Nyxis had spent the night working his ass off in the infirmary. His hands ached from crushing balwort leaf after balwort leaf to brew the necessary potions for the next day. Healers fluttered around him as the morning heat bore down at them.

Sweat poured at his back and dotted his forehead before spilling down to his chin in small droplets. His legs had turned stiff hours ago from standing too long and running around the inner quadrant to check on anyone who might need his help.

He hadn't slept at all. He wasn't even sure if he had eaten or not. Since the real battle started days ago, he couldn't remember the last time he relieved himself or closed his weary eyes to steal a few minutes of rest.

There was simply no time to do those things, not when there were so many who needed him to keep their own lives.

They rescued anyone, either from their own or from the enemy. Those he managed to save either chose to sit the war out inside the fortress or were now fighting on the front lines against their previous employer. Those who refused to ally with them either spent their time in the makeshift prison or worse, in the Land of Wonders.

This time in the morning, Nyxis rushed to the stocks to retrieve their supply of elany leaves. There seemed to be a large demand for the perennial shrub which Nyxis used to heal wounds made from flintlock bullets. They had run out of it in the inner quadrant so Nyxis had to dash to the center quadrant to fetch a jar that should make them another batch of a hundred vials.

He was just coming out of the center quadrant, holding the clay jar of frozen elany leaves, when his world sharpened, accompanied by a sharp pang spearing through his head. He fell against the gate, bracing his arm on the stable wood as his breathing turned ragged. Pain speared through his stomach that made him gag. What's going on? Was this because he hasn't slept for so long?

Nyxis gritted his teeth. This was not the time to collapse. His patients needed him. He pushed forward, fighting through his pulsing vision and his constricting chest. He made it to the infirmary and heard the commotion. Did someone die without him?

The pain in his head increased. The pit in his stomach deepened. Oh, gods...

"Nyxis!" one of the healers called urgently. Hands grasped his arm to steady him. "Denara is—"

Nyxis hurtled forward at the mention of her name. What happened to her?

He saw the center of the commotion. The jar slipped from his grasp. He didn't hear it slam into the dark earth as he surged towards the messenger frequenting the infirmary. On his arms lay a bloodied fairy he hasn't counted on seeing here. Denara...

Chest aching and tears flowing, Nyxis clawed his way towards the messenger. Some healers told him to stand down but their words were jumbled in his ears. He forced himself to examine Denara with a doctor's eye but his mind screamed one thing over and over. Death. Death. Death.

This wasn't—

"Nyxis, we'll take care of it," Adfiel, one of the healers, put a hand upon his shoulder.

Nyxis wiped at the tears streaming from his eyes and blew a ragged breath. "I can do it," he rasped. "I will heal her."

The healers could only nod and did their best to disperse to their own jobs. Nyxis wrestled his gaze back to Denara. The healers laid her in a sheet of white linen. By now, it had turned dark red as it absorbed blood. Denara's blood...

He had brought her here. This was his fault. He shouldn't have brought her out of that cave, He should have been out there with her. This was all his fault.

Hands shaking, Nyxis laid his forehead atop Denara's and steeled himself for the arduous process ahead. I will save you, Denara. He promised to the heavens and to himself. If it's the last thing I do.

Hold on. Please.

The fall of the veteran soldier in the ranks diminished the front lines like an avalanche. Rhys watched Penleth soldiers lower their swords and quieten their spells as Denara slammed into the ground, earning the battlefield a few seconds of respite as everyone digested what had just happened.

Rhys knew enough. Something happened in the skies. He heard the explosions. He felt the reverberations of the spells shaking the heavens.

Then, the front flank began breaking. Geradine leaped in to help some time ago but the enemies brought out more artillery and forged a path of bloodshed, aiming for the gates of Penleth.

More fairies stumbled and almost none managed to get up and fight again. Messengers dressed in bright red robes ran everywhere, bringing wounded soldiers inside the gates. Some made it while most...didn't, felled by flintlocks, speared by spells, or maimed by daggers.

It couldn't continue like this. Rhys has to do something.

He flapped his wings to rise. Reeca's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. "Where are you going?" she demanded. Around them, the enemy broke through the two-fortwere line. The marksmen began firing but looking at the mass of at least a thousand black-clad people running towards the outer quadrant's gates, it's not enough. They're going to be overwhelmed soon.

He looked at his sister and a small blossom of pride grew at the well of his heart. "Where I'm needed," he touched her cheek. "See you later."

Before Reeca could react, Rhys turned and flew up. He dashed for the gates. The gatekeeper, an air sprite named Syl, slumped against the lock mechanism, a harpoon buried into his neck. Dark blood painted the ground and the wooden gate in ugly strokes and splatters.

Rhys forced the disgust and the grief out of his system and instead focused on the anger. Yes, he has a right to be angry in times like this. Anger would keep him going. Anger was good. He flew past the battlements and landed on his feet by the gates. He extended his arms and splayed his fingers, calling forth his weaving magic. With no gatekeeper, the mechanisms would open to just anyone, unless Rhys changed it.

His weaving energy wrapped on the wood and he kept at it. The marksmen shouted at each other as they reloaded their crossbows, again and again. The mass of soldiers storming the fortress didn't let up.

Rhys concentrated on the gates and focused his magic there, strengthening the wood more than it's capable of. He couldn't let them make it to the outer quadrant. It's all over for Penleth if that happened. Where was the aerial cavalry?

Suddenly, the marksmen from the battlements gave a surprised cry. Blood rained down on Rhys. No...

There was a single, hooded figure running on the battlements. Rhys narrowed his eyes to see the figure's green eyes. He studied the lithe and graceful movements. Blond hair crept out from underneath the hood.

Marin Draswist. An assassin skilled with the dwarven metal dagger. Not now...

Rhys called forth more of his magic to wrap on the gates. Elred and Geradine landed beside Rhys and watched Marin slaughter the marksmen by the battlements.

Elred called her glass sword into existence. "I'll handle her."

"Please," Geradine's voice was clipped. "Rhys, can you continue holding the door? We caught ourselves in a trap outside. Make sure not one enemy manages to slip through until the sun sets, alright?"

Rhys tried replying but his tongue had already turned heavy. Instead, he nodded. The ice sprite dashed off with a flap of her mighty wings. He continued forcing his magic into the gates. The island wrestled with him for magic. His chest tightened; his muscles lost all feeling. How had he been standing here? He wasn't sure if the sun had already gone down. Was it already time to stop?

Some time later, the pounding started. Rhys's hold on the gates slipped, little by little. Enemies were ganging up on the gates. He would not allow that. Roaring, he ran towards the gates, summoned the last of his magic, and slammed his hands on the wood. It worked...at least until a sword pierced through the gate and speared Rhys straight into the chest.

For the first few seconds, he just stood there, surprised. It wasn't even painful. It was just...hot. The metal burned through his skin, his flesh, and his soul. No... no enemy would make it past these gates. Not while Rhys was here.

Rhys screamed against the pain and fortified the gates. No enemy would make it past him. He screamed until his voice cut off and until every last drop of his blood drained from his body. He didn't know how long he was standing, how long he was holding the door.

Someone drew a flintlock and fired a bullet at his head. He didn't feel himself fall to the ground. In fact, he didn't feel anything. Just....cold.

Someone was screaming. Was it him?

He summoned his magic but nothing came. Just cold...

Reeca.

He promised her he would see her later. He still hasn't told her... not yet.

Rhys spent the last of his energy raising his hand to the sky. His last view. How ironic. It's something he never quite reached despite having wings. He smiled. It was a battle well-fought. Too bad he wouldn't see the end of it. Rhys exploded into an infinite number of butterflies, each flying off to wherever his soul desired.