Lesfid Arber.

Valia Willow.

Their party entries were grayed-out but not blackened like Lord Wygal Magnair’s had been. They were still alive, out there on lawless land during the worst winter in decades, at one of Freya’s bases, suffering as prisoners. Prisoners of this senseless conflict.

On a sidewalk bench, Isen Lothar drank a mouthful of steaming black tea from his enchanted flask. A street lamp’s crystal flickered out. The dawn sun rose above Greenwood’s eastern wall, cast long shadows across Corel Park’s snowy open fields, and warmed his face. Not a single civilian was in sight, town-wide lockdown still in effect.

Behind, two parties from the Royal Guard, including Isen’s, surrounded the Town Morgue, a two-story stone building in the shape of a giant coffin, a standard building designed by the gods themselves. Wygal’s frozen body rested inside—because of Isen’s failure, partly at least. Because, as a party tank, it was his job to keep everyone safe and to not panic, and he had panicked in the grip of Sorath’s mind attack. No excuses.

Boots kicked through snow. Black dragonhide scales glinted as Torvac sat down. The old Blademaster was glum-faced, his eyes bloodshot. He was less imposing than usual, more timid; Sorath’s mind attack had severely shaken him. He asked, “Have you been up all night?”

“I have.” Sniffing, Isen gulped tea. Heat filled him, but his center remained cold and heavy. “Have you heard from Hyera yet?”

“The Hexblade has been added to List C.”

Isen nearly chuckled. “How unexpected.”

“You sound pleased that your friend is bound for death.”

“I wouldn’t call him my friend. Past classmate, sure. But friend? After what he’s done now?” Isen’s head shook. “I still can’t believe it.” Betrayal. Faction desertion. For a bandit gang. Laughable! Insanity!

After a long moment, Torvac asked, “What of Fire Mage Willow? You two were close.”

Isen glanced at her party entry. Grayed-out. She wasn’t going to suddenly show up at the town’s gates. Zero chance. “You can say that,” he sighed. “We’re childhood friends, though she often left town for months and years. But we… We were close.”

Torvac had a look of understanding. “You want to rescue her.”

“Anyone would. You don’t?”

“I didn’t say that.” Torvac drank from a small flask. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee was strong. “Trust me when I say she will not be harmed, not during this winter. Freya is wise. She’ll know how valuable Willow is right now. And if she falls…” He leaned closer, then whispered, “You didn’t hear this from me. A Monument is under construction. New magics and tech will be unlocked, which may include resurrection—”

“I know.”

Torvac’s forehead lumped up. “Lord Hyera holds a high opinion of you.”

Isen said, “Valia told me about the Monument. Hyera told me Wygal can still be saved but didn’t say how; he probably doesn’t trust me after yesterday’s disaster.”

“A high opinion indeed, even after yesterday’s fiasco.”

“You think so?”

“If the lord,” Torvac gravely said, “considered you untrustworthy or unworthy of his time, he would not waste breath with you or entrust you any job. You should take it as a compliment that he personally takes minutes out of his day to council you on your missteps. It’s only to be expected, because much is expected, as you know well. For now, keep your head down and wait for another opportunity to prove yourself.”

Isen watched eleven foggy breaths dissolve before giving a little nod. He could always count on one of his old mentors to give comforting advice whether the advice was smart or not. What was the smartest thing to do? Every last fiber in his body and soul was pulling him toward the wilderness, to rescue Valia. But he couldn’t refute how idiotic that would be.

I let her down.

Joints popped as Isen stretched his arms and back. Flesh at the base of his skull was especially sore in the lingering effects of Sorath’s dark mind attack. Those illusions had dealt real damage. An ultimate ability. An ultimate ability of unbridled cruelty. Why would the gods allow such power to exist? It was an affront against all civility.

Isen rubbed his sore eyes. The snowy park gyrated back and forth in a bout of vertigo.

“Go rest,” Torvac said. “I will take over from here.”

Isen nodded, mechanically stood, and marched up a steep hill toward Greenwood’s central walled-off inner district where noble and wealthy families lived, where the Royal Keep towered above all. Roads were cleaner-cut. Houses were all at least two floors and made of high-quality stone, mostly white marble like the Keep. Lothar Manor was four letterboxes from the east gate, overlooking Corel Park.

Isen hastily unequipped his armor, stuffed it into his pouch, then touched a circular crystal on the front door of the family manor, unlocking its security enchantment. In the foyer, air was dry and warm, also an enchantment. A chandelier sparkled as though filled with a hundred stars plucked from the heavens. Carpet fibers were long and soft, ever-clean. Spotless walls were off-white. Windows were double-glazed, though they didn’t need to be.

To the right, voices were in the central living area.

“Father,” Aaren said, “I think we should stay. I think Lord Hyera is overreacting. Lord Magnair was just one man who overestimated his strength. The town isn’t in danger. We don’t need to leave, or even this lockdown.” Very well-spoken, and his voice was rich and clear, as usual during winter. It was only during Spring and Summer that his lung malady was in effect.

Father exhaled and said, “What you or I think is irrelevant. What matters is, I will not stand by while this unfolds.”

“But why?” Aaren said.

“It’s none of your concern,” Father said. “None of our concern. We are not royals or their guard, so the time has come for us to leave. There will be a secret convoy leaving tonight for noble families like ours.”

Aaren made a noise of frustration. “Mother, why do we have to leave?”

“Listen to your father, please.”

As if to announce arrival, Isen strummed notes on Mother’s grand golden harp as he walked in. He stood next to the fireplace, which was quietly crackling with fire mana embers. His cheeks thawed. He spoke with a lord’s voice, “I’ll tell him. A town-wide lockdown is the first stage of war preparations. Until now, King Desiric and his court has largely tolerated the bandit presence to the east. Now because a High Lord was murdered, enough is finally enough. Reinforcing raid parties from the kingdom will be coming. Many innocents will die.”

Mother and Father had somber faces.

But Aaren’s wide eyes narrowed in confusion. “What do you mean innocents will die? Those bandits won’t get past the faction line if—”

“Brother,” Isen said more gently, “let me ask you, for how long has those bandit gangs been out there?”

Aaren, thirteen-years-old, frowned. “As long as I can remember.”

“Then would it be,” Isen slowly said, “reasonable to say they have built functioning social structures to support aging populations? Albeit small populations.” Growing populations. Land-hungry populations. The rumors couldn’t be anything but true. There were dozens to hundreds of families living in their settlements.

“So…” Aaren’s frown twisted. “So you mean they will just grow old and die, so we don’t really have to do anything to—” Realization struck him like a steel-clad fist to his nose. “They must have families by now. Do they have schools? Like the School of Adventuring?”

Isen’s nod was forced. “The high lords have been utmost lenient; they’ve given Freya and Taul countless opportunities of fair surrender despite worsening confrontations over the years. This will be the worst, and last, battle between Cyesten and their gangs. Many innocents will die, and many innocent raiders will die, but it’s a necessary black stain on this faction’s tapestry. Pray that the gods will forgive and see our cause.”

“It was always inevitable,” Father said, eyes stoic.

The weight of this situation was squashing the last of Aaren’s childhood innocence. The man he was to be was emerging. He swallowed, the small bulge in his neck bobbing. “They don’t have to die if they haven’t done anything wrong. They can surrender.”

“They can,” Father said, “but you know how battles over territory usually unfold. War is messy affair.” It was taught in history classes at school. Innocents tended to be killed indiscriminately. Or used as hostages and human shields.

Mother tried to smile, but it came out as a look of squeamishness. “As we said, we won’t stand by while this happens. We’ll be heading to Cherrywood; the lord there is a very kind man. We hope he will understand our point of view.”

“But to just leave?” Aaren said. “It’s cowardice. We should band together, all the noble families, and—”

“And what?” Father’s voice was commanding. “The orders have already been stamped and sealed by the High Lord himself. Doing so would only mark us with treason. Be thankful we have even been granted right to leave during lockdown.” Granted. More like noble and rich families have bribed Hyera for the right.

“I understand, Father,” Aaren begrudgingly said.

And with that, the decision was settled for three members of the Lothar family here at Greenwood. Indeed, Isen was to stay. Stay by the morgue and guard Magnair’s body. Keeping that corpse safe was his path to atonement. For his greatest failure yet. He had brought disgrace to the Lothar family.

Isen excused himself and walked back into the hallway, up a spiral staircase. His head passed less than an arm-length from the chandelier. Up close, these glittering sparks reminded him of Valia’s fiery magics. Valia, whose party entry was still grayed out. Captured. But alive.

She was more than fine. Isen had confidence that she could take care of herself.

Head shaking, Isen stripped off his linen underclothing and stepped into his personal bathroom. Tiles were polished white marble, not a speck of dirt. The crystal shower head was warm to touch. Hot water flowed with precisely the right level of pressure that it relieved tension in his muscles, washed away lingering aches from Sorath’s mind attack. One could easily take this luxury for granted, but regular stays at the Royal Barracks had made him far more appreciative of the family manor.

This was worth protecting.

Greenwood and Cyesten were worth protecting and spilling blood for.

Righteous favor was on his side. Those bandit gangs were to be dismantled, and surviving innocents would be new members of Cyesten, given clean slates under the seal of Cyesten’s Royal Insignia. This was the will of the gods. This was why he, Isen Lothar, was alive during these harsh times. His divine duty.

Out of habit, Isen let himself relax, standing meditatively under running hot water. If he weren’t already max level, he would be soaking up experience points. His eyes drifted through the window, through thickening snowfall, to Corel Park’s frozen pond where tufts of ambient icy mana danced among each other and merged into solid chunks. Like hovering piles of animated snow-covered cubes, Ice Elementals were spawning and wandering about. They were docile, pretty things.

Then as snowfall intensified into a borderline blizzard, a whirlwind of ribbon-like icy mana at the frozen pond consumed every elemental. Dense mist exploded, a wall of mist blowing straight at the manor, harmlessly.

An open-world elemental boss.

Greed tempted Isen to go out there, but lightheaded exhaustion won. He breathed through a yawn, shut off the water flow, and sauntered off to bed. Droplets evaporated off his body under this bathroom’s enchantments.