It had been two days of hard journeying; only enough food and water to keep him alive, virtually no sleep. The path for Taramiel to follow became more and more obvious over time; trees crushed and splintered to widen the way, more and heavier footsteps following in. A ruined village at the side, much of the cabins burnt, bodies charred underneath the rubble. Soon enough he could even hear the commotion ahead of him, the mud and dirt under the feet of the Sacredate’s army like a thousand leather-faced drums. He began to run, imagining to himself the kind of rampage he could make—running alongside the army until he was just in arm’s reach of Gloss, tear him down from his ride and end this damned journey once and for all, his torture along with it.

But then he saw the army itself down the path, and he remembered, briefly, the Sacredate standing on a wood block speaking to a crowd, his old village, warning them of the coming change, and inviting them to make something of it. His heart filled with a cloudy substance, and his run slowed to a walk, trailing just behind the others.

“Is that Taramiel? Taramiel!” One of the soldiers shouted, turning to him and pointing at him. Taramiel increased his pace a bit and re-entered the crowd to a chaotic party, cheering and jumping to catch a glimpse of him. Gloss decided to turn around too, and gave Taramiel a small smirk before looking forward once again.