“Medic!” A deep baritone shouted from some distance.

Despite how faint the voice was, it reverberated in the small chamber and even Shaya’s ribs.

She stirred, trying to lift her head and open her eyes, but failed to do either.

“Don’t move!” The voice snapped.

Defiance fueled anger gave her the strength to raise her head, eyes creaking open a fraction. Basillo’s armoured form glared down at her, with Apricot’s worried features occupying a small corner of her vision.

“What took you so long?” Shaya smiled, leaning her head back against the torture table and appreciating its support.

She didn’t remember her head being so gods damn heavy before.

“Is she always like this?” Basillo growled.

“More or less,” Apricot sighed.

“I’m here,” someone said from outside Shaya’s field of vision, “oh gods.”

“She’s alive,” Basillo reported with what almost sounded like regret, standing up and pulling Apricot away as well. His next words were directed to the short elf: “Secure the prisoner.”

Melda’s cherubic face hovered into Shaya’s view, her greeting interrupted as the normally gentle woman manhandled Shaya’s eye lids and blinded her with lantern light. Despite outweighing the healer, Shaya couldn’t resist her ministrations, her head twisted back and forth, side to side until she was left facing Melda again, a burning halo etched into her retina. The poking and prodding continued down her body and Shaya wondered if all of her patients felt so put upon.

“You’re going to be okay,” Melda assured, Jade growing in her already blood-shot eyes, “you have a minor concussion, a sprained neck, a minor skull fracture, and only one broken rib. And bruised ribs, of course.”

“I...” Shaya murmured, “believed you until you listed all of my injuries. I really wish you hadn’t.”

“I’ll be able to stabilize the worst of it, but you’ll need help walking out of here,” Melda smiled at her, “the trauma medics will make quick work of the injuries once we get back. You’ll be back in fighting shape in two or three weeks!”

“I... duel Azreon in one week though.”

“Oh dear,” Melda patted her on the shoulder apologetically, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, given your state.”

“Yeah...” Shaya sighed, “I’m told it’s not a good idea in any state of mine.”

The first of many healing spells flowed into Shaya, the energy pushing blood where it needed to go to accelerate the healing process. As feeling returned to her limbs, the pain returned as well and Shaya grit her teeth against it. That only made the pain worse and Melda told her to stop it, Shaya following her caretakers orders.

“That’s the best I can do,” Melda sighed, sweat beading her forehead, “we just need to keep her head supported, but otherwise she can walk with help.”

“I’ve got her,” Basillo said, “let’s join back with the others.”

After a quick look over her, Basillo conjured a neck brace of hard light around Shaya’s head and hoisted her to her feet. Despite being taller than him, he helped her walk out of the room without issue. He looked over his shoulder at the chained apostate, then back to her. There was something strange about his face.

“You...” he said, sounding sick.

“Are you... okay?” She asked, vision swimming as she moved.

“You,” he started again, looking away from her, “did good today.”

“Sorry,” she murmured, “I missed that. Could you please repeat it?”

He shot her a glare, unsure if she was telling the truth or goading him.

She put on her best wounded, dazed expression. Even with Melda’s healing, it wasn’t difficult.

“I said,” he sighed, “you did good today. Confronting an apostate on your own is always a dangerous affair, I’m surprised you didn’t flee or simply die given the damage done to you.”

“An Amber mage stands their ground, right?” Shaya managed a weak smile.

“Yes,” he nodded, pleased at her response, “they do.”

“Thanks, Basillo,” she continued, “that means a lot coming from you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, making it sound like a literal request, “and don’t forget my rank, concussion or no.”

“My apologies, sir,” she said, injecting her words with equal part sincerity and sarcasm, “and don’t worry, sir, I won’t mention it, sir.”

The world seemed normal again as Basillo ground his teeth in frustration.

Chains rattled behind them as the Master was dragged along by Melda and Apricot, the two small women looking rather silly next to the tall, spiritually enhanced figure they led, even with his eyes cast down and his shoulders slumped. Veins of what appeared to be iron spread from his wrists and up his arms, as if the anathema was poisoning his very being because of the permanent manifestation of his spiritual features. He truly couldn’t dismiss it, whatever he had gone through had turned him into a spiritual being, at least in part.

More chains jangled as the prisoners watched their procession through the dungeon, more of them finding the courage to be called out to be rescued as they witnessed their tormentor dragged past them in chains of his own. As more and more of them moved up to the bars, Shaya realized that each of them was the spark of a nephilim, just like her. Each possessed just a modicum of Cirithill’s unearthly grace, exotic hair colours, or strange eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Apricot assured them with resounding confidence, “we’ll have you all out of here within the hour. We just need to make sure the area is fully secure.”

“I told you so,” Shaya said, smiling at the prisoner that insisted she free him before confronting the Master. He looked shocked to see her alive again.

The rest of their trip through the dungeon was filled with curses spat at the Master and thanks shouted at the heroic mages that had rescued them from torment and despair. It filled Shaya with pride knowing that she was a part of it, and she wondered how much of that feeling was her own or her esper’s influence.

I still want to be a hero, don’t I?

I haven’t grown too cynical or bitter based on my experiences... I can’t. Giving up on my dream means every prick that degraded me to this point wins.

But the apostate’s words about the crumbling empire... I don’t think that was mere gloating, the lack of unity seems way more pronounced now than it did in my mom’s stories.

“Don’t let his words get to you,” Basillo said, seeing the frown on her face, “Apostates will say anything to make you question your beliefs.”

“I know,” she shook her head, “but...”

A spark of rationality told her not to finish the thought aloud around anyone like Basillo.

“You’re right,” she said instead, “it’s utter non-sense. It’s just the corruption getting to me.”

The walk up the stairs was murder, she and Basillo too broad to walk up beside each other. Progress was slow as she limped past the door that she had ridden down and started climbing the steps, one feeble movement at a time. Basillo supported her from behind, but her full weight was agony on her neck and ribs.

She emerged at the top of the stairs, feeling like she had marched across the nine hells.

The serving staff in the kitchen couldn’t meet her eyes, but she was thankful they all lived. The trauma was written on their faces and in their curled-up postures, and Shaya suspected it went well beyond attacking her while mind controlled. It looked like the physical wounds she had inflicted on her way through had been healed, but she had never heard of a spell that could cure the mental trauma they had experienced.

“You were so brave,” the woman intended to be the evening’s entertainment said, looking deep into Ren’s eyes, “thank you so much for saving me.”

Ren’s clothes were torn up and fresh, pink flesh covered up his injuries from the battle. The dilettante looked exhausted, even uninterested in the woman that seemed desperate to thank him. He whispered something to her, then he caught sight of Shaya as she shambled into the room with Basillo’s help.

Shaya saw the apostate woman tied up in her chair, alive, and the five guards she had left behind cut apart with surgical precision: throats and arteries opened. One beheaded guard suggested that Lan had been freed before the battle had ended, and a number of additional bodies in the area suggested the two men had to deal with more company before reinforcements had arrived.

“Shaya!” Bri called, rushing toward her.

“Don’t let your feelings interfere with your duties, mage,” Basillo cracked at her like a whip, stopping her forward momentum in an instant.

“Yes, sir,” Bri said, glaring.

She shot Shaya a relieved glance, then returned to stand watch over the two dozen or so guards they had roped together. Licurian, Apricot’s Ruby mage, was there as well, both of their espers invoked and looking menacing. In contrast to Bri’s dark executioner, Licurian’s esper conjured images of the height of summer and oppressive heat.

The guards looked broken, all defiance and anger gone. Only a few seemed to share the trauma of the servants, the majority armoured in jade and cynicism against their guilt. All of them knew the penalty of associating with apostates, and all of them knew there was no defense they could raise against the evidence arrayed here. Shaya saw regret in more than a few faces, and suspected those men and women realized they were destined for the inquisition before their executions.

Were she in their shoes, she would’ve preferred a clean death in battle too.

Sathaea rested nearby, pale but alive.

Samorn and Lan stood in front of the pale throne, chatting quietly.

Oraeus, Ral, and Cerud were nowhere to be found, likely patrolling the rest of the area to ensure no one – or thing – had escaped.

Basillo set Shaya down beside the injured Azurite mage, who managed to smirk at her.

“You look like shit.”

“Some of us didn’t get any beauty sleep in the middle of the mission,” Shaya retorted.

Samorn and Lan wandered over to them, nodding to Apricot and Basillo.

“Well?” Apricot asked.

“It definitely has a presence in the Aetherium,” Samorn reported, “and a nasty one at that.”

“We should destroy it,” Basillo said.

“We can’t,” Samorn said, nodding to their prisoner, “I don’t sense a unique spirit in the tree; seeing him, I suspect it’s because the two... bonded, or something. Even Unseelie spirits tend to be tied to their trees, killing the tree would kill the spirit – and likely our prisoner of note.”

“Unseelie?” Shaya asked.

“Their primordial fae,” Lan shrugged.

“They consider themselves the eldest fae,” Samorn explained in detail, “they’re born from the fears and superstitions of ancient humans, back when we were still cave dwellers that jumped at every shadow.”

“So... what are normal Seelie? I thought they were opposing factions.”

“The Seelie Court are formed of spirits that pledged themselves to the children of Sillanir and Cirithill,” Samorn continued, “they take on forms that are less predatory and terrifying, instead favouring forms that glorify the better parts of nature. They still favour trickery and oaths as much as their Unseelie counterparts, but the consequences of their pranks tend to be less... dire.”

“Is there an Exseelie Court? Or a Reseelie Court?”

“No Shaya,” Samorn replied with a straight face as the others groaned, “It is just the two Courts – there are no other prefixes applied to them.”

“She’s concussed,” Apricot explained with an apologetic shrug on Shaya’s behalf.

“Yes,” Samorn said, tone still flat, “that’s definitely where this sense of humour suddenly came from.”

“Wait,” Shaya said more seriously, “the Unseelie aren’t naturally aligned with the Titans. So what’s going on here?”

“I suspect this ‘Master’ of yours will have the answer to that,” Samorn said, looking toward him as he was chained to a pillar, “I can only speculate.”

“Did you run into any other Titan spawn? The guard I interrogated said there were a dozen.”

“We killed two more,” Apricot reported.

“That leaves eight unaccounted!”

“I don’t think so,” Apricot shook her head, “they each used illusions and enchantments to displace themselves and misdirect opponents. Given their level of corruption, it was likely easy for them to maintain those illusions at all times, which is what gave the guard the impression that there were so many.”

“Damn,” Shaya said, wincing as she leaned her head back against the chair, “fighting spawn of Arctor is very different than fighting Cindrahl. I miss the direct, destructive approach those bastards favour.”

“Alright,” Basillo said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s wrap things up here and get our transport moving. There are plenty of logistics to figure out.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Oraeus said, approaching alongside Ral, “I think I have those figured out already.”

The two of them looked worn down and bloodied, sporting a multitude of injuries. Ralus especially, bereft of a Titan-forged breastplate, looked to have had more than one brush with death judging by the claw marks across their abdomen and freshly healed holes in their upper chest.

“Did you put out the fires?” Apricot asked, Bri flinching nearby.

“Yes,” Oraeus said, looking awkward as he reported to his girlfriend – and superior officer, “Cerud is shoring up the last weakened support I identified as well. The keep will remain standing for some time yet, I assure you.”

“How sure of this are you?” Basillo pressed. “I don’t want this place coming down on our heads while we try to move civilians and prisoners out of here.”

“I’m certain, sir,” Oraeus said, standing tall, “I was training to be an architect before I came to study war.”

“Hmph, I didn’t peg you for a mason.”

“There’s nothing wrong with doing honest labour, sir,” Oraeus replied, shrugging with his calloused hands, “mud, clay, mortar – they all wash off easier than blood.”