Eyfrae descended the steps of her palatial manor in an evening gown of scintillating amber, the upper hem fastened just beneath her slender shoulders in a ring of honey calcite stones.

As she did, she couldn’t help but notice the guards for her carriage were lying sprawled across the courtyard, broken, bloody, and beaten.

A giant homunculus, three-eyed with grey flesh, stood above them. Traces of red clung to its sledgehammer fists.

The strongest of her guards could still stand, barely and awkwardly, without the usual pompous rigor, ashamed like schoolboys to have been beaten. The longest serving of them - although she couldn't recall his name - straightened up and saluted her.

"There's ah, somebody already inside, ma'am." He said, nodding towards the carriage. "He said he wanted to speak with you? We tried to stop him but-"

"I see."

Fire engulfed her hand, burning away the long evening glove. Ember-lined ash dripped from her fingers as she strode towards the homunculus. Its dull face bore no reaction.

"Ma'am!" The guard called out. "He had the symbol of the White Lily!"

She froze. Her hand curled into a fist, extinguishing her fires in a curl of smoke.

Here already?

"I... see." She kept the long string of curses silent, but implied.

Opening the door of her carriage, she clambered inside to the plush-lined compartment. Sitting on the bench seat opposite where she settled was an old man, his skin as dark as teak, his beard carved into a perfect pyramid coming off his chin. A circlet of three arcane runes adorned his brow.

Hanging from his neck by a golden chain was a small glass vial, no bigger than his thumb, the bottom filled with dark soil that nested a petite white blossom.

And yet that little flower was precious enough to overturn Caltern. A budding of the Immortal Lily. The source of Eyfrae’s own longevity, and oh, an addictive little bastard. Her fingers trembled at the sight of that precious flower, restraining the urge to snatch it off the man’s skinny neck.

He smiled. “Eyfrae, how good of you to meet with me like this.”

“I didn’t expect the Guilds to arrive for another month.” She admitted. “Will the Order of the White Lily be laying claim to the Dungeon?”

“Oh, no. No no no. You misunderstand. No, the Dhampir will have their turn with this one.” He clicked his tongue, like a schoolteacher with a dim pupil. “Let us be clear. I’m not here for the guild. I’m not here for the Dungeon. I’m here only because my dear ill-fated student, Olin, is tragically deceased. As soon as his lifesign shattered I came rushing over.”

A likely story. She smiled thinly, allowing him his lie.

“But since I am here, and since the Dungeon is likely responsible for his death…” A little shrug, a little grin. Poaching from the Dhampir. It was the kind of audacious scheme she’d expect from the man who raised Olin.

“Kal Lugreth. Olin talked about you.”

“At your service.” There was a groan from the back as the homunculus stepped aboard the footman’s step. He rapped on the carriage ceiling, signalling the coach-driver to take off. “You know, I was at the Institute first, examining the scene. I met a young man named Malvet with lovely things to say about you…”

She froze. The carriage cabin was suddenly too small, claustrophobically small. Not now, not him. Not somebody with enough status to actually bring consequences down on her for her schemes. “Olin favored him. I suppose he wants to fill Olin’s shoes.”

“Olin’s bedsheets, you mean.” The chuckle from the old man was so dry she wouldn’t be surprised if dust blew from his lips, if he coughed up some ancient shard of stone. “No, he really was quite complementary. Infatuated with you. He didn’t even break when I confronted him about this…”

From his robes, he withdrew a tiny, diamond-shaped vial, a lone drop of brilliant azure settled in the bottom.

She almost considered playing dumb. But then, she was so sick of playing. “I’m not sure why these matters interest you.”

“It’s shameless!” the old man declared, “A dirty, low-down trick, poisoning poor innocent adventurers. Vicious. Ruthless. Sneaky. Underhand....” And word by word, a smile came over his face, until he sighed and leaned back, shoulders slumping, his eyes gone hazy with nostalgia. “Ahh, Olin came up with it, didn’t he? That boy really did always have a surprise for me.”

“He was surprisingly reliable. In that one way.” The fear in her chest slowly settling, from a panicked vivacissimo to a mere allegro tempo, she tried to follow the old bastard’s mercurial mood.

“A real upstart. Ah, but we shouldn’t talk about him as if he’s not here.” Reaching into his pockets again, he took fished out another little vial. This one was full of a yellowish, clear solution, and in it floated a little toe. Perfectly manicured.

“Is that..?”

“A little memento of a dear student. Held in case he ever got himself into too much trouble. Do you have anyone capable of revivals in this little town?”

“We can send for one.” Eyfrae suffered the slight on her city without comment, consumed by the sudden thought she might actually see Olin again. She couldn’t wait to strangle the life back out of him.

That gladness mingled with the relief she felt - the old man’s unspoken but clear message being that he’d not reveal her schemes as long as she aided in his - and suddenly, despite herself, she was laughing. Some little joke Olin had made long ago was suddenly so funny again that it made little bell-trills of laughter fall from her lips.

Gods, she probably loved him. That was embarrassing.

And in the background, a bell rang out, joining her sudden fit of laughter. In three notes it swept away her sudden joy and replaced it with dread. It was a deep, ominous sound of iron, a dull clanging that brought to mind the thundering of hooves in a cavalry charge.

Eyfrae stiffened, catching herself, and the man followed her sudden changes of mood with a look of abject confusion. “What..?”

“That was the Usurper’s Bell. It means enemies within the city. Ill-rule. Disaster.” Without waiting for his response she opened the carriage door, peering out. There was smoke in the distance - they were headed right for it. “Coachman!” She called, “Faster!”

It was as bad as could be expected. The wards around Suffi’s mansion had been taken down for the occasion, and now smoke billowed out, the grand doors broken apart. Fire was catching along the upper floors, coming darting out the shuttered windows in bright tongues. Already the blaze was producing a stifling rain of ash and ember blowing out from the great pillar of smoke rising overhead.

Steel rang, and shouts, screams, all echoed beneath the clanging.

“Give me your whip.” Eyfrae demanded of the coachman, grasping the cold leather in hand as she strode inside.

Bodies littered the foyer. A token force of dwarves was holding the grand staircase that bifurcated around a statue of the Halfhand’s grand ancestor, stabbing with their halberds as ragged, wild men fought their way steadily upwards.

Eyfrae lifted the whip and lashed it through the air. A single rivulet of flame ran from her bare fingers down the leather and expanded in the moment the crack sounded out, exploding into a burst of fire that made the air ripple with heated movement - a concussive blast ripping through the men on the stairwell and sending them stumbling.

Again, and again, she drove at them with airbursts of powerful flame, not singling out any one of them but herding the lot with the shockwaves from each crack of the whip. The dwarves lunged forward, spearing the invaders and driving them back.

One of the men turned, managing to get his bearings for a split second and rush towards Eyfrae. With a sneer of contempt she wrapped the whip around his neck and ignited it to brilliant orange, turning the whip into a molten collar that seared the flesh of his throat to a charred nothing.

She tossed the whip aside, a ragged bit of cinder, and lifted the sword from the man’s corpse. He was already crumbling to a fine, feathery ash.

The men on the stairwell were dead or dying, the dwarven guard triumphant, wiping the sweat from their brows. The old man entered behind her, his enormous homunculus looming behind him. The idle way he walked told Eyfrae he would be in no hurry to help today.

“Where is Suffi?” She demanded.

“She should be in the parlour.” The captain huffed out, a wound across his brow staining blood down one half of his face like strange warpaint. “We’ll be- we’ll be right along behind you.”

But she wasn’t waiting. She lunged forward, rushing up the steps, vaulting over corpses.

In the parlor, the best of the best, the private guards of the richest nobles in Caltern, had come to a head against the wild men. The tables of delicate foods were overturned, the marble slick with pooling red. The gold on the swordsmen’s uniforms flashed as they cleaved through the savage horde.

They were good. But their opponents were mad as dogs, and if a man was ready to die, it was hard to keep him from taking at least one life with him. They impaled themselves willingly on blades to reach their opponents, to gouge their eyes and slit their throats.

The casualties lay thick on the floor.

Just three men held the parlor’s center now, each of them drenched in red. The only things left clean were their swords, flashing through the air so quickly the blood couldn’t cling to them, arcs of silver dancing as the three held back eight.

To the right, Cathara was leading the dwarves to fight a losing battle with their ceremonial axes, outnumbered and outfought. To the left it was Kedlin of all people, sweaty and out of place among his bloodsoaked guard but valiantly gesturing with his sword-stick for everyone else to fight harder. She snorted. He would put someone’s eye out with that.

Fire blazed down her arm to engulf her blade, and she swept into the fight at the center. A head toppled instantly as she came rushing in from the rear, killing one before he could react, and pinning the remaining wild man between her and the swordsmaster. It was hardly a struggle. The moment she locked blades with the ash warrior, the swordsman ran him through from behind.

Just like that the deadlock broke. The man nodded to Eyfrae, his greying hair pasted to his thin bony face with sweat, and then darted off to help another of the swordsmen. The battlefield rolled in their favor as Eyfrae charged for Kedlin’s skirmish.

It was ugly here. Men fought standing over corpses, a mixture of blood and ash thick in the air. Eyfrae killed two before the heaving bulk of of the ashen horde could turn its attention to her, and then she was nearly swept away. Swords and axes, makeshift spears, all of them sought for her blood.

Eyfrae ignited. Like a blazing star, she lifted a dome of flame around her and burned the men of ash away, controlling the flame by drawing it into a spiral. When it was done, when they were nothing but bones cracking open under the heat, the marrow sizzling away in fleshy gouts of steam, she let go, drawing the fire back down into a blazing layer over her skin.

The marble was cracked like an earthquake had hit, the edges of the spidering cracks dripping with molten heat.

Much of Kedlin’s guard was dead too. A sad byproduct. One man of the wild horde stood alive, impossible to burn, clothing all reduced to a black soot that clung to his skin. A blazing blue ember glowed in ebbs and falls beneath his chest.

“Heretic…” He hissed, gripping his axe and lunging for Eyfrae. Her sword had turned to molten slag. Her fire was no good against the Ashen Dungeon’s chosen.

But she could still use it in other ways. Clapping her hands together, she created a wave of superheated air that rolled forward, throwing the man back a step. He scowled.

“A little runt like you, how did you do it?” He spat out.

“Ah, so it’s not my heresy that has you so angry, its your jealousy. Wondering how I succeeded where you failed?” Eyfrae’s eyes sparkled. She was like a cat playing with a mouse. With another clap of her hands she forced him back, and now the guards were finding their courage, edging forwards behind him.

One direction he couldn’t take a single step without being forced back, the other he would meet his death.

The man hesitated, trapped, and Eyfrae plucked up a sword that had escaped being totally reduced to scrap. “I succeeded for the same reason I’ll kill you, I’ll tell you that much.”

Infuriated, the man lunged again, and this time she let him hurtle forward, shoving her blade between his ribs. It - just - missed the ember at his heart. His axe swept down and gashed her shoulder open, making her scream out, as his weight bore both of them to the floor.

The sword fell from her fingers, still impaled through his chest. Her good hand seized his wrist and held him back from taking another, fatal blow, as he ripped the axe free from the wound. A half-dozen swords jabbed into him from behind, but none of them so much as scraped the ember. The swordpoints emerged through his front, nearly stabbing her.

He let go of the axe with one hand and seized her throat. Fire coiled around his fingers but could not burn him. She bit him, but it did nothing, not even as she severed his thumb with her teeth and spat it into his face.

The guards seized him, hauling him back. She gasped.

“His heart you idiots, his heart!”

A shadow fell over her. The enormous homunculus reached out, plucking the man from the crowd’s grasp, and crushed him. It was hideous; nothing Eyfrae had seen in her life had been able to bend bones like putty. It simply mashed him down into a compact, bleeding ball, and dropped him to the floor.

It was over.