The fair-haired warrior slew many before he yielded to fatigue rather than fear.

He wielded a strange sword; translucent blade and emblazoned with streaks of green. It cut effortlessly through Pertheran's undead brethren.

Finally, a blade to end my misery.

He almost let out a wail when the great sword became chipped and dulled and nicked in battle, and eventually broke in two in the stranger's hands, when wave after wave of guards came flooding from either side of the passage, an unfair war where there was no chance for win. General Reylan took no loss, for the dead could be raised just as easily they were felled.

And so manacles cuffed his hands in the end, much like Pertheran's own.

He watched it all in a blur of sounds and motion, the studded boot of the general pressing the weight of the world on his chest. The crossbow wound he had taken had healed long since, the chains retreated once General Reylan was certain that no more resistance would come from this wretched traitor.

He wanted...release. To be set free from this agonizing existence.

But what mercy could he possibly expect from a noose of rope when swords failed to wound his flesh?

Gazing down at him, the general offered a gentle smile. "After today, Perth, I hope you'll learn to appreciate the value of the life you've been given."

Hanging down from the gallows would not kill him, no. He would choke and struggle, feel his neck snap and...heal again, in an infinite cycle of pain until his master would decide he'd had enough.

✦✧✦✧

Dawn tinged the sky a murky grey, fading to a pallid yellow to the east. A sprinkle of stars still shone glumly in the wake of day. Or perhaps nature appeared differently to the man standing at the gallows, feet in fetters, the portal between life and death dangling before his eyes from a rope.

"You are all proper noble fools," said Pertheran, eyes on the eager townspeople gathered below. The rest of the city bustled, alive with colors and song. "And insane, too."

"I know," said his companion.

Now Perth turned to take a moment to take a better look at him.

Black and purple bruises sullied his visage, one eye swollen, blood congealed on his split lips, still he looked awfully calm for someone about to be executed. He gazed ahead, not down at the jeering crowd, but above their heads and beyond the walls at the rising sun.

The gallows had a grand view of the city.

Above the excited murmur a monotone voice droned on, some official declaring their sins to the people for which they were to be condemned.

"Should have saved yourself when you had the chance," said Pertheran. "But you stayed back for me. Hell, I'm already dead!"

"Exactly. You being practically dead makes things a lot easier," he replied.

"Pardon?" Pertheran wondered if he should be offended.

"Being summoned means travelling through Celestial Realms. And that, my friend, requires an immortal soul, meaning I cannot take a mortal with me on that journey. But you, I can take along." He smiled, its light far outshining the wounds of his face. "Brace yourself, we are getting out of here."

Pertheran chuckled, and chose to entertain the mad ramblings of his companion, who had surely lost his grip on sanity from the fear of impending death. "In a way, we are. Who is summoning us, I wonder? Draedona herself?"

He shook his head. "Not her. Another friend."

Implying he was friends with Death. Yes, this fellow is done for.

"And you trust that friend with a noose around your neck?"

"Dagger to my throat and poison filled in my cup, yes," he said.

"Odd preferences, but to each their own, I guess," said Pertheran.

Then came the moment. Guards marched up, black bags in their hands and rope to tie their wrists. But as they made to tie up the two, the stranger stopped them, a kind smile gracing his lips. "I am allowed one last wish, am I not? Foreigner though I may be to your land."

A scornful buzz arose from the public, clearly disgruntled by the interruption in their morbid entertainment.

The Drisian officer glared at him. "Out with it, then. Quick!"

He looked at Pertheran as he spoke. "I wish to embrace my companion. We are up on the gallows together. Does that not make us brothers in death?"

From below the dais, the general watched them intently.

Pertheran did not understand such doings at all, but found no reason to refuse. Yet he felt as he stepped closer, a faint shivering about them, like trembling air over a blazing fire.

Something was not...right.

General Reylan's shout rose above all clamor. "Get him! The bastard's doing sorcery!"

At that command, many hands reached out, clawing to grab hold of them.

None of the harsh blows landed on Pertheran. Strong arms wrapped around him like a shield, taking all the hits. The sensation was the most absurd, for he'd forgotten what a gentle touch felt like. He was encased in the warmth of a summer's breeze, and even though he was fated to be doomed, at that moment he felt safe.

This was when Pertheran knew his companion was no ordinary human.

Next, the scene of the gallows, the screaming face of the general, the raging mob faded, and his brother in death was leading him through a surreal realm. Many visions flitted through his line of sight-- of the volcanic plains of Draedona's realm, of a city engulfed in war and ruin, of bleak, snowy tundras-- until their feet landed on what appeared to be solid earth.

Except it was not earth, but planks of wood. And they moved. Very fast.

He was on board a cart loaded with Midaelian soldiers and firecrackers.

Meanwhile back at the gallows, collective cries of surprise and horror rent the pale dawn.

The two prisoners had simply vanished into thin air.

✦✧✦✧

Farren did not open her eyes until the whole squad hollered in surprise and the cart lurched forward from the sudden force of two figures materializing seemingly out of nowhere. She'd taken the ring off, and it was now clutched tightly in her fist, burning hot. Her head hurt from the work of trying to turn her thoughts into sorcery, mind numb from repeated visualizing of the same face over and over, and when it did not seem to work at first, all she could picture were two bodies hanging limply from the gallows.

It's not everyday that one summons a God to save them from a public execution, for heaven's sake!

"What the hell did you just do?" said Rendarr. "What sort of illegal sorcerous clusterfuck was that?"

"No idea, but I think that warrants a raise," said Klo, currently driving the cart. "If we get out of this in one piece, that is."

"Calm down, everyone," said Gray in a know-it-all drawl. "Seems to me just some sort of space manipulation. Nothing special."

Farren had no time to explain all that.

She opened her squinted eyes to see nothing but a blur at first. Then her vision came to focus, and right before her on the carriage floor stood the astonished figures of Xenro and the Drisian prisoner.

"I--" began Xenro.

"Summon me with this, whenever you find yourself in mortal danger, so you said, acting all high and mighty!" The brightest smile lit her face as she whispered, grasping the front of his tunic. "Turned that on its head, didn't I?"

"To be honest, it was my idea in the first place, but sure," said Xenro. He raised his hand to his heart, which no doubt still thumped heavily. "I thank you once again."

Farren had half a mind to throw her arms around him and curse and rebuke him for the sheer audacity of trying to get them out at the cost of his life-- and she certainly would have, but a terrible bump on the road brought her back to reality. They were upon a horse-drawn cart, thundering through a celebrating city, still within the walls of the enemy.

Looking back, Farren could see no guards following yet, hopefully still too stunned to react. Even if they were in pursuit, the chaos of the festivities would serve as a strong enough buffer.

"Gods, I sure love Spring Fest!" she cried.

"Hold on tight, people!" said Klo and flung the reins with a cry. The cart swerved a sharp right, and broke through a crowded marketplace-- already packed to the brim for the fair.

And next, they were up in the air, horses and all. The cart took a great leap from a higher lane and thudded down to the main street.

From a side lane on their left, Captain Walric rode out with her folk, with a host of spare horses in tow-- those which they had left in the stables before breaking into the palace.

The rhythmic jolt of the horse's hooves to the streets, the wheels drawing sparks as they descended on the cobbles, the alarmed shouts of common folk as they dodged to give way flooded her senses, and all she could see as the tall, looming gates of Glasswolf city-- through which they had sauntered in merely a night ago, and which was to be their route of escape.

And where to then?

Farren did not know. But with everyone back together, they would figure something out. They always did.

But the city gate had begun to close.

Drisian soldiers marched high up on the walls, some manning the gate. Chains and gears groaned as the heavy gridwork of metal began descending.

"How on earth did they get to us so fast?" Rendarr said, grabbing hold of the side of the cart.

His question was answered almost immediately, when from the opposite street, burst a convoy of prison guards, Emric in the lead-- a cold gleam in his eyes, his calm exterior unwavered.

"Because it's their city, not ours. There're likely shortcuts we wouldn't know of from a day's stroll," said Klo, reaching out her hand from the driver's seat. "Now light up a fire for me, will you?"

Rendarr gave her a puzzled look. "Like, figuratively?"

"Sweet Mother, you're daft," said Gray, and tossed him a bundle of sticks and a tinderbox. "'Tis time for our backup plan. Either our dear sergeant is getting our arses out of here, or blowing us all sky-high."

"I see that as a win-win," said the morose Drisian prisoner.

They picked up speed.

So did Emric.

The chains fell faster, the square of light visible through the gate thinning to a slit. Arrows came wheezing, striking the cart, hitting the wheels, and one tearing through the feathers above Klo's helm.

Now she got to her feet, as though that one arrow had irked her into action.

She seized a lit torch and thrust it into the crate of fireworks. The flame caught immediately, burning up the wood panels before getting to the explosives inside.

"Happy Spring Fest, fools!" she cried.

With her gauntleted hands, she hoisted the flaming crate over her head-- and flung.

The cart sped forward with a rattle from the abrupt loss of weight, and the box of fireworks went crashing at the troop of guards, blazing up in a flurry of fire and colors and deafening booms.

The chains fell limp, the giant city gate thudded to the ground.

They were out of Glasswolf at last.

The guards posted outside the gate now came after them. But before they could arouse much alarm among the company, Captain Walric came level with the cart, speaking words of assurance. "Fear not," she said. "We've dealt with them."

"How, exactly?" asked Farren.

"See for yourself."

They heard it before they saw; pained cries of the Drisians as they crashed to the ground soon as they mounted their horses and spurred them into motion.

The horse gears were coming apart in their hands, reins slashed, saddles upturned and bridles torn. The equipment had all been sabotaged, only enough to give the illusion of normalcy, but falling apart when they tried to ride.

"Surprising what a few pairs of garden shears can achieve, eh?" said Captain Walric, looking at the tumbling soldiers with judgement written all over her face. "Didn't even need to draw my magic to deal with these weaklings."

Everyone in the cart cheered, but Xenro looked back the walls with squinted eyes. "But, Captain," he said, "what have you done to deal with...those?"

The Drisian soldiers were loading up firemounts upon the walls, their pipe-like snouts aimed at them.

The captain's smile froze at that. "I have a strategy for that too!" she cried.

"And that is--?"

Captain Walric spurred her horse hard, and the beast shrieked, charging into a mighty gallop. "It's called: run!"

And run, they did, throwing away all excess weight that they could.

✦✧✦✧

"You all would regret having come for me, if you knew what I have done."

Such were the first words Commander Karyk uttered, sitting with his knees drawn to his chest at the back of the carriage, as they slowed to choose the fastest route toward the borders.

Lieutenant Evander gave him a forced smile. "And what would that be?"

"The guard posts of Kinallen have been...compromised," said Commander Karyk.

The lieutenant's smile dropped.

The old commander let out a dry laugh, rocking back and forth where he sat. "Aye, it was me who told that general all our secrets."

He then paused, anguished expression ridden with guilt. "It's... not too late to turn this carriage around."

The Drisian soldier spoke out loud for the first time.

"Why do you say only half the truth, sir?" he cried, head held high and eyes wide as he faced the rest of them. Something in him had been stirred.

"Very well," said Lieutenant Evander, frowning hard. "What is the whole truth then? Speak."

The Drisian turned to face a cart full of enemy soldiers, all giving him indignant stares.

"General Reylan held my family hostage and threatened to torture them to death, unless your commander told him what he wanted to hear. That man is a monster. He does not hesitate to put a knife to a child's throat. Even after all that, the general refused to let them go, until his spies confirmed that he wasn't being lied to."

"Where are they now?" asked Farren.

"He did keep his word in the end, the general. He set them free. Though I wish I could have seen my little Eryna one last time..." A bittersweet smile arose on the soldier's face as he looked back at the path they'd ridden through, voice wavering as he spoke. "But it's for the best that they stay away from me. That way, they'll be safe. I don't know what I would have done, had they been hurt."

He pulled his gaze away from the path, and hid his face in his thin, veiny hands. His next sobs were muffled against his palms.

Farren found it hard to believe this Drisian soldier was supposed to be the monster, and the dagger that had been the bane of the commander, the weapon that had started all this chaos, was originally meant for killing the likes of him.

He was an enemy soldier, and a morbid creation of sorcery, true.

Yet he was not a monster.

And of Commander Karyk, little blame could be put upon his judgement, for he had endured endless torture in the hands of the enemies, presumed dead and locked away in a dungeon where a single night could break one's mind.

Lieutenant Evander heaved a sigh, and placed a hand on the shoulder of the crying young man, his eyes on his friend, the commander.

"Let us not wallow in self-blame, now," he said softly. "Kinallen would not fall from a single blow. We have built it sturdier than that."

Once beyond the range of the firemounts, hidden from view at the bottom of a slope, Captain Walric dismounted.

"Everyone on horseback, now," she said. ''Send the cart off on its own. Ain't much, but its tracks might divert any pursuers. Sooner or later they'll raise the gates again, and that damned general is sure to send his spooky lads after us."

And so it was decided. They emptied the cart and let the poor beasts haul it away, off to a vague direction to somewhere east. To the west, the pale green line of the Autumnwind plains stretched as far as eyes could see. Far behind, Glasswolf became a black speck. The sun climbed higher overhead, yet the day did not brighten. Hovering clouds off to the north-west foretold of untimely rain.

Nevertheless, Farren felt at ease climbing onto the saddle, astride her dear chestnut mare once again. Then she stretched her hand out to the Drisian prisoner, who stood indecisive on the ground.

"...Why?" was all he could say. "Why would you take such dire risks for me, an enemy?"

"Simple explanation. Had it not been for you, we'd all be hanging from the gallows for all folk to see. And secondly..." She turned her eyes on Xenro who reined in beside her, back on his own horse. "I think he has some sort of high-class celestial business with you that I'm too dumb to understand."

The Drisian took a step back. Clearly he'd had his share of celestial business and wanted no more.

Xenro threw her an exasperated look before giving him a friendly smile so as not to scare him away. "Are you named Pertheran?"

He reared back another step. "How do you--?"

Farren sighed. "Awfully long tale, that one. Shall we speak on the way? It's time you got up."

He threw a fearful look toward the city in the distance. "We'll both go down if General Reylan summons the Chains again," he said.

Farren patted the mare on the mane, to which she responded with a proud snort. "Come Chains or dragon, my girl will outrun them all." I hope.

"You are no human," was the first thing Pertheran said once they trotted off, Farren and Xenro leading their horses side by side.

"I think I am good at pretending to be," said Xenro.

"That's a grand delusion if I've ever seen one," muttered Farren.

Little by little, as they sped across the wavering plains, he related to Pertheran the series of events that had, at last, led them all here, of happenings and upheavals in Mortal and Celestial Realms, of his old friendship with Death, and at last, his true identity that he had so far willingly withheld from most.

"Now only if I had the full extent of my powers," said he, "I could have figured out what significance you have as the first one to bear the Chains. The key to end it all. This is the sole reason why I wish the Apocalypse would be initiated, if only to light up the Torch of The Divines. Until then, I have so little strength at my disposal."

So far Farren had listened quietly, but her hands tightened around the reins at his last statement. "Say, if I'd failed to summon you out of there..."

"I knew you would not fail. Being able to be summoned at will-- that is granted even to the weakest of deities," he said quickly, sensing all too well where her question was headed.

But Farren was relentless.

"Could you have died on the gallows? Can Gods...die at all?"

He looked away, eyes back on the road and wind playing with his hair. "Stupid question. All living things can perish. Some just take more hits than others. Yet the very definition of death varies from us to mortals."

Farren wished her silence would urge him to speak. It did.

"When mortals die, they continue to live within the memories of others. When Gods die, they are... well, forgotten."

She gave a weak attempt at a smile and snapped her fingers. "Just like that?"

"Why else do you think so many shrines are made to be devoted to one? To make you remember, for what else is their domain of power, if not your belief? The stronger their presence is in the Mortal Realm, the more powerful they are. Take my Father, for example. His countenance is visible everywhere, be it above bells tolling the hour, or deciding the fate of a suspect in the courtroom."

"And so Lord Rhilio aimed to cast you into doom, cursing your worshippers to forget your name," said Pertheran.

Xenro gave him a grim nod. "In truth, we can all get perished and replaced. It had not always been me who commanded the Celestial Armies, neither had it always been Edis whose wings bore winter. There were others to hold those titles before us, but mortalkind remembers them no more since their fall." He then smiled. "Ah, except maybe Death and Despair. Those are the ones who never change."

The first of the raindrops hit Farren's face. Thunder crackled overhead. Wiping her face, she snorted. "Cheerful weather to fit a merry conversation."

"You asked a grim question, so expect the answer to be likewise." He put up his arm to shield himself from the lashing rain. "But things are not so bleak as you think, for Gods can also be...revived."

Farren turned to him. Rain cleared away the grime from his face as he spoke, skin rejuvenated, hair glistening gold and eyes a clear blue once more. And here I look like a wet, muddy hedgehog.

"They can be brought back, in a sense. When you place wildflowers, or even the most meagre of offerings at their shrine. When you give that shapeless pile of rock a name. When you spin whimsical tales about them. When you lead people to a noble cause in their name. Aye, Gods do come alive."

Farren looked up at the pouring sky above, letting the rain ease her exhaustion.

"Yet why..." she asked, "why don't you reveal yourself to your own followers in this time of strife? Heaven knows they could use the boost."

Xenro glanced above his shoulder. Captain Walric led her battlemages through the drizzle that showers these desolate plains, tall and proud in her saddle.

"Because their belief in me is too strong. Stronger than I will ever be. It led them to their cause when I sat useless and imprisoned, brought them victory when I struggled to fight my own demons. In all sense, that belief of theirs is a better leader than I. Why shatter it by revealing myself? Their first reaction of disbelief might just bring my end." He leaned forward in his saddle, shoulders hunched. "I do not want to be put on a pedestal. I want to sit at the same table and drink from the same mugs. Do I make sense to you, Farren?"

"Would you believe me if I say you do?" Not waiting for an answer, she reached out and gently placed her arm on his shoulder. "I understand, as far as my poor mortal head permits."

"Not at all, then."

A mighty punch landed on his arm.

The rain continued in relentless torrents as they moved across the plain, headed for Kinallen. In the beginning of the journey, she felt a sense of joy at the prospect of returning home. Yet a few leagues into Autumnwind painted frowns on the faces that had been cheerful.

A huge army seemed to have passed through there, not long ago, judging by the trampled grass, abandoned camps and reeking trenches.

The trail left westwards. Toward the eastern borders of Midaelia.

Even though none dared to say it out loud, they knew all too well where those armed forces could have headed. Their suspicions were answered however, when the rest of the company-- those who were at the barrows up north-- showed up with the Dark Saints carriages. The weapons had been delivered but their tidings were not pleasant.

Little word was exchanged as they rushed to make room in the carriages for them.

"Kinallen and Brittlerock has fallen," said Captain Rivera. "The Drisian army rides for Byton now."

The rest of the journey passed in a blur, as the sorcerous carriages blasted off, exerting all the speed they could muster.

They saw the fire and smoke before Kinallen's hills came into their line of vision. Red flames burned beyond the ridges, roiling upwards as though to match the bloody dusk that descended upon them all, heavier than the silence engulfing them now.

Great dark shapes rumbled through the heaving trees like sentient boulders, far too large to be human. On they rushed, wrecking all that came in their way. The fires had stirred the forest trolls from the very core of Kinallen's woods. Not mere stuff of legends, then.

Here was where Lieutenant Evander and Commander Karyk separated from the company.

"Go," said the latter. "Go and don't look back. Drive these carriages as fast they can go. Byton needs you more."

✦✧✦✧

Many a painful hours later, the first step within Byton landed a harsh blow to his chest.

Around Xenro, the world burned.

This was not how he had left the place.

Fresh corpses and old skeletons walked the streets. The beautiful capital city had turned to a necropolis, with the main forces of the Drisian armies mere leagues away.

A great black shadow hovered over Byton, a tumult of sorcery which, no longer bound by certain rituals, now raised the dead right from the cemeteries all around the city to go into slaughtering rampages. They would eviscerate the heart of the kingdom, long before the main force even arrived.

Screams filled the air, from the streets and alleys sleek with blood, from across the battlements of the towering walls where the last of the City Watch clashed against the undead in vain, dying by the score. In all directions--naught but defeat.

Their perilous venture into the plains and searching for the burial grounds, the painstaking retrieval of the ancient weapons--nothing was enough.

When he had stepped out from his imprisonment, the land had seemed peaceful, for Drisia had remained silent for long. The enemies within Midaelia had been troublesome enough. Nevertheless, united together, they had managed to overcome them.

Yet those times of peace were what made them blind to the greater threat.

Peace it was not, the God now realised with bitterness, but merely the calm before the storm. And it raged wild now to blow everything in its way.

Those little victories, gathering forces and weaponry, cheating a handful of stuck-up mages, working for the princess in secret--gave them false hope that shattered like glass in the face of the Vasaeni, creatures raised with necromancy, their name itself a dreadful word from a dead Drisian tongue.

Seated between the mighty pillars in his temple, up on a high perch of the upper district there was the statue of Rhilio, watching everything go wrong with only mild disdain.

Such were the scenes of Byton when the company set foot within it. Beside him stood a petrified Farren. No spirit of fight left in her, no feral rage, but only ashen-faced horror.

"Heavens save us..." she trailed off, the fires reflected in her wide eyes. Then she threw herself on the ground and screamed, beating her fists on it. "We were so close, damn it! Damn it all!"

Pertheran watched, long since fallen numb to the violence.

Even as the rest scattered, the mercenaries heading for the palace, others seeking ways to enter the fray, Xenro lowered himself to his knees. He could go on no more.

There, even as hope left his heart like blood from an open wound, he looked at the show of destruction. History repeats. Once again, everything was slipping right through his fingers like dust, and there was nothing he could do to help it.

"Forgive me, if you can," he pleaded, not only to the screaming, wailing Farren, or those who lay dead around them-- but to all Stormvale, the land he had failed once more, despite being given a second chance by destiny.

He heard her and Gray run to Karles, an archer whom they recognised amid a ragtag group of soldiers patrolling the main street. Words were exchanged, the latter relieved to see the reinforcements arrive.

"But where's--where's Linder?" Farren asked.

Xenro could not hear his answer over the chaos, but it was ominous enough to send her and Gray dashing off on foot, both forgetting at the moment they had horses.

He remained alone and followed none, listening to the footsteps fading away through the gloom.

✦✧✦✧

"Can you see, Sergeant?" cried a healer. Frantic fingers waved in front of his eye. "Speak, for heaven's sake! Do you see anything?"

He did.

Vague, blurred images formed before Linder, but his field of vision was shorn in half. In his right eye was nothing but darkness, smothered below a mount of gauze and bandages. The light in it had departed forever.

"Leave the lad alone for a moment, would you! Get your arse over here!" Eliora was shouting across the hall. Beyond the curtains drawn around his bed, he could hear others, wounded just as him or worse. Crying, wailing for aid.

The healers, who he presumed were crowding around his bed, left to give him some space.

He had visitors who had come running from the city gates to see him.

A warm hand cupped his cheek, shaking slightly. Shaggy copper strands flickered in the candle light and brushed across his cheeks. Quiet sobs sounded, so alien in a mouth accustomed to uttering smug words. Another spoke, voice angry and stubborn, threatening to punch the brains out of whoever did this to you, Sarge, I swear!

Gray stormed out of the palace infirmary before he could stop him.

It took Linder a moment to truly perceive the weight of his loss, and once he did, it settled in his chest like the burden of a thousand bricks. Memories returned, of the croaks of a raven right above his head as he lay bleeding out on the ruined street, squads of healers rushing in the bird's wake, desperate hands operating on the less damaged one of his eyes, while the right was beyond repair, until large doses of medication meant to ease the pain lulled him to a deep sleep. He heard them say Draedona had saved that eye herself.

Cruel kindness from a Goddess whose wager I failed to win.

He stared up at the ceiling for a long time, saying nothing. Tears stung his lone eye and rolled down the side of his head.

Then when he finally mustered up a word to speak, a bout of dry cough choked up his parched throat.

"Right," said Farren, springing awake from her trance. "I'll get you water, just hold on a moment--"

He held onto her wrist, gripped by an irrational fear that should her face be absent from before his eye, what remained of his vision would be lost.

"Stay," Linder said hoarsely. "...Please."

At that Farren's composure, forced into a pretence of calm up till now, broke, floodgates giving way under a rushing river. Linder wanted to quell it all, as though he would find solace in calming another. His limbs, he found, had been healed. Not yet restored to their former strength, but still strong enough to hold her tight. She too was at the end of her strength, having not a second to rest since her return from beyond the hills. She heaved long, weary breaths.

"Gods, did you two idiots really run across Byton on foot just to get here?" Linder asked, brushing her tangled hair out of her face.

"Didn't really leave us a choice, did you?" she said, still somehow managing to smile through it all.

He kissed her.

No moments were lost in waiting, staring into each other's eyes for an eternity, not a second wasted in hesitation.

Despair of the loss of half a sense would settle in soon, but for now, in this fleeting stage of conscious denial, he wanted to forget it all. The raging storm and battle outside. The ceaseless thunder. The malicious entity hovering overhead, ready to swallow all that was alive. His own failure at eliminating the sorceress-- everything, everything that would distract him from the one he longed to be with.

The feeling was nothing like he dreamed it would be; no wind rippling the grass at their feet, no clear sky beaming overhead, no raindrops rolling from leaves after the season's first shower. But the Gods knew he would fight the sorceress again, just to relive this moment. Farren threw her arms around his neck, like blooming ivy embracing a broken headstone.

Salt of tears and an aftertaste of medicinal alcohol lingered on his lips as she pulled away to pepper his face with kisses. She brushed her lips against the deep claw marks that marred his cheeks, almost frantically, as though this were a fairytale and a true love's kiss would fix it all. It did not.

Long minutes passed, but they simply lay there behind the curtains around the bed, foreheads pressed together, basking in each other's presence. Byton glowed in cheerless fireworks of death. A city in ruin. A battle already lost.

"Tell me, Valerius," she began, his first name sounding wonderfully strange on her tongue. This was the first time she ever said it.

"Would I get written off as a coward if I choose to curl up in the arms of the one I love, rather than fight a losing war?"

━━━━━━⚔︎━━━━━━

"All the victories we have achieved, don't they count? Is it only the final defeat that defines us?”

Princess Lysandra stared at her father as he entered the courtroom, dressed in battle garb, ready to ride out. Taking his crown off in his hands, the king approached her, a forlorn smile on his face. The fires at the windows encased the courtroom in a golden glow tonight.

━━━━━━⚔︎━━━━━━

"To tell you the truth, Sarge, I wish I could be brave like those who'd still throw themselves in the face of danger, knowing too well the outcome."

At the front gates of the royal palace, Rendarr struggled to hold back an enraged Gray, trying to break out of his grip and brandishing his sword fruitlessly at the hovering black shadow above.

━━━━━━⚔︎━━━━━━

"But I don't have the guts to do that. Even Gods despair in regret for centuries, for they could not spend their last moments with their beloved. I am just a weak mortal. Too weak to pass on that opportunity."

On his knees before the burning buildings, Xenro wept, spirits as broken as his sword. He took out his gold circlet, gazing at the large sapphire in it. The gem, the key to breaking his imprisonment, for which Dresius had fought and died so many years ago. All in vain.

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"Then so be it. I will be a coward for this once," finished Farren.

Linder answered by drawing her against him, face hidden in the crook of her neck.

“Let her rest,” he said, when one of the healers swept aside the curtain, and came to take her away. He nodded to the sergeant's command.

Sleep came invading their weary minds and limbs that could fight no more. The lovers thus embraced, huddled together against the headboard as the world crumbled outside.

If we cannot escape the fire, let us burn together.

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