“I thought we had more time,” Atar said, his voice barely above a whisper. Only Evie could hear it, and she simply grimaced. “Everyone! Health, Stamina, and Mana Potions, now! Top off!”

His mages had been conditioned by the long, grueling hours of war, and none hesitated. They pulled free a trio of vials at their waists. Atar and Evie did the same. His Mana was slowly recovering, as was his Health and Stamina, but none were far past fifty percent—far from optimal. They were going to need every edge they could afford.

In the distance, that golden sword was raised in a massive, golden gauntlet that was connected to a hulking, translucent suit of conjured armor. Ten feet tall and almost as wide, it was a suit of plate made entirely of hardened planes of light Mana, containing within it a red cloaked Inquisitor. With the hundred stride distance between them, Atar could not make out all the details, but the redcloak floating at its center was manipulating its limbs like a sort of puppet. The Inquisitor drew the massive sword back to their side, hefting a huge slab of light Mana formed into a tower shield.

“I thought that was a hard Skill to learn!” Evie hissed, her jaw still clenched. “They’ve got thirty of ‘em!”

Atar had noticed that as well, as more brilliant conjured suits of armor stepped from behind the tumbled trees. He’d never encountered the Skill he was witnessing, but plenty of others had told him of it. Evie had once recounted her fight with a golden armored Inquisitor down in the sewers. It had taken her, Vess, and Felix to defeat their opponent, and he had been one of the lower ranked redcloaks. “Those don’t look to be Apprentice Tier, either,” he said.

The distance was too far for Analyze to function, but Atar had fought enough strong combatants to identify the air of someone that had advanced beyond the limits of Apprentice. Perhaps even Journeyman.

As he considered that, the woods were ignited by the concussive shout of Tempered lungs as rank after rank of redcloaks appeared from the withered fungal thicket and web-tangled trees. Fire, bright and gold, licked across logs and invisible threads, appearing, for an instant, to form a wild, strange array in mid-air.

Evie rolled her shoulders. “This is gonna be bad.”

Behind the golden giants, rows upon rows of redcloaks marched in perfect synchronized steps, their white-enameled armor half-hidden by their blood-red capes, but showing enough that the golden sunburst on their chests gleamed. At least a thousand by Atar’s count, they might have been manageable for the Haarwatch defenders, until a second shout rocked the air.

“Paladins, halt!”

Dwarfing the count of Inquisitors were the bulky, crimson armored hulks of the Pathless’ Paladins. Banners were held high, depicting a rippling standard that was echoed on every blood-red breastplate: a sword and clenched fist over a golden sunburst. Atar’s eyes danced across their details, their rank and file, trying to sift through what he knew about their organization.

That’s…that’s two entire battalions of Paladins and a single battalion of Inquisitors arrayed against us. The numbers chilled him. Blood and burning ashes. They truly did bring an army.

they must die.

Atar pursed his lips, but didn’t respond. He wouldn’t lie, but the last thing he desired was to admit the Flame was right.

A deep thrum echoed across the Verdant Pass, and the smoking trees rippled as three Manaships rose from their depths in perfect synchronization. They were easily larger than the galleon class ships Atar’s people used, perhaps twice the size, in addition to being covered in heavy metal plating and thick bronze stabilizing wings. Sigils festooned their hulls and sails, flashing briefly as tree branches impacted the glimmering traces of wards, before the ships settled a touch higher than the Sunrise Gate wall. These too were over a hundred strides away, but Atar could make out the hundreds of white-enameled soldiers that stood atop their decks in neat, redcloaked rows.

The Hierocracy had finally made their move.

“Gotta be another battalion of those bastards on the ships too,” Evie muttered. The strains of fury rolled from her like waves, but her eyes were wide and worried. “How’re we gonna fight all this?”

“We just will,” Atar said, though something was wrong with his voice. It came out entirely too high. “We just will,” he repeated.

better, that time.

Atar curled his lip, his mustache bristling against his nose. “Mana levels?” he asked.

“Eighty percent at the lowest, sir,” said Lazlo the Half-Orc. Lightning crackled between his fingers. “What shall we do to them, sir?”

“Do to them?” Atar raised an eyebrow. “We’ll be lucky if we can penetrate their shielding.”

“But we have so many mages, not to mention our warriors. The Claw alone—”

“Won’t stand a chance if those inscribed wings on the ships are what I think they are,” Atar said, his voice sharp as any knife. “And stop discharging Mana. That’s a waste of power that we will need.”

“I—the Fiend—fine.” The idiot stopped leaking immediately, clenching his fists hard over the Mana Gates in his palms. “If the Fiend were here—”

“He isn’t! And he damn well should be!” Atar snapped, puffing air through his nostrils like an overblown Avum.

burn them all.

“Attention, vassals of the Hierocracy! Attention all those who would uphold the truth and glory of the light!”

Atar pulled himself away from Lyle the Half-Orc lightning mage with great difficulty. His hand had knotted into the man’s robes and was starting to smoke, but Atar put it out with a wave of his Will. He tried his best to ignore the look of fear in the mage’s eyes—in all their eyes—and turned instead toward the new voice that was booming across the battlefield.

“I am Sword, of the High Guard,” said the figure, before pausing as if to drink in the gasps of astonishment from Haarwatch. They were indeed prevalent, and even Atar couldn’t hold back from flinching from the name.

The High Guard. Atar looked him over, hoping to spot the lie but unable to find any flaws. A man, judging by the timbre of his voice, for his face and body were entirely covered in a milky white armor of smooth, interlocking plates. He stood atop the leading Manaship, at ease with his hands folded behind him as if he were simply a soldier at parade rest. At his side were others in similar armor. Four of them. They sent executioners to quell us.

“My associates and I were sent here, not to kill you, but to prove to the Hierophant that you are innocent of the dire accusations that have been leveled against your city. Accusations of treachery, tyranny, and treason.”

The man’s voice boomed at the last, not so much loud as it was pervasive. The trees thirty strides below his ship flailed as if shaken by a terrible beast. The man—Sword—continued.

“We would ask that all those who are innocent of those charges, who are simply caught up in the wiles of the vile and wicked, to return to your homes. To stand aside, and let us confront those that have truly wronged our great nation. You are not our target.” Sword took a single step forward, and suddenly a sword made entirely of red-gold orichalcum was in his uplifted hand, blade bare to the sky. “We have come for Felix Nevarre, who is charged with fomenting civil unrest, for usurpation of Territorial rule, and with the murder of several prominant members of the Pathless’ clergy.”

More gasps arose from the man’s words this time, and to Atar’s surprise, almost none were fearful. They were angry.

“Liar!”

“Hierocratic dog!”

“The Hierophant can kiss my ass!” Evie hollered from beside him. “Felix did nothin’ wrong! Autarch! Autarch! Autarch!”

Her voice ripped across the battlefield, among the loudest, and soon the silly chant she’d taken up had spread. Up and down the walls, soldiers screamed and shouted along, uncaring as the High Guard watched them with their featureless helmets and rigid body language.

“Felix Nevarre!” Sword shouted and released a piece of his Spirit. It fell on Atar like a wet blanket, heavy and cloying and restrictive, and the chanting faded to nothing. “Felix Nevarre is a petty tyrant! He has claimed Territory under the purview of the Hierophant, a responsibility given to her directly by the Pathless Himself! Your Autarch is but a thief.”

Their faces were hidden, but in that moment Atar felt a tingling, buzzing jolt along his Affinity. A raw aggression and hatred flashed from Sword’s Spirit, and though it was gone an instant later, Atar found it pressed indelibly into his memory. The sheer depth of it was a shock that almost knocked the lungs from the mage’s chest. That man will kill us all.

The High Guard leaned back and slowly replaced his namesake in a sheath at his waist. “My conflict is with your leader. You fine soldiers have proven yourselves more than capable against the beasts of this wretched valley, eliminating them before they could multiply too greatly and threaten the lands beyond. The inaction of your leader has led to their overpopulation, an issue that you have corrected here, once we gave them a bit of a push. That is commendable.” Sword spread his hands wide, a stance that screamed of calm, rational acceptance. “Lay down your weapons, and bring to me your Autarch. We shall end this without more bloodshed.”

Quiet. Atar watched with bated breath as the entirety of Haarwatch looked at the horde of Hierocratic soldiers. Then the silence was broken.

“Hold!” Reed called out, his voice no quieter than Evie’s. He was still down there, among the warriors that had started to charge the Weaver Matriarch, and he had rallied their attention. They weren’t too close to the enemy, but they were far enough from the wall that getting back might prove too difficult. “You sent those monsters to test us?”

“A test any city beneath the Hiercracy should be able to pass.” The High Guard paused, leaning over the railing of the Manaship and peering downward. “Do I know you, Adept Tier?”

“Loose!” Reed commanded, and in an instant the sky was filled with light. Balls of fire, bolts of lightning, spears of earth, and sharp, spinning blades of air Mana all hurled up at the lead Manaship. All of it converged upon a single, exposed target.

All of it for nothing, as the wardings absorbed the entirety of the attack.

The High Guard, their ship, and the hundreds of Inquisitors behind them all looked down upon Haarwatch’s defenders, utterly unharmed. “A lesson must be taught, then,” Sword said. He raised up his sword once more, and this time it burst into brilliant, emerald flame.

“Blessed of the Pathless,” he cried, and his booming voice turned hard as Adept Tempered steel. It was as pitiless as the man’s smooth, featureless helmet. “Advance.”