Neda and Barrel were both heaving, sweaty messes as Asrael approached them from one of the side-doors with a determined stride. The mats beneath their feet were drenched in sweat, but both carried themselves with straight backs and proud grins.

“I did it! I did it, look!” She proudly exclaimed as he approached. Without a word between them; Barrel raised the paper fan and began waving it in her direction and, in so doing, towards Asrael. He was assaulted by a warm, sweat-scented wind. Neda closed her eyes and took a single breath before raising her hands. Before he could speak to dissuade her; the speed of the winds increased drastically- not enough to blow him over, but enough to have the necromancer steady his hold on the ground. It only lasted for a second before Neda fell down on her knee to grin at her sour companion whose unimpressed frown bereaved her of some of the short-lived joy.

He spoke with his usual cruelty; “Fantastic. Continue this foolish endeavour and by long; you will be able to barely lift a kite above your head.” Gerathar and Barrel both shot him disapproving glares, whereas Neda stared down at her feet with disappointment- again.

The necromancer continued past his associate to question their gracious host; “Now then. What is it? Your whore servant said you needed to see me. Speak!” Gerathar raised his hands to calm the agitated walking dead with a smile and say; “I apologize, good Sir, but I only wished to bid you adieu. I have an arrangement at the Garrison that requires my attention and as much as I hate to do so, I have no choice but to leave.” Asrael threw a glance out the tall panes of glass to see that night had, in fact, lowered its umbral cloak over the city... disheartening as it was... it was time for him, too, to leave and continue his great work. He straightened his shirt and nodded his agreement.

“Of course. You’ve Inquisition boots to lick, after all. Well, then, I will be taking my chauffeur and depart.” The man was frustratingly resilient to his insults and responded only with a smile. In between her heaves for air, Neda added; “W-wait for me... I’ve just gotta... catch my breath...” Asrael turned over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow at her.

He took a step closer to prod her forehead with a finger and ask; “Has your simpleton mind betrayed you again, wildling? This is your new home now- here, with him. Or wherever else he can ensure your safety and keep you fed.” In contrast to her previous timidness, she now glared back at him and struck away his finger with a determined hand to shout back at him; “That’s not up to you! I’m staying with you and Barrel. I don’t care if I’ve gotta eat molded bread or drink dirty water- I'm coming with you and that’s that!” She could tell that Asrael was displeased from his frown and the subtle glint to his green eyes usually only meant one thing; that he had some form of plan to punish her for her insolence. The malicious smirk that followed did little to still her worries, but she dared breathe a sigh of relief as he turned to inform their gracious host; “On second thought; I’ve a better idea...”

Bartholomew stood atop the sturdy stage and looked out across the sea of People. Hundreds had gathered in the Garrison’s courtyard- the bourgeoise and the poor alike, packed in like sardines, writhing in blood-frenzied ecstasy- all awaiting the evening’s... entertainemtn. At his side; the proud Titus stood tall in his golden armor, surrounded on either flank by his favored Purged.

The misplaced brother bit back the retch looming at the back of his throat. He could scarcely stomach the sight ahead of him, but he needed to see it... he needed to watch her go. He could still smell her blood and filth- he could still hear that woeful melody she had hummed into his ear as he rocked her back and forth for the entirety of the day. Her small, pained sips of water- that heartbreaking smile she had worn whenever her anemia led her to confuse him for someone else... all the while... he had sat there- sharing in her pain.

He had seen all of it- seen when they had manipulated her skin and cruelly thrust the sharpened sticks down her supple, fleshy back. She had never once screamed- not even as they construed the pyre below her. In fact, she had smiled a deranged, confused grin- satisfied she had ‘made it’- just as Bartholomew, in his helplessness, had promised she would... Finally; he had to let out a stifled retch. Had he had any mercy- any sense; he would’ve choked the life from her down in those dark depths. But every time he had raised his hands to put her out of her misery, she had thanked him for keeping her safe until she could be hoisted on the pyre to live up to her side of this supposed bargain... and entertain these cruel beasts.

He glanced around the courtyard to see the many grinning faces. Some ate treats, some shouted profanities with rage and some exchanged joyous embraces... how had they devolved to this? What crime had she committed for her death to bring such joy to the crowds? Had she inherited such a terrible sin from her very birth that this could ever be considered just?

“Sir...” Lita whispered to his side and cautiously tugged on his sleeve before whispering into his ear; “You are crying. It is unwise to do so before the People. Please. Allow me to assist you.” He clenched his fists and raised his head up high. He would not allow her to pervert his mind- not now... he needed to see this- he needed to see her go.

Out in the tightly packed crowd, Neda held her mouth in shock as Asrael whispered into her ear; “Now, now... do not reveal your shock. This is what will happen to us both, should you make a mistake to land us in their clutches.” The impaled woman stared up at the bright, yellow moon with a wide grin. Her naked body was covered in cuts, bruises and blood- dripping down on the pyre below her from the numerous impalements along her back.

“W-we’ve gotta do something, we can’t let them-” Asrael raised his cold hand to cover her mouth with a dark grimace and a glare directed towards the red-haired, golden warrior stepping forth to address the crowd, he spoke. “Listen to their speeches- those endless speeches... they love hearing their own voices.” He whispered with an unusual tenderness in his voice and a distinct lack of shock or disgust. He knew exactly what was happening- he knew that, by long, the woman would be dead.

As promised; Titus raised his hands to still the shouting, jeering crowds before tapping his heavy gauntlet into his chest. “Citizens of Pilta- honorable, hard-working, morally sound People of my City; I welcome you to our six-hundredth-ninety-seven ritual Pyre!” He paused for the crowds to continue their roaring, before motioning to the pyre. “I had hoped to see this dark chapter in our history over, but it seems the vermin invasion continues despite our efforts!” Neda shook her head into Asrael’s hand as the male, white-robed Purged approached from behind the Duke with a torch. Titus graciously accepted the instrument and raised it up high- sparking another round of shrieking applause. “But take heart, my People! If not tonight, then soon we will be rid of these Pests- these ungodly Magi who continue to plot against true Humanity!”

In between the Duke’s lofty words, Asrael continued whispering into the girl’s ear. “This is the reality of this world. Institutional torment and depravity fueled by research- to inspire fear and dread in us... you’ve been offered a chance to escape this- if at all possible. If not; you could live your days out in peace- stuffing your face with whatever pastries that man has to offer and await the day for when you are put on that pyre.” Neda grabbed his hand and dragged it down from her mouth to whisper into his ear;

“Please- there’s gotta be something we can do! Some way we can save her- use those guys!”

Asrael shook his head and moved his fingers back to her mouth- stopping her flapping lips from whispering any more idiocies. As Titus finished his speech, he approached from the pyre’s side and threw the torch onto the dry wood and papers.

“We cannot do anything- not for her... not now. But I intend to pay them back for every one of us. when I am through with them, they will beg me for the pyre.” Even he had to swallow a retch as he watched the warm vapors disturb the air around her feet. He continued; “In an enclosed space, she would have been fortunate enough to choke on the fumes... but not here. Look to her feet and see the red discoloring. Soon; blisters will form, pop and leak their fluids- perhaps, if you are fortunate; you may hear a crackle as they explosively expand on the fire.” The disturbed woman on the pyre remained silent- staring her empty orbits towards the stage- towards Bartholomew. Not a sound escaped her lips- not even as the heat began boiling her thighs.

Asrael bit down on his lower lip to steady himself for the sight of the fat in her thighs combusting and resumed his lecture; “I watched my Master burn as the first Magus to be set on a pyre... This is what you are risking- what we are risking.” Finally; the woman broke from her lengthy silence to release one, last howling scream of agony- sparking the crowds into a frantic frenzy of embraces and jeers... a celebration of gore- of cruelty that neither Neda nor Bartholomew could stomach.

The necromancer averted his eyes from the fire for but a moment and inevitably caught sight of the two Sargerrei brother- neither of whom could be more different from the other. Titus- brave and proud smiled a warm, joyous grin at the sight of the raging fires, whereas Bartholomew had the appearance of a man stricken not only by the current horrors, but conjoined with ones of his haunting past. As his eyes strayed ever-so-slightly to the left; he locked eyes with a pair of distant, deep-blue irises that seemed to see straight through the crowd- right into his very soul. It was as if time froze and every scream stopped dead in every trachea around them. Neda stopped struggling in his tight embrace and when next he looked towards the fire; he found that the white-haired woman had taken Neda’s place in his arms. The hood had been drawn back- allowing him to see her entire face for the first time. She was undoubtedly stricken with albinism- as revealed by the whiteness of her eyebrows and ciliae- she was nothing short of astoundingly beautiful. More importantly... for once in his life; he seemed not to mind the proximity. It seemed almost natural for him to hold her in his arms and stare into her deep, blue, enrapturing eyes.

“In a battle of fire against fire... I wonder which flame burns the brightest. White? Or green?” She spoke as she drew closer to his face. Every partition of his mind screamed for him to claim her- to take her right then and there in the frozen, still, silent crowd. Every second without having her burned his loins with the wretched fire of lust- he needed her. His body moved on its own to change its grip to feel her round, soft buttock in his left hand and cradle the back of her head with his right.

It only took a single blink to dispel the intrusion and when he did; he was staring into a pair of frightened, wide, red eyes and a panicked grimace. As much as he abhorred the psychomancer’s tricks, he hated this proximity even more. He dropped the wildling girl from his grip, only for her to grip him around his chest and press her weeping face into his shirt. This... was going to be a problem. The white-haired one needed to go.

As unnerved as Neda was at Asrael's sudden shift of moods, she was far more distressed by the horrifying, terrible visage of the now-limp woman's burning form. The hair atop her limp head melted and burned- her interstitial fluids boiled through the pores in her skin to form great streams of sticky, fatty liquors that evaporated as soon as they touched the burning wood.

"W-why are they screaming and laughing!?" Neda shouted in between her sobs into Asrael's shirt. The necromancer broke from his stupor to scan the crowds and speak through the faintest outline of a smile; "Because they do not know that soon, they will join her."

Bartholomew shambled through the streets- exhausted from his lengthy sleeplessness and the horrors he had witnessed. The crowds had eventually thinned to leave him there- alone and cold atop the wooden stage to stare down at woman’s ashes until late into the moonlit night... All that had been left of her once the embers died were the scorched cobblestones and a handful of dust... no, that was not all. Somewhere out there in the city, there was a girl- a child whose mother had just passed in a rhapsody of torment. "With any luck; you'll find your way out of here..." He muttered to himself. This was no place for magi- this world was no place for their kind... but Pilta... Pilta, more than any other place in the Empire, was a poor place to raise a child- the woman should've known better, but he could hardly fault her for hanging on to a semblance of hope- not when his clothes still reeked of her burning flesh.

He slammed the now-familiar door open in his continued stupor and shambled into Kester’s empty tavern to finally spill his guts out in a fountain of bile and acids onto the pristine, wooden furniture.

“What the fuck!?” Kester shouted as he saw the sweaty, filthy, ash-soiled man’s profile. Dreadfully; it took him a moment too long to realize who this stranger was- long enough to let the man lunge across the tavern to slam the bartender into the countertop and demand; “Take her out of the city immediately! If I see her around here; I will put you on the pyre next!”

In a frantic slur; the tavernkeeper shouted into the ancient wood; “She’sh already shafe! Already gone! Pyre me if you want- not giving her to you!” Bartholomew raised the man to his height before slamming him back-first onto the counter to glare a fierce leer of bared teeth at the disturbed keeper, only to see him return the favor. Kester spoke; “I don’t trust you... do what you need to me, but you'll never get them. They’re safe!” Bartholomew could not help but appreciate the bitterness in his tone- that confident, gleeful, honest voice of his. The wayward Sargerrei loosened his grip on the barman’s shirt before reaching down past the bar to grab a bottle of spirits. Without hesitation; he broke from his promise of sobriety by tearing the cork off with a satisfying, familiar *plop* and press the bottle to his lips.

Kester recovered from his indignant pose and stared at the madman with displeasure and caution. Somehow; he looked even more unhinged now than when he had last pummeled the shit out of the tavernkeeper. After a few mouthfuls; Bartholomew nodded his satisfaction and sat down on the stool to cradle his face in his palms. He drew a deep breath and muttered; “Good... then you are smarter than you look.”