To Jorah’s considerable surprise (and delight), his day, for once, did not start with a thunderous rapping on his door by a certain red-headed morning church bell. As such, although even this seemingly late hour would have been considered inhumanely early when he was still living at home, he was allowed to sleep blissfully well further into the morning than he could usually manage since his arrival at Garreg Mach. So, instead of bells or hurried door knocking waking him, he was able to sleep until the sun streaming in his window passed over his eyes, rousing him just enough to make him stir.

While he would normally have been content to pull the sheets over his head and go right back to sleep, Jorah was unfortunately roused just enough to notice that something was bothering him. He kept his eyes stubbornly closed in hopes that whatever that nagging feeling was would get tired and go away, but something still felt… off. Was there something he was supposed to do today? It wasn’t like he was one to stress over shirked responsibilities. Someone he needed to meet? Sadly no; the usual gaggle of comely maidens was a bit harder to come by in Garreg Mach, considering they were all either tight-laced daughters of lower nobility who’d probably been warned to steer clear of him or otherwise pristine young ladies in preparation to give themselves over to the Goddess rather than him. Did he have somewhere to be, then? Class, probably, but that never really bothered him before—dammit, the meeting!

Audibly groaning into his pillow, Jorah was even more tempted to shove his head under his sheets and dive back into sleep knowing that this was the morning of their special stupid meeting before class. He had more than an inkling what the meeting was going to be about, and seeing as how the last one ended with an unbecoming cut on his cheek (that still hadn’t completely healed, to his dismay) and half his House lucky to be alive, Jorah wasn’t exactly eager to get to this next one.

Goddess above, he should have bolted when he got the chance.

Against his better judgment, Jorah levered himself out of bed and splashed some water over his face, pulling on his shirt and uniform in a sleepy yet frustrated daze. He kept the buttons at the top undone in protest – or what would have been protest if that wasn’t how he normally wore it – and walked out the door, leaving his shoulder cape behind. Truth be told, he kinda liked the thing – it was flashy and excessive, both qualities that suited him fine – but he was a little too irritated this early in the day to want to draw even more attention to himself. The thought made him smirk; Clarissa would run a victory lap if she heard him say that out loud.

He made his way across the Monastery in such a way that he looked like he was rushing without actually going much faster, taking a detour to the dining hall to grab a soft, colourful fruit the attendant described as hailing from Morfis. The skin had flamboyant leaves sticking out from it and the flesh inside was brightly coloured and almost pasty, and tasty enough for Jorah to immediately add Morfis to his adventuring bucket list. He was forced to roll his sleeve up as pink juice dripped down his arm, but that just gave him an extra second or two to linger outside the Blue Lions classroom, flicking off the worst of it before he crossed the threshold.

Jorah took care of the rest with a yellow handkerchief produced from his pocket as he took his seat near Clarissa and… some others he didn’t recognize. Er, wait—was that one of the Gloucester boys? What was it… Ermes? No, Ezra—Ezekial! Yes, that one. A bit of a snob ever since his father died, but it was hard to blame the kid for that. Still, Jorah always did give him a wide berth; as much as he held himself together, his emotions always swirled around him like a dark gathering storm that made it hard for Jorah to relax in his company. Besides, he was always picking arguments even before his father passed, and that was just plain irritating. Maybe that was how Jorah managed not to hear that he was attending the Officers’ Academy.

He’d arrived just as the alluringly stern geography teacher – who was here, for some reason – started asking for volunteers, and Jorah visibly deflated. He missed the briefing, but it didn’t take much to guess; the map of Magdred Way on the board and the cloud of mixed emotions fogging up the room told him all he needed to know.

“Saint’s taint…” he murmured sourly, rubbing his temple and realizing that he had forgotten to paint his face in his half-hearted rush. A sign that this mission was just as damned as their last, as far as he was concerned. A wave of dread, some from others and some his own, washed over Jorah; as pissed as he was about Kayden’s reckless behaviour last time, he still hadn’t forgotten – nor fully gotten over, if he was honest with himself – his own poor performance. He’d clammed up when it mattered most, paralyzed by the fear and grief and panic of those poor townspeople as they watched their homes burn around them – and the ones they couldn’t save.

He felt his fingers brush over the mark on his cheek, not having realized he even raised his hand. He’d managed to snap out of it that time, sure, but not before some lowlife bandit came within inches of putting an arrow through his skull. What about next time? If he froze like that again, he very much doubted he’d get so lucky a second time. And making matters worse, there was nothing he could do to stop it! Crest classes had only been underway for a week, and though he’d been looking into ways to control his sensing ability, nothing yet was bearing fruit. He’d be helpless in the face of such a wave of emotions again, and it would put not only him, but his House and who knew who else in danger.

Who ever thought it was a good idea to put him on the battlefield?

Jorah exhaled sharply through his nose, a mix of feelings both foreign and domestic racking his nerves. The mix settled on irritated, and his wine-coloured eyes flashed with agitation as he crossed his arms, shrugging with a huff. “Fine; if this is what we’re doing, just put me far away from any screaming civilians.”

Lienna was well on her way to dozing off waiting for class to start when a meek, quiet "What are we doing?" sounded from the seat next to her that she previously thought was empty. She visibly jumped at the sound, hastily smoothing her hair and skirt to play off her surprise when she saw who the voice belonged to. It was Rudolf, whose name she only remembered because of a big, burly Fraldarius soldier by the same name who shared exactly nothing in common with the skinny, red-eyed boy looking sullen beside her.

She was actually relieved at the sight of him; the two of them saw more of each other lately in the new Crest class, as well as their usual small-group magic lessons with Professor Tomai, and Rudolf was always content to sulk to himself, rarely saying more than a few words when the class demanded it. Lienna was happy to return the favour; mutual silent focus was the kind of calm, unintrusive coexistence she could get behind (if only her Housemates shared that sentiment). Besides, she couldn’t deny some fascination with his entirely foreign, Imperial style of magic, so fundamentally different in form and function than her own, and his impressive control over it.

As such, Lienna was uncharacteristically unbothered by Rudolf’s presence, and simply shrugged at his question. “Couldn’t tell you,” she answered simply, a bit of northern slang showing through. Or maybe it was a lowborn saying – all she knew was it was something she didn’t usually hear the highborn students saying. “Those ones seem to think it’s some big group exercise,” she added, glancing over to the chatting strangers behind them. “Not sure who invited them.”

They didn’t have to wait long to find out. Shortly after a few more students trickled in, the geography professor (whose class was interesting enough, but whose name Lienna never bothered to commit to memory) launched into a spiel about dissidents and hostages and the Knights of Seiros. And surprise surprise, almost as if her previous musings had predicted it, their mission – which they would accept – was yet another illustrious and philanthropic death charge in the name of the Church.

Lienna’s mood soured as the professor asked for volunteers, the girl sinking back in her seat with arms crossed and gaze icy. Sparkling petals of frost bloomed over her fingertips and forearms as she bristled, seemingly responding to her agitation. Obviously she knew the whole “defending the faithful from the wicked” thing came part and parcel with her Officers’ Academy education (something she had come to find out was so respected by the nobles of Faerghus that not even pleading letters to her mouldering fiancé could get her out of), but she was still no fan of sticking her neck out for strangers that would probably never do the same for her. She knew their type; she grew up with them. Run, run, run, save yourself and maybe your children, take what help you can get and to hells with anyone else in the way. It made sense in Hima, maybe even here too, when you were lucky enough to be the one being rescued, but it did not extend to becoming the rescuer. It simply wasn’t in their nature. And it wasn’t in Lienna’s either.

At least the last interference had been coincidence (or so they’d been told), but apparently Garreg Mach made a habit of pushing throngs of barely-capable teenagers into the phalanx right alongside the Knights of Seiros. Lienna almost laughed, wondering how the famous Knights lived up to their fearsome reputation if they needed help from cushy highborn students bound for lives of luxury at the end of the year. And of course, once more Lienna wondered what the smallfolk of these southern valley villages – or the Knights themselves, for that matter – had ever done to deserve her own blood spilled on their behalf, and once more came up empty.

The room was quiet for a moment after the professor finished her brief, presumably the sound of every other student asking themselves the same question Lienna was asking. Then, to her surprise, the first to pipe up was none other than that showboating layabout Deer leader who fancied himself a ladies man. However, instead of the sexually-charged quip Lienna expected, he just about barked that he’d apparently go anywhere he wouldn’t be inconvenienced by the suffering of commoners.

Reflexively, Lienna bristled, ready to decry his callousness as the typical highborn attitude, happy to let his lessers suffer and die as long as he couldn’t hear the screaming from his castle tower. However, in an admittedly rare moment of self awareness, she realized that his thinking, pompously phrased as it was, wasn’t entirely unlike her own. Sure, his reasoning was undoubtedly rooted in highborn arrogance, and his foolhardy thirst for excitement and danger born of a sheltered life unacquainted with real suffering and death, but the end result was the same: neither of them were interested in dying for a village full of strangers to whom they owed nothing. She supposed she had to understand that, if not respect it.

Of course, her preference of battle station was opposite. While Blondie there didn’t want the wails of widows in his ears while he played hero, Lienna just wanted to be as far from any fighting as possible. After all, she didn’t come all this way to die defending thatch-roof houses in a field somewhere miles from home.

“I’ll hang back with the hostages, thanks,” she spoke up after Blondie. Less chance of skewering allies that way, probably; she’d made some progress with her control, but seeing as she was happy anytime the magic went forward, keeping her out of the fight was probably best for everyone involved.

---

Von Varley. As much as Auberon would've liked to believe that their resemblance was a coincidence following that revelation, he was all but certain it wasn't. He wasn't aware that his wayward cousin who had shamefully eloped with a Varley boy had a child, though it shouldn't have been a surprise. What was he to do, then? Call this Albrecht's mother a - well, Auberon would never repeat the words he'd heard her called, so that was probably out. Should he do anything? Whatever indecency his parents may have committed against House Galatea had no bearing on their son. Sins of the father and whatnot. Besides, House Varley was allegedly composed of pious men, by Imperial standards at least, whatever that counted for.

It seemed the time Auberon had spent staring liberated him from the need to decide on a course of action, as his choice was fortuitiously delayed by Professor Bartels' interjection. Another combat exercise was liable to be the last thing the class wanted after what happened at Luin, especially one with more innocents in the crossfire. It should've been the last thing he wanted. They should be running war games amongst themselves, not marching off to war on the Church's behalf. And yet every fiber of Auberon's being was wound tight with anticipation, fingers trembling as they itched to curl around the haft of an axe and cleave these heretics in twain until they abandoned their reprehensible crusade against the defenseless. Unlike those who resort to banditry in hard times, there were no words to be had with them; the Goddess may send rain down upon the just and unjust alike, but She sent Auberon Galatea against only the latter.

"I volunteer for the advance unit," Auberon announced with all the righteous fervor that was no doubt to be expected of him. Albrecht was all but forgotten under the grim determination that filled him. This would not be another Luin. Never another Luin. He wasn't decisive enough last time. His lack of resolve saw Derec concussed and Kellen nearly eviscerated when he should've unleashed all his fury on that Saints-damned chieftain the moment he entered Auberon's sight. Armored in faith as he was, he had no reason to merely react to the moves of his enemy when he would serve as a far better bulwark for the weak by excising the heart of the threat immediately.

---

---

Rudolf watched Lienna's all-too-familiar startled reaction with impassive weariness, though it faded as quickly as it came when she promptly settled down without a tedious comment about his sudden appearance. He was thankful for that, even if her answer gave him nothing that he couldn't surmise on his own. The professor's much more informative answer came as if on cue, though Rudolf sorely wished it hadn't.

He didn't know which side looked worse here, the Church marching a bunch of teenagers out to fight their ideological battles for them, or the dissidents that thought holding villages hostage would win converts or even paint the Church in a poor light. Then again, if their tactics were as ill-considered as their motives, a group of teenagers was probably more than a match for these apostates. The only problem was that said group of teenagers included him, which meant he'd be given responsibility, which meant he'd fail at those responsibilities, and then compromise his position, and then let his weakness be exploited by the enemy, and then they'd all get flanked and die. It was just as his father had always said, a formation falls apart the moment a gap is made, and Rudolf was ever the flimsy shield in the phalanx, the flank that routs prematurely, the inept soldier that everyone overestimates. At least they were asking for volunteers instead of forcing him into an assignment.

Though truly it was only a matter of picking his poison. If he let the advance unit down, then he'd just doom the reserve unit to fall under the full might of the opposition. If he let the reserve unit down, they'd still all be brutally slaughtered along with the villagers, but at least there was a chance the advance unit would handle the dissidents without giving them a chance to engage the back line, or regroup and flank the enemy even once they did.

Lienna and he appeared to be of one mind on the matter, judging by her comment, though she seemed rather blasé about the whole ordeal. Goddess above, was one flirt with death at that stupid little hamlet really enough to desensitize them all to this? Or were the heroes of the hour just that confident in their abilities that they saw no danger in this exercise? They shouldn't be; Rudolf von Bergliez was watching their backs, and they'd take comfort in that like the oblivious fools they were.

"Wherever I'll let less people down, I guess," Rudolf muttered under his breath, "You're all the miracle workers, not me." He really hadn't intended for the professor to hear him - in fact, he sincerely hoped she didn't, but maybe someone out there would hear his plea and deign to answer it. If the Goddess didn't listen in Garreg Mach, She didn't listen at all.

---

An ear-piercing shriek. Then a barrage of expletives.

Imogen groaned and forced herself to rouse, vision blurry as she tried to rub away the sleepiness that still pulled at her. It took a couple of seconds to realize that she wasn't in her room (unless they changed the dorm room ceilings into glass just last night) and another five to remember she had somewhere important to be (special mission?!).

"What are you doing in there?" The dark-haired girl looming over her had calmed down enough to stop the wonderfully colorful string of curses she had assailed her with, and even dutifully helped her out of the extra-large but mostly empty planter she had been curled up in. Imogen thanked her for both the helping hand and the handful of new curse words she learned.

"Sleeping," Imogen answered plainly, picking out errant foliage from her messy pink hair and seriously rumpled clothes. She raised her arms in a brief stretch and immediately discovered the consequences of her botched late-night venture. After several days of successful patrols—success here being measured by number of times caught (zero) instead of number of times she has prevented another abduction (also zero)—she had gotten complacent and almost got caught by one of the Pegasus Knights on duty. The greenhouse had been the only way to avoid her line of sight and so she was forced to spend the night there, or risk getting into trouble.

Speaking of the greenhouse-- the sunlight filtered through the glass panels and Imogen was once again reminded of something important she had to do. "Hey, what time is it?"

"Seventh bell just rang… no, hold on, why are--”

"Uh-oh, Clary's gonna be big mad, I gotta go now. Thanks again for waking me up! I'll see you later!" Imogen raced out of the greenhouse, waving goodbye to the bewildered student left to wonder what on Fódlan just happened.

• ────── =͟͟͞͞( •̀д•́)))

She'd forgotten where they were supposed to meet and ended up going to their empty classroom first before checking the Blue Lions' and finding everyone there. Someone else was doing the lecture, not Professor Mik like she assumed—oh, shoot, was that Professor Lav? Imogen recoiled reflexively, guilt bubbling up as she recalled all the times she fell asleep in her class.

Hunched over sheepishly, she found the closest available seat and looked around wildly in attempt to catch herself up on the briefing. Whatever it was seemed serious, judging from the somber looks on some of their faces. Even Jory sounded cranky when raised his hand, which was odd given that he was talking to a pretty professor.

Lin was next to volunteer and Imogen started to pick up on the situation a little more. Okay, so they were being asked to either be away from the 'screaming civilians/hostages' or hang back with them. So they'd be split up in a group to attack and a group to defend? Although normally one to prefer being in the thick of things, because she would be too restless otherwise, Imogen knew immediately what she had to do. She'd been searching for opportunities to help others with her abilities and what better way than this?

"I can protect people!" Imogen jumped up and raised her hand, a determined glint in her eyes. It only occurred to her then to think about how the others might be feeling, after what they'd experienced in Luin. Her friends had gotten hurt before and she absolutely can't let that happen again. "We'll save everyone this time."

---

The young Gloucester let his hand fall as he thought a bit on Albrecht's question, tapping his fingers against the desk.

"I suppose so. it's always nice to get a wide array of contact with those you'll be dealing with in the future." Ezekial night have tried to embleish his opinion's a bit around others, but with Albrecht he was confidant enough that he didn't need to fully out on the mask around the boy. It wasn't like he was-

"Good Morning, Professors."

All thoughts freeze as Ezekial turns to face Clarissa with a polite and practiced smile, even if the sight of the Edmond girl did cause a sudden spike in his heart rate. What in the hell was she doing here?

"If you're offering, than who would I be to refuse?" The young noble responds easily to the invitation, though part of him wondered if pleasanties were all the girl had in mind. While not prone to dishonesty or subterfuge in all the time he'd known her, it did feel like an odd request. While their relationship was mostly cordial, she had made her position as one of the fiercest wolves out for his throat quite clear. Still, he had little reason to refuse, and didn't wish to appear needlessly rude to the new faces that started to stream in after Clarissa. "Set a time and I'll be glad for a short chat over. . . Lavender, perhaps? Or well, maybe after Lavender in this case."

Ezekial turns his attention back to the board as the teacher of the same name starts to go over their current mission: cleaning up after the church's mess it seems. Ezekial held back the urge to sigh, wondering why the such vaunted Knights couldn't handle some common dissidents themselves. For all the bluster they spew about being some of the best worries, they sure did take any opportunity to have Academy Students get involved in their business.

Still, it's the duty of the nobility to protect their vassals, so I must do my best. Still, with me, the slob, and the choir boi leading the frontlines I have to wonder-

" -- Celeste Gloucester will strengthen the backline."

Huh?

Once more the noble felt as if his heart rate had doubled, this time letting out a hiss breath as it took everything he had not to let his anxiety show more than that.

It's fine, she's in the backline, she'll be safe with the teacher's, she definitely won't get lost in the mist and . . . fuck. No. No. Calm down, you knew she'd be sent out on these kinds of missions, she's being trained just as you are, and if worst comes to worst, you'll be around to make sure it doesn't.

Ezekial looks between the two volunteers for the advance unit, deciding his pride would have to take the hit here and they'd have to be enough for it. Jorah, at least, was a decent shot and had a better nose for danger than most. Still it irks him, not being part of the advance team, but he had more important priorities than cleaning up after the Church right now.

---

A diminutive figure swaddled in stark imperial black inched its way down from the carriage, having been forced out simply by virtue of sitting closest to the door. His heart pounded, every beat circulating Saint Noa's blood faster and faster as it resonated its bearer's apprehension with the long-dead geas of its progenitor. By all means, Rudolf should've been itching to climb back in the carriage and hunker down until the fighting had passed, but he didn't. He simply stood at attention, adjusted the sword at his hip that presented more of an illusion of safety than actual combat advantage, and tugged his cowl down to hide the dread on his face while the reality of his surroundings sunk in.

His tutor had once told him that a dark mage should never be frightened, even in the gloomiest forest, for he should be absolutely sure that the most fearsome thing lurking in the shadows was himself. Rudolf had dismissed it as the self-assured bravado of a man far more capable than he, but as he stood in Magdred, for the first time, he almost believed. In this fog, he was less a man and more an ephemerality - a hooded wraith straddling the boundary between existence and fairy tale. He was barely real to the world around him on the best of conditions; here, where everyone else was a mere silhouette in the mist, he was lucky to even be a fleeting shadow in the corner of a paranoid man's eye. The only danger he'd find himself in here was that which he willingly subjected himself to.

It was as comforting as it was horrifying. He could leave them all to die and no one could stop him.

"We're walking into a trap," Rudolf assessed without invitation, "No local to the area would be unaware of Magdred Way's tendency to hold fog, and the advance unit's passage would've tipped off even the most incompetent sentry anyway. There's no way we got lucky and snuck in due to the weather." The words came out flatly, with the same analytical cadence his father might've taken when discussing tactics with his officers. It horrified him. Rudolf hadn't willed the words to come out, they just spilled along with memories of mocked up invasion plans for the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus that had been drawn up and shown to him partially as a theoretical exercise and partially as preparation for any future conflict. It was a shock that he even remembered any of it, as he certainly never intended to use any of it.

"Since they didn't bother to use the fog to ambush us, they're probably hunkered down in the most defensible position they can find, or they intended to flank us once we're boxed in the heart of town." Reinforcements obviously wouldn't come from Arianrhod like in the lesson, but the theory held. They'd just arrive sooner. "There's also the question of which villagers have aligned themselves with the dissidents and how we're to tell them apart." Militias levied against an invading Imperial army would work much the same way as an angry mob of heretics, Rudolf surmised. The lack of any signs of conflict certainly implied that at least some of the town was complying with their occupiers, or they'd never have been taken hostage to begin with.

"Professor, the plea for help itself could've been a trap. Is this really the kind of thing you send students to do?" Rudolf whined in a last ditch effort to extricate himself - or more importantly, his classmates - from the mission. He could slip off without a word, but then he'd have to hear them dying in the distance as he hitchhiked his way to County Bergliez and probably every night after that in his dreams.

---

It was a good thing only the advance unit was expected to ride to Magdred Way on horseback; not only had Lienna never put a foot in a stirrup in her life, but by the way the carriage horses fussed when she passed them to board (not to mention pretty much every other animal she’d encountered in her life), she would probably have gotten half the unit killed or injured when she sent their mounts bolting at the sight of her.

It was hardly the most relevant thought as she stepped down from the carriage at Magdred, but it was the first one that came to mind which didn’t feature gruesome memories of the last time she’d been forced to fight in the fog. The situation at Magdred was too similar for comfort: a now-empty carriage, an unnatural fog, and a foreboding sense that whatever was to come would not go according to plan.

"We're walking into a trap."

Rudolf’s voice from somewhere off to her side startled Lienna, but he stated the obvious. The mist was definitely unnatural (granted, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was so certain about that), not to mention the temperature – wasn’t it supposed to get warmer as you descended a mountain? There was definitely something else going on here. After all, the last time she conjured a fog, it was to set up an ambush. Contrary to Rudolf’s opinion, why would this be any different?

Rudolf’s rattled off theories went over Lienna’s head for the most part, but his voice in the fog was a reminder of one key difference between here and Luin: this time, she had more than a brooding princess on her side. The thought wasn’t much comfort – with the exception of Tomai, who was bound to their protection, and maybe Clarissa, who seemed noble and foolish enough to stick her neck out for any comrade in danger, Lienna didn’t trust a single soul among her unit to protect her – but at the very least, a few more bodies between her and approaching death would probably open up an opportunity to escape if things got ugly.

Still, the fog had a way of messing with her senses. Unsure if the figures in the mist were allies, enemies, or her own mind playing tricks on her, Lienna chose simply not to look at them, focusing instead on adjusting her sleeves. The heavy black robes she’d been given served an adequate distraction for the moment; the thick fabric hung poorly on her frame, never sitting quite right and restricting her movement. She’d been told they had some defensive capability and would help enhance her magic, but seeing as she’d only just gotten used to the stiff fit of her school uniform, the added weight and mass of the robes felt more like a death shroud than something meant to protect her.

But she could only focus on ill-fitting robes for so long, and as they stood in the mist, Lienna got more uneasy by the second. It was nearly impossible to stop her eyes from darting around at the fog, imagining brigands in strange garb bursting through at any moment to finish what they started back in Him—no, Luin. Ha. Lienna might have cracked a smile at the dark irony of that thought if she wasn’t so on edge. What a joke; her life was so defined by danger that her encounters were starting to bleed together.

“Let’s just get moving and be done with this quickly,” she suggested, still suspiciously eyeing the fog.

Almost as soon as he volunteered, Jorah regretted his decision. While it was true that the best place for him in this mission (aside from nowhere near the battlefield at all) was at the front where he had less chance of being paralyzed by someone else’s fear, if he had thought about someone other than himself for two saints-damned seconds he would have realized that it was almost guaranteed that Clarissa would volunteer to help the civilians, thus leaving her too far behind for him to protect her. Jorah didn’t like the idea of Clarissa out of his sight on the battlefield at the best of times, let alone after Kayden’s bullshit back in Luin. But it wasn’t so much that he worried about Clarissa being attacked; she could more than take care of herself, that he knew well. That wasn’t the problem. No, what worried the blond was the other students around her, foolhardy or cowardly, putting themselves in danger. Clarissa was too noble, too brave, too utterly unlike Jorah to stand by and let someone else come to harm. She’d step in to protect them without hesitation – that was what he was worried about.

"Professor Lavender, I'd be more comfortable working with the civilians, if for no other reason than to have an extra person comfortable with restorative magic on hand if our front line is outmaneuvered or our enemies have prepared an ambush."

Dammit! For once, Jorah hated being right. He opened his mouth to change his mind, but his efforts went unacknowledged; positions might as well have been written in stone once Professor Lavender put them on the board. Worse still, unlike Jorah expected, Kayden ended up in the rear guard as well. Was the Goddess playing a trick on him? Was this how she taught him to be less impulsive? It was a lesson many years too late, but it stung just the same. Jorah could only pray there wouldn’t be a chance for a repeat of Luin on the back lines, but Clarissa had a point. If the heretics circled around and made it to the rear, it could be Luin all over again. Probably without the giant, but no less dangerous.

Even less comforting was the fact that after that ride the Prince invited himself to, Jorah had zero confidence that Kayden learned anything from his little suicide attempt in their last excursion. Although he had every faith Clarissa saw through Kayden as well as he did, the man saw himself as the reluctant yet noble prince, the magnanimous hero of his own song. It would make excellent storytelling to throw himself into the fray once more for the sake of the smallfolk, and in so doing put those around him in danger. Jorah knew the type well; hell, he fell into that category more often than not. But while he’d gladly label himself reckless, and even appreciate it in others, at least he had the sense to knock it off when lives were on the line!

When the briefing was over, there were precious few seconds before the units were whisked off to their respective preparations. In that time, Jorah only had the chance to grab Clarissa’s attention and urge her, “Be careful,” and then they were off to uniforms and stables and the battlefield beyond.

Once again, there was no chance for Jorah to fetch his own bow; instead, a stiff, standard-issue steel one was pushed into his hands as he scrambled to assemble the gear he was given. The Deer-yellow tunic and leathers were easy enough, although he struggled a moment with the light pauldron and hard leather vambraces.

But maybe the Goddess planned it that way, for by the time he was ready, he emerged from the armory just in time to cross paths with none other than Kayden on his way in. Without thinking, Jorah stepped in his way, their shoulders colliding. His eyes were hard as they bored into the Prince’s, burning with a deadly intensity that was otherwise foreign to him.

Unlike the last time they met, Jorah didn’t bother with pretenses. “Pull any shit like back in Luin,” he growled, “and if the heretics don’t get you, I will.”


Jorah seethed down the mountain, wondering if the anxiety and frustration burning in his chest was fully his own, or whether it was seeping into him from the group around him. He always struggled to tell; his own emotions and those of others bled together like ink on wet paper, and it was near impossible to distinguish where one drop ended and the next began. Thus, he chose to believe that it was others tainting his heart for the moment – better for his mood that way. Ironically, he did his best to ride close to Auberon; stiff as he was, the guy was damn unflappable, and the aura of holy righteous fire he exuded in battle was a potent draught, intoxicating and invigorating even to the meekest of men. At least, if they had a Crest that let them feel it. His fervor would make a great pick-me-up for any reluctant soldier, and a soothing balm for Jorah’s ailing mood.

The fog along the road didn’t help, but Jorah was surprised to note that aside from his classmates, no one was hiding in the mist; he figured the anticipation of someone laying in wait for an ambush would be clear as day, and even the horses weren’t bothered. Jorah chose to take that as a good sign. After all, if they were going to come back this far, they’d probably do it to ambush them, right? Maybe that meant they’d never bother coming to the rear, and the rear unit would be safe.

They soon emerged from the fog to find the town of Magdred eerily lifeless. It wasn’t empty, though; Jorah came to the same conclusion as Euphemia, sensing some muffled nerves coming from inside the first few houses. Still, the place was unnaturally still for such a developed town. Creepy.

Anticipation hung heavy in the air as they dismounted. Most of it came from the advance unit itself, but if Jorah’s senses were right, he could feel something fainter coming from up ahead as well. The teachers? They seemed too close to feel so faint, but maybe their nerves were just stronger than the students. Otherwise, perhaps more townspeople were still around deeper in. Or it was the tension of a throng of heretics waiting to strike – that was always an option. Jorah chose to assume the worst, and Michail seemed to agree.

Jorah formed up with his group – Auberon and a girl whose name he already forgot – who were meant to take point behind Michail with the other units following. He let the other two walk ahead (melee in front and ranged behind – turns out he did learn something in Tactics) and nocked an arrow, positioning himself between the two and a few paces back. He kept his fingers on the string, bow poised low in front of him.

“Let me know if you see anything,” he murmured to his partners, head on a swivel. He scanned the street with the eyes of a hunter, watching for any sign of movement.

---

The bite of unforgiving wood and the creeping chill of the unnatural fog left Clarissa mourning the loss of her carriages back home. She took a moment to shake out the ache once she’d disembarked and rubbed her hands together despite the gloves. Clarissa and the cold held each other in equal contempt and neither were pleased at the intrusion of the other, if the vindictive way the ever present chill clawed its way down to the bone was anything to go by. Clarissa clicked her tongue irritably as she was wont to do in displeasing situations as she attempted to gain some meager understanding of the town around them.

Despite her claims otherwise, fear was an emotion Clarissa was well acquainted with. Its chokehold had cost her two years of her life, buried beneath the once insurmountable weight of her bloodline. So she was quite sure the quickening of her pulse and the faint tremble in her fingers wasn’t fear. A twinge of concern, sure. After all, her closest friend and staunchest ally was off galavanting elsewhere beyond her magic’s help but if anyone would make it out of an impossible situation, she knew it would be Jorah. Still, she bowed her head briefly and offered up a prayer, that Jorah’s arrows would fly true and his steps would carry him safely back to them, unharmed and unburdened by the weight of his gifts.

No, what quivered in her fingers and boiled in her blood was anger; righteous and white hot at the obvious bait laid out before them. Their numbers cut, their vision questionable, and their intel even worse, the only thing Clarissa was certain of was that the battle was already decided. The Goddess was on their side and thus, the only ending to this trap was victory. “Rudolf, let’s apply your analysis into something a tad more productive than questioning the orders of our Professors. The one thing you can trust is their politics‒the massacre of their students would likely obliterate the institution’s reputation, especially since they’d be crippling the future of all three nations in a single blow.” Clarissa couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought about the quiet boy but she couldn’t help rolling her eyes at his whining. They were here to learn, to improve, and to help, not whine and protest an inescapable situation.

“Furthermore, the Goddess smiles on us and us alone here. It is we who will carry Her light into this Darkness and with Her radiance in hand, emerge triumphant. Every choice and every decision has brought you here beneath Her gaze. None of us have failed Her before and no amount of heresy shall mark this as our beginning. Stiffen your spines and hold up your chins. It is we who carry Deliverance this day. Through whatever horrors may await us in this mists, we shall emerge victorious in spite of them!” Determination radiated off her in waves as she spoke, her voice carrying into the mist.

---

@Achronum@Obscene Symphony@Scribe of Thoth@Hero

---

Kayden's father had once told him, 'If one wants peace, prepare for war.' At the time he didn't give it much thought, but he trusted his father in matters of state. Apparently many of his ministers considered him a great leader. Kayden believed them, simply because he felt the man had to be good at something other than his favorite hobby of being an asshole to those closest to him. Still, sound advice in a vague sort of way. Peace was never on the table if one didn't make sure they could protect themselves, and such a philosophy helped him gather his thoughts and prepare for battle. He hoped one day he could be as good of an emperor as his father whilst being kind to those around him. Somehow, try as he might, he seemed to never be able to salve strife or broker agreements until every other option was expended. Veronica took forever to calm, and Rudolph was as cowardly as ever. And then there were those outside of his guild...

“Pull any shit like back in Luin,” Jorah had growled when Kayden passed him, “and if the heretics don’t get you, I will.”

The Prince had nearly stopped, and he didn't know whether to laugh or get pissed. Kayden had come to the conclusion Jorah utterly lived outside of reality. Who in their right mind chastised someone who had risked their life to keep men with swords off the backs of his allies? Kayden had guarded the flanks with his own life and Jorah was enraged?? The logic was simply not there, and Kayden came up with two outcomes. Either Jorah was jealous, which wouldn't be the first time he had experienced such from a lesser noble, or Jorah was utterly batshit crazy. He wanted to give the man the benefit of the doubt and go with option one, but option two was seeing far more likely. The man had even eavesdropped on Kayden and his house, thinking Kayden had eavesdropped on Clarissa who was, quite literally, loudly calling out a professor in public. He earnestly did not see what someone as honorable as Clarissa could see in him, but at least he had made acquaintances with her and spoke to a few of the other students from the other houses. Imogen was always pleasant to be around, as well.

He took all but three seconds to think this all through, and made a mental note. He had always tried to be nice to Jorah, even whilst the fellow was being an asshole, but he decided his patience was growing thin. One more vague threat or outwardly malevolent intention to Kayden, and Kayden would go from pleasant to pissed off. Perhaps it would teach Jorah a valuable lesson in diplomacy when he ascended to whatever Dukedom he would inherit one day. Kayden snorted. He didn't know if this mental note would stick, but he also doubted Jorah could learn anything meaningful after the way he had been acting. He purged the thoughts from his mind. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand, and the prince went to retrieve his armaments.

---

The carriage was musty and cramped, and it did wonders for those who wished to venture into the wide world of back pain. However, he supposed it was more expedient than walking, and this let him gauge the thoughts of his fellow students in far closer quarters than was socially acceptable on a hike or horseride. So far, everyone seemed at least passably prepared save for Rudolph, and that was to be expected. They needed to be ready for whatever the battle would throw at them or they might collapse formation and potentially lose their lives. The advanced unit had the glory, but they were to be the backbone.

Kayden stepped off the carriage, gathering his wits and taking in fresh, albeit humid breathes of air into his imperial lungs. He stopped at their center and leveled his striking eyes on the fog permeating the perimeter, his gaze fixed like a hound's. Kayden had the air of a veritable statue, stern and imperious all at once. Whatever others might think of him, he very much had the look of the princely ideal. After a few moments passed and no screaming heretics were stampeding into their ranks, he managed to glance at the others as they gave their commentary.

"They're right," He informed Rudolph, referring to Lienna's comments and Clarissa's speech. They needed to get out of this in one piece, and to do that, they couldn't lose morale. They were here for a reason, and that was to protect the people. Kayden drew his sword, hefting it into the sky like a beacon, though with the fog he doubted it would have the same effect as in the tales.

"Citizens of the Empire, this will be a day of victory! If we stand with our distant cousins of the Alliance and the Holy Kingdom, no foe can overcome our combined might!" He called powerfully, hoping his crest was aiding in the proclamation. He wasn't going to give a long winded oration after Clarissa, but he did feel the need to speak and reiterate their stridently important goal. "We will stand and fight, and by the Goddess's mercy, no heretic will lay a hand on the innocent's of Magred!"

---

Auberon had hoped to find a line of men awaiting them as he rode into Magdred, that they might clash steel against steel until the victor stood as a living monument to judgment passed from on high. Instead, the scene grew more unsettling by the moment. He supposed it was a bit of a blessing that the streets were empty, eerie as it was, as it meant there would be no civilians caught in the carnage accidentally. That assumed they were barricaded in their homes in the face of potential invaders, of course. The alternative was that they'd already been rounded up for slaughter and that the heretics already cowered behind the aegis of a few hostages.

Yet no messenger strode forth to present any demands, nor did an executioner brandish an innocent townswoman to threaten them into obedience. It was too silent for the heretics to have been caught off guard, yet they offered no resistance so far. And they called themselves men of faith. Pathetic.

As Michail dismounted, Auberon scrambled to follow him, not wanting to give their opponents any window to exploit the brief disarray before they had formed up properly. When no ambush was sprung, the blond tightened his grip on his axe and advanced in step with the others. The Dominic girl and Derec could probably hold the flanks well enough, and a brief glance backward showed Jorah was already on high alert, doubtlessly ready to pounce as soon as the heretics betrayed even a hint of their presence. It meant Auberon had room to be a little reckless.

"I'll try and draw them out. Let's see what's stronger; their conviction or their fear," Auberon grumbled as he lowered the visor on his helm. If the heretics had even a hint of virtue, misguided though it may be, he'd fall under attack sooner rather than later. After all, Michail did say their purpose was to make noise, and he'd rather them spring their trap prematurely than wait until the group had parked themselves in the middle of town square to be skewered from every angle. The blond broke formation and paced away from the group, hoping to make himself a more tempting target.

"Your cowardice reveals your folly more aptly than any discourse ever could," He called out goadingly into the empty streets, "If you heretics are so assured of the righteousness of your cause, why do you forsake your honor and hide? Do you not even trust your blasphemous deity to deliver you unto victory?!" Auberon spread his arms wide in a challenge to any of the misguided souls that might've been watching them, daring his hidden opposition to stand in the Goddess' view alongside him and glorify their beliefs in combat.

"Come, test the bladed edge of your false faith against the armor forged of Her favor! Prove the worthiness of your cause here and now!" He braced his axe before himself as he concluded his speech and darted his head between the nearby buildings. There was nothing to fear from any sinner that would answer his challenge, exalted by the Goddess as he was, but if they did nothing but loose arrows in their cowardice, he'd need to be ready.

---

@Obscene Symphony@Salsa Verde

One small figure still sat in the carriage that had carried the guard unit to Magdred. With a bow strung over his shoulder and his sword balanced on his knees, Kellen Fraldarius was having difficulty getting his legs to move. Or, frankly, any part of his body to move.

The morning’s announcement that they would be undertaking another mission had not found fertile ground in the young Fraldarius’s mind. He had been entirely silent during the briefing, the preparation, and the journey. Anyone who had tried to say hello would have been met with a haunted gaze and little else. It was only as he realized the carriage had been stopped for a few minutes that he now realized that despite his best efforts, his legs were not interested in operating. He couldn’t bear to look down to see what the possible cause of the newly-induced paralysis was. So his eyes remained fixed on the wall across from him.

These were the same carriages that had taken them to Luin. The proof was in the small grove in a wood beam that made up the wall of the carriage, one that Kellen found himself transfixed with for the second time in as many months. He couldn’t shake the thought of their last “outing”, despite his best efforts to distract himself from the images that sought to play themselves before him every time he let his focus drift from the grove. More than any of those images though, it was the all too precise memory of the smell that kept Kellen paralyzed. Blood. Sweat. Metal.

The new students were lucky. They hadn’t done this before - he hoped. They didn’t know what was about to come. Kellen did. How Auberon, Jorah, Kayden, or any number among them could find themselves excited to find themselves back on another “mission” after the last was a query far beyond Kellen’s mental abilities.

It was at this moment that Kellen’s sword slid off of his locked legs. It landed on the wooden floor of the carriage with a soft thud, just out of arm’s reach from Kellen’s sitting position. Instinctually, he crouched down to pick it up, and discovered with alarm that indeed, his legs were still perfectly functional. The soft utterance of a curse also confirmed that his vocal chords were working just fine as well.

His head turned to look to the fog outside of the carriage. He could see Lienna, Kayden, and Clarissa, amongst other students, preparing for whatever was to come. Kellen's back straightened as best as it could in the cramped space of the carriage and he slid the sword and its scabbard back across his left hip. While he had no intention of using it, he had found in his sporadic practice with his bow that his already shaky stance tended to worsen when the familiar weight of his blade was not sitting just above his hip. Gingerly - he was still not quite comfortable wearing the thing - he slid the oak shortbow off of his back. A quiver of arrows sat just below his left shoulder blade, held up by a sturdy piece of leather that ran across his chest.

As Kellen emerged from the carriage, he realized that his already limited skill with the bow would be further tested by the limited visibility. The sense of comfort that he had hoped would accompany his newly-chosen weapon was decaying rapidly. Before his legs could lock up again, he quickly wandered over to his fellow students, just to catch the tail end of Kayden’s speech. Some piece of the future Emperor's confidence bolstered Kellen enough that he could get out a few words to the other students.

“I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

Kellen Fraldarius didn’t need to wait for long for the many imagined threats that plagued his mind to be replaced by tangible, real ones. If a gust of wind was enough to cause him to yelp – and it was – the veritable onslaught of arrows and magic that pinged off of the barrier Kaira threw up was enough to put Kellen into stunned silence that only broke when a stronger gust of wind nearly took him off his feet. That dreadful weight returned quickly as the wind revealed their opponents on the roofs.

In that singular moment of clarity, Kellen knew what an experienced archer would do. Draw, knock, aim, and shoot at any of the clear targets who had revealed their position. As he attempted the first step of this process, he found his fingers shaking more than normal, and by the time he had managed to knock an arrow, the fog had set back in.

It was in the context of this showcase of inability that Kellen heard Professor Malathice’s next instruction. His face blanched, and when he turned to Veronica to attempt to seek any sense of solace, he was dismayed to hear her put one of his many concerns into words.

As he saw a blade strike out from the fog towards Professor Simeon, the arrow Kellen had painstakingly succeeded in nocking slipped from his index and middle fingers. It clattered to the ground softly, but the sound of it was enough to keep him grounded in the reality of the unfolding situation. Hurriedly moving to scoop it up, he looked to his fellow students.

“I’m, er- I’m going to do my best to keep looking at the sky. Please don’t let one of them, uh...” Kellen wisely stopped himself before he put to words one of the many fears that occupied him. Turning his eyes towards the sky, it wasn’t clear whether the next words were for him or his classmates. “And, um, be careful.”

Kellen’s neck was firmly craned upwards, looking in the fog for any sign of movement. It would have been possible for him to keep an eye on his immediate surroundings as well, but he knew instinctually that if he were to look at the ground troops pushing in towards the reserve of students on the backline, any small hope of him drawing and loosing an arrow would disappear. So instead, he did what he could to ignore the din of combat and stare at the sky.

It was difficult to see much of anything through the fog. Hesitantly, Kellen pulled the bowstring to half-draw, gently raising it while doing his best to count his breaths and remain calm. It was sometime after the number seven that he first noticed a disturbance in the fog 30 meters above his head. It was nigh imperceptible, but an ever-active sense of anxiety had honed Kellen’s sense of danger. His bow was already ready to fire, all it took was a quick adjustment of his aim and a final yank of his right arm. And he did so.

As the arrow flew through the sky, Kellen thought, for half a second, that perhaps his instincts has led him astray. It was just as he looked down to grab another arrow that he heard the loud whinny of a pegasus and looked to see the tip of a wing gliding along the fog, its course clearly disrupted by the unexpected projectile. Had he fired a bit higher, he was almost certain it would have connected. Kellen drew another arrow and did his best to track the set of wings that were now hovering a bit too close to the group, but the rider was simply moving too quickly.

“Veronica!” His eyes didn’t leave the sky, both for the sake of keeping track of the Pegasus’s position and avoiding the inevitable shakes that would follow seeing enemy warriors so close to them. “One’s there!” Kellen’s arrow remained trained on what little of the pegasus he could see in the fog, but his eyes focused more on the periphery to see if he could note any other attempt to dive in. He thought better of wasting a shot trying to hit a flying target that was trying to evade his shot.

Another opportunity quickly presented itself. From the fog, a small glow of magic could be spotted. Kellen remembered the mages he had seen on the rooftops, and this one, from as far as he could tell, had hardly moved. The glow wasn’t much, but it was enough for Kellen to fire one more arrow into its general direction, just as a sharp beam of magical wind flew in his direction. Kellen hurled himself out of the way, hissing as his elbows and knees collided roughly with the ground before him. He could feel his chest constrict as his brain started to imagine what the spell may have done had it collided with him, but he was thankfully dislodged when he heard a pained cry from the roof above him where his arrow had found its purchase. “Got one!” He yelped, hastily rising. Judging by the sound of it, Kellen was sure the man was still alive, but he doubted he would be firing off another spell in the immediate future.

---

@Hero

---

They seemed to be in a situation old Lord Myrthawnean would call 'quite the pickle.' Gusts of wind, almost certainly magically induced, separated the fog and allowed a volley to fly into their midst from the archers on the rooftops just long enough for the fog to return once the arrows had been loosed. A good strategy, Kayden had to admit. The assault that happened after the shafts had reigned down was as predictable as it was effective. He could not do much with his sword, and almost as little with his wit. He did decide to grace Veronica with a smile that showed his white teeth.

"Didn't you say you were the best archer?" He asked the future princess-consort. Truthfully, Veronica was quite good with a bow. If there was someone he wanted to guard his back with such a weapon, it would be her. Which was, in fact, the only time he wanted her around. As the aerial attack began, Kayden gestured to the pegasi that barrelled towards the group. Better to make Veronica determined and focused to prove her insufferable husband-to-be wrong rather than afraid. "Time to prove it."

The sword that nearly took the life of an instructor caught Kayden's eye, the flash of steel causing him to whirl as the four swordsmen in the ground assault moved forward. Idly, he thought they would be more effective fighting in a bulky unit. Surrounding wasn't the greatest idea when you lacked numbers, and there were only enough swordsmen to keep their group's attention. Still, Kayden would protect Kellen as he had bade, as well the others. The footman closest to him swung at the prince, only for his blow to be a feint for a quick stab to the gut. Kayden's block was redirected and he leaped back in time to knock the thrust away with a clang of steel.

Rather than giving the footsoldier time to realign his attack, Kayden pressed his own. A diagonal slash that would have taken the footman down were it not for his armor. His opponent blanched for a moment, but once he realized he was not wounded he cut at Kayden's midsection. The prince parried with the strong of his blade, the two now in a match of muscle. Kayden was fit, but he was lean. With a shove forward as if to try and strong-arm his way in, Kayden suddenly relaxed and let the footman's blade fly past him.

There was more to a sword than the blade. If the footman had forgotten that, Kayden reminded him. Stepping into his reach, Kayden moved behind the swing and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's helmet, ringing the footman's helm like a gong that reverberated over the fellow's body. Like a stunned animal, the enemy slashed wildly. Kayden yelped at a small cut across his leg, but did not relent and suitably returned a more practiced cut to fell the man with a duelists grace. The prince then kicked him across the chest, letting him fall to the ground, his sword clattering where it lay.

Jorah’s chest tightened as Auberon stepped forward, but he steadied himself, focusing on the bow in his hands and the beat of his heart to still his flighty reflexes. The plan held more water than some other House Leaders he knew; surrounded by comrades on high alert, Auberon wasn’t an unwitting target. Using a human as bait didn’t sit nicely with him, but Jorah tried to think of it another way and was reminded of his hunting dogs back home, rushing into the weeds to flush out game.

Of course, birds didn’t usually bite back.

His unease didn’t last long, though. Stick in the mud that Auberon was, you’d never know it to see him now. Feet planted in the middle of enemy territory, voice ringing sharply against the steel of his own helmet as he issued a holy challenge to any who would answer, the head of the Lions was true to his name. His attitude was contagious; Jorah felt his chest swell with… was that excitement? He went from defensively scouting the alleys to hoping some fool would dare step into his line of sight, where he could visit some holy vengeance of his own on anyone stupid enough to show their face. Damn – with this kind of zeal, Auberon could stand on tables and tell drunken war stories with the best of them. The thought made Jorah grin – maybe there was hope for this one yet.

As luck would have it, it seemed someone did answer the Lion’s call. The silence was eerie after Auberon’s speech, but soon, the rhythmic whump of heavy wingbeats swirled the fog around them, and out from the mist burst a wyvern, barrelling straight at them.

Jorah’s bewilderment at the sight slowed his reflexes; Euphemia shot first, but missed, throwing the wyvern into a spin. The redhead swung as well, clipping its leg. Jorah quickly composed himself and loosed an arrow of his own, taking advantage of the creature’s confusion and landing a shot to its centre of mass. The arrow buried deep into the unarmoured flesh under the wyvern’s wing, disabling the beast; it let out a spine-chilling shriek and tumbled into the fog, the sickening thud of flesh and bone on stone signaling its collision with a building.

Another arrow was nocked before Jorah even realized he’d done it, and though his eyes remained transfixed on the blurry silhouette of the beast he’d just felled, he was vaguely aware of talking behind him, much too calm to be appropriate for the situation. He whirled around, drawing as he went, fixing a sight picture on two bandits across the way – and Auberon in between.

“Auberon!”

---

The tension was palpable, the very air felt as though it were a string pulled taut with no intention of stopping. When it looked as though there would be no reply to his challenge, far-off wings answered. Any Galatea worth his salt would know they weren't from a pegasus, but the suspense didn't linger long regardless - the proverbial string snapped as soon as the wyvern burst through the fog, throwing the once-quiet scene into chaos. Auberon exploded into the beginnings of evasive action, but it proved unnecessary as the beast was promptly sent off-course by a flurry of attacks from his comrades.

Admittedly, that wasn't a development Auberon had expected or even considered. If they had the resources to field a wyvern, they certainly needed a larger support network than a single town. Should they bring such resources to bear against a mere class of young nobility, they could be overrun as soon as the heretics formed up properly.

His feet planted themselves again in preparation for another attack when his gaze was drawn by a voice that finally deigned to respond to his challenge - incorrectly, might he add. The entire farce collapsed with only a sentence. The cause of these heretics had sounded flimsy from the start, but to respond with such shameless greed suggested there was never any doctrinal dispute to begin with. He might've believed that the man was merely a mercenary hired by the apostates had the second bandit not been the spitting image of a dead man. The Church had been lured here deliberately for the same motive they'd been lured to Luin.

At first, Auberon briefly thought he was hallucinating. Unless the faithless all looked alike, that man had to be related to the bandit leader they'd felled, which suggested these were of the selfsame group. It took only a moment of deliberation for Auberon to realize he didn't care. All this connection meant to him now was that he had no reason to give quarter. Jorah's call went ignored - he evidently thought the blond was in trouble, but Auberon was of a decidedly different mind. Eyepatch had answered his challenge, which meant he would be afforded priority in the order of combat, as was custom, but a chance to make up for his mistakes in Luin was too good to pass up. He'd kill them both; surely there would be plenty more for the rest of the advance unit once the fighting drew reinforcements.

"You'll be able to ask the Goddess for a set in person in a moment," Auberon snarled, casting aside the honor of his proposed duel for raw aggression in the face of his opposition. Better to finish this quickly, lest he be tag-teamed by the honorless curs. He charged without hesitation, careful to keep both men in his field of view, and feinted a wide cut past the eyepatched bandit's chest. He pretended to overswing for only an instant before righting his axe and thrusting the spike at the top toward the man's blind side. From there, he rocked his weight backward and circled away, hoping to keep Eyepatch between himself and the Luin lookalike before they had a chance to react or take an advantageous formation.

---

---

He was going to throw up.

They all wrote him off like a worrisome craven, drowning out his very valid points with nonsense sermons and uninspired speechcraft that took a few too many lines from an Imperial Palace tutor. Funny how they didn't have any more ecclesiastical words of wisdom when the world around them erupted into flame. Rudolf flinched, partially from the brightness and partially from the shock, though when he opened his eyes again, he wished he hadn't. The ground was littered with a veritable sea of discarded arrows, charred from the magical onslaught and left to fall after Kaira's barrier no longer stood to support them. Yet even that sight was preferrable to looking skyward; the fog had briefly cleared, likely by virtue of the howling gale he'd heard conjured while his eyes were clenched shut, revealing the full might of their opposition.

It was - somehow - worse than Rudolf feared. He was promised a ramshackle band of upstart ideologues, not a well-rounded enemy force. If they tried to retreat from the mostly-stationary mages, they'd be outmaneuvered by the pegasi. They couldn't simply push through the enemy lines since they were at a disadvantageous elevation and the mages would cook them alive while they made for the rooftops, to say nothing of any ground-based reinforcements that hadn't revealed themselves yet. Beyond that, the tactical side of his brain refused to cooperate. It was drowned beneath an overwhelming flood of anxiety, a twisting in his stomach and instinctive panic in his mind that supplied no logical plan, no brilliant means of escape; not even animalistic fervor to lash out mindlessly at the threat. Only the petulant desires of a child - Rudolf simply wanted to be anywhere but here. He didn't care how. He didn't care if it was possible. He wanted out. The fog rolled back in preternaturally quick, all but confirming it wasn't natural weather, and Rudolf knew the choice he had to make. He'd run, leave the Crown Prince for dead and be stripped of all his future titles for bringing such monumental shame to House Bergliez in doing so. An elegant solution to all his problems, delivered to him on a silver platter; he got to live and shirk all of his responsibilities for the mere cost of his pride and a handful of human lives. How ironic that the bitter calculus of war in which he'd been taught would become such a boon in avoiding any relation to conflict for the rest of his life here. All the more proof that the circumstances of his birth had damned him from the start; a general needed the unwavering resolution of Saint Cichol, not the blood of duplicitious Noa.

Yet as Rudolf looked around for his avenue of escape, he couldn't follow through. Callan or Kyle or whatever his name was looked just about how the crimson-eyed boy felt. The same primal terror that gripped Rudolf likely found similar purchase inside the Faerghian's head, yet his wish would be denied by the same divine providence that would grant Rudolf's; the privilege of not having been born invisible to the world. From the comfort of safety, detached from the realities of a life and death situation, Rudolf would've bitterly laughed at the idea of his miserable Crest finally paying dividends on his suffering while those that had endlessly ignored him were punished. But in the moment, there wasn't any satisfaction. His heart ached for his classmates, even Veronica. His father once said a general sought victory because it was his duty; a duty to himself to strive for glory, a duty to his liege to provide spoils and service, and a duty to his men to see as many of them home at the end of the campaign as he could. Rudolf was no general, had no appetite for glory and no liege he cared to gratify, but that last duty weighed on him all the same.

Rudolf finally started thinking again when the swords cut through the mist. Five mages and two archers could make short work of pegasi, and the footsoldiers relied on the fog to retreat into. The heretic mages were the backbone of their formation. Since torching the town and forcing the rooftop mages to come down likely wasn't an option, his only other recourse was go up there. With the people that wanted to kill him. Alone.

"I'll- I'll be back," Rudolf breathlessly muttered, more to himself than anyone around him. He would be back.

Rather than dwell on what he planned to do, the boy slipped away into the fog. None of the charging swordsmen spared him a passing glance in the conflict, fleeting shadow that he was, though he hugged the wall of the nearest building for good measure as he advanced further past the enemy lines. Once in position, Rudolf hesitated a moment to ensure no pursuers would shamble out of the mist after him, then hefted himself atop a nearby barrel. From there, he warily stood, mindful of his balance, and grabbed onto the eave of the roof. Now came the hard part - actually getting himself up. Biting down on his lip for dear life to silence any grunts of exertion that might give him away, the dark-haired boy managed to pull himself up enough to see over the edge. His quarry stood overlooking the battle below as he had when Rudolf last saw him, utterly oblivious to the intruder in his midst. His hand extended of its own volition, magic numbing his fingertips for the briefest of moments before he limply withdrew his arm.

A more confident mage would've taken the shot. His enemy had been caught unaware and his escape was already in sight - simply drop off the roof and run. But whatever warrior might've been buried within him was drowned out by the cacophany of things that could go wrong. the heretic was a stronger mage, he could have a ward up for just such a contingency, the spell might fail, Rudolf might miss, the heretic could get lucky and duck at just the right moment. Rudolf's body felt less and less his own with each thought as he worked himself into a riskier and riskier situation by climbing fully up onto the roof. A hand wrapped around the hilt of his shortsword, more numb now than it had been when his fingers thrummed with dark magic just moments prior. It cleared the scabbard meticulously, noiselessly. The edges of his vision grew dim; everything faded into the fog except the unguarded back of the man in front of him. Rudolf braced his hand at the base of the pommel and thrusted with all his weight.

The comfortably uncomfortable dissociation spiraled back to lucidity in that moment. A yelp of agony. Something wet landed on him. The sword slipped from his shaking fingers as the body fell, still embedded in the mage's ribs. The half-digested remains of his breakfast forced itself up his throat and cleared his lips in one heave before Rudolf's legs gave out from under him and he collapsed to his knees. Terrified tears pooled at the corners of his eyes just as blood pooled underneath him, but the wetness of the tears just felt like more blood and he needed to move his head to look at his surroundings and not at the blood but it was all his trembling arms could do to keep him from dropping face first into the blood and he just wanted to go home where there wasn't any blood.

To an observer, it was a sorry sight; a boy, black robes newly stained scarlet, knelt in a pool of bodily fluids and hacking up another spurt of bile rather than rejoining the fight. He was easy prey, not that Rudolf even registered such, or anything outside his own head at the moment.

---

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Clarissa’s confidence was never a charade and she was quickly proved correct as the Professors’ experience brought a shield up against a barrage that would have caught the rest of them unaware and unprepared. She moved past the moment―no need to dwell on a situation dealt with―and she eyed their enemies critically as Professor Malathice cleared the fog momentarily. It wasn’t a pretty sight, the enemy neatly tucked out of range of most of their forces, but Clarissa wouldn’t dwell on the sharp disadvantage they found themselves at. There were still villagers who needed help and any wavering of their conviction could spell their deaths.

"The Goddess has placed us here together, Kellen. Keep your faith in us as you would her, and we will not fail you." Clarissa offered Kellen before returning to consider their situation.

The mages and pegusi were firmly out of her magic’s reach at the moment so they were deprioritized, a threat to keep in mind and be ready to react to but nothing more, and instead focused on the foot soldiers taking shots at them from the frontlines. Kayden moved first and, despite her fears, quickly dispatched one without overextending himself. She was glad to see he wasn't foolhardy enough to charge off into the fog; hopefully, that would translate into a visible battlefield.

Albrecht stepped forward to deal with the next enemy and Clarissa kept her healing runes in the forefront of her mind. However, it seemed unnecessary as the newcomer handled his opponent with a skill and experience that Clarissa found herself admiring. Perhaps he'd been a willing sparring partner, though he clearly outclassed her in skill. A thought for another time when magic wasn't flying at their archers and they weren't fighting halfway to blind.

Clarissa cast around for their unit, and realized quickly they were down someone. A dull recognition of him saying something and then slipping away flashed in front of her eyes and she swore under her breath. Of all the people she was concerned about, he was as low on the list as she could imagine. How dare this excuse of a man complain about being here and then wander off to disappear or die while they scrambled to keep themselves in position and protected? Goddess help him. Ruldoph was getting a stern lecture when she got her hands on him.

"Does anyone have eyes on Rudolph?" She asked, straining to see into the mist but she couldn't find him with just a quick scan. She couldn't afford anything more with the pressing danger of swords at their throats and she turned to face the nearest silhouette in the fog, the frustration at their missing mage redirected towards a more convenient target.

"Repent your ways in the name of the Goddess. There is still hope for your soul. Lower your blade and stand aside. Allow us to save those you've captured and put in harm's way, offer yourself to judgement, and you may find mercy at the Goddess's feet." Clarissa demanded, the runes of Nosferatu glowing golden in front of her. "Or stand your ground so I may render judgement on your flesh and send your blackened soul to burn."

She took the bandits silence as answer enough and sent her spell flying in a blaze of holy indignation. They stumbled as her spell burst up, the flash of pain pulling a yelp from them, but she clicked her tongue in irritation and snatched the lingering magic in the air, weaving it into another pulse, and sent him flying back into the fog.