“But as she and Rin had both discovered, the battles were easy. Destroying was easy. The hard part was the aftermath.”

― R.F. Kuang, The burning God

When Vanessa thought back to the fall of the elven empire, she mostly remembered the courage and dedication but also the hopelessness and sacrifice. Not to say that elves were much better than humans, as was shown by her betrayal and the submission of her people under the rule of the lich. But the longer lifespan and greater magical abilities led to a more distant approach to life. Not driven by short-term ambition but able to think, plan and live for centuries took the urgency out of it all.

Sometimes that led to an unhealthy feeling of superiority, that nothing short-lived could matter more than personal whims and plans decades in the making. There was no shortage of arrogance, cruelty, and simple lack of empathy in her people. But the sheer scale of self-destructive malice she was witnessing here was astounding. And amid it all, the guards she was observing were joking about dinner and the weather.

The courtyard she was looking at from the rooftop of a two-story building across the street was large and ill-kept. The snow was deep, and great drifts of it lined the walls. Broken training dummies, and a wrecked cart lent a deserted air. The soldiers were mostly away fighting the Tribes or the Academy. Only a token garrison was left.

A large barracks stood at the side, forming an L shape with the main building while half-enclosing the area. A tower stood on the free corner opposite overlooking the town. The flag of Nordmark hung stiffly frozen over the main entrance, and powdery snow was blown in eddies and streams from the rooftops down into the yard. A group of guardsmen was standing near the large gate surrounding a brazier containing glowing coals. Each gust of wind let them flare up for a short time only to settle down into a dull orange again.

With a thought, her form vanished into silvery mist drifting along the currents of the wind before entering through cracks beneath a door.

Should she kill them all and be done with it? She felt wards still active in the stone, and there should be at least some branded and one or two mages left. More than enough to contend with townsfolk or the odd guard finding their conscience. But enough to stop her? Probably not. But killing them all in their sleep would not go well if they then needed those that wavered, the ones going with the flow. She and her friends would leave. And then?

Thinking that those she thought to spare were those that stood beside the captives as they were branded and most of them killed.

She sighed.

As she was presently a drifting mist, only some cutlery clinked in a sudden breeze.

Down she went, down a steep, broad staircase ending at an iron-banded portal. Light briefly flared as old wards reacted to her presence. Coalescing back into her corporeal form, she studied the inscriptions. Nothing too complicated but well-built and often reinforced. The last time that had been done was a few years ago though. She grinned and incanted several spells before touching one rune slightly more worn than the rest. With a soft crack, the stone shifted, and dust rained down. Looking across her shoulder, she listened briefly and then turned back into mist. When this night was over, she would have to feed.

This time nothing barred her way, and she entered a large room made for processing prisoners and serving as a guard room the rest of the time. A lone older guard sat at one of several tables playing disinterestedly with a pair of bone-dice. Throwing them again and again, they rattled across the uneven surface of the tabletop. Two lanterns mounted on the walls to the side glowed with magelight. The floor was roughly polished, natural stone. A few spears were unceremoniously stuck in a barrel beside which a chest with some cudgels rested on the ground.

Brushing his bristling mustache, the man scratched his ample stomach and leaned back, the chair creaking alarmingly. “Shit, it’s damp in here.” He rubbed his left shoulder and stood up to throw another log into the fireplace. Several dark doorways led deeper. The air was cold as the proverbial ice-cellar.

Dark downward-sloping corridors led further beneath the building. One to the right quickly ended at a portal made of the same iron-banded wood as the one she had already passed. And yes, there were the runes again. To the front was another dark passage with iron bars set into the walls to the sides leading into single cells. If there had been someone, he or she would have died of the cold long ago, so she quickly passed them, her hands twitching as she mouthed a detection spell. Void burned through her veins. The suffering those cells had witnessed lingered, one on top of the next in a melange of pain.

She frowned, that was much worse than she had expected, but it was not a problem for her. But living prisoners exposed to it would die much faster, and they might even give rise to ghosts and spirits.

Turning toward the portal, she cracked another two runes before the wards were feeble enough to let her pass.

Those were better cells meant for a better sort of prisoner, probably. Now the former single rooms housed groups of people from men to women. Old and young.

Vanessa listened to the tired murmurs drifting beneath the doors. There was some sobbing and cursing but muted. This smaller tract held dozens of people. Then she felt it. Crude magics pressed at the edge of her mind. Holding Branded and be they fresh and untrained would be a veritable hazard if not for enchantments that had been hastily used in the rooms. There was no finesse but much power through the liberal use of mana-dust.

Everything she needed to know had been answered. If they felt the need for those measures, the people behind the barred doors were most likely unsympathetic to the current regime and at least somewhat able to do something about it. And that was most of what she came to find out.

Listening to the quiet sobbing, she nodded and, hesitating for a second, turned to go. If she forced an entrance, she would likely manage to destroy the ward and she could always simply break the door. But then? Staging a prison escape in the middle of the night without further planning would be a fool thing to do.

But there was one thing she thought she could still do. Fangs lengthened, and her thirst, her need intensified. Flashes of runic light ringed her vision as the old spells she had enchanted herself with stabilized her will, and with a shrug, she turned back into mist before drifting back the way she came and then higher into the main building.

“Captain Lixa?” The cautious knocking became firmer, “Mage captain? Is everything alright?”

Light fell through several framed windows with somewhat bubbly glass, nevertheless of high quality. The rays painted streaks of pale light over thick carpets. A four-poster bed stood at the wall opposite the door. Paintings, mismatched in style and theme, hung from the walls, some in expensive-looking frames. There were many, and some leaned against the walls.

In the middle of the bed lay a tall, middle-aged man, one hand stretched toward the nightstand where a short stubby wand rested. His eyes were dried out and broken. The mouth twisted into a rictus of pain. Dark hair was spread across the pillow, the quilt thrown aside, half-revealing a night shirt underneath. Blood soaked the formerly white sheets, and the throat was torn open, exposing the white bone beneath.

Dust motes danced in the early morning sun.

“I’m coming in! There have been some incidents.” The door rattled against the deadbolt, and a surprised voice sounded again. “Captain?” And much softer. “Quick. Get me the second lieutenant.”

Outside, the pale winter sun shone on Volstedt, glittering in the frozen snow.

A shriek rose from a window in the upper stories before being dispersed by the wind.

…

Brecht nodded at them and then proceeded to eat the warm porridge. The dining room they had used for yesterday's first meeting was also used today.

“And? I know perfectly well that this is rushed. But I cannot believe you would not want to travel further toward whatever goal you have, and I, as well as my colleagues...” He motioned with his spoon toward Isolde and the blonde Rolf who were sitting on opposite sides. “...would also not tarry any longer than absolutely necessary. We could be found at any moment, and supplies are scarce. The outrage and hurt are still relatively fresh, but with some time, many will probably elect to flee rather than fight, which simply will not do.” A hard gleam entered his eyes.

“I think I speak for everyone here.” Calvin glanced at the girls and Iseret. “When I say that we would prefer to do to something, it would depend on the chances and what we are up against.”

Munching on the porridge, Brecht nodded and swallowing said. “There is maybe a score of guardsmen left. There is a captain who is an accomplished magician—former mercenary and icemage. Then three other mages are in the position of lieutenants. They are needed for the branding ritual and so responsible for much of the horror you witnessed. Then there are the fresh recruits. Those that could be cowed with threats or promises. Of those, there are perhaps two-three score. Many of them are branded, but the majority are lesser talents fit only for a firebolt, a windblade, or even less impressive magics. And they are nearly untrained. We should try to gain their support and kill or imprison the other soldiers before liberating the town. As it stands, Nordmark is rebelling, and hopefully, we could rejoin the kingdom to receive support.”

A heavy thud came from the front door. Muted by distance and the room's door. Then it came again. “Open up! In the name of the duke, open up!” The banging intensified.

Brecht raised his gaze from the bowl in front of him. “It seems our plans must be implemented sooner than I would have liked.” He nearly drawled the last words and then took a napkin to clean his hands and mouth. “Well? What are your thoughts?”

The banging ceased, and then muffled words sounded directly after the front door shook violently. Wood cracked and splintered. Shortly after, the side door groaned as a body collided with the normal-seeming wood, only to rebound with a cry of pain.

“Tsk.” Brecht frowned.

Calvin’s gaze bored into the builder's face. “And you have nothing to do with this? It would force us to take action and fit your plans to a t.”

“Who interceded on behalf of the innkeeper's daughter and killed a guard? I seem to recall that this was nothing I conceivably had a hand in.” The napkin was thrown onto the table, and Brecht stood.

“Let us free this town!” Mireille rose from her chair shortly after, followed by Alyssa and Alea. Iseret had positioned herself beside the door to the entrance chamber without anyone noticing.

“Bah. You win.” Calvin grabbed his staff and stood. “We have a town to liberate.” And with a softer tone. “And don’t think I did not realize you knew they were coming.”

Alyssa concentrated, and her connection to the wight intensified. Vaguely she saw sunlight filtering through bare branches and a snow-covered forest floor. Dark amusement flashed through the link as she focused on transmitting her wishes. “I called the wight. He will make a distraction at the southern gate.”

“We will talk about making unilateral decisions when this is through.” Calvin ground out.

Alyssa grinned. “There is no time!”

They heard a heavy crash from the front door, and wood clattered on the ground.

Brecht grinned fiercely and concentrated, mouthing a command word. Granite covered his arms and hands while his features became more rugged and his skin color darkened into gray.

Isolde spoke a spell, and flames coalesced into a thin blade hovering before her pointing finger. Seeing the surprise in Calvin’s eyes, she bit out acerbically. “What? The whore can’t be a sorceress?”

They waited beside the door as several sets of feet tramped through the entrance chamber, some going up the stairs. There was a crash as another door was forced open.

“Idiots, that wasn’t even locked.” Muttered Isolde.

Then the door to the dining room was wrenched open, and two guardsmen walked inside, stopping at the sight of Brecht standing opposite the door covered in stone and dust.

“What the fuck! Branded!” One of them shouted.

Brecht smirked and answered, “If you lay down your arms, we will not harm you. We fight for Margrinar and against…” He did not get to finish as a crossbow bolt struck his chest, cracking the skin but not penetrating further. Dark blood, the consistency of molasses, slowly welled from the cut. “Is that your last…” Another bolt shot into the room, missing Brecht despite the short range and embedding in the plaster behind him.

Iseret moved nearly too fast to see, and the guard furthest into the room grabbed at his throat while gagging. Blood soaked into his dirty shirt, dying it bright red. His partner standing a bit behind and to the side, screamed as a short-sword seemingly materialized from his flank angled upward beneath the ribs. While the first guard fell to his knees, desperately clawing at his cut throat, the second tried to flee, only for the sword to be ripped from his side, gushing blood in a crimson jet. He stumbled once and then fell, dead or unconscious.

“Help! We need help! Mages!” Someone outside shouted.

Alyssa was covered in dark mists while Mireille sparked with suppressed lightning. Alea was standing behind Butler One light magic circling her wrists.

A conflicted look passed over Alyssa’s face as she saw the guardsmen scrabbling to escape the doorway. That lasted until a lanky man with dirty blonde hair and a deformed nose raised his hand, summoning a flaming sphere she knew to be a fireball.

With a shiver, she had a vision of the fire engulfing the room and her friends, and with a quickness, she later found astounding summoned the abundant void magic between her hands, spreading her arms with ripping motion while foregoing most of the necessary chant. The result was much better than feared as the wall between dimensions ruptured and void spilled forth. The men and women in the stairwell saw the darkness spreading, and long tendrils like the feelers of a sea anemone grasped at them. The man invoking his fire-brand hastily threw the fireball, which vanished into the blackness with nary a ripple.

Iseret took a quick step to the side, her own divinely gifted magic shrugging off the effects of the unleashed void. A temporary flicker of unease vanished to be replaced with her usually stoic demeanor. Screams from the entrance chamber echoed strangely while passing through the black oval. The jewel in Alyssa’s wrist glowed with dark energies.

Mireille took a step closer before cautiously putting a hand on her friend's shoulder, causing her to flinch. “Alyssa. Don’t overdo it. There are more of us than only you. You don’t have to kill yourself so we can safely be idle.”

The doorway was nearly filled with waving tendrils of darkness, and only flashes of fire could be seen along with the screaming and soon the sound of several people running.

Letting go of the spell, the oval collapsed. What was new were the black motes of unlight drifting like ashen flakes on a nonexistent breeze.

“Mh. That was…” Brecht seemed doomed not to finish a sentence in this fight as the side door finally gave way to a metal-encased Branded who wielded a large axe.

Mireille surged forward, and as he raised the axe for an overhead blow, she stabbed him in the chest with a spear made of lightning. The metal was nearly no defense against that, and sparks blew from his eyes, nose, and mouth before he stumbled back, impacting against the next guard in line.

“What is happening in there?” Someone called from outside.

“Rush them! The sergeant has breached the front door!” Another voice shouted.

Isolde quickly swiped the fiery blade sprouting from her index finger through the doorway, and a pained scream accompanied by unpleasant sizzling noises were her reward.

From up above, the twang of a crossbow could be heard as some of Brecht’s men joined the fight as well as they were able. A bright light blossomed soon after, shining through the door as a fireball detonated on the upper floors.

“Damn it.” Brecht cursed.

“Alea! Could you and Butler One get our things before the house burns down?” Mireille cast a worried look at the ceiling.

Calvin grasped his staff tightly and intoned a complicated spell. Birds formed of sparks, and flames materialized out of flaming tendrils coming from the tip of his staff before he pointed, and the stream of flaming crows burst outside, burning and igniting the waiting soldiers.

Screams rose, and some began to flee as the leader outside began to order and scold them. “Cowards! If you run now, only the executioner's blade awaits you. Damn imbeciles, come back!”

The man with the large axe stumbled back outside and let his weapon fall to the ground while gasping for breath and clutching his chest. “P..p..please don’t kill me! I surrender!”

Then Mireille shot out of the door, and the commands ceased soon after.

“And?” Brecht asked into the sudden silence.

“Let’s gather the wounded and then plan. Quickly! For what is now to come.” Calvin sighed. These days were certainly not to his liking.