Claire Descroix stood at the top of a hill almost a mile from the stone walls and glowing magical dome protecting Fort Expedition. Winter had arrived with all its wrath and fury, and snow now blanketed the plains around the walled city. Patches of dull red and brown slush still marked the devastation of the enemy charge, but it was already thickening in the bitter cold that followed the snowstorm. For all the harshness of the night’s frozen tempest, however, the brown grasses and packed dirt around her was completely clear of ice and snow.

Seven circles of blood crowned the hilltop around her, and each ring contained three people. There was no order to the chaos; Claire’s tastes in blood magic eschewed symmetry in favor of disorder and savagery. Raw, bristling power kept the drifting snow and biting wind away from the clearing, as she knelt to pour yet more blood onto the soil. It glistened, red and hungry, and dim light burned in every drop to pulse along the lines already on the ground.

The rose-tinted glow spread along the crimson lines, and the attendant thrum of power drew another round of weak whimpers from the bound captives. The magic made physical restraints unnecessary; they remained bound by her will alone, more securely than any amount of rope or chain could have managed. The lieutenant and his men had withdrawn, leaving only Claire’s personal guard to attend to her.

As more of her blood dripped into the circle, the ruddy glow intensified, and the thrum settled into an audible, droning hum that drowned out the panting sobs of her captives. “Blood for blood, to seek out blood,” she muttered. She made no effort to raise her voice; yet, it carried even beyond her hilltop, audible even over the chill wind. “Bonds of kin to set the path; a gift given, a price demanded.”

Even at its best, ritual magic was never as precise as structured spellcraft. The words spoken mattered less than the intent and emotions of the person directing the effort, and today, Claire had even less interest in precision. Power, naked and raw, was all she needed; when it came down to it, nothing in the world provided more power than blood.

“Blood is the path. Blood is the power. Kin to clear the way.” The air grew heavier, pressing down on the hilltop like a thick blanket, and gradually warmer with each beat of her heart. The grass not soaked in blood withered under the heat, darkening to black. The air warped and shimmered, and the captives began to scream, struggling in vain against their bonds as their clothes and hair began to smoke, charring and flaking away.

“More,” she murmured. The ritual had already started; the blood she had spilled from her palm was mixed with blood she had drawn from the cheeks of the twenty-one captives nearby...but still, she wanted more power. In this, not all blood was equal; something Claire understood most keenly from her lifetime of struggle within the empire. She raised the obsidian dagger to her chest, slicing the silk of her tunic and blouse just under her right breast. The flesh parted, and she clenched her teeth as the tip grated between her ribs, rivulets of blood cascading down her body. The true power of blood magic, something so few practitioners understood even in her homeland, was that the greatest power came from blood given, not blood taken.

Before she could drive the blade deeper, the circle’s power flickered; something else, something other, brushed against her consciousness. A cool breeze banked the heat of the ritual, and in the now-gentle eddies, something drifted down into her vision. Fluttering, circling, gently falling, a brilliant flash of white caught her eye, halting just long enough for her to turn her bloodied palm to the sky.

A single feather fell into her outstretched hand, gleaming like new-fallen snow and softer than the finest silk. It wicked up the blood, its shaft slowly turning a brilliant ruby red. Claire Descroix stared at the feather for nearly a full minute, watching the vanes take on the same color, the ritual magic held at the edge of her senses.

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “An omen...an offer? A plea?” she whispered, glancing skyward. “I deny!” she snarled, clenching her fist as if to crush the feather. It slipped away, however, the white and red darkening to gray and then into charcoal black as it rapidly turned to dust.

“Blood is the choice...and the path!”

The tip of the knife pressed further between her ribs before she ripped it aside, blood pouring from her chest in a torrent of power.

“Conduit,” she gasped, falling to her knees as the captives in the circles were incinerated in twenty-one flashes of scarlet lightning.

======================================

Calvin Descroix was lost in thought. Two miles from the hilltop where another of the Descroix line worked her sinister magic, he was hunkered down in a vacant tavern with the unconscious forms of Jacob Ward and Millie Thatcher. Erin Ward, the General's wife, stood over them, carefully pouring healing energies into their supine forms.

He leaned against the wall of the tavern, pondering the events of the last twenty-four hours. He was surrounded by the General's captains and the steady stream of messengers, which was slowing down. He finally looked away from the table he was staring a hole through, and trained his gaze on the short, curvy life mage. Her long hair was tied up in a messy bun, which matched her attire, and--

“How are they doing, Lady Ward?” he asked abruptly.

Erin glanced up from her work and shook her head, though there was a smile on her face.

“I told you not to call me that. It's just Erin. As for how these two are…” She paused, pursed her lips, and looked at her charges. “Flat outworked past the point of exhaustion. I can only do so much to stabilize them; after that, it’s up to their natural regeneration. I'd guess Jacob will be up sooner than Millie. He's older, tougher, and has more regeneration because he’s higher levelled. They both went into stamina and mana exhaustion.”

Calvin nodded. He knew such a thing was possible, though he’d never experienced it himself. “Well, it was a hard day,” he agreed. “We broke the backs of my countrymen, and it was all because of them.”

Erin's smile grew bigger, practically lighting up the room. “We, Calvin?”

“Yes mil--...Erin.” He shook his head.

“So, you're starting to see yourself as one of us, then? Good.”

Calvin paused. The realization that he was, in fact, starting to see himself as one of the Lancers struck him profoundly. He glanced around the room, as he considered his next question carefully. “Why does the General never ask me about the forces out there? When we talk, it's history, philosophy, and other things about the world. Never troop dispositions, security issues, or what my… sister might be thinking.”

The Hand of Solace looked at him directly, her smile never wavering as she replied. “Well, that's easy. First, Jacob is a student of history. Empires such as yours, he says, follow patterns. Evil begets evil--” Calvin bristled at that, teeth set, but Erin either didn’t notice or didn’t care-- “and while magic gives the Empire different options than those of our world, the results are the same. He says that the Empire is no real mystery, and can be broken in the same ways.”

“So, why does he not ask me to make that … easier?”

“Simple. For all that Jacob is a hard man, he's also a compassionate man. He likes you, Calvin. He doesn't want to put you in the position of betraying your own unless it's necessary.”

“Ah. I see.” He let his chin fall to his chest. “You know, the Empire isn't all evil,” he remarked, more to Erin than to the wife of the man who would do his best to break his homeland. “We have many great works of engineering and the arts. Even most of the slaves are treated well. Yes, there are those who are not,” he admitted, “and the golden collars…are absolute. But the black collars are not, nor are the tan and silver.”

“Tan and Silver? We haven't seen those.” Erin tilted her head.

Calvin looked back up at her, nodded, and continued. “Tan is for those born into slavery, or sentenced to it. They're not much different than the peasants up here.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand towards the area outside the tavern. “Silver is awarded to highly trusted slaves as a sign of respect. Sometimes, within their fields, the silver collared can give orders -- even to the nobility. And, of course, they can even earn their freedom for good work and faithful service to the Empire.”

Erin watched him carefully, as her smile faded slightly. “...Sounds sort of like Ancient Rome.”

“Ancient Rome?” he asked blankly.

“An Empire on Earth. They fell apart about 1500 years ago. You should ask Jacob about it sometime. There are some interesting parallels. But… you know this will all change, right?”

Calvin merely nodded.

======================================

Stev Aras stepped around a rushing messenger, nodding at the two lancers bracketing the entrance to the tavern. He'd arrived to check on the gravity mage, Xerrioth, and to see if the madman in charge of the lancers had regained consciousness. He glanced around the tavern as he entered; he’d had more than a few drinks in this place, and it was a sobering sight to witness it turned into a field hospital. With the lancers in attendance, it was more organized than he’d ever seen a hospital be; rumor was, that was the Hand of Solace’s doing.

Since the charge had largely lifted the siege, Stev had been busy. There was endless work to be done distributing supplies, seeing to the wounded, and truly stupendous amounts of clean-up. The Black Lance had encamped across the great square in the center of the city, and already the greedier local officials had forgotten gratitude and begun scheming to gouge them for coin. How his mother managed to wrangle all these personalities was beyond him; it was exhausting. He stood in the tavern in silence, watching the healers moving with purpose, and listened to an exchange between Erin Ward and Calvin Descroix. He knew he'd need to talk to the General, and soon.

Stev cleared his throat, and both Calvin and Erin looked to him. Erin spoke first. “How can we help--”

Her question was cut off by a low rumble of thunder and the sudden, violent shaking of the ground. What natural light filtered in from the windows was replaced by an unnatural darkness.

“Get down!”

Even after the fact, Stev was never sure who yelled that -- for all he knew, it could have been him -- as all the glass in the tavern’s windows simultaneously blew out. As the report faded, even through closed eyelids he could see the coruscating arcs of terrible, crimson lighting lashing down outside. The tremors intensified, and beneath the thunder he could hear masonry and woodwork groaning outside and nearby.

Stev Aras knew then that the Deskren had brought something utterly terrible to bear against Fort Expedition.

======================================

Jenna Tillerson had thought herself resistant, if not immune, to the horrors of battlefields. Her time on the march with the Black Lance as she and her husband followed Jacob Ward across half a continent had certainly given her plenty of experience with violence. After the rush of the march, the frantic panic of the charge, and the exhaustion of such continuous and intense spellcasting along with it, she had dropped to sleep almost before the tent flaps closed behind her. Her husband Davin had remained awake, coordinating the lancers and organizing the distribution of supplies with the merchant Belka and the city officials. She could tell he still hadn’t slept when he woke her with a bowl of sliced pears and a steaming mug of kaffen. She was too tired to properly appreciate the craggy good looks of her husband as she sat up, nodding silent thanks as she sipped the welcome brew.

“They’re still not awake,” he said softly in answer to her questioning look. “The Duchess is seeing to them now.”

“And the supplies?” she asked blearily.

“Well in hand. Belka knows his business, and Stev Aras keeps the locals from getting greedy.”

Jenna finished the fruit, sipping the kaffen with a grimace. The General’s penchant for a much stronger brew had spread through most of the Lance, the bitterness an acquired taste she had yet to develop. She finished off the mug, reaching to place it back on the small folding table. Her muscles ached as she stood, her tall, lithe body stretching to relieve the tension. She examined her sun-darkened hands as she looked skyward through her stretch. Finally, she tied her wavy dark hair into a messy bun as she regarded her husband with a smile that turned into a frown as she briefly sensed a surge of mana in the distance, and turned her head as if listening.

“Something wrong?” asked Davin.

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I’m not sure. It’s too far away to be happening within the city, but for me to sense it in the middle of so many high-levelled people… it's strange.”

As if to punctuate her statement, the flaps of their tent began to flutter -- as if a strong gust of wind had suddenly arisen. It stopped as quickly as it had begun.

Davin glanced at the entryway, and then back to his wife. His normally clean-shaven face had a dusting of stubble, further evidence of his lack of rest. “We have the Lance organized, and are sending patrols to assist the locals. The Deskren appear to have given up direct attempts to breach the shield and the walls, and with the mana potions distributed, the local mages have managed to reinforce the shield. We took a number of casualties on the charge, but they got it worse.” He smiled at that. “All things considered, as soon as Jacob is up, I think he'll be pleased with how we’re handling the situation.”

“The foot troops held up surprisingly well,” Jenna agreed, “but the mages are exhausted. None of us are trained for that intensity of casting, not continuously. Please talk to him!”

“You may just regret that,” he chuckled. “He’ll have all of you drilling spells alongside the infantry and their shields.”

“Better that, than burning out. Alessa Tull and the Jensen brothers collapsed in the middle of the mortar ritual. If they can chill a cup of wine before the week is out, I’ll be amazed.”

His brow wrinkled in thought. “Didn’t they train at the Magisterium in Meadowspire?”

“Only for the standard year,” she replied. “The magic schools mostly teach theory anyway, except for Stormbreak. The farm folk are actually stronger in raw power than most tower mages. They’re just more heavily invested in a few skills and spells useful to their trade, like me.” She shook her head. “A [Water Witch] has little use for fireballs and lightning bolts. If we were still in South Hollow, most of my work would have been drawing water for your father’s fields.” She smirked. “Good thing we eloped.”

“Father never did like my class, or yours. He’d never heard of a [Swiftmane Charger] for a rider’s class, and he always wished I’d chosen some form of mercantile or administrative life. They couldn’t catch us though,” he said with a grin. “Not after you called rains to hide our tracks and slow them down with the mud.”

She leaned into him for a brief hug, enjoying the short moment of privacy in the tent. “He won’t have us resting on our laurels, Dav,” she said, reaching back to adjust her bun. “We might as well start getting everyone sorted out--”

She felt the strange mana surge again -- not just in the distance this time, but all throughout the city. The ground heaved underfoot, and she fell against Davin, throwing up a hurried shield. The tent was ripped from its fastenings by suddenly-screaming wind, the tremors shaking the cobblestone loose from its mortar. Horses reared, shrieking in panic, as lancers and luparan scattered amidst the chaos.

Davin stepped out of her shield’s range as the rumbling subsided, reaching out to snag a Luparan recruit away from a terrified horse as his [Soothe Beasts] skill began spreading in a wave. While effective on most animals, his class rendered it even more potent on horses, and his body visibly tensed from the effort of spreading the effect across the entire square.

The screaming wind had pulled more tents than just Jenna’s free from their traces; too, it had stripped the canvas from dozens of wagons. The air fell still, the shouts and screaming fading into muted noise as the strange mana surged again, angry red lightning dancing through the city streets. It arced from building to building, following no pattern she could discern, accompanied by rumbling explosions scattered around the middle of the fort. Then, the red glare intensified, and solid ropes of crimson light danced underneath the shimmering dome. The spell cavorted through the city, massive tendrils of power splitting from the main trunk to whip through the streets, slicing through buildings and people with equal ease.

Jenna stood, paralyzed, as one thin thread arced close to where she and Davin stood, skipping off the cobbles and blasting divots in the street as it homed in on one particular man, wearing the uniform of the local guard. He tried to run as he noticed it bearing down, but the buzzing line of magic connected with the back of his boot, then lanced up his leg to his spine. He barely made it another stride before the magic detonated, blasting his lower half into useless, smoking gibbets of offal and bone, leaving his upper half to collapse. She could only watch, his final, agonized expression burning into her mind in his moment of death.

More scarlet lightning lit the morning sky, lashing frantically down into the ground, dancing through the city towards the walls. Small bolts converged into larger ones as the magic raged, and a torrent of power as wide as a horse blew one of the city’s shield towers into rubble. The enchantments from the wards around the building failed, flinging stones out in a deadly shower of gravel and death. The top of the tower tilted, then slumped into a neighboring building with a groan. More thuds hammered the air, dust followed by smoke billowing across the town.

Two heartbeats and it was over, the lightning flickering away. Davin stood, shocked, as Stev and Calvin stumbled out of the tavern. All four stared at the city walls, and the three massive breaches the lightning had blown open. Stone and timber continued to fall away from the ruined dwarven stonework, the nearest one wide enough for six men to cross abreast. A pall of dread descended, the crowd in the square coming very close to panic as the shock began to fade.

Davin glanced between the lancers and the city denizens. He ran a hand through his hair, loosening the dust from the tavern as he made for his horse.

“LANCERS! To me; we’ve got breaches to plug! Aras, take the east.” His eyes searched for the nearest available officer, and failed to find one; he had previously sent the squadron commanders to check on their patrols. Sighing, he continued. “Descroix!” he barked. “You take the west. Both of you, rally the irregulars, stragglers, and any citizen you can find! Plug those walls, soldiers! Move!”

===================================

Dheigrar could smell the townspeoples’ fear in the air; Colonel Davin’s rapid orders kept it at bay as Soldiers snapped to attention and began to move. The luparan’s squadmates fell in around him and formed up as the lordling gave orders in the General’s absence. He didn’t miss Lady Jenna’s sudden apprehension as Calvin was called to action; the man was startled, as well, but the authority in Lord Davin’s tone brooked no disobedience. The effect of whatever skills he was using was a balm to soothe the luparan soldiers, and they snapped a salute as Calvin began leading them into the city.

Luparan ears heard the screams in the distance well before human ones, and he growled to his squad. Tanra was to his left, her scent filled with eagerness. Two other luparan filled out his pack-squad to the right; they had earned no names while in the Empire’s service, and had not yet taken their own in the Lance’s. Lady Jenna and Calvin followed behind, jogging to keep up. The Lady seemed as wary of the Deskren scion as she was of the side alleys and shadowy corners of the city itself. Dheigrar understood; in her position, he might, as well. She didn’t have the luxury of his sensitive nose, able to smell the genuine concern, the lack of ill intent emanating from the princeling.

They quickly approached close enough for the humans to hear the screams, and Calvin quickened his pace. “[Rapid Advance]!” he shouted. They rounded a corner where a collapsed building had strewn rubble across the street, stepping over sprays of blood and partially-exploded bodies. The alley into which they moved was clear of rubble, but further masses of ichor and bone gave mute testament to the terrible work of the red lightning.

“We have to hurry!” Calvin panted as they crossed over another street, following the source of the screams. “If they follow standard Imperial doctrine for fortified cities, we’re in danger!”

“What does that mean?!” shouted Lady Jenna, struggling to keep up with the Luparan irregulars.

“Easiest way to take the place,” Tanra answered, before Dreigrar could. “Take hostages, use as leverage.”

“Have to stop them before they get a foothold,” growled Dreigrar, leaping over the remains of a woman missing one arm and her head. “Or in two days these people will be fighting off their own neighbors. Those who won’t obey even with black collars will be forced to drink rageflower nectar, going mad and fighting until they die.”

The time for conversation passed as they rounded another corner, following the clash and rattle of steel. They stopped dead; in front of them, a dozen guardsmen fought a group of imperial soldiers, making their stand in front of a partially-collapsed building. Behind the guardsmen, a group of small children huddled behind two slightly older boys who were chanting frantically, an endless stream of words fuelling soft blue light bolstering the guards defending them. Broken bodies lay on both sides, but the defenders were slowly losing ground.

Calvin didn’t hesitate. “[Steady Steps]! [Attack Stance]! Take them!” he shouted. As the skills’ effects activated, Dheigrar and his pack flowed to either side. Calvin hit the imperials first, his sword ringing off an upraised shield to unbalance the man, who recovered from the strike only to find his face crushed in by a gauntleted hand.

And then, the 1st Irregulars of the Black Lance were upon them.

With most of the soldiers still focused on the guardsmen, Dheigrar and his pack hit their flanks like a wickedly sharp, very angry scythe. With no collars or overseers to force them into an ill-fitting mold, their natural pack instincts were allowed to take the fore. With claws and teeth they fell on the Deskren, slipping in and out of range to avoid the blades of the suddenly-panicked soldiers. His claws opened the throat of the first soldier who turned to engage him, and then he flattened himself to the cobbles to dodge a hastily-thrust spear. To his left, a savage growl signalled Tanra dispatching another imperial who had sought his flank.

Dheigrar felt a surge of mana, and could smell the water in the air as Lady Jenna hurled a swirling orb of jagged ice into the middle of the formation. It detonated with a loud sound; bodies flew, and then everything was still. A woman in the city guard’s uniform -- a sergeant, to judge by the markings on her shoulders -- leaned on her spear, panting. Calvin pulled his sword from the body of a fallen Deskren, planting his boot on the corpse to steady it. Sheathing his sword, he claimed the enemy’s halberd, turning to face the guards.

“Get the children and your wounded back to the central square,” he said, gesturing with his halberd. “There’s healers and safety with the Black Lance. Any of the rest of you who’re able and willing, follow me. We’re headed to the gap.”

He suited action to words then, not staying to watch. Dheigrar and his squad followed, with Lady Jenna quietly running alongside. Jenna and the Irregulars both stumbled to a stop as Calvin strode off, halting to look down at the street where the man had just walked away.

A feather, gleaming with a soft internal radiance, fluttered down from somewhere above, descending in lazy swirls to come to rest on the cobbles. Dheigrar glanced from the feather to Jenna, not understanding her expression of shock, nor her scent of surprise and wonder as she approached the feather, bending down to pick it up. He knew, however, that something profound had just transpired.

Calvin didn’t even notice the pause, and they hurried to catch up with him as he raced towards the nearest sounds of battle on his way to the gap. There were only a few stragglers between them and their destination, most having fled back into the city to escape the magical onslaught. Nothing and nobody challenged them the rest of the way, until they passed through the shadow of a building which had remarkably escaped the destruction unscathed -- and there it was.

The western breach was the smallest, but it was still almost six feet across. They halted, and Dheigrar could smell shock and dread suddenly surrounding Calvin. In the gap, wreathed in angry red light, stood a slim figure in chainmail skirts and a gleaming breastplate lacquered red around the edges. In her hands, she held an ebony rod with an evilly-glowing red pearl. Flanking her stood two oversized, muscular Luparan with gleaming bands of gold encircling their necks. The woman paused, tilting her head.

“Interesting,” she murmured, so quietly that Dheigar barely heard her. Calvin’s scent suddenly roiled with a mix of emotions he couldn’t name as he shook his head. He locked eyes with the woman in the gap, bellowed something incomprehensible, and charged.