After overcoming the heathen horde, the colony spent only a moment in celebration before returning to work. Everyone prepared for another attack. Medics delivered the injured to Dimitry. Fishermen prodded the ocean shallows to confirm the watcher’s death. Saphiria’s blacksmiths plucked steel shards from the beach and rushed to cast another cannon. Soldiers dragged heathen corpses across the sand and frozen dirt and brought them to Moritz’s masons, who repurposed them for barrier repairs.

Even as they labored, people watched the sky with wavering eyes, anticipating the terror that struck at the end of every month. No one knew if the midday raid would be the last.

Dimitry’s plan was untrodden ground. He urged his followers to be ready for anything. The last thing he wanted was for another horde to catch his colony off guard and destroy everything they’ve built.

However, even as day transitioned to night, and a colossal moon rayed brilliant green through obsidian clouds, the water remained calm. Carriers didn’t emerge from the depths. Fliers didn’t swarm. Not a crawler in sight. For the first time in decades, the Night of Repentance was peaceful.

There was no cheering. No hoots or hollers. In the tranquil stillness, thousands gathered in the northern forest, watching verdant sparks burst between mighty oaks, admiring a beauty that for once did not accompany war. Though the occasion was one of lamentation, hope weaved through the mourning, and what was born transcended words.

A fitting atmosphere, Dimitry thought. He stood on a rough podium overlooking his audience.

It was a crowd of three parts. Volmer refugees circled the wide perimeter, Hospitallers formed the center, and the families of those who perished in the struggle knelt beside a bottomless ravine that had served as the Church’s burial ground for over a century.

Dimitry memorized verses for the occasion. The ‘Prayer of Parting’, as the gospel called it. Hours of reading and rereading and rewriting, and now those words would soothe the bereft, inspire the living, and recruit the uninitiated. So many agendas for what should have been a ceremony in honor of them. But just like a good physician, a good leader didn’t prioritize the dead. Only those left. How ironic that a military funeral should bolster Dimitry’s strength.

His fist tightened as he scrolled across a sea of enraptured stares. Despite thirty unmoving bodies—spare cloth entombing their remains by the chasm’s edge—people communicated their praise through tempered quietude, hanging on the silence between his gestures.

He spoke over the whispering wind and scattered sobs. “We gather here tonight to honor the legacy of the fallen. They used to be farmers and herders. Brewers and cobblers. Millers and weavers. But as they watched the corruption consume Remora, they knew they could stand aside no longer, and to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect their homeland and those they loved, to purge evil so that true justice could thrive, they rose above and marched to the coast as Celeste’s followers did long ago, and even as heathens marched against them, bringing wrath and fury and chaos, they fought for what was right. And now, just look around.”

A lumberjack grasped at a green speck of exhaust that had already vanished when his hand opened.

“This calm is theirs. This Night of Repentance, so often wrought with devils and suffering, is theirs. We are here tonight not only to grieve their loss, but to admire their heroism, to honor the sacrifice for which we owe our peace. Their lives may have ended, yet their legacy is immortal. History will remember them just as we remember Celeste. We will never forget!”

Guns blared behind Dimitry. Three volleys worth of black powder wafted around him as sulfurous white smoke.

A kid stood on the tips of his toes. His gaze swerved past saluting Hospitallers to appreciate the ‘holy weapons’ and the venerated warriors that had once wielded them. Grime may have soiled the young man’s tunic, torn after a recent trek from Volmer, but his eyes gleamed with the promise of glory.

He was not alone. Identical responses among many of the latest refugees proved theatrics a formidable tool.

Yet that wasn’t what caught Dimitry’s attention. His expression softened when he spotted a mother kneeling over her motionless son. Though tears streamed down her cheeks, her chest swelled with pride. She swept a hand over his face and closed his eyes.

Whether in the emergency department or these woods, the sight was never a pleasant one, and as Dimitry did back then, he let no more of his emotions show than a sympathetic frown. “Now, let us send them to Zera’s side, where they may rest in her eternal embrace. I have no doubt that she will meet their bravery with open arms.”

With a last farewell, the mother pushed her son off the edge into the ravine. The other deceased followed him down, between the rock faces, vanishing into the deep dark.

Slowly at first, boots stomped, the rumbling of the ground growing louder as thousands joined the stationary march. It was a knock on Remora’s core—one that informed Zera of her latest visitors. They carried on until the last drop of sentiment had gone, discharged into the dirt as kinetic energy.

When Dimitry raised his hand, silence took hold once more. But this one was different.

Countless gazes stared up at him, and despite the losses and an arduous month, even the eyes of the newcomers and elderly burned with determination. They seemed to ask, ‘what next?’

Dimitry filled their heads with hope. About his plans for the future, the city that will rise from the shore, food and shelter for all. How today’s victory sowed the seeds for an incandescent future.

Only minutes had passed since, and already a long line of refugees snaked between the trees. Hundreds wished to join the holy army. Dimitry expected most of them to venture further to the guaranteed safety of the southern kingdoms. He was wrong. Claricia struggled to cram their names and occupations into her notebook.

And in the distance, the enthused shouting of the Hospitaller rang across the coast as they plucked stone feathers from the ground and patched tents disfigured by corrosive blood. Dimitry suggested they rest since construction would soon begin, but perhaps his speech had been too rousing.

With almost everyone gone, he took the vacating funeral site as an opportunity to offer his personal condolences to the families of the fallen. Dimitry was the one who sent their children and spouses to war, and he was the one that failed to heal their injuries. The least he could do was give the survivors time off to grieve and a share of what little of his money remained as compensation.

His gesture was met with shock. Apparently, when a Zera’s Chosen died, the Church never had more to share than a prayer and a bowl of gruel. Everyone refused.

Dimitry felt that the citizens of this world were overly familiar with the pain of loss. Troubled by forgiveness that came too easily, he approached the last person in need of consolation—a girl at the ravine’s furthest end.

Red-brown curls swaying in the wind, she stood alone, staring deep into the abyss. Angelika glanced back at the crunching of his footsteps. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I really liked your prayer, speech… thing.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Her pensive orange eyes returned to the pit.

The girl’s solemnity concerned Dimitry. She was only nineteen, a child, and for her to see death at her command couldn’t have been easy. “Everything alright?”

“She’s feeling mushy and sad and inspired and kinda—“

Cheeks flushing pink, Angelika shoved at her waist, muffling the high-pitched voice eking from her robe. “I’m-I’m alright. Why? What’s up? Did something happen?”

Dimitry sighed. “Since when did you two get along well enough for you to hide a faerie under your clothes?”

A second head, much smaller than the first, popped out from Angelika’s collar. Precious shook away the golden bangs blowing into her face. “Because I won the battle for her. Did you see that kaboooosh? I did that. Me.”

“Stop. Peeking. We’re screwed if anyone sees you!”

“Keep worrying so much and you’ll get wrinkles.”

“Seriously, shut up!”

He stroked his chin. “So that’s why the troops are gossiping about a glowing faerie before the blast. And I was wondering how you pulled off a perfectly timed explosion from so far away.”

Angelika threw on her hood and clicked her teeth. “I know. I get it. Shouldn’t have been seen.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. I plan to introduce faeries as our allies. Maybe this little rumor can help us.”

“Yeah!” Precious cheered.

“Besides, I’m glad you asked for help.” Dimitry stroked the proud faerie’s neck with his fingertip. “You’re both okay, and your shrewd thinking saved… I don’t even know how many lives. I shudder to imagine how many would’ve died if you just blindly followed mine and Warnfrid’s orders. I’m proud to call you my officer.”

Shoulders scrunching to her ears, Angelika shrunk to half her size. And then, when she looked down past the greenish dark as if at the bodies of the soldiers beyond, her posture slumped. “How about them?” she whispered. “Do you think they’re proud to call me their officer?”

He pulled the girl in for a snug side hug. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“That’s good.”

Surprisingly, Precious didn’t spoil the extended silence. The faerie had come a long way since they met in Ravenfall.

“I’ve decided.” Angelika sniffled. “From now on, no more fucking around. I’m gonna give it my all. I’ll be the best damned officer this side of the western mountains. Promise.”

Like an older brother watching his sister grow up, pride welled within Dimitry. The tension he harbored in the pit of his stomach loosened, no longer seeking to remind him that he coerced a girl to fight his war. She was strong-willed. And she was capable. Nothing more to it. “I’m counting on you.”

A small hand reached from behind Angelika’s hair to pat her temple. “That’s the spirit.”

“Stop or I’ll kill you.”

“So angry.”

Dimitry retracted his generous assessment of Precious. Still, hearing them bicker provided a much-needed chuckle.

A heated teasing followed, and not long after, a teary yawn came from Angelika’s robe. “I’m sleepy. Take me home.”

“You can just fly home.”

“Is that how you treat your savior?”

Angelika rolled her eyes and turned to Dimitry. “Yo, Holiness. Wanna come?”

“I think I’ll stay here a little longer. You two go on ahead and do your best not to strangle each other along the way.”

“No promises,” they said in unison. And with that, they were gone.

Dimitry took his turn alone by the pit. He stood there for a while, gazing into the green-lit darkness, wondering how far it stretched and whether the newest additions lay mangled atop the skeletons of eras past. What a brutal otherworldly ritual. Not that trapping people in caskets or turning them to ash was much better.

The sole pair of high heels for miles around neared, crunching through snow and clacking against the stiff ground beneath. “Is this spot taken?”

“It is now,” he said.

Saphiria joined him, the gold-laced red dress she wore frolicking in the breeze. “The apostle soothes the souls of the stricken, but when he is troubled, none are around to listen.”

“You come up with that one?”

“I did.” She looked up at him with big, compassionate eyes.

“Don’t worry yourself over me,” Dimitry said. “I’ll be fine.”

“After the many times you lent me a patient ear, I wish to return the favor.”

“It’s nothing serious. Losing people sucks, but when the alternative is an entire kingdom, the choice is obvious.”

“Perhaps in mind. Yet the heart does not beat to logic and numbers.”

Dimitry glanced at the girl, who in her early twenties had already been through more than a geriatric in a nursing home. “I suppose you’re right.” He inhaled sharply, cold air rushing through his nostrils. “It’s just that I promised them we’d reclaim the coast, where they’d build houses and raise families. But this is where they wound up. A ditch in the middle of nowhere.”

“Nothing of consequence is ever won without sacrifice.”

“Yeah. Things never go as smoothly as we imagine.”

Saphiria stepped closer and rubbed small circles on his back. He shot her an inquisitive frown, but she held her ground, indigo irises staring right back at him without her pausing the reassuring gesture. Dimitry said nothing. No point in reprimanding the stubborn. And it was nice to have the company of someone who could relate.

They listened to the distant roars of the Hospitaller—whose jubilation sourced from the anticipation of their new homes—and watched recently recruited refugees gossip like schoolgirls, awaiting their examination day to become full-fledged members of the holy army.

“I am no different from them,” Saphiria said. “My heart leapt with joy at your words. It is really coming—the day that a barrier will defend my people once more. Even now, I wish to waltz across the frontier and take you with me.”

Dimitry couldn’t suppress his smile. “Appreciate the compliment, but I prefer to avoid dancing when possible. Especially when there’s so much to be done. We still need resources and planning and wells and all that’s just the beginning.”

“Arduous tasks indeed, but they can be completed safely now that the new moon has arrived and the Hospitaller stand on their own.”

She was right. Compared to surviving in an overgrown woodland without food or shelter and heathens coming from every which way, things were looking good. So good that Dimitry struggled to believe his fortune. Perhaps the sacrifice was worth the gain.

“Y-Your Royal Highness!” the rushed voice of a man sped across the field. He vaulted from his horse and ran forth with scrolls tucked under his arms.

Saphiria’s arm retracted. “Forgive me.”

“Royal duties come first.”

Meeting with the messenger, she loosened ribbons from letters one by one, reading each, eyes widening as she devoured their words faster than the tales of chivalrous knights and sorceresses she binged every night by candlelight. “Dismissed.”

Before the breathless man could mount up, Saphiria was already back at Dimitry’s side.

“Something happen?” he asked.

“A raid struck Malten.” Her upbeat tone contrasted with the nature of the news.

“And that’s a good thing?”

“It is tonight. The heathens were few and unorganized. Lady Mira eliminated them with haste, and even Sir Richter is pleased. For once, he reports that the northern border did not recede this month.”

Saphiria’s point was clear: eliminating the watcher somehow lessened her country’s burden. Perhaps that thing’s influence reached further than Dimitry thought. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

She stepped up to him, shoulders squared and a gleam in her eye. “And you must be happy, too. We can leverage this. Resources, skilled workers, ships—anything you need to hasten your city’s construction. You can get it all.”

Gears turned inside Dimitry’s head. Now he understood her point. “What do you have in mind?”

“In three days, there will be a meeting in the royal court to discuss the Night of Repentance. All you need is to make a flashy entrance. I shall handle the rest.”

“A flashy entrance, huh? That much I can do.”

Doors, cellars, and shuttered windows thrust open. An ale maiden pushed past a curtain, her gown soaking up thawing ice as she leaned over a frosted balcony to catch a glimpse of the commotion on Malten’s streets. A man whose face burned red slammed back against a rusty support beam. Carts swerved off the road. Children snapped the chalk they pressed against brick and mortar walls and stood in awe.

“The crier wasn't lyin'!” a voice leaked from a twisting alley.

“T-they’re back! They’re really back!”

“What’s that they’re carrying?”

Citizens gawked at the Hospitallers marching down west main street. Guns holstered over their shoulders, over a hundred soldiers tromped in practiced unison to the beat of Angelika’s cadence. She led them from the fore, and just ahead of her walked Dimitry. He wore a determined scowl—the kind that implied overwhelming victory.

It was Saphiria’s idea. She had asked him to appear powerful, and that doing so would net Dimitry the immense capital he needed to kick-start a city. Though he trusted the girl, her rush back to Malten left little time for specifics. He hoped he wasn’t wasting time. A lull in heathen attacks made the first days of the month safest. Every second had to count. Bystanders kneeling as he passed, his army reached the market square and circled the podium at its center.

Angelika raised her hand. “Aim!”

Silvery barrels tilted up, gleaming in the sparse sunlight.

“Release!”

Gunfire blared, echoing through vacated market stalls and resonating across the rounded walls of adjoined taverns, stores, and guild buildings. Then there was silence. Hands pressed to their ears, shoppers watched with dilated eyes.

Did Dimitry overdo it? While the guns had shot blanks, and black powder couldn’t match the dangerous cries of modern arms, he probably caused a migraine or ten.

However, instead of retreating, civilians reached into their pouches. Coins jingled all around. A little girl ran up with the change she got from her mother and offered it to a young soldier. One by one, the devout approached and pressed copper and silver marks into the hands of the Hospitaller.

Dimitry leaned towards Angelika. “What’s going on?”

She squirmed to explain a convoluted topic while trying to maintain a dignified composure. “Like, so, I don’t know how it is where you’re from, but, you know how there’s Chosen?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, since the Church only pays them with food and water and housing and stuff, it’s customary for people to give them money when they return from the coast. You know, so they can buy shit while they’re here. Me and my sisters used to do it all the time as kids. Mom always gave more to the handsome ones. It was kinda awkward.”

Sounded like the Church not to pay their soldiers. Then again, neither did Dimitry. Not yet. While draining money from the working class troubled him, his coastal investment didn’t come cheap. The least the public could do was give him a helping hand with wages until he got an economy going.

Fist full of change, the Hospitaller continued their march. They spared sidewards glances along the way at beef pastries and mead and any other delicacy that didn’t come from the sea.

Dimitry empathized with them. No matter the high price of smoked fish, anything eaten all day, every day swiftly lost its flavor. He’d let them run amok later. For now, he set his sights on filling his own pockets.

The knights guarding the city’s inner gates lowered their halberds and knelt at his approach. As did the other residents of the luxurious castle district.

Shouts bellowed as merchants ordered laborers to pull hand-drawn off the sprawling road. On his knees, a fur peddler held stacked hands forward, two gold coins on top. Across from him, a lady raised the hem of her colorful skirt as her decorated hose braved the moist brick road. She fished inside her purse.

How unlike last month. Back then, Malten’s nobility offered Dimitry pleasantries, making excuses when he asked for monetary assistance. And now that armed troops trailed behind him, they scrambled to help.

Saphiria was right. The powerful didn’t bow before good intentions or human decency. They cared only for strength.

Which Dimitry now had. He didn’t think twice taking their offerings.

“Your Holiness!” A lanky man in a blinding green tunic twirled a hand overhead. “Surely your brave men and women will struggle to purify heathens in those!”

Two wagons rolled up, boots brimming to the top. Though simple, their leather sheened, and the sturdy make was an improvement over the peeling footwear husks most Hospitallers wore.

Dimitry had met the man before. He was Gratius Schumacher—the baron who had tried to sell him some gaudy crystal-encrusted sandals. “And what do I owe?”

“Owe?” Arm across his chest, Gratius bowed. “I only wish to do my part.”

If Precious had accompanied Dimitry, she’d probably tell him the baron was acting in his self-interest. Her talents were better used for vetting recruits like she and Ignacius were doing back at the settlement. “They’ll be put to good use.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Gratius wasn’t the only donor. Others emerged from inns and vacation homes to offer everything from mounds of dehydrated milk to stacks of fresh cabbage.

Dimitry left the goods under a platoon’s watchful gaze. With Angelika and the rest of the troops in tow, he advanced towards the castle.—that was where the real prize lay in wait.

A court sorceress met him at the entrance steps. She broke from her tradition of silence and greeted him with a, “Your Holiness.”

Dimitry enjoyed the woman’s company during her stay at the colony. Conversation wasn’t her specialty, but quiet competence always trumped rash blathering. “Good afternoon, Lady Anelace.”

“Her Royal Majesty and Her Royal Highness await you.” She waved her arm, yellow sleeve dangling with the motion, and the royal knights opened a gold-glowing gate, scraping the polished granite sill beneath.

The troops ogled a corridor of marble and the sturdy double doors at their furthest end, which creaked ajar at their approach. They fumbled into the throne room and admired pillars of gleaming white, red banners trimmed with gold, and a blue carpet leading to the seats of royalty.

Nobles and knights and sorceresses lined the halls. Their gazes flickered between the queen, the apostle they could no longer ignore, and the steel weapons his troops wielded. Breathlessness choked the room.

Saphiria gave him a knowing nod.

He smiled back as he knelt, signaling that he grasped his objective. Like moneybags ripe for plundering, opportunistic vassals stood all around, ready to cough up capital if Dimitry proved that investing in him would secure their territory. Unlike last month, this time, he came prepared.

Amelie slammed a scepter against the floor. The thunk reverberated across the walls and culled what little chatter remained. “Dimitry. Welcome home.”

“It’s good to be back, Your Royal Majesty.”

“The outstanding results of your expedition have already reached my court. A secure coast, a felled heathen horde, the establishment of a colony. You have done well.”

“Your praise honors me.”

“And yet, there is tell of more interesting rumors.” She leaned forward on her throne. “They say your triumphs have struck fear into the heathens’ hearts, throwing them into disarray on the Night of Repentance, allowing my vassals to dispatch them with ease. I have heard the tale from others. Now, I’ll hear it from you.”

Dimitry raised his head. “Your Royal Majesty, I'm happy to divulge the details, but in the interest of saving time, would you prefer to see them instead?”

Curious glances bombarded him.

Amelie’s crimson eyes narrowed. “Very well.”

“B-bring it!” Angelika’s shout cracked into a squeak.

Troops entered from the corridor, hauling a sandwich of layered tarps that sank with a heavy mass. They lowered the evidence onto the floor.

Gazes sharp as if to pierce the black cloth, men in uniforms and women in elaborate gowns edged closer.

Dimitry strode forth. He clutched a handful of moist fabric, and with a dramatic pause, threw the covering aside.

Gasps sounded as a massive flier came into view, drained of blood and severed down the spine.

The queen straightened her graying black updo. “So it’s true…”

“We call it the watching devil,” Dimitry said. “This thing is why the heathens organized and strategized, terrorizing the entire kingdom. But as long as my soldiers have everything they need to watch over the coast, nothing like it will threaten Malten again. That I promise.”