“I’ve heard stories about the Scholars of Theurgy, though I am sceptical about your aims. I was informed that you might be able to help me.” A man, dressed in red, spoke within a curtained box.

“For a situation such as yours, you will need a lot of support to survive. For a new ally, we are willing to expend unlimited aid to assist you through these tumultuous times.” A voice responded from a space opposite the man in the confessions box.

“Who says we aren’t in a position to survive?” The man replied, though he sounded unoffended.

“Lucien has turned his gaze towards his enemies, one such is a member of your family. Doesn’t it burn you inside that he was able to falsely convict a son of your name to treason?” The voice challenged the man. The man was unresponsive.

“It would be wise to take a hold of this opportunity. You know as much as I of his abilities to manipulate the ignorant majority. Given time, who knows what further damage they will wreck upon your House.” The voice continued.

“That is true.” The man acquiesced.

“We now know him to be a vindictive man, killing a son of Masarn in vendetta of your opposition in the trial of the late Horyd Coeden.” The voice spoke emotively.

“What do you want?” The man interrupted.

“To join our cause. The Masarn’s haven’t shown opposition to our ideas, and nor we of you. Our only grudge was against Horyd Coeden - not you - who blatantly did crime against us. But we believe him to be innocent of killing Cardinal Peace. That lands on Lucien Blodyn.” The voice explained. - A transcript of a conversation spoken within a confession box. Former Princess Creirwy, a member of the Scholars of Theurgy, and a nun, was tasked with forming an alliance with House Masarn, January 1263.

———

“Move! I need to save as many of my soldiers as I can!” Rupert stepped forwards, moving around Hanabl Cadarn who sat in a wheelchair. She gave him a defiant glare.

“Stop. They will survive unharmed. Just watch.” She replied.

“What do you mean?” Rupert demanded, turning around.

“Look.” She pointed her hand towards the movement of the soldiers. He watched as the battalion rode on horseback towards the direction of the battle, expecting a block of stone to emerge along their path.

Water cascaded, and the path continued, though not where they expected. They pulled their reins and redirected their horses towards the connecting block. Each stone plateau was like that of a chessboard, floating above the water, though only two were available to cross at any one time. It should have been before them at the north-west, instead, it appeared adjacent to them in the western position.

This happened repeatedly. Where they assumed the path would continue, it didn’t. It no longer took them towards the centre of the fight, where they would have been butchered as cannon fodder. Instead, they rode along an arc that took them away from the conflict. Whoever was operating their plateau system was prohibiting the soldiers from drawing near.

“What’s happening?” Rupert questioned Hanabl, irate. He was oblivious to the scheming within his army, and it was a hindrance to his strategies. How could his army function properly if acts of insubordination were being carried out by his ranked officers?

“Just watch. It is about to come to an end now, finally.” Hanabl smirked, hints of blood lust in her eyes.

“How do you know this? Who gave you permission?” Rupert demanded furiously.

“Sir Cythraul did.” She replied.

“What? How?” Rupert asked impatiently.

“He said that it will be explained after the battle. For now, just watch.” She pointed once more, this time towards the detached ravelins.

Men and women had formed a huge circle on the wall. Their hands were outstretched, while their eyes were filled with malice, and their faces were lit by an orange hue. Before them floated a maelstrom of fire, it expanded at terrible speed. A ranked officer with the insignia of an Earl shouted commands, orchestrating their collective spell casting.

From within the maelstrom emerged the tips of their attack. They formed bolts of lava, like sharpened trees. Rather than being aimed towards the fight at the centre of the moat, they aimed their attack at the soldiers that followed a winding path to nowhere. The officers’ designs were obvious. They sought to discipline, kill, their own soldiers.

“Fire!” Earl Gelis cried, slamming a fist into his palm. The maelstrom writhed, fire exploding and crackling from within. It hissed as it entered the sky. A volley of spears made of lava, fabricated, and moulded by the force of 95 ranked officers. They lined the sky like shooting stars, a wake of embers trailed an orange glow behind them.

They cruised through space. However, while they slowly lost speed, their power remained unbridled. The lava bolts at the forefront crashed into a plateau as it was descending back into the moat. Molten fire exploded; sparks flew into the air as it surged over the stone. Its underneath glowed a vibrant red and yellow from its heat. When it finally touched water, it hissed causing white steam to ascend to the skies, and the moat to bubble and roil beneath.

The warhorses neighed, crying at the sudden attack. The clopping of their shoes as they galloping set a steady pace, a rhythmic calm. The soldiers themselves were confidently composed, but they gave a grim look of determination as their lives were on the line. While the majority charged forwards, the middle stopped, with the flanks separating around them like a fork in a river.

Rupert watched as the leading soldiers grabbed a hold of their cloaks, ripping them off their bodies. The cloaks fluttered in the wind, and a woman punched something into the stone plateau.

“Cyffre?” Rupert gaped in shock.

Though he could see anything, he could feel it, even from afar. An invisible forcefield surrounded the whole of the stone plateau, fabricated by a Channeler’s instrument. It was a metallic device with runic symbols etched into its sides, and it created a formless array. Its might was tested as the barrage descended upon them.

The spears of fire bombarded the plateau, stabbing into the ground, inching closer to the forcefield. It formed a forest of trees, made of blazing lava, that gradually detonated into ribbons and sashes of fire. They whipped down onto the soldiers, protected by an invisible barrier.

The liquid fire sprayed around them, being moulded by the forcefield like a smith’s hammer. Molten sparks showered around them. The excess flames almost formed a fountain from each bombardment of the ballista bolts that hit the field, which was both tangible and intangible.

It was unbreakable, a bulwark of defence that impeded the accumulated attacks of the scab ranked officers. However, it could not last against their onslaught, something had to give. The charge of the Channeler’s instrument which powered the field was nearly burnt out and was about to extinguish.

A new volley struck, shaking the field. The spray of fire became narrower, the field shrinking inwards, squashing its inhabitants. The bolts possessed a herculean force which pushed the field forwards an inch more than it had ever taken before.

“You said that they would be fine!” Rupert shouted. He turned once more to run onto the battlefield, this time ignoring her cries for him to stop. He vaulted over the parapet before him, weaving his way passed marching soldiers, pikes in hand. He drew his longsword from his scabbard and held it vertically before him.

“Ride!” Rupert ordered. He channelled Malevolent energy through the longsword. It glowed a cadmium red, crackling like electricity. He threw it into the space before him and jumped on top of it. He flew into the air, the flickering of embers trailing behind, riding it over the walls towards the moat.

Below him, the soldiers that were patrolling the walkways turned, flicking their pike ceremonially around their body. As they finished rotating, they felt a burst of wind buffet them, and they looked upwards. Smiles of pride emerged on their faces. It wasn’t the first time they had seen their Duke, their commander, fly on his sword. Yet, it hadn’t lost its charm on them.

They watched as Rupert neared the battalion on the moat, crouched on his sword, wind flowing through his black hair. They raised their hands to their head to salute him into battle, wishing him a good hunt.

“Enhance.”

“Iron Skin.”

“Barricade.”

Rupert chanted three times in succession, sending his Malevolent energy into the sword through his right hand that stabilised him. Afterwards, he jerked mid-air, grabbing his hilt as he descended at an arc. His momentum carrying him forwards as he fell before the fight. Moths flickered next to him, following him towards the spears of lava.

“Scorch.” He channelled. A crimson aura took the form of electricity and crackled furiously along the blade of Marwolaeth. As Rupert cleaved downwards with his longsword, an incorporeal replica of Marwolaeth formed in the space before him. Its scale was of incredible magnitude.

It severed through the first of the oncoming bombardment, detonating the spear of lava. Yet the blade was unimpeded, spraying molten fire out uncontrollably as it cut through more attacks.

He was blown backwards, the force sending him skidding across the stone plateau, though he remained unharmed. He could feel pain erupt throughout his body, but it wasn’t as bad as expected. Red welts of delicate skin emerged on his forearms and cheek, but it didn’t blister nor did his skin break. He looked down to see the damage on his armour, and his breastplate was tainted black by the fire.

He chuckled to himself appreciatively. Fire was his family’s specialty, and he was the strongest of them all. Not even the aftermath of a fusion spell by the officers would be able to do serious harm to him, especially when he used his defensives.

Rupert rolled as he landed, leaping forwards to intercept the next oncoming attacks. Before him were three tree-like bolts of lava, and they bombarded down on the plateau. To destroy them all at once, he’d have to burn his Wick more than he’d like.

He took a quick look inside, inspecting his Wick. The candle burned brightly; the wax was thick containing a tremendous energy inside. He increased the burn, and the flame that danced on the wick grew larger, the wax melting faster, forming a puddle beneath it.

With a thought, the incorporeal blade transformed anew. It grew in size and shape, forming a giant ribbon of fire and aura. It twirled in the air before sailing forwards at a terrible speed, the real Marwolaeth instructing the spell’s movements. It bent and contorted to intercept each fire ballista bolt, lacerating through, and traveling a wide arc before rebounding back like a pendulum.

Initially, it seemed like nothing happened. The spell crashed down like splayed fingers grabbing towards Rupert, to crush him. However, they shattered, each detonating into a shower of molten fire. Their embers spraying on him like warm rain, his skin turning red from its heat.

“Lord Rupert, what are you doing?” A woman’s voice demanded behind him. Without turning around, he replied.

“Cyffre, what the bloody hell are you doing?” Rupert’s voice was tinged with anger. He was irate.

“I was ordered by Sir Cythraul and Hanabl to join this battalion temporarily, to help them survive… I thought you knew.” She responded.

“I didn’t! Why don’t I know of this?” He demanded.

“I’m not sure. He told me not to question their decisions.” She shook her head.

“Who’s decisions?” Rupert turned to face her.

“Cythraul’s and Hanabl’s. They were the ones who were giving orders.” She replied.

“Those two? Wait, Cythraul’s back from his fight with the Marquis?” Rupert asked.

“Yes, he’s back in the fortress, but he’s injured, and quite severely at that. He’s currently getting medical attention, though he refused it until he siphoned the reserves from the Marquis’s corpse.” Cyffre explained.

“I’ll deal with this later. I want a full inquiry and report written up by you. If it satisfies me, you won’t be punished.” Rupert ordered.

“Yes, Lord Rupert.” Cyffre looked aggrieved, more so due to the extra paperwork that would be added on top of her already busy schedule.

A silence descended upon the two as they waited for another volley to be fired at them. They felt a blast of air ripple through space, hitting them before it surged past them. A terrible explosion followed on from it, sounding from the far distance.

“Look! Over to the walls.” Cyffre pointed while disabling the Channeler’s instrument. Rupert turned and traced her hand. It was the direction from where the explosion came from, the detached ravelin.

The once maelstrom of fire that floated above the ring of scab officers had exploded. A metal harpoon had pierced through it, penetrating the spell, causing cracks to erupt through it.

They started from the centre, fractures rippling through it, spiralling like a web. They reached the outer edges, and the core collapsed in on itself while dragging the exterior with it. It formed a concentrated orb, a dark void. Then, the explosion detonated once more.

Rupert felt a second blast of air surge past him, trailed by its sonorous thunder. Molten fire sprayed over the ranked officers, covering them in embers and flames. They screamed, blindly running around the walkway of the ravelin, bumping into each other.

Some fell instantaneously, knocked off the walls by others who were similarly burning alive. The rest soon followed, deciding to take the risk to extinguish themselves. They plunged into the moat, and the white icy water received them within its baleful grasp.

At first, they fell deep, curling into a natal position before floating to the surface spluttering and cursing. They tried to swim to safety, withdrawing their orbs to summon the plateau array to save them. It did not work; they were trapped in the water.

Above them, the lucky few not to be burnt alive stumbled backwards. Their path was impeded by a foreign object. It certainly wasn’t there before. The Viscounts and Earl, and the few Barons, turned to see what had impeded them. It was men and women. They too dressed in officers clothing, though it was worn out.

They had their Channeler’s weapons drawn, and spells already chanted. They charged, pushing the ranked officers’ forwards towards the edge of the ravelin’s walls. Their faces enraged; the ranked officers turned to draw their weapons on their opponents. However, before they could attack, their faces were illumined by a violent orange hue.

The group summoned formless fire, creating a wall that surrounded the insubordinate officers. It crept forwards, inch by inch, burning the air from its heat. It crackled and hissed, seeking to destroy the officers before them.

To avoid the flames after being caught off guard, the Earl, Viscounts, and Barons jumped off the ravelin’s wall into the moat. They were submerged into the frigid water, held afloat by the water’s hand. For now, they were safe from fire.

Movement caught Rupert’s eye from the surviving section of the crownwork. On its walls were soldiers with bows in their hand. The strings were strained, pulled back, and trained upon the officers flailing in the moat. Their ranked officer looked over to the outpost. Hanabl still remained atop, and she nodded giving assent for their command.

A hand was thrust down, followed by a shout. The gentle snapping of bowstrings resounded. A volley of death had been launched. They cruised into the sky, shrouding the flare partially in its descent.

The wind whistled, then howled. The officers were ignorant to the wind’s battle cry, too busy shedding water which masked the audible change with its splashing. A dark shadow loomed over them. The flare’s light masked, straining to contort itself around the volley’s width.

The bombardment landed, penetrating flesh with sonorous incisions. The force sent the officers tumbling into the moat’s embrace once more, resuming their natal position. As they buoyed to the surface, their backs broke through giving sight to the arrows which feathered them like chickens.

The water roiled. A red gas was leaked underneath its surface, spraying outwards painting the sea crimson. It was most vibrant the nearer it was to the bodies of the 96 officers. However, the further the waves pushed the vaporous blood out, it bloomed beautifully like a rose petal.