I step gingerly away from the blood pooling from the guard’s chest and into the corridor proper. The robed assailant is nowhere to be seen, having run to the left and around a corner – hopefully never to be seen again. Taking this information into account, we should go right.

I make to motion to Evelyn but turn to see her staring blankly at the corpse, the soup on the ground, forgotten, and slowly blending with the thickening blood. I swallow whatever asinine thing I was going to say. Surely this isn’t her first dead person? Didn’t she touch that severed head back in the cave? Her gaze stays morbidly fixed to the hole in his chest, tracing the yellow fat poking up from the viscera. There’s probably a lot going on there. I guess it’s different when the dead guys bleeding on you, too.

“Evelyn, do you ah, need to-”

“No Lucien. It was just a bit abrupt, that’s all,” she says, glancing up and giving the body a wide berth. She has the good sense to trot off in the opposite direction of our robed friend, with me following closely behind. We round a corner and find ourselves at the foot of a wide staircase, a grand door beckoning us forward.

The metal clanging generally grows louder. Though not emanating from any direction in particular – which is mildly concerning. On one hand, it sounds horrible for whoever is doing the shouting. On the other, I doubt anyone will bother themselves with two servants trying to scarper. Of course, as that thought dares cross my mind, the door we’d been creeping up to bursts open to reveal three imperial soldiers.

“Sirs! Thank God you’re here,” Evelyn, like a gem, is quick on her feet with the servant act.

“This one’s got white hair! Are these them?” One of the tin cans shouts over her, pointing at me.

“Grease!” I shout, showcasing my quick wit. The slippery liquid finally manages some range and sloshes over the soldiers, and coats the steps between us. The shouty one slips, and goes down in a tangle of clanking limbs, rolling uncontrollably down the stairs. The view cheers me up immensely.

Evelyn darts up the stairs with that supernatural fluidity. This being the first time seeing it properly in action, I pause after kicking the downed soldier in the helmet. I’ll admit that it is kind of off-putting, seeing her dodge a sword stroke then kick the legs from out of the other two – all with a vacant, slightly bemused expression clouding her face.

As the other two slide down to join their comrade, I pick my way up the side of the staircase. I join Evelyn and catch her shoulder as she wobbles, coming out of her haze.

“Ah, my shin,” she mutters. I silently commiserate and head for the door.

“Get off me, idiot!” The leader – by right of being the loudest one – shoves the other soldiers aside and starts awkwardly scrabbling up the stairs. Something that rapidly becomes less hilarious as him and his sword draw closer.

“Firebolt!” The orange ball bounces harmlessly off his chest plate, leaving barely a trace of soot on the polished steel. It does however, catch the grease and the entire staircase and some of the corridor immediately catch ablaze.

The soldier shrieks and loses balance in an attempt to pat out the flames licking at his tabard. Evelyn has the gall to look at me, horrified – as if this isn’t at least half her fault. I pull the door open and push her through. The last we see of them, the soldiers have retreated away from the growing fire pit and we leave them, rolling about trying to pat out the flames.

We burst into a colonnaded walkway, tastefully encircling an expansive, open-air courtyard. There’s a gazebo, a water installation and even a small copse of trees. So ornate is it, that I’m momentarily convinced that we’re already outside and free of this nightmare. Of course, we’re not – with our luck we’re probably somewhere in the middle.

Evelyn shoves me against a pillar as a fizzing streak of lime green energy cartwheels over our heads. We slide down and hunker behind the chest high wall that rings the courtyard, as the air we were just occupying, is immediately saturated with purple lightning.

“Keep your head down, idiot,” hisses a serving boy. I look down the line of columns and see at least half the kitchen staff pressed to the wall. Even Hubert is here, eyes shooting accusatory daggers as soon as he recognises us. I don’t take too much offense, willing to be the bigger man and accept the possibility that we may have something to do with the current situation. A purple scream ploughs into a column on the opposite side of the courtyard, the caster having apparently lost interest in us. Going against my better instincts, I inch my eyes above the railing and assess the situation.

“Ah crud,” mutters Evelyn, and I have to agree. Another energy bolt – this time teal – turns a tree into glass and is responded to with a fusillade of arrows. “What the hell is this?”

The air is thick with missiles and burnt ozone. Magic beams and steel bolts scatter through the air in the battlefield chaos, but seem to be statistically directed towards three hunkered down groups. That black robed assassin’s compatriots take turns lobbing fizzing lightning bolts from behind an ornate fountain. The glint of steel plate marks a group of imperial soldiers taking cover behind a massive tree, responding back with crossbows. The third group is cowering in the gazebo; armoured but with no distinct iconography, and seems to be focussed on not dying – something I can relate to.

“Is this meant to be Fourey’s coup? I don’t see him,” I reply. Wait, I think I see him in the gazebo. I retract my comments about relating to them.

“Then why are those Empire guys here?” she asks a bit shrilly. For their part in my being here, and having already dealt with three of them, I should probably have twigged onto this earlier. Sure enough, from amidst the gnarled roots of the tree, I spy Reynard’s tastelessly embossed obliques. Surprise pitched battles are bad enough – But they’re so many times worse when two thirds of the combatants want you, specifically, dead.

I reach out and jostle the closest servant to hand. “How do we get out of here?” She shakily points across the field to what looks like the main gates to the manor. It is predictably on the other side of a rapidly deteriorating thunderstorm. I swear, if I die because the owner wanted the first thing a visitor see to be his expressive garden, I’m going to throw up. I nod and accept this reality as well – it explains why all the non-combatants are still stuck here. I gesture to the next guy along.

“You could try the kitchens, they’re just down that hall,” he volunteers, pointing behind him. I follow his arm and see the corridor. It’s close by, but crucially, separated by an exposed gap in full view of the black robed mages. My new friend makes no move to join me as I share the plan with Evelyn. I can’t blame him – he doesn’t have covering fire.

“Okay. You run first and I’ll cover you,” I tell Evelyn, snapping my fingers alight. She grimaces but nods and takes position. Wait, are they more likely to hit the one who goes second or first?

“Now,” She hisses and I quickly fling a firebolt at the fountain. My spell glances off a Pegasus statue, a hairs breadth from the purple lightning guy. Unfortunately, I hadn’t accounted for the kind of manic confidence that being a part of a cult instils in someone. He doesn’t even flinch as he lets loose a sparking rod of lilac thunder. As I start to sprint my gut clenches as the spell cackles towards Evelyn.

“Evelyn!” I yell, panicking, my hands sparking in directionless mana. The bolt crosses the field in an instant, rushing to its target with palpable glee. With an arm’s length separating her from charcoal, her body locks up, and in a feat of uncomfortable acrobatics, somehow transfers her momentum upwards, and over her encroaching doom. She ducks into a perfect roll and ends it in a groaning tangle of limbs, clutching her abdomen in pain.

The lightning bolt explodes against the wall behind us, warping the stone in a way no lightning should. The flash probably stops the mage from casting again and I skid to a stop, having reached the corridor behind Evelyn.

“I think I pulled something,” groans Evelyn, wobbling to her feet. “Stupid inconsiderate power.” I nod, mostly focussed on processing that sudden spike of adrenaline. We hurry down the corridor and towards the kitchens, leaving the sickened expressions of our audience of serving staff behind us. “That’s the door!” she shouts. Apparently having more of an idea of the layout of this place than I do. That being zero.

With perfect dramatic timing, the door opposite bursts open and disgorges another helping of black robes to the mix. I take a page from Evelyn’s book and raise my hands in surrender. I’m not sure if that translates when we’re dealing with mages, but it doesn’t end up mattering. With the affected drama of the truly insufferable, the head of the group whips his hood back.

Blonde hair, winning smile and dreamy countenance mark him as cult leader. An angry red burn across that face, the exact size of my hand, marks him as our problem.

“Oh my God, it’s Cult guy,” Evelyn exclaims, with an understandable note of hysteria warbling at the edges. Cult guy looks to Evelyn, somehow recognising her underneath the filth. His gaze then turns to me, the mental calculus ticking away behind his eyes.

Without even bothering to break the tension, he launches forward, his fist wreathed in electricity and hurtling towards me. Evelyn’s foot snaps up and bounces off a bubble of light that materialises around his body. What little distraction that elicits is enough for me to trip out of the way. His fist hits the corridor wall and doesn’t stop, carving through in a shower of sparks and molten stone. I’m not even stable before he follows the momentum and buries a foot in my solar plexus. I fall, wheezing, to the floor.

“You!” He shrieks, lifting me bodily off the floor and against a wall. “Disciples! Form up and join Valerie. We will bring an end to the tyranny of Empress Caithurt.” Oh Gods, he believes in something.

“At once, lord Sable!” The robes behind him shout in unison. They salute and run off into the courtyard.

“Now my pallid friend. You almost got away again. Your masters would be pleased,” he looms above me, “who are you with? The Empire surely.” He spits at me, his eyes glowing with manic light and the scar pulling his grin into a warped snarl.

“Get off him!” shouts Evelyn, nursing her wrist. She jumps back yelping when the Cult leader responds with lightning that nips at her feet.

“Quiet!” He snaps without even sparing her a glance. “We’ll have you back in the fold shortly. I just need to finish this up.” His free hand flickers with lightning before resolving in a cheery red flame. As much as I respect the poetry of it, as his hand reaches for my cheek, I find myself wishing the temple explosion had finished him off.

The heat licks at me and I scream. He looms over me even as he lifts me off my feet. I kick out wildly, meeting only air and magic barrier. I thrust my hands out, scrabbling at his clothes and clawing at his face. His smirk breaks into a rictus grin, delighting in the achingly slow progression as the heat creeps closer.

A finger presses against my chin and begins drawing a white line of fire along my jaw. I punch his neck and beat his face with fists, that had at some point, have lit on fire. Mana sparks off his shield and my own flames flicker back, painting dots of black across my shirt. Tears track then evaporate as he reaches the base of my jaw and starts working upwards. Evelyn picks herself up and tries to pry his other hand off me, all the while I gurgle expletives at the both of them.

His burning finger feathers the flesh beneath my ear and I cry out. My hands start to burn from my own flames and he chuckles as cinders wash over his shield, ineffective. Black spots dance in my vision, which may account for why I don’t immediately notice the Cult leader’s sudden change in expression as he’s bricked in the head with a frying pan.

He falls back unconscious and I’m dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Clutching my jaw and pressing my burnt hands to my chest, I look up at Evelyn. But it’s not Evelyn.

“Mother protect us. Lucien are you alright?” cries Emmet as he darts forward, dropping the pan, palms aglow with healing magic. His otherwise clammy hands spread cool relief, and it’s all I can do to bite back a moan.

“Emmet? How did you know where we were?” Evelyn exclaims, “Wait, Lucien – come on and sit up. In and out.” She carefully moves to pry my hand away from my chest. Her words register and I suck in a breath, cutting off my rapid gasping. Forcing myself, I hold it, then let out a raggedy wheeze.

The healing glow stings at my jaw and I shuffle myself back up the wall. I absently remove my hand from Evelyn’s arm and shake off Emmet’s hovering. Sniffing and no doubt tracking snot all of my face, I finally draw in a full lung of air and feel the palpitations start to calm down.

“Yeah, how are you here, Emmet?” I ask, coughing s little and working the rasp out of my voice. “Thank you for being here either way,” I add quietly as the two of them reach out to pull me upright.

Like an angel, he steps back and answers without arguing. “Well, I actually saw you get captured by David – the swordsman with Reynard,” he adds at my blank look, “they mentioned the baron’s manor.”

“We’re glad you’re here, Emmet,” says Evelyn, wrapping an arm around him. “Not glad that you’re in the middle of a battle, you understand,” she mutters. Emmet seems to get that we’re both a little out of sorts and just nods, sending some of that sweet healing magic at Evelyn. She mutters a thank you and lets him go.

“Would it ruin the moment if I mention that I just followed the fire to get here?” Emmet says with a stiff chuckle. His eyes flick to mine, then studiously looks away. Weld wasn’t even our fault, and the summoning circle did it to itself.

Evelyn chuckles like a good sport. “Wait, followed what fire?”

Dread pulls at my chest and I stumble to the door to the kitchens. I jerk my hand back as the handle turns out to be burning hot. No, no, no. I kick the door and to my horror, it cracks open. A gust of hot wind and embers rushes through the opening as I behold the kitchen crackling in a sea of flames. The fire flares up at the sudden airflow and I stumble back into Evelyn and Emmet.

“Please tell me this isn’t because of the grease spell, Lucien,” says Evelyn dully. I would consider denying it, but a sharp crack echoes through the corridor.

As a self-proclaimed expert in the incendiary, I can firmly state that denying a fire air is one of the most effective way to mitigate damage. Conversely, suddenly introducing air to a fire – for instance, by opening a door – can lead to significant problems. The most impressive part of the conflagration is the wooden support pillar in the middle of the kitchen. It looks like most of a tree and, with an understated burst, loses a chunk of its base as the fire climbs higher. I give credit to this expertise, generating the finely honed instincts that leads me to pull the others back up away from the door, as the pillar gives up the ghost and ploughs through corridor’s wall and ceiling.

There’s a moment, when the air is thick with smoke and dust, that the battle noises are muted. We scramble back up the corridor and watch as the rubble settles and flames begin to lick at the hanging tapestries. Emmet begins to say something but is overpowered as the cracks don’t stop sounding. Nearly as one, the shuttered windows this side of the courtyard burst open and disgorge more fire.

“Why couldn’t this have been one of those stone medieval castles?” Evelyn babbles as she looks despairingly at the wood panelling that lines the manor.

Responding to some base instinct, we begin running back towards the courtyard. Mortar pops and muffled snapping vibrates above us as we run. Almost like it was waiting for us to have a head start, the ceiling collapses behind us and bricks rain down from above. Evelyn grabs Emmet and I as dust and smoke blanket the area. Screams and shouts replace the sounds of magic and arrows as everyone is temporarily, equally choking on soot. We don’t stop running – don’t dare – until Evelyn trips and sends us tumbling on top of each other.

I struggle to sit up, instinctively keeping my head low, and fumble around blindly. I bump into a low wall and feel the upwards, finding an edge. Carefully, I peek up over the lip and am greeted with an expanse of trimmed grass. I dart down and bite my knuckle. Evelyn and Emmet extract themselves shortly after and are met with the same view as the smoke pulls away and the collapsed half of the manor settles. The blue gazebo looms just above us, and we are left sitting in a furrow left by the impact of arcane lightning.

An arrow lands in the soft earth, not two paces from our trench. As if taking it as a signal, the fighting roars back into motion. Arrows and spells being traded back and forth, while melee combatants peek out, searching for an opening.

The main gate squats in the distance on the other side of the courtyard. It would take maybe thirty seconds, if that. Eldritch fury streaks through the air and I sigh. I sit in the mud and wait.