his family was there to wipe away his tears.

“Go, my friend.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very much so.”



Father Solim Vimat slowly exited the fortress of his mind, severing his ethereal link with Lt. Gajevic. As he did, the Inquisitor caught a glimpse of his final moments.

Lieutenant Jovan was submerged in love; His love for his six children, which was as strong as when he held them in his arms for the first time, and the love for his wife, the same kind of love he had when he first laid eyes on her. His family disappeared into the house, igniting a bright, but soothing light. He bathed in its warmth, looked back one last time at Father Solim, then closed the door behind him. The saxophone’s tune was faint now, but it echoed within Father Solim's mind, until everything went silent.

The Inquistor was jolted back into the physical realm. What felt like hours was actually minutes in the real world. He opened his amber eyes to a smile chiseled on Gajevic’s face and couldn't help but smile back. He let go of the soldier's frozen hands, noting the absence of his ether, then rose to face the medic and her bedridden patients.

"Now, who else needs to find their way home?”

Hiss!

Golden ether flared beneath metal, flowing through it in the form of radiating heat; it was enough to make Mother Alya shrug off her overcoat. As the black iron was quenched with oil, it instantly conjured a loud hiss of steam. The aroma of charred roots flooded the room.

Slash! Slash! Slash!

Just a foot away, Alya wielded her blade with practiced ease. The knife was a well-made piece of Laonstran-forged steel, and its strictly-maintained edge sliced through flesh as easily as butter. With each strike, another strip of her blade’s target fell away. Her eyes stung from the acrid steam to her right, and blurring her view of her target. Alya ignored the distraction. To lose one’s attention while wielding a knife was a good way to lose a digit - or worse.

Craaack!

The sound of wrenching metal finally caught Alya’s attention. With a final thwack! she sliced the last of the meat into thin strips, and looked over. “Damn it, Zviera, don’t open the can of broth yet! That comes after browning the meat!”

The Omestrian servant immediately set the can opener aside, bowing in apology. “Forgive me mistress. I’m finding it hard to focus…”

“It’s the onions,” Alya replied. “They’re making my eyes water, too.”

Zviera raised his head, sparing a long look at the vial of golden ether plugged into the stove. Alya didn’t rebuke him for the distraction - just twelve hours earlier, that ether had been flowing in his veins, after all. “Of course, mistress.”

“Just keep an eye on the pan and add these strips of meat once the mushrooms have browned. It won’t take long, so be careful not to overcook it!”

With her wayward servant straightened out, Alya turned her attention to the herbs. The dried, crumbled leaves of thyme and dill elicited a sigh. She would prefer fresh herbs, of course, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made in the name of practicality…

In her head, Albina’s familiar voice silently chided her. It’s not the onions. He was in the ether extraction machine all night. He could barely stand this morning even after Father Boris healed him. Obviously he can’t focus.

Alya giggled to herself, slightly. Obviously he’d been ether-drained - where else could the precious golden fluid have come from? She didn’t bother to answer Albina, instead looking towards Zviera with a smile. “It’s alright. All you need to do is watch and stir. Once you’re done with that, I’ll mince the meat for the pelmeni while you prepare the dough.” She paused, though, watching the exhausted man as he stirred the onions and mushrooms.

Zviera nodded silently, focusing on the rapidly-browning mushrooms. His golden eyes appeared sunken back in his head, dull and listless with dark, puffy skin drooping under them. His hands trembled slightly, and he was already sweating and panting. He offered no complaint about the work, despite it all. She smiled. She liked that about him. It seemed like so few Omestrians knew their place, these days, and even fewer were content with it.

After just a couple of minutes, Alya held the wooden cutting board up, scraping the strips of meat into the pan. “I know you’re tired, Zviera. But it’ll be good for your recovery to be in a warm room and move around. It keeps the blood flowing. And I’ll save you some of the leftovers! It’s doubtless going to be better for your recovery than simple nutrient mash.” With that, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. Even a slave deserved the occasional reward for loyal service, after all.

“Thank you, mistress.” Zviera hesitated. “...may I ask you something?” The question was just a formality, of course - Alya routinely spoke freely when she and her servant were alone. Alya nodded in reply, so he continued. “Why do you cook for the Warband and the crew of the Kyselica? I mean no complaint, just, I always understood this to be the work of men like me.”

“Because I love them, Zviera!” She could see he didn’t get it, though, even before he asked anything further. How frustrating. So few people understand such a simple concept. How could she possibly explain it any more simply than that?

“But…” Zviera frowned, pausing to focus on the meat, ensuring each piece browned thoroughly without burning. Alya allowed a few minutes’ lapse in the conversation. Her servant wasn’t a very good cook even at full strength, let alone nearly falling asleep standing up. No reason to distract him. Zviera only continued once he was satisfied with the state of the meat, carefully removing it from the heat. “...I am doing the same work, mistress. That doesn’t mean-”

“Ah!” Alya said, with a wag of her finger. “That’s where you’re wrong, Zviera! You and I aren’t doing the same work at all!” Zviera looked from the pan to the cutting board and back, in visible confusion. “Right, deglaze the pan with virrika and then we’ll add the broth.”

By now, the pungent smell of cooking meat and spices filled the air, making Alya’s mouth water. The pan hissed with vigor as a cup of top-shelf virrika hit the hot metal, evaporating the alcohol within almost immediately. Alya waited a moment for the noise to die down, as Zviera gently scraped the burned pieces of meat and onion into the liquid. “You’re a cook. I’m a chef, Zviera.”

Zviera kept his eyes firmly fixed on his work as he replied. “I don’t understand, mistress. We are both cooking.”

She pondered how to respond. With the exception of some of her Inquisition peers, Omestrians weren’t the cleverest or smartest people. No need to launch into an explanation that might go over his head, she decided. “If you paint my bedroom wall, and I go and paint a painting, we’re both painting. Does that mean we’re doing the same thing?”

“No, but…” His brow furrowed in thought.

Albina spoke up again, determined as always to ruin Alya’s good cheer. You’re not smarter than him just because you’re educated, well-rested, and in full possession of your own ether. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t throw a feast when everyone is on reduced rations.

Oh, what would she know anyway? Alya set her knife aside, clinging to her good mood defiantly. “Aside from teaching you,” she added with a poke to his chest, “how to cook, what I’m doing is an art! These are classical Varyan dishes! We may have had to substitute icekin meat for the more traditional beef and pork, but sacrifices need to be made, and we’re otherwise preparing these things according to Varyan tradition.” She paused, glancing at the thawing filo dough. “Well, maybe with some T'saraen mixed in there. Those sheets of dough are for a dish called baklava, which we’ll be making as well. Because the dough is so thin, it doesn’t require a long time to bake. We have to conserve energy at a time like this, after all!” Take that, she thought back to Albina.

Zviera glanced back at the vial of golden ether. “...of course, mistress,” he said, dubiously.

His obvious recalcitrance elicited a giggle. “Well, we do need to eat, and I’m going to lose my mind if I have to subsist on nutrient mash alone. Besides, this serves another, more important function! Aside from maybe military conquest, I can think of no better way to honor the Ravenous Lord than with a good meal, artfully prepared, shared with His chosen warriors! Don’t you wish to honor Lord Varya in a time like this?”

You’re a fool. Varya will abandon you just like he abandoned me. There is no reason in praying to a god who does not care.

She sighed. “Once the food is ready, we’re going to gather a war council and discuss how to proceed from here. You were in the ether extractor when I did the last assessment of the Kyselica’s hull, so maybe you didn’t see…” She paused. Well, there went her good mood. “It really is important that we make sound decisions and please Lord Varya, Zviera. The hull can’t repel icekin attacks indefinitely, and we can’t even run the hearth system anymore. To be honest, if I weren’t absolutely needed on the defense, I’d take a turn in that terrible machine myself to keep Mother Faina’s aegis up longer. Most of that ether we collected isn’t going to be used on the stove - it’s for Faina.”

Zviera’s voice was so faint, it was hard to hear over the bubbling of the pan full of broth. “...are we going to die here, mistress?”

Alya smiled, resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it for reassurance. “Lord Varya will provide. Have a little faith. And don’t forget to add the mustard while the broth is simmering.”

---

The large man sat in the middle of a spartan cell, his eyes closed as he listened to the crying of the dying. Around him, bodies, many bodies covered by blue and white sheets, some sheets covering up to five men or several sheets covering a pile. Most of the sheets had red stains blotching each one. The door in front of him, locked with the warning written in blood, 'Restricted : Officers Only.'

"In the morning of the light, in the fuel of our bodies, in the strength in our hearts, in the goodness of our souls. Our comrades fall, and the light shines on the few survivors here... if I do not cast you to the world then I have failed my job, and you all… for now I can only give the light that remains from your dying moments back to the world… but soon I shall give your bodies.”

The door would open and the bloody priest would step out, and his hands held together with light between them. "I must see the sky!"

To one side of the room, Zviera silently entered, keeping his head low and his dull golden eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He knew better than to interrupt any religious or spiritual observance - disrespect to Lord Varya remained the only offense for which his mistress had ever physically struck him. Everyone knew he was Mother Alya’s servant, and his presence was enough to silently demand attention without needing to verbally interrupt his superiors. He waited to be acknowledged.

He would look to his side and nod to the individual standing there, “Servant of Mother Alya, would you wish to take me to the defenses… I require to see the sky to shine the light upon the day, then I will begin doing my work in the infirmary. So let us get this dirty work finished for the day so it does not linger on the mind.”

Zviera shook his head. “We’ll need to go outside to board the Kyselica, where Mother Alya requests your presence, sir.”
“Do you know what for?”

Father Vladivosi turned slowly toward the bulkhead and began his march forward past Zviera to the stairs to the deck above.
“But come… the sky first, then I will go to meet with your master.”

He nodded his head, reluctantly. “Yes, sir. Mother Alya wishes your presence at a war council to discuss…” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. What else could a war council be called to discuss, if not the Icekin and the camp’s failing defenses?
“That, and…” He hesitated. “My mistress would also like you to taste her baklava, sir.”

Father Vladivosi raised an eyebrow and started up the stairs, the light in his hand shining lightly, “Baklava, I am surprised we have any left.” he said as he moved down the hall to where the breach in the ships hull was.

“But I am surprised they desire me for a war council, I have barely fought in any sense and I know that I am a superior to most of those here… but that is why, but let us hope it is quick, I must tend to those wounded, and maybe melt the ice once more to make sure of our lines… but not a moment longer.” Vladivosi would finish before the Father entered the open space of the breach in the ship, moving past several soldiers that were coming from their watch.

The Omestrian led the way out of the ship, visibly having some difficulty moving around. It was no secret he’d been “volunteered” by Alya for ether extraction, as an emergency measure. In fact, it was only due to Father Boris’ own healing that very morning that the man was even ambulatory. Despite being more suited to a bed than trekking across ice and snow, Zviera voiced no complaint. “My mistress says there will not soon be a...shortage of wounded to attend to.”

He held his hand out, and the light from his hand maybe went a foot above him, and he sighed softly as his head leaned to face up into the sky.

“I am sorry this is all I can give… but it is the last in me.”

He started walking towards the Kyselica, his eyes now baggy and sagged. His body slowly lumbering towards as the rags that encompassed his feet ragged across the snow. He looked to the staff he placed in the ground in the center of the three ships, and took it as he walked past.

“As long as there are wounded I know there are people alive… if people are alive then I shall continue to stand, I would have collapsed already of exertion if there were not, or whatever is said about that my mind is blank...”

Zviera just nodded, not offering an opinion. He headed not to the briefing hall, or any large seating area, where a war council may be expected - but instead to the officer’s mess. The real officer’s mess had long since been crushed in the Kyselica’s impact, but a storage room and some furniture had made for an ersatz replacement. Before they could enter, the savory smell of cooked meat and spices wafted in the air.

Zviera held the door open for Father Boris. “Mistress, I have returned-”

“Boris!” Alya’s discordantly chipper voice greeted. Before the man could possibly react, a fork with a steaming piece of sauce-covered meat emerged at the end of her hand, popping itself directly into his mouth. “Taste this. It’s beef Stroganoff.”

“Alya.” the tired man would speak as he entered, immediately finding a mat to sit on rather then a chair of any sorts. “Just let me sit here for a moment, I just committed three more memories of man to the world. Maybe this luxury will allow me to burn another hole through the ice to commit the bodies of the ninety two inside my room.”

“They served Lord Varya well, and deserve to be honored,” Alya replied, seriously. After a moment’s reflection, though, she brightened. “It’s nice to think my cooking can help that much! You’re sweet to say that.” She knelt down and kissed his cheek.

“They did, but for now I shall wait until the other third of the occupants of the fleet are healed or dead… healing or easing them is what I should be saving myself for, the flare of light in the dawn morning is “

He thought to himself for a moment, turned his head towards the woman, “A bowl? Of this food I would enjoy, is it a last meal since it smells so fine?” he asked with a slight smile on his face.

“Don’t talk like that,” she admonished, arms folded. “It’s just a treat for Lord Varya’s champions. I can think of no better way to honor the Ravenous Lord than with a good meal, after all! In times like these, it’s of utmost importance that we keep faith.”

“That is something you should know I will never lose Mother Alya, but do you not think that the standard men are the ones who need to keep faith more?” Vladivosi asked softly, “though I do believe that we should all have first servings, since you are the one who made this, I am the one… who commits the dead, and the rest keep us alive.”

“So I am the first to this meeting?”

“I’ve been here all morning!” Alya replied. “And anyway, I would never forget the men. Here, try this.” She produced a small dumpling, a typical Varyan pelmeni. “If I were being most traditional I would leave them uncooked and frozen...but I’ll freeze them fully cooked. They’re for the men on watch. During an Icekin wave, they can’t exactly leave their posts to replenish their strength. Something portable that can be eaten cold if need be will help.”

He looked up at her, and took it from her slowly before eating it quickly, and his stomach rumbled harshly. “If it wasn’t for the other inquisitors, and officers I would engorge myself on whatever is left of that.” he said as he looked up at her.

“But with more men in my care… there are less on the defenses, I wish for the others to be here before we indulge ourselves with your dumplings.” he said yawning.

“Just as long as you save room for my baklava, Boris.” Alya turned. “Zviera, go and escort the rest of the Warband...”

---

Oren, for the most part, had wandered the Karamzina, familiarizing himself with its layout. It was a habit he had become accustomed to… a part of his training. Figure out every corridor, every staircase, memorise each door and where they led. If he knew those, he would always know another escape route, another way to run circles around his target or his pursuers.

There was probably no need for this ritual... the chance of a fight breaking out on the Karamzina was unlikely, but it was a habit hard to break. One of many.

The other settled over him like a warm blanket. He had slipped back into the shadows, going mostly unnoticed by his subordinates and peers.

And thus when he appeared in the meeting hall outside the War Room, the soldiers and officers who stood waiting for the staff meeting to begin looked on in surprise. It was a rare sight to see Father Oren out in the open like this and many of the senior officers hadn't even formally met the elusive inquisitor. They stared in silence, some slack-jawed, some unsure of what to make of him. It was then that Mother Yonah, flanked by her bodyguard, the soldier Banou, and her young handmaiden, Sister Mal, made her way into the room.

The other personnel in the meeting hall immediately bowed their heads, yet Oren stood silent and still.

"Please! There is no need for that. We are all here equals before the grace of our Lord," she exclaimed in a practised tone, clasping her hands together in casual prayer. Despite her command, the soldiers did not lift their heads. Years of ceremony and routine had cauterized within them the iron truth that the high priests of the Divine Order were to be respected and heralded among the rank and file. It would take more than a gentle urging from Mother Yonah to get them to stray from tradition.

It wasn't until Lieutenant Dragonov made the call for his officers to enter the war room that they found it appropriate to lift their heads. As the hall emptied, Yonah smiled at Oren, her powder blue eyes taking every measure of him.

"White hair. Pale skin. A storm of unstaunched light within those eyes. Not too many scars. What commendable work your masters at the Atelier have done at cultivating you," she spoke, as if she was admiring a statue in a museum on the Godsfall. "And to retain such unmarred beauty through the horrors of the Seminary, you are of enviable stock indeed, Father Kanus." Mother Yonah tilted her head, scrutinizing him further, and that's when the wonder in her voice turned to worry.

"And yet, there is a... weariness to you. Have you been sleeping well, Reverence?" she asked in a concerned voice as she focused on the darkening skin beneath his eyes.

Despite the Mother’s scrutiny, Oren offered her a hint of a smile and lied through his teeth. “I am unaccustomed to sleeping on arks, that is all. Restful nights will find me eventually.”

One of the two women who had entered with Yonah -- the one who might have disappeared into the background entirely were it not for Yonah's handmaid at her elbow...the the spear erected behind her like a deadly ice spire growing from her skill -- stood quite motionless as first Yonah, then Oren spoke. Yonah's handmaid watched the exchange with some interest, a smile dimpling cold-reddened cheeks. But the other woman, the silent bodyguard, seemed only faintly aware there was even a conversation happening (though he could tell by the subtle but dangerous tension in her body just how present she was). She stood still as stone, hardly seeming even to breathe, even as Yonah's young handmaid suddenly grinned wickedly and leaned over to whisper something in the other's ear. The silver-haired woman gave no response, save the slightest shift inward, nearer Yonah's handmaid.

Mother Yonah then turned her attention to the open doors of the war room. Within, a great oaken table dominated the center of the chamber, with the high command sitting on one side of the table and most of Father Oren's brethren on the other.

"Of course, leave it to Ragnar and Ilya to keep us from starting this damned thing," Father Hassan could be heard protesting from within.

Mother Yonah smiled.

"I suppose it is time we joined your friends," she said, leaving Oren with a curt nod. As she walked into the war room, Banou stood at attention by at the side of the door. Sister Mal, strangely, remained by Oren's side.

"If sleep should continue to elude you..." she whispered to him before swiftly placing a small object wrapped in black cloth within Oren's coat pocket. Bowing her head, a few stray locks of dark hair spilled out of her nun's habit. She cast one final glance at Oren, the handmaiden's cloudy grey eyes filled with a strange look of pity, before turning to join her mistress within the war room.

Upon passing by Banou, who now stood sentry alongside another SA soldier on the opposite side of the double doors, Sister Mal smiled nervously at her mistress' protector and smoothed the unruly locks of hair back behind her ear, securing them in place beneath her nun's habit.

At that moment, Ragnar came stomping down the stairwell leading to the upper deck, making sure to nod at all of the SA soldiers as he walked by them. Upon noticing Oren, Ragnar clasped him by the shoulder with uncomfortable familiarity, beaming at the Leviathan inquisitor as he always did, as if it were the first time Ragnar had seen Oren that day, despite that never being the case.

"Come on, let's sit together!" the young protector said cheerfully before heading into the war room.

Oren just gave the back of Ragnar’s head a soft glare, before closing his hand around the object Mal had slipped him. He thumbed the cloth and looked around him before carefully unwrapping it… and then immediately shoving it back in his pocket. Gantleaf. She’d given him a small case of gantleaf. How had she…?

A cold chill ran down his spine. Of course, Mother Yonah had found out. She had eyes and ears in places he couldn’t even reach. And she had found out about his… dependency. He clenched his fist and squared his shoulders. She wanted eyes on him? Then he’d have eyes on her. He followed Ragnar into the war room.

---

Despite the smell of death and the sound of the rasping lungs of the soldiers huddled below, it was proving to be an exceptionally beautiful day in the Crypt.

The Crypt, the name the soldiers had bestowed upon the ruins of the Kyselica, was at first a foreign word to Zviera. His dead, the Omestrian castoff of the pipeworks, were not laid in stone and iron when they expired but buried in the hard ice that froze the bottom sectors of the city. It was not until Father Solim explained to him what a crypt was that Zviera understood. This was a place for the honored dead. The soldiers had given up a long time ago, but at least they still held onto their Varyan pride.

Above them all, the ice wall stood like it always did, imperious and impossible in scale. Its shadow spread across the entire ice corridor, the Narrow Gates, High Command called it, covering the day in darkness, save for the few short hours when the sun shone directly overhead. As if by instinct, Zviera gazed skyward and found that the sun was nowhere to be seen. Everything and everyone around him was covered shadow and yet the sky was a peaceful golden color, bathing the top of the ice wall in shimmering light. Zviera's addled mind could not remember what time it was. Was it early morning, or dusk? Did it matter?

He turned his head and gazed dreamily at the ice wall as he fell behind the rest of the party. It would be beautiful, if not for the shredded portion of it that now buried most of the three ships. Zviera wondered for the thousandth time, but this time finally allowing a measure of peaceful resignation to cloud his thoughts, why the Armada had left them all to die.

"G-Get moving, cattle."

Zviera winced as the butt of Captain Ernst's rifle pushed him forward across the scrap metal gangplank. He had been daydreaming again. The ether in his veins ran thin, and despite all of Father Boris' hard work to keep him standing on two legs, Zviera was exhausted. He had put on a brave face for his master earlier (he had to, of course), but now his weakness seemed to be weighing on every bone and nerve in his body.

Captain Ernst yelled at him again, this time kicking Zviera at the small of his back. Zviera did not protest, for he understood that this treatment was deserved and required. The Captain was close to breaking down, and he needed this release, but more importantly, the war council was soon to begin and Mistress Alya must not be kept waiting. Up ahead his master's warsiblings were making their way into what remained of the Kyselica's hold. Ernst walked past him, his lower lip trembling. His two top men were at his side. Levin and Markopovic, Zviera remembered somehow. They were the least sick, the most capable of those who remained, and the most loyal. The captain wanted them with him at all times. He was scared, of course. Not just of the Warband, or the Icekin, but the very soldiers under his command.

Zviera was last to enter the officer's mess. It had been transformed into the de facto war room since the collapse, and his mistress had in turn taken it over as her own personal salon. The rest of the Warband didn't seem to mind. They were much too busy focusing on preparing for the Icekin.

Mother Faina leaned against the wall, her face pale and sallow. Zviera's own ether, that morning's extraction, was fueling her, but it wasn't enough. At that very moment, Faina was still holding the aegis, a thin gossamer curtain of ever-weakening magic that was somehow keeping them all alive, but even with all the ether of all the soldiers in the Crypt, it would never be enough. An aegis was not meant to be held continuously over the span of months. Such a thing would slowly kill the caster, even Zviera knew that.

Father Taerlach stood at the center of his gathered warsiblings, his gaze fixed on Faina. He appeared as he always did - strong as iron, despite the dark circles under his eyes.

Ernst stepped forward and saluted the remaining Inquisitors of Warband Goliath. He placed a fist over the hollow of his chest, the traditional Varyan salute. He spoke in a tired voice, all hope, all strength gone from it.

"The... extractions are taking their toll, Your Reverence. I.. My men, those who've survived, they lack the strength to fight and the will to defend this position. It is our duty to serve the Church, to fight until our dying breath, but..."

Ersnt was quiet for a moment. He breathed in and tried desperately to gather his courage.

"There have been whispers of sedition among the surviving soldiers. As their captain and liaison to the Warband, they... they look at me and see failure. Failure to protect them. I fear that a number of them seek to abandon their posts and try their luck out on the glaciers. Others believe that perhaps if they surrender to the Icekin they will be taken as prisoners to wherever the monsters call home. Such a thing is... is blasphemy, of course, b-but--"

Ersnt looked at each of the inquisitors, his eyes pleading.

"W-What is our Lord's will? It is said that Lord Varya sees all, that He speaks through you. Surely He sees with His own eyes how we suffer. Will... Will he offer us salvation?"

The strike was sudden and forceful enough to catch the captain by surprise. For a moment, only the ringing slap! echoing off the metal walls filled the air. Mother Alya stepped back, her hand still raised. Her voice hardened in an instant, firm with fury. “How dare you?”

She stepped forward, as though to strike the captain again. With each word her voice raised in volume, escalating to a full shout. “Of course the men see failure! They have eyes, do they not? How can we expect the men to keep the faith when their leaders don’t?!” In spite of her demand, she continued without waiting for an answer. “Faith, Captain, means not questioning Lord Varya’s will the minute things don’t go our way! It is ours to carry out His will, not to crawl and plead that His will be to our benefit! He will provide to those He deems worthy, not to those who grovel most! You will lead by example, Captain, and restore faith among the men by having a little yourself!”

It was all like an unravelling thread. Once it began, it took only the slightest of pulls for everything to start coming apart. First, they had been stranded. Then the Aegis had been pushed to its utter limits while the bearer continued to fight the slow bleed of a cold death from the constant drain. Everything about their situation had been one slow yank of thread that held an entire piece of cloth together. It wasn’t overly surprising that the men were considering sedition. The truth was, Father Tàelach was rather surprised that it had taken them this long to come to this point.

The low rumble of Father Tàerlach’s voice ground through the room like shifting rocks. It was deep, gravelly, and had not been heard by anyone in some time. While he would never admit it, on a deeply personal level he had been forced to consider what exactly the measure of his own faith was. It meant that he had been... less than present, of late. It was clear that had been a mistake, but perhaps this situation might actually be salvageable now that things had been put to rest.

“I hope Mother Alya’s position on the matter is all you need to restore an attitude of respect and a mindset of zealous faith.” The man shifted his weight.”...I understand that these are trying times for the men. However, we all must shoulder our burdens in this place. Those who would seek to set them down will soon find that there are worse things than the Icekin in this place.” A slow shift and lowering of his hands rendered an ominous sound as the metal of his gauntlets struck the table before him. “If they require...an example... I would be more than happy to oblige them.”

This whole thing was getting them literally nowhere but if the troops were in open revolt, they were all going to die a great deal quicker than Tàerlach had any plans to. His features, as though a cloud were passing over them, shifted from thunderous anger to his usual placidity. “Otherwise, I encourage them to remember what and who they serve. If this is to be our end, then it is for reasons even we cannot comprehend. Hold fast to that, Captain.”

Alya took an audible breath, returning to the table in the room, and taking a seat. “Right, now that we have that out of the way - let’s share this beef Stroganoff before the sauce gets cold!” It wasn’t beef - it was Icekin, the only fresh meat they could still get. They all knew that, but she felt no need to call attention to it.

“Now then. It is Lord Varya who relies upon us, not the other way around! He has taught us to be strong and self-sufficient, and we must now exercise the skills with which He has blessed us. It’s clear we cannot stay in this camp forever and wait to die...but I don’t think we’re in any position to attempt travel overland - we’ll be easy pickings for Icekin.” She paused, looking around, and softening her tone. “Perhaps we need to attempt again signalling for help. Thoughts?”

Father Boris sat down and listened as those around him speak; he was more hungry than worried at this point. One last meal would not hurt before the last stand, he believed. Looking up, he pressed his lips together. Surrounded by hounds of war, he was not trained like them but he had become a decent fighter in his own right. Well, against Icekin and what he assumed was other beasts of the world.

“Though we are but a stream, ether flows from our bodies like a waterfall. I am sure we can make at least one more effort. A beam of light into the sky, or sending a raft into the channel with a rope attached… either way, there is not much we can do.” he said, softly, pressing his lips together once more. “There are only a few men, and if they would rather become meals to the creatures than die like men… well, there is not much to be done. I assume not much to be done, I assume. We are too low on supplies to hold out against the attacks. We could bury ourselves, but there is not much use in making our own sarcophagi when there is a desire to live and thrive in this world.”

He leaned back upon the wall and turned his head to the group, “Well, the Kyselica shall hold, for as long as a man still stands. If there is a way to see the sky at night, then we have the ability to call for help at a larger range... if we can see the stars above that is. The clouds may work against us. But let us eat, and find our course in this desolate tundra of ice. Many of us have important roles in the defence; mainly keeping spirits high and strong with those who desire to stand and fight.”

Mother Faina knew she looked as horrible as she felt. She could feel the stares of the gathering when she had entered the room and took her customary place along the back wall. It wasn't long before Ayla shoved a double portion of Stroganoff into her hands. Faina had just opened her mouth to protest the wasting of resources when she caught Father Taelach's gaze. His look told her that if she didn't eat it, there would be trouble. She instead thanked Ayla with a nod and heaped a forkful into her mouth.

Mother Faina listened carefully, without reply, as the group discussed the issues currently. It was not the first talk of sedition amongst the soldiers, and Taelach knew precisely how she felt about the matter. The fewer bodies she had to protect, the less Ether she had to use. Let them run and let Lord Varya decide their fate. Either they would strike them down or the Icekin would. Doubtful that the Icekin would take a soldier as a prisoner. They were well adapted to this terrain, and it was unlikely that a common soldier would provide them with any new resources or knowledge. Faina stopped listening for a moment to contemplate that idea.

"The Icekin. They have something we do not" she began in a moment of awkward silence, "Resources to survive in a terrain like this."

Faina finally joined them and after she received a look like the perpetual storm clouds hovering outside she finally relented and ate. Satisfied he made one last sweep with his gaze before collecting the plate in front of him and lifting it to eat. The really had a strange consistency to them was the only thought that jumped to the front of his thoughts as Father Tàerlach ate the dish. The years of being a starving child followed by the years of training made him quick when it came to food and soon the plate was back on the table and forgotten. It was fuel after all and he’d never truly met a dish that gave him pause long enough to enjoy it. Thus was the cost of being born a wretch and being raised a servant of the Church. After a brief pause, he sighed.

“I think the only option we have at this point is to attempt another signal. We can’t dig ourselves out. There is no way to cross the ice on foot and even if I didn’t suspect that the Icekin would kill us all, there is no way I would let my command surrender.” The unspoken portion of the comment was that in the absence of reinforcements Tàelach fully expected to expend every single one of their lives and his own killing as many of the Icekin as he possibly could. It was hardly the end he had hoped for but at this point, he was largely resigned to it. The other ships had moved on and no doubt would make it to their destination. damn him the thought resounded in his mind. He was still stuck here and would be responsible for the deaths of half the Warband. In his mind, he finally resolved to take to the front lines. The time for contemplation and prayer was over.

“Any other suggestions? Any other thoughts…”

It was an open question but those who knew him would recognize it as potentially dangerous to voice any thoughts he deemed less than relevant or anything bothering on less than full service to Lord Varya.

“It is we who have something the Icekin do not, Faina,” Alya said, her voice softening as her ire faded as quickly as it arose. “We have the love and support of one of His great Warbands, and the gifts of Lord Varya Himself!” She rose from her seat. “It is our lot in life to do what is hard - if this were easy, I would send Zviera to do it for us. So let’s not focus on our difficulties - they’re merely proof that this task is worth our time.”

" You misunderstood me Alya. What I mean is, they have the resources we need. I purpose we take it," Mother Faina said calmly and matter as a matter of fact. "Lord Varya expects us to be self-reliant. We cannot wait around to be saved."

That brought a smile, punctuated by a large bite of the meat she’d insistently called beef, regardless of what everybody present knew it was. “Yes, we can take more from them than their lives to sustain us. They must have a means of survival!”

Ernst stared at the meat on his plate with a sickening lurch to his stomach. The survivors had been subsisting on the flesh of the strange Icekin hounds for the past three months, whenever the hunting parties were unsuccessful on their forays into the glacier. The meat itself was edible, thank the Ravenous Lord, and it was not for a Varyan to complain about the food, and yet... there was something wrong about the houndflesh. Perhaps it was only in his mind, but Ernst could have sworn that no matter how much the meat was spiced prior to cooking, it still tasted of...that place

He was there now, huddling against the trenches in Lanostre as he and his men quietly starved. Even now, two decades removed from the horror, the stench of his dead comrades still filled his nostrils... and the hunger. Oh, the hunger.

This was it. It was the same. Not even Mother Alya's culinary skills could mask the familiar taste of human flesh. Ernst couraged a glance at the inquisitor, and then to her warsiblings.

Too young. All of them.

A frigid wind seeped through the weakening aegis, blowing at the inquisitors' long black coats and biting at the bruised flesh of his cheek. Somewhere down below, a cry rang out, followed by the sound of boots on steel. Ernst hurried to the large porthole overlooking the deck and saw the remaining soldiers running to the entrance gate of the Crypt. They were all staring upwards and pointing toward the glacier wall.

It was then that the screaming started.

Ernst's eyes followed the impossible glacier wall up towards its apex, and there, flapping its massive crystalline wings, a massive Icekin hound floated in defiance against the darkening sky. This was the largest he had ever seen, and instead of being covered in the characteristic black fur of other hounds, this creature's mane of bristly frozen fur was colored a pale white.

In its frozen talons, it gripped the bodies of the hunting party that had ventured to the glacier that morning. There were seven men in all, but the Icekin's talons were so massive that it could easily grip each of their bodies. With a trembling hand, Ernst reached into his coat and withdrew a pair of binoculars and brought them up to his eyes. What he saw made him recoil in horror. The men of the hunting party were alive. He could see them screaming.

The Icekin hound stared down at the survivors, and then the beast opened its talons.

The men rained down, splattering against the amalgamated steel deck in explosions of blood and bone. Those of the remaining soldiers who still held firm to their faculties ran for cover, the others, too scared, remained on the deck seemingly catatonic with horror.

It was then that Ernst heard it.

"HYEEEEE...HYOOOOO... HYEEE... HOOOOO."

The ghostly song seemed to resonate throughout the entirety of the glacier and the ice corridor below. For many in the Crypt, it meant one thing. Death.

The Icekin's song perplexed and terrified him. Not because of the carnage which would come after, but because of its paralyzing familiarity. The song these wretched creatures used as a war hymn wasn't like the marching cadences the Varyan army sung on their way to battle, but something more mundane, and that's what horrified him. It reminded him of the beautiful herding calls Lanostran shepherds would bellow out to summon their livestock to return home.

The sound of giant footsteps stomping on ice tore him from his memories. Soon the beating of wings and the cacophonous snarling of an army of icehounds joined the war chorus. All across the edge of the glacier wall stood a veritable legion of Icekin.

It had been months since he had seen so many gathered at once. Not since the first attack all those months ago- the one that had crippled them beyond recovery.

"S-Sir?" One of Ernst's men was staring at him, clutching a rifle to his chest. In the salon behind them, the inquisitors were gathering their weapons.

"Fight for as long as you can. Protect whoever you can, and may Lord Varya stand with you today," the captain prayed before following the inquisitors out into the freezing deck.



Threads are laid bare. Cold and frigid are we, dim from Vayra’s light, but lit ablaze we remain.

Solim cast himself as another fixture in the officer’s mess. Like always, he appeared elsewhere, drawn by the influx of ether resonating from within. More deaths followed after Lt. Gajevic’s passing, and the Omestrian took it upon himself to ferry most of their souls to providence. Time is inconsequential within the fortress of his mind, the last way station he designed as a construct before their final departure. Here, the dying lay their souls bare. Confessions formed through memories like chapters out of a book, to unburden the spirit, before they depart from their physical shells. One’s life story fills Solim’s cup, only to be emptied for the next. Years blinked by in minutes as their sadness, pain, and fear distort his perception of reality.

His vision now askew, the ether seen is residual from the souls departed, layered among the living—and there was something else. Something gnawed at him in the distance, but he was too consumed by his own predilections to investigate further. He eventually pulled himself out from the memories of his dead comrades to focus on the present. He reached for the waning aegis, clutched its prickly energies like a babe to a blanket, attuning his ears to the war council.

Such a dire situation. The aegis grows faint with every passing hour, weakening minds with thoughts of sedition. Who dares to venture into the blinding cold, where the only known shelter is an Icekin’s belly? What a vicious cycle. We eat the Icekin as they eat us until one is left standing. Is this ‘Stroganoff’, as Mother Alya affectionately calls it, to be our last meal? Solim chewed at the gamey meat, noting its lukewarm texture. He quickly swallowed the piece whole and drained his entire cup of water. As he held the cup high over his mouth, his eyes were drawn to what no other person in the room could see. Past the metal roof of the hold was a violent cloud of ether, hovering at the top of the Ice Wall. The last time he saw something like that was during the first Icekin attack...

The loud smack! of bone and flesh against the Crypt’s surface was like a demon’s gavel, ordering judgment upon Vayra’s brave few. Their death song growled in tones that were eerily human as if readying themselves for a ceremonial feast. Solim didn’t give in to its terror. He fought against the little voices telling him to cower in fear and listened to the rallying cries of every soldier he ushered into the afterlife. The Omestrian felt compelled to take up arms and fight, but he knew his efforts were best served behind the frontlines of battle; to help keep the aegis strong. The Omestrian rose with purpose. He needled his way through the hubbub until he reached Mother Faina.

“Let me help you with this burden.” Solim smiled at her as his hand probed for the aegis energies. “You’ve extracted from everyone, even Zviera’s ether—good, Omestrian ether, but not from me. Do you know why that is? It’s quite poetic, really. Without even realizing it, I’ve been priming myself for this moment. The residual ether from our fallen comrades has imbued themselves onto me. So use me... use us, Mother Faina, to embolden the aegis.”

Solim knew he was taking a risk. Ether extraction was a delicate process. The use of an improvised, emergency draining kit could yield varying results, but he was prepared to do what was necessary.

Alya had more martial matters in mind. Her voice was dissonantly calm as she answered the Icekin’s cries. “Zviera, retrieve my halberd, and load my shotgun.” What else was there to say?

Father Boris stared at the group in the room, “I will let out one last beacon of our survival.” he said as he looked at the group, “Give me the time I need, let me see the sky and I will make it brighter than anything these creatures have ‘ver seen.”

He stood from where he sat and held onto his staff as he stretched his starving body out some, “Give me five minutes in the open, between the hulks of what remains of this group… maybe our saviors are near.”

Zviera was the first outside, and all around him, men were screaming in horror, breaking ranks, and shooting blindly at the sky. Was it the sheer number of attacking Icekin that had robbed them of their bravery as soldiers of the empire, or was it the whisperings of revolt that had weakened their resolve? Whatever the cause, this was the worst Zviera had seen them.

Somewhere, Zviera could hear Captain Ernst’s trembling voice screaming, begging for the men to regroup. The Omestrian didn’t pay him nor the soldiers any mind, for he had been given a task by his mistress and thus this was all that mattered. He ran towards the small makeshift armory at the opposite side of the deck, doing his best to steel himself against the horrifying sound of the hundred beating wings above him. He was no soldier and was too weak to fight beside, but the retrieval of Mistress Alya’s prized weapons could perhaps spell the difference between the soldiers’ survival and the Warband losing all of the remaining men under their command.

Ahead of him, just outside of the armory, a group of soldiers had thrown their rifles aside and had prostrated themselves on the ground, their knees cold against the freezing steel deck.

“We surrender. We surrender,” the men spoke in unison in a strange, almost practised chant. Zviera could not see how their voices would carry with the surging wind and snow roaring all around them. These were Varyan soldiers, men whose brothers-in-arms had beaten and humiliated him in the name of their Lord, and there they lay, throwing their honor away. It meant nothing to the Omestrian. Whether they lived or not, they were blocking his way into the armory.

“Out of the way, Mother Alya requires her weapons.”

The eldest of the surrendering soldiers stopped chanting and rose to his feet. He pleaded silently at Zviera with a terrified, desperate gaze.

“They… The Icekin… They will be merciful. If we do not fight… If the inquisitors surrender just as we have--”

“Move, soldier,” Zviera interrupted, trying to fill his voice with as much steel as he could.

“Your mistress and her brethren have doomed us. Can’t you see, Omestrian? They have led us to this” the soldier spoke, his voice disarming in its calmness, as he gestured to the bloody carnage all around them. Zviera’s eyes took in, for the first time since his hurried advance toward the armory, the splatters of indeterminate flesh and bone that had now dotted the deck.

His breath caught in his throat, and suddenly he remembered the meat that Mistress Alya had cooked for them. His stomach lurched in discomfort.

The sound of a revolver being cocked brought Zviera back to attention. The Omestrian turned and saw the frost-covered barrel of the soldier’s revolver pointed at his face.

“Turn back. Tell your mistress that if she wants her weapons, she can come to get them herself.”

“You are only dooming yourselves--”

The soldier smiled, a mad cut to the corner of his lips. He turned his attention upward, to the darkened line at the ice cliffs above. They were countless, standing in formation across the entire wall… from horizon to horizon.

“Do you see them attacking? They have stayed their assault! Unlike the inquisitors, the Icekin see us for what we are. Invaders. We have been trespassing on these seas, seas that belong to them, and who among us would not defend what is his?”

Zviera gazed pityingly at the soldier’s crazed expression. Terror had stolen this soldier’s honor. It would not take his.

There was never a choice. He could not turn back. Not empty-handed.

With the soldier’s eyes still focused on the Icekin legion atop the cliffs, Zviera dove for the revolver.



Father Tàelach rose with a sort of reverent finality. The warleader had been gone for some time but now, he was back. As the strangely haunting cry filtered down to their gathering space he watched as the other dove into action. It was like moving through water. He could feel them around him, the fervor of those knowing they were damned. Caught in this frigid hell sure of their destruction. No doubt there would be those who begged, pleaded, lost themselves to zealous fury. In his short time, he had seen men and women react in every way imaginable to the horror of combat. In this isolation, his eyes wandered across his siblings. So many stories yet untold and here was where he had led them to die. It was a pity. If only they had cut free and continued on with the rest of Goliath. There was still a score to be settled somewhere out there. Tàelach sighed, he would never do it if this was to be his last day.

Walking as though in the heart of a hurricane he stepped out of the door and into the hall making for the battle lines.

Mother Faina's stomach lurched and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up on end as the Icekin called out with their eerie song. The fight for their lives was now upon them. Chances were that most of them would not survive if not all of them.

As Inquisitors they were taught that fear was the ultimate weakness and failure. Faina had always disagreed with that sentiment, though she would never have said such a thing out loud. She knew that fear was the ultimate motivator. It was fear that settled in her heart as she watched her Warsiblings prepare for the coming battle.

She steeled herself against the screams of dying men and the exhaustion that threatened her. At this moment she did not have enough either to call her personal aegis. When Solim approached she knew what he was going to offer, and she simply nodded. If there were a time to use such a dangerous ability it would indeed be now.

Father Boris was still below deck, not knowing of what was happening above, he was slowly gaining what was left of his reserve, the last bit of his strength. He sat on the floor, in almost perfect praying meditation. His eyes closed and his body slowly killing itself, using literally the last of his remaining strength, he would take what could be given to him, but it was unlikely that he knew if he could survive this.
He stood, opening his eyes as he took his mentors' staff, “the light will shine upon us once more…” he slowly sauntered out of the room, taking whatever hold he could as the point of his staff slowly grew with light, but it was that which sapped him of his strength. His body, breaking, his mind shattering, his mission to save those around him, will be finished. He entered out into the chaos, slowly seeing the men's minds shatter around him.

“Stand, stand with me you fools! They will not get past the light that shines upon us, the great one will give us the strength, now give me yours and fight!” he yelled out in a whisper almost. “Give me your strength, your power! Fight!” he would say in repetition through the wounded, and dying back ranks where he would have been healing the day prior.

His allies were now lunatics, and he was the last sane one, with those inquisitors he had believed to not be people, but vessels of death, or knowledge. Then his repetitive words changed to chanting, in a low voice, and the light began to shine brighter when he reached the front line of screaming men. He was walking as if there was no one around him, it was up to his friends, allies, and followers to protect him now that he was oblivious to the world around him.

The gun shot rang out and echoed across the chasm, and in its wake came the thud of Zviera crumbling to the steel deck.

He lay prone, his slim frame trembling, clutching his right shoulder as blood poured from the wound. The mutineers stood above the trembling slave, their eyes still mad with fear as they now looked toward Father Boris, who was now marching toward the center of the deck, shouting desperately trying to calm and get the men back in formation.

"Father! You’re dooming us!" the head mutineer cried, pointing his revolver at the advancing Father Boris.

"End this! End this or we will all die!"

Captain Ernst and his two officers rushed to Boris' side and aimed their rifles at the mutineers. All around them the terrified soldiers gathered and watched in panicked silence.

"That slave belonged to Mother Alya," Ernst warned, his finger resting on the trigger. The mark of her slap still reddened his cheek.

"Look to the sky! The icekin aren't attacking. They will allow us our lives, as long as we surrender. Those are the terms. Mother Alya will unders--"

"There are no terms, you fool!" Ersnt interrupted. "The icekin are only here to kill us."
He turned to Father Boris. "Father, give the order and we will shoot these men--"

Before Boris could answer, a massive spear shot out of the water and drove through the mutineer's chest, sending him flying towards the glacier wall and impaling him on the ice.

"It's an ambush!" a soldier shouted.

Ersnt, his two officers, and Father Boris instinctively ran for whatever cover they could find, but before they could take another step a great plume of icy water erupted forth from the surrounding slush as a dozen armored icekin warriors vaulted on to the deck.

Most of the icekin ambushers were of the familiar variety, the same kind that had been attacking and dying in turn for weeks. But four of the dozen were unlike any icekin the survivors had seen before. They were massive in size, larger than any icekin that had come before. Standing at three meters in length, the monstrous icekins' steps made the deck tremble as they advanced. They were bear-like in appearance, with frost -white fur sprouting in the spots where their strange crystal armor didn't cover.

"What the hell are they?" Ersnt asked, looking toward Father Boris.

Ersnt couldn't hear the Father's response, as the dozen icekin soon fell upon them.



Alya and Taerlach advanced toward the battle below, running and jumping down from the upper deck. However, the two of them stopped in their tracks. At the sign of the ambush from their brethren beneath the waves, the icehounds floating in the sky above the battlefield stormed down like lightning toward the upper deck.

A chorus of screams and gunfire rang out from below. The soldiers had finally found their courage, it seemed like, as an explosion of bullets tore through several of the smaller icehounds. Above the two inquisitors, four icehounds crashed violently into the steel shielding that surrounded the solar where Mother Faina and Father Solim remained behind. They began to claw and tear at the steel, their massive claws rending through the protective barrier.

Within the solar, Mother Faina and Father Solim stood shoulder-to-shoulder, both concentrating with all their might on upholding the aegis. The Omestrian inquisitor had bolstered her own ether pool with a small amount of ether he had gathered from the world around him, and this small boon would be enough to grant her an extra half hour or so of power. Without the aegis their companions and the men under their command would fall victim to the unnatural cold that would seep the very life from them, thus any more ether to help in maintaining it would be a treasure.

Faina looked at Solim, and noticed that her warsibling was looking paler than usual. Dark circles began to appear under his eyes, and he seemed to have to focus more on his breathing.
Just outside, beyond the reinforced portholes, the sound of screeching metal and the roar of icehounds could be heard. Suddenly, a large gash appeared on one of the steel plates, sending a shaft of afternoon light into the darkened room. The tear was not large enough for any icekin to breach their defenses, but it had taken the creatures very little time to tear through the steel.
It was then that the two inquisitors heard it.

The song.

Somehow it seemed to be coming from somewhere within the room.

A strange, almost transparent blue mist started to fill the room. Just as Solim and Faina took their fighting positions, the blue mist began to coalesce and take form.

What once appeared as mist took the shape of a human, not much taller than Solim. The mist then appeared to solidify until the ethereal blue clouds hardened into crystal-blue armor. A knight, like something from Lanostran legend, stood before them. Its armor was as azure as the sky, and its armor was strangely ornamental. It clutched a diamond-sharp broadsword and a mirrored shield in its gauntlet-clad hands. Its icy gaze fixated on the two inquisitors, though there was only darkness in the slot of its ornamental visor. In an instant, it brandished its sword and dashed toward Faina.



Amidst the chaos of the battle on the lower deck, Zviera slowly pulled himself forward. His shoulder was naught but a pit of bleeding viscera, and a pool of blood was forming beneath him.
The armory, where Mother Alya's weapons had been stowed away, lay just a few feet in front of him. He gritted his teeth, banishing his pain and the screaming and the sound of death all around him and dragged himself within.

Metal weapons gleamed in the dim, unlit armory. Blades and rifle barrels stood in neat, organized rows, long after they should’ve been distributed to more soldiers. He would let Captain Ernst worry about arming everyone else. His first responsibility was his mistress and her Warband.

WHAM!

The sound of a dying soldier slamming against the wall from outside startled Zviera out of his reverie. Screams, shouts, and gunfire echoed from all directions. Returning to his mistress wasn’t likely to be an easy task.

His badly-mangled shoulder screamed its protest as he hefted Mother Alya’s immense halberd. The pain brought him entirely to his knees, and his own anguished cry joined the cacophony outside. Zviera bit his lip, whimpering. If his mistress really needed her halberd, couldn’t she come in this direction herself…? Surely she would understand if he was unable to bear the weight of...

No.

No - she was out there, fighting these monsters unarmed. To even think of giving up was a betrayal. He bit his lip harder. The salty, ferrous taste of blood helped block out the searing pain of his mangled arm. Carefully, largely one-handed, he loaded Mother Alya’s shotgun.

One shell. Two shell. Three shell. Four shell. Five...

He carefully ducked his head under the shotgun’s sling, awkwardly balancing the heavy firearm until he could point it forward, with the halberd’s weight on his still-good shoulder. His mistress was relying on him to deliver these weapons across the maelstrom of monsters and soldiers outside. He’d simply have to get them to her.

No matter what.



The familiar warmth of ether flared around Mother Alya as she looked upwards, focusing her attention on her legs. The solar was much too far for a soldier to jump, if a soldier were inclined to jump herself into a crowd of climbing Icekin strong enough to tear steel apart with their bare hands. A visceral thrill surged from a primal place deep within, forcing a savage grin on her face. Mother Alya was no mere soldier. Ether surged forward, and she leapt into action.

A dinner fork wasn’t much of a weapon, but Zviera hadn’t returned with her halberd yet. She had her pistol, but against the thick hides of the Icekin, pistol rounds were about as useful as the fork. Years of hard-fought and painful lessons flooded through Alya’s mind as she soared unnaturally far upwards, hastily scanning for a landing point. The Icekin were significantly larger than her, but size wasn’t always an advantage. She quickly scanned the Icekin clinging to the side of the solar. With their heavy weight, they’d need to support themselves as they clawed their way towards her vulnerable warsiblings. Her focus centered on the muscular arm of an Icekin as gravity took over and she began to fall.

The fork plunged into the taut muscle of the topmost Icekin. Propelled downward by a hundred and fifteen pounds of laughing Inquisitor, the utensil buried its entire length into the Icekin’s arm, shattering against bone. It wasn’t a serious enough wound to kill an Icekin, but it didn’t need to be. It only needed to weaken his grip.

Strained by the shattered metal and the impact of the falling Inquisitor, muscle and sinew violently unraveled, no longer able to support the weight of the creature. The impact elicited a surprised yelp and a furious snarl, and then the Icekin was falling, blood spraying from the remnants of the muscular arm still clinging to gashes in the steel. The other Icekin in the group turned and roared their disapproval at Alya’s arrival.

”Ha ha ha ha ha!” came Alya’s reply, and then the fight was on. Ether coursed through her. She threw a wild fist at the nose of the next Icekin.

---

Ahead of the Sword of Dawn, the horizon gleamed a shade of gold unknown to them. They were a scant four days removed from the lifeless grey of the Varyan aegis and already the dusk sky bloomed in its alien orange hues. Ragnar could feel it-- the enormity of what they were leaving behind, like some great anchor hooked to his spine, the links in its chain weakening the further they raced eastward.

The churning blue earth beneath the ether racer shimmered with the dying light, and ahead, the two massive glaciers stood monstrously in the distance. Ragnar scanned the horizon from north to south, and he could not see their end or beginning. It was said that the glaciers formed a barrier across the entire world, with only the small corridor carved between the two glaciers allowing passage eastward. The Narrow Gates, the mythical treacherous pathway which snaked between the two glaciers, awaited them. Their journey had taken them half a day, and it would not be long until they reached the Gates-- the place that held not only their destiny, but the destiny of the empire itself.

"You're really good at this," he complimented Banou, trying to still the nervousness running through his veins. The SA soldier who had volunteered to pilot the ether-racer had not spoken a word since the reconnaissance mission began. Characteristic of her near silence, the soldier nodded and remained ever-focused on her task. She was the bodyguard to Mother Yonah, but the soldier had a decidedly non-Varyan cast to her. The paint, or tattoos on her face, where certainly not something he had ever before seen on any bodyguard to a high-ranking cleric.

He turned his attention to the deck below, where Ziotea and Oren sat at a bench at the far end, checking their equipment. Always ready, those two, Ragnar thought. Viveca stood calm and resolute at the front of the deck, while Tatiana sat on the steps leading to bowels of the ship. He wondered how each of them would fare against the mysterious creatures that had attacked the three stranded arks. According to the reports, the Kyselika, the Veles and the Svarog were being commanded by members of Warband Goliath, who were heralded as some of the greatest warriors within the Seminary. If they had lost one of their number... an inquisitor, these enemies must be strong, indeed.

It was then that he realized that Galahad was nowhere to be found. Where the hell was he, Ragnar wondered?

Suddenly, he heard his war brother's footsteps approaching from behind. Ragnar turned his head, and from the corner of his vision he glimpsed him. The fading orange sky made Galahad's pale blonde hair appear darker than usual. It was almost difficult to recognize him.

"What do you want? Come to lecture me again?" Ragnar asked the warleader, turning away from Galahad's penetrating stare. The diminuitive inquisitor pretended to look at the glaciers ahead.

Galahad sighed, but before he could answer, Ragnar spoke again.

"Are you cold, at all? Feeling a bit nippy?" Ragnar asked in that mocking tone of his, yet he already knew the answer to that query. He lifted his gaze to the almost transparent sphere of light enshrouding the entire ship. The aegis slowly pulsed, a curtain of light lazily fading across the apex of the sphere as a frigid gale swept through the top of the deck, the snow and sleet carried forth by its force suddenly dissipating to nothing as they touched the walls of the barrier.

"See?" Ragnar asked, smiling.

"These are supposed to be the harshest conditions in all the known world, and my aegis isn't even struggling to keep the elements at bay. I can keep this up and fight at the same time," Ragnar spoke, his voice growing from boast to genuine pride by the moment. "Do you know what that means? It means that this is easy for me, Galahad. I won't be a hindrance to you or your plans, and I don't need you to protect me. Ever."

Ragnar turned and approached his warleader, lifting his chin to meet the taller inquisitor's gaze.

"When you ordered me to stay behind, it was an insult. Do you understand? I am just as strong and capable as you. Soon you and everyone else will see that," Ragnar said, spitting out the words out as if they were like acid in his mouth.

Galahad stepped onto the deck, filling his lungs with the cold, sharp air. It brought clarity to him and his thoughts, if for just a moment. Perhaps Ziotea was right, he was a mess right now- but nevertheless, he couldn't stop now. He was so close- he needed just another step forward. That one step was the difference between life and death for his Warband- and the others they had brought along with them. The Man in Black, the Silver Fleet. Galahad looked down at the ship he rode forth upon with unease. What ties did Father Ilya's family have to the Silver Fleet? Galahad frowned- he'd have to keep an eye on Father Ilya- a task while not daunting in and of itself, was a lot to place onto Galahad's already overflowing plate of responsibilities. Furthermore, he couldn't exactly ask anyone to spy on the young scion without raising suspicion. There had to be a way.

Galahad's eyes caught the back of Ragnar's head. Yes, perhaps now would be the time to talk. Ragnar had been snippier than usual lately, though Galahad could not exactly put his finger on the reason why? Perhaps jealousy? The two had been very competitive during their time in the seminary after all. Somehow, all of their arguments felt like they had taken place ages ago- as if they were memories they had as school children rather than no more than a few months ago. So much had happened since that it was hard to think of himself as the same person that had left the seminary just a little while ago.

"Ragnar." Galahad called out, his tone as even as ever as he approached the smaller inquisitor. His name was all he got out before Ragnar went off at him. His brother was still angry it seemed. Still, Galahad allowed Ragnar his moment to spit vitriol at him. He responded with a sigh.

"Everyone needs someone to protect them Ragnar." He said, taking a few steps past his brother to stare off into the ice ahead of them. "That's why we trained as a Warband in the Seminary. If you haven't figured that out by now, you're nothing more than a corpse walking on borrowed time."

"I've never doubted your strength, and I've never implied that you weren't vital to our group- quite the opposite in fact, which is why I wanted you to stay behind in the first place. What would you have done in my position? If you were the Warleader and I was the Aegis? Would you send out the queen to capture every pawn on the board?"

"The queen is powerful because it's mere presence can threaten the opponent. But the queen dies to the pawn as easily as the pawn dies to the queen, and then the battle becomes that much harder."

"Let me put it into simpler terms, dear brother." Galahad said, turning to face him now- his voice cold and harsh. "If you die. We all die. You might be willing to throw your life away in pursuit of glory, but I'm not going to let you sacrifice the rest of the Warband to do so."

"I will apologize for insulting your pride, but I will not apologize for my order- that you so gleefully ignored by the way." Galahad continued, his voice taking on a warmer, if still steely tone- not unlike that of an exasperated older brother. "Which is why we're all out here committing to a reconnaissance by force, as opposed to a smaller, more efficient scouting party. If we had found something worth sending a full party, then of course you would've been sent out with the rest. But here we are."

Taking a deep breath, Galahad turned his head to face the ice again. "Now, as far as what I actually came out here for..."

Galahad was quiet for a moment, as if he were choosing his next words carefully or lost in thought.

"To be blunt, I'm assigning you to the position of Squad Leader- If I'm unavailable or otherwise indisposed, you will have tactical command of the Warband."

"There have been some... revelations... that I have discovered. I believe the Warband is walking into great danger, and I will need your help to protect them all. I will explain in greater detail once we get back from this recon."

"That is all." Galahad concluded, as he turned away and began walking off to the front of the ship. He paused after a few steps, his head lowered for a moment, but did not turn to face his brother.

"I trust you."

---

Her movements had changed. Something about the way her arms twisted and her body shifted. Maybe she wasn’t as snappy as she used to be. These days, there was a malefic grace to the way Tatiana flicked her rifle between her hands. She smiled at its worn state. The firearm had seen plenty of battles, but most of the scratches and warps in the wood were certainly from misuse and regular drops from her idle hands. Every so often, Tatiana leaned forward on the stairs and peered around the Sword of Dawn. The ship—she had to contain laughter upon learning it was their choice scouting vessel—ran more smoothly than she thought. She remembered the snap it made,

And she thought about the Terviclops.

What did it mean? When could you say an inquisitor had fallen? Her warband had to know by now. Some of them had already drawn the line. The Black Shepherd was sure. Tatiana climbed her way up the stairwell to the upper deck and approached the racer’s side. Its lengthy viewport was already scarred by hoarfrost. She scratched at the foggy condensation over the window and peered down. An airy chuckle escaped her lips as she saw the warped metal socket. There had been an antenna there once. Strangely, no one seemed to notice its absence. Perhaps the racer missed any major inspections since it was Ilya’s personal vessel. Tatiana turned away before she distracted any chance onlookers.

Just a glance towards the racer’s pilot was all it took. It was almost as if Tatiana could still see her next to Mother Superior aboard the Karamzina, but she didn’t glare, or bare her teeth, or leap into some capran charge. No. Despite the differences, those blank eyes could conceal anything, always looking inward. Tatiana had plenty of things to worry about in the days prior to her warband’s casting into an icy exile—would it be forever?—but she wasn’t ignorant to the discord of their once autonomous union of condemned Seminary souls. She would have to adapt, she figured.

As Ragnar snapped at Galahad, Tatiana could only smile. Why? While both her warband brothers danced in dialogue, their listener leaned forward, engrossed. To see Ragnar’s frustration almost made her forget that she and Galahad were locked in some sort of game of evasion. One or the other was always on-duty, busy, or uninterested. Now, though, Tatiana was ready to parley again. Or, at least she had to prove that she could appear that way.





“No singular piece can defeat an opponent’s king… Usually. It’s an effort of coordination,” Tatiana said, though she was quiet. “Except for the knight, of course. Smothered mate—the knight utilizes the enemy pieces to corner and overwhelm the enemy regardless of allied structures…” Rather than the usual attempt to jump herself into the conversation, the Black Shepherd was comfortable in her position on the periphery. Another twist of her wrist sent her rifle in another circle. She caught its center, around a length of white tape wound around a cracked forestock. Her smile remained, but Tatiana was careful to let her eyes linger on the floor so as to allow the two boys to continue.

Galahad’s words, however, were all it took to bring the Black Shepherd to attention.



“The thing…” Tatiana started, speaking not exactly to either of her comrades, but almost aloud to herself, “about that game is that the players often welcome gambits of both pawn and queen. That’s often all it takes to gain the positional advantage.” She jammed the rifle against the wall, its bayonet scraping the Sword of Dawn’s floor in the process.

“An army can coordinate their sacrifices and make their positional plays to corner the enemy king.”



Tatiana grimaced, and turned away to conceal her face. She was content to gaze unto the unending ice. She pressed a claw to the glass viewport, and wondered what it might take to escape to the other side.

Ziotea finished checking over her armor and got to her feet. The dusk sky to the west reminded her a bit of the trees she'd seen in Idden-Mar, all oranges and reds, but that wasn't what interested her at the moment. She turned to look eastward, at the paired glaciers pointing the way to the Narrow Gates. Somewhere ahead of them lay three damaged ships, and an unknown enemy. The thought was both exciting and worrisome.

She glanced around at the others of their little expeditionary force, wondering in passing what was going through their minds. Overhead the thin, shimmering barrier of Ragnar's aegis kept out the worst of the cold and the wind. Ziotea looked around for Ragnar himself, spotting him on the upper deck. She made her way in that direction, but Galahad arrived before she did by quite a bit. She would have joined them, but from the look of it the two were arguing. Not my affair, she thought to herself, giving the pair space to sort it out. It was odd for them to fight, but she supposed any relationship had rocky portions.

Instead she turned eastward again, regarding the reflected gold of the glaciers, taking the time to appreciate the view. The colors were odd but Ziotea found they were growing on her, much like the sunset behind her. She stayed that way for a few minutes, just fixing the image in her mind. Somewhere ahead ether sparked, and she wondered if it was from their destination. After a moment, though, she realized it couldn't be, for it was getting closer at an alarming rate.

"Ragnar, everyone, be ready. We have incoming," she shouted. "Some sort of powerful magic attack, it'll be on us in a moment--" She could see it by then, a massive ball of white ether speeding toward the Sword of Dawn. "Ragnar, it's up to you to protect us!"

For a moment, as the Sword of Dawn finally entered the Narrow Gates, there was perfect silence against a watercolor tableau: a strip of orange overhead, a deep and perfect blue beneath, and two vast, endless planes of gray to either side, all woven together by a thread of deadly white.

Then there was a shout from behind her, and in nearly the same instant, the glowing sphere of ether exploded against a sudden shield of crystalline energy, throwing shards of magic light in all directions.

The Sword didn’t so much as rock beneath them, and Banou turned, equal parts awed and curious, to see the man who had tried to speak to her before, his eyes turned upward toward his creation. She watched, quiet as his expression flashed from surprise, to cautious satisfaction, and then again to instant horror as his paling expertly diverted the ether attack into the wall of the glacier less than twenty yards away.

This time, there was no paling to cushion the blow.

Banou had just enough time to scream the first word she’d spoken since they’d set out - “Brace!” - as the first chunk of glacier broke away from the wall and plunged into the narrow channel before them, obliterating the thin layer of ice they’d been gliding along and throwing the Sword of Dawn into a steep rear, its bow pointing skyward.

The young soldier leapt desperately forward even as she felt herself hurled back. Furious, she reached over her shoulder, and grabbed the haft of her ice spear, yanking so hard, she felt the leather straps tense than snap as she drove its point into the first surface she could find. It skittered uselessly over black metal, but it was just enough for her to grab the helm with her free hand and pull herself upright again as the Sword righted a second later.

No sooner had she found her feet than her eyes fell on another barrage, threatening doom for their starboard side. Thinking quickly, Banou dropped her spear, pinned it beneath a foot, and grabbed the helm with both hands to pull hard to port. Hopefully, the others had heard and heeded her advice. Better everyone come out a bit nauseous than trapped under a glacier.

The Sword seemed to make sickeningly slow progress. With the ice they’d been traveling over shattered into haphazard obstructions, she moved faster, but responded too sluggishly. They just narrowly avoided losing a starboard panel before Banou was hurriedly pushing the engines hard to avoid a second collision with the yet-undamaged glacier to their left. For a moment, the Sword threatened to fishtail, attempting to wrench itself from her grip to join the ether blast in destroying itself against a vast wall of ice.

Growling, she wrenched it back again, hardly daring to breathe as she fought to straighten the racer once more. She could feel sweat dripping into her eyes despite the cold. Her arms ached with the effort of keeping the racer from driving too far to either side, from skipping over the still-falling chunks of ice, from dipping beneath the waves they threw in her wake. It was not a ship in the traditional sense, could not handle a tide that was never meant to -

“Look out!”

The soldier dared to lift her eyes, gray as the ice itself, from the helm for only a moment, already knowing what she would see, only now hearing the glaciers groan and crumble like thunder over the high whine in her ears. It seemed impossible, unfair even, that so much ice could fall and still leave the Gates so coldly pristine. It was as if a third wall had formed, falling from the sky instead of rising from the ocean. It was easily at least half the size of the Sword, nearly as wide as the narrow chasm itself. It bumped and scraped its way between the two walls, somewhat slowed by its size, but bringing another hailstorm in its wake.

There was no going around this one.

Almost without thinking, Banou stooped and plunged her spear between two prongs of the helm, burying the tip in the softer wall of the console behind it. She could already hear the engines chugging and straining, but hopefully, this wouldn’t take more than a second. Next, she quickly toggled the controls to seal the Sword. She wasn’t sure when the thing had last made its dive, but they’d be taking on quite a bit more water if she did nothing.

At the rear of the racer, she could hear the telltale mechanic whir as a sleek of thick black glass and metal began its journey aft to fore to seal the Sword against a field of orange and white. Banou risked a backward glanced, swallowed a curse, and then yanked her spear free of the controls to push the racer forward into a dive.

A second later, the great chunk of ice struck the channel before them.

Like a geyser, a great plume of ice and water roared into the air, forced higher and faster for the closeness of the glaciers. Torrential waves were sent crashing in both directions, surging several yards up the narrow channel, flushing the remainders of ice away like so much dust in a storm. The damaged glacier, its face still stunningly smooth, seemed itself to tremble, acquiesce, and then loose its final assault, adding to the cacophony of blue and gray and white.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the torrent was gone, the water had settled, and there was silence, marred only by the almost peaceful lapping of waves against the ice.

The Sword of Dawn was nowhere to be seen.

Viveca stood at the bow of The Sword of Dawn, staring out into the expanse of ice and shelves before them. Her hands were clasped behind her back as she held a strong stance, gazing inquisitively forward. Ragnar had been stewing the whole day, she noticed, but his Aegis held up with incredible strength against the elements. It barely seemed to be wearing on him at all, as a matter of fact. A sense of foreboding overcame her in that moment, and she reached silently to the book at her right hip – she had used leather straps to affix it to the belt around her coat. It belonged to her; she could not leave it in her stateroom. It had too much power and she had too little understanding of it to risk another person finding it.

Dusk without the clouding of Varya’s Aegis was sublime, though, she noticed. The gold and orange hues of the sky stretched on endlessly, reflected in her eyes. The Narrow Gates before them were intimidating in their naturally awe-inspiring splendor. She despised the privilege that allowed Ilya to personally own such a fine craft, but even she had to admit that it was pure serendipity they could use it. Her thoughts drifted once more to Hassan’s sleuthing about Ilya’s chambers, and still she had not yet informed Father Galahad of it, but perhaps she should before they return, while Hassan could not interrupt or intervene. These thoughts, from Hassan to Ashe-rahn and the Azure Circle, had been plaguing her mind for a week now, and only Tatiana and Oren could share in her existential sorrow. She wanted to tell Galahad, truly, but he had so much work before him, she wanted more substantial information before adding it to his pile of responsibility.

Her eyes glazing over as she receded into her mind, Viveca did not notice the incoming projectile until Ziotea warned them all. Suddenly thrown back into the real world, she whipped around to see Ragnar, already prepared to stave off the attack. Banou’s alarm did not end there as the walls of ice came crumbling down around them. The Inquisitor, now returned to the moment, heeded the call and immediately gripped a nearby railing with both hands, holding her tongue in the back of her mouth so she wouldn’t bite it, and angling her body to maintain a firm stance as the ship reared up. Nearly losing her footing as the vessel heaved directly upward, Viveca engaged her arms and abdomen, twisting to now accommodate the shift of gravity and locking her feet against the railing as well. Where the hell did that come from?! She cursed silently as Banou expertly righted the racer.

Banou had joined them as the pilot upon their departure and Viveca knew almost nothing about the woman except that she was probably Omestrian, at least mostly, by blood, yet wholly devoted to the Ravenous Lord and eager to prove it. She was born to be a soldier, and her military bearing and resiliency were clear to Viveca. This was a woman who had seen much and, while not very expressive, had been entirely shaped by her own experiences, whatever they may be. Port, starboard, up down… the entire scouting party was left to hold themselves in place as this woman remained steadfast, dedicated to the helm.

And then it happened – as everybody gripped their respective braces and held themselves in place, Viveca watched Banou steer them resolutely, activating the seal as the hull was breached. The hole that had opened in the side of the vessel was no laughing matter, and as they lurched forward and down to dodge the incoming glacier from the sky, seal began to close over it. But one other thing went nearly unnoticed – Banou, silently as though in either shock or pure dedication, fell from her post forward, and right through the hull into the water with a splash. Her body whipped to the side as the racer passed her and a deluge of water was sucked inside, just in time to be closed off.

And that was it… Banou was just… gone. Nowhere to be seen, and Viveca thought she might be the only one who actually saw it happen.

“Hit the brakes!! Man overboard!” She cried as soon as she could get her footing, even on the wet floor. There was no hesitation as she bolted toward Oren, releasing the straps that held her tome at her side. Are you insane?! The pragmatic portion of her brain screamed, She’s already dead – hypothermia will kill her in moments! Viveca shook her head and began expending as much ether as she dared on her Brilliance – the warming glow of light she could produce and place on surfaces. She covered her vital areas, particularly her heart and head. Finally, she placed her hand on the book, whispering just loud enough for Oren, and perhaps Ziotea to hear her.

“Ashe-rahn, I know what you’ve done… and what you did to me, I beg you now… grant me the protection from the very cold you’ve once tried to use against me… As Mother Indira told me, deep within me, there is a flame, the same is true of you… help. Me.” She prayed quietly; her eyes closed. She hoped that would help… perhaps it would backfire, but she was already consigning herself to death – there were only moments before Banou would be left for dead in a lifeless sea, she had to act before Galahad could pull her away. She thrust the book into Oren’s arms, “Keep this safe… If I don’t return, you and Tatiana have to figure this out… Tell Galahad,” The woman requested, her golden eyes meeting his before she began to pull away. A hand closed around her wrist and jerked her back around, once again looking to Oren.

His eyes were searching, and filled with concern. “Viveca.”

Words unspoken passed between them. And seemingly convinced, the pale-haired man released his grip on her.

“Ragnar! I’m going to need help from your Aegis,” She called out. True, Viveca was no Galahad nor Ragnar for leadership, but she was a person of action. Just as she had called for this mission, the pilot assigned to them was as much her responsibility as theirs. If this mission was Banbou’s death, the return of her body would be Viveca’s.

“What the-” Was all Galahad managed to get out before his brain started kicking into overdrive. His eyes shot back and forth for a moment before they rested on Ragnar’s. He nodded to the shorter inquisitor. Despite their arguments, the two were always in tune enough that Ragnar didn’t need to hear him speak to know what he was saying.

Go.

Without another word Galahad made a sprint for the control cabin, boots slamming across the deck.

The woman grabbed and hefted the bar keeping the watertight door of the pressurized compartment between the inside of the ship and the outside and leapt inside, shutting it quickly behind her. The very same was true of the second door, but as soon as she opened it, she took a massive breath of air. Then, she was in the water… untethered by gravity or The Sword of Dawn; light penetrated the water from the setting sun, but reflected from the ice, too. The water was a shimmering, glittery blue of frozen temperatures. It was awesome and horrifying… and empty, all at the same time. She began swimming aft of the racer – hoping to spot Banou still just within Ragnar’s Aegis; that was her best hope for life.

Viveca focused her ether as cold began penetrating her body. It was shocking and immediate; if her lungs weren’t full of air, she would have gasped and inhaled the liquid. She had to strengthen her paling, she only had so much time, but her ether felt inaccessible. There had only ever been one time in her life that she felt so disconnected from that pool inside of her as cold crept along her extremities. She couldn’t move her arms as she was thrown out the side of the vessel, everything began to stiffen; the woman was already numb, and the peripherals of her limited vision were turning purple and black. She was going to die before she even spotted Banou’s body, wasn’t she?

Darkness filled her gaze all the way through. It was dense and inky, she felt more than cold poking and prodding her nerves. It felt like it was holding her ether at bay, fighting her spirit as well as her body. It was like her very soul was freezing solid. In the darkness of her vision, she saw one tiny light. As it began to grow, she saw that it was a mixture of red and orange, flickering. She felt it, deep within her, as the cold began to dissipate from around her. The inquisitor’s vision was returned to her, and she felt the warmth spread throughout her body, for just long enough to summon a paling. Was that him..? Does Ashe-rahn show mercy? She wondered silently, kicking her legs as she pushed the water before her back.

The paling helped to dry her and kept the cold from the water away, at least so far. But it was doing a lot of work, the faint shade of dark blue around her pulsed as inky black tendrils of powerful, accursed cold assaulted her shielding. The Sword of Dawn actually continued onward, she realized, as it’s momentum was taking too long to reverse. But she pushed on, even as she felt her paling begin to give way once out of Ragnar’s Aegis. Redoubling her efforts to push back with her paling, she felt her ether take a heavy hit fighting back the shock and cold.

And finally, after what felt like minutes of swimming, Viveca saw her – Banbou was drifting lazily downward, though she was only maybe ten feet from the surface still and did not seem to be sinking quickly. The woman reached out and grabbed the scouting party’s pilot, extending her paling to protect her from the cold, once again adding to the drain on her ether. As she turned around to pull her back to the ship, it was gone… It was too dark, or the vessel was too deep and far; she could not see it. No, no… No, no, no… Viveca whipped around, but the only direction she could see was up. They needed to get out of this water, first and foremost, so she began dragging up… and up… Her arms and legs screaming against the cold, even through her paling. He lungs began to ache in warning; they really had moments before both of them would be pulled into the depths, never to be seen again.

Since The Sword of Dawn had been submerged, the water’s surface had become unperturbed. That is, until Viveca’s head broke through it and she gasped for fresh air, her teeth held back from chattering only by the sheer layer of will she had remaining. Where could they go? There was so much broken ice… There! A shelf, only about a foot out of the water. She could make sure Banou was still alive and decide their next step from there. Dragging the woman alongside her, Viveca side-stroked all the way to the shelf she spotted before reaching up with one arm and heaving Banou’s unmoving body on it, sliding her until she was completely out of the water. After that, Viveca climbed out of the water herself and let her paling soften slightly, just to absorb the cold around them, but no longer needed to stave off the water too. She pulled her own jacket off, removing her falchion from the belt, and placed it over Banou, using some of her remaining ether to create a small area of gentle warm, significantly less powerful than an Aegis, around them.

As she was trained, Viveca began checking vitals and for signs of life, rubbing her own arms when the cold attempted to cut through her paling. I swear to Omestris if you’re dead, I’ll hunt down your soul and reap it myself for letting me throw my life away… They were outside Varya’s Aegis – this woman likely had no right to be alive, unless Viveca was faster than she thought. Based on the readings and teachings of Father Antonin, there was little chance of survival outside of the Aegis. Banou’s eyes appeared slightly sunken and Viveca noticed a certain firmness in the woman’s veins, but… based on everything she was taught, it hadn’t progressed as quickly as she had heard. Keeping one hand on the woman to cover her in paling, Viveca checked for injuries – bruises, to be sure, but… nothing mortal, thankfully. Upon touching Banou’s shoulder, the woman sharply inhaled, but still appeared to be fluttering in and out of consciousness. It had to be dislocated, based on what Viveca knew of first aid. This wasn’t going to be pretty…

“Hang in there, this is gonna hurt…” She muttered, though there was no telling if Banou would hear her as she braced herself and then, in one quick, powerful move, popped the socket back into place.

Shining brilliance flooded Alya’s sight from all directions. The coursing cyan pulse of ether enshrouded her vision, as though she fought inside a giant sapphire. Fighting with her etheric abilities was akin to harnessing a great and terrible beast; she was a whirling dance of death and just one fatal slip away from disaster.

Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump.

Alya’s heart pounded in her chest. Her vision pulsed with the exertion. The broken metal bar she wielded quivered along with her hands in anticipation of further violence. Blood and torn strips of flesh sloughed off the shaking weapon. She flashed a wild sneer towards her foe, partially obscured by the white clouds of her rapid breaths.

Thump-Thump, Thump-Thump, Thump-Thump!

She could no longer distinguish the staccato gunfire echoing all around from her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Across a floor of dented steel, the hulking mass of an Icekin loomed over Alya. He growled his fury at the comparatively tiny Inquisitor’s defiance. The low, guttural noise reverberated in Alya’s chest and shook the flooring underfoot. Alya threw her head back and belted out a psychotic burst of laughter in reply.

Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump!

The rest of the world no longer existed. Nothing but Alya and her opponent mattered. The bitter, lethally cold wind was gone. The world was all white snow, silver steel, and red viscera. The deck underfoot was lit only by the shining of blue and gold ether. The screams of dying men and the howls of wounded Icekin hounds and the growls of the monstrous beasts all became instruments backing Alya’s performance. It was the symphony underscoring a long series of duets, and now Alya regarded her next partner.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump!

“You think you’re the greatest bear I’ve danced with?!” Alya shouted, raising her improvised weapon. The monster surged forward, closing the distance with massive strides. Her hands unsteadily wagged the pipe back and forth, the taunting message clear: Come and play, Icekin. I’ve faced much worse than you.

---

The impact hit me so hard, all I could see were stars in my vision. The man’s vicelike grip held me by the neck. His off-hand was raised, as if to slap me in the face again. What little air I could get came in short, rasping breaths. My feet couldn’t reach the floor. He was holding me aloft. I struck out at him, but his arms were longer than mine. I was never very physically large, but no fourteen-year-old girl could possibly match an adult man in size and strength. It was impossible. I tapped my hand against my leg, once, twice, three times. We weren’t allowed to continue sparring once our training partner tapped out. If we did, someone could get hurt. Those were the rules of the Red Seminary.

Only, the Muraadan man didn’t release me. Maybe he didn’t see it? I slapped my hand against my bare leg, loud enough for the smack to ring out in the arena. One, two, three. From the viewing platform, I remember Father Gregoroth’s firm tone. “Have you only trained for friendly sparring matches, girl?” he demanded. “In a fight, Lord Varya’s enemies aren’t going to stop until you’re dead.”

I hanged there, suspended off the floor, for what felt like it must have been at least half an hour. The strange, foreign tattoos running up and down the man’s arm were all I could see clearly. Darkness encroached on the fringes of my vision. I grabbed for his hand, tried to pull his fingers apart enough to breathe. His arm may as well have been carved from stone for all I could move it. He backhanded me again. The room seemed to tilt and shift in place. And why had Father Gregoroth turned out the lights? I could barely see...

That’s when I remember starting to panic. Was this guy going to strangle me to death right here in the arena of the Red Seminary? I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I remember trying to call out for help, which was stupid, Father Gregoroth could clearly see what was happening and Father Gregoroth, the Great Bear, would never step in to help a struggling student. My arms felt too heavy to move. There was no help coming. I remember how truly alone I felt in that last moment.

---

Alya brought down her metal pipe with a wild rush of ether. Bones snapped under solid steel. The Icekin’s muzzle dented inwards, mangled into a hideous scowl. A splash of crimson marred its white face. The crunch of shattered bone reverberated down the metal and through her arm. Only by the strength of her etheric reserve did she spare her own limbs from shattering themselves. For a split-second, she locked eyes with her oncoming foe.

Then the Icekin struck back like a speeding train. Even despite her ether-enhanced strength, Alya felt herself lifted from the ground by the impact. The Inquisitor sailed twenty feet backwards into the hull of the Kyselica. Its reinforced steel, armored enough to ram an iceberg at full speed, buckled under the impact. Shorn rivets shot out in all directions like a hail of unaimed gunfire. Even with dazzling ether flaring all around her, the world momentarily flickered out of existence as her head dented the hull behind her.

But there was no time to rest. No time to think. On instinct, Alya threw herself to the right with as much strength as she could muster. Not a second later, the beast struck where she’d been like a blow from a Titan’s hammer. The Icekin’s hulk tore a jagged edge open in the dented hull, punishing his missed blow by slicing deep into muscle. Alya rolled on impact with the ground. She didn’t have time to right herself before she slammed backwards into a steel pillar and came to a stop.

Alya shot up to her feet as the coursing ether commanded her injured limbs upwards, back into the fray. She spat blood onto the deck, and laughed. “I’ve slaughtered nineteen of your kind, beast! I’ve lost count of your dead hounds! Now come and make it twenty!”

The Icekin’s mangled muzzle turned his every enraged breath into a bloody snarl. He charged, and Alya’s dance continued.

---

I don’t actually remember what happened next. One moment I was choking out. Then I remember when I could see again. I was on the ground. A small spellblade shimmered in my hand. A crimson streak marred the wooden floor. What happened?

His shout brought me back to the present. “You little bitch!” Across from me, the Muraadan man clutched his arm. Blood seeped between his fingers, dripping onto the floor. “You said this was no-weapons, Inquisitor!” From on high, Father Gregoroth laughed.

Well, he sort of laughed. It was more like a low rumble that somehow filled the arena. It echoed from every direction. “And you said you were a fearsome brawler. Do you really feel fear at the sight of a little girl clutching a butter-knife like that?”

I stared dumbly at the spellblade in my hand. I definitely didn’t summon it. I know, because I’d completely forgotten I could do that. I preferred training with much larger weapons. I had never had any great skill with ether.

And then he was on me again. His blow struck me dead center. Sent me flying. Damn, but it hurt so bad. It felt like my insides were going to explode. Landing on my back knocked the wind out of me. I had no time to recover before he was there, again. He kicked me. Once. Twice. Three times. I felt a rib crack. It hurt like being stabbed. I tried to scramble away, rolled over, and saw the fury burning in his eyes. That’s when I knew what this was. We weren’t training.

He was trying to kill me.

He was trying to kill me!

I felt an icy stab of fear, even over all the pain. I’d faced death before. Well, Albina had, anyway. But it’s one thing when the danger is abstract - when it’s hunger or cold or exhaustion. But to have another person there directly trying to violently end my life? Maybe it was the fear. Maybe it was the blow to my stomach. I wet myself, there on the wooden arena floor. I sobbed out loud. I would never admit that to my warsiblings, of course. I’m sure they’d understand; they’d survived the Red Seminary too. But still, I've never told them how this fight really went. A lack of fear, of that sheer unthinking terror, is just one of those mutual fictions we had wordlessly agreed upon.

I rolled and scrambled backwards. The hot stabbing pain in my side from the broken rib elicited a high yelp. This wasn’t like sparring. There we’d follow choreographed, rehearsed sets of moves. What was the correct move to respond with when your opponent pulled the “I will beat you to death” move? I hadn’t been taught that. Neither had Albina. I pulled away. I needed time. Time to figure out how to respond. An involuntary cry escaped as I failed to dodge far enough. That tattooed arm reached out, swept me off my feet. My face hit the wood, hard. I tried to roll, but when I rolled onto my side the pain stopped me in my tracks, and he kicked me onto my back.

I was alone with a killer. If I couldn’t figure out how to answer that, I was going to die.

---

Alya and the Icekin together wreaked untold havoc in what was once the Kyselica’s navigation deck. Paper maps were strewn everywhere, tattered beyond recognition. An overturned table made of dense Lanostran oak lay in three pieces and covered in blood. Etheric light glinted off shattered glass and jagged metal from various instruments and meters, all rendered beyond useless by the violence.

Alya clutched a mangled sextant in her hand, its brass slick with blood. Snow blew in through the large hole in the wall before being crunched underfoot, and the metal deck grew increasingly perilous. The Icekin was vastly better at navigating an ice-slick surface than Alya was, and ether was far from an inexhaustible resource. Breath came hard, her lungs filling painfully with the icy air. Much of the quickly-freezing blood on the floor was her own. Their fight wasn’t one of graceful precision and finely-honed technique. It was a dance of raw, primal violence.

The Icekin lunged, faster than such a lumbering hulk seemed capable. Alya’s magically enhanced reflexes were by now the only thing allowing her to keep up. She slipped past a bloodied arm and smashed the brass sextant into his face. Alya focused all the strength she could muster into the rounded edge of the device, slamming it into her foe’s impossibly dense skull. The golden ether she’d harvested from Zviera flared all around her, and she hoped beyond measure that the monster’s skull would give out under the impact faster than the brass tool did.

But neither were the first to give way. The Icekin reeled from the superhumanly strong blow, but Alya’s footing slipped in the blood on the deck. She wavered unbalanced for a single heartbeat. In that moment, his mighty limb, thick as a tree’s trunk, struck out and flung Alya like a rag doll. She flared her ether to land, lest she break her neck on impact. But that took a moment of attention and focus, and this wasn’t a fight in which moments could be bought for free.

An enormous grip seized her by the leg, and the world spun crazily around her. First she was sideways, then she was airborne, then upside-down as the towering Icekin held her aloft. Alya flipped the broken sextant around in her hands, exposing a jagged edge and plunging it towards the Icekin’s vulnerable belly. She let out a strained laugh as the sharp metal plunged into soft flesh. With an outraged snarl, the monster retaliated by whipping her around by her leg, smashing her into the ship’s chronometer like a human flail.

Glass shattered and metal bent on impact with her shoulder. Clockwork mechanisms slowed to a halt, letting out a grinding sound in protest at the intrusion. Alya’s head smacked into the brass side of the chronometer. The left side of her field of vision went red and winked out, fading into nothing. A searing pain spread across that side of her face, joining the hundreds of pains across her body.

She instinctively rolled to the right, to avoid the next incoming blow - but the dodge was abruptly yanked short, leaving Alya floundering. Without her left eye, Alya couldn’t look down to see, but the pain of pulled muscles told her the clockwork gears had pulled her arm firmly into their motions before jamming to a halt.

She could swear the monster actually grinned at her turn of fortune. His bloody, disfigured paws seized her by her right arm and leg as she aimed a kick at his mangled face. Alya’s laughter stopped all at once. Even with etheric, superhuman strength, it wouldn’t take more than a couple minutes for the Icekin to tear her limb from limb. “I’ll have you know I don’t fight alone!” Alya threw the Icekin a wild, wide-eyed glare, somewhere between hostility and joy. “Lord Varya, I pray to be allowed to continue serving in Your glorious name!”

---

I nearly died before I found my answer. He had knelt down, his knee driving into my hip and pinning me in place. His hand was so much bigger than mine, it was trivial to pin my arm and my spellblade with it. Blood dripped from his slash wound onto my face. I remember it got into my eyes, because I couldn’t see clearly. I tried to throw him off with ether, but to tell the truth, I had almost no experience in fighting with ether. Albina’s memories of training in this regard really didn’t help. She seemed to be able to use a family signet of hers as a focus somehow, in a way I had never really figured out how to copy.

He slapped me, then backhanded me. It was purely vindictive. Surely he had me dead to rights without further blows? I pulled as hard as I could, but he brought his free hand down on my neck, and then I couldn’t breathe. I kicked my legs, but only found air. I reached for his wrist with my off-hand, but couldn’t break that vicelike grip. I pulled. I scratched. I struck. I slapped. Nothing.

He leaned down, his face so close to mine I could smell the virrika on his breath. He taunted me. He was angry now. I don’t remember the exact words. I was panicking too much to focus on them. I think I hit him in the face, but not with any real force. I had nowhere near the physical strength needed to escape. I had no means of leverage. I was at the Muraadan’s mercy.

I just remember thinking, damn it, somebody help me. A fellow warpriest, Father Gregoroth, hell, anyone. And that’s when I remembered that I wasn’t alone. You see, I’m never really alone…

---

BOOM!

In the interior space of a ship’s hull, the shotgun blast reverberated like the detonation of a bomb. The Icekin staggered, letting go of Alya’s arm and turning in surprise.

Zviera stepped back, his gold eyes wide with fear and surprise. The shotgun at his hip clacked loudly as his shaking hands worked the pump action, and then it roared again. BOOM!

And again. BOOM!
And again. BOOM!
And again. BOOM!

With each explosion, a widening patch of blood and viscera appeared blossomed from the Icekin’s torso. His low, deep growl became tinged with pain as he turned to march on the newcomer.

The recoil was almost enough to knock the exhausted Omestrian off his feet. The shotgun clicked and spoke no more. Zviera backed away, shaky and blood-slicked hands trying to load a new shell. He fumbled and dropped the shell, which clinked as it bounced across the deck. “Ah, m-mistress…!”

Alya’s laugh returned as abruptly as it left. She’d never been happier to see her servant. “It’s empty, idiot; use my halberd!” With the Icekin distracted, she twisted in place until her left shoulder completely dislocated, and looked down into the shattered chronometer. She scrambled to sort her mangled arm out from the maze of twisted gears and wires pinning it in place.

Zviera could barely manage the heavy, all-metal, phoenix-bladed halberd on a good day. Exhausted, ether-drained, and with a bullet in his shoulder, he couldn’t manage to fully lift the weapon at all. Gravity moreso than muscle brought its blade plunging down towards the oncoming monster. Even with grave injuries, the Icekin swatted the clumsy strike aside effortlessly as he marched on Zviera, with murder in his eyes.

Zviera backed away, but didn’t run. He probably couldn’t run if he tried, anyway. But there was no way he’d come this far to bring Mother Alya her weapons only to run away just ten feet away from her. He tried to muster what little courage he had, dropping the empty shotgun and the heavy halberd and raising his shaking hands to fight the approaching beast.

---

Albina doesn’t usually talk to me when I’m in a fight. She probably feels pain, too, maybe? So distracting me isn’t really a good idea. But she wordlessly reached out to me at that moment, and a piece of the puzzle I didn’t even know I was missing fell into place. Her family's signet had never been my catalyst. In hindsight, why would it? But to think, my catalyst had been with me all along!

I remember how the surge of ether glowed blue around us. I remember well how I threw the man six feet into the air. I especially remember the surprise on his face. The utter bewilderment as he went from a victorious finish to flying through the air, just like that. I'll never forget that look.

Fear had all but paralyzed me. Tears had done nothing to help. Pleading almost got me killed. So it’s clear the answer is none of those things, right? Not in a real fight, anyway. He landed with a hard smack against the wooden floor, and I pounced almost before he’d even landed. I’d like to say it was a graceful and elegant fight from there, just like out of a martial arts rehearsal. It wasn’t. I just remember grabbing his head and throwing downwards towards the hard floor. If I could knock him out, he wouldn’t be able to try to kill me. We’ve occasionally knocked each other out by accident in sparring, me and my warsiblings. A quick checkup with a healer and no lasting damage has resulted. This was well beyond what the Red Seminary allowed in a training bout, but he’d started it. Hadn’t he?

Father Gregoroth was saying something. I was only dimly aware of his voice, though. I was hyper-focused on knocking the Muraadan out, on stopping him from threatening me any further. Slam. Slam. Slam!

I heard a primal, meaningless scream emanating from my mouth as I threw his head into the floor. He hadn’t tapped out. Why wouldn’t he just tap out? After coming so close to death, my vision was red with fury. My pulse pounded in my ears. I determined I would just keep at it until my opponent surrendered. To hell with that fucking sadist Gregoroth.

It was Albina who got my attention first. I heard her, all at once. She cried out, Alya! Enough! Stop it, you idiot!

Blood was seeping out of the Muraadan’s ears and nose, I noticed. His head was bent at an odd angle, too, and he wasn’t moving anymore. His violet eyes stared upwards, wide, sightless. His mouth was open, as if to say something, but he didn’t make a sound, not even of breath. I, however, was breathing so hard I couldn’t hear what Father Gregoroth was saying anymore. My hands, no, every part of me really, was shaking so badly I actually had to try three times to stand up straight. The room spun around me like a carnival attraction. Every part of me hurt, every joint and every muscle and every bone. But pain felt like a distant thing, something I was aware of but didn’t really feel. Dazed, I watched Father Gregoroth descend from the judge’s platform, head held high.

I looked at the Muraadan. He hadn’t gotten up. I remember thinking, maybe I knocked him out after all? Surely nobody like him would dare disrespect a High Inquisitor by refusing to stand in his presence. I looked up at the Great Bear. Rage and helplessness and thrill and sorrow and fear and exhilaration and a thousand other emotions swirled around me. It was hard to focus. He was saying something, something about passing a milestone, something about learning a lesson. I couldn’t hear a thing over the ringing in my ears and my own rasping breath, really, but I somehow managed to choke out a thanks for his feedback.

Whatever lesson he’d intended, I learned two precious things that day. For one, I learned how to really use ether, how to go beyond the simple enhancements any soldier could do. The other was a simple but vital lesson: I learned what to carry into battle. I swore to myself I’d never be paralyzed by fear and sorrow in a fight again.

---

The SA-issued pistol made a sharper, quicker pop-pop-pop! compared to the shotgun's furious roar. The bloodied menace dropped at Zviera’s feet as though his legs had disappeared out from under him, crashing down into the metal deck unceremoniously. Normally, a pistol was all but worthless against an Icekin. At anything other than her point-blank shots behind the beast’s ear, they would shrug off the smaller bullets with near impunity. Alya let out a final, strangled laugh as the dying beast rattled a final breath.

Zviera just stared for a long few moments, not sure if he should stare at the dead monster or at his grievously-wounded mistress. She had a shard of glass sticking out of her left eye. Her left arm hung limp, unmoving, and dripping blood everywhere. She was covered in blood. Everywhere he looked, her body was beaten black-and-blue. The sight brought tears to his golden eyes; his mistress looked like she’d been thrown into a blender. And all because she’d had to fight unarmed?

He bowed his head, immediately gasping out an apology, but he barely got two syllables out before she interrupted him. “Shut up,” Alya said, her voice no less firm for all her injuries. With her one good arm, she ignored her halberd and instead pulled her servant in closely, holding him tightly to her shoulder. The motion hurt his bullet wound, but he tried hard not to show it, not with all of Alya’s own injuries. “Ah, y-you’re hurt, mistress,” he managed to say.

“You did well, Zviera.” She rewarded him with a kiss on his cheek, heedless of the amount of blood they were both covered in. “Mother Faina is in the solar, and if these Icekin reach her, it’s over for all of us. With my halberd, I’ll be able to defend her. Now reload my shotgun and then find somewhere safe. You’ve done enough.”

“But-”

Alya shook her head, letting go of her servant and looking over her injuries. “It’s alright, Zviera. Lord Varya protects. And today, you had the honor of being his answer to my prayers. Go and find somewhere safe, rest, and pray for Warband Goliath.”
She gave the massive corpse a weary glance. One down. Only a few hundred to go.

“We’ll need it.”

---

Father Boris had face planted, interrupted in his chant by the sergeant pushing him out of the way of some attack. His eyes closed once more as he rubbed his head gently and rolled onto his back. He looked out towards the rest of the makeshift camp, where the two other arks, the Svarog and the Veles, stood empty and silent in the distance. Had the icekin only attacked the Kyselica? Boris’ eyes shifted to the makeshift corridor that connected the three ruined arks. That’s where he had left it that morning. “I need the staff…” he whispered out as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and laid on his back as he straightened himself and he started to chant once more. He needed to conserve himself as much as he could.

He wished he had his staff with him, but he had decided to leave it in the makeshift corridor between the three ruined arks. He had done that as a precaution, as well as that was the best place for him to use his beam. If the Church had kept to their schedule, two other arks would be approaching the Gates around this time on a mission to travel to El and act as a support for the main invasion force. If he could send a beam skywards with his staff, he could possibly signal them. With their communications damaged, the staff was their last resort. Everything rested on this throw of the die. The staff, given to him by his old master, shone brightly from there in the corridor, the place where dead were given to the icy waters below them. He wondered if his death would be awaiting him there as well.

Father Boris felt blood on his face from another man being skewered nearby, the lines and ranks were most likely failing around him, he hoped that the people around him would protect him at least, no, they couldn’t. He had to use his last energy here, to get the icekin off the deck, to annihilate the enemy in front of them. To give off what light he had left to give to the world, his staff gave him the energy to project his power, but he didn’t have that. He had only what was in him, flowing through him. He began chanting, his voice rising up in the scream as he had begun using the last of his energy. He would conserve himself, how he did not know, the last piece of his body decided that it was time to either die, or show those assailing him a hellish rest of their life. Be it the rest of his life, he would find a way to protect, and possibly save those whom he had promised to save.

“Raise me, help me to the staff… We will rule the day if we are capable of doing this task, we will drive them off and bring ourselves salvation.” he said knowing that it will probably kill him. The cold was sapping the ether from him, but he had to fight. Even without his staff, the teachings of the Divine Order and the gifts of the Ravenous Lord would see him to salvation.

Boris removed his gloves, and stretched his scarred fingers in and outward, testing them against the frost. He raised his hands in front of him, and prayed, communing with the gnawing emptiness of Lord Varya’s hunger. The icekin ambushers, twelve of them all, were so enraptured in their violence that they could barely turn in time to witness the miracle that came from the Ravenous Lord’s answer to the young priest's prayer.

A shining wave of necrotic azure light burst forth from Father Boris’ hands, engulfing the twelve icekin. The stormlight was hungry and thus it ate away at all it touched, rending through armor, fur and flesh until only bone remained. The icekin in front of Boris were silent as Varya’s light consumed them, flesh-scented smoke and ghostly ether steaming where they once stood. Six of the twelve icekin remained, their armor and fur half-eaten away, and without fear they stepped over the bones of their comrades toward Boris. His hands were trembling as frost began to accumulate on them, and the icekin gazed at the young man with the same unchanging hatred blazing in their eyes.

Boris had spent a sizeable amount of his ether calling upon the miracle without a catalyst, and it wasnt long before he felt all of his strength leaving him. He collapsed on the deck, his arms so heavy that he couldn’t catch his fall and thus he struck his brow on the steel. The last thing he heard before the world grew dark was the sound of the remaining icekin advancing upon him.



Somehow, there in the haunted expanse half a continent away from their lord's aegis, the world was growing colder. For each and every one of the soldiers fighting on the lower deck, each bitter second was a frozen lash upon their backs as the once shimmering aegis above them continued to slowly fade. The deck was a nightmare of ice and blood, the frost accumulating in the crimson flow of icekin and soldier alike. The brutish bear-like monsters fell upon the remaining soldiers with a strange, silent hatred, their pale white fur awash in the blood of their foes, their ice-sharp axes tearing through Varyan armor and bone, while above, the colossal ghost-white icehound flapped its massive crystalline wings, relishing at the carnage beneath it.

Father Boris' miracle had bought them a chance opportunity, and at once Sergeant Ernst grabbed the young priest by his arms and forcibly dragged him away, all while shouting orders for the men to regroup.

Those soldiers who had managed to gather their wits and retain their Varyan military training in the face of the ambush were able to spring into action and retreat to the upper level of the command tower. There, Sergeant Ernst led thirteen of them with Father Boris in hand as they stood in formation and used their terrified comrades below as bait, for the icekin could not resist easy prey. Forming a killzone from their position above the deck, the soldiers rained fire down at the six remaining icekin, and though bullets couldn't penetrate the armor and fur of the bear-like icekin, it was enough to slow their advance.

"In the name of the Ravenous Lord, don't let them advance to the upper deck!" Ernst shouted, rattling teeth be damned, his voice roaring in crescendo with the storm of gunfire around him. He glanced toward the solar at the top of the command tower and winced when he noticed a dying light weakly illuminating the windows from within. A pack of icehounds were attempting to claw their way within the solar, but Father Taerlach was handily fighting them off.

Within the solar, Mother Faina and Father Solim were fighting to keep the aegis from extinguishing, but it was a battle they would surely lose eventually. The golden barrier of shimmering light that had encompassed their camp for the past three few months was now nothing more than a curtain of pale refracted light, barely noticeable except for the occasional glimmer of sunlight hitting the ward. Mother Faina's ether was surely almost running out, Ernst realized as his entire body suddenly trembled. A frigid gale of arctic wind blew across the canyon, biting at them so violently that a number of the soldiers in the firing line collapsed to their knees, shaking and moaning from the demonic cold that clawed and flayed at their bodies.

Ernst tried to muster the men, to scream for them to fight, but the old soldier found that the skin on his lips had frozen them shut, flesh upon flesh. He raised his fingers to his mouth and violently ripped his lips open himself, the dark blood immediately freezing on his beard.

"Fight. Fight until there is nothing left. And for Lords' sake, keep the lad warm!"

The soldiers heard him and struggled to their feet, battling through Varyan will and determination the deathly cold that was now seeping into the aegis. But it was too late. A moment of respite was all that was needed for the icekin to surge forward and storm the upper deck. The bestial icekin lunged upward, their powerful legs driving them from the ground with impossible force. One of them leapt toward the opposite railing of the deck Ernst and his men were on and immediately bounced off of it, gliding upwards through the air in a sickeningly acrobatic arc. The towering warrior landed with a thud right in front of them, raising its axe.

"Varya, protect us," one of the men whispered as he raised his rifle to take aim at the beast. Ernst screamed for his men to throw themselves at the deck, but his words were cut short as the axe cleaved through him and four other soldiers like a knife through parchment. Blood torrented across the deck as their torsos fell in meaty piles upon the floor, bathing the unconscious Father Boris in red. The remaining soldiers, a credit to their bravery, were not cowed by the death of their sergeant, and began to fire point blank at the monstrous icekin.

The towering creature remained still as the bullets bounced off its half-ruined armor and ether-corroded fur. It lowered its gaze to Father Boris, memories of Varya's miracle burning in its mind. Once more, it lifted the axe.

The axe swung downward merciless, the blood-drenched face of the young priest beneath it.

Mere inches before the axe's blade found itself buried in Boris' skull, the icekin's massive forearm went flying across the deck, its grip still tight on the axe. The monstrous warrior seemed to stand there, staring blankly at its missing lower arm, when suddenly a light-filled blade erupted from its stomach and as clean as a butcher cleaning bone, arced upward silently, vertically bisecting the creature's torso in two. The icekin fell to its knees, both halves of its upper body sliding apart like partially cut fruit.

Father Tarlach stood behind the gruesome spectacle, black spellknife blazing forth from his left hand, the icekin's strange bright red blood sizzling on the blade's edge. He hurriedly bent down to check on Father Boris. Apart from the cold getting to him, the lad was unconscious and had sustained a few cuts, but seemed none the worse for wear. He then turned to the remaining soldiers, all of them young, all of them survivors.

Taerlach identified the highest-ranking soldier among them and asked her name.

"Private 1st Class, Luna ar'Maja, Reverence," the young woman responded, her voice as resolute as she could make it. Beneath her blood-splattered fur hat, the soldier's T'saraen blue eyes were terrified, but a steely focus and determination shone within them.

"Bring the Father to the armory. Pump him full of whatever stimulants you find in there. When he awakes, escort him to the connecting corridor between the three arks. You must protect him with your life. This will be the most important task you will ever perform for our Lord. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes, Reverence. We will do as you order," the young soldier responded before ordering the rest of the men to carry Father Boris into the command tower.

Good, Taerlach thought. No more distractions.

The remaining icekin had landed on either side of him on the deck-- three one on side, two on the other. The monsters seemed hesitant to face the inquisitor, and with good reason. Taerlach didn't know a thing about icekin culture, but oftimes he and Albina had wondered if the monsters had spread tales of Warband Goliath among their ranks, those warriors who had defeated dozens of their ilk, and now feasted on their corpses.

Judging by the hesitance of his opponents, he had an inkling that there might be some truth to he and Albina's musings.

Taerlach was not one to waste a good opportunity and thus he stormed toward the three icekin on his right. Jumping gracefully on the railing, Taerlach boosted himself across the open expanse of the deck, flicking an ether knife at the icekin at the fore. The icekin easily swiped the spellknife away with its axe, the small magical projectile dissipating harmlessly in the air, but behind this distraction came the full force of Taerlach's attack. In mid-air he summoned an ether blade from his left foot, twisting in mid air to deliver the killing blow with a deadly arc. The dark ethereal flow of the spellblade trailing behind it, the blade sheared cleanly through the icekin warrior-- its upper chest, shoulders and head sliding off at the diagonal with a wet splash on the ground.

The remaining two icekin, seemingly conquering their fear and remembering their own ferocity, didn't miss a beat in swinging for Taerlach as soon as the inquisitor made landfall. Their attacks were too quick to dodge, a mistake on his part, one Gregoroth would have had him beat for, but not a lethal one. The enchanted armor fashioned for him by Goliath's treasured artificer, Mother Zante, would see him safely through this encounter.

Taerlach raised both armor-clad forearms and as the icekin axes made contact, Zante's enchantments activated. A white pulse of ethereal bloom resonated from the point where his gauntlets absorbed the attack and a small shockwave emanated from them, violently pushing both of the icekin's swinging arms back over their heads. One second in combat is all that is required, and Taerlach used this opening to summon a longer spellblade on his right grip. Using both of his hands to add an impossible force to the blow, the black ethereal sword sliced through both of the icekin surgically, their divided torsos crashing on the deck.

"For Ernst," Taerlach spoke softly.

At that moment, a scream came from the solar. Solim and Faina should be up there alone. What was going on?

A sudden gleam of metal in his periphery brought Taerlach's attention back to the battle and with seconds to spare, the Muraadan inquisitor raised a gauntlet-clad hand in defense as an icekin's axe spun with cruel intentions toward his head. With a sickening crunch the blade of the axe sunk deep into the fingers of his gauntlet, pushing the back of his hand into his face. Though the enchantment of his armor had protected him, the weapon had been thrown with such force that it seemed to bypass most of the wards. He was lucky the wards didnt fail completely, for without the added protection the axe would've cleaved through his fingers and buried itself in his cheek.

Taerlach cursed himself for his loss of focus. What was happening to him? Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the past three months that was catching up to him, or perhaps, more worryingly, it was the cold. He was beginning to feel the blade-sharp chill cut into him second by agonizing second, and not even his innate Muraadan indifference to the cold or the enchanted shadowcloth of his inquisitor's cloak were doing much to stop it. Faina's aegis was failing and time had all but run out.

I have to end this quick.

Taerlach pried the icekin's axe from the half-severed fingers on his left hand and wielded it with the other. No acrobatics, no fancy moves, just axe to flesh. Quick and cruel. This was his strategy. And in Varya's name, he would make it work.

There were two of them left. One was unarmed and yet it raised its fists in a combat stance. Warriors to the end, these things. Tearlach approached, axe-in-hand, and raised it high above his head.

And then, something strange happened. He heard a strange whistling sound, a light airy noise, like the wind coursing through the abandoned shipyard warehouses where he would sleep as a child, but distant. Coming from somewhere far, but approaching.

Like lightning, the massive ghost-white icehound streaked from seemingly out of the nowhere and with hawk-like grace and demon ferocity it sank its massive talons into Taerlach's chest as it plucked him from the deck like the tinyest of rabbits.

"Grgh!" Taerlach's throat and innumerable wounds expelled blood across the sky as he was taken far from the battlefield and up into the void white emptiness that raged above the cliffs. There, his dark Muraadan eyes could glimpse only endless snow and the red of his blood raining down and up and everywhere as the colossal winged beast barreled and spun through the sky, the pure force and velocity of the creature's flight bringing him to unconsciousness.

With the thunderclap beating of the alpha icehound's wings resonating in his ear, and with the frigid arctic winds piercing like thousands of iron needles into his body, Taerlach was brought back to reality. The bastard thing's claws had pierched his breastplate and were stabbing painfully into the bones of his shoulder blades. Upon realizing this, Taerlach screamed. Not for fear, because Taerlach himself was incapable of feeling it, but for bloody murder. He was going to fucking kill this thing, no matter what. And thus, he resolved to do it. He had a plan. A foolhardy one, but it was all he could think of. The creature's massive talons were anchord to his chest, his arms and legs locked within its vice grip.

In his years in the Seminary, Taerlach had become a master of the spellblade. He was known as an expert duelist and a savant at hand-to-hand combat, but few had such mastery of the skill of manifesting a spellblade as Father Taerlach Duanei. And so, he wondered if this was a brilliant idea that would see him hailed as a legend, or laughed at as a cautionary warning.

Taerlach closed his eyes and focused on his ether. The sound of the rushing wind, the cold, the creature's talons ripping into his flesh and bones, for a moment all of it settled into a pure nothingness. And then, suddenly, from that nothingness, he allowed his ether to explode.

Blades of darkly light erupted from every surface of Father Taerlach's body. His shoulders, his stomach, his legs, his arms, his back, spellblades of varying sizes and lengths spawned outward like the quills of a hedgehog, piercing and slicing through the giant icehound's talons. A horrifying screech escaped its throat and suddenly Taerlach was let go from its grip as bright blood rained from its myriad wounds. Anticipating this, Taerlach swiftly grabbed at a swath of the creature's ghost-white fur and using his own momentum, flipped himself upward on the monstrous icehound's back, where he clung to fistfuls of fur. The gaping wounds on his chest spilling blood on the creature's pristine fur, Taerlach wasted no time in further sullying this monster's eerily beautiful visage.

With one hand holding on, he summoned a spellknife, and began to furiously stab at the creature's back. In and out, in and out, Taerlach plunged the spellknife through the icehound's flesh with a silent and focused fury, its screams deaf to his ears. The creature began to fly irregularly, trying desperately to shrug the inquisitor off its back, but to no avail. If I can just hold on, Taerlach thought as he continued to mercilessly stab at the creature, its screams filling the sky.

Suddenly, the wounds on the wounded beast began to glow, as if something deep within it had come alive. The beast began to tremble beneath him, and Taerlach clung to the beast with both hands. The light from within the icehound's wounds burned white, and with its growing intensity the monstrous flying beast began to buckle with more and more anger, as if something was damaging it from within. In that moment, Taerlach felt a massive expelling of ethereal energy, the blowback pushing him backward as the icehound fired a pulse of radiant white energy from its mouth. And then another, and another. Surrounded by the white expanse of the sky above the battlefield, Taerlach had no way of knowing where any of these projectiles had struck, and he wondered why the beast hadnt used this attack to begin with, or rather, if it even could. It seemed like it was unleashing these painful-seeming ether pulses involuntarily, like an animal vomiting something it shouldn't have eaten.

Suddenly, with a lurch to his stomach, Taerlach felt the sensation of a descent through the clouds. Slowly at first, but then at a breakneck speed. The icehound was finally returning to earth, and while it continued to thrash and buckle beneath him, it seemed focused on its journey as it made its way beneath the clouds.

Good, the ground will give me the advantage. Taerlach's thoughts were quickly dashed as the curtain of white clouds unfurled with the icehound's descent, revealing the massive glacier wall beneath and the impossible army of icekin at its apex. This was its target, Taerlach realized, all too late. It would deposit him in the middle of an entire legion of its brethren, and that would be the end of it.

The Muraadan inquisitor readied his paling, spoke a quiet prayer, to Lord Varya, and in the silence of his thoughts, to Lord Muraad, who's undying heart beat eternally within all his children.

Taerlach looked on at the waiting oblivion and marveled at how fast the creature was advancing. There were hundreds of them. Waiting for him. Soon they would all--

Boom.

Somewhere from far below, the sound of cannon-fire resonated through the valley between the two glaciers.

Impossible. The cannons on all three arks had been damaged beyond repair during the icefall. They had wasted days on end trying to get them back in working order, but to no avail. Why was--

Suddenly, there was a massive explosion underneath Taerlach as an ether shell struck the icehound with pinpoint accuracy. The creature was dead before it could even muster any awareness of what was happening. Taerlach desperately clung to anything he could, but he found nothing but the open air as the explosion engulfed both the creature and Taerlach in a violent bloom of corrosive ethereal light. The inquisitor, blown off the icehound's back and now falling through the air, could only gaze at his gauntlet-clad hands as the necrotic ether quickly ate through the enchantments on his armor. When he hit the water, there were screams from somewhere. This much he noticed. But the only thing that mattered to Father Taerlach was the pain. His armor was gone, and his skin and nerves were being consumed by the corrosive ether.

As he sank, and as the haunted cold of the water stripped him of everything he was, Father Taerlach was glad for the darkness.

Above him splinters fell and blood trickled through gaps in the wood. The Kyselica hadn’t been built for this kind of carnage. For months he had been trying to salvage something of this situation, but little inspiration had come. He had been, for the first time, thankful the Inquisitors were on board: the presence of Varya’s clenched fist instilled the men and women under his command with a sense of righteous zeal. The wind didn’t cut as deep, the clouded darkness didn’t seem so oppressive. Not only that, but had the Inquisitors not been on the ark when the fury from the ice fell upon them, it would have been a massacre the like of which was only recorded in song. Instead, here he was, working frantically to do three months work in a matter of minutes. Gone were his team of engineers, either cowering on the lower decks, or dead on the top. The damage from the collision had been catastrophic. It would have sunk a lesser ship, but his Kyselica, a vessel he had come to grow very fond of, stayed afloat, crippled and lame, a home for some, and a tomb for many.

“Captain! They’re breaking through!” came the call from behind him. The group had barred the doors down to the maintenance hold after them. They needed every second; he was sure it had cost the lives of a dozen men, but the sacrifice had to be made. He would mourn each man, as he mourned the Kyselica, but the time for sadness would come later. Their death was nigh if they failed here. Without looking back he called:
“Then arm yourself and prepare to meet thy god, Isidor!” he turned to the man to his right, also working on the husk of the ether cannon, and with a steely look, said:
“Work fast, Vadim, unless you want my mangled corpse to be the last thing you remember.”
He picked up the weapon leaning against the wall and gripped it tightly. The gunlance was a brutal, yet elegant weapon, and it looked ungainly in his hand, and to say he had mastered it would be a grave falsehood, but once you had served for long enough, you learned the basic rule that covered all weapons: ‘stick ‘em with the hot end’. He pulled a shortened shotgun out of its holster on his left side and advanced to the door.

The wood buckled quickly. The living wall of ice on the other side wanted his blood, but he would not give it willingly.
“Soldier,” he barked at the private as he strode into rank beside him. “It’s just you, me, and them. Aim true.”
As the glacial beast broke through, its head and shoulders came into view first. Fyodor pulled the trigger of his shotgun and the world went quiet. The splintering wood struck him about the head and chest and he fired again, blindly. As the muzzle flare abated, his vision was filled with the icy figure, ghostly white except for two large dark spots where the buckshot had struck. He felt the ground fall away from him as the icekin struck him, and then meet him again sharply as he fell flat, about eight feet from where he had originally stood. Instinctively, he brandished the blade of the gunlance in front of him, and felt it connect. It squeaked and scraped against the monster’s icy flesh. He pulled the trigger, and a crackle of ether engulfed the creature, blowing its torso into pieces. Still deafened, and reeling from the impact, he stumbled to regain his footing, surveying the scene for anything else that wanted to meet its maker today. To his right, the young private, Isidor, at the end of an icy spear, blood drenching him, and the tall figure of his killer.
He may have let out a bestial war-cry as he charged toward the second icekin, he wasn’t sure of himself in the moment. Impaling the creature through the side, he fired with both weapons, blowing the brute off its feet and into the wooden wall behind it. He took a moment to regard the young man, who’s blood formed a river at his feet, and remember his name. Isidor. He would need to write to the boy’s family; he would need to write more letters than ever before.

---

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A hand on his shoulder roused him from his momentary lapse. He turned to see Vadim, mouth flapping wide, fire in his eyes. The ringing in his ears had not let up yet, if Vadim was saying something, he didn’t know what. The world around him was in slow-motion at the moment. Vadim threw a hand out towards the ether cannon that stuck out through the floor and onto the main deck. It was whirring, gears turning for the first time in months, a gentle glow of ether emanating from the engine powering it. Fyodor’s eyes grew wide, not in panic, but in glorious anticipation. He patted the engineer on the shoulder and ran to the steps up to the main deck.

All at once, his hearing returned, and above deck the din of battle was all too loud. Fierce struggles raged all around him. Inquisitors dove and tumbled, ether coursing through the air in their wake, and the crackle of rifles and shotguns filled his ears. The icekins’ roars completed the chaotic symphony. The battle, miraculously it seemed, was going well —or as well as it could— for the most part. He made out a few Inquisitors, cutting bloody swathes through the monstrous glacier-spawn.
As a soldier ran past him, rifle in hand, Fyodor caught him by the arm. The soldier, wide-eyed and pale-faced, regarded him for a moment, before remembering himself.
“Captain?”
“Aye, get your wits together man!” Fyodor barked. “That cannon!” He said, gesturing with the gunlance. “Aim it at something!” and he threw the soldier in its direction, following after him.
“But Sir, the cannons are out of action…” the soldier called over the din.
“By Varya, soldier, do as I command and aim the fucking thing!”
“At what?” Fyodor looked around him. Lighting up the sky, a monstrous, flying, glassy terror, hurtling towards the earth. In its talons, he could just make out a figure clutched in the icy grip, cape billowing as they plummeted with their windborne foe. It must have been an Inquisitor, it wouldn’t have targeted a regular soldier. These creatures were slavering, monstrous beasts, but they weren’t without strategy. Fyodor pointed the gunlance skyward, at the murderous dance happening above them.
“That!” he cried. Together, he and the soldier manoeuvred the hulking cannon into position. This was a job for four men, but the pair was all that could be mustered. Fyodor leaned a shoulder into the warm metalwork and shoved all his weight into it, and with a satisfying grinding of metal against metal, the cannon lurched around. With his one good eye, he peered through the eyeglass.
“Steady soldier, keep it on him.” it must have been only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity that they trained the cannon on the flying aberration, waiting until it held a steady course.

“Fire.” he said. It was quiet, but the authority of the command carried it over the drone of the battle. The soldier wrenched back the metal lever and the ground shook around them. The ringing in his ears returned. It was luck, really, that fired the cannon. They hadn’t been inspected since the crash; the shells had remained loaded and dormant, and the cold had wormed its way into the barrels, but the power of these weapons was undeniable. If there had been three yards of ice plugging the barrel, it would have been fired out along the ether-powered shell. The moment hung for a second, as the two soldiers peered out towards their target, not knowing whether or not the shell had been fired true until the last moment.
The aberration lit up with white light, as the ether-powered shell connected squarely into the creatures underside. It careened away towards the glacier, as now the Inquisitor that had been gripped in its talons started to fall straight down. Fyodor only hoped that he hit water; there would be no saving the boy if he was dashed against the ice or the hull of a ship. The freezing water would be difficult to survive, but possible at least.
“Get another shell in there! This isn’t over!” he called to the soldier, as he took a few quick steps towards the bow of the ark. The battle still raged, but they had struck a crucial blow to their enemy.
He had fought enemies like this before, probably more than any man in the SA, but these creatures were different. These huge, hulking leviathans carrying even more wicked-looking weapons were a far cry from the almost vestigial creatures he had fought during the war, but they numbered just as many. If these were the same beasts he had fought in Lanostre, then they were evolving, learning, somehow.

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The sound of the limp body hitting the water cut through the sounds of battle. From the height the young Inquisitor had fallen, the surface was like steel. Still, Inquisitors were hardier by far than your average soldier. Even so, the frigid water would steal the life from him if he were left in there long enough. He wouldn’t leave a man or woman under his command to die, no matter what his thoughts about the Seminary. He laughed under his breath. Under his command? The Inquisitors outranked him in almost every way, and yet he still couldn’t think of them as his superiors. Perhaps it was their age. He had seen so many fresh-faced men and women come through the ranks of the Imperial Secular Army, that any time he saw a new Inquisitor, with nary a scar on them, he couldn’t help but think of them as anything but children, and yet he had to call them Father?
He looked to his right, then to his left. There were no men left at his disposal. Every soldier was either locked in a deathly battle with the enemy, or they were already dead. It was down to him then.
From the bow of the ark, he took hold of a length of chain, wound around a spool, and with everything he could, hurled it into the water, as close to the submerged body as he could.
Now, he could only hope the young man would have enough strength to save himself before the glacial water squeezed the last drops of life from him.

The water was still. The ripples from the length of chain had subsided, and it now hung limply in the freezing sea. Surely by now there would have been some movement? Some indication that the boy had managed to wrestle himself free of death’s hold? Fyodor had waited a minute, maybe two. In truth, he had no idea how long Taerlach’s body would be able to survive the frigid depths, but he knew it could not be much longer.

Is this what you will, Varya? he thought derisively. This boy who has given you everything that he is? Condemned to die in these frozen waters? He truly was Ravenous.
“You cold bastard.” he said aloud. “Do you see what you have wrought?”
“Captain?” came a voice from behind him. He half turned and saw a soldier approach, it was the same man who had helped him with the cannon.
“Aye, lad?”
“Is Father Taerlach…?” the young conscript’s voice trembled as he asked the question.
“I don’t know.” came the grim reply. “I’ve seen Inquisitors take bullets and not lose a step, but these waters are more murderous than any man.”
“Is there nothing we can...no way to save him?”
To the rank and file, the Inquisitors were an inspiration; a wondrous reminder of Varya’s power. They needed them, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he needed them. The expedition could go on without an old man at the helm of a battered freighter, but without the Inquisitors, the mission would be lost.

It was at that moment that his decision was made.

His fingers fumbled as he began to unfasten the first of the gold buttons adorning his heavy coat, and felt a hand come to his shoulder as he began to slip the sleeves off of his shoulders.
“Leave the coat, for fuck’s sake. Take the chain!” he barked as he dropped his heavy coat on the blood-soaked deck, the soldier’s hand now hanging motionless in the air. The pallid face of the young man stared back at him. “Listen to me, soldier! The chain!”
“Aye sir!” and the boy sprung into motion, grasping the length of the chain that had been tossed off the spool. There were two thuds as Fyodor’s heavy boots hit the wood. He turned, and with unfaltering eyes, roughly laid his hand on the soldier’s shoulder.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Uhh...Dima, sir.” the boy’s voice shook again as the uncertain reply left his lips.
“Dima, if I don’t come back up...you have the Kyselica.” and he jumped.

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The water struck him harder than any icekin ever could. While he had filled his lungs before he dove into the freezing waters, the air was driven out as soon as he submerged. It took all his will not to panic; he knew if he did there would be no saving him, let alone the young Inquisitor. He paused for a moment, just beneath the surface, remembering everything he could of the lessons he had learned out in the Wastes.

Slowly, surely, his heartbeat slowed, his inner ether retreating, suppressed beyond its normal level. He held it deep in his core, focusing it as well as he could. He was no Inquisitor, that was for sure, but what control he had over the life-force within him went to simply keeping himself alive.
It was a struggle; every movement felt as if he was wading through stone. The grey shape he could see through the icy water became ever fainter as it sank deeper. With every stroke the tightness in his chest was amplified, but still he swam, until he couldn’t feel his fingers or his toes. The chill moved up his arms and his legs, threatening to devour him as the shape in the water grew closer. His good eye burned as the frigid ocean buffeted against it, but he dared not close it, lest he lose sight of his quarry.

With nary a breath to spare, Fyodor reached out an arm and wrapped it as tightly as his cold-worn muscles could around the young man’s torso, and he began his ascent.
Now came the hardest task. The Inquisitor was but a stripling, but his weight was almost insurmountable; where it had felt like stone before, now every inch of water felt like plate steel as Fyodor desperately paddled with his remaining limbs.
They must have risen only a metre; the hull of the Kyselica mocking him from across the chasm of freezing sea.

These Inquisitors and their damn vanity! he thought as he reached with his left hand to the clasp of Taerlach’s ornate, armoured gauntlets. I hope they weren’t expensive, boychek. The right one fell away, then the left, and Fyodor felt his strength return to him. He did the same with the greaves and sabatons, and they sank like boulders. Now, where the Kyselica had taunted him from afar, it greeted him warmly as it grew ever closer.
The next few moments were a blur. As the sun hit his eyes he heard cries ringing out from above him. He didn’t care to hear what they said. He felt nothing of his arms and legs but the rolled steel of the chain pressing into his palm and the pull in his arm as he was wrenched skyward.

The deck struck him, shaking him alert, and all at once the smells of blood and burning mingled in his nostrils again. He opened his mouth to give a command, but all that escaped was a withered gasp as the air forced itself back into his lungs.
“It would be best if you did not move for now, Captain.” came a familiar voice, and he felt weight and warmth covering him. When the burning in his lungs finally subsided he forced out:
“The In...quisitor...get him to...the others.”

“Aye, sir.”

---

Mother Faina took a sharp breath as Solim's shared ether coalesced with her own. The act of taking in another person's ether had always been unnerving. There was something uniquely intimate about the experience that made every encounter slightly different. This time, however, she was overwhelmed with a multitude of different sensations. Perhaps it was the "residual ether" Solim called it when explaining what he could do.

Within the solar, they now stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Even with the boon of extra ethereal energy Solim had granted her during the ceremony earlier, it took all their might to uphold the aegis. An extra Half an hour or so was all the time they had to keep their companions away from a fate worse than death, the unnatural cold.

"Oh! How interesting. I wonder why I have never noticed before," Solim said with his usual jovial laugh, causing Faina to break from her thoughts.

"Noticed what?" she asked, glancing at him. She noticed that Solim's smile did not hide the exhaustion in his eyes. Dark circles began to appear under his eyes and beneath the heavy cloak of his inquisitor's uniform Solim's movements were sluggish. Upholding the aegis was a bitter science, the most difficult form of ether manipulation known, and wading through ether exhaustion was something that only Protectors were used to. Solim was treading in dangerous territory, for though he had gifted Faina only a fraction of his own ether surplus, the aegis called for punishing amounts of ether, and Solim was not prepared for what it would cost him.

"There are two," He replied as a matter of fact as he looked off seemingly nowhere. His stance changed however as he noticed Faina’s worried expression. "Worry not, I'm fine," He said as he steadied himself, placing a hand on one of the steel barriers that shielded the portholes of the solar from what was happening outside.

Suddenly, the sound of screeching metal and the roar of icehounds could be heard coming from outside. Sensing something approaching, Solim hastily removed his hand from the steel plate just as a large gash sheared down its surface, blasting a shaft of afternoon light into the darkened room. The tear was not large enough for any icekin to breach their defenses, but still... at this rate it would not take them long to tear through.

It was then that the two inquisitors heard it.

The song.

Somehow it seemed to be coming from somewhere within the room.

An inky black mist started to fill the room. Just as Solim and Faina took their fighting positions, the mist began to coalesce and take form.

What once appeared as mist took the shape of a human, not much taller than Solim. And with a strange, almost beautiful swirling motion the mist appeared to solidify until the smoke-like entity hardened into shards of deep-blue crystal.

A knight, like something from Lanostran legend, stood before them. Its armor was as azure as the sky, and its crystalline armor was strangely ornamental. It clutched a diamond-sharp broadsword and a mirrored shield in its gauntlet-clad hands. Its black gazeless stare was focused on the two inquisitors, though there was only darkness in the slot of its ornamental visor. In an instant, it brandished its sword and dashed toward Faina.

Faina did not get the chance to ask Solim what hell he was talking about as she prepared for battle. A shiver ran down her spine as she watched an armor-clad knight unlike anything Faina had ever seen before coalesce into existence from the black mist. This thing, whatever it was, was not natural

In a moment of pure instinct, she side-stepped as a massive sword fell into the space she had just been standing.Solim reacted with the same swiftness.

Pivoting towards the knight, Faina took in a deep breath and focused on the thumping of her heartbeat. Thump, Thump….Thump, Thump… one more heartbeat, and her spellblade would appear in her hand. Letting out her breath she could just about feel its handle against her palm.

“Mother Faina...The Aegis!” Solim cried out in warning.

With Sentinel back in her quarters, it was only natural to call upon her spellblade. However she wasn't as skilled with it as her normal spear and thus it would require more Either than she could spare. Calling upon the ethereal blade threatened to take down the Aegis barrier.

Mother Faina cursed her stupidity. A visible ripple cascaded across the barrier as she dismissed the weapon hastily before it could completely form.

Undeterred, the knight poised itself to strike again. It lifted its blade and brought it down toward Faina in a powerful downward slash. In an instant, Solim summoned a paling and dove in front of his warsibling, the knight's crystal blade striking the magical forcefield and repelling backward in the knight's grip as a flash of concussive defensive magic blasted forth from the point of contact between shield and sword. From behind the golden veil of his paling, Solim could glimpse a crackling scar where where the paling had been damaged by the knight's blade. A weak cascade of ethereal mist began to flow from the scar and soon the paling itself faded to nothing. He could not maintain a paling for an extended amount of time, Solim realized-- not with his ether reserves so low. He would need to "flash" the paling to parry the knight's blows, a skill that only the most battle-ready of his warsiblings had mastered. It would allow him to call the paling for instances of a second to defend against attacks in order to keep his ether usage to a minimum, but his timing needed to be perfect.
"Come, wretched demon!" Solim spat at the knight, unsheathing his scimitar from its curved scabbard. The blade had been forged and enchanted by Warband Goliath's own artificer, the genius blacksmith Mother Zante, and it would not fail him against this monster. Its sharply-honed blade pulsed slowly with a deep emerald light as a series of gears and mechanisms spun within the scimitar's scabbard.

Convergence was the name Mother Zante had given the blade, and Solim had sworn to her that he would not dishonor it. The blade was a thin, as light as a dagger, and made for rapid incisional strikes, but not meant for defending or parrying thus Solim’s paling flashes would prove key to this battle. Despite it not being built for defending, there was another unique aspect to the blade, and as the knight raised its blade for another attack, Solim focused his ether on the myriad runes and machinery encased within the sword’s scabbard.

In a flash, Solim carved through the air in front of him, the blade recoiling with emerald energy as a loud sonic boom crashed throughout the chamber, rattling the iron plates on the portholes and sending everything not nailed to the ground flying. The scimitar glided through the air and at the apex of its deadly arc a wave of blade-sharp wind screamed forth from Convergence and streaked toward the knight with all the force of a gale. Sensing the destructive power of the incoming magical attack, the knight quickly abandoned its planned strike and raised its reflective tower shield in attempt to block it, but it was to no avail, for as soon as the emerald wave of wind energy exploded into the shield its massive crystalline surface was shattered in a storm of crystal shards.

The knight was so caught off-guard that it failed to notice Solim’s proceeding advance. The inquisitor has followed his magical attack by dashing toward the knight and jumping in the air, his blade primed to strike at the slit between the knight’s helmet and breastplate. Hidden by the spray of crystalline mist that now shrouded the room, Solim drew the blade back to strike cleanly and evenly, but then something happened.

A pulse from somewhere far away.

Those who wielded ether to perform sorcery were well-versed in how to keep it from spiking during battle, but when something caught them off-guard, say, a sneak attack or a trap being sprung, an individual’s ether could erupt in intensity for a split moment. A “magical shock”, so to speak, and in the instance before Solim could deliver the deadly blow to the knight, he felt it.
It was… a gasp, of sorts. Fear, primal and young, from somewhere across the ice. Faina, still tethered to him, seemed to feel it as well, for she looked through the torn open portholes across the glacier where the army of icekin waited.

This momentary distraction was all that was needed for the knight to shoot its gauntlet-clad hand at Solim’s throat and use his momentum to slam the inquisitor’s weakened frame down into the hard floor of the solar with such force and cruelty that both of Solim’s arms snapped at the elbow from the impact. Through dazed eyes Solim watched helplessly as Convergence slid across the floor away from his reach, and when the inquisitor faced upwards to gaze at the crystalline face staring down at him, he found twin abyssal pools gazing into his own eyes.

The knight did not wait and began to crush Solim’s throat. Icy-fingertips dug into the soft meat of Solim’s neck. The black orbs of the knight’s eyes seemed to expand and darken the world around them, and soon there was only darkness and the sound of his Faina screaming from somewhere far away. He was now drowning in that darkness and he remained in that purgatory for some time, unaware of time and the world passing.

Until suddenly, a strange, yet familiar buzzing tickled him awake.

Solim struggled to open his eyes, but when he did, he found himself within the darkness once more, but there was something else in there with him. A brilliant streak of ethereal light was attached to a ghostly outline of the knight. The demon was still positioned over him, its phantom hand gripped around his throat. The shining streak of ethereal stretched out towards the pure black distance to somewhere nearby. Solim then stared down at his chest and saw another streak, this one much more feint, leading towards a phantom outline of Faina, who had now stumbled down to one knee as the last of her ether drained from her. Her eyes burned with both fear and rage as she was struggling to get up. And then, almost imperceptible to him, a third rope of light, this one as thin and ghostly as spider-silk and anchored to Faina’s chest, sped off towards the inky darkness in the opposite direction to some unknowable distance. The one from earlier.

Tethers. Of course.

Solim could feel the knight’s fingers on his throat and he could sense that he was not long for the material world, but he had to do something. He raised his own ghostly arms, broken and shattered, and with great concentration reached out to the shining tether that was connected to the knight, and gripped it with all his strength. The world went white as the light from the ethereal tether slowly bloomed outward and washed out the darkness.

When Solim opened his eyes, he found himself in an unfamiliar place.

He was floating over trampled ice, his boots off the ground by a good ten feet and his broken arms hanging limply at his side. His body was transparent, and could see the snow falling through him. After coming out of the momentary shock, Solim finally gazed around him.

Hundreds of icekin stood around him like statues, completely motionless. Their bestial faces were expressionless, their eyes milky white. He turned around and saw the edge of the cliff, and down below, the half-frozen water and the three ruined arks mashed together at the base of the opposite glacier wall.

He was there. Or here. Right in the middle of it. The icekin legion.

Solim floated nearer to one of the icekin warriors. It stared straight ahead, its body as still as stone. It didnt even seem to be breathing. Every single icekin seemed to be in similar circumstance. Were they kind of spell? Or was this how the icekin acted when they weren’t fighting? He wondered if they would even notice him if he wasn’t currently in his ethereal ghost form.

And then he heard noises coming from deeper within the ranks of motionless icekin. He squinted his eyes, trying to look across the mass of icekin bodies, but could not see anything. He floated through the bodies, towards the source of the noises. As he made his way through the ranks, he found that the icekin were being stationed further and further apart, until finally he reached his destination, a wide open circle within the legion.

What first caught his attention was the strange silver ship, a steam ark of sorts, parked neatly and undamaged on the surface of the ice. He had never seen a steam ark like that-- it seemed neither Lanostran, T’saraen or Varyan in design, and certainly nothing like the garish ether races that the nobility used.

But it was the two figures in front of the ark that interested him most.

One was a tall, thin woman wearing a mish-mash of different bits of armor, akin to what an ice pirate would wear, but there was no mistaking the amber light of her Omestrian eyes as they scanned the ice around her like a hawk. She held a Lanostran gunlance in one of her hands, the twin bladed-cannons primed and ready to fire. And in the other, she gripped a catalyst humming softly with ethereal light.

That was when Solim noticed it. The soft pleasant whurl of an aegis encasing the space around them. Impossible. Was she an apostate inquisitor? It couldn’t be. There were no records of Omestrian apostates. If there were, there would’ve been grave consequences for his brethren in the Seminary.

Solim focused attention to the second figure, who seemed even more out of place.

It was a teenage girl, no older than sixteen, wrapped in a simple fur coat, like something a peasant would wear. Her hair was a pale silvery blonde, long and unkempt, and when Solim focused on the girl’s face he found that it was marked with tattoos.

R’heon tattoos.

The girl was lying on the ground, staring at the empty ice in front of her. Her right arm was outstretched and tense, her gloved hands were gripping something tightly, but strangely enough, it was as if whatever she was holding on to was floating a few inches off the ground.

Solim’s eyes grew dark. This girl. This was her. The Singer... the one who’s song brought the icekin. And at this moment, she was somehow controlling the knight that was soon going to end his life.

“What’s taking so long?” the Omestrian asked the girl.

“There’s something wrong. He is already dead but--”

Suddenly, a strange crunching sound, like ice falling off a glacier, exploded from the direction of the three arks. And not an instant later the girl screamed and fell to the ice, a gut-wrenching, excruciating scratching into the frost.

Her Omestrian companion hastily fell to her side, a look of deadly panic in her eyes as she gathered the convulsing girl in her arms and retreated toward the silver ark.

“We’ll return to the armada. Now order the beasts to attack!”

The girl moaned in response, her emerald eyes filling with tears. She did not answer.

“Do it, Moira,” the Omestrian woman hissed as she reached the entrance ramp of the shining silver craft. Not a moment later, the ark’s engines began to hum to life, and the icekin around them began to sir.

It was time for Solim to return, though he shuddered what he would find when he opened his eyes in his own body again. The girl mentioned that he had died, but she was wrong. He was very close to it, but his spirit was not there. The miracles Lord Varya had gifted him with were uniquely powerful in their own way, and the inquisitor gave a silent prayer to the Ravenous Lord as he closed his eyes and willed himself back into his body.



When Solim awakened, he found that he could not move, nor speak, nor breathe very well. But he could see, and what he glimpsed with his own eyes was the solar completely destroyed. The outer hull, steel wall and foundation and all, had been constricted onto itself, crushed and sheared together by an impossible force. He saw the broken remnants of the crystal knight’s shattered limbs lying all across the destroyed room, and, with his heart itself breaking apart as he realized what happened, he saw her-- Faina was lying motionless across from where he lay, her hands reaching out toward him. Her eyes drained of their color, only a faint blur of azure remaining within the grey-white coronas. Her cheeks were beginning to become sunken and her black hair was now streaked with white.

She saved him. And had likely sacrificed everything in doing so.

Why?

Faina had one spell that she never used. She didn’t need to, after all. She was their Protector. But when the knight was crushing his throat, she had summoned the very last pools of her ether to manipulate the magnetic forces of this place and tear the knight apart. Abandoning the aegis, all to save her warsibling from certain death.

Solim tried to reach out to her, to call out her name, but found that he couldn’t. His body was broken, and his throat was in such ruin that he could no longer speak. There was still a chance that she could survive this, but it was not likely. She had consumed most if not all of her ether, the one lesson that all of their teachers had ingrained into them time and time again. If they could get her some Omestrian ether, she could possibly make it, but even then the chances were not good. If he could only reach her…

Solim tried to move, but he could not. The trauma of the battle with the knight, and his own use of hiss projection ability had severely drained him of his own ether as well. But still, he tried to move.

The sound of footsteps coming from outside the solar rang loud in his ears, and as they grew closer he managed to turn his head just enough to see Mother Albina and a group of soldiers walking into the solar. Alongside them were Father Boris, Captain Lyubchenko and what looked like Father Taerlach being carried on a makeshift stretcher.

Solim looked to Albina and motioned toward their fallen warsibling.

“Help her. Please,” he tried to say.