Interlude: Oaths and Debts.

Tottering. Even the word evoked childish infirmity— the near-comical gait of those too undeveloped to walk properly. How she hated tottering. But after weeks of bedridden illness, it was all she could do.

Days of exhaustion and near-starvation did little to aid the body in fighting off the myriad infectious horrors of the world. Like those carried by the swarms of biting insects which had hounded Lyr’Rael during her journey from the Goodmother's cabin. She hadn’t even awakened from being carried into the town before fever had reduced her perspective to distorted flashes.

Lyr'Rael had blissfully little memory of the time since her arrival in White Ford. The passing of days was marked only by the broken remnants of fever-induced nightmares. Eyes like burning coals bored through her struggling mind in stuttering, confused glimpses; blurring with the reality of her hospital room during precious moments of near-lucidity. The sickness had eventually broken, though not before sapping what little remained of her strength.

Waking up helpless in bed was almost enough to make her scream in frustration at the frailty of her mortal body, not that she would ever actually complain aloud. Her current state of weakness— among other indignities— was something she was determined to suffer quietly, though certainly not happily.

Less quiet though, were the unending tide of questions she now faced from her erstwhile caretakers.

Who was she? Where did she come from? Were there any others? Is there danger? Why was she in the forest alone?

To these questions and more, she had no answers. In all honesty some of their questions made her wish she had an answer purely from what they revealed about her current state. By the nature of her punishment, she had nothing except the clothes on her back. The desire to live burned urgently in her chest but… now that the necessity of immediate survival was accounted for, the question of what next eroded her already shaken confidence.

The future loomed ahead like an ephemeral spectre of doom. The fallen emissary knew her body had a long list of needs to meet if she wanted to survive, but her recent adventure revealed an important problem. Divorced from the font of heavenly power, she had no skills.

The humiliation of uselessness gnawed at her nearly as much as her newfound will to live. Without power, without her wings, her only useful skill was a moderate ability to swing a long stick. And now she was too weak to even manage that.

Lyr'Rael wiped angrily at her eyes as the treacherous orbs nearly began tearing up again out of hopeless frustration.

Useless body with all these useless, messy emotions. How am I supposed to stay clean with all this leaking?

A soft chuckle bubbled up weakly from her chest at the incongruous thought. Given her recent experiences, staying clean was the least of her worries.

“While many say laughter is good medicine, I would prefer my patients to follow their prescribed treatments. Like bedrest.”

Lyr’Rael winced at the dry voice of the middle-aged healer-woman who’d been taking care of her since her arrival. A brief flash of pride demanded Lyr’Rael insist that she was fine, but with a shuddering breath she reined in the impulse. It would do her no favors to ignore her body now.

"Apologies Miss Wyydham. I just… I had to do something.”

“‘Something’ is going to undo all my hard work keeping you alive. Bed.”

Before Lyr’Rael could agree or protest either way, they were interrupted by an old man’s soft voice.

“Pardon, Miss Wyydham. But if our guest is able, then I’m afraid I must speak with her on a matter of some urgency.”

The voice’s owner stepped into view, revealing an intimidatingly tall figure with long hair and a beard gone white with age. His features were stern, but not unkind, and while the years had robbed some of the man’s handsomeness there was still an undeniable aura of quiet strength.

“I shall allow no harm to come to her, and you have my word she’ll be returned shortly.”

Lyr’Rael bristled over the feeling of being bartered back and forth, but held her peace while the healer gave the old man a critical glare.

“As you wish, Father.” she eventually said, giving a light curtsey before striding away.

Father?

The term sent a tingle of alarm down Lyr’Rael’s nerves; one that spiked higher as the old man offered her his arm.

“If you’ll allow me, young Miss. We’ll not be going far, but I’d rather not risk Wyydham’s wrath should I allow harm to befall one of her patients.”

Hesitantly, she took the proffered arm. They set out at a fairly sedate pace down the white stone hallways typical of most structures in the town. Despite the careful speed, she found herself unwillingly leaning more and more on the old man’s arm as they walked— her strength draining rapidly with every step. It was to her immense relief that they quickly passed through an open archway and into a small garden courtyard with two chairs placed carefully facing a burbling fountain. Trembling with exhaustion, she allowed herself to be seated before the old man took his own seat across from her. He snapped his fingers, emitting the telltale golden flash of divine magic that spread through the garden before disappearing.

“There, that should give us some measure of privacy. Now, young Miss, I am Father Aeden. May I know your name?”

“I… my name is Lyr’Rael.” she answered hesitantly.

“Lyr’Rael? A lovely name, Miss. Though of a… particular origin. I am sure you are wondering why I’ve brought you here?”

She nodded warily, never taking her eyes off the old man and gathering what little strength she had to do… something.

Certainly won't be running… she thought sardonically with a glance at her still-trembling legs.

"Well, I'll be brief." The priest began. "I oversee much of this township in conjunction with several others as the head of the Unified Temple. Much as Wyydham manages the physical needs of our people, I manage the township's spiritual needs— in particular as it relates to the health and safety of its residents. Which is why I am often called in cases like your own to insure there are no sinister influences attempting to infiltrate us."

An Inquisitor.

An icy fist of dread gripped her stomach and she fought down a surge of panic.

"I'm not—"

"Peace, child. I have given my word that you shall not be harmed. The zealotry of my peers has little place in the wilds and I have long rid myself the worst of it. Chasing heretics is a job for the young and vital, not an old relic like me. I am only here to talk." Aeden said disarmingly, though it did little to actually put her at ease. Her distrust was justified shortly as the man continued.

"So, while you were incapacitated, I performed a number of tests. Nothing invasive, but as a representative of the temple I have determined two influences that create… issues. The first is relatively minor but still concerning; you have a witch's debt against your soul."

Lyr'Rael's eyes narrowed and she frowned in thought.

A debt? Goodmother.

"The debt is minor, luckily, and comes with no compulsion. I recommend you settle it quickly if you wish to avoid the consequences of a broken witch-pact. I will advise you that— debt or no— there will be no exceptions made should you be found in violation of our laws. If possible, could you please elaborate on your encounter with this witch? I'd like to make certain my congregation is not being preyed upon by an unscrupulous character."

She barely heard him as she wracked her brain to remember the Goodmother's words and figure out where the 'debt' might have come from. And then found herself blushing furiously with indignation and horror.

"The nicest young man did me a passing favor, and old Goodmother isn't one to keep her debts hanging about. I'll help ye get to the town of White Ford, and if you'd like to keep us square, just give the lad a chance when he gets there, eh?"

"Miss Lyr'Rael?" The priest prompted after her continued silence.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she began narrating her brief journey through the forest with Goodmother— gritting her teeth in seething embarrassment the whole time. As she finished her tale, a dry chuckle from Father Aeden interrupted her mounting outrage.

"Ah. One of those debts. I wish I could say I'm surprised that so many old women seem to think contractual obligation is the best way to help their young relatives find love. The good news for you is the debt is light enough that just meeting the 'young man' should suffice. Hopefully nothing too onerous, if she sent you here. Though it does seem from her wording that the expected person has yet to arrive, which is… curious. Perhaps we can help you keep an eye out for him."

Lyr'Rael felt a powerful urge to curl up and die of humiliation. The old priest smiled, but the happiness quickly faded from his expression.

"I'm glad the issue wasn't as serious as I feared. The next, however, is much less pleasant."

With a flick of his fingers, another mote of golden magic manifested and streaked over to land on her cheek. Instinctively her hand shot up to cover what she knew the light would reveal, but she aborted the motion halfway through. There was no hiding the truth.

The mark on her cheek was simple; an angular rune of the divine tongue that imprinted its meaning on the minds of all who beheld it— Forsworn. As such things went, it was a mercy. The brand was ambiguous, leaving out the specifics of her sentencing and simply marking her as exiled for crimes of negligence. It was a bitter pain that the Heavens now denied her having been among them at all, but far better than the more accurate alternative the Eyes could have chosen— Fallen.

The punishment was rare enough as it sat between the more popular options of either assignment to the Twelfth Host (and the likely eventual death fighting the endless encroachment of reality-breaking horrors) or simple execution. She couldn't even recall the sentence being carried out a single time during her centuries-long tenure among the Hosts. It implied a level of politicking that she had naively assumed was absent from the Heavens, and the more of her memory she considered the more of that same naivety she found.

Unfortunately, while the punishment might be unheard of in the Heavens themselves, mortals were much more fascinated by old stories. The specifics were dim recollections in her mind, but she could clearly remember her own rolling eyes at the fanciful tales told about cunning and vengeful Fallen. Banished from the heavens for their misdeeds, they invariably chose to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting mortals below out of some petty sense of vindictiveness. In such tales, the Fallen always managed to retain some sort of mystical powers from their time as Emissary— something Lyr’Rael could only wish for.

For a moment, the weight of her punishment bore down on her. Choking her spirit with the uncertainty of her future looming in the distance. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and pushed it aside. There would be time for self-pity later, right now she had to survive.

"I just want to live. I swear I mean no harm to this place."

Father Aeden stared at her impassively, before abruptly shifting topics.

“Tell me, have you ever heard the parable of the Fatekiller’s Oath?”

Thrown off by the sudden change, Lyr’Rael blinked in confusion.

“No?” She answered hesitantly.

“I see. Will you humor me, then?”

She nodded, not feeling that she had much choice either way.

“Very well, the tale begins many, many years ago with a man exploring the Hollows in search of treasure. Overconfident and greedy, he had become separated from his group and wandered lost for many days. Just as the man is about to lose all hope, he discovers a small chamber. In the center of this chamber is a pedestal, upon which sits a single urn. It is of ancient and primitive design, black as pitch, with a crude face locked in an eternal grimace upon the side. The urn is a relic of that truly ancient and dark time before even the rise of the Achorai, and seeing it fills the man with joy. So long as he can make his way to the surface, the sale of this urn will cover his needs the rest of his life.

Hastily, and suddenly fearful that the rest of his former group will come upon him and demand a share of his treasure, the man snatches up the urn. When he does, he is shocked to hear a voice.

‘Lord… Lord! If you free me, I will serve you.’

Startled, the man looks around, but there is no one in the room but himself. The voice repeats again, ‘Lord… Lord! If you free me, I will serve you.’

This time, the man answers, demanding the voice’s owner reveal themselves. To his amazement, it answers.

‘Lord, I am sealed within the urn you carry. I was trapped to serve the kings of old, and brought them great wealth and power. Free me, Lord, and I will serve you.’

The man is suspicious, but the voice’s words have given him visions of endless riches and in his greed, the man thinks himself cunning.

‘Swear an Oath to me, that you will bind yourself and serve me faithfully as long as I live, and I will free you.’

‘Lord, I swear! If you free me, I will bind myself to serve you faithfully as long as you live.’

Satisfied, the man returns the urn to its pedestal before taking a hammer from his belt. Raising it high, he brings it down with a mighty swing and smashes apart the urn. And the demon within is released.

The man of course is killed instantly, the demon’s aura of destruction turning him into less than dust before he even feels the satisfaction of a well-struck blow. The demon rampages through the area afterwards for many years, and thousands perish before the Paladins can bring it down.”

The story ends with the old priest pinning her to the chair with his gaze.

“Like many parables, this one has several lessons to teach us. Most common are the simple, ‘Beware of a bargain that seems too good’ and ‘by all the gods, stay away from demons’. More than these though, are what the Fatekiller’s Oath symbolizes. To learn it is to understand that some oaths— by intent or by nature— cannot be kept, even before they are made. It is a lesson to examine the world around you carefully and remember that even in the unlikely event the demon meant every word it uttered; by its very nature, the Oath was broken before it so much as whispered the words.

You say you have come here meaning no harm, and I believe you. You are marked, but not tainted by malice or the many evils of this world. However, because of that same mark, your words are made false. You may not mean harm to us, but so long as you are with us, harm will come nonetheless.”

Leaning back in his chair, Father Aedan sighed heavily.

“Our township is unwarded. This gives us many freedoms compared to the great ward-cities or even the Houses of Terland to the north, but it comes with many restrictions. We are small, and utterly reliant on greater powers for our survival. To shelter you means these powers could choose to sanction us, and while my own predilection makes me loathe to turn away one in need such as yourself, I must bow to practicality.”

From the moment her mark was revealed, she knew this moment would come. She understood what the priest was saying, and while the outright rejection of her presence was crushing; she would bear it with what little dignity she had left.

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“I understand. I will take my leave then. I am sorry for endangering your people.”

Without another word, she pushed out of her chair on trembling limbs— determined to leave the town as fast as her feet would carry her. But the priest arrested her budding momentum with a hand laid gently on her arm.

“This was not meant as an immediate eviction, Lyr’Rael the Forsworn. Wyydham would box both our ears before you were halfway to the gate, and then she’d drag you right back regardless and damn the political consequences. Never attempt to interfere with a dedicated healer in the midst of providing care. You are welcome until she pronounces you fit to travel, at which point you will be provided with what provisions I can spare from my own stock. As it stands, it would be more merciful to have you executed than send you beyond the wall, and your death is not my intent.”

Much as her pride demanded she ignore the man's small kindness after essentially pronouncing her second banishment, in her heart she knew that another trip through the woods would absolutely kill her. Even if she weren’t barely able to stand, she knew nothing of the surrounding area. Listening to her pride would mean rejecting her best chance at survival and abandoning any opportunity to improve a dire situation.

For a moment, she examined her pride like it was a separate, living entity. Pride had blinded her to the flaws of the Heavens. It had ruled her, infecting her decision making and ultimately creating the path for her fall from grace. Pride, after all, was why she had hid the possibility of a new awakened soul from her superiors. Forced her to take on a responsibility beyond her abilities in order to avoid punishment. She’d become single-minded and obsessed, which began a cascade of terrible decisions that had ended in her ruin. If Lyr’Rael wanted any chance at a new life going forward, pride would need to be tamed.

So when the old priest offered her his arm to escort her back to her bed, she grit her teeth and thanked him for it. But with every step, her resolve hardened.

I am not afraid. I will live. I will grow stronger.

And for a few days after, she did. Pushing herself to the very millimeter allowed by the healers, strength slowly began creeping back into her limbs. Until one night where it all came crashing down.

Instinct jolted her awake in the middle of the night. The darkness of her room suddenly oppressive and cloying. There was no sound, nothing out of place, and yet fear scraped against her nerves like claws sliding on glass.

Painfully slow, she crept out of bed and dressed in her gifted traveling leathers, heart hammering in her chest with the urge to hurry. Her fear ratcheted higher with each passing moment, setting her fingers trembling even though she couldn't understand why.

Something is coming. I have to get ready. Hurry!

A noise came from the corridor outside her room, and she knew her time was up. With no other options, she snatched up her staff and braced herself by the bed, careful to leave enough room to swing without getting tangled. Then she waited.

The door shifted slightly in its frame, like a weight pressed up against it from the other side. So close now, she heard the sound of heavy breaths as something sniffed around the edges of the door. The latch clicked and jostled, and with a dull groan, the door slowly swung open to reveal… nothing.

What?? But—

The same instinct that had awakened her early screamed in warning, and without a second thought she whipped her staff forward with everything she had. Impact reverberated up her arms with a wet crunch and an inhuman shriek. The air twisted violently around the head of her staff before the illusion shattered, and a misshapen horror collapsed writhing to the floor. Bladed claws snapped through the air in tortured spasms that drove her back as the wounded creature shrieked deafeningly.

"[Rebuke]!"

A wave of golden light swept from the hallway outside, vibrating through the air and clinging to every surface as it passed. It pulsed around the downed creature for a moment before flaring up blindingly, and when the light cleared the creature was gone, leaving only the faintest trace of ash on the floor.

Heavy footsteps pounded in the hall outside and Lyr’Rael reset her stance defensively. The bedraggled face of Father Aeden lept into view as he sprinted with speed that would have been remarkable on a man half his age.

“Are you alright??” The old man exclaimed. “Thank the gods— quickly, follow me!”

“What’s happening?” Lyr’Rael shouted as she stumbled after him into the hallway.

“The town is under attack, dozens of these things came over the walls. Whatever power hides them from sight let them slip right by my passive wards. I activated them manually but that will only buy us a few minutes, we must move.”

Lyr’Rael struggled to respond, her breath coming in wheezing gasps as she fought to keep up with the priest’s grueling pace. They passed room after room of the hospital, and while many were thankfully empty, several had their walls splattered gruesomely with the blood and viscera of their former occupants. She hadn't noticed before, but even Father Aeden wasn't unscathed by the attack and a steady trickle of blood dripped from his side. He seemed content to ignore the wound, so she kept quiet after a few anxious glances.

They burst through a closed door at the end of the hall, only for the both of them to duck frantically as a rapier skewered the air where their heads had just been.

"Wyydham!! Gods woman, this isn't the Hollows; you can't just stab the first thing that moves." Aeden bellowed as he stumbled, clutching his injured side. Wyydham huffed angrily in response, sheathing the rapier and striding over to inspect the wound.

“If this isn’t the Hollows, then why are monsters murdering patients in my clinic? What happened to your wards? And to you??”

The priest only shook his head, wincing as Wyydham deftly bandaged his side while in the distance a siren began blaring mournfully over the town. The staccato pop of gunfire in the distance announced that there were at least a few people fighting back.

“We have to get to the shelter. The outer wards are up now but already buckling, this is more than I ever meant for them to hold back.”

“I am not leaving without my patients.” The healer declared with steely finality.

Aeden snorted wearily.

“Of course not. I’ll not leave our own to the wolves.” He said with a shake of his head.

“Let me help.”

The words had burst from her throat unbidden, but Lyr’Rael felt no desire to take them back. She hefted her staff with as much determination as she could muster.

"I can fight, let me help."

"Absolutely not—" Wyydham started, but was interrupted by Father Aeden placing a gentle hand on her arm. With grim eyes, he looked back at Lyr'Rael.

"I understand, but before you commit yourself, I must inform you that it will not change your situation. So long as you bear that mark, you will still be made to leave. Do you still wish to fight?"

She hesitated, fear returning for a moment to claw at her resolve. The overpowering need to live screamed at her, demanding she retract her words. Others were more capable, more fit, and she was still recovering. The town had taken her in, but they were also refusing to let her stay. No one would blame her if she hid in the shelter, but…

Her pride— wounded, caged beast that it was— dug in and refused to budge. Something told her that this would be a final act of ultimate cowardice, one that would set the trajectory of her life going forward. No, she would fight, and damn the consequences.

"I still want to help."

"Very well." Father Aeden said with a slow mood of respect. He turned back to Wyydham and arched a single brow questioningly. The healer looked back and forth between the two of them sternly, stubbornly trying to dissuade them without saying a word. When that failed, she threw up her hands in frustration.

"Fine!" She stormed over to a metal closet door that she threw open with a clang. "Well if I can't stop you, then you're going to need better than a bloody stick."

Wyydham returned carrying a short glaive, the half-meter blade etched with silver runes of sharpness and durability. The shaft was a beautiful, dark-grey ash wood that was weathered with age but clearly well-maintained.

"I can't swing this old thing around like I used to, but maybe it'll keep you alive for a bit."

"You kept it in a broom closet? I thought you sold that years ago." Aeden murmured thoughtfully.

Wyydham scoffed.

"You never know when you'll need a good weapon. It's not quite one of those new FCA rifles, but I've cut down plenty of monsters with this in my day and I'll be happy to see it cut a few more."

The woman held it out to Lyr’Rael, and she hesitantly took it. The weapon felt instantly right in her hands, a piece of her soul sending a mournful note about her once-bound spear before accepting this worthy substitute.

Much better than a ‘stick’.

Slowly at first, but with increasing confidence, she performed a light kata to familiarize herself with the glaive. She kept the motions simple, both to keep from tiring herself unnecessarily and due to the limited space indoors. A smile crept up on her lips as she quickly flowed from one stance to the next, before halting so she could appreciatively look over the weapon again.

“It’s magnificent.”

“That it is.” Wyydham responded, nodding approvingly at Lyr’Rael. “And it seems you actually know how to handle a weapon. Take good care of it, and assuming we survive the night, it’s yours. Blade like that deserves more than to be stuck on a shelf.”

Lyr’Rael started to object, but a dull boom rattled the chamber, followed quickly by several more.

“Cannons— the guard are on the wall at least.” Father Aeden muttered.

The air distorted for a moment, shimmering like a wave of heat passed before snapping back harshly.

“That’s the last of my wards. Our time is up— quickly!”

The priest dashed over to a large wooden door while Wyydham unlocked it with a set of heavy keys. Together they pushed the doors open wide, revealing what had been the building’s dining hall but was now converted into a makeshift bunker. A dozen patients in various conditions had been gathered, with most being able to at least walk. Two half-panicked nurses huddled protectively over a child lying unconscious on a gurney, though the tension quickly eased when they recognized the senior pair opening the door.

With a few barked orders, Wyydham had the small crowd as organized as she could get them. A few gave Lyr'Rael curious looks as they filed out of the room following Father Aeden, but she put them out of her mind to focus on both potential threats and helping one of the nurses push the child’s gurney.

Exiting the building, the sound of fighting rapidly intensified. Inhuman howls rent the air, mixed with the increasing pop of gunfire and sporadic cannons. Small groups of people huddled together defensively with weapons clutched nervously as they all hurried in one direction down the street. Over everything was the steady wail of the siren, blaring its warning cry over the town.

How quickly everything falls apart…

Their group hurried to join the stream of people, with many seeming to recognize the priest and falling in behind them. Several even stepped forward to help the more injured patients who were obviously struggling to keep pace, and the simple camaraderie sent a brief pang of loneliness through Lyr'Rael that she forcefully smothered.

Street by street they made their way through the growing chaos engulfing the town. The crowds grew thicker, and progress slowed as everyone converged on the town's main temple and the shelter below. A barrage of rockets painted crimson streaks as they screamed across the dark sky, vanishing over the rooftops and followed by muffled explosions. One by one the distant cannons fell silent even as the pop of rifles grew in intensity and volume.

Shouts from behind drew Lyr'Rael's attention as a rush of guardsmen and armed civilians met the rear of the escaping crowd. The people pressed tighter, panic beginning to spread its cloying fingers in the rush to escape. Seeing the way blocked, the fighters first attempted to force the deadlocked crowd into motion without success. After a few more shouts, they dispersed into the various houses and businesses lining the nearby streets, dragging out furniture and belongings to form a crude barricade across the road. With every passing second, the sound of gunfire drew closer and closer.

Torn, Lyr'Rael looked between the spires of the temple a few blocks ahead and the hasty defensive line being drawn up behind them.

They're never going to make it.

Another barrage of rockets arced overhead, angled much sharper than the last and hitting the ground close enough for the resulting fiery mushroom clouds to be clearly visible. With a last determined look, she locked eyes with Father Aeden and Wyydham, saluting them with the glaive before dashing towards the barricade.

The crowds parted easily for her, running towards the danger had that effect. In no time, she was standing in front of a senior guardsman who was barking orders across the street. The man barely glanced at her before directing her forward without a pause.

"Polearms, second line! Aim for the head or they'll heal! Cover the gunners! Leave a gap in the center for the rearguard, once they retreat through— we hold!"

Her heart pounded in her chest as she stepped up to an overturned dining set. The fallen emissary barely knew why she was standing there. The sense she was doing something… right resonated with her, but warred with every instinct to live that burned hourly in her veins.

What am I doing?

Lyr'Rael thought of the mantra she'd been repeating to herself over and over.

I am not afraid. I will live. I will grow stronger.

How did standing in a line ahead of a horde of monsters fit with that? And yet… her feet didn't move back. Fear pumped through her blood, but she felt no desire to run. Maybe if it were just her alone but… she looked back over the crowd behind her, making painfully slow progress towards the shelter.

Not one step back. As long as I have strength to fight, nothing gets by me. I will protect them.

It was right, it was glorious. It was everything she should have felt as an emissary but never had, and it burned hotter than any fear. Her limbs flooded with renewed strength, and her eyes were clear as she looked into the dark streets ahead. The wait wasn't long.

The rearguard came into view in a rush, frantically bounding in a split formation where roughly half would stop and cover the other's retreat. It was a sound strategy in theory, but their foe was quickly overwhelming them. A mass of dark shapes boiled in the shadows behind the retreating fighters, and the slightest misstep resulted in being snatched backwards— the following screams were mercifully brief.

"Covering fire!"

The shout came over and everyone in their line with a gun opened up on the dark shapes, pressing them back and buying just enough time for the rearguard to break off and sprint for the gap in the barricade. A last few stragglers barely made it through before a wagon was tipped over to close the gap— most of them collapsing to the ground with exhaustion from the running battle. The battle for the town had lasted less than an hour and White Ford’s defenders were already pushed to the limit by the constant fighting.

Disgust filled her as Lyr'Rael got her first look at the creatures rushing the barricade. They were different from the one that'd ambushed her earlier; hulking shapes that blended the worst aspects of a monstrous, deep-sea crustacean and a malformed crocodile. It stood on two stumpy, digitigrade legs, with its hunched, heavily armored body balanced out by a long, heavy tail. One set of enormous, pincer-like claws flared out to form a chitinous shield that the creature held forward to protect its advance. The other three arms were tipped with wicked-looking serrated blades that the creature held back like serpents waiting to strike. Black ichor leaked from the shield-arm, but even as she watched the bullet wounds seemed to liquify at the edges and flow back together, rapidly healing the monstrous creature.

A rifleman beside her cursed before taking careful aim, his next shot pulping the monster’s head in an explosion of black goo which was finally enough to bring it down. She felt the urge to cheer as the monster fell, but the urge was quickly stifled by the dozens more still rumbling down the street. Gunfire poured into the advancing wave from the barricade, choking the air with smoke, but the monsters were endless. For every one that fell to concentrated fire, another quickly took its place, pushing meter by meter to their position over a steadily rising carpet of corpses.

By the time they get here, the dead bodies will be almost as high as the barricade…

A black claw scythed forward to skewer a man frantically reloading near her, and her body reacted on pure instinct, flicking her glaive forward in a deadly flash. The first strike sheared through the chitin like wet paper, the enchanted blade severing the arm with almost no resistance. Lyr’Rael spun with the weapon’s momentum, her next strike an overhead swing that beheaded the creature with equal ease.

She wanted to check on the man, but she’d moved forwards in line to make her strikes connect, and now she was the target as serrated obsidian lances whipped at her with terrifying speed from the advancing horde. Adrenaline flooded her veins, the rush of energy pushing her faster than she’d have thought was possible. Jagged edges were dodged by centimeters, the wind whipping her platinum hair around in a frenzied whirl. The glaive sang in her grip, cutting through one attacker after another as her fear and uncertainty faded away. Without conscious thought, her movements transformed. The wildness of her defense vanished into a whirlwind kata of death that slaughtered every monster who dared to approach. Here was where the fallen emissary realized an error in her thinking; for while she had long viewed herself as average in skill with the spear, it was average by the standards of Heaven. Against the great lords of her former home she might have been middling at best, but here? Even weakened as she was, she’d had centuries to practice, and she turned every ounce of that practice to lethal use.

It could have been days or minutes that she stood in front of the barricade. Wave after wave crashed against her while she flowed from one stance to the next— dimly aware that despite her best efforts, the defensive line was shrinking. The glaive could only reach so far, and as much as she tried, the street was too wide to hold by herself. One by one the defenders fell, slaughtered by the attackers or too injured to keep fighting.

Despite that, she might have held through the whole night, if the next face to attack her hadn’t been human. It had lurched out from behind one of the hulking monsters, reaching towards her desperately, and for that small instant she’d been distracted. A shield-claw smashed into her from the side, sending her body tumbling through the air to crash roughly into the piled furniture of the barricade.

Dazed, Lyr’Rael shook her head in confusion as more and more human shapes made their way to the front of the attacking horde. Some she recognized from the defensive line, others she had never met before. Black ichor leaked from their mouths and eyes, and many bore grievous wounds that exposed innards writhing with dark corruption. Snarling with realization, she tried to stand and retaliate… but her body refused to obey.

Taxed well beyond her body’s limits by her display of inhuman skill, worsened by spreading pain from the blunt attack that sent her sprawling, she had nothing left to give. Muscles trembled and limbs shook with effort, but no matter how much she willed it, she couldn’t force herself to stand. Pain crept into her awareness, excruciatingly slow as it finally wormed past the adrenaline overloading her system. Whatever she had drawn on to fight as long as she had; it was gone, and the only reason she still had the glaive was that her fingers were practically locked in place around the haft. With what little strength she had left in her arms she braced the glaive against the barricade behind her, breathing in heaving gasps as darkness closed on the edges of her vision. Fingers contorted into claws reached out for her… and then there was light.

A new star erupted into being above her, shining a blinding, harsh white onto the streets below. The monsters shrieked in pain as lashes of fire whipped downwards, annihilating whole groups in eruptions of pale flame. The fire lingered on the corpses, unnaturally hungry as it leapt from body to body to consume them entirely. But even though her attackers were being destroyed, Lyr’Rael felt an icy tendril of fear strike her heart for the first time that night.

No… no no nonono…

The fire parted around a dark figure, radiating an aura of dark blue studded with stars like the night sky. He emanated a pressure that stifled her already struggling breaths, suffocating her in place. The body was unfamiliar, the magic different from what she remembered. But her soul could not mistake the aura that had almost burned her from existence. This was him, he’d found her, and destroyed the town just to get to her. As if all this wasn’t enough, she felt the debt on her soul flutter and vanish the moment she locked eyes on his dark frame.

The last of her strength faded, and the glaive slipped to the ground with a clatter, drawing the aberration’s eyes. Then she started to laugh. It was a tortured, wretched thing, coughed out between gasps of insufficient air. But as the figure moved closer, she couldn’t help herself.

“F… finish it, then. Come on.” She wheezed out. Gathering herself, she screamed out defiantly.

“Come on!”

The dark figure knelt down before her, his face an unreadable mask. She braced for death, tears stinging her treacherous eyes once again as stress overwhelmed her. So she was confused when he spoke, the words hitting her ears like hammers.

“You have got to be kidding me.”