When Eadward Crius returned to the former Duke Oudet, he was pleased to find that his guest within the bowels of the cathedral had yet to break free of his bonds. He was sure that Oudet would never be able to accomplish this at all, but it was reassuring every time he returned.

"Are you well?" he asked the shadowed husk of a man. In his hands, Eadward held a small pouch filled with fruits and vegetables no one had eaten throughout the week, left under the sun to grow hot and squishy. He tossed it far from the doorway to the crooked, broken feet of the fool, chuckling as he groaned and bent as forward as he could, only to be snapped back against the wall by his bindings. "You would do well not to try that again, my friend. You will hurt yourself."

"Pl-ple-pleas..." the fool began to beg, his voice hoarse and croaking like a toad. Sounds emanated from his barely visible shape - creaks and groans of wood accompanied by the light snapping of withered leaves.

"Pl-pl-please?" Eadward mocked with a domineering voice sick with malignancy, far unlike the one he used in the presence of his new students. He clasped his hands together underneath his sleeves and cocked his head to the side lightly. "Please what, my friend?"

Oudet made a face, but Eadward could scarcely make it out. He began to step forward - or, more aptly, slither in wraith-like motions. The room was dark but not entirely without light. He made sure that a single lantern hung by the door to cast a dim yellow light through the space, granting visitors enough visibility to see the silhouette of its occupant. Eadward moved slowly towards this silhouette, listening as water gradually dripped from the ceiling and walls damp with leakage from the earth's deepest moisture. Momentary pangs of water on rock or forming puddles. Drip. Drip. Drip. They were the only sounds this deep below the earth; they were the only sounds Oudet would hear until Eadward graced him with his presence and speeches.

Eadward's old eyes adjusted to the darkness as he stepped through the borders of the lantern's strongest light, again relishing the fate that had befallen the man who sought to overthrow the King. Former Duke Oudet was strung on the wall, blood and waste coating his body as thickly as the nature that bound him to the old stone. Weeds and twigs were threaded through his body in discordant fashion, writhing under his sickly flesh and creating new entry-and-exit wounds every hour, filling the others with dark green leaves that healed as much as they hurt. Oak roots wrapped around his limbs to splay him flat against the surface; his feet, in particular, were snapped at such impossible angles that even if he were to break free of his entrapment, he would never walk again. The only part of him left uninfested by the arcaeno - so proudly and righteously conjured by the church - was his face. Eadward had demanded this when the Duke's unconscious body was recovered from outside of Jore.

"I wish for him to look upon us Warriors of God in his last days and know that we were right. That we were not the villains in this story. That he is a fool for having doubted our most glorious King Aslofidor. "

Eadward stopped just under the hanging man, gazing up into his gaunt, sunken face. His scraggly, once-strong face was pallid with tinges of yellow and green, and his eyes were dazed and red. Putrid stench erupted from the fool's body, and an even worse smell came from his mouth as he breathed through cracked lips and gums missing half their teeth. "My friend," Eadward said, braving the horrific aroma without even a twist of his face. "You must be starving. You look sick."

"P-p-pleash. Ple...pleash..." Oudet whimpered with a drool of bile-laced blood falling from his lips.

Eadward sighed and knelt down to pick up the pouch. He felt the sticky juices of one of the fruits against the canvas bottom as he held it. Opening the flap, he pulled out a grape - the skin squishy and wrinkled. Slowly, he reached up and placed it in Oudet's creaking mouth, once more braving the stench that reeked from it. Eadward chuckled to himself as his captive made obscene noises chewing the small morsel. More drool ran from between his toothless gums and the cuts on his lips.

"You must be starving to degrade yourself so much for a single grape," Eadward commented, pulling out a barely tethered bundle of the fruit in question. He placed the pouch on the ground again and began pulling free the worst of the bundle to feet to his captive. "But, such is what you deserve. Men like you do not beget mercy from We Faithful of God." he continued.

Oudet made a noise that Eadward assumed was agreement, and he felt a familiar sense of scorn rise in his chest as he examined the pitiful display of the once robust Oudet Barat. A man who was once fat with pride and faith, living in the graces of his king, developing his lands for the spoils of evolution and the betterment of the kingdom. Many saw Oudet Barat as the future, the one man who could take the throne as a named successor rather than by the bloodline ages old. Eadward Crius had once upon a time fallen in that category, but he quickly discovered the truth behind the man. He was nothing more than an opportunistic harlequin who would use his - appreciably - genuine faith in God Almighty to blindly work against the expectations many had for him. He would not lead the way in the kingdom's evolution. He would devolve it into something lesser. He would devolve it into stagnation and the refusal to see the destruction wrought by the King's ancestor. Eadward Crius, like so many others in his flock, had been blind to that until God Almighty bestowed upon him the knowledge and the power to prevent that devolution. Now Oudet Barat was a gremlin in a cellar, buried beneath the vault of relics more worthy than he could ever be.

Eadward could not stop himself from saying these words to Oudet as he had already so many times before over the past seven years. "You are a fool and a madman to have done what you did, Oudet. Do you understand that now? Do you understand that? A fool and a madman. The product of rotten seed."

Oudet nodded in the shadows and begged for more of his meal. The groaning of his bindings increased as panic audibly set in and his voice rose in pitch and volume. "Yesh," he said. "Yesh...yesh."

Eadward shook his head, his face a mask of disappointment. "No, you don't. You can't. You never will, no matter how many times I ask you this question. Fools and madmen can understand nothing beyond their own logic for their actions, however base or depraved it is. Your logic brought you here, and you have not the wisdom or the wits to see why it brought you here. I await the day you can at least admit that. Perhaps then, I will let you die."

Eadward tossed the remaining grapes in his hand onto the floor and then stomped onto the pouch, crushing the remaining food that was within. Oudet screeched like an animal, thrashing in his bindings at the denial of his feast. Eadward swung an open palm for his captive, slapping him across his face so loud that the sound of it resounded down the hall outside the door. The former duke did not stop screeching, merely growing louder. The Bishop slapped him again and again and again until his hand was stinging with pain and wet with blood, tears, and other fluids. Oudet had fallen silent, just as he had every other time this exact event occurred.

"You are a charlatan, Oudet. A false leader that damned your people. You-" Eadward's words were caught in his throat as he realized Oudet's shallow breaths had stopped entirely. Just as they had every other time.

He snarled and clenched his hand tightly. The red-black glow came first from his palm, growing by the second as tiny blue dots floated from within the former duke's bindings and body and joined it. Each blue dot was overtaken by the shades of red and black, some becoming physical and staining the Bishop's hand like infected blood droplets. Then, when the glow had become so radiant that the Bishops' entire hand and forearm were engulfed in the light, he opened his fist and said in the language of the arcaenomancers: "Uṭul." Restore.

Pain wracked the old man's body so greatly that he nearly bit his tongue in half, his body shuddering and struggling to remain standing as the light's radiance grew even greater than it already was. With his free hand, he reached up to grab the gold-diamond pendant in the shape of an unblinking eye that hung underneath his robes and recited the prayer of life - Suyyus, the forgotten counteragent to Uṭul, carried by the winds of E'aura so many eons ago. "Mighty One, Holiest of All, as You in Your Paradise look down upon us, grant me the strength to endure this pain and see this sinner punished for his crimes against Your Good Work. Grant me the willpower to see this charlatan suffer for his crimes against Your Good Work. Grant me the might to unleash Your justice upon this blinded man so that he may see the folly in his ways before the Devil comes to take His due."

The red-black light shot from his palm and entered the body of Oudet Barat and the bindings that held him. Wood and vine tightened as the former duke's body convulsed in place, violently snapping the oldest of the branches and leaves that covered him. His jaw snapped and distended to grotesque lengths, a wet gurgling noise draining from his esophagus as the depths of his mouth was filled with the red-black light. From those depths, the light spilled forth to cover his face like tentacles, suctioning his flesh. Eadward remained praying with a revolted expression, watching as Oudet was returned to his old self. Younger. Fatter. Goateed. Alive.

Eadward fell to his knees at last yet remained reciting the prayer of life, beating back the grasping fingers of Death. As the Bishop had read in his pilgrimage, Uṭul was once considered a blessing by those who practiced it. The greatest act of love one could commit to, yet the last one they could commit. It gave a dead man his life again at the cost of the one who cast it, but such life was not given in the traditional sense of merely returning his soul to his body. It restored the dead to their prime, giving them a second lease on life in return for the death of the caster. Of course, Eadward Crius could never allow himself to become a victim of such martyring idiocy. He would not be that type of saint if he was to become one. He would live, as would Oudet, and Uṭul would not be the blessing it was once regarded as. It would the former duke's punishment for his crimes, and it would be Eadward Crius' weapon against the damned. Oudet screamed and flailed his head as his life was restored to him.

"No...no!" he gasped, eyes cementing with utter hatred and despair on his captor. "Why? Why!? Let me die, you fiend!"

"Fools and madmen do not beget mercy, my friend," Eadward repeated after catching his breath and wiping the string of blood from his mouth. "You will not be given any such pleasure."

Oudet struggled against the earth holding him still, baring his teeth in a dog-like fashion as his eyes blazed with furious turmoil. "You refuse to let me die all these years for what? For what!"

"Because you are a criminal who must be punished! You rebelled against the King; you believed in the falsehoods of Aslofidor Minloda despite all evidence pointing to the wisdom behind that which he outlawed."

"I did my duty as a Child of God. As a leader of the people. Our King was a slovenly imbecile who you manipulated into your control!"

"I merely told him the truth. It was his decision - the right one, might I add - to follow me to ensure that God's Grace would forever shine upon him." Eadward steadied himself and replaced his hands under the sleeves of his robe. His face was stoic and emotionless, though his voice told of a barely hidden conceit.

Oudet was silent for several moments in his struggles before breaking into rueful laughter. "Time and time again have we had this talk, and yet you never realize."

"Realize what, my friend?" Eadward asked, spitting out the remnants of blood in his mouth.

"That you are a villain, Eadward!" Oudet growled. "You use this foul sorcery to tarnish God's Creation! You blaspheme against him!"

"No, no, I am a pious man who sees the truth in God's Good Work! You are the blasphemer, Oudet," Eadward corrected. "Lest we forget Verse One-Seven-Eight, Line Twelve of the Codices of Revelations: 'He who remains in ignorance and witnesses himself become violent towards the advancement of his own kind shall be outcast from Heaven's Grace for all days to come and see his fortunes rot in his wake.'"

Oudet spat a globule of mucus at Eadward's feet. "You threaten yourself, Bishop. It is you who remains in ignorance. This power you wield was not meant for our kind, it belongs to the Devil! It is corruption."

"It is His gift to us, Oudet. His will manifested for us to harness and change this world for the better."

Oudet was wrath incarnate, thrashing so violently against his bindings that, for an instant, Eadward feared that he could break free. In all his seven years trapped down here, the Bishop had only ever seen the former duke this enraged. "You speak lunacy, Bishop! You say that I do not realize that I am a-a fool and madman and that I can never learn because of it. Then what are you? You destroyed my home. You destroyed Jore! You killed my family! You killed thousands of innocent people. You doomed our land to decay. I have seen the consequences of your efforts and you have damned us all!"

"I have saved us all! My pilgrimage opened my eyes to more than just the truth behind arcaeno. I know what must be done; I have the willpower to do what must be done; I will do what must be done. The decay this land has been subjected to is just the start. I will heal it and lead our people across the world to bring them to this enlightenment. The same enlightenment that I introduced your son to."

Eadward turned sharply on his heels and left the room, the voice of Oudet following him like a vengeful spirit. "Damn you! Damn you to Hell Below! I'll fucking gut you, you spineless craven. You low-born bastard. You impudent demon! God Almighty will judge you guilty! He will judge you guilty!"

"How long have we been walking?" Hilda asked.

"Feels like days," Karlyle answered, adjusting the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. "No food, no rest. No sign of our goal. I'm exhausted."

"It's only been a few hours, children," Jira laughed. "How can you handle a week's long march with an army and yet struggle to walk a few hours with just ten people?"

"We could at least see the sunlight during those marches. Hell knows I'd rather see the sunlight than deal with this rank tunnel any day of the week. Especially with your nagging ass on my heels, Captain," Karlyle murmured with a smile, to which Jira lightly smacked the back of his head. He laughed and picked up his speed upon noticing Hilda had done so herself. The two had grown exponentially in the past seven years, and not just in the vein of confidence with themselves. Hilda had filled out her armor quite well, becoming a lean-muscled picture of a Dekunian skilled with the spear and shield, her black hair cut to her neck and her summer-sun eyes hardened like golden jewels that glared out from behind her new owl-faced helmet. Karlyle, however, had gone in the opposite direction, feasting and bulking his body in honor of his friend Torin Degore who had fallen in Murlay. As such, he had taken up training in the art of the pugilists along with honing his skills with the spear alongside Hilda - though he was not as dexterous as the Dekunian. His brown hair was shaved to fuzz and his snub-nosed face was marked with ever-present bruises and a sharp goatee. Together, they trotted forward with groans and complaints of the march.

Jira stayed back with the remaining seven, noting their demeanors and expressions as being far more pleasant than the complaining duo ahead of them. Farrimond Sampson, the twins Heymeri and Iordanus, Waymar Amaud, Humfrye Wymark, Favian Sadon, and Krea Gennoc. Seven of Jira's best to have survived Murlay, identified by her as the strongest in the guild and promoted to ranks befitting such acknowledgment. They were a prideful bunch because of that fact, but Jira had little reason to worry about that pride. They were loyal to her and to the guild, and if they ever decided to betray her, there was little they could take that the King and his criminals had not taken already.

"What do you think we'll find, Krea?" Jira heard Favian Sadon ask.

Krea audibly shrugged. "Who knows. Sarda likes to think it could be a weapon. Our good Captain over there thinks it could be a weapon."

Jira turned her head to Krea, still walking down the rolling vein-like tunnel. "And I want it to be one too. Something to help us correct the mistakes of the rebellion."

"Mistakes? What mistakes?" Favian questioned. "We didn't make any mistakes, did we?"

Jira turned away. "We made many. Not listening to Mille when we had the chance to. Not expecting Aslofidor to play dirty with arcaeno." Not expecting his church to corrupt its very purpose and usage. Now you shoulder the guilt and the hate. "Hell, even going to Murlay the way we did took the collective feats of morons. We should have brought more people. Played an extra hand of scouts. Not trusted that ridiculous tower so much." Shouldering the guilt. You had the power to course correct. You could have used it during that meeting. Made them all fall in line and listen to you. Given the abilities of your Father. Of your Mother. But so deceitful you have become that you even deceive yourself. Now it is too late and you must play with the fires of your dead ambitions. Of your failed quest.

"We did what we could with the information we had, Captain," Farrimond said. "The others thought we had a surefire victory or at least a stalemate to keep the King's army from holding a defensible staging ground in our land. Anyone would have given what the scouts reported to us."

Waymar Amaud scoffed and clanged his sword against the stone floor. "Yeah, the same people that turned tail and ran after the invasion started, leaving us to be trapped in this fucking mountain."

"We were the targets of four enemy nations, Waymar," Farrimond said, incredulous. "The fact that we didn't run probably says more negatives about us than anything else."

"To be fair, we were smart to stay here," Krea added. "Not sure the invasion could have taken the Bastion even with just us defending it."

"Well, let's hope that wonderful trait continues while we're gone," Waymar grunted. "Last thing I want to see when we get back to the surface is a bunch of Belanorian fucks staring me down with their bows."

"I highly doubt that will happen," Farrimond said.

Jira looked to Waymar in time to see him shake his head. "You have no worries, don't you, Farrimond? You're just made of stone."

"I like to look at things logically."

"Then at least humor my worries that we could return to the surface to be greeted by an army of foreign bastards who somehow managed to take the Bastion. It's a possibility, and you know it. For seven years, we've been waiting for it to happen. How long do you think it will take before they decide to finish destroying the land for whatever nonsense they have planned and come to raid the Bastion for all it's worth?"

Farrimond said nothing, and the seven resumed walking, picking up the pace to catch up to the duo leading the way. Their voices became clearer as the seven drew closer. Jira caught the last words of Karlyle, his face bright with a smile in the glow of his lantern: "-said he was looking for the bear-maiden."

Jira's eyes narrowed and she broke into a light jog to rush the duo, placing her hand on young Karl's shoulders. He jumped, surprised at the sudden appearance of his snow-pale captain. "Captain! Are you okay?" he asked.

"What was that about the bear-maiden?" she inquired, holding up a closed fist to stop the march in its tracks.

His face softened and a small grin crossed his lips. "Oh! That. I meant to tell you a few days ago. When Hilda and I were on that hunting trip with the twins, we came across a small crew of people on the road. Their leader said they were looking for Gíla Arsinoe, but I told him I had no idea where she was. He left after that without much else, so I must have forgotten on the way back, I'm sorry."

Jira blinked and looked back to the seven, eyeing the twins who remained ever-silent, and then looked back to Hilda. "Did this man give you a name?"

Hilda shook her head. "No. He was an older man, though. Heavily scarred. Long black hair. A huge sword on his back."

"How many people were with him?"

"About six," Karlyle answered. "Five men and a woman. She looked noble but not like a captive noble. She had blue armor and a weird-looking spear. Well, more like a spear but with a sword blade instead of a spear blade. Does that make sense?"

Jira nodded and removed her hand from Karlyle's shoulder. "Next time something like that happens, you tell me immediately."

"Of course, Captain."

"Good. Which way did they head?"

"North towards Jore, I think. Or Holmgan. Not sure either way."

Krea piped up at that moment. "Why would they want to leave this place for that? Nature here at least isn't all blackened and burning."

"Not yet, at least," Humfrye said solemnly, hefting his larger-than-normal lantern.

Jira made a noise and motioned for the group to keep moving forward. Farrimond walked close by her side. "Do you think she's alive?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Or at least survived Murlay for some time?"

"I don't know," Jira said. "One moment she was by me in the run, the next she had shoved me away from something and was gone. It looked like the arcaenomancers had gotten her, but I didn't see a body. It's possible, but-"

"But you don't know," Farrimond finished. "I hope she survived. I also hope that whoever it was that was looking for her means well and not harm."

Jira smiled. "If she is alive and they mean her harm, they're going to need a lot more people than just six."

Farrimond grinned.

No one talked to each other for nearly five hours as they walked, commenting on nothing regarding the tunnels, for nothing in the tunnels changed. Dark and lightless save for their lanterns, stepping on red-tinted stone marked with the scent of blood. There was no sound to be heard aside from their footsteps, and even those fell into a well of deafness after some stretch. It was as curious to the woman from the desert as it was frightening. She had much knowledge of the world of arcaeno but little of the history and lore of the Star Bastion, which was seemingly filled to the brim with its power given its ability to produce warmth and protection in ludicrous amounts.

Without the bear-maiden to espouse her knowledge of this place gleaned from her many books - a lot of which were lost at Murlay - Jira felt at a disadvantage. She could not call upon the towering woman to give her and her subordinates some level of understanding of their situation. Something more than whatever they themselves found in Sarda's library. They could only go in relatively blind, unsure of what exactly they could find. And so, they walked with that uncertainty and that nervousness, hoping that whatever they did find was an item that could help them.

Their finding of bronze draconian-faced statues, some thirteen feet in height, guarding an immense dark-stone gate at the end of the tunnel was not among their limited expectations. Said statues suddenly moving at the ten explorers' presence was even lower among that list of unexpected circumstances.