Section 71 burst from the woodland in a unified gallop. Rain lashed the clearing, tearing mist to ribbons, baring the fractured land ahead.
Arlin shouted forward as they tore down a jagged goat path, riding in tight column.
"You left the woods without the captain?!"
Feya turned in the saddle, her face streaked with rain and regret.
"You think I wanted that?! He had that look again—the same damned stare from the southern slaughters. By the gods—he called Stardon's flame to his sword."
She faced forward, eyes lit with divine essence uncovering the path unraveling before her, slicing through the mist as her steed barreled on.
"That fire was a revelation, a flame pale as the Northern Rise snowcaps. Blue teeth of fire coursed along the blade's edge—peeling back flesh from his hand with hunger. He summoned it on command, Arlin. Whether he knows how to wield it or not… it's evolving with him."
Krin pushed through the storm, trying to catch the words.
"What's she saying, Arlin?! Where's Kystin?"
She veered slightly, nostrils flaring as the scent of scorched pine pierced the wet air.
"Gods… what kind of flame survives this downpour? What has that man become?"
Arlin, steadying Zylef in the saddle, didn't look back. His voice cut through the storm.
"So we've lost our divine-struck captain… and gained a Ghalayan villager who's murdered a rival kingdoms son? now we're smuggling her into a kingdom ruled by tyrants."
He scoffed, brushing rain from his eyes as he pulled alongside Feya.
"It's only treason, right? I suppose we owe him—gods know he's risked his neck for us more than once. But if we can't get her through East Gate… we'll hang before the High Hall."
Zylef stirred.
Her dry, cracked lips parted as she lifted her burning body into the hyperborean wind.
"I never asked for salvation," she rasped. "Your leader took that burden upon himself.
Everyone I've ever loved… I left behind"
The air howled a haunting hymn as echos of beasts screeched from afar - muffled by groaning beats of thunder.
Zylef turned her head slightly in Arlin's direction, exposing her neck to whistling chills of wind.
"Tell me Vanguard…Have you ever had the person who raised you, bleed to death atop of your own body…whilst crushing your chest into mud?"
Though she could not meet his eyes, Arlin turned his head slightly away in discomfort. His hands tensioned the reins turning his knuckles white.
"No. Apologies" he uttered, lightly bowing his head. Zylef slowly turned forward, eyes tracing the path ahead.
"We were butchered by cowards. The women ripped from their children, and their children hiding under their dead fathers.
When I awoke from beneath my own—the air alone smelled of piss, the filth of fear from those forced to fight. My father lay facedown in the soil of his homeland, eyes open to the cold. I could not grieve, I could not beg, but I could take what they took from me—from them.
All because of one man's ideal.
She looked back past Arlin's figure. The distant gallows still loomed behind them.
Charred posts stood amid thinning mist. Smoke curled faintly from their tops. A low amber glow pulsed at the base, where embers clung to wet timber. The posts shrank slowly into the storm's veil as the company pressed on.
"If what you say of Stardon's flame is true—then why fear his absence?"
Lightning split the sky. Marble clouds cracked with celestial fury. The earth trembled. Horses shrieked, scattering in panic.
Krin caught up as the group slowed to a cautious gallop, calming their mounts.
"…Fey," she called, voice low now, free of the wind's sting. "Was Kystin alive… when he forced your retreat?"
Feya didn't look back.
"Yes. He was alive. Right before that fool Urik and his men were cut down by Vornick. Stardon's pale blue flame—the Flame of Redemption—cloaked Kystin's blade… and his hand."
Zylef, feeling the heat clinging to her skin—whether rain or fever-sweat, she couldn't tell—still found breath to speak.
"If your leader wields one of Stardon's twin flames—redemption, not destruction—then understand this:
He is Vornick's equal.
And Vornick is but one of four demonic children…
All birthed by the greater god Lucrisius—whose path Sithvron now forces his empire to follow."
Krin stared into the grey-tombed sky between gallops, its flashes of lightning casting a silver ache over the land.
For a breath, awe and dread hung in balance.
Then, softly, she whispered:
"I just want to be back in the inn… when things still made sense."
The pack felt her grief and continued to ride in the wet silence.
The East Gate of Horix loomed into view—one hundred meters high, a fortress of granite and iron. Steel bars braced a hardwood core, flanked by the banners of Horix: white fields marked with black ravens clutching skulls in their talons.
A lone guard stepped from the watchtower beside the road.
"State your presence!" he bellowed, voice thin in the storm.
Feya slowed her mount and trotted forward, positioning herself to shield Arlin and the wounded woman behind her.
The guard narrowed his eyes, squinting through the downpour with one hand anchoring down his damp knitted hat.
"Feya?"
"Yes, Donny. And if I were a pillager, I'd have gutted you clean. How many times have I told you—keep the damned tip of your spear forward."
Donny wilted.
"Apologies, miss. Can't see worth a damn in this cursed rain, let alone think. Where's Kystin?"
He scanned the riders.
"And Urik? His section spilled out in a hurry to relive your mission."
Feya met his gaze with a look carved from exhaustion.
"Kystin's still out there, holding the line against the Divine's rise. Urik's team collapsed before the battle even began."
Donny's mouth fell open.
"Urik's dead? And the Torsken are channeling dark forces?"
Krin yanked her reins. Her voice came low and sharp from two horses down.
"If I have to idle in this gods-forsaken rain much longer, Donny, I'll gut you like we truly are fuckin' pillagers."
Donny stumbled back, muttering, "Storms take me—you two really are cut from the same cloth. Hot-blooded in the coldest squalls… hopefully Isaac puts more men on this post. OPEN THE GATE!"
The gears groaned. The iron gate shuddered open with a scream of bolts and chains. Light spilled through the widening crack as the Vanguards passed beneath the fortified arch into the heart of Horix.
Cobbled roads stretched before them—wet stone echoing beneath iron hooves, lanterns flickering from steel stems along the street.
Arlin turned in his saddle, relieved and impressed, flashing Krin a crooked smile.
"Smooth touch, m'lady."
Krin smirked back, rain trailing from her brow.
"You'll never feel the full extent of it, you laconic man."
Zylef slowly peeled the dampened quilt from her face, curiosity swelling as she took in her surroundings - Guilt gradually staining her initial embrace.
Crystal streams of water coursed beneath bridges large and small, gleaming under the soft glow of residential lights—sharp-bricked lanes winding between clustered homes and crowded markets.
Drunkards fumbled into the light from the corners of inns and alleys. One—oblivious to the oncoming traffic—staggered directly into their path.
"Oo, Vanguards? You're a pretty one. I could've been a Vanguard once, y'know? But I fell in love with the bottle first, sword second. Too much training and—"
Feya's steed nudged the man aside as she trotted past, muttering,
"Well, I've still got time to be a drunk in a warm inn, thanks."
The group continued through the nightlife. Zylef mumbled under her breath:
"Summoreth is on fire, yet the realm drinks to its collapse."
Arlin overheard her quiet bitterness and responded with calm clarity:
"By no means to offend—but Torsk burns alone in its affairs. Horix won't wait to choke in the smog of its political push. I imagine that's what stirred our captain's hand"
Zylef's gaze lingered on the lanterns stretched over the water, where their golden flicker danced across the rain-slicked stone. From a balcony above, laughter spilled out—full-throated and careless. A man leaned over the railing, glass raised, shouting into the night:
"Let the rains wash the realm you wicked wall huggers!"
He staggered back into the shadows, swallowed by laughter, music, and candlelight.
"OH, I WISH I WERE A GOLDEN GALE,
SOARING OVER EASTERN TRAILS,
I'D LAND UPON A TORSKEN HALL,
SING AND WATCH THE SMOKE UNROLL.
THEY KILLED MY BROTHERS IN THE FALL
OF SUMMORETH'S BRINORIA BANNER WAR!
Feya's muddied boots creaked across the weathered floor, drawn instinctively toward the hearth at the center of the room. It crackled with steady heat, peeling the cold from her skin—but she denied its comfort, pushing through the haze of smoke and song, eyes scanning for Yuri as she paced onward through crowded wooden chairs and tables. Highborn women snickered in disgust—some in shock, others in fear. Men moved their baggage and swords aside to clear a path.
All except one.
A shepherd ignored Feya, continuing to sip his ale—until a hand dominated his next imbibe. Feya, overpowering his grip, took the jug—eyeing him down as she indulged in its final contents, her frame saturated from the storm, towering over him.
She gave a crazed grin as her eye twitched in the warmth of the air.
"Excuse me, traveller," she said, gesturing with her eyes toward her destination.
The man scurried his chair aside, clearing the path.
At the bar, she spotted him—half-silhouetted in the archway behind the counter, one hand braced on the frame, locked in quiet conversation.
"Yuri!" she called.
He turned at once, waving off the man beside him and stepping fully into view—eyes narrowing at the sight of her, rain-soaked and tense.
"By the Gods, girl, you're drenched. I'll have Sophie fetch you dry garbs," he offered, his tone softening—eyes shifting from concern to something more teasing. "You'll catch fever in that mess."
Feya dropped her weapons behind the bar—unslung the crossbow from her shoulder, set a hunting knife beside one of the lower cabinets. Her gaze, now refocused on Yuri, flicked away just once—to brush a strand of wet hair and scratch the scar on her cheek.
She hesitated, parsing the look on his face. The words she'd brought in with her—blunt and certain—caught behind her teeth.
"Old man… I need a favour—"
Yuri waved a hand through the air like swatting smoke.
"Save it. Arlin filled me in. I'd strangle that damn Kystin myself if Sithvron hadn't beat me to it." He leaned in, brows low, voice dropped to a growl. "Is it true, then? Vornick possessed the bastard's son? I've heard the drunks ramble about old gods stirring, but this… this sounds like true divinity, if even half of what Arlin said holds."
Feya shifted—unsure now where to put her hands. One hovered awkwardly on the bench as she leaned into the counter, fingers flexing like they itched to act.
Yuri looked larger now. Less warm. Less safe. Something in him felt off.
She swallowed her nerves.
"…Fuck it. I need an ale. And your usual hospitality." Her voice sharpened. "Kystin put his trust in you—whether you think he earned it or not. We didn't get a say in the matter either, so spare me your judgment."
Yuri filled up a mug from a giant mead keg, pouring with perfect precision—unfazed by antics both beyond and behind the bar. He turned, placing the mug before Feya with a stiff motion, then exhaled with a deep, bone-weary sigh.
"Fey. I've known you lot since you were wee pups. Long before mead, ale, and the military bumped your heads on stone."
He leaned forward slightly.
"What you've brought upstairs is a mystery. It's also in agony. If word got out we were housing a Torsken villager—I'd lose everything. You all would lose everything. And more."
Yuri straightened, folding his arms tight across his chest, eyes catching Feya's with stern edges.
"You forget I was once in your position, many moons ago, Miss Fuarn. As naïve as young Kystin may be… what he's asking of me is the indefinite demise of all that is good. The ages may have changed—but the times are still not forgiving when it comes to loyalty to the crown."
Before the weight of his words could settle, the inn's door slammed open.
Blistering wind whipped awake nodding civilians nursing themselves by the fire nearby. Ten King's Guard stormed through, swords drawn. Their leader—draped in royal insignia—marched directly toward the bar.
Tankards froze mid-air. Floorboards groaned under boots. Drunken soldiers scrambled upright, frantically saluting as the air turned brittle with order.
"Yuri," the man barked, "I've reason to believe you're sheltering an enemy of the state. An outsider of Torsken descent."
"Gods, I haven't been this wanted since I opened this damn inn," Yuri muttered.
He did not flinch. He stepped forward to meet the man without guilt or hesitation.
A merchant hung off the arm of a wolf-pelt-upholstered chair by the door, drool dripping into his lap as his mug slanted sadly in his grip. His companion—just as flustered by mead—balanced his back on a hand-carved pillar of the inn, oblivious to the change in temperature.
Yuri snapped his fingers together, deafening Feya under its clap.
"Oi! Tell your buddy to keep that drink contained. If he spills anything on that chair, I'll have him hunting bare-arsed in this storm for a silver fang to refit it."
The wobbly man stumbled, grabbing hold of his comrade's mug with frantic speed—while losing his own across the fluffed rug beneath the chair.
Witnessing the panicked mess, Feya palmed her face in disbelief.
Yuri returned his gaze to the guards.
"…Frederick. If I'd known you were troubled by such an issue, I'd have come to see you myself. No need for intimidation."
Feya turned slowly, eyeing the guards one by one. Among them stood a man cloaked in black—presence cold, gaze familiar.
"…Torva," she hissed through clenched teeth.
She stepped toward Frederick. "What tipped you off?"
Frederick's eyes slid toward the stairwell and back entrance, his fingers twitching on his hilt.
"When one of your own reports in fear before the commander, it tends to catch attention."
Feya's gaze didn't leave Torva.
"That brave-telling man is not wrong. There was a hostage—Torsken, yes. But you missed the ending. I put a bolt through her skull the moment she tried to flee."
A lie, sharp as steel. Her eyes stayed locked on Torva, daring him to challenge it as he grinned from beneath his cowl.
A quiet shuffle stirred the air.
Krin emerged from behind Yuri, her brows drawn, voice low.
"What in the world's going on, Yuri?"
He half-turned, lips pressed shut, shoulder drawn protectively.
"…Where's Arlin?" he whispered.
Krin moved closer, catching it.
"…Where do you think?" she replied.
Frederick studied Feya's words carefully before moving further into the inn, his index finger tapping over the rim of his sheath in a ticking rhythm.
"If what you claim is true, I'll verify it when I inspect upstairs. But if you've lied… I'll cut out your tongue and pin it to your heart.
Truth defines a man. Lies rot the soul—
and a lying tongue never strays far from the heart."
Yuri gradually stood across from Feya, hands pressed over the countertop, veins tensing over the backs of his hands.
"Honestly, comrade… at this hour, that would be bad for business," he said. Lines creased and gathered around Yuri's brow, locking into a stare with Frederick.
Frederick surveyed the room. He felt the eyes of all the men and women present—attentive not to his presence, but to which sword would seal arbitration.
"Well then, Yuri. Treat me as a paid customer. I shall reach my conclusion by force, if necessary."
The inn stilled—in song, in laughter, in light.
The room stunted in life.
Feya cautiously doubled back around the counter, closer to her sister and Yuri. Yuri's fists clenched as Krin reached for the bow she had tucked earlier between the mead barrels.
The stage was set for resistance—until a loud moan echoed from above, breaking the tension like a hammer through glass.
Every head turned, expressions shifting from defiance to bewilderment.
Another cry followed—longer, rawer. A sound not just of pain, but desperation.
The guards stiffened. Civilians gripped their mugs tighter.
Yuri's eyes slowly rose toward the ceiling beams, his jaw set tight.
Feya felt her stomach knot.
Upstairs, the secret they'd all sworn to bury was now screaming to be found.
Rushed thudding from above afflicted the hanging candelabras, casting pendulous shadows as the vibration traveled down to the first floor. All turned in premonition toward the archway occupied by Yuri and Krin.
Arlin appeared from the dark end of the bar, stripped of his cloak and leather armour, hair swept in a wet mess.
He froze in his tracks beneath overwhelming glares. Darting his gaze across each face, he finally settled on Frederick's.
"…Uncle," breath racing in his tone.
Frederick's shoulders rolled down, cut from their tautness. "…Nephew?" A corner of his lip flared. Confused, his palm almost freed the sword from its sheath.
Arlin's hands were coated in flaking blood, old and wet. Realising his uncle's gaze had dropped to them, his chest began to rise and fall vividly.
"Sorry sir, I came to fetch towels. My mistress I courted tonight…"
Arlin's brain began to tick. He looked down upon himself, covered in blood—aware his response carried the weight of death or disgrace.
"It was her first time. I didn't know," he finished, slowly raising his head.
Feya rose in disgust.
"Are you fuckin' kidding me, Arlin?!"
Frederick meticulously observed her response—body language, tone, facial expression—tonguing the inside of his cheek.
Sickened by what he now believed to be true, his embarrassment turned inward, fermented into rage.
A soldier attending the inn, having spectated the entire spectacle, burst into laughter—placing a hand on Frederick's cloak.
"He's just a boy, sir."
The remainder of the room followed—except for the King's men and those who knew the truth.
Frederick sheathed his blade with a genial grin.
"Yes, just a boy he is."
He then snatched the instigator by the collar and began beating his face in—his fist rapidly disappearing into clumps of red mush.
Frederick's grunts augmented with each thrust—each pounding more brutal than the last, demanding attention. There was no climax—only continuation.
The room seized in its outburst of laughter.
A sleeked line of Frederick's fringe sundered over his eyes. Once he was finished, he brushed it back with a bloodied hand, staining his forehead.
"Well then, nephew. You've once again brought shame on our family's name with your contemptuous desires. Well done."
He turned to Yuri.
"Yuri. I trust Kystin's savage dog Feya did sic the villager in a field. But one can never be too sure until substantiating it for themselves. No hard feelings.
Apologies for disrupting business. I'll have one of my men hunt you a new rug—preferably whilst fully clothed."
Frederick turned to Torva with strong distaste. His stare gripped his throat as the company prepared to leave.
Torva ached to speak his truth, but lacked the courage… and for good reason.
Instead, he ingurgitated at the unconscious soldier splayed out on the inn floor. As Torva raised his head forward he caught glance of his fellow section members.
Not even Yuri's gaze granted him warmth.
He had cut ties with old comrades out of righteous belief. The Kings Guard brushed past him, not a word was spoken. Right before the inn regained its energy Yuri stamped it out.
"Alright!…I think we've all had enough of an eventful night. Best you all wander off to your homes or buy beds elsewhere whilst the storm rustles calm."
Krin brushed Yuri aside, bettering her glimpse at Torva's shrouded countenance before she spoke.
"…that goes for you also. Traitor."
Torva turned away as the crowd teemed the entrance,
tuckered and tried by drink - each individual balanced their way out of the giant wooden door groaning and gossiping.
Yuri herded the last handful of straying soldiers who failed to adhere to his announcement.
Closing the door behind them, leaning his weight on the knob with a sigh of relief he turned back to Krin and Feya watching him from the bar light.
"You realise who that man is? He's the Kings Torturing device. Not just his Guard.
Gods, his own mother had to pull him off of his sister when they were younger because he nearly beat her half to death for stealing to fill their bellies.
Yuri brushed off his apron returning to the girls, pulling a handkerchief from its breast pocket.
"Not a word to Arlin about that one"
he sternly pointed to them as he wiped his brow.
You two mind the floor. I'm going up top. Change into something warm and help yourselves to drink."
Upstairs, flashes of lightning lit the room in blue vibrancy, casting shadows of dead tree branches across the walls like twisted witch fingers.
Thumps of wind crashed into the rafters above. A lone candle flickered against the dark, its weak flame carving sharp light across Zylef's gaunt cheekbones.
Sweat slid down her neck. She winced as a draft stirred the air, brushing the infected wound on her leg.
She bit into her hand until it bled, catching her breath through gritted teeth—grunting as pain pulsed through her shin, each throb radiating through her chest like a hammer striking bone.
The agony climbed her numbed thigh, spreading heat like a freshly forged blade.
Joseph, Yuri's hired help, stood by the door, tense.
"Gods, hold in your screams, girl. I can hear that lunatic Frederick making his way out," he whispered.
He pressed an ear to the doorframe. Footsteps padded faintly down the hall.
Zylef bit harder, her mouth filling with blood. Her body curled inward, as if trying to crush the fever before it could take her mind.
"It's safe to proceed, friend. The inn's as empty as it's ever been,"
Yuri's calm voice filtered through just before the door creaked open.
The room brightened with a second flame. Arlin followed Yuri in, clutching a bundle of towels. Yuri placed the extra candle in the corner.
Joseph ushered them in.
"Set those by the bed—clean. Everything needs to be sterile if she wants to keep that leg. Yuri, bring the light here."
He laid out knives and tweezers on the side table. Holding a surgical blade over the flame of Yuri's candle, Joseph heated the steel until it glowed.
"I examined your leg earlier. The shin's fractured. To close the exposure, I'll have to pick out the bone keeping it open."
He paused grimly.
"Otherwise… we cut it clean."
Zylef stared through him, panting—her voice razor-edged.
"Either way, I'm ready."
Joseph blinked. He'd operated on thousands in the field. Rare few accepted fate on its terms.
He gripped the knife and lowered his voice.
"I have something for the pain. Derived from snow terror venom. Works fast."
Zylef cut him off, eyes shut, managing the waves with a clenched jaw. She opened them toward the frosted windowpane.
"No. Do what you need. I'll bear what I must."
Yuri stood steady, though his eyes drifted toward her.
"Girl… are you sure? Taking the edge off isn't cowardice."
Zylef leaned back against the bedframe, arms stretched wide, gripping the timber rail.
"Yes. I've seen worse borne by those back home."
Joseph turned to Arlin and nodded. Arlin stepped forward and placed the towels at her feet.
He looked up. "Do you drink, miss?"
Her breath trembled. "No. But my father did."
Yuri joined Joseph, candle in hand. The team gathered round her twitching leg.
Joseph leaned over, knife in hand. The scent of burning flesh filled the room as he began to cut—slow and exact—freeing splinters of bone from tangled meat.
Zylef screamed in horror, clutching the bed sheets, nails sinking deep into the mattress.
Yuri called from the other side of the bed, trying to cut through the cries.
"What kind of man was your father?"
Zylef bit her lip, still groaning from the pain, and forced herself to speak.
"Honest. Sincere. I was privileged… the whole village was. I've yet to know a kinder soul—"
She yelped again, her head snapping back. Her leg kicked out wildly.
Arlin caught it just in time, wrestling it down with all his weight. Blood surged to the floor like a struck tap.
Joseph remained calm, pausing only to press a towel into the torrent.
Yuri pressed on, voice louder now.
"What's your name, dear? We've come this far without a proper introduction."
Zylef seized a cushion and screamed into it, the sound muffled inside the fabric.
"Zylef," she gasped at last.
Yuri's lips tightened in a weary smile.
"That's the prettiest name I've heard in all my years tending this realm."
Zylef's breathing slowed. The kindness settled somewhere deep inside her, giving her the strength to speak.
"That was my grandmother's name. I never met her… only through the stories of those she left behind. A graceful woman."
Their eyes met across the candlelight. Yuri nodded.
"Aye. A soul who leaves behind love—long after their time—is one worth remembering."
Joseph interrupted gently.
"Zylef, the wound's clean now. I need you to hold steady as I stitch it shut."
He rose with a soft smile.
"You've done exceptionally well. Let me rinse off and fetch the sewing kit."
Zylef caught his glance—kindness outside her village was rare, if not unheard of. She did not let her fevered trembling speak for her.
"I am grateful. Truly… to all of you."
Arlin gathered the bloodied towels, chuckling under his breath.
"You're welcome, miss. Even if this wasn't exactly your idea of rest. Kystin has a strange way of drawing folks together, doesn't matter where they're from."
Yuri scoffed softly as the candle flickered.
"Has he ever. I hope the boy's on the mend—he's got an earful waiting when he gets back."
Arlin dipped his head and moved toward the shadowed corner, laying the towels down.
"I pray he returns. So do the girls, despite their apostasy this section relies heavily on his being."
Zylef shook her hands through her woven hair.
"Do you believe in the Gods Arlin?"
Arlin rose his head in response.
"Not entirely but enough to keep the dark at an arms length."
Zylef studied his tired eyes.
"I see…but you have faith in your leader—Kystin, who holds you into the light"
She spoke softly with a gentle smile.
Wind howled through the rafters again, rattling the roof like bones in a drum.
Joseph stepped into the light, sewing kit in hand. He clicked his tongue.
"Right, let's conclude this gathering. You're as pale as the frost on the window. I'll stitch with care—Yuri, stay close. A clean scar is better than a butchered one."
He knelt once more. The men gathered around Zylef's raw, swollen leg.
Her eyes rolled back as she scraped her tongue along the roof of her mouth, desperate for moisture. Her lips cracked as she spoke:
"All scars are pretty, doctor. Visible or not—we all have them."
Downstairs, Feya sat by the crackling fire pit. Her fingers interlocked, steeped in its radiating warmth. Her cloak and body armour hung over a backrest nearby, puddles forming beneath their shrivelling, creased ends.
A gentle hand came to rest on her shoulder.
Krin pulled up a chair beside her, balancing two tankards of mead in the other palm. The stool's legs scraped softly across the timber floor. The two sat in silence, untangling their thoughts amidst the thick air and distant cries from above.
After a long moment, Krin offered one of the drinks.
"Do you remember when Father tried to have me married off to one of the Fordust house leaders?"
Feya's face, cast in flickering emberlight, stayed fixed on the fire—watching flames devour splinters of wood.
"…Yes. That was the same year we lost Karina," she said softly.
Krin's gaze drifted across the firepit to the far side of the inn. She recalled townsfolk dancing beside the stonework edge—women twirling and laughing, arms tangled with young Horix infantrymen in uniform.
She let out a slow, tired breath.
"I remember the fear that latched onto my chest. I remember the hate caught in my throat… because Father's betrayal of trust came dressed as duty.
He sat me down—after Mother carried you away from the hearth, asleep in her arms—and he said:
'Krinalia, sometimes our actions dissolve in life's trials, whether we will it or not. Fate dictates the path, no matter how hard we try to alter its course. What I'm doing isn't a dismissal of your becoming. It's salvation through sacrifice.'"
Feya sat with the weight of her sister's words. The firelight shifted across her face. Then she turned to Krin.
"His decision was about status. Reckless in how it might shape a child. I've felt that same sting. Our house was already on the brink—and all he cared for was how it looked to the other highborn."
Krin leaned back in her chair, arms folding across her chest as her eyes found Feya's.
"I've come to think that what we've endured as Vanguard mirrors fate's design. Kystin's strength—his refusal to bury his head in the mud—was why we followed him into the dark of this realm.
And now… we may have lost that light."
The two sisters cast their eyes above. Zylef's screams pierced the hearth's calming tune below.
Feya shifted in her seat, adjusting her rain-weathered hair—tangled and chestnut.
"Torva betrayed all of us tonight. Running to Frederick—Kystin laid down his life to protect this section. That little fool spat in the face of courage and loosened his tongue to lick the boot of the empire.
"…Krin, if this is what has become of the section… I don't want to lead it. I'm tired of being tied to duty; in fact, I'm altogether exhausted by imperial calling.
I want to see the rest of the realm. I want to feel the golden plains brush my skin—barefoot, bare of dread."
Krin took a swig from her cup, raising her brow toward the upstairs.
"The screams have settled."
Feya let out a dry chuckle and took a drink, her gaze never leaving the fire.
"…Not the ones in my head, little sister.
Maybe he was right," she said bitterly.
"Maybe sacrifice is salvation. But I'm not throwing myself on the pyre for another man's crown. Though, I'll hold this secret to honour the will of our captain."
Krin nodded slowly.
"My heart has not yet resolved its loss of Karina.
Losing another sister would tear it out of my chest. If push came to shove, Torva will put his lust for sectional advancement before our own livelihood, burning every bridge ever built within section 71."
She turned to Feya and raised her tankard toward the rising flame.
"Where you lead, I will follow—just like we swore under the oak, remember?
Even if it's to the Golden Plains or interrogation chambers." She sighed with a laugh.
The pair clinked their drinks together with a bittersweet chuckle.
Feya tossed another log into the fire and watched it splash and spiral—
glowing embers dancing like fading ghosts.