“Don’t worry about me.” Revan insisted, drawing Kat in for a hug. “I’ll be fine with the recruits. I’m more worried about you, after all.” He held her close for a moment before pulling back to gaze at her face. “I don’t know who’s coming with you, but don’t give them too much hell.” he smirked.

Kat punched his arm lightly, pouting. “And why shouldn’t I? Men are disgusting creatures, every last one.” she smiled. Alone in the tent, it was one of the few times that had to themselves before she had to go off to the Gates. Even so, they kept their voices low; there were not many in the camp who would care to eavesdrop on a conversation, but imprudence was never a virtue.

“Even me?” her fiance gasped in mock shock, pulling his hands away from hers. She laughed before leaning into his chest, rocking slightly against the cold armor. “I put up with you.” she replied, going up to plant a kiss on his lips. “Mmm...and besides,” she muttered, head swimming a little, “all this mud and dirt suits you.”

She looked up for a moment, her gaze catching his brown eyes before his lips caught hers once more. “I like the armor on you as well…” he mused, smiling appreciatively. “And the sword fits you quite well.”

Kat’s eyes glimmered teasingly as she asked, “Even more than that necklace you gave me?” His mouth twitched at the corner in a half-smile, and he pulled her in for a long kiss. “I liked the way you looked with that on as well, my lady. In fact, I would like to see you with nothing else.” he murmured, breath hot against her ear. Playfully, she nipped at his jaw in response, drawing a slight hiss from him that made her heartbeat start to race.

Yet footsteps outside the tent made them pull apart in an instant, both straightening their armor hastily. A slight smirk danced on her lips when she saw the dissatisfaction in Revan’s eyes, and she turned to face the entrance of the tent just as it opened.

“First Shield.” came a gruff voice, and she nodded in acknowledgement. Throwing one last glance at Revan, she made her way out of the tent and turned to the First Sword.

“Norus, was it?” she asked as they walked, and he nodded. “Do you know how we’ll be going to the Gates?”

He pointed towards the center of the encampment, and her eyes widened in surprise. “W-waygate?” she stammered in shock, and his mouth twitched into a smile. Yet there was no reply, and her gaze was drawn to his throat. A massive scar ran diagonally from jaw to collarbone, evidently healed by magic. Seeing her looking, he tilted his head as if in challenge.

“Sword?” she asked nervously, and he nodded. “But you can still speak?” He looked at her expressionlessly, his eyes unreadable. “Hurts.” was the terse reply before he broke the gaze, and they continued their walk in silence.

The waygate was a massive formation in the middle of the camp, formed from a circle of stones covered with runes. The runes served as a code of sorts, matching up with a corresponding waygate elsewhere in the land. Channelers powered it with magic, allowing for rapid transport of people—and in the largest cases even armies. With only limiting factor was the raw amount of fuel required to keep it open, and so for most of the time the waygate was closed.

We have channelers in the legion? The thought came as a surprise, because channelers were a rarity even in Altaros. She knew that they were nearly impossible to find in other lands—even in neighboring Malifor. For some reason, this country was the only place that would birth channelers. Yet even so, they were salt grains hidden in a pile of straw. For the Lord Florell to have one could only be described as immensely great fortune. It was likely, she realized suddenly, why he was so willing to march on the Capital.

“So they’ve come.” came the grunt as they neared the center of the camp, finding a small group already gathered there. Nine other men were gathered, most First Swords. Kat did not recognize them—they served under different leaders, but she did recognize the only Second Sword there: Ossus. He smirked as she approached, and a sinking feeling filled her chest. Yet she soon found her vision drawn to a bit of movement behind the men.

A young boy stepped out, perhaps of ten years at most, yet his cheeks were still round with baby fat and his fingers squat. He was accompanied by a Second Sword that she did not know, the man holding his hand as he waddled forward. The boy had a look of nervousness about him, like a child about to be tested. Yet Kat found her eyes drawn to his face, drawn to the black lines that covered the boy’s skin there. Channeler, she thought with a mixture of awe and dread. But he’s just a boy!

“Sir, it’s time to begin.” the Second Sword spoke, and she noticed the chains he held in his hand. Her eyes followed the metal along the ground, until she saw them connected to shackles. Shackles that bound the limbs and throats of four men, that clattered noisily as they shuffled forward. Slaves, came the realization, and they looked up at her with pathetic eyes.

These men were prisoners, perhaps captured from another House vying for the throne, perhaps miscreants in the cities, perhaps innocent men caught by slavers and sold at auction. They were not soldiers by trade, but rather laborers—she could tell from the callouses on their hands that bulged while the rest of their bodies shriveled in malnourishment. Their eyes were empty, their gazes tired and lost. Yet when they turned to look at the boy she saw something similar flash through their eyes. She saw the raw terror in all of them as they looked at the boy, at the channeler.

“Ok.” the child replied nervously, his feet squirming as he closed his eyes. Breathing slowly, he raised his chubby hands before beginning to chant. The gibberish rolled out of his mouth in a steady cadence, and the air began to buzz with an electric power, her hair tingling as the spell began.

“W-what are the slaves for?” she whispered to Norus beside her, afraid that she might interrupt the spell with her talking. The First Sword glared at her before gazing at them, his eyes suddenly becoming fixed.

“Fuel.”

Fuel, he said, and she felt ice push through her veins. Kat could only watch as the boy began to convulse, steam billowing from his eyes and ears as his chant grew ever louder. She watched in astonishment as purple strands began to pour out of his fingertips, dancing like ribbons as they unwound through the air. She could only watch as the shackles around the slaves began to tremble, glowing with runes, and then purple strings began to pour out of their mouths.

They were screaming, their bodies tense and their veins bulging as they trembled, the cords not so much dancing as writhing. It was as if they were being torn out, forced out, and they fought against whatever will commanded them. Yet that struggle proved to be in vain, as the twitching of the magic gradually abated. They bundled together, forming a massive mass that sunk into a pile of stones.

The very instant that the purple ribbons touched the stones, they began to glow with runic symbols. Quivering as if they were alive, they slowly began to lift into the air. Circling and carried by the purple magic, they gradually formed an arc in the air. Like some archway, they outlined a gateway. Crackling purple sparks danced along the edge as the boy’s chanting reached a fever pitch, the steam curling off their bodies shrouding the waygate. The slaves twitched feebly on the ground, lying in a puddle of blood and bile that reeked even from this distance. Crimson wept from their eyes, tracing red rivers down their cheeks as their breathing grew ragged and erratic. They will be dead soon, she thought to herself, and she knew it to be true. The air was upon them.

The purple continued to line the archway, the steam gathering until it formed a dense surface that plumed into the air. When the chanting finally died away, the boy collapsed onto the ground, supported by his Second Sword. He was gasping hard, his face covered in sweat. “Did I do a good job?” he gasped out, his eyes glazed over and unfocused. “Aye, sir.” his companion responded, and a faint smile crossed the boy’s lips as he fell unconscious.

Kat much preferred to look at the sleeping boy over the dying slaves. Conflicted feelings arose inside of her, a torrent emotions that she did not know how to sort out. Instead, she tore her eyes away from them. She looked at the waygate, its edge crackling purple that danced across floating stones. Vague, indistinct symbols covered those rocks, unclear no matter how hard she tried to focus on them. In the middle was a cloud of smoke—a screen that billowed and steamed, although it seemed unaffected by the wind.

Waygates required a corresponding waygate on the other side, to become connected. On the other side, she mused, gazing into that roiling screen of smoke. Yet she could not make out anything, not even a silhouette. The Gates are on the other side.

“Well then, the channeler’s done his job.” Ossus remarked dryly. As the only Second Sword, he had the highest rank here—it was only natural that he was the leader. They formed a line, Kat and Ossus at the end, before slowly walking forward into that mist. It seemed to swallow them whole past a certain point, once enough of their body had entered. It wrapped out around them, pulling them in through the threshold.

No turning back now, she told herself, and before she knew it she was next in line to enter. Her feet stopped, refusing to listen to her commands. She stood there stiffly, staring at that ever-shifting surface of the waygate.

“What’s wrong, First Shield?” came the oily voice behind her, and she whirled around in anger. Yet before she could do anything, two hands pushed her into the waygate and she stumbled inside. “Try not to die, whore.” were the only words she heard before the steam wrapped around her with a strange elasticity, blinding her and stealing away her senses.

Die? The thought was alarming, making her heart suddenly race. She could see nothing, could feel nothing. Darkness swallowed her, and then she felt a sharp pain in her fingertips. It started at the nails, working its way up to her knuckles. They it took her wrists away, working its way to her elbow. Her legs as well, from the toes to the knees to the hips. There were stabbing, lancing pains as they were torn away from her.

She felt teeth digging into her flesh, stealing away more and more pieces of her in the darkness. She wanted to scream, yet she could not even hear herself. She could only soundlessly wail as it tore away chunks of her stomach, as it ate her lungs. Then it took her heart from her, and surely she died. Surely she died?

Then it took her neck, and her unheard screams stopped. Her jaw next, working up to her ears. Her eyes were gouged out of the sockets with claws, then her skull was cracked. Finally it took her mind in one large chunk, and she died.

Surely I’m dead?

Light. There was light. Something was pushing her forward, for she had no legs of her own. And she stumbled forward into the light, feeling a suddenly stabbing pain pierce through every fiber of her being. Toes, fingers, stomach, lungs, throat, eyes, every aspect of her being had been torn away and then stitched back together. She did not scream, not because she could not, but because her throat refused to obey her.

She stumbled onto the stones, tumbling onto her knees with a shuddering gasp. A strong arm caught her before her face struck stone. Her vision swam, her heart racing, and she struggled to stand. When she had finally caught herself, she looked around. The other soldiers were all standing, and as she turned she saw the smoke part and Ossus step out.

“The Gates.” he smiled, his arms thrown out wide.