‘There is a possibility that Horyd Coeden, or his associates for that matter, did not actually kill Cardinal Peace. I have received intelligence from particular sources that imply the Church received a dowry from the Blodyn family before the trial began. That both the Church and the King were paid off by Lucien Blodyn, and the prosecution, in order to convict Horyd Coeden of a treason that he did not commit. If this is true, then what if it happens to us next?’ - Excerpt from a letter sent to a member of the Lafant family from an unnamed source, January 1263.

———

Rupert was bent over the last Berserker corpse, absorbing the remaining Malevolent energy within it. It had taken him some time, but he had managed to restore his Wick. In fact, his Malevolent energy reserves had even increased since he set off to the frontier.

‘Skirmishes like these are useful, I suppose,’ he thought to himself. ‘Though, it would have been better if it weren’t a barbarian raid, but a normal battle. I would’ve had my longsword that way, and I’d have gained more from it.’

He heard footsteps coming from behind him, though he didn’t turn around.

“Have you had enough fun?” Rupert asked, knowing the identity of the man behind him.

Once he saw the fabricated insects, he knew there wouldn’t be any Berserkers left near the monastery. They would have been swiftly eaten, especially with the amount Cythraul had summoned. A rather brutal death, but it comes with the territory of powerful spells. Though, Rupert saw it as justice for the number of innocent lives they took.

“Yes. I’m at a deficit once again. Should’ve left for the damned politics after last battle… Waste of time this was, now making me go back to war. Barbarian scum.” Cythraul cursed.

“You sound unamused. You are great help when you fight, you know that.” Rupert tried to placate Cythraul.

“I damned well know that. It annoys me further knowing that you’ll benefit from this.” Cythraul replied grimly.

“Heh. By the end of next battle, I should have finished grooming my replacement officers. This serves me nicely knowing that when you leave, we won’t be at a disadvantage any longer.” Rupert chuckled.

“Alright. Stop tossing about, it’s time to go. Leave this mess to your labourers. You have time to replenish your reserves at the fort once they bring the spoils of war back.” Cythraul strode off, heading for the stables.

“Wait! The girl. Is she alive?” Rupert called after him. Cythraul turned around and gave him a glare.

“Should be. I gave her to you, remember.”

Rupert nodded, then ran off in the direction of the monastery’s construction site. Part of it had collapsed, but most of its structure remained intact. He found the trapdoor, and entered inside, moving the sacks of grain away to find the young girl still unconscious.

‘Good, she’s alive.’ He thought. He picked her up and retraced his steps, finding Cythraul at the entrance of the now destroyed monastery. Two warhorses stood beside him, innocently grazing the grass, though there was swelling on their heads.

“Did they resist?” Rupert asked with an amused smile.

Cythraul vaguely nodded, preoccupied with sorting out their bags.

“Bit harsh. Could’ve given them something to eat and they’d be as docile as they are now.” Rupert reprimanded.

“They’re beasts, Rupert. Not horses. They spout fire from their noses for God’s sake. And can channel. It takes more than food to tame the warhorses of another people. They’re loyal beasts.” Cythraul rejected.

“Are you ready?” Rupert changed the topic.

“Yes.” Cythraul replied. They saddled the horses, with Rupert carrying the girl, then set off in the direction of the encampment.

They left behind the ruined monastery in their wake, crows circling in the sky above watching the corpses. One took the risk, diving down, and landed on a Berserker’s corpse. Its beak plucked at the charred flesh before moving to its eye. The rest of the murder joined the crow for the feast.

Innocent people once lived within the monastery, practicing religion peacefully. Despite how innocent and peaceful they were, the aftermath of power is the only thing that remained. Its presence evident in the detail of its destruction.

———

The gentle sound of horseshoes trotting against the earth resonated in the silent flatlands. Their hooves pressed the already flattened grass against the ground. It was a path walked for years, and it cut against the grassy planes.

There were two men and one young girl riding, and the men were locked in conversation. Not too far from where they rode, a winding river rushed against the rocks into the distance, the path following it as best it could.

“Lucien should have got your letter by now. I wonder what he’s found out about that monstrosity. It should be interesting, right?” Rupert asked.

The girl rode behind him, her arms around his waist, though her eyes vacant. She had lost her family in the attack and was severely traumatised.

“Should have, yes. Unless his journey was impeded; which is unlikely.” Cythraul responded bluntly.

“Very true. Are you going to involve the Ascensionists? They’d be interested in a case like this.” Rupert replied.

“Yes, and no,” Cythraul paused, but continued in response to Rupert’s glare. “It’s in their interest to know that there is a hostile, necromantic organisation. But they won’t intervene because its blatantly attacking Cymorthian armies.”

“And?” Rupert probed.

“What’s more to say? Citadel’s Ascensionists like it when organisations rebel against Cymorth’s government. Why would they intervene when it benefits them so well? So far, they’ve only attacked Cymorth, no need to give them a reason change.” Cythraul spoke from the perspective of a Citadelish Ascensionist.

“But, what about the Ascensionists in Cymorth? Wouldn’t they try to help them?” Rupert asked.

“That’s a problem for the Cymorthian Ascensionists. They may be of the same philosophy, but factionalism still exists. Even more so between parties in different nations.” Cythraul continued.

“You’re part of the Ascensionists though, right? When have Citadel intervened in Cymorth?” Rupert pressured Cythraul.

Cythraul ignored Rupert’s question, though Rupert still looked at him expectantly.

“When would Citadel intervene in Cymorth?” Rupert changed his question, avoiding implicating Cythraul. Cythraul stared at Rupert, but Rupert smiled back.

“Are you a fool? God you’re useless at politics! How are you still alive?” Cythraul insulted Rupert, causing him to frown. “When it’s in their interests to. If they see a threat to their own state security, or interests, they’ll intervene in Cymorth.”

“I see.” Rupert responded, eyes glinting coldly. He knew he was bad at politics, but he expected to at least be shown some respect by Cythraul. He refused to ask further questions. He saw no need to expose himself to Cythraul’s barbed tongue.

They rode in silence for a while. The winter breeze and the beating horseshoes were the only sounds present. Eventually, they caught sight of their destination, to which the path led.

In the distance, bulwark walls rose in the sky, staunchly defending its inhabitants. They formed a bastion that protected the heartlands of Cymorth’s frontier. From Rupert’s perspective, he could see a curtain wall surrounded by two lunettes which protruded forwards like triangles.

Atop the walls were guards suited in breast and backplate and tassets. They wore a linen shirt under their thick leather buff coat beneath their armour. As they turned to reverse their march, they expertly spun their pike, now holding it under their opposite arm.

This was Cymorth’s Frontier star fortress. If one were to look down from above, they would see the absolute magnitude of its size. This star fort took the shape of a wheel, more so than a star, as it had nine curtain walls. However, its external defences of crownwork’s, hornworks, and the various ravelin and tenaille, grew its star shape outwards.

As they rode near, the path ended, with the grasslands turning into ditches and a colossal moat that impeded their path into the bastion. Rupert took something out of his pocket, then channelled a trace of his Malevolent energy into it.

An image was projected into the sky of the insignia of House Honnen. Every member of his levied army owned one of these illusion orbs, else they wouldn’t be able to enter the Frontier fortress. Movement erupted atop the walls, pike men scurrying around to let their commander in.

An explosion erupted from under the moat, and blocks of stone rose to form a path forward. Water cascaded from the stone blocks, creating small temporary waterfalls that lined the pathway to the bastion.

The warhorses stepped nervously onto the bridge, walking slowly in case it fell back down. They gained the confidence to trot as the stones continued to sturdily float in the air even after the horses moved onto the next blocks.

The group crossed over the miles of moat and ditches, which merged into the walls of the fortress. The guards on the wall shouted to each other as the group got near, carefully forming organised retinues that operated the winch to open the portcullis.

“It is still rather unnerving to enter a kill zone, even if it is our own.” Rupert joked.

Cythraul nodded, though Rupert was unsure if it was out of agreement or dismissal. He shrugged it off as they were let through the final stage of defence, into the bastion. Once inside, Rupert could see the familiar pitched roofs of the many houses that were built to accommodate Cymorth’s armies.

They were made from brick and were painted white, except for the black half-timbers which decorated the buildings. They formed neat streets, the layout of each house specific to the need of the road. The star front’s architecture was specific for military needs and practicality, not for the consumers.

The road continued from the entrance of the portcullis, and they rode their horses through a busy crowd. He spotted a teenage boy dressed in a white linen shirt, with riders’ boots, and letter bag over his shoulder, and called him over.

“Boy! Yes, you the messenger. I need you to find Countess Cyffre and Viscount Dinol; they'll be on the walls, I should imagine. Bring them to me. I will be waiting for them at Coginio’s restaurant. Here,” Rupert signed a note for the messenger.

“Sirs,” the boy bowed to Rupert and Cythraul, then ran off in a hurry.

“Will you participate in the next battle, or will you be heading off to your meeting with Citadel?” Rupert asked Cythraul.

“My reserves need replenishing first.” Cythraul responded.

“Then it’ll be good to have you in on this meeting, since you’ve missed the rest. Don’t look at me like that. Only two ranked officers will be present. It’ll be nice to hear your strategic opinions for once.” Rupert’s tone implied he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Cythraul shrugged, and acquiesced. After Rupert’s veiled, verbal assault, the group continued riding towards the centre of the bastion. Their horses pushed past civilians and soldiers as the trotted along.