Farren's nails dug into the desk before her, shoulders bunching beneath the shocked gazes of her friends. In his gilded chair, Royal Sorcerer Marches sipped wine from an etched goblet, a deep furrow between his pale brows.

"So your powers..." Rendarr trailed off.

"All because of the deal. I'm a resistant because deal made me so," said Farren, eyes lowered. "Every strike I make, it delivers the force of two. Me and the...soul." Dresius Silverhaart, she wished to say, yet stopped herself.

Xenro had chosen not to reveal his true identity and to remain as an ordinary mercenary among the company. She'd seen the proud glint in his eyes when he'd marched with them, how genuinely happy he was to simply...belong.

Be there a war on the horizon, be there enemies beyond the walls and enemies within, the God was at peace after a life of turmoil, after centuries of imprisonment.

Letting the world know that she, by ways of the most notorious of deities, had her soul fused with the mortal lover of the Nameless One was a good way to destroy that peace and possibly anger the entire horde of Captain Walric's battlemages.

In the end, some stories weren't hers to tell.

"I'm sorry," she now told them all, before they could bludgeon her with some well-deserved words. Farren was prepared for the harshest of punishments.

"What are you sorry for?" snapped Rendarr, a sound alien to her ears.

"One could write a book on that," said Farren with a nervous grin. "But to answer your question: my burdensome existence in general."

She laughed, trying to diffuse the wall of tension in her own way. Rendarr did not return the smile. None of them did, which was rather dull.

Clearly, no one had a sense of humor.

"It's things like this that make me want to punch you in the face, you know that?" Rendarr said, his expression dark. "Not everything is a joke."

"By the Gods, do it. Smack some sense into this reckless maniac." Gray slapped a hand to his forehead.

This was exactly what she'd been dreading when Marches urged her to tell the truth. All the things she'd kept neatly tucked away in a corner of her mind and pretended they didn't exist, now she was forced to look them in the eye.

Lying was always easier. All this confrontation was doing her no good. The Royal Sorcerer was panicking royally beneath his calm composure--already having downed an entire bottle of wine--still on about the deal and its withdrawal, while others were either fuming, and as for Linder and Klo, frozen into an eerie silence Farren did not like the looks of.

"An immortal soul in a mortal body. You are a Vasaen by definition," said Linder, dark eyes boring into hers. He then looked away with a sigh. "No wonder you ran off so abruptly the night I brought the book."

Farren wished she was someplace else. She wished time would flow faster, so this conversation could be over with. Yet the clocks ticked ever so slowly. This hurt, like pulling apart bandages that stuck to an oozing wound. "Sorry," she said again, just so they would stop glaring.

"You better be!" Karles got to his feet, hands curled into fists. "Why didn't you ever tell me your training went this badly? Seven years, Farren. Seven years since you, Rendarr and Klo came to the camp, and I've--I've--looked out for all of you. Haven't I?"

He had. He cared for them like his siblings.

Yet what could the archer really do for a good-for-nothing recruit lagging behind in training? Everyone had given up. Audryn had tried and given up when she could not bear the pain that came with healing magic--let alone actual injuries. Even Lieutenant Evander, who had brought her here in the first place, realized soon enough what a disappointment she'd been and turned away, busying himself with work.

Farren just wasn't good enough, not strong and resilient enough--and there was no denying it. One desperate fight with a metal pipe meant nothing in the face of discipline, order and endurance.

"You do realize asking for help is an option?" said Karles, snapping her out of her trance. But she'd rather face angry friends rather than her own thoughts.

She heaved a great sigh, getting off her seat. "No one could help me," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Karles opened his mouth again, face livid, but this time Klo stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, her eyes fixed on Farren. Her expression remained stern as always.

"You're right," Klo told her.

Farren looked up, eyes blank.

"No one could help you, because you gave up on yourself long before Lieutenant Evander or Audryn did." She reached out, and took Farren's hands in her rough, calloused ones. A warrior's hands, yet their hold was ever so gentle.

Her eyes softened. "Although...it shouldn't have taken this discussion to realise. I should have seen it long past when you were getting wasted at the inn every night. I thought you just weren't trying hard enough, when in truth, you had given your best. I should have seen why you were obsessed with the idea of being useful. Even the agreement with Captain Walric to join forces with us--that was the sole reason."

The sergeant paused."You...didn't believe we would come for you unless you could offer something in return. You don't feel like you truly belong, so you settle for being useful."

The arcane instruments in the shelves above ticked and droned. A breeze cleared the clouds outside, letting the sunlight through.

The truth of her pain, veiled only thinly beneath a layer of laughter and jests at her own self, now lay bare. Farren felt rather exposed, yet much relieved at the same time. Klo gave her hands a gentle squeeze, saying a thousand words of reassurance without so much as parting her lips.

Her dark eyes shone, and Farren was reminded yet again why she fell for her all those years ago. When Klo found her, at her lowest, drunk and miserable beyond rational thoughts, of what use had Farren been to her? Yet she stayed. She stayed and held her hair back when she threw up, carried her back to the dorms and rebuked her for not taking care of herself. And she had never left her side since.

The screech of chair legs shifting against the floor. Boots clicking. A large shadow loomed over her. Farren glanced up to find Linder peering down through locks of wavy hair, a determined look about his face.

She gave a dry laugh, ready for all that was to come her way. "Fire away, then. Your turn."

"I believe you've had your fair share of scoldings," he said calmly. "For now."

He placed a hand on her shoulder and turned to Marches, who had placed his goblet down, seeming to come to a conclusion at last. "How do we fix this?" asked Linder.

"We," said Marches, "can't. A contract made with Atruer is between him and the concerned mortal only. It is Clearstrike who must willingly break the deal."

"Me?" asked Farren. "But Atruer said only another God can break it for me!"

The sorcerer shook his head with the air of someone who had heard that phrase countless times. "That's what he tries to convince people he makes deals with. Been handling cases like these for years, so trust me when I say this: only you hold the power to break out of his deals. Everything else he says can be cast aside as mere trickery."

Farren raised her hands to her chest, feeling the faint pulsation of the immortal soul somewhere deep within, two souls moving as one, two hearts, beating in sync. A lightness gripped her mind, looking at the faces around her; a feeling of relief, as though a festering wound had been drained at last. It stung still, but was poisonous no longer.

She had let it all out. She had told them the truth.

"What must I do?" she asked the Royal Sorcerer at last.

"Summon him the usual way," he said. "Then you force him to break the deal."

She slumped back down in her chair. "Sounds simple."

"Exactly," said Marches. "Go in with a strong resolve when you do this. He will threaten you, coerce you, manipulate you into thinking how much better it is to keep your deal."

Fear already coiled at the pit of her stomach, thinking what would happen to her without the deal. She forced herself to swing her focus back to what the sorcerer was saying.

"He will offer you even better, more tempting gifts--but keep in mind that it would all be a facade. That's how he finds his victims, when they're at their lowest and feeling dejected. Yet once you take away that power from him--your will-- Atruer is left unarmed. As for your case, the immortal soul cannot stay within a host that's not willing. You must bend that to your advantage."

Worried looks passed around the soldiers. She was in this alone.

"Can I at least--" began Rendarr.

"No," said Marches sternly. "Atruer's influence is not something to be taken lightly. It won't take him long to affect your mind as well." Then to Farren, "In this pursuit, none can aid you but yourself. Are we clear?"

They were.

"Everything that happens next, withdrawal and all-- I will endeavour to help you through it," said Marches with a note of finality.

Farren stared at him for a long moment. Then she grinned, her usual charming smile. "You're really considerate, you know that?"

"Er--thanks?" said Marches, trying to push back an exhilarated look with a professional coldness, then resorting to refill his goblet. "It's simply my job."

She chuckled. "Oh, you'll be surprised to find how many folk don't do their jobs."

✦✧✦✧

The time had come for the Silverhaarts to infiltrate the palace. Although infiltrate would've been a strong word, for it was where they belonged long before the Royal Guard came into play. Yet all that remained of their claim was a hall full of tapestries and portraits of old, of the previous leaders of the company, as Princess Lysandra told them.

She and the captain, after many a discussions, separated them in smaller units, some making their way in as stable hands and gardeners to spread along the ramparts and courtyards, others--the captain herself included, simply mixing in with the crowd, keeping watch from beyond the walls, blades and sorcery at the ready.

Only Hilda needed no disguise, waltzing right into the throne hall with her lute which apparently bested the shimmering steels of the guards. How she managed to sway the old king with a sea shanty, she smugly refused to tell--but if Lysandra's proud smile when she stepped out of the front gates and onto the drawbridge was any indication, the bard had proven more than satisfactory.

Now came Xenro's turn.

As for those entering directly into the palace, which included him and the Velan twins Bjorn and Gunvald, the safest place was the enormous royal kitchen, where a large delivery of baked goods was due.

"Been hopping from place to place all my life, been in disguise, but never seen anything quite like this," said Gunvald as the wagons wheeled to a halt near the bakery, ready to be loaded--with crates and mercenaries alike. "Her Highness... she's got it all sorted. I'm telling you, she has the eyes of the kings from the days of old, those who didn't bow to the whims of the Council."

Xenro let out a hum of agreement as they watched the carriages from the foyer. It was rather astounding how the people achieved such feats purely out of faith, be it a mere caravan guard becoming the leader of a company of battlemages, or a princess fighting her way out of the shackles of the Royal Guard dominating the rule for centuries.

Would that faith serve them in the end?

Edis' voice filled his head for the umpteenth time that day. The Apocalypse comes.

Earlier, he'd sensed a sorcerous presence once flicker into existence near the city gates--only for it to be lost again into oblivion when he ventured out to search. Guards were at their posts near the gate, a bit too vigilant even. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

There were countless users of magic in such a huge city. Were he to keep track of all of them, his own sorcery--what was left of it--would go haywire. Xenro brushed it off.

Dusk had begun to descend upon the rooftops when Xenro stepped out into the busy market street from their hideout above the bakery, accompanied by the twins. Rough wools, a shirt of coarse weave and hose had long replaced his armour and the dust-smeared grey cloak of Stormbringers, his hair pulled back with a strip of leather; he was but a simple workhand tasked with the job of delivering the goods. Despite trouble roiling in the air like the scent of an upcoming storm, the God smiled to himself.

He might have been sitting frozen for centuries, but he was living many a lives now that he'd found his...destiny. Eyes on the castle looming high over a cliff above the upper district, Xenro busied himself with the crates.

"Heave ho!" cried the Velan twins as they got to work as well.

A man walked up to him. Xenro turned, expecting to be handed another crate to be loaded into the carriage.

"Fancy seeing you here," said a familiar voice.

Xenro looked up to find brilliant, icy blue eyes beaming at him.

There, a mischievous smile stretched from ear to ear, hands on his hips, stood Finnian Clearstrike. His sleeves were rolled up to his strong arms, flowing chestnut hair covered with a white cloth and apron tied to his front. A smudge of flour dusted the tip of his nose.

Effortless charm seemed to run in the family. Xenro ended up staring longer than was appropriate. Finnian didn't seem to mind.

The similarity of the siblings was almost... frightening. He panicked a little, tearing his gaze away. "What--what are you doing here?"

Finnian looked almost shocked. "Why, doing my apprenticeship here of course!" He gestured to the bakery the mercenaries had been lodged in. "The samples I'd sent through the Olde Weasel's owner were accepted with utmost delight--no surprise there, really. And so here I am, working my way up to becoming the best baker in all Midaelia, right in the heart of the kingdom."

He then scanned his face and smirked. "I see you remain as clueless as the day you dropped from the heavens, my good sir. Dark magic still hasn't worn off?"

Xenro didn't like being all surprised and gaping. He gave him the smuggest look he could muster. "Long past," he said. "Speaking of cluelessness, I highly doubt you, Mr. Clearstrike, have any idea what truly goes on in the bakery."

"Oh?" Finnian gave him a sweet smile.

Xenro would not be bested by a mere mortal with flour smeared on his face."Do you know--"

"--That the owner is a spy working for Her Highness?" finished Finnian for him.

He gaped.

Finnian cocked his head to the side. "Who do you think made those drinks for you that night on Her Highness's order?"

The heavenly taste still lingered on his tongue.

"And to think, nobody except her thanked me for that wonderful treat. A shame," said Finnian with a dramatic sigh. He took off the white cloth from around his head and tucked it into the apron pocket, shaking out his wavy hair. "No matter. Tell you what, I've decided to name this drink--my first creation ever-- 'The Apocalypse'. Whaddya think? Got a bit of a historical touch, ain't it?"

Xenro had the most ridiculous vision of Rhilio sipping it while watching all Stormvale go down in flames and found himself grinning like a fool. "Splendid!"

Finnian gave him a cheery nod, before stepping up onto the driver's seat and taking the reins. "Hop right in," he said, stretching an arm toward Xenro. "Next stop, the royal kitchen. Let's not keep the princess waiting."

✦✧✦✧

Xenro had never seen anything quite like this place, simply because he hadn't had the occasion of stepping into the grand kitchens of a royal palace.

Yet here he was, an unassuming workhand among a flood of palace servants, workers and cooks, all bustling about preparing supper or getting supplies. He was rather glad that the princess had her spies all over the place, for otherwise it would not be too difficult for an enemy to sneak inside.

On his way in, he'd heard news of the murder taking place within the premises of the palace. The rumours of the killer getting in and slipping out unnoticed seemed to make sense, seeing how large the gathering within the castle walls truly was. It dwarfed the company which had seemed huge in the smaller hideout of Kinallen. The thought made him awfully aware of his sword hidden beneath the false bottom of the crate he carried.

The royal kitchen stood larger than the entire loft of the bakery, and twice as tall, walls lined with shelves upon shelves of jars of the rarest of spices, neatly stacked bundles of herbs and rows of barrels and kegs of mead. Long wooden tables crowded the floor, vegetables being chopped at one side, flour being kneaded on the other. Braids of garlic, slices of meat and smoked fish hung from the rafters.

Finnian walked with confident steps, and he seemed to know his way around here, even exchanging pleasantries with the head cook. It was he who tugged Xenro out of the kitchen, through the crowd and into the shadowy gardens before the entranced God could spend all day staring open-mouthed, marvelling at even the most mundane of mortal household activities.

"There!" said Finnian, once they were finally outside the back-door. "Stationed the Velan lads already, heard all I needed to hear. Now off you go."

Xenro felt a little glum. He wanted to see how the icing was spread on top of a large cake. But before him lay his duties, and a long journey to make to the northern Autumnwind plains. He squared his shoulders. Now was his chance to seek Farren out.

"Ah, another thing." Finnian handed him a big muffin, wrapped in paper. "Find my sister and give this to her, will you? Heard she's here--and a lot of other things that idiot's been up to. I can't tarry about around here too long. But you can--captain's orders and all, yes?"

Mortals often regarded desserts as a solution to a plethora of life's problems, a way of coping he'd come to agree with-- but Xenro did not see how exactly it would help Farren's case. He took it anyway.

"Hail the Nameless One!" said Finnian with a cheeky salute. The column of gold firelight receded as the back doors creaked shut, leaving Xenro in the darkening gloom of the lush rosebushes. Next followed a rather daring game of dodge, where he scoured the gardens in search of Farren, all the while avoiding patrols of Royal Guards and asking servants for directions.

He found her at last. Somehow he always did.

✦✧✦✧

The last ruddy rays of the dying sun glinted in the splashing fountain. On a stone bench nearby, shaded by a overhanging branch adorned with ivy, there sat Farren alone, unarmed and hands folded in her lap, the quietest he'd ever seen her be. She did not look up when he sat down by her side, setting aside the crate with a dull thump and a clatter of his sword within. They sat in a comfortable silence for some time before she spoke.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" she asked. "Destiny and all that, aye?"

Xenro smiled. "That, and by asking around where I could find a certain redhead sulking about. And here she is."

Farren did not laugh like he'd thought, nor did she flash that dimpled, devilish smile he so loved. She was solemn, the most serious he'd ever seen her be.

The true purpose of this meeting may have begun to slip from his distracted mind, but Farren's was taut like a bowstring.

"I've decided to break the deal with Lord Atruer," she said without preamble.

His train of thoughts came to a screeching halt.

Farren grimaced at his silence. "I do believe I owe you an explanation. And an apology--if you'll have it."

And for the first time, she was not joking. She told him everything and left out not a detail, beginning from the dusty training ground of the camp to the dank cavern behind the waterfall, and the argument about the Chosen Warriors that had followed. As the story unfolded bit by bit, pieces fell into place within his mind, a tale of old connected to the moment today, an ancient soul merged with a young one.

From the way the two had spoken back in the woods, he'd suspected she, like many mortals, had some sort of agreement with Atruer. Yet he did not think it was because of her deal that she had Dresius' soul within her.

She drew her cloak about herself, shrinking back with an anguished look about her eyes, as if to say, you are free to hate me. "Would you accept my apology, Lord Xenro?"

The undercurrent of suspicion, mistrust and confusion in him seemed to fizzle out. He had no need for an apology, only the honest truth.

She'd been a soldier who desperately wanted to be strong, and did whatever it took to achieve it, not knowing it would doom her life and another soul. He'd been an exiled God who wished to see his beloved one last time, and so yearned for a mortal simply because a fraction of him was still left within her.

In such a tale, who is to apologise to whom?

"No need," he said. "Except for the things you said about the Chosen Warriors--you were being a bit of an arse, I must admit-- but other than that, you do not have to apologise."

Farren gave him a quizzical look. "Are you mad at me or not?"

"I am simply glad you chose to come clean," said Xenro. "I know it must not have been easy. Do the others know?"

Farren gave him a quiet nod.

He got to his feet, stretched, and offered her his hand. "The ordeal is done, then. Break the deal and let this all go. You no longer need to carry around a burden in you anymore. Opening up does feel good after all, does it not?"

"Truly it does," she said, and took his hand, letting him hoist her up to her feet. "Like a long breath after being underwater--only that I was underwater for seven whole years."

Bells rang in distant temples. The sun had set some time ago, but Farren glowed with a whole new light even the falling dusk failed to dull. It filled Xenro with a renewed energy. She had let go her burden, set it adrift to sail far away.

Now was his turn to let go of the past.

✦✧✦✧

"Let us summon that nasty old fellow, shall we?" said Xenro.

"Right now?" asked Farren. "But the Royal Sorcerer says I have to do it alone."

"Indeed, that part is up to you, but my interests are involved in this, as are yours. Besides, you know how difficult he can be. Two is always better than one. And what better place than this shadowy nook?"

Truly enough, the gardens around them were quiet. Beyond it was a hedge maze, and the north wing of the palace behind that. And dealings with the Lord of Despair were better done in dark.

Farren looked hesitant still. "Wouldn't he try to spread his influence on you as well?"

He could. But Xenro needed to get this over with anyhow. He inhaled deeply. "He has no leverage upon me. Worry only for yourself."

Pursing her lips, she reached into her cloak and took out a dagger covered in a leather sheath. "Here goes. Gods, I hate this part. You gotta please him with your pain first."

Xenro groaned. "Does emotional turmoil not count? Ours combined?"

"I'm afraid it has to be physical. And from the one who holds the contract."

Xenro was not prepared for the shock when she unsheathed the blade and pressed it to her thumb.

It was the dagger he'd given to Dresius, a last gift before the war. Waves of fate had tossed it back to where it belonged.

"What?" she said as she caught him gazing.

He'd no intention to burden her more. The next moment, like the strike of lightning another realization occurred to him.

No.

"Wait!" He rushed forward, grabbing at the dagger. "Using a Sacred Blade when you yourself are a Vasaen! Could you have made a worse choice?"

He was too late. She'd already made a thin slash across her finger, blood trickling out in crimson beads. Before Farren could utter another word, she keeled over with a groan. The very air around her seemed to blur and swirl, as it did above a roaring flame. Celestial sorcery coiled in the air, rising right from where the cut had been made on her skin.

Such was the power of a Sacred Blade. It struck the sorcery binding immortal souls to mortal bodies, aiming to shatter it. The small cut had shaken Farren whole.

She panted, regarding the dagger with wide eyes. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"No!" Xenro did not like where her thoughts were headed.

"If Atruer doesn't let go...I could cut myself out of the deal with this, couldn't I?"

Before Xenro could elaborate why stabbing herself was, by all means, a terrible idea, a harsh wind rose, whistling through boughs and leaves, shaking the hedges.

Darkness spread, blotting out the stars above. An empty, hopeless feeling engulfed him, as though he'd never live to see the next sunrise. Eyes narrowing, the God looked at its source.

A dark, hooded figure materialized from a wisp of black smoke, seated leisurely at the edge of the fountain.

The wave of pain seemed to have passed, for Farren propped herself on her knees and looked up at the dark figure.

A pale hand, black talons in place of nails, rose out of black robes, clutching a glass goblet of a tyrian drink.

"A toast, mortal," said Atruer, "to your good health. Your pain has appeased me greatly."

He looked at her down his nose, face twisted in crooked delight. "Ah, all those fights, trickery and manipulation--all those grand shows you put up not to let me have a taste of your sufferings. And look at you now, kneeling on the dust before me in submission at last, like all mortals do. Even Gods." Atruer spared him a fleeting glance before turning back to Farren. "Tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

She wiped the blood off her hand, pushed herself off the ground, and staggered to her feet. "I've asked this of you this before, and I'll say this again. I want out of this deal. Now."

"Oh, you dear, dear mortal." Atruer tilted his head, razor sharp teeth bared in a smile. "You are adorable."