The estimate had been wrong, if being right was what Tireliam cared about. A fortnight had passed and they were nearing exhaustion, both of Mind and resources. Greaves and undead miasma had raked the land dry of potential. Little point existed for him and his mages to remain in this carcass of an empire. To the eyes of history Aldren was never all that special. Why, even he had seen better.

From his tower balcony he watched the last Aldrenites mourn. The vast breadth of his vision sweeping over the waning embers. A thousand voices washed over his ears. His sight caught countless tears as they welled and drew ashen lines down their dirty faces. Their proximity to the Gerlapos Ridge usually brought them relief in the form of cool foehns. But the air was too dense with fire and death, and the wind felt like a moving mass, a heavy reminder that the citizens of Aldren will not survive.

In a removed corner of the citadel once reserved for young elites to come wet their youthful urges away from the judgmental eyes of propriety, an old woman sat on a couch, alone, in the dark. She stared at nothing. Her eyes were unfocused. A thumb and a finger absentmindedly rubbed a plain, metal loop around one of her other fingers. She had taken off every other piece of jewelry. She wasn’t sure why. The last time she had spoken a word was months ago.

On the fifteenth floor of the citadel’s noble condominiums, a trio of factory workers banged relentlessly on the locked door of a statesman’s room. The statesman’s skin looked ragged, not just from recent events, but from the massive amount of weight he had shed over a short period of time. He huddled with his arms around a woman he thought had married for power. Now he resolved to stand in front of the three angry workers when they eventually broke through, so his wife might escape with the swaddled bundle she kept close to her chest.

In one of the citadel’s many gardens a young boy withheld tears. He hugged a stuffed Berthen bird tightly, not caring if he was aggravating the seams that had broken long ago, spilling the cotton out in cloudy growths. Beside him was his butler, a wizened man whose decades of service had made him thin but mobile in his old age. He recalled when the boy’s parents gave him a chance to leave when war started. It had been an easy choice then and in retrospect. The boy stayed close to him as they walked the garden paths. Above them, dark clouds threatened to pour.

Tireliam leaned on the merlons overlooking his city. He watched it all, as if he had a duty to at least observe. Behind him, Divinator Malidy turned the pages of an old arcane tome she had already read before.

“We’ll need to Embark soon,” she said in a singsong tone. “Every day we stay increases our risk. The strings are at their limit.”

When she did not receive a reply she slammed the book shut, a move that could damage the book, and usually roused Tireliam from his distractions. The Highcaster paid her no mind. She approached him from behind, hands tucked behind her back.

Tireliam raised a hand off the merlon. A thin, precise spark of power coalesced around his fingers as he pinched the air. Then he pulled, as if plucking a feather. The spark was spent, a Spell had cast, and he rested his hand on the merlon again.

“Hello…?” Malidy pushed.

“Hm? What do you want, woman?”

“Why do we stay here?”

“The third line has kept them back for now.”

“Don’t treat me like an imbecile.”

Tireliam sighed. “Perhaps… Vulkachires is not as impressive as we once thought.”

Malidy’s eyes widened with glee. “Oh my gods don’t tell me you believe our Hero’s good intentions!”

“I have quite a few Spells left in my arcanery Faleria has not yet seen.”

“So it’s an ego thing. That’s more like the Liam I know.”

“Don’t test me.”

Malidy returned to the table to continue skimming the tome. She twirled a finger around a strand of hair as she did so.

“The cadres are getting restless as well,” she said. “They expected an exodus days ago, but are too afraid to inquire you about it.”

“Let them. Their nervousness would humanize them. We’ve always had a poor reputation in Aldren.”

“But that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“No. But we can learn from it.”

Malidy chuckled, as she often did at many of the things Tireliam said. The Highcaster had long assessed the Divinator as someone who found humor wherever people placed too much heart. For that alone she was indispensable. Plans that could not stand being mocked were likely to be full of holes. The same could be said of character. He could never tell her this of course, not now nor ever, for if he were to tell her in the future she might notice in the now.

For now there was still work to be done. Percival’s eccentricities had rubbed off on him; there was a chance Faleria might call for retreat. They had already taken the land and the people. Fighting further was wasteful. Yes, the Aldrenites just might live.

--

Percival awoke ready for battle. His plain clothes were soaked with sweat. Someone had stripped him of his armor. He felt his bedside in a panic, and felt cool relief when he found the hilt of his sword.

The citadel’s medical ward was home to rows and rows of beds. Doctors and nurses rushed about, straining what little supplies remained. A few mages were there as well working alongside the medical staff. Their palms were outstretched. Warm energies materialized through their fingertips to mend wounds and alleviate pain. Percival placed a hand on his neck. The rash had gone. He no longer felt the itch near casters. In fact he hadn’t felt better in years.

He heard Barathon approach from the side, recognizing the unique clinking of armor from the man’s nonchalant gait.

“How are you feeling my Lord?” He asked.

“Shut up you old cunt.”

Barathon laughed. He sat on an adjacent bed. His normally devil-may-care expression hardened.

“What happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” Percival replied honestly. “Must have been the fatigue. We’ve been fighting for weeks with a handful of hours of sleep every other night.”

“I mean in the beginning. Of your life.” Barathon’s brow narrowed. “Something happened to you. You said you became sensitive to casters, now you’re not itching away. People who are sensitive in that way are born like that, and are usually mages themselves. And they certainly don’t recover.”

Percival turned his head away from the healing mages to fully face the Captain. Barathon was a man who liked to slick his hair back into blond braids, but didn’t so much care about scars or dirt on his face. His beard grew like wildfire and had the color of it. Only his moustache had seen a trimming blade. His fingers were home to rings from old marriages. And for fifteen years Percival had known him to be the most forthcoming person a soldier can be. But he did lie if the alternative was a black truth.

It was difficult to hide things from a man who used dishonesty practically.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Percival said.

“For us, perhaps. But the Highcaster has always had an eye on you. You might survive this.”

“If that was true, would it not bother you?”

“Maybe I also have a way off this rotten continent.”

“The Faleri likely have us surrounded. The Ridge might be the only path of escape.”

“Maybe that’s my plan.”

Percival smiled. He drew a deep breath. “I think I have been dreaming.”

“Of what?” Barathon asked.

“I came from another world, Barathon. A land farther away than distance can describe. I was brought here to play a lonely god’s game. An impatient god, for he filled my head with this world’s language and basic contexts, traditions, the general zeitgeist of existence here, so I wouldn’t delay in forging a destiny. All for his curious consumption.

“The price was silence. If I revealed these origins to anyone here I would die.”

“You look right talkative to me.”

“Whatever Tireliam did, I don’t feel the god’s grip around my heart anymore. I am free. And it’s true, Tireliam did offer to take me away when the Faleri finally breach our citadel. But I don’t plan on taking the offer.”

Barathon raised a single eyebrow. “You wish to die here?”

“I don’t wish to die. But I have been dreaming. We’ve conquered many lands to fuel Aldren’s progress. We’ve trampled many a lesser tribe and bathed in their blood. And when we come back, we were hailed as heroes. I am hailed as a hero, and I have been more than happy to play the role. The truth is…” Percival grasped the scabbard of his sword and held it close to him. The ice within whispered to him as it had since he acquired it. The message hadn’t changed in content since he first heard its voice. Sleep, sleep forever… I shall bind you in eternal frost… I shall immerse you in the faces of my people… so you may dream forever of their anguish when your kind…

“…We’re carnivores,” Percival said. “We eat each other. That was the way in my old world, and it is the way here. Predators don’t get to be called heroes.”

“They do say old men grow guilty near the end of their lives and beg for admission into heaven.”

“There is no heaven where I’m from,” Percival said. “Funnily enough, I do believe there is one here, and I don’t want to go.”

“Hmm…” Barathon scratched his beard in thought.

“You don’t seem skeptical of such an insane story.”

“I haven’t a reason to disbelieve,” the Captain said with a shrug.

“You’ve been a good friend, Barathon.”

“Ha. I’m your only friend.”

They recalled previous battles together, and Percival talked of their similarity to the wars of his world. It gave him an inappropriate sense of pride to see how intrigued the man was to hear of another world’s weapons and tactics. There was less bureaucracy in warmaking when one’s fingertips manipulated power, rather than having to go through several chains of command just to move armies.

In the midst of their talk a disturbance entered through the medical ward’s entrance. Nurses escorted three men to the nearest available beds. They were bleeding from their eyes, mouth, ears.

“What the hell happened to them?” Barathon wondered out loud.

“Looks like Loshire district attire. Workers? But the industries haven’t been worked in months.”

“Ah who cares. Keep talking about those… flying machines? With the spinning blades and stationary wings.”

Percival relished this moment. It was a memory he’d keep close to him for the rest of his life. But the memory would have to be incomplete. He never got a chance to finish his story.