The goblin scouts had been extremely helpful. They’d not only provided a perfect route from Boghi to the city perimeter that would prevent them from being detected by patrols, but it also lead them straight to the camp the Knights Berodyl were establishing, who had recently arrived in the area. The walk out of the Marshlands had been more refreshing than anything, the land slowly becoming more and more solid under their feet as they left Boghi and headed toward the greenery just south of Dunlark.

The camp, at a glance, wasn’t much… but that was because what they were looking at was just the scout tents; the bulk of the camp was behind the tree line, and was composed of far more than just Knights Berodyl.

Pippy pointed to a passing trio of moralim, her attention drawn by their ashy blue skin and curved, pointed horns. They were clad in dark leathers and bore not swords, but shortened versions of what were called toploaders in this world; they rested their hands on the grips, but kept their fingers off the triggers, matching Pippy’s curious gaze with narrowed scrutiny of their own. “I don’t think those’re knights!” she tried to say discretely.

“Definitely not,” Krey agreed. “Stay here. A gathering this large under the Knights Berodyl banner must warrant the presence of at least one captain of the order; I will get the details from them.”

Deeper in, a larger pavilion was boldly marked with the heraldry of the order, the same upon his own surcoat and heater shield. Within, he finally found his fellow knights, and not just of his own standing; many gathered here were captains of the order— rare to see so many in one place. Among them was the captain he had come across previously on the road. “Captain,” he called.

They all looked at him, and one recognised him immediately. “Ah! It is… you! I now just realise, we never exchanged names, hah! I, Captain Mulgrew, welcome you to our camp.”

“Krey Zoubor.” He grinned, and they shook hands. “I see you’ve been busy between then and now.”

“Aye, very much so. We extended our path through the coastal town of Lovejoy before heading into Cwrdyth Arms, and it was well worth it. We rendezvoused with several other parties gathered by other captains of the order, and met yet more here when we arrived.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Krey couldn’t help but point out. “You said you were only travelling with less than fifty knights.”

“And I spoke true… but I omitted a few details. Intentionally, I might add.”

“What do you mean?”

Captain Mulgrew took a deep breath. “It was no miracle of fate that we chanced to meet in Aldiphor, Sir Zoubor, nor a failing on your or my part that you did not hear of this amassing of forces— not in full detail, anyway. The inconspicuousness was intentional, a clandestine ploy. Since Dunlark Spire’s western cells coalesced to take Rajata City, the Paladin himself has been personally dispatching unmarked envoys to meet with captains of the order such as myself. We’ve been not just gathering our fellow Knights Berodyl, but discretely procuring sellswords and mercenaries of every stripe as well. Our order is spread thin across the land at the best of times, our work solitary, but the insulting embarrassment of conceding a major city - a Namesake, no less! - to a terrorist militia… it demanded a response. This army is our response, and I think the battlements and garrisons of Dunlark will find it a most scathing rebuke indeed. I know not how they managed to achieve such a victory across the water in Calsa, but it shall not go unpunished!”

“Captain…” Krey breathed. “This is outstanding work.” He decided not to reveal that he knew exactly how Rajata City had been allowed to fall, lest he shatter the captain’s resolve at this crucial juncture. “But even if you were subtle about it, how did no elven spies relay word of your recruitment drive to the spire? Surely, if you were offering contracts to freelance fighters, at least one of them would just so happen to be in the pocket of an enemy such as this one.”

“I’m sure at least a handful did do just that,” the captain nodded, “but we made sure to keep spoken details to a minimum, so that we wouldn’t be taken seriously. The Knights Berodyl, as you know, are not a standing army; we’re the sentinels of the realm. We assumed - correctly, it would seem - that Dunlark Spire would never consider us a major military threat, especially not while preoccupied with the warring that continues to rage in the Elven Theatres. Those knife-eared fools have underestimated us for the last time this day!”

I don’t like your tone, there, Krey thought to himself. Knife-eared fools or not, they’re still people of this realm; let’s not allow this city of bastards to make us forget that, hmm? He dare not utter a word of this aloud— at least not for now. “When does the attack begin?”

“In a few hours. Are you still travelling with your esteemed companions that you spoke of?”

“I am,” Krey nodded. “I was thinking that, amid the chaos in the streets, my party and I could attack the spire itself directly. We’re a small enough unit to move quickly through the city, but strong enough - at least I believe we are strong enough - to challenge the leaders who no doubt reside at the top.”

“I was actually hoping a party like yours would be available for just this part of the plan… and since you’re volunteering, I suppose that means you get to do it!”

“I believe this is how we can best be of help to you, captain. You won’t be disappointed.”

Krey returned to his party and found them mingling with another party of adventurers; a dwarf, a halfling, a couple of humans, and their leader who appeared to be an ephenim of all things, with radiant eyes and hair of pale gold, and skin as white as snow. Holy ghosts and demons and all walks of men, Krey mused, gathered ‘neath the one banner of Berodyl’s protectors, to retake the city in which the gods once lived from the children who spurned their makers. It was like something out of an old story book. He waited for them to carry on their own way, and then made his presence known to his own companions.

Emilie’s eyes were sparkling. “I have never seen such a colourful gathering! Well, not since Aldiphor, anyway.”

“I can hardly believe this is really happening,” Livia toned. “I’ve fought in large battles before, but always on the defensive; whenever I was on the offensive, it was on my own.”

“Just try to not leave us too far behind,” Krey smirked. “There may be plenty of surprises within those walls.”

“I get the feeling you’re right on that one, Krey,” Pippy bubbled, swaying restlessly. “I can feel some seriously big mana tremors coming from that direction! We might take them unawares, but I think it’s still gonna be hard-fought.”

“Then let’s use these last few hours to prepare ourselves, physically and mentally,” Krey suggested.

Captain Mulgrew, after a while, had come to find them. The time had come to begin the attack, but he had one last thing for Krey and his friends to do while he rallied the camp into order. He entrusted them with a flare mote, and sent them northeast toward Dunlark’s main gate to rouse the curiosity of the guards on the walls, and get them to open the gates for the motley band of travellers… and then signal for the rest of the army to charge straight into the city from the tree line.

“Oh!” Krey gasped. “I just realised, we probably don’t want to walk up to Dunlark’s walls in Knight Berodyl heraldry and hierophant garb.”

“Glamours?” Emilie smiled.

“Glamours.” Krey returned the smile.

Livia and Pippy agreed they were presentable as was, given they simply looked like any other independent adventurer that might be wandering through this area. Krey and Emilie each popped a glamour, and their outfits began to shimmer with a pink aura. Krey’s became the gi of the fire monks from his home nation of Pivuseon— a yellow, sleeveless robe top that was longer in the front and back than in the sides, white, airy trousers, tough wraps around his hands, and block-like sandals on his feet; the sword and shield on his back became a pair of katars on his hips. Emilie’s became tattered white linens beneath a light smattering of silvery armour, complete with shady hood, turning her from a wholesome woman of the cloth to a defiantly bright assassin; her rosary instead now appeared to be a dagger in its scabbard dangling from an illusory belt. Trick of The Light did not change in appearance, suitably passable in its flush wooden scabbard.

When they were almost there, they had to stop for a moment to allow Emilie to regain her composure, for she had spied a sight most foul. One of the flag poles on the outer battlements bore not a flag, but the now-skeletal body of a long-dead hierophant hanging from a noose, robes bloody and worn down by the elements to naught more than strips of frayed fabric.

“A grim omen,” Krey noted with as little drama in his tone as he could.

Emilie’s comment, however, was on the other end of the spectrum. “Heretic scum… that they would treat one of us so unforgivably…”

“Steady, milady,” Livia said softly. “At least until we’re atop the spire.”

They continued on.

A purple elf spotted them as they approached. “Halt! Who goes there?!”

Livia took the initiative, stepping forward. “Just some weary travellers— emphasis on weary! We are… in need of… accommodation! We have coin to spend in your establishments!”

The elf guard raised an eyebrow. “Coin, you say? This city is not normally open to strangers roaming the countryside… but if your wealth impresses us, we might permit you to stay the night.”

Livia bowed with her arms outstretched. “All we ask is a chance to prove ourselves.”

“Very well,” the guard dithered. “Open the gate!”

The moment the gate was fully raised, they sprang into action. Livia threw a hand in the direction of the gate controls, encasing them in a formation of petramantic earth. Emilie thrust her glamoured rosary, clutched in both hands, in the guard’s direction, and his body flash-froze in a burst of pale mana as the veneer of the dagger faded and the rosary took on its true appearance once again. Pippy sprinted at the other elves standing by the gate controls, now denied their ability to close it again, and dispatched them before they could call for help. Krey turned and threw the flare mote into the air, watching it ignite and fly skyward, and then drawing his sword and shield, shattering the illusion upon them and restoring their original looks. By the time the rest of Dunlark’s forces realised what was going on, it would be too late. The battle for the ruinous holy city of Dunlark had begun.

Phyrn’s chosen did not wait for the army, instead making straight for the spire that stood above everything else, right at the centre of the city. Even though they made haste, of course, they still encountered resistance, and before they knew it, they were engulfed in the clash of the two armies. The first wave of Dunlark Spire warriors was ragtag, primitively equipped, barely a challenge for the Knights Berodyl and their newly-enriched ranks of daredevils and would-be heroes. However, with every skirmish they won, the enemy got better and better equipped, more and more skilled, and greater and greater in number; they went from crude swords and spears and lightweight leathers to suits of plate and artisan-forged arms, and then from there, some were equipped once more with those damn mana-arm rifles, and wore enchanted garments that threw up ripples of protective magics in response to attacks. Soon enough, their losses began to mount, and both knight and adventurer alike found the friends around them thinning out. Phyrn’s chosen broke away from the main bulk of the fighting, seeing a split in the enemy’s defensive lines, and taking the opportunity to force their way. Once they were through the clash, it almost seemed like they had a clear shot to the spire…

Then there was an explosion— faint, muffled by all the buildings between it and them.

“What in Phyrn’s name was that?” Livia dared to ask.

“Something big!” Pippy nearly screamed. “Something really big!”

“Less talking, more running!” Krey insisted.

“How you manage to keep up such pace in that armour,” Emilie said in broken segments between desperate, wheezing gasps for air, “I will never know!”

A second explosion, louder this time; it was getting closer. It emerged from around a street corner, emitting an ominous ethereal hum. Its underside was projecting faint wisps of mana that kept its hulking metal frame suspended just off the ground, and as it came to a stop facing them, the enormous, turreted cannon that crowned it began turning towards them.

Livia froze in place like a deer in the road, and screamed: “what the fuck is that?!”

A light began growing inside the barrel of the cannon…

“I SAID KEEP RUNNING!” Krey seized her by the wrist and yanked her off the street just before the tank fired, detonating a small crater into what had just a moment ago been paved stones, and was now scorched dust.

After the ringing in their ears faded and their normal hearing returned, Emilie projected her voice over the clamour of battle. “It would seem that Dunlark Spire is in possession of far greater machinistry than we first thought!”

“And we should leave such problems to the machinists in our ranks!” Krey bellowed back. “We press on to the spire! That is where our quarry resides!”

The closer they got, the harder it got to keep eyes on the spire; it was getting lost amid the ever-increasing level of elaborateness in the architecture of the city. Livia had been in awe at the cities she’d seen thus far - Calastre, Rajata City, Aldiphor - but this was something else. The streets got narrower and narrower as they weaved more whimsically through grand cathedrals, their windows shattered, colossal forges, their furnaces billowing smoke, and sprawling around them, clusters of tenements that seemed to be constructed as an afterthought - perhaps even decades or centuries after the rest, tacked on as an afterthought - in this place that had once been the root of civilisation in Berodyl.

Now it was little more than a hive for the wretched and the hateful, sunken into the depths of sacrilege and barbarism that had drowned its once holy spirit, a beautiful corpse riddled with sinful maggots. The sky had been blue and padded with fluffy white clouds at the start of the day; now that they were inside these walls, though, the sky had seemed to turn a grim, pale shade, and the clouds had grown denser. Livia could almost look at the sun without it hurting her eyes. That was when she realised they’d emerged from the crushing alleys… and there it was: Dunlark Spire. The ground floor and the immediate surrounding area was enveloped in a shroud of elemental dark, and it then occurred to Livia that the sky had been darkening because of this… thing— some kind of dark magic ward.

“Stay back!” Pippy cried, throwing her arms out to her sides. “I’ve seen defences like this before! We can’t just walk through it, we’ll go blind!”

“Or worse, I’d warrant,” Emilie murmured while taking a step forward, ignoring Pippy’s arm barring her path, simply walking into it and pushing it aside with her body. She clutched her rosary and raised it skyward, closing her eyes and uttering a prayer. A beautiful radiance bloomed from within it, and she threw the light at the swirling black before them, and in a flash, the ward was gone.

“Oh yeah,” Livia said, “ lumomancy… I forgot you could do that.”

“It is my duty to light the way,” Emilie purred with a smirk.

“Well…” Livia breathed, “this is it.” She audibly gulped, craning her neck to look up the height of the spire’s dark, stony exterior. It reminded her of the tower Florentina Esau had cosied up in after taking Rajata City… except this one was bigger, more formidable, and far less flashy. She reached out for the large wooden double doors, grabbed their gilded handles, and flung them open. “Time to behead the snake.” One of several, at least, Livia kept to herself, thinking of Fyren the Executioner.