Summary: Join alongside a young Imperial Federation soldier by the name of Loup Huntswood. Given leave to return home to the trade-city Jalken, he encounters the hero Alexandre on the way, and discovers both of them are heading the same way. What awaits them, however, is not at all a happy homecoming. The horrors of the Traitors' War yet linger, and so too has Jalken been changed by them.   Content Advisory: Violence, horror, undead, mentions of blood/visceral harm as a result of combat.

 

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  A dull rumble of conversation hung in the warm air. It’d grown busier since he’d arrived, all kinds of crowds bustling around the cozy inn. Not that he couldn’t see why: great food, friendly staff, and a spot next to the main road guaranteed business. Loup leaned against the bar’s countertop, watching people come and go as a form of mindless entertainment. Quite a number of them were army soldiers like himself, relaxing without officers ladying about. The rest were just hard working folk coming for an honest day’s outing, some with their families or friends.   The thump of something being set next to him made Loup look over his shoulder. He glanced down at an offered tankard, and the barkeep, a nice fellow by the name of Jorn, gave a curt nod. “Aye, my thanks, but what for?” Loup asked with a weary grin, taking the offering.   “Clock’s reaching midday, figured you’re heading on out, soldier boy,” Jorn said. A clean cut prow of a beard and sharp eyes made him fierce looking, but Loup rather liked it.   “Already? I just sat down!” Loup griped with a smile before taking a swig. A sweet, slightly thick mead with a tingly burn; it’d take a dozen drinks to put him under. For him, though, it had that hearty kick he liked. Downing half and politely setting the tankard back, he let out a satisfying ‘ah’ and chuckled.   “Can’t be that bad if you’re laughin’ like that.”   “Eh?” Loup blinked, rubbing his mouth clean with a gloved hand. “Ah, you’re right. Heading back home, good old Jalken.”   “Jalken? That’s quite the trip,” Jorn remarked, his bushy brows popping upward. “Best not be trying to do it yourself.”   “Certainly not, spear and woodsman I am,” Loup said with an incredulous, yet playful tone. “Caravan hopping for me, it’s the only way to live.”   “Aye, bit rough, but doable enough.”   “Speaking of, better run for it before they leave.” Loup stood up in a bit of a hurry. He downed the last of the drink and gave a half-salute with it to Jorn. The barkeep grinned good-naturedly and snagged the mug out of Loup’s hand.   “Now, you listen here,” Jorn said sternly, pointing at Loup. “If you’re ever back in these woods, you come pay a visit. A free drink for a good story.”   Loup blinked and held his arms open joyfully. “If you put it like that my good man, I will indeed.”   “I’ll remember that,” Jorn waved his hand dismissively. “Now hurry on out!”   Loup hurried to the door of the Plainskeep Inn, retrieving his arms: a good spear, small hunting bow, and his dagger. With those strapped to his vest, he slung his furred weather-cloak over one shoulder. Federal wear for a spearman of his rank wasn’t that bad, really. Enough leather padding and thin-iron plating to cover every bit that needed it, and a good layer of weather-proofing to boot. It didn’t help when laying in the mud, but it did the job.   In no time at all he headed down the street toward the western gate. The everyday crowds thinned out gradually, becoming more guards, huntresses, and merchants than anyone else. Only those who had business outside the storm walls would bother coming here, after all. Compared to the inn, the sounds of labor and people yelling made for an overbearing air.   The whole area transformed more into warehouses, carriage parking lots, and stockpiles full of crates and bags. Customs into or out of any city always took up the most time around the gates, after all. Different caravans awaited around him, busy with workers and inspecting guards. Hand over his brow, Loup looked around until he spotted a yellow banner, marked with an artist’s rendition of a white bird. Good that he did, too, the caravan seemed mostly packed up. Trocks were fitted with reins, and the cargo wagons were having their final strap downs.   “Hey!” Loup shouted as he approached, waving a hand. “This here Arnla’s caravan?”   “Yeah, it is! What’s the problem?” a worker shouted back, busy tying a cord on the side of a wagon.   “I’m Loup! Paid for a ride westward!”   The worker looked up. “You one of them soldiers coming with? Head on up to the front, Arnla should be there.”   “Right, thanks!”   He kept a wide space between himself and the trocks waiting at the front of the wagons. They’d rip the coat off his pack if he wasn’t careful. Loup kept a wary eye on their wide, expressively curious gazes, knowing too well the evil that waited within. A surprise greeted him at the caravan’s front, something that made him pause in place.   The lead carriage had a splendorous make of solid wood and a polish to show its richly deep, brown color. Metal reinforcement met stylistic artistry, being as functionally protective as it was ostentatious. A rich noble’s ride if there ever was one, but upon its side stood the crest of the Imperial State.   The sight of that crest made him viscerally clench. He stood up straighter, spaced his steps, and marched as any good soldier of a Federal Army should. Heading past the workers, he found Arnla herself and another man chatting away. One dressed in Imperial Army attire, no less. Although it wasn’t quite the standard outfit he recognized, it still carried Imperial colors.   Arnla looked over at him, her cross expression flickering with recognition. “Ah, Loup. On time, I see.”   “It’s the way of the army, ma’am,” he said, speaking with a proper soldier’s voice. Loup, as respect demanded, regarded the imperial man next. Offering a salute to his brow, he stood at attention. “Sir.”   “Hm? Oh, don’t mind me,” he said, his serious face easing as he chuckled. “Despite the Imperial colors, this isn’t official business. I wasn’t expecting anyone from an army to be joining us, though.”   “Not officially, sir, just heading home to Jalken.”   “Jalken, you say,” the man echoed, his face settling into some kind of thought. “Seems we’re heading the same way, then. What’s your name, soldier?”   “Loup Huntswood, sir.”   “Spearman and wayfarer, I see.”   “Yes, sir.”   “Ah, there’s no need for formality, I think.” The man sheepishly scratched the back of his head. He held out his hand, not quite grinning but certainly light and friendly looking. “Good to meet you, Loup. Name’s Alexandre.”   Knowing better than to reject such an offering, Loup shook Alexandre’s hand before the name fully went through his ears. Only a semblance of training and some luck kept him shaking hands instead of gawking like a fool. His face betrayed him nonetheless.   “Aye, the same you’re thinking of,” Alexandre said with a laugh. “No need to worry about that, I hope.”   “No sir, not at all!” Loup said in a rush, shaking Alexandre’s hand a bit too long. As soon as he realized, he let go, and straightened up.   “It seems you have another fan, Alexandre,” Arnla remarked, obviously amused at the scene.   “I hope it’s the smile, I’ve been working on it,” Alexandre said, holding his hand to his chin and showing off his smile. “Darn mirror keeps wobbling every time, though.”   “Uh-huh. Since you’re taking the lead on the caravan here, go load up and get going. I’ll see that everyone follows after.”   “Right, right. Say, Loup, fancy riding along with us?” Alexandre asked, giving him a kind regard as Arnla headed off.   “If it’s no trouble sir, certainly!”   Alexandre led the way toward the carriage, helped Loup stow his equipment on the back, and then headed inside first. Some voices spoke within, and after a moment, Loup cautiously followed after. The interior certainly outclassed anything he’d ever ridden in before: curved leather benches, arm rests with holders, enough backing to rest against, and leg room. So much leg room. It felt more like a small office than something on the road. Loup glanced about sheepishly as eleven-pairs of eyes settled upon him.   A four-tailed jiuweihu and a rachtoh occupied one side of the carriage, while a large man and a muurun relaxed on the other. Alexandre joined the latter’s side, leaving Loup to go on the other. The rachtoh, busied with grooming the jiuweihu's tails, watched him with two predatory eyes. He sat as reasonably far from the jiuweihu as he could, not daring to disturb her at all.   “Well you know me, but how about the Fearless Ananpae?,” Alexandre asked, leaning forward as he sat.   “By reputation and name, sir.”   “Ah, introductions can’t hurt. Everyone, this here is Loup Huntswood. Loup, those two would be Zai and Suhla—“ he waved a hand toward the finely dressed jiuweihu and the focused rachtoh. “World splitting mage and great beast slaying huntress, respectively. Don’t mind Suhla watching you like that, she’s just particular about new people.”   Loup wouldn’t call it a mean look but it did unnerve him all the same.   “Beside me here would be Favré and Kosark—“ Alexandre first pointed at the large human beside him, then to the muurun who met Loup’s gaze. “An Ironclad priest, and a stormcaller from the vast plains. He’ll heal you and he’ll send you flying.”   A tiny gust of wind whipped through the carriage then, straight from Kosark’s paw-hands and into Alexandre’s face. “I’ll send you flying,” Kosark quipped, carrying a thick accent Loup didn’t recognize.   Suhla’s sudden hissing made Loup jump in his skin, but her four eyes were narrowed at Kosark. The muurun held up his paw-hands placatingly, and after a moment, she returned to fixing Zai’s now ruffled tails again. “Ah—soo … what brings you on our wayward adventure, young Loup?”   “Heading home to Jalken, sir.”   An understanding look came over Kosark’s features then, his amber ears bouncing along with his nodding. “I hear you. It’ll be quite the trip getting there, and its been a while since we last visited. Care to share what you know of the place?”   Loup scratched at his temple, bemused by the question. “Certainly, sir. I’ve lived there most of my life and hunted in the lands around it. There isn’t much I don’t know.”   Zai interjected, asking, “When was the last time you were there?”   “About two years. A long deployment to the eastern borders, you see.”   “Was there anything strange about the city when you left?”   “Strange?” Loup echoed, his brows furrowing with increasing confusion. “No, not that I can think of. Trade was good, hunts were productive ... ah, some storm damage wiped out the Bunolde farm. The head of the family had changed the year prior and the new head wasn’t much for safety.”   “Hmm. It sounds prosperous otherwise, then.”   “About as much as any city I’d known. Less than Fleursowurm, of course, but …”   “Ah, yes.” Zai flicked her tails, escaping Suhla’s hands only to be swiftly caught again. Loup hadn’t a tail himself, but surely such constant fussing would be annoying? The jiuweihu seemed unbothered by it entirely, though.   A sudden lurch shot through the carriage, the snorting chirps of trocks sounding outside. Years of practice kept Loup and the others from falling over, each settling back in just as quickly. Tentatively glancing through the window beside him, he watched the street start to roll away underneath. Peeking further ahead, he beheld the imposing storm walls approaching.   Towering over the roadway and buildings, fortifications stretched up and down the stone-and-steel surface. Freight elevators, stairs, and access walkways marked the only ways to get inside, while guards and soldiers headed to and fro. Unlike the smooth, invasion-repelling exterior, the interior side was where all the real work got done. He’d been stationed along such posts before, and couldn’t help admiring it all.   Their carriage rolled along into the imposingly huge gate tunnel. A few minutes later, they emerged out the other side, and embarked properly on their journey westward. Seeing the vast green plains outside the city, Loup nodded to himself before reclining back in his chair. It’d be a long while before the first rest stop, but in such a luxurious ride, he hadn’t really anything to do.   At least, until some wandering eyes regarded him.   “Say, Loup, what’s the make on that dagger of yours?” Alexandre asked, seeming curious.   “Oh? Uh, LaCout Smithy, sir.”   “... Really? Mind if I see it?”   Loup gave it a moment’s thought before he reached up and unbuckled the dagger’s sheath from its straps. He handed it over with a certain care that Alexandre showed in return. The hero pulled it open three-fourths the way, eying the hilt and blade inquisitively.   “Huh, small world,” Alexandre remarked, then sheathed it properly and handed it back. “I used to buy from LaCout all the time when I adventured in the east. Small family business back in those days, but they fixed up blades at outrageously cheap prices. Usually to train their daughters in the art, if I remember right.”   Loup nodded understandingly. “They’re a bit pricey these days, but can’t think of anything I’d rather have. At least, for what I can afford. Who's your choice these days, sir?”   “Ah, Imperial secrets and all that, I’m afraid. Used to buy from Hennarol a lot, though. Proper company of swordsmiths, so you won’t find much else in their stores.” An idea seemed to come to him then, and he reached to his side. Unbuckling his own, hidden dagger inside his vest, Alexandre offered it to Loup. “You can give this beauty a look if you want.”   Loup certainly wasn’t going to say no. Drawing the dagger as carefully as Alexandre had with his, he inspected the strange looking weapon. A leather wrapped hilt met the straight crossguard, nothing remarkable about either. Its blade, however, looked quite strange to him. A bit gray like iron, but with the gleam and composure of silver. Though, he wasn’t sure if it might’ve been some kind of steel instead. Tactful engravings in large, looping circles and nonsensical lines covered the blade from base-to-tip.   A sense of wrongness filled him the longer he held it. As if, for some reason, he wasn’t supposed to be holding it. Neither strong nor particularly compelling, the unease troubled him enough Loup nodded and handed the weapon back hastily. “Looks quite finely made to me, sir. But, I don’t recognize the metal at all.”   “Aye, no one really can,” Alexandre said, affixing the dagger back in place beneath his vest. “Supposedly it’s iron and silver of some kind. The weird part is, it’s completely mundane! No discernible enchantments or magical arts anyone I’ve shown can understand. Completely unbreakable, even against a hammer.”   “Dragon-forged, then?” Loup asked, not knowing who else could make something so powerful.   “Maybe. I haven’t found a sokral to take a look at it yet.”   “It must’ve been rather expensive if a dragon did make it, right?”   “Probably. I, uhh, met this tiny person a while back, about half your height I’d say, and they decided I should have it. Gave it to me just like that, then went on their way. It seemed like some kind of junk being pawned off, but no. Solid as could be and then some.”   The solemn man, Favré, interjected then. “Junk or not, you would’ve taken it off their hands all the same.”   Alexandre, with a look of mock offense to him, turned toward the priest. “You saw how ridiculously overloaded that cart was! Who’d go carrying that much out in the middle of nowhere?”   “You know, the way I saw things …”   And like that, the air broke in the carriage to one of conversation and banter for the long journey ahead.     Jalken stood upon the western frontier of the Federation, the farthest of its loyal cities. Despite the Traitors’ War burning at its doorstep, the city persevered, becoming an important military bulwark. Still, its location and general remoteness meant that, even from the center of Aerthen, it took some weeks to get even remotely close. Loup nonetheless started to recognize some familiar trees and routes he used to patrol upon.   Breaking off from Arnla’s northbound caravan, Alexandre directed his carriage west toward Jalken. The main western roadway should’ve been rather busy; at least enough to see a few people passing by. However, once they crossed onto Jalken’s territory proper, even the guard posts situated along the road were vacant. A pervading emptiness stuck out to Loup, something he couldn’t well ignore.   Sitting in the coach beside Favré, Loup surveyed the surrounding wilderness. The road itself seemed fine; the brickwork was solid, unbroken, and clean of troubling debris. Encroaching forests were, for the most part, still cut back. New growths had sprouted up thickly, covering the cleared grounds on either side of the roadway. Something routine forestry should’ve been taking care of. Although it wasn’t dense enough for bandits or predators to ambush from, it did concern him.   Cool airs and cloudy skies wafted on by, dim rays of sunlight peeking through where it could. A great day, by all accounts. But, he couldn’t shake that feeling creeping along his neck. Something born-and-raised woodsman learned not to ignore.   “Say, uh, Favré, sir,” Loup said slowly. “Is it just me or is something … off?”   “You feel it as well?” Favré inquired, his deep voice rumbling like a chasm.   “… I do, yes,” Loup affirmed.   “Hm. Do you know how much farther to Jalken?”   “When we start seeing farm land, it’ll be about an hour’s ride at this pace.”   “That far away and this troubling aura lingers … Tell Alexandre, I’ll keep a watch.”   “Alright.”   Loup maneuvered from the coach to the side of the carriage. Thankfully their speed wasn’t too terrible; a solid grip on the guard rails and good footing was all he needed. Leaning in through the carriage door’s open window, he coughed to get their attention. The four there looked up at his arrival, varying looks of concern upon their faces. Perhaps they, too, already knew something was wrong. “We’re not sure but, it might be best to gear up,” Loup said, a comfort of ease born from weeks of traveling together. “The airs here aren’t right.”   None of them asked why, but they all immediately got to work. As they started donning their equipment, Loup climbed back across the carriage and onto the coach seat. Nothing looked that different, but he kept his eyes open.   The world could throw anything at a person, so he had to be ready for anything.   The carriage continued on, the others peeking through the windows, watching and weary. Trees and new growths bled into the farmlands ahead, vibrant wild colors against fields of gold. The wheat had grown outrageously tall, enough a standing person could easily hide in them. Their road cut through those same fields, the wheat encroaching with a suffocating closeness. Ambush would’ve been an easy, certain thing to expect. That, however, wasn’t really what concerned him.   The wheat shouldn’t have been that tall in the first place.   “Where are the farmers?” Loup muttered under his breath. Standing up on the coach, he tried looking around—but only wheat met his eyes. Wheat for miles, untouched and unharvested. Black splotches wove through the fields, telltale signs of rot eating at grains. Harvest season had long since passed, and no one would leave such a bounty behind.   Something was very wrong.   “Do you see anyone?” Favré inquired.   “No. Not a soul.”   “Hm. Jalken’s on the horizon.”   Great storm walls loomed even at such a distance, unbroken and silent amongst the lands around them. “There’s a hill on the left there,” Loup said, pointing ahead. “Garrol’s farm, it’s the only hill for miles that wasn’t flattened down. It’s a stable and tavern the family runs. We can check with them.”   A sturdy, rectangular house of hardwood and stone foundations awaited them. Built into the slope of the hill, it offered reasonable protection against the winds. The stables curved off the house’s side, creating a crescent-shaped courtyard. As their carriage pulled in, Loup didn’t see anybody: no trocks, no people, and a lot of doors left disconcertingly open. Small grasses and weeds had grown in where people would walk, an ill-sign all of its own. As they stopped, the carriage doors swung open, and those inside emerged.   “I don’t get it,” Loup remarked, standing on the coach as Favré dismounted. “Where is everyone?”   “Somewhere, I suspect,” Alexandre muttered before ordering, “Zai, Suhla, check the perimeter. Favré, you and Loup check the stables. Kosark—“   “—Already listening,” he said, hefting himself onto the carriage’s roof. His tall cat ears pivoted around, as if searching for something on their own.   “Good man. Everyone, do a check and then meet back here; no one goes alone anywhere.”   Loup wasn’t sure what he expected, but the familiarity of such comradery moving into action gave him some ease.   The stables, for their part, were neither vast nor complex, being simple rows of boxes for trocks and cabinets for all their needs. Strangely, most of the pens were closed and fairly secure, given their locks. The insides, though, had rotted out hay and some tar-like sludge Loup didn’t want to investigate. A rancid smell lingered, obviously dry and aged, but that too seemed quite telling.   When they returned to the carriage, Alexandre emerged from the tavern’s main entrance. His jovial face was nowhere to be seen, only a heavy grimness in its stead. “Anything, Kosark?”   “Only the wind.”   “The inside’s empty,” Alexandre remarked.   “There has to be someone here,” Loup exasperated, throwing his arms up. “Someone to lock the doors, at least!”   Zai and Suhla returned not long after, their similarly grim faces dashing what little hope Loup might’ve had. “Traces of hate-killing,” Suhla said. “No bodies, a lot of life-blood.”   “It couldn’t have been a raid, right?” Loup asked, furrowing his brows. “There’d be the army or guard at the least and—“   “—Let’s keep going,” Alexandre cut in. “Whatever happened here is one thing, but you’re right. The army should be here and they aren’t.”   Nothing about that fared well. Still, Loup didn’t want to give a voice to the squirming unease he felt. They all mounted up in the carriage again, and Favré ushered the trocks onward. Loup looked back at the fading sight of the tavern. It was a lively place he visited on the regular during his old hunting trips, and the Garrols were always good to him. They weren’t folk to abandon their place, and Suhla’s words haunted him the longer he stared at the deathly silent household.   The road to Jalken awaited, foreboding in a way he’d never imagined before. Black rot had spread rampantly in its surrounding fields, leaving shriveled stalks, decrepit husks, and a malaise in the air. As they neared, carriage lots and warehouses cluttered the roadside. For a trade-centric city like this, customs checking meant a lot of work inspecting, clearing, or rejecting potential merchants and visitors. A once thriving and busy place, now devoid of anyone, and everywhere left a mess.   With overturned carriages, temporary blockades around the building entrances, and places of obvious violent struggle, it should have been a raid. It looked like one, but anything of real value: gold, crysium, fabrics, and more were strewn about. An after thought no one cared for.   Raiders didn’t ignore those.   Two sloping buildings stood beside the closed main gates of Jalken. The guards’ barracks and final checkpoint for entry or exit, shut tight as could be. Loup hopped off the carriage as they approached the barracks’ stables, heading to the stable hand’s office. Favré, parking their carriage and trocks somewhat securely, banged on the side as he dismounted.   The others soon exited as Loup jogged back to regroup with them. ”No one! There isn’t anyone here!”   “I’m seeing that,” Alexandre remarked. “Favré, how was the gate?”   “Closed, except for the wickets. Blown open from the inside-out, it looks like.”   Alexandre seemed pensive for a moment before rubbing his eyes with a gloved hand. “Right. Everyone, one sword, and either a hammer or axe. There’s spares in the back of the carriage. Suhla, use your skull breaker bolts.”   “Sir?” Loup asked incredulously while the others went and changed their gear. “Do you know what’s going on?”   “I’ll know for certain when we go through that gate.”   Not liking that answer at all, Loup could only do as Alexandre said, fastening himself with a sword and warhammer. He kept his spear all the same, but close quarters fighting meant other weapons would be needed eventually. Once they were all ready, Alexandre took the lead, bidding Loup to follow on his flank. The others pulled up the rear.   The giant stone walls soon towered over them, the yawning maw of the gate tunnel forebodingly calm and quiet. The smaller, person-sized wicket doors laid open, their metal edges twisted and warped. A terrible force had erupted from the inside, leaving a gaping wound in the greater gate. Alexandre held up a hand, staring unwaveringly at the dark entrance.   The others tensed, their hands upon their weapons.   “Kosark?” he asked tersely.   “Just the wind.”   “Hm. Alright.” Alexandre set his raised hand on his other forearm, and muttered, “[Illuminate].”   Twisting threads of golden light wound through his bracer, infusing into the leather straps and flat armor plates. Like a brilliant torch it cast light far and bright, and he held his forearm aloft as he drew his sword. “Follow after, watch our flanks.”   Their ranks drew in closer, and they all stepped cautiously through the blown-open doors. Although nearly pitch black inside, Loup nonetheless saw dim-light farther ahead. The interior gate, unlike the outer one, stood partially open. A strange affair in and of itself, but around them he beheld something far more worrisome. In messy stacks and thrown together piles were hundreds of spears, swords, bows, hammers, shields, and everything else any army would carry.   All of them caked in some black, inky-red substance.   They stepped forward cautiously. Their crunching steps and clanking gear the only sounds in an otherwise calm, pervading stillness.   “… Sir?” Loup asked, quietly enough.   “A last stand, it seems,” Alexandre remarked, not looking back at him. “Zai, what of the door?”   “Veltron magic. Someone tried blasting it open; likely these poor souls making an escape.”   Glancing around worriedly, Loup couldn’t imagine why they’d need to. “Escape from what?”   “Forsaken,” Alexandre said simply.   A rush of something went through Loup then, and his gut fell out from under him. “Here? How?”   “The gates, Loup. Jalken uses diagonal ones, right?”   “Ah? Er, yes. Pulling up and into the walls, not swinging open.”   “So the inner gates there are open, but the outer gates aren't, is that right?”   It took him a moment to think about it, but Loup nodded. “It seems that way, sir.”   “And Jalken’s a trading city, isn’t it? The gates are always open unless there’s an emergency?”   An icy realization crept along Loup’s veins then, the sudden strangeness of everything coming into clarity. “Yes, sir,” he said slowly, his mouth working on its own to speak. “The gates are never closed like … that …”   “Hmm.” Alexandre’s thoughtful hum carried a weight to it that silenced any question Loup might have.   The interior gates hung over them, teeth waiting to clamp down at a moment’s notice. Cloudy sunlight made them all wince walking through it, and Alexandre swept his glowing arm, dispelling the magic. Jalken proper soon greeted them.   Stonework painted in lovely hues of blue, clear whites marked the roadways, while reds and golds accented the places of business. Vibrant plants, be they flower beds or expansive vines, had long since died off. Only the most stubborn, rain-fed ones kept on, growing wildly through their dead fellows. A street cut straight ahead of them, while one ran beside them along the storm wall itself. Farther away, it met with the freight elevators and access stairways the guard would normally use.   Yet upon those same streets, and the carriage lots of Jalken’s businesses, were barricades. Great, haphazard walls of wood, metal, furniture, and veltron magic meant to block off the streets and alleyways. For what he saw, Loup knew Alexandre was right–a terrible last stand had gone down at the gates. Blood caked so much of everything, and the remains of broken weapons and armor were easy enough to see. One uncomfortable question, however, lingered upon his mind.   Where are all the bodies?   Suhla sped ahead of them all, hopping atop a barricade still mostly intact. Something big, or terribly powerful, had blown more than a few openings in its makeshift defenses.   He wiped his forehead, anxious sweat threatening to trickle down. Annette, please be safe, Loup dearly wished in his heart. Everyone …   Alexandre’s voice cut through his thoughts then. “Suhla, see anything?”   “No. Great struggle, a lot of hate-killing. Must be the flesh-eater kind,” the rachtoh remarked, walking along the tops of the barricades. For as carefree as she seemed, her four eyes swept to-and-fro with a frightening, hawk-like manner. Her every step exuded confidence, even when she wasn’t looking where she went. “Ravenous, maybe.”   “My thoughts exactly,” Alexandre muttered loudly before casting a look at the gate they’d just walked through. He stared up pensively, some terrible idea clouding his handsome face. “Loup?”   “Ah? Yes, sir?”   Alexandre clapped his hand on Loup’s shoulder, giving a troubled but reassuring smile. “I’ll need you with me on this one. You know Jalken. Where's the biggest temple?”   “Um …” Loup gathered his bearings, checking the sky, the central street, and trying to recall how Jalken was laid out. “We came in through the east; Jalken is divided by a main street, west-to-east. Andura’s temple should be … northside. North because the nobles live in the south.” He pointed down the central street, then off to his right at an angle. “That direction, roughly.”   “Sounds good to me. Can you lead us there?”   “Ah, yes. If it’s safe to follow Main Street, it’ll be the fastest way. Sir, can we—can we make a stop along the way?”   “What for?”   “Muella’s Bakery, sir. My fiancée, she’s the heir of the family and I …”   “We’ll make a stop along the way,” Alexandre said, giving a reassuring thumbs up.   Suhla interjected then, “Are you sure?”   “Best to check the heart of the city, and gather supplies. We’ll adjust if something comes up.”   Anxious energy filled his every step as Loup, with Alexandre beside him, led the way forward. They made their way through walls of broken barricades, some burned by flames, others buried by haphazard veltron magic. Noone was ever on the other side, but Loup couldn’t help noticing all the claw marks. Tiny gouges where human-sized finger nails scratched their way through wood or stone. Some, however, were much larger than even those.   The breadth of Main Street stretched on before them, a bend further ahead obscuring their vision. Wide enough twelve wagons could easily move alongside each other, it once bustled with ceaseless, unending activity. Goods moving to and fro, while people walked in between or along them. Elevated sidewalks ran down the sides, a separate level where various shops awaited. For the most prosperous of families or businesses, having a place on Main Street was a mark of success. Even on the darkest of nights or loudest of storms, Loup could remember people hustling about.   The emptiness loomed all the same.   He glanced about, once reassuring sights now disturbingly different. The structures seemed fine, but anywhere people would go certainly wasn’t. Doors were broken in or busted off their hinges. Windows had been smashed apart and their reinforcing iron bars torn wide open. Blood splattered everywhere and on every thing, blackened and sticky in a macabre echo of terrible slaughter. The further along they went, he found more of the same sights again and again.   Amidst their footsteps breaking the calm air, a new sound reached his ear. Faint, but distinct: something that didn’t belong. Loup, Kosark, and Zai all looked off to the side in unison.   “What is it?” Alexandre asked immediately.   “I heard something,” Loup remarked. “Very faint, but not us.”   “Kosark?”   “Someone’s crying,” he said, ears angling to listen. “It sounds like it’ll be somewhere up ahead.”   “We should hurry then, right? Someone’s in trouble,” Loup asked, glancing at their dour faces.   “Don’t worry about it,” Alexandre said, making Loup stare at him in shocked surprise. The hero’s serious face broke then, an embarrassed if vexed expression overcoming him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s probably a weeper, so don’t worry. They’re already dead.”   “A what? A weeper?”   Favré answered from behind, “A kind of undead overwhelmed by grief and despair. Their only solace is crying their heart out, wailing all the while.”   “But—why?” Loup asked, the very thought of it impossible to understand.   Favré simply shrugged. “Who can say if not Aerintor Herself or another goddess? If you can endure their sounds, they’re quite good to have around.”   Loup stared at the priest as if he’d grown a second head.   Zai interjected, saying, “Their wails disturb the undead and force them away. If there’s a weeper nearby, it means there’ll be almost no undead around.”   Something about their casual tones stuck with Loup. Not at all mean, but pragmatic, and each with an ease only experience could’ve brought forth. He felt almost lightheaded listening to them, and so simply nodded along. The further they went, the louder the weeper became. It didn’t seem to be on the street, its wails increasingly coming from above them rather than in front. He glanced upward fruitlessly, looking at the darkened windows and empty balconies of the tall buildings. Broken sobs, wrenching screeches, and choked gasps echoed around them, twisting and changing through the city.   How fitting, Loup couldn’t help thinking. He saw something ahead and pointed toward it. “There, the statue of the army woman. That should be the center roundabout of Main Street.”   Whereas they’d previously passed through a cluttered street, the roundabout itself seemed suspiciously clear. Blood stains, perhaps washed away by rainfall, smeared and streaked across the stonework. Loup, not noticing much of anything else, pointed in the northward direction. “Up that street, about five stairs down. There’s a plaza where her bakery’s at.”   “Right. Lead on,” Alexandre affirmed.   As they started up the path, Suhla made a clicking sound. Whether with her teeth or tongue, it pointedly caught Loup’s ear and he glanced over. She, unlike the others, traced her eyes over the rooftops and balconies looming over them.   Zai asked, “Is something there?”   “No,” Suhla said appraisingly. “Not yet. Sleepers and drifters in the windows, sometimes stalk-watching but never moving.”   Morbidly curious of it himself, Loup snuck a look upward. The higher windows and shutters remained mostly intact and unlit. Still, at certain angles of the sunlight, he saw the unmoving figure of a person or two. Easy enough to mistake for something else. Once he noticed, he couldn’t help seeing how many there actually were. “I thought the weeper’s, uh, crying would scare them off?” he muttered questioningly, even more ill-at-ease.   “The ones on the streets. It’s quieter indoors,” Alexandre remarked.   “Right …”   The plaza for Muella’s bakery hadn’t fared better than anywhere else he’d seen. Overthrown tables and chairs were stacked against walls, door alcoves, and more. Whether as a barricade or because a passing storm did it, he couldn’t tell. Somehow the Muella Bakery’s banner remained, showing that insufferably cute smiling bread loaf. A gnawing dread crept up his gut the more he took in everything. Like so many others, its doors and windows had been smashed open, plentiful blood on the sharp edges left behind.   Anxiously taking a couple steps, a firm hand clasped his shoulder. Jerking backward, he met Alexandre’s unwavering look.   “Go slow, Loup. Watch the corners and be mindful.”   “Ah—yes, sir.”   “We’ll get through here in no time. Cover my left, I’ll handle right.”   The two of them moved together up and over the debris, stepping with particular care. Alexandre cast [Illuminate] again on his arm, shining its light as they entered the bakery proper. Rows of shelves lined either side of the room, vacant of once abundant foods, the wooden floor itself covered in debris and filth. Loup glanced around, checking the odd corner beside him and the overturned display stands.   He could see it all—the fluffy bread loaves, the thicker and stout wheat ones, the black breads and their interesting textures. Not to mention the rounded bagels, or the hardier and reliable baguettes; such lovely aromas were a treat every time he visited. Instead, a foul stench wafted beneath his nose, telltale signs of rot and mildew. Dankly wet from rains that passed by, and stagnant in a way that almost made him cough.   “Do they keep jars or salted foods here?” Alexandre asked. “I’m not seeing much of anything.”   “In the back, I think,” Loup answered. “Something extra to sell with the bread, you see.”   They all ventured further inside. The wailing cries of the weeper thankfully dulled, becoming far easier to put out of mind. Loup went around one side of the main sales counter, Alexandre the other. Behind it awaited a door, busted off its hinges and laid on the ground. Scratches marred the wood, some reaching half-way deep. Alexandre took the lead, a hallway just small enough they couldn’t stand side-by-side comfortably.   “Go straight, then left. That should be the front storeroom,” Loup said.   “What’s ahead and right?”   “The kitchen and main storerooms. Right should be a … staircase …”   In their slow walk down the wall, an archway on their right awaited them. Chairs, tables, dressers, and other furniture were piled up, jamming the whole thing. It was the first barricade Loup had seen that still remained, and it lifted his heart ever-so oddly. They stared at it for a moment, Loup longer than Alexandre. A quick wave of the hero’s hand made him hurry on forward.   “Zai, Favré, guard the kitchen door,” Alexandre ordered, taking the left hall with Loup.   “Have it,” Favré affirmed from behind.   “Right through here,” Loup said, “there should be—“   Alexandre’s light shone ahead of them, and at the edge of it a figure stood. The two of them stopped soundly, one thump each of their boots as they froze. A painful surge shot through Loup, his anxious heart wrenching awake at the harrowing sight before him.   Turned away from them stood a woman, clad in her working attire of a fitted green shirt and brown boots. Nothing remained of her gray skirt, torn and bloodied as it was, vicious claw marks cutting down her backside. Blood matted, dirty auburn hair that turned thin and wispy, not unlike any other corpse he’d seen.   He hated how familiar it all seemed, especially her hair.   “Sir?” Loup asked in a whisper, leaning toward Alexandre.   “A sleeper, I think. It shouldn’t be a problem if we wake her.”   “Are—“ Loup couldn’t help looking over from the corner of his eye, “—are you sure?”   “She might know something.”   Nothing in army training ever mentioned talking to the undead. Ways of fighting them, sure, but asking them anything? Loup couldn’t make sense of it, but if Alexandre said so, he’d give it a try. Edging closer, he still angled to jump away at a moment’s notice. “Ah—ahem,” he politely coughed to get attention. “Ma’am? Hello? … Ma’am?”   Pale, shriveled hands twitched and jerked, each finger working differently from the other. A raspy inhale followed, a strange trilling whistle underpinning it. He tensed at the sudden motion of the thing obviously waking, still rather undecided about jumping away. A moment passed, then her head lifted up from the sleepy slump it’d been in. He waited, but she didn’t do anything else.   “Uh, ma’am? Hello?” he tried again.   “… Loup, is that you?”   The frightful dread in his heart twisted into a freezing, horrible realization. He watched, knowing the answer and wishing he didn’t, as she turned around. A face he’d ever longed to see, loved so dearly in memory, stared at him with such vacantly empty, dead eyes. Her face had been partly torn open, as if something clawed or partially ate her. Loup stared, his own face frozen in stunned disbelief even as his eyes wavered.   The woman, however, smiled—part of her cheek tilting up and her lips curling, for what remained of them. Lurching forward on one foot, she walked toward him, each step uncertain yet somehow working. “Ah, Loup …”   Alexandre’s firm voice whispered in his ear then. “Act natural. Nothing wrong at all.”   Sir? Sir?! He desperately wanted to ask the hero why. Loup, not having any other choice, forced himself to smile. Smile and step forward, taking his fiancé’s cold, dead hands in his own. “Annette! You’re—here, and alright.”   “I knew you’d come,” Annette said, a warmth to her distorted voice that sounded terribly out of place. For one who once stood taller than him, her broken posture put them on eye level. “When the bells rung, we … I … I did …”   Her elated gaze crossed with a vexed uncertainty, like a memory just out of reach. Alexandre stepped in then, making her look up in surprise. If such constrained, stiff-skinned movements counted as surprise.   “Hi there. Loup’s great fiancée, I presume?” he asked with a voice of the warmest regards.   “Oh. Yes, I am. You are …?”   “Alexandre, an army man like Loup here. He couldn’t go an hour without talking about you.”   “Oh.” Annette puffed up then, trying to stand up straighter. A grinding crunch of bone-against-bone underpinned the motion. “He better. He’s marrying into the Muellas.”   Loup snorted then, a purely reflexive motion to Annette’s overbearing pride. A brief, fleeting taste that bitterly hung on his mind as it left. She grinned then, a humor Alexandre shared.   “That he is. If it’s no trouble, do you know what went on here? In Jalken, that is,” the hero asked. He held up his hands placatingly. “Trying to make sense of things, if you hear me.”   “Umm, what happened …?” Annette scratched at her temple, her face tightening in some deformed effort to think. Pieces scraped off with each scratch, something that made her pause to look at her hand. “Yes, that. The screaming. The eaters. We were closing shop for the day when they came. We shut the doors but they kept banging and banging and scratching …”   “Right, we saw some of that,” Alexandre said. “Was there anything else weird going on? Like a mist? A fog? A voice, maybe?”   “Uhh—oh, a voice. There was a voice—Duchess Louva. She told me to come, but I didn’t want to go.” Annette scrunched her nose up. “I knew Loup would come, so I waited for him.”   “The duchess, I see.” Alexandre nodded. “Reasonable enough. It’s good to meet you! We’re about on our way to the temple—what was it, Andra’s?”   “Andura,” Annette and Loup said at once, making Alexandre blink.   “Must get that a lot around here, huh?”   “Yup,” they said again.   “Ah, well. We should get a move on, daylight’s wasting away I’m afraid,” Alexandre said.   “Don’t go.”   The cold hand gripping Loup’s tightened, and he looked—try as he might not to show it—wearily back at Annette. “Do you uh, want to come with?” he asked.   Annette pursed her lip, seeming conflicted. She turned partway, staring into the murky darkness of the storeroom. “I do, but the others …”   Alexandre cut in, “It wouldn’t be too much trouble. Just a trip up to the temple then back again. Right?”   “Oh. Um. Sure.”   Loup asked, “Sir?”   “Daylight’s burning, Loup. Ma’am, you’ll be fine to walk?” Alexandre asked, looking at Annette.   “I can.”   “Let’s get going.”   Loup hadn’t a clue what was going through Alexandre’s mind, but he ever seemed able and knowing. As the hero took the lead, Loup offered an arm to Annette. She looped hers with his, a tinge of hesitance in doing so, lacking her usual strength. Something that felt so familiar, yet strange and different. The circumstances of it all weighed so heavily, try as he might to not think about it. “Shall I lead?” he asked.   “It’s simply to Andura, isn’t it?” Annette remarked, and with a pointed tug of her arm, pulled Loup forward with her. She tried taking a long step in her usual gait, but it became a motion closer to lurching than walking. Parts of her moved one way, others another, as if her body didn’t agree how it should move.   Alexandre and the others waited for them in the front room with hard, expectant eyes. He wasn’t sure what to make of them; concern, or pity, perhaps, but no small amount of knowing. Eyes that’d seen others like him in such a position before, no doubt. Loup smiled, polite enough to hide the bitterness that might’ve escaped. “Everyone, my fiancée, Annette Muella.”   “Ma’am.” “Madam.” And so on greeted her, to which Annette nodded slowly in return. They all followed after Alexandre, glass and wood crunching underfoot as they headed outside. The skies weren’t terribly dark yet, but the horizon spoke of impending storm clouds. Thankfully no thunder, a small concession Loup felt glad for.   That and the calm quiet.   He frowned, some terrible thought making his face tighten. Why is it quiet? Loup wondered, glancing around superstitiously. “Wasn’t there a weeper crying?” he asked.   “You’re right,” Kosark said, his ears sweeping about. “There’s scratching of some kind on the roofs.”   “Suhla?” Alexandre asked wearily.   “Ghoul huntresses, maybe. Weeper cries call them first, then they come for us. Don’t see them yet.”   Favré said, “They might’ve been stalking us from when we entered the city.”   Alexandre sighed upon hearing that, rubbing at his head. “We’re deep enough now that running for the gate would trap us. Kosark?”   “I can hear walking. It’s not fast, but there is a lot.”   Loup looked between them, a nervousness rising in his gut.   “Alright. Annette, Loup, you two will be with me in the front. Favré, Kosark, middle. Zai, Suhla, rear guard. We’re going to have to move quickly here, so no sightseeing.”   The others nodded, and so Loup did as well, then Annette. At Alexandre’s wave, they hurried away from the bakery, heading down the stairs onto Main Street. Loup heard something coming from farther away; scraping, dragging, and booted feet. A dull, cacophonous rumble that would be at home in any other city. Hearing it in Jalken only made his skin crawl. Thankfully, it wasn’t coming from where they needed to go.   As they made their way toward Andura’s Temple, Loup glanced to his side every so often. Annette kept pace easily enough, despite his worries. Oh, how he hated hearing her bones grind together with every step.   “Sorry Sir, but, ghouls?” Loup asked, for want of anything else to hear.   “A ‘higher’ form of undead. Ones who gave up on being the person they used to be, and became something evil instead,” the hero said. “They like going out to search for their food and not waiting around like others. Unfortunately, the lazier ones always end up following after them.”   “Then that’s what that sound is? The undead coming?”   “A whole lot of them.”   “That—that’s not too much of a problem for you all, right?” Loup asked, glancing around at their stern faces. “Not to be too presumptuous but—“   Zai spoke up from behind, “The problem isn’t the shamblers or drifters, it’s the ghouls and raveners and anything else. I alone could sweep away hundreds of the weaker ones. The smart ones use them as shields to get close, and that’s much worse.”   Alexandre added in then, “And, there’s the unspoken issue.”   Loup squinted, his eyes that of a man with too many problems. “And what might that be?”   “Whoever is leading them.”   “Sir? Someone can lead the undead?” he whinged, unable to hide the stress that thought brought on.   Annette squeezed their arms together tighter, and urged comfortingly, “We will be fine, Loup.”   But you’re not! He wanted to shout, eying her rotting face incredulously. Even if Alexandre and everyone else handled everything, it was too late for her. Evading Annette’s questioning gaze, Loup stiffly stared ahead. He needed something distracting to look at, anything at all. But, nothing truly remained of Jalken’s pleasantness, just solemn and decrepit ruins.   Kosark’s ear flicked, pivoting to an upward angle. “They’re on the roofs above. Running fast.”   “The street on the left,” Annette said. “It goes to Andura.”   A narrower, two-carriage wide street awaited them. They broke away from Main Street, their heavy footsteps echoing louder between the closer-together buildings. Panting, wheezing grunts came from above, accompanied by breaking tiles and something scraping.   A terrible, guttural yowl pierced through the air, making them all swiftly look up. Creatures shaped like people barreled off the rooftops; humans, nebusah, muurun, and more, all bent and broken into something horrific. Skin peeled off their twisted and stretched bodies, revealing bones, muscles, and organs. New bones, be they stolen or their own, skewered their flesh, growing entirely new limbs and more. What remained of their faces became little more than fleshy maws filled with teeth and rot.   Some ghouls leapt onto balconies, others latching onto the sides of buildings. Hissing and snarling, they twitched rabidly, ravenous eyes darting about Loup’s group. He shuddered when he met their gazes, frightful shivers shooting down his back. Some foul sensation lingered; a murderous intent and gleeful desire. Why they hung there, waiting, he wasn’t sure.   He freed his arm from Annette, taking up his spear instead of his sword. Against the unknown, he trusted that familiar grip and long, lethal reach over anything else. The others too unholstered their weapons, coming together into a tight formation.   “Those are hers, alright,” Kosark commented, a steely edge to his jovial tone.   “I’m seeing that,” Alexandre said, sword in hand and a small buckler on his other forearm.   Gnashing their teeth, the ghouls writhed and waited, every inch of them hungering. One soon lost its patience, its fanged maw screaming open as it leapt down onto the street. Others plunged after, crashing upon the ground before lunging toward them.   Just like frothers. Loup mustered some courage, aiming his spear toward a ghoul rushing him. Perhaps she’d been a muurun woman once, what with her ears and paw-hands. She swung her claws furiously at the air in a manner that kept her from falling over.   With a tight grip and resolute stance, Loup thrust his spear, skewering the ghoul’s head. She sputtered to a halt in a crooked, upright posture. He smirked at the sight–until the ghoul grabbed the spear’s shaft and pulled him closer.   Sheer, stupid surprise overtook Loup as he lost balance, stumbling toward her slavering maw. In those frightful moments, he saw, from the corner of his eye, someone else. A rattling at his belt followed, and before he knew it, a flash of steel swept across the ghoul, separating head and hand from her body. Loup jerked free in time, and to his surprise, Annette stood beside him with his sword.   “I—“ Loup started to say, but the ghoul’s still standing body lurched forward. Bereft of its head, its torso opened a second mouth with a sickening slurp. As if its entire rib cage had changed, a guttural popping of bones accompanied its grotesque growl. Annette and Loup fiercely stabbed into it again and again. They tore its insides apart until the ghoul’s corpse slumped over backward and fell to the ground, finally inanimate.   “Keep your head up, dear,” Annette quipped, pulling her sword free.   “Yeah, sure,” Loup grunted, trying to kick the malformed head off the end of his spear.   The body of another ghoul hurtled past them, flipping head-over-feet. Looking over, Loup found Alexandre swinging his sword, bisecting one ghoul entirely just as another rushed his flank. It nearly got into range before a streaking bolt shot into its chest, exploding the ghoul’s entire torso open and launching it backwards.   By the time Loup and Annette were finished with one, the others had cut the ghouls down by half already.   Incredible, he marveled in a brief, fleeting moment. One more ghoul, wearily circling past Alexandre, bolted toward Loup instead. As it reached half-way, a howl pierced the air again, making all the ghouls pause. Just as quickly as they’d attacked, they leapt backward, giving a wide berth.   Above them, a singular ghoul stood on the roof tops, inhaling deeply before howling even louder. A volume so great it hurt their ears, until a bolt from Suhla struck and exploded its head. A sharp, punctual silence followed until distant howls started answering back. Some, however, were much closer than others.   “Cursed things,” Alexandre swore angrily. “Come on, everyone! Annette, Loup! Lead the way to the temple, we’ll cover you. We need to run!”   Nodding, Loup took the lead with Annette. The ghouls blocking them backed away, snarling viciously. As their group passed by, the undead turned and followed after. They kept their distance, chasing easily but never trying to catch them. Suhla twisted around while she ran, firing bolt after bolt into the creatures. With two miniature crossbows on her forearms, her other two arms loaded and aimed them.   Loup didn’t like how the ground began rumbling under his feet. A familiar sensation, if only during the times he’d been on Main Street or some busy market square. “I don’t like this,” Loup shouted, not daring to look backward. The rumbling grew louder and the air filled with clamoring voices, all of them broken and twisted. “I don’t like it! What is that?!”   “Zai!” Alexandre shouted. “Run ahead! We’re going to need a wall!”   Loup did a double take when the jiuweihu mage suddenly vaulted past him. Bounding in mighty, leaping steps, she passed by as easily as he might’ve breathed.   “Oh, come on!” he and Annette griped in unison.   The crashing uproar from behind caught Loup’s ear, and he glanced backwards only to regret doing so. Out of buildings, from alleyways in between, or just down the street they’d been prior, people lunged after them. A veritable, endless wave slamming into walls or each other, scratching at the ground to catch themselves. All rotting, deformed, or broken in different ways, yet none as terribly abominable as the ghouls.   They were the ravenous returned, and oh how they howled; screaming with wild excitement and desire. Something that made their mad, hateful faces even more horrifying to see.   A newfound strength surged in Loup’s legs. He ran for all his life, Alexandre and everyone else beside or behind him. Farther ahead stood Zai, her paw-hands together in some posture of concentration. He couldn’t even hear his own haggard breaths beneath the roar of the stampede and their slavering mouths.   Please work, he begged, looking hopefully at the jiuweihu. Please work!   Together, they rushed past Zai, leaving her standing before the immense mass of undead.   “[Endless are the lands],” Zai spoke aloud, a sudden firmness and power to her voice that pushed against the cacophony. “[Vast is the veltron, and so ever more grand: Wall]!”   The ground quaked underneath, a rolling wave uprooting stone and slamming into the buildings. An explosive, ear-splitting screech of stone erupted just after, so loud that Loup almost fell over. Twisting around, he beheld the city itself moving in one impossible unison. Both sides of the street shot toward each other, meeting in a thunderous collision that blasted dust over everything. In mere seconds, a towering wall of stone, building, and brick blocked off the entire street.   The screams on the other side turned into muted, meaty thuds. Almost, in some respects, like gentle rain on one’s roof.   For such an incredible sight, Loup hadn’t much ‘awe’ left to spare. He gasped for air and coughed, the dust terribly thick and caking everything.   “Let’s go,” Alexandre called out. “Before the ghouls start scaling around it.”   Do they ever let up? Loup wanted to ask, but felt he already knew the answer.     By the time they reached Andura’s Temple, the fading sun dipped toward the cloudy horizon. Darkness crept forth in its wake, swallowing the somber city in its tide.   Across the temple plaza a great many people kneeled, bowed, or laid prone, all singularly facing toward the temple’s grand stairs. Even more laid across the grounds, obviously split in two, cut apart, or simply broken from sheer brute force. It should’ve been a battleground of a kind, yet it felt more like a slaughter house to him. A pungent but stale stench lingered, the aftermath of rot having come and gone but not completely vanished.   “Sir?” Loup asked tentatively. “What are they doing?”   “Praying, it seems.”   Having surveyed enough, Alexandre signaled to be followed, and headed onto the plaza grounds. As with most cities he’d been through, a sensible order for traffic did exist. Five intersecting streets led in and out, while a roundabout at the center had a sixth street toward the towering temple. The praying undead seemed oblivious—or uncaring—of their presence entirely. An encroaching storm wind billowed across the grounds, rustling clothes and debris alike.   The mystery of why the undead remained outside the temple soon revealed itself. A hulking frame of metal and armor stood at the stairs’ landing. He hadn’t seen it at first, hidden by the shadow of the overhead platform. The thing seemed to be guarding the stairs on its flanks. A ring of broken bodies lay strewn around it, an obvious sign of what happened to trespassers.   Alexandre held up a fist, and the group stopped. “I’ll check it out. Cover me.”   “That’s wearing the armor of the Silver Order,” Favré said, pointing. “Not sure why it’s here in Jalken, they live up north near the mountains.”   Alexandre’s brow furrowed and he glanced at Loup and Annette. “Who are the local Volapaws orders here in Jalken nowadays?”   “The Deep Gorge Order pushed out everyone else,” Annette said.   “Were these two allies or anything?”   “Not that I know of. Not enemies, either.”   “Hm. Alright.”   Another mystery atop a pile of others. Drawing in a breath, Alexandre headed forward. Lest he seem threatening, he kept his sword sheathed, but left the buckler on his arm. Bodies littered the grounds ahead, seeming to be properly dead. Most were felled by mundane weapons, but he did recognize some distinctly magical damage: blackened burn streaks, stone shards skewering flesh, and deep gouges left by slicing winds.   When he neared, the armored being twitched. Pausing, Alexandre watched as its whole, slumped body shuddered. Its head lifted, and a lifeless, pitch-black visor regarded him. The groan of great, heavy metal followed as it climbed to its feet. Upon one arm it carried an enormous tower shield, and on its other a mighty serpent-killing spear. Though it stood at the ready, it remained an unmoving and ever watchful sentry.   A good sign? Alexandre thought wearily before addressing the sentry clearly, “Friendly greetings to one of the Silver Order.”   The armored being’s head tilted slightly, a metallic scrape accompanying the motion. It might’ve been an expression of curiosity or regard. What followed wasn’t the voice of a man or woman as Alexandre recognized. “Imperial,” it ground out, a guttural exertion of an already exhausted voice.   “I am Alexandre, and I speak on behalf of Her Imperial Highness, Crown Princess Durand,” he declared.   “Hmm. Hero?” it asked as much as talked to itself. “Salvation … yes.” It swept its spear sideways in a slow arc, pointing to the stairs. “Go. Enter.”   “The others as well?”   “Yes.”   Though no end of concerns plagued him, Alexandre nonetheless beckoned for everyone else to follow. They climbed the temple’s crescent-shaped stairs to the landing above. It laid empty, guarded by simple stone rails, and decorated with stylish reliefs of mountains chiseled into the stone floor. Scorch marks marred it all, the remains of some battle long ago. The massive storm doors of Andura’s Temple awaited in their archway, slabs of iron built with bars, gears, and other locking mechanisms.   He glanced around, seeing what might’ve once been multi-story stained glass windows, long since destroyed. Unlike almost everywhere else he’d seen, here the window barricades remained setup. Or, perhaps knocked down once and then reaffixed again. Judging by the debris around them, they’d fought their fair share during the downfall.   “The grounds are uneasy here,” Favré remarked. “It’s better than the rest so far, but not by much. The furnaces have gone quiet.”   “An ill-omen for a place of Volapaws,” Alexandre noted.   “Mm.”   “Let’s see who's home then,” he said, heading toward the storm doors with everyone. Alexandre didn’t see a means to open them, or even a wicket to get through. Kosark and Zai craned their heads to look upward, while Suhla watched their rear approach. After a moment’s thought, he shrugged his hands. “Favré, would you do the honors?”   The larger man stepped forward, unslinging the warhammer upon his backside. A heavy thing needing two hands, one head was the flat of a hammer and the other that of a menacing spike. As they all took some safety steps backward, Favré weighed his weapon, set his legs apart, and rolled his shoulders.   Flickering light, the dimmest glow that embers might cast, sparked beneath his hands. The crackling embers raced toward the hammer’s head, covering it in a fiery warm light. Hefting the warhammer, Favré heaved back, then swung forward, slamming the flat head straight into the doors.   The loud crack of metal-hitting-metal joined an erupting blastwave of fire. The flames blew across the surface of the doors, catching on all their ridges, bumps, and imperfections. As they passed over, the fire seeped into unseen grooves. Concentric circles, sharp lines connecting them, and symbols of magical arrangement came alight before their eyes.   Alexandre squinted at the sight, his brow furrowing. “A ward of sealing?” he asked, glancing at Favré with concern.   “It can be used for protection as well.” Favré squinted in thoughtful study. “Unconventional and a hassle to remove, but the same as any ward of protection if you think about it. Were I a betting man, given how hastily it’s been made, means they didn’t have time for something proper.”   “Or there’s something inside they don’t want out,” Alexandre said.   “Maybe. Why would it bid us entry if that were the case?”   “I’d love to know. Well, let’s—“   Another loud crack broke through the air.   All of them, save Loup and Annette, jolted backward. A reflex born from years of ambushes and unexpected dangers, their eyes fixed firmly to the shuddering storm doors. The ward of sealing flickered and faded, dissolving in a stream of ashless embers. With it gone, a crunchy, grinding sound of gears and mechanisms working grew louder. The storm doors split open, drawing slowly into the walls. They halted half-way open, more than enough for anyone to pass through. Yet, close enough to shut in a hurry if needed.   Alexandre regarded it suspiciously. His gut told him it wouldn’t be a problem, but it wasn’t infallible. Signaling the others to follow, he headed into the gloomy darkness of the temple. Tiny, flickering flames awaited; candles, he realized. Whether on gray saucers, or the tiled stone floor itself, dozens upon dozens lined the walkways. Most had already melted to nothing, leaving few left to silently burn away.   Seeing as the entrance was clear, he ventured forward. A yawning abyss welcomed them all, forever stretching into the ceiling. Two flights of stairs soon dipped downward into the temple’s vast main hall. A sea of candles washed it in a warm, hazy light. Amidst the flickering glow, he saw them: hundreds upon hundreds of people, forming neat rows of congregation. Some stood, others rocked back and forth slowly, and many more simply kneeled, praying as those outside had.   One, however, approached the stairs.   An offensive clanking of armor disturbed the pervading stillness. They held a candle, illuminating what remained of a broken breastplate, pauldrons, and gauntlets. The war attire of a Volapaws priestess, if he’d ever seen one. “Who are you, yet living in this cursed city?” she asked, a rattling hiss of a voice still loud and firm.   “I am Alexandre,” he said, clasping a hand over his heart. “Here to help the people of Jalken.”   “Help? It’s far too late for that. I’m sure you’ve seen why.”   “I have. But, the fight is not yet over, priestess.”   “Isn’t it? Bold to assume such a thing, more to even believe it.”   “Or foolish, as I am so often told,” Alexandre remarked with a jovial touch of humor.   “Were you not the hero himself, I’d spit that curse just the same. Come, then.”   She turned, heading back toward the other end of the hall. Alexandre and the others shuffled down the stairs to follow after her. The praying dead around them stirred, some clutching their candles harder, others daring to look up. Vacant, unblinking eyes watched as they passed by, thoughtless and empty. Although familiar with the unknown himself, Alexandre spared a concerned glance over to Loup. The army lad, at least, made a good show of accompanying his fiancée.   “So, uh, been in the army yourself, Annette?” Alexandre asked, attempting to lighten the mood.   “The night watch,” Annette answered. She poked at Loup’s cheek, making him jump a bit. “Met this brave fool running through the forest screaming.”   “I wasn’t screaming,” Loup hissed, sticking his nose up. “I was scaring away the animals.”   “And the thornback wolf chasing you was there for support, I presume?”   Alexandre smiled sheepishly. “It sounds like an interesting encounter.”   “Quite the looker even with him being covered head-to-toe in blood,” Annette remarked, jabbing her thumb in Loup’s direction. Despite the circumstances of it all, there’d been an appreciable warmth to her words. Something Alexandre liked to believe her eyes showed, at least. Loup’s indignant huffing, too, had a comfortable familiarity.   Ah, Loup, it’s not that I don’t sympathize, Alexandre thought, recalling his own wife’s definition of ‘affection’.   Upon reaching the hall’s end, a massive anvil awaited them in front of a cold furnace. Built to the size of a ceremonial table, such anvils were common but important fixtures in Volapaws temples. A heap of weapons and pieces of armor were piled atop it; all in varying states of disrepair.   Stepping alongside the anvil, the priestess set her candle down atop the blade of a sword. An oddity in her motions caught Alexandre’s eye, and only then realized she was missing an arm. The armor left behind looked as if it’d been torqued and twisted off quite cruelly.   “All of Jalken lay dead or gone,” she remarked, turning to regard Alexandre and his group. “Half returned, and half of that gone mad with hunger. Every day more of us slip away. You think you can fix all that yourselves? Is this the Spring Waltz?”   “It’s not impossible, but I need to know how all this happened.”   “Suddenly and without warning. By the time the warning bells rung, they were already feasting in the streets. The guard was overwhelmed, and we fell back here. Took in whoever we could, then barricaded and sealed the temple against the onslaught. Our supplies only lasted so long before the hunger took us as well.”   Alexandre frowned. “And you have no idea where it started?”   “There was mention of the noble quarter getting overrun immediately. I took it to mean the southern gate fell first.” She tilted her head. “You seem as if that may not be the case.”   Loup spoke up then, “We came from the eastern gate. It was more like people trying to escape than stop an invasion.”   “That—” the priestess visibly paused for a moment, “—that’s not possible.”   Zai said, “We can’t speak for the others, but the eastern gate was locked down. The damage told us they were trying to get out, not in.”   “You must’ve understood it wrong,” the priestess argued, waving her hand. “Errant battle damage, no more.”   “Why would the gates be closed, then? Jalken’s a trade city.” Alexandre asked, and that question hung in the air for a long minute.   “If it wasn’t for an invasion, then—you’re suggesting sabotage? Betrayal?” she asked stiffly. “Who would do it? Why?”   Alexandre looked pensive as he thought.   “The duchess,” Annette mused aloud. “When I heard her calls, they were different.”   “Different how?” Alexandre asked, eyes settling upon her sharply.   “Ah? Well, not talking like we are, or using magic to make an announcement. Kind of a need to answer that I know she wanted?”   Pieces fell together into a picture that made Alexandre’s face darken. A grim realization made even his handsome features terrifyingly foreboding. “Only those with power over the dead can call the dead. And if she has that power, then—”   “—she is either a necromancer or undead herself,” the priestess surmised. “If the gates were sabotaged, then this was all planned. Deliberate. Take out the noble quarter and the wall guards, then all of Jalken becomes an enormous prison.”   Loup asked, “But why would she?”   “It doesn’t matter,” Alexandre said firmly. “Amelia Louva isn’t a woman who’d leave her city willfully. Whether she planned it or died fighting, she is still here.”   “I take it well enough you mean to fight Duchess Louva?” the priestess asked.   An honest question, one that brought everyone’s attention to Alexandre. Most of all would be the nearby undead, drawn from their prayer, who regarded him with their eyeless gazes. He wasn’t a stranger to such wordless questioning, least of all on matters of grave import. What awaited to be done, however, still gave him pause.   It would be arduous.   But, he couldn’t turn away.   “Yes,” Alexandre said, a firmness of voice that silenced the questioning emptiness. “Before the ghouls tell her that we are here, and the Duchess has any chance to escape. We must march upon her Keep this very night.”   “In the face of a coming storm, you would march against the raving dead? The very night itself without any light?” the priestess asked, not a hint of incredulity to her voice.   “You’ve fire, do you not?” he asked in return, and in the face of her silence, smiled.   “Truly mad beyond reason,” she said, shaking her head. “And to think, we who are dead, must warn you from dying foolishly.”   “Not here, I think,” Alexandre said with a laugh. “But, I cannot do it alone. I need your help—“ he turned around, regarding the undead yet watching, “—all of yours. Good people of Jalken, on this night I promise justice for your wrongs. But, I need your help.”   The many dead looked at one another in a languid, questioning regard. Soon more followed, roused by their fellows’ unspoken actions. The deathly still torpor within the temple waned, brought alive through the power of his one single request.   The ripping crack of a hammer striking metal shattered the silence, only Alexandre and Favré not jumping out of their skin. The priestess, with an ash-blackened warhammer in her hand, loomed tall over them all. “Children of Iron!” she called out, her mighty voice as resonant as the crack itself. “Long have we lain here, dour and pitiable, our furnaces cold and barely a candle left to hold. Take heart, for our prayers have been answered at last. A spark to light the forge, one final time.”   The undead mumbled and murmured incoherent sounds from mouths that couldn’t form words.   Another crack of the priestess’ hammer reverberated through the temple. “Arise, Children of Iron! Stand now, and raise aloft your hammers once more!” Another crack, and another, and another. Like any smith hammering out an unruly piece of iron, she swung and struck a steady rhythm.   Slowly, one by one, they stood, shaky from endless kneeling. The undead shambled to the great anvil, wearily taking up their weapons and tools. Alexandre and everyone else cleared out of the way as a procession began to form. Those dead with strength to spare ferried arms to others, spurring them awake with newfound purpose. Those with tools—hammers, forge tongs, pliers, and more—trudged toward the edges of the great hall.   “Sir?” Loup asked dubiously from beside Alexandre. “What’s going on?”   “Preparations,” he said, regarding a few dead at a nearby forge. As one undead struck the fire starters, another shoveled in charcoal and refuse crysium, feeding a burning belly yet to awaken. “Speaking of: Everyone, take a minute to rest, check your gear, and have a snack. It’s going to be a long night.”     One by one, the narrow forge pits filled with fuel and came alive in a crackling rip of fire. Warmth radiated throughout the hall as dancing lights chased away the gloomy abyss, revealing more of the temple’s humble yet imposing architecture. Volapaws temples so often combined smithing and reverence together, and here proved no different.   Dozens of forge pits lined the sides of the hall itself, while the congregation could sit or walk in the center. The pits themselves were each composed of several distinct parts: furnaces for metal smelting, open-air fire pits for magical arts, an anvil or two, and workbenches laden with tools. They were fashioned for openness so others could watch, either to learn or as religious spectacle. There was even additional seating above the forges themselves on second-floor walkways, and special pipes to vent the noxious fumes safely away. Marks in the floor spoke of benches and chairs once present, undoubtedly now a part of the windows’ barricades.   Alexandre, Loup, and everyone taking a break sat upon the hall’s main stairs, watching solemnly as the dead worked. One brought equipment, another fixed, and patched-together arms went on to those who needed it. That they managed at all in such wretched conditions only spoke of their great skill and dedication to the craft.   The ringing of hammers, screeching of sharpening metal, and all kinds of busywork grew loud. Welcome sounds to the wind’s encroaching howls and ruthless slamming against the temple. The barricades groaned every so often, rattling as if they’d fall off any moment. “It shouldn’t rain for a while yet,” Kosark remarked, looking up at the ceiling. “But, it will.”   “Undead swarm, night time, rain storm,” Suhla counted off, giving Alexandre four dubious eyes. “The hero easy-walks over mountains before using a road.”   Alexandre sighed into his mug before taking a sip. “Believe me,” he said, half-waving his mug at Suhla. “I’d love to have work chasing down a jarn or, Sun’s Burn, a frother or something. Quick, easy, back home in time for dinner …”   “So you can complain there is nothing to do?” Zai remarked, busy finagling a sandwich together. Jiuweihu-sized paw-hands took work getting into small pouches and pockets. She managed, somehow.   “A world with nothing to do is a great one to have,” Alexandre said simply, nodding as if his words were sage advice. “It’d still be boring, but it’d be great.”   Dismissive snorts and scoffs answered back, and Alexandre rolled his eyes. A quick look around told him Loup and Annette sat lower on the stairs, and Favré off helping the undead. From the side came a pouch, poking under his nose with a scent of salt and meat. He glanced at Kosark beside him for a moment before taking out a few strips of jerky.   “So what do you think?” Kosark asked, taking a strip out for himself.   “Oh, I don’t know,” Alexandre muttered, half-way to taking a bite. “50-50?”   A light hiss sounded from Suhla behind him. “You always pick 50-50.”   “Keeps it interesting?”   A silk pouch slapped against the back of his head, and Alexandre tried not laughing lest he choke. Once he had finished eating and downed what was left of his drink, he sighed. “It’s not impossible, but we’re all going to have to lift some weight on this one.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Nothing we haven’t handled before. The timing’s terrible, but …”   “There’s some things I still don't understand, sir,” Loup asked then, seeming apprehensive about speaking.   “What about?”   “Well, you. All of you—“ Loup looked from Alexandre to the others of the Fearless Ananpae present, minus Favré, “—are really amazing people. There’s all kinds of stories and adventures and stuff I can’t imagine The ma’am there made a wall bigger than the city’s in an instant! Is this all really that much of uh … I dunno, concern?”   Zai spoke then, a weight to her voice Alexandre knew to be a lecturer’s. “Greater power entails greater concerns. This city was ravaged by the Forsaken, but what could await inside? Hundreds, or thousands, of Returned is one matter. The ghouls another. Whatever awaits above them even more so. If something powerful waited to ambush us at a vulnerable moment, it’d have all the advantage. The first blow in such encounters is always the most dangerous.”   Alexandre added after her, “We don’t know enough to be bold, and playing it safe means we keep our lives. It’s rather like when dealing with wolves; I’m sure you’ve got experience with them, at least.”   A flicker of recognition flew through Loup’s eyes. “I do.”   “That quiet moment, the tension—“ Alexandre held out a hand, laying it flat and letting it waver a little, “—the uncertainty. You know you’re dealing with a wolf; are there more? If so, where? Are they starving or mad enough to fight? Or simply waiting for you go to by? You see where I’m going with all of this.”   “I do,” Loup said, his boyish face twitching and frowning from some complex thought. “It’s just, a bit strange is all.”   “Oh?”   A gloved finger poked Loup’s cheek, Annette sitting next to him and leering with her dead eyes. “You’re too fussy about your heroine stories again.”   “I am not!” Loup shot back in an instant. “This is the sort of thing people talk about!”   “Uh-huh.”   Alexandre watched their little spat, a playful fight of barbs and jeers that held no malice. He could see why the two of them fit together so well, enough it made him smile. A joyful smile at another’s happiness, draped in the quiet coldness of inevitability. He saw the woman she used to be, but in time, that would fade. Such was the fate of the returned dead; to be embers that grew dimmer and darker, until no more. No matter how much they fed the flame of their once-lives.   His smile just as much hid the anger in his heart at such a cruel fate they’d been dealt.   The priestess of earlier approached, the heavy clank of her armor quite attention-grabbing. Favré walked alongside her, a stoic regard to his face and figure. “We near ready,” she declared in her hollow voice. “What is your plan, oh hero?”   Setting the remains of his snack aside, Alexandre slapped his hands upon his knees and stood up. “A great roaring fire, of course. Priestess, shall we do as Children of Iron are wont to do, and ring the bell?”   “You mean to ring our Bell of Triumph, for who? The entire city?”   “Who else?”   “You’re mad,” she said, the barest hint of a laugh in her voice.   “You have more blades than hands to hold them. I have faith the people of Jalken will heed the summons.”   “Whether they will take our blades or our heads, it’s our lot to find out, then,” the priestess said. “Come. If you are to play the part, you must carry a standard.”   He nodded and together with everyone else, descended the stairs to join her. As they head across the hall once more, the priestess clapped her hand against her breastplate. The loud clanging drew the undead’s attention, working or not, and they regarded her. “Open the chutes!” she commanded in a voice that filled the temple. “Children of Iron, let our great forge bloom once more! Feed the towering beast and let our chorus roar!”   They moved with vigor, shunting tools of trade aside in favor of shovels. Whether on the ground floor or second, the faithful dead fed the chutes precious fuel. Others ran across the floors or along the walls, lifting slates from pipes buried within both. Air whistled inside the openings, feeding the crackling flames rushing through.   Like the roots of trees, the pipe networks grew out of the forges. They wove throughout the temple’s very foundations, creating symbols of ritual both complex and simple. Each Volapaws temple made theirs to fit the ideals they particularly upheld. Alexandre wasn’t sure what Andura’s meant, instead paying much more attention to where he walked. Grates shielded the pipes from contact, but until the flames were properly flowing, they spat out like angry snakes to whoever got near.   Ahead, he saw others waiting, all of them armored in iron and leathers like the priestess.   “He will bear it,” she declared. They nodded in turn, and approached him as he reached the anvil table. Before they began, she held her hand out to Alexandre. “Your sword. Sheath, too.”   It took him a moment to unfasten the thing, secure as it was. She took it reverently, and left as the attendants closed in. A strange looking contraption awaited in one of their arms, a metal rod with two rings of leather straps. At their prompting, he lifted his arms, standing in a T-shape as they moved around him. Upon his back the rod’s holster was placed, and around his front they fastened the clasps tightly.   For when one wasn’t wearing the proper armor, such a harness was the only means to bear a standard quickly. A tapping at his shoulder told Alexandre to kneel down, and they went about setting the standard on.   Further ahead, the priestess and some others stood at the temple’s greatest forge. With tongs and ladles they worked at the burning fuel, plucking out metallic crystals and cupfulls of some runny red liquid. They mixed the two into the sword’s sheath, and for a final touch, the priestess crumbled fiery coals in as well. Hissing flames tried escaping, but she slammed the sword in, sealing the whole thing shut.   A hand slapped his shoulder, and Alexandre looked over at an attendant gesturing for him to rise.   “What is this?” he asked as the priestess handed his sword back to him.   “A gift. You are no Ironclad, but your heart can bear our fire.” She watched as he strapped and secured it back on. “Save the draw for the one that matters and no other. It will only work the once.”   “I understand,” he said, bowing his head to her. She and the others present nodded in turn.   New, rhythmic hammering rang out suddenly. The dead struck at piston heads, levers, and valves all throughout the temple. Gears and other mechanisms, once cold and inert, spurred awake as boilers warmed again. The temple’s interior grew hotter into a sweltering heat. All the same, they kept working, a ritual of heavy, purposeful labor as Volapaws dictated.   “Go,” the priestess ordered, “you must greet the many who would follow you, hero.”   “Will you not join us?” he asked, regarding her stoic and unmoving figure.   “There must be someone left to tend the embers,” she said, offering a careless shrug. “May your life be far longer than mine was.”   “I hope the same. May your journey be a comfortable one.”   “There better not be one after all this or I’m going to be pissed.”   Alexandre held his arms open, laughing. “Fair enough!”     A black sky and rumbling winds welcomed them. Gentler breezes rolled by while stronger gusts came in their wake. Whether ruffling their clothes or nearly knocking them to the ground, the storm approached all the same. They each held up their hands to shield their eyes, walking with a certain skill to endure the weather’s temper.   The faithful dead marched out, adorned in ramshackle armor, and gripping their shoddy weapons. They went by the dozens, stepping down the temple’s crescent stairs to the parade grounds proper. Alexandre and his companions took their positions on the great platform in front of the temple. Standing at the platform’s guard rail, he watched the procession unfold.   “Sir, what’s the plan now?” Loup asked, watching from beside him.   “We either start a great fight here, or have the help to start it somewhere else,” Alexandre said, waving a gloved hand to the parade grounds in front of them. “I can’t say which one it’ll be.”   Favré, on Alexandre’s other side, said, “I cannot believe you would use the bell for this.”   “Nothing too off about that, is there?”   “Aerintor Herself would laugh at the ingenuity of it all.”   “Oh, well then,” Alexandre remarked with a chuckle. What mirth he had blew away from a random gust of wind buffeting into them. Righting upward quickly, he patted himself down to make sure everything was where it should be. “Ah—ahem. Here’s the plan, everyone! Suhla, Zai, you’re on rear guard duty. Use the big moves to take care of any unusual problems that show up.”   “Very well.”   “Yes-okay.”   “Kosark, Favré, middle guard. There’s going to be endless alleyways, side streets, and other problems around us. Focus on covering our weak spots.”   “Of course.”   “It’ll be handled.”   “Loup, Annette, you get the fun job. You two are up front with me.”   “Ah—us?” Loup crowed, pointing to himself and Annette rapidly. “I’m a spearman, sir, I’m used to it but—“   “Don’t worry about it!” Alexandre said with a chuckle, clapping a hand on Loup’s shoulder. “I’m the spearhead this time around. You two are going to be my fallback if I need it. And, if I need to send a message, one of you is going to have to run it. Sound doable to you, Annette?”   “Yes,” she said, nodding. Looking over to Loup, Annette held out her hand, and he slowly took it. She smiled, for what of her face could smile. “We can handle it, dear.”   “I—yes, we can,” Loup said, his reservations disappearing before Alexandre’s eyes. He was a normal man, to be certain, and his concerns both spoken and not were understandable. That he found the strength to push them aside, and rise to the daunting challenge before him, proved admirable.   A fine person to have at one’s side, Alexandre mused, regarding the parade grounds again. The many faithful dead had arrayed themselves in neat, spaced-apart rows and columns. Something that could collapse into a defensive-line, it doubled as a means of corralling people. Great demonstrations and gatherings often necessitated such formations, so the guard could keep everything going smoothly. In even intervals, those bearing burning torches stood, holding them aloft against the raging winds.   The ground trembled underneath, a distinctly heavy rumble that shook up his legs. Deep, metal-hitting thunks accompanied it, enormous pistons within the temple’s structure moving. Slow at first, they sped to a familiar rhythm. Flames spat out of chutes beside them, snarling free in awing streams. A rippling crackle sounded, growing and growing into a thunderous force.   An explosion boomed at the bell tower’s base, red-hot flames spitting out sideways. In split seconds a great mass of fire and light ascended the tower, making another resounding boom every other floor. Like a meteor in the night sky, it soared in a cage of iron and stone, launching to the belfry. Slamming into the great bell of Andura’s Temple, a mighty, resonant ringing sounded immediately. Deep and powerful enough to shake the soul itself, it could be heard and felt for miles around.   A declaration; a celebration; an unerring showing of human audacity.   It reverberated through all of Jalken’s ruined homes and dead streets.   Heads once slumped over stirred, and those yet wandering paused. The maddened and hungry jolted from their vile feasts, staring skyward with fright in their eyes. They, who could still remember something, turned to flee. To run and hide, to escape the bell and the drifting memories of who they’d once been. The others, however, turned toward it instead. And so, they walked.   Three times had the bell been rung, as was tradition. Alexandre watched the gloomy streets, already seeing movement. Uneven footsteps accompanied frightful shambling, some even crawling upon the ground, and a few even pulled along by friends. They marched all the same in faithful answer to the bell. A few turned to dozens, then hundreds; rivers of people pouring toward Andura’s temple.   They gathered there upon the temple grounds, mindful enough not to squeeze or shove. They came as people, not beasts, huddling together and staring up at the temple with their dead, unblinking eyes. The parade grounds filled eventually, and more still gathered in the surrounding streets. A sea that stretched beyond the blazing torches yet carried by the faithful.   The dead who heeded the call of the bell.   A hand tapped Alexandre on the shoulder, and he looked over. At the attendant’s beckoning, he awkwardly bowed. The clang-clack of a firestarter sounded, and the brazier that was the Volapaws standard ignited. A square, hammer-shaped thing, it carried the holy flames they yet revered so deeply. “Ah, yes, thank you,” he said, standing up. The attendant waved him off.   All that remained then was to address the people.   He peered out at the many, and they in turn stared at him. A tinge of nervousness gripped his chest, the prospect of a speech intimidating even for him. Worse, those awaiting the words were no longer among the living. He wasn’t sure at all it’d work; he simply hoped that good people would, undoubtedly, heed his words.   If he had the right words for them. Alexandre couldn’t help but think of the Crown Princess then; imagining, for a moment, what she might say. They’d both laugh at me if they saw this, he thought wryly.   Inhaling, he threw his hand forward, sweeping in a grand arcing gesture. “People of Jalken!” he announced in the loudest and clearest of voices, one even the winds couldn’t stifle. “Know I am Alexandre, and I stand before you on behalf of Her Imperial Majesty, Crown Princess Durand! Your plight has reached her ears, and so I have been sent to your aide.”   Dead silence answered back, unwavering in its intensity.   “And what did I find, but a people murdered? This great, vibrant city brutally brought low. Not by any worthy foe, nor an outsider’s hand. No, it was one of our own that we entrusted, and placed our faith into, only to be repaid with vile betrayal!”   They stirred then, scowling, fidgeting, and touching their faces—like waking from a dream that had clouded everything. Such was the price of disturbing the tranquil dead, who hated nothing more than the realization they once lived.   “Yes, gaze upon yourself and your friends; your families. See in them what happened to you—the wronged, the slain, and the dead.”   He let that unforgiving truth linger, a piercing knife through the veil of illusion. They drew from their torpor, mumbling questioningly and grasping one another, only to find strangers answering back. An echo of their broken lives, for few would be as fortunate as Annette had been in retaining herself. In that pivotal moment, Alexandre pressed forward, and shouted, “People of Jalken, do not despair! Do not grieve, for justice is yet in your grasp!”   His words took moments to work through them, but like moths to flame, they gazed upon him once more. Distraught eyes filled with grief, disbelief, and most of all, desperation.   “Please,” he asked, certainly loud but, at the same time, softer. “Do not despair. I would give you justice on this night. Righteous deliverance, from all of your hands, upon the one responsible for all of this. I ask all of you, are you not yet righteous people? You Children of Iron, who tamed these unforgiving lands at the edge of Aerthen itself.”   Some rose to his words, looks of determination taking over instead. Where a few might stand, more would follow, and the despair that so swiftly swept through began to vanish. It lightened his heart despite the heaviness of the circumstances. “Yes, you remember. What has happened is many things, but it has happened. We need not give into it, but instead, in these final hours of ours, show to all the world—living and dead—who we are. So I ask all of you, will you not stand beside me on this night? In one final act, will you not show us all who you are?”   His question hung in the wind-whipping air, not a voice speaking.   “Is there not one who would answer?” he asked in a tone of finality.   So the question remained; unanswered.   “Me,” croaked out one voice, an exertion of force and pain in simply uttering that one word. A woman, farther in the sea of people raised a broken arm, still somehow attached together. A tailor of some kind, dressed finely were it not for claw wounds. Those around her looked surprised or shocked.   “I,” answered another toward the center, a man who might’ve been a florist, still wearing his apron and shears.   “We will.” “I would.” “Yes, for our justice!”   As fire would catch kindling, a few sparks ignited more, and more, and more. The mourning and pained dead transformed before Alexandre’s eyes, glowering with righteous fury. A clamor of voices broke the night air, and above them all he shouted once more, “People of Jalken, I ask of you to stand beside me! March with me, to the noble quarter. There, we will find the traitor and exact your justice!”   Their thunderous roar of agreement answered in kind, a liveliness to them one wouldn’t expect from the dead.   A tapping at his side brought his attention to Favré, who held out a spare mace of his. “Take it,” he said, “since your sword’s reserved for another.”   “My good man, I’d forget my underwear without you,” Alexandra said with a laugh, taking the hefty mace easily. All he ever needed was his fists or sword; not taking his own advice for a spare really did bite him in the ass.   Favré smirked and shook his head upon hearing that.   Weapon in hand, buckler on his arm, Alexandre and the rest headed down the stairs. The dead at the bottom parted at his approach, eyes gleaming with eagerness. As he passed, they followed in his wake. Even the great armored sentry joined in, their heavy steps distinctly audible. Alexandre lifted the mace above his head, looking from side to side as he walked. “On this night, we are all sisters and brothers!” he shouted out. “Take up your arms! Take up anything at all that might serve, and follow me!”   Somehow, it’d all worked.   Torches and more came alight behind him, makeshift ones or those salvaged from holsters. Against the dark of night they shone brighter and brighter, their great numbers marching up the great street toward the heart of Jalken. Alexandre and his party took the lead, and he himself the tip of their great spear.   Their march shook the veltron, something another, distant tremor answered in kind. Alexandre narrowed his eyes, staring into the gloomy darkness farther ahead. A rippling pitter-patter of water came in a sudden downpour, blanketing everything. A taste of the rainfall that would soon beset them. “Ahh, there it is!” he said with a laugh, welcoming it with open arms. “Something we need to make this all the harder!”   Dubious looks shot toward him, but it was Zai that quipped, “Don’t you dare wish for lightning!”   “Think of how fun that would be!” he retorted.   She let out an exasperated grunt.   Love it or hate it, fighting in the rain was just a fact of life one lived with. The winds brought their storms, and the storms brought their floods. Jalken might endure the rainfall if its sewers hadn’t broken down yet.   The trembling in the ground grew stronger and nearer.   For all his mirth, Alexandre squared up, an imposing seriousness settling upon his features. It was the look of a man with years of the harshest experiences, and the unbridled determination to push through all the same.   Howling screams pierced the rain winds, rattling and echoing down the street.   “Favré, light forward!” he shouted, gesturing with his mace.   A bolt of flame shot forward in the air. Some distance high above the ground, it exploded into a burning ball of a tiny sun, casting a fiery red light on everything below. The darkness vanished, and so he, and everyone else, saw the vast swarm of undead stampeding toward them. Hundreds upon hundreds of ghouls and mad returned, eyes alight with ravenous hunger and maws screaming open.   Let’s get to work, Alexandre thought, firming his grip on the iron mace. The handle itself dented under his hand’s pressure, which he noticed immediately. Well, that’s a problem.   Hoping the weapon wouldn’t fail yet, he drew upon his inner power, a familiar warmth and strength surging through him. The first of many raving undead sprinted straight toward Alexandre, grisly claws and teeth ready. The hero swung his mace in a wide, sweeping arc, slamming it into a returned. Its whole body contorted under the impact, bending around it like wheat in the wind. A split moment later, tremendous force catapulted it backwards, bowling over the undead.   Rippling shot through the mass of raving dead as the ones in front collided with those behind them. With little time to react, the two groups turned into a screaming, writhing pileup of bodies. In seconds, the growing mound blunted their stampede entirely, forcing them to climb over or around it.   “Forward!” Alexandre yelled to the cheering crowds marching behind him.   Though his blow stopped many of the mad returned, the smart ones like ghouls would find a way around. One ghoul, of little skin and all muscle, teeth, and bone, leapt through the air toward him. Something that’d terrify ordinary folk, however, only made him laugh.   Throwing one’s self through the air, after all, left them without any control of where they went.   He swung and slammed the ghoul aside, launching it sideways into a wall that it splattered across. Just as one was dealt with, more followed, but Alexandre decimated through them all. Each motion practiced, every arc swung for maximum effect and little waste; no one could doubt his incredible experience, or terrifying strength.   “He can do that?!” Loup asked in a shout, split between the incredible sight and skewering another undead. Something he was learning was the need to take out their head or neck, as not much else did anything at all.   “First time?” Kosark asked back, sweeping his arm in a circular motion. The stormy winds whipping about suddenly changed direction, like a hand cleaning a table. All the undead on one upper sidewalk suddenly flew across the street, sailing from one side to the other in a violent impact against the wall. The air seemed strange for a moment afterward, calm and placid before the raging storm reasserted once more.   “Yeah,” Loup said, watching the incredible sight for a moment. “Yeah, it is.”   On Alexandre’s lead, they and the righteous dead pushed forward. What ravenous had the smarts to avoid him, the rest of them took care of in quick order. The further they went, the louder the battle grew, and the more who joined the fray. Be they loners or in groups, ravenous came from alleyways, side streets, and buildings.   Those righteous in the march turned to meet them, fighting with a fearless fury. They, who’d died and returned themselves, needn’t worry about dying again, after all. And they, empowered by the lives they clung to, fought together. A unity of camaraderie that, pitted against the forsaken undead, shone brilliantly.   The street they fought down finally opened up into the great roundabout with the statue of an army woman that Alexandre recognized. A distant thumping met his ears. A sound so heavy and punctual that, as it neared, the clamor of battle was buried underneath. He waved his mace forward and another of Favré’s burning suns flew overhead, an illuminating sight that made even Alexandre pause.   It towered over Jalken’s buildings, one tubular body resembling some twisted, repurposed rib cage. Two arms sprouted from both the rear and front, crooked and clawed fingers ripping up the ground as it walked. The faces of people, their bodies and organs, and putrid, black flesh adorned its body; as if they’d grown to become part of one horrific creature. When the fake sunlight appeared, it lunged forward, bracing lowly along the ground in a tremorous thump.   The ravener’s grotesque mouth split open in a deafening scream, spewing out blood, bile, and spittle. The roar of a predator, come to feast upon all it saw. In the false sun’s redlight, spots glittered within its flower petal-like jaws. They were the fading eyes of countless people, who’d been refashioned entirely into its teeth, flesh, and bones. In some form or another, all that a ravener devoured became it.   “You’re a big one, aren’t you?” Alexandre muttered under his breath. The ravenous forsaken flooding into the area gave the ravener a wide berth. In turn, the righteous dead broke off to hold the flanks, leaving the bigger problem to the Fearless Ananpae. The ravener lurched forward, its ‘walking’ more akin to dragging along its burdensome body.   A flash of brown fur and robes followed Zai leaping over Alexandre. “[Sudden is the change, immense is its flow: Uproaring Veltron]!” she chanted, slamming down her paw-hand as she landed. A tidal wave of dirt and stone shot forth, ripping up roadway and foundations alike. It grew with alarming speed to a size almost as great as the ravener itself. Contorting into a tighter, denser form, a fist of solid stone erupted out, slugging the abomination right in its hideous face.   The ravener snapped backwards, flung down the street it’d just emerged from. It clawed at the surrounding buildings to catch itself, ripping them open from sheer momentum as it hurtled past. Even then, it kept going, a rumble of falling stone and its hateful scream echoing back. As suddenly as the magic attack had happened, it vanished into the ground, leaving it flat and mostly normal once again.   “Suhla!” Zai called out, the rachtoh rushing to her side through the many dead, unerringly silent and graceful in her speed. “Ready your thunderbolts.”   “Oh. Those? Cost-price a lot for each one.”   “Her majesty is paying us for this, is she not?”   Suhla’s four eyes sparkled like someone who had a license to do whatever they wanted. “Yes. Good, let us kill-hunt the ugly-corpse.”   Zai looked over at Alexandre then, and waved for him to continue on. “We’ll handle it, keep going!”   It might take a while, but he could trust them to handle such a problem. Alexandre nodded once and said, “Be safe!”   “Be victorious!”   The ravener screams closed in, and they hurried to meet it.   Alexandre spared them one last glance before regarding Loup and Annette. “Which way to the Duchess’ home?”   “It should be this way,” Loup said, pointing, to which Annette nodded.   “Good, we need to hurry!” Alexandre waved his mace around, gesturing for those around him to follow. And I hope I’m wrong about all this.     The Louva Manor’s main entrance was denoted by two great doors. Carved out from huge trees long ago, the old, brown wood had been faithfully tended to for over five generations. A large relief was sculpted into both, depicting a scene of a woman and her huntresses in front of a hillside village. Arrayed before her were ferocious beasts and mortal enemies of old, a symbolic representation of Jalken’s ancestral triumphs.   A mighty force struck them, rattling even their considerable bulks. A second blow landed, blasting them open. They slammed into the walls in a thunderous bang, their hinges shattered. There they’d remain, cracked and broken as Alexandre strode through. The others followed behind him, all of them drenched head-to-toe in water as much as blood and viscera. Whipping winds screeched outside behind them, broken by yells, shouts, and howls of the undead fighting. He peered around, gaze sweeping to and fro for any sign of danger.   An intact manor wasn’t what he expected.   No signs of rot, no damaged infrastructure, every piece of furniture neat, clean, and polished. If not for the pointed absence of serving staff, it would’ve been as fine as any other noblewoman’s estate. The reception hall itself stretched on, suitable for immense parties or military marshaling. At the far end of it lay a grand staircase of white wood and gray-stone steps, arranged not unlike Andura’s Temple. A second floor balcony and gallery surrounded the hall, a high, vaulted ceiling farther above.   The wide, blue rug underneath muted their heavy footsteps. Alexandre held up a hand, motioning to stop halfway through the hall. He glanced around from the corners of his eyes, carefully hiding his observant caution. “Kosark?” he asked quietly.   “Oh, they’re here alright,” the muurun remarked, awfully coy sounding despite the underlying seriousness.   “Mm,” Alexandre throatily acknowledged before taking in a breath. In a clear, booming voice he shouted, “DUCHESS LOUVA!”   Her name rung through the great hall and further, echoing if only for a brief moment.   He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.   Dozens of shadowy figures emerged from around the evenly spaced pillars of the gallery. They were finely dressed in court suits, more than befitting of noble status, yet haughty and insufferable in their gazes. If Alexandre hadn’t known better, it seemed as though he’d just barged in on a ball or party. Movement caught his eye, and Alexandre watched as a familiar woman took the balcony atop the staircase, staring down imperiously.   “My, my, is that you, Alexandre?” she asked, a warmth to her voice that belied her vicious smile. “I didn’t think it’d be you making such a ruckus in my city.”     Clad in a dark-blue court suit, silver threading wove down her shoulders and sides in a fine, artistic display of fierce woodland beasts. Held together by a single button, it sculpted her intimidating figure in a simple, yet elegant presentation. One furthered by her deep brown hair, falling down her front in curls and ringlets, and her stern, square face set in the stoniest of cold regard. Duchess Amelia Louva, as Alexandre knew her, exuded an unapproachable air most nobles struggled to match. Any painter who’d value their life would surely give her portrait the detail it’d deserve.   But, something about her—all the nobles—felt wrong.   Something dangerous.   “It seems things have taken a turn for the worse here, Duchess,” he remarked, a conversational tone born from years of practice.   “On the contrary, Jalken has never been better!” she retorted with a satisfied smirk. “I trust you’ve seen my handiwork in that regard.”   “That and more, if all the screaming dead outside indicate anything. Why? Why did you do it?” he demanded, brandishing his bloodied mace.   “Oh, Alexandre,” Duchess Louva said with a touch of reproach. “You are one of the good ones, but you are still just a common man. The burden of leading always means being willing to make the hardest choices.” She lifted a hand, pointing at one of four familial banners hanging from the ceiling, then the next, and so on. “As it was with my great grandmother, then grandmother, my mother, and me. We Louva have always wrangled Jalken’s paupers and malcontents to build this great city of ours.”   Muttering under his breath, Alexandre said, “Favré, what are they?”   “… Vampires, I think,” the priest muttered back.   “Joining your Federation has ever been my mother’s mistake, but something I bore proudly,” the Duchess continued her impromptu speech. “Changing times demand changing people, after all. And so, it was fine—at least until your outrageous ideals started spreading.”   “And which might those be?” Alexandre inquired.   “The insane notion that people like me are cut from the same cloth as commoners,” Duchess Louva said, waving her hand in some contemptuous gesture. “That somehow, people not even two generations ago who struggled to dress themselves in the morning deserve my attention. That somewhere in their dirt addled brains and slovenly lips, they have some idea I should listen to. Honestly, my mother had enough trouble with that in her time. Then, me?”   Duchess Louva scoffed, rubbing her forehead like someone burdened greatly. “They demanded a place at my table. People with no family name longer than a receipt suddenly thought they deserved a seat. Then, your Federation fed their insanity more and more! What was I to do then? My, even my own daughter decided these frivolous notions of ‘equality’ meant something!”   “Vivienne quite struck me as a shining star of a young lady,” Alexandre shot back.   “Oh, thank you,” Duchess Louva gushed for a moment, flattering herself with a chest pat. “I worked hard on her, that’s for certain. Sadly, not hard enough. Not only did she pound the table every night about such silly ideas, she had the audacity to fancy some handbag maker! Some street corner urchin who had less pedigree than any of my trocks!”   Almost at a loss for her own problem, she shrugged. “It is one thing to fancy women, a simple jostle in the carriage ride there. I could arrange a marriage with the Hulhen, Jarrenique, or grace forbid, the Mallento. Plenty of daughters there who’d suit for a marriage, so we’d have their familial contracts at least. But, some common handbag maker? All for love? If I knew she’d become such a failure, I would’ve strangled her with the cord on the first day!” Duchess Louva slammed her hand on the railing, a force strong enough the stone cracked underneath.   Seemingly realizing the damage, she sighed and patted her gloved hands clean. “Alas, I needn’t anger myself. That little embarrassment’s been all taken care of; I’m sure you must’ve met her on the way here.”   Alexandre’s jaw clenched, staring at her with hard, narrowed eyes. He pointed accusingly, hand shaking with restrained anger. “You fought Vorhein with us! You helped defeat the traitor states! Now you join her? The Duchess Louva bending her knee to a Grave Queen?”   “Oh!” Duchess Louva inhaled, shock and offense alike upon her countenance. “Goddesses above, not at all! Vorhein is simply a beast with a pretty name, good Alexandre. You and I both know this. And, any beast can be brought to purpose, after all.”   The mere thought anyone could control such a horrifying being put ice in Alexandre’s veins. That Duchess Louva so proudly—smugly—radiated that confidence of accomplishment only set him further on edge. “So that’s it then? Your people demand a better life, and so you killed them all?”   “Don’t be so blasé about it, Alexandre. They forgot their place, and so I reminded them. How fortunate I was to find a way to remove all the pretenses! We Louva will rule over them, in life or death, and build our great city even further.” Duchess Louva smiled then, showing off her clean, sharp teeth and piercing fangs. “It is the natural order of things, after all. We were born to rule; them, to be ruled.”   “T-that’s your reason?!” Loup shouted from the rear of the party, drawing all eyes to his flush-red face. A man past the point of rage, shaking and gripping his spear with fury itself in his veins. “You killed all of them! My family—my wife, just because of—of—“   Duchess Louva gave him only the most sparing of glances, some dim acknowledgement one reserved for a croaking frog. “You really must learn to keep better company, Alexandre.”   “I rather find Loup a respectable and capable man myself,” the hero retorted.   Duchess Louva scoffed, half-rolling her eyes. “No accounting for taste, I suppose. Well, so be it. If I’m honest, I’d love for you to join me,” she offered, holding her hand out in symbolic welcome. “Were it not for Vorhein’s distasteful demand you’d be ripped limb from limb, anyway.”   “I shall take that as a compliment,” Alexandre said with a forced smile.   “She’s hardly worth the trouble anymore, but that is neither here nor there. Let us be on with this business of ours, shall we?” Duchess Louva glanced about, and the vampires spurred to action. Leaping over the banisters, they landed gracefully on the ground floor, surrounding Alexandre’s group. The Duchess, however, made leisurely for the staircase. Her heavy, solid thumping boots carried a weight of power in each downward step. She lightly traced her hand all the way along the guard rail. “I must say, Alexandre, I hope you’d do me the honor.”   “Of?”   “Dying by my blade, of course. Of all the vermin to walk Veltrona, I cannot say I ever spilled a hero’s blood before. A lot of people pretend they’re one, of course, but no one quite like you.” When Duchess Louva reached the ground floor herself, a ringing scrape of many scabbards filled the air. The other vampires drew swords, blades, rapiers, and daggers; all weapons of elegant make and design, fashioned for swift death dealing.   Coming to stand on the central rug like a host welcoming her guests, Duchess Louva smiled and drew her own blade. A one-sided, straight edged weapon built for size, sturdiness, and killing Veltrona’s fearsome beasts. For something of such weight, she wielded it with one hand and easily held it at her side. “Come, Alexandre—leave that chaff behind you!”   Some eager looking vampires advanced then, hungry for a kill; others stood around, watching as if it were entertainment.   Alexandre, already thinking up a strategy, shouted, “Sides and rear guard! Cover your flanks!” He advanced quickly, not willing to give Duchess Louva a chance to react. “Loup, Annette, support Favré and Kosark!” he ordered, already swinging his mace in a threatening sweep. For Duchess Louva, direct blows shouldn’t be answered—even if she could, it’d do damage to her weapon at least.   She met the attack in a deflecting parry, one that easily redirected his incredible strength. Their weapons scraped together with such intensity sparks shot off. Before any opportunity for a follow up, Alexandre retreated to a safer distance.   That one blow told him a lot of concerning things. One being the Duchess’ weapon far exceeded his mace. Another was, somehow, she’d become immensely stronger. The Duchess already ranked among the more formidable nobles he knew before her change, too. He’d done his fair share of losing against her in duels.   Alexandre glanced around from the corners of his eyes.   The only saving grace seemed to be the vampires weren’t fighting properly. Instead of using their advantage to fold in on his allies, most stood back, spectators to the ‘entertainment’. As long as they were dealt with quickly, they weren’t as dangerous. It’d be a precarious bet to make, and one they wouldn’t have the time to spare for.   Duchess Louva closed in, swinging out a wide, suspiciously clumsy strike. There were any number of ways to counterattack, and Alexandre wasn’t foolish enough to try any of them. He instead dodged, sweeping toward a blind spot she couldn’t catch in time. Such a position made it difficult to strike from even for him, but he tried all the same.   “I’m pleased that hadn’t worked on you!” Duchess Louva said, retreating herself to evade his reprisal. “Your experience is ever so refreshing!”   After all, though Duchess Louva’s other hand remained empty, it’d nonetheless been ready. Perhaps to grapple, or something worse.   “It’ll take more than a simple trick!” Alexandre retorted, pursuing after her before she could recover. Although on her backfoot, Duchess Louva parried his mace with a graceful flick of her beastly sword. He, however, struck in a cross-up with his fist straight into the Duchess’ open side. Some hardy, leather-like armor underneath bowed to the blow, but not her. Hissing angrily, the Duchess swiftly slammed her sword pommel into Alexandre’s head.   They parted, having traded blows but neither remotely winded. A way for either side to test the other, and find any possible weaknesses. Great warriors, mages, and anyone in the martial ways had no end of tricks, skills, and techniques. A fool who rushed ahead would only meet a quicker end in doing so.   Are all vampires this strong? Or just her? he wondered, mightily feeling that hit on his head.   Even with defensive enchantments and his own sturdiness, it’d rattled him. A less-fortunate skull would’ve caved in on the spot. Alexandre rolled his shoulder, hefting his buckler to the fore as the Duchess ran at him again. She swung, he met her, and blow after blow they continued. Duchess Louva, favoring her ruthless swordswoman style, hastened with each swing and thrust. He recognized it well enough, and knew how to work defensively against it.   Try as Loup might, he couldn’t see a way to help Alexandre. He and Annette, opposite of Favré and Kosark, had their hands full with three other vampires. Two noblewomen and a man, neither of which he recognized, apart from their attire. The estimable family of Nahrun had, in some part, thrown their lot in with the Duchess as well. Such treasonous people truly made his blood boil in a way he never imagined before.   One of the vampires swept forward, her eyes narrowed menacingly. He, however, could only smirk in return. Between that modest sword of hers or his spear, he won in range handedly. Stabbing forward, the vampire could only break her attack off and evade, scowling with an ugly frustration.   “You damnably annoying commoner!” she all but hissed out.   The third vampire interjected boredly, “Really, Erana, it’s just a spear.”   “You go in and get stabbed by it then, Harrin!”   Loup hadn’t a mind for their stupid squabbling, but he did notice something. The second vampire wasn’t off watching from the side anymore. In that brief moment he’d lost track of her, Loup looked from side-to-side. He caught her coming from a rear angle, just out of sight. Though he tried turning toward her, the vampire approached with a speed he hadn’t seen before. In split seconds she’d reached past the safety of his spear, and he made to drop it and draw his own sword.   At least, until Annette got in the way.   Body blocking the flank attack, the vampire’s sword skewered straight through her rotten flesh. His heart dropped at the sight, freezing him in place as Annette slid backwards from the force of the attack.   “You worthless corpse!” the second vampire snarled. “You can’t even die righ—“   Impaled, but already dead, Annette simply thrust her own sword up through the vampire’s jaw and head. An incredulous look filled her hateful eyes in the brief moments before her death, and she slumped pathetically onto Annette. Shoving the dead weight off, Annette looked back toward Loup with admonishment. “Watch your flanks! They’re not just animals,” she demanded, nonchalantly yanking the sword out of her chest.   “R-right,” he answered reflexively.   “Juleen!” the other two vampires screeched. Their amused looks transformed into a lip-curling rage, and they hurled toward the two of them furiously. Dead Annette took the front, and Loup covered from beside her, a team ready to meet the vampires in earnest.   Duchess Louva glanced over at the indignant screech, some distasteful look passing through her contemptuous eyes. “Really, dying to one of them—that’s just embarrassing,” she remarked.   “They’re much greater than you ever gave credit for,” Alexandre said, weighing the mace in his hand.   Trustworthy as it had been, he could feel it veering toward breaking. It simply wasn’t something that’d been fashioned for someone as strong as him. Iron and steel served well in many ways, but only something dragon-made would truly survive him. Between the Duchess’ formidable bladework and his mace struggling to endure, he hadn’t made any actual progress.   “I do expect my company to meet certain standards, as you know.” Duchess Louva rolled her eyes before straightening her back once more. “Is it not moments such as this one’s worth can be found?”   “I couldn’t agree more,” Alexandre said with a smile, lunging forward.   It’d be a stupid move ordinarily, but he swung his mace from an off-angle. Something that’d be easily blocked—obviously so, and the Duchess’ eyes said as much. She swung her blade in a diagonal chop, the monstrous weapon ramming into the shaft of Alexandre’s mace. Unable to withstand such a blow, the shaft shattered. The head of the mace, however, tumbled right into Duchess Louva’s face–a perfect, wildly alarming distraction.   Confusion, surprise, and realization all at once shot through the Duchess’ eyes.   In that brief moment, Alexandre went for his sword. Hilt in hand, he drew it forth, the boiling oils within tasting air. In a roaring explosion of fuel and flame, fires coated his mana-steel sword, erupting from its sheath like a dragon’s fearsome breath. A shower of sparks followed as he performed a deadly slash, cutting through armor and flesh alike across the Duchess’ midsection. For all her experience, and already trying to dodge backward, he landed a solid and terribly deep, burning blow.   The Duchess recoiled, a dark and pained grunt escaping. Caught off balance, she lashed her blade at him, an attack Alexandre smacked aside with his buckler. Seeing another of his burning slashes coming, Duchess Louva grabbed onto the blazing sword itself, using her own hand as a meaty shield to eat the attack. A flash ignition of blood and flesh leapt onto her regal clothing.   “[Vae darii]!” Duchess Louva shouted, a sudden wind exploding between her and Alexandre. They slid backwards across the carpet-and-stone floor, both easily riding a magical attack meant to knock them down. Snarling in the ugliest face she’d shown that night, the vampire lady whipped her gored hand and arm, trying to smack out of the flames. Smoldering light lingered in her wounds, embers turning to flames as they found purchase in flesh or cloth alike. “This cursed fire! You—oh, those insufferable priestesses!”   “Volapaws’ flames are ever to burn the wicked as they embrace the righteous,” Alexandre goaded with a charming smile. He hurriedly unfastened and dropped his ruined buckler in the meanwhile. “Surely you remember that, Duchess?”   To say she looked furious would’ve been a generous remark.   Duchess Louva thrust her burned hand out, clapping a hold onto her vampire servant who’d been standing idly by. Dutiful, but surprised eyes turned into a howl of pure, bestial pain when the Duchess’ fingers sank into their neck. Alexandre watched in disbelief as her fingers bulged and slurped, drinking the servant’s own blood right from their body.   In seconds they’d gone from the epitome of vile beauty to a withered husk, even more of a corpse than the raving dead outside. Fresh blood gushed into the Duchess’ wounds, slathering the flames and snuffing them out as her flesh knitted back together again. Chucking the desiccated husk aside, Duchess Louva stood up regally again, her face anything but noble. “I hadn’t taken you for one to use dirty tricks,” she said in a voice of blistering anger. “Then I shall take my gloves off, dear Alexandre.”   “What can I say, it’s the adventurer in me?” he retorted, eying her blood-caked hand. Those claws weren’t simply sharpened nails, but truly thick, menacing things meant to pierce and rip apart skin. How her hand drank blood he didn’t know, but he sure didn’t want to find out.   Duchess Louva swept that same hand across her menacing blade, painting its iron red. It surged alive with a menacing crimson glow, swirling and shimmering like water on a moonlit night.   “[In blood am I adorned, from heart to heart, shall I rend and tear]!” Duchess Louva chanted, a spell of a kind Alexandre neither knew nor would give her time for. He crossed the gap between them, swinging his flaming sword into her blood-cursed weapon. Steel-crossed-iron, the hissing sparks snuffed out by the glow of blood.   Crimson tendrils shot off her blade and around his sword, stabbing into the surprised Alexandre. Like living daggers they sank in, then ripped outward, stealing his blood. He hurriedly shoved the Duchess off and backed away, touching up his wounds with some magic to stop the bleeding. Oh, I don’t like that, he thought wearily, watching Duchess Louva twirl her blade artfully.   Her steps carried a certain swagger to them as she approached. Narrowing his eyes, Alexandre held his sword in front of him, concentrating. The way of martial techniques was a two-fold process: execution, and bearing the recoil. As he pushed himself harder than normal, he had to endure worse strain in exchange. Against someone like her, he couldn’t afford even a moment’s lapse to recover.   Pivoting forward, Alexandre launched toward Duchess Louva, the solid floor underneath his feet shattering. With furious speed and keen focus he dealt one menacing slash after another. A honed technique of consecutive strikes meant to batter, break, and defeat an opponent’s guard. That the Duchess kept pace with his technique didn’t phase him at all. Alexandre only grit his teeth, muscles taut and burning as he pushed himself harder and harder.   Beneath their feet and out of sight, the fiery sparks of earlier nibbled at the carpet on the ground. Such pristine, dye-laden fabric proved a most delectable fuel for it as well. Growing flames chased after the long, room-spanning threads, igniting a thin trail that no one really paid attention to. A few wayward feet ended up kicking embers onto nearby tapestry, and so they too began to ignite.   A detail perhaps only dimly acknowledged in the face of greater threats.   While Alexandre and the Duchess traded attacks, the others had their own struggles. Although they downed ten vampires, more still awaited, and Loup’s flagging strength only worsened matters. Favré and Kosark made space for him, and Annette watched his backside as he took a moment to catch his breath. After making sure his flanks were secure, he checked on Alexandre.   For all his worries about helping, he wasn’t actually sure he could. Alexandre and Duchess Louva each wielded mighty weapons, monstrous in size and capability. Each swung and moved with a certain deft skill, graceful in how smooth and efficient they were. Every time they crossed weapons, a physical shockwave erupted out, shaking everything around except them. Neither gave up or relented, moving at a speed and intensity he scarcely believed possible.   Can humans really do that? Loup wondered. He’d heard plenty of stories about nobles, mages, and distant heroines. But, for a common man like himself to wield and display such incredible power defied reason. Queens, dragons, or even jiuweihu he could believe; they were all so very different. Seeing it first hand himself, Loup started to earnestly believe all the tales of Alexandre.   A horrid scream pierced the air, Alexandre’s sword finally cleaving into the Duchess. An angled, downward blow, it cut deep into the right side of her chest, the holy flames again devouring flesh and blood alike. Before Alexandre could fully drive his sword through, she shouted “[Vae Darii]!”   Catapulting off the explosive air burst, Duchess Louva soared backwards through the reception hall. She landed heavily, boots sliding across the rapidly burning rug, her back to the entrance. Her free hand clutched at her smoldering wound as she bared her teeth in a snarl.   The vampires that remained were, thankfully, nowhere near her.   Knowing she couldn’t be afforded a moment, Alexandre rushed after her, passing by Loup and the others.   “Come then!” Duchess Louva barked demandingly, standing tall and beckoning him toward her. “Let us finish this somewhere more comfortable!”   She leaned backwards, a wind picking up just beneath her feet. Duchess Louva smiled as Alexandre barely missed her with another swing, gliding away and retreating toward the outside grounds.   What is her plan? Alexandre wondered, not sparing a moment to stop in his pursuit. Someone like her wouldn’t simply be running away—she had something in mind. Something suitable for her haughty ego.   He spared a moment to glance over his shoulder, checking on the others. For all their struggles throughout the battle, they handled the vampires well. They hadn’t needed him to intervene, and some knowing looks from Kosark affirmed just as much. He nodded back before focusing forward once more.     Fire’s simplicity always posed the hardest challenges, for one either prevailed against it or did not. What started as a few sparks upon a rug soon cast embers upon furniture, wooden walls, and structural supports. Even with its shell of stone and decorative iron, so much of the estate sat as kindling, waiting to ignite.   Nature, perhaps conspiring at the opportunity, relented in its rains in favor of a harsher gale. When the first embers tasted the winds, their flames grew by leaps and bounds. The central house of the Louva estate easily caught fire, and soon all of it would be consumed in conflagration. It shone like a bonfire in the black night, a bright beacon that cast the estate grounds in flickering light. Ravenous and righteous dead continued to fight all the same, howling and screaming in furious battle.   It would be upon the estate’s central grounds Alexandre found Duchess Louva, standing like a queen, towering and unyielding in her own contemptuous regard.   Not even the holy flame eating away in her wound could undermine her confidence.   “Trespassing into my city, ransacking and disturbing the peace—” Duchess Louva bellowed, a presence of voice neither wind nor people could silence or ignore, “—inciting sedition and rebellion, breaking my ancestral doors and even burning my house down!” She brandished her blade, a killing gleam in her eye that made Alexandre keep his distance. “Really, Alexandre, you are unreasonably unruly.”   “It’s nothing some oil and cloth can’t polish out, I’m sure,” he shot back with a smile. What are you doing, Duchess?   Chuckling lightly, Duchess Louva’s laughter carried a well-practiced sound of rich superiority and confidence. One any noblewoman worth the name would have by trade, as presentation was an important thing in court. She held open her arms as if to welcome; or, more aptly, present. “Haa—oh, people of Jalken! Remember to whom it is you serve and belong—“ an upsurge of mana followed her words, a reverberating chant of with a power Alexandre didn’t recognize, “—give unto me now your all, body and soul. Serve in death as you did in life; and if you cannot serve, then a meal alone shall suffice!”   The uproarious power welling from within the Duchess exploded in waves of black, smoky air and inky particulate. In seconds it covered the entire central grounds and all the buildings around them. Alexandre’s throat tightened, something awful and vile inside making him dry heave. Creeping, slicing pain tore into his face and eyes, his whole body feeling like it’d be peeled open.   Staggering backward, he caught himself from falling over and clapped his free hand to his chest. Alexandre squared himself up, drawing upon one of the few skills he had honed. Sparkles of red and gold light flitted across his finger, racing over clothes and skin alike in a latticed prism. All of him shone in dim magical light for a moment, then it faded to the faintest of crystalline shimmers on his silhouette. In an instant, the agonizing pain of the Duchess’ aura ceased, though its immense pressure yet bore down upon him.   Utilizing [Unyielding], a skill technique of extreme defensive power, took incredible focus and endurance. How long it’d last, compared to the Duchess’ formidable aura, he wasn’t sure. The poor souls around them, however, didn’t even have the benefit of a strong physique.   They clutched at their throats or each other, sputtering the last of their existences out as their skin peeled and sliced apart. Blood, whether old or new, seeped out of them in streams and tiny globules. In crimson tides their vitality flowed out of them and toward the spell’s epicenter.   Duchess Louva stood, smiling with the satisfaction of a finely prized kill before her. The peoples’ blood fed into her burning wounds, quenching the holy flames and knitting her flesh back together again. Some flowed onto her blade, spurring its blood tendrils alive with an evil eagerness. The unused remainders floated around harmlessly, wobbling globules waiting for her to sup upon.   For all of the damage he’d achieved, she salved it with the very blood of her own people.   Alexandre grit his teeth, his jaw painfully clenching. In war, he’d seen countless lives vanish in an instant. No end of people met gruesome fates, but all to an enemy or beast of some kind. But, to die at the hand of one’s own leader? Cut down and made into some kind of meal? Neither ravenous nor the sane remained, just the two of them in a husk-filled graveyard; not even the wind stirred anymore.   “Behold, the fate of all disobedient cattle,” Duchess Louva said, her imperious voice commanding in the still silence, “You as well, Alexandre. You will not leave my [Sanctum of Sacrifice] alive.”   “One of us isn’t,” Alexandre agreed grimly.   Duchess Louva, green eyes gleaming with crimson blood, smirked before she swung her sword in a wide arc. Pure instinct surged through him as Alexandre dodged sideways. Faster than an arrow, a crescent-shaped slash flew by where’d he'd been a moment prior. A clean, perfectly cut gouge in the ground was all that remained, covered in the blood used by the attack.   [Sword Mind]? No, not that, but something similar, he thought, sparing the briefest of glances. Such an incredible skill couldn’t have been in Duchess Louva’s arsenal. Their similarities nonetheless worried him, and he hurried to close the gap between them. The vampire lady simply swung her sword again and again, and better prepared for it, Alexandre side stepped each lethal attack. Two vertical swings followed by a horizontal one, and for that he ducked and rolled, barely underneath it in time.   In the split moment it took to roll onto his feet again, Duchess Louva had already crossed the gap between them. Trapped kneeling, Alexandre lifted his sword, planting his other hand against the mana-steel itself in a makeshift shield. Her beast-slaying blade slammed thunderously down upon his, the full force of her strength shoving Alexandre into the ground. Between him or the stonework underneath, the stone failed first, but his posture held fast and undaunted.   Duchess Louva’s certain smile of victory contorted into something of sheer disbelief.   With no other option in mind, Alexandre shoved upward, throwing her off guard. At such a short distance, he threw a punch with all his weight. A full-speed impact that broke armor and bent even the Duchess’ formidable body inward, leaving her spitting in a lung-emptying exhale. An exchange measured in the quickest of seconds ended with her flying backwards, launched solely by Alexandre’s incredible blow. She pivoted through the air using magic, making a graceful, if pained, landing.   “You—youuu—“ she coughed out, then lashed her hand into a nearby blood globule. Those monstrous claws of hers slurped and sucked it in, and just as before, the inflicted harm faded away. “No sword could take a direct hit like that!” Duchess Louva remarked, pointing her own weapon at him accusingly.   Rising up to stand, dirt and rubble alike falling off, Alexandre chuckled. “Dragon-made, Duchess,” he said, tapping the perfectly fine sword blade on his open hand. “If I can’t break this thing swinging it like an idiot, you’ll never be able to.”   And it seems no worse for wear from what I can see, he thought, giving a quick glance at the flame-enchanted metal.   “Hmph! A perfect shield, then? I wonder why you bothered with that flimsy buckler at all,” Duchess Louva commented, an ease of conversation despite her hand curling in beckon. A nearby globule of blood flew toward her, but not as a snack. She grasped onto it, and before his eyes it transformed into a simplified spear of shimmering, dark blood. “I’m sure this will PIERCE YOU!”   The Duchess lunged forward, but not in a run–she glided across the ground, as if lifted by the winds. In a few blinks of the eye, she came into range, thrusting her blood spear straight at Alexandre’s chest. The hero hurriedly parried the attack, but the moment his flaming sword met the spear’s blade, it sliced through.   The flames exploded in a roaring flash, devouring the blood whole like precious fuel. Both he and the Duchess flinched away, and she quickly threw the disintegrating spear aside. They each glanced at it, surprised and disbelieving.   Then they looked back at each other.   One was unnerved.   The other grinned.   “And here I hoped to skewer you like meat!” Duchess Louva griped, readying her blade for the approaching Alexandre.   With form and precision he pursued her, leaving little room for a counter attack. Though caught off guard, the Duchess pivoted, and empowered by swirling blood, retaliated swiftly. One could scarcely call it proper sword fighting—though they deflected and parried, they just as much met in direct collisions, blade-to-sword. A true testament to their formidable weapons, if nothing else, for neither bowed nor broke beneath their awesome strength. The ground cracked and crumbled, the sheer force of their footwork enough to destroy such robust stonework.   Bereft of any other technique, their battle was just as much a savage slugging match as it was a performant display of swordswomanship. Whether with weapons, or fists and legs, they battered one another in an unending siege of their fortress-like durability. A war of pure attrition that, despite Alexandre’s craftiness, he would lose. Whether from her blood cursed blade sapping his own blood, or the globules floating around, Duchess Louva had no end of supplies to use.   He couldn’t match her skill and stop all the blood healing her. He’d need something more. Gritting his teeth, Alexandre struck at the next opportunity, redirecting the Duchess’ blade and smacking away her clawed hand. A sudden move that left them both off guard and vulnerable; recklessly so.   But, the one who planned for such opportunities would always win them first.   Alexandre threw all his might into one powerful knee strike straight into the Duchess’ gut. She bowed into the blow a moment before launching skyward from the impact. Hunching down, and focusing keenly, he jumped after her, the veltron underneath shattering behind him. In split seconds he matched Duchess Louva in the air, swinging his flame-enchanted sword for the kill.   Surprised but quickly recovering, Duchess Louva confidently chanted out, “[Vae Darii]!”   The air blast separated them–or tried to, as Alexandre had already grabbed her wretched wrist. The force of the magic sent him backwards and her along with, granting all the leverage he needed. Twirling around with pure muscle control, he dragged the Duchess overhead before throwing her downward with terrifying velocity. Duchess Louva slammed into the stonework with such force a crater opened in the ground as she bounced back into the air.   Alexandre twirled his sword around, aiming in a fatal, downward plunge. Panic filled the Duchess’ eyes, too stunned to move at all. Air and holy flames whipped past him, harmlessly brushing over his skin and clothes. Scant feet away from impaling the vampire lady, she vanished into a cloud of black, swirling smoke and blood. Falling through the cloud, he rammed into the ground, plunging his sword deep into ruined stonework.   Not too far away Duchess Louva reformed into herself again, panting and wheezing.   I don’t recognize that magic either, Alexandre thought, standing up and yanking his sword free in a spitting shower of sparks and angry flames. Undaunted by the unexpected magic of hers, he rushed forward, cutting through every globule of blood between them. Flashes of fire and smoke followed, and the Duchess raised her weapon as they collided once more.     The last of the vampires slain, Loup, Annette, Kosark, and Favré escaped from the burning mansion.   Favré led the way, holding his warhammer aloft. A fiery glow reminiscent of a furnace surrounded it, radiating smoldering heat. It did something to repel the inky-black airs around them, though Loup didn’t know how or why. If Kosark and Favré looked uneasy about it all, he knew it had to be something terrible. He hadn’t long to wonder why before they reached the raging battle ahead.   Alexandre and the evil Duchess traded blows, both by blade and fist, slamming into each other with such might his bones felt it. From one end of the central grounds to the other they fought, running, chasing, launching after each other—a brutal war of incredible power, and not solely tied to the ground. Duchess Louva would flee to the air, and Alexandre jumped after her, each exchange never more than two or three hits before they rammed into the ground once more.   Favré grunted and brandished his hammer, a posture more of ritual purpose than battle. “Kosark, I need your bellows,” he demanded.   “The wind’s under her dominion,” Kosark shot back, scowling nastily. “I can’t do something that strong.”   “Hm. A jet stream, then.”   “Doable.”   Loup and Annette both backed away, giving space to the iron priest as he hummed a wordless tune. It carried a deep intent that gave him goosebumps from hearing. The mansion’s burning embers wafted through the air, drawn inexplicably toward Favré.   They latched onto the priest’s forearms and warhammer, feeding a growing, swirling flame. Kosark, braving the heat and literal fire, clapped a paw-hand onto Favré’s armored shoulder. Sudden, invisible gusts blew around them, whipping loose clothing and items alike in a flurry. Favré, using both weapon and hand, guided the two forces.   For fire and wind are ever to play together, one encouraging the other in their dangerous friendship.   The two of them engulfed in a whirling stream of flame, Favré solemnly pointed his warhammer forward. “In Aerintor’s name, great flames I command you, burn away this foul blood!” he commanded in a resolute voice.   Like wolves unshackled at long last, the whirling flames broke away from Favré. Splitting apart, they became seven distinct, spear-like heads that shot through the air. Twisting and turning, looping and drilling, they speared through the floating blood orbs. As one flash incinerated, the freshly fed fire raced toward the next, then the next, and the next.   Loup watched as the flames snaked from one meal to another, leaving only ashes and embers in their wake. Amidst the tapestry of the evil realm, and the dark visage of its gloom, he almost found it beautiful.   Awing, weren’t it for the horrible reality that made it possible.   All the floating blood devoured, the flames vanished in a harmless heat wave.   “You worthless vermin!” Duchess Louva’s scathing voice pierced the air.   Loup clutched his spear instinctively, but for all her ferocity, the Duchess was quite a distance aways. And swinging her sword awfully indignantly for some reason.   “Move!” Kosark yelled, him and Favré throwing themselves to the side. Loup and Annette, however, simply stood there. A split second indecision that, by the time Loup saw the blood slash coming at him, it was far too late to dodge.   A figure leapt in the attack’s path, and Alexandre met the blood slash head on with his own sword. Blocking less than half, the rest gored into him with such force it pushed him backwards. He grunted harshly, teeth-gritting with pain as his boots dug up the ground underneath him. Despite it all, he remained standing, a diagonal, bloody slash cut clean across his armor, clothing, and skin.   “Alexandre!?” Kosark shouted first in alarm, only to be met by the hero raising his hand placatingly.   “I’m fine!” he huffed out. “You four?”   “Still strong,” Favré answered. “Killed the ones we could inside, the rest have fled.”   “Figures, but good work,” Alexandre affirmed. “Listen, I need you all to—“   “Insolent commoners!” Duchess Louva’s loud shout carried such intensity they all winced from hearing it. Not merely the sound itself, but the pressure of her very will exerting onto them all. “Come, slaves! Come, meager wretches of Jalken! I [Call the Cattle] to serve and die at my feet! Know your place and answer to me!”   Loup clutched at his head, wincing and feeling as if his skull would split open. A sound cut through the painful fog, Annette groaning in even greater agony. He surged awake, heart pounding as he checked on her. She trembled and convulsed, looking about to collapse on the ground. Taking hold of her rotted arm, he hugged her to him. “Annette? Annette!” he asked, then shouted.   “Ngh—I, oh, Loup?” Annette looked at him, seeming confused for a moment. Something must’ve helped given how much her face cleared up. “Right—right, she’s calling the others!” Annette said, clarity returning to her. “The others, everyone—whoever gives into her voice!”   Distant howls echoed, a fervorous chorus unlike any they’d heard that night. It sounded as if the entire city would swarm them at any moment.   “We can’t let them reach this place,” Alexandre said quickly. “If she keeps acquiring blood, we’ll never win against her.”   “The guard gate,” Loup offered, pointing toward the great wall that encircled the noble quarter. “If we can shut it, that’ll stop them.”   “Wasn’t that wrecked?” Alexandre asked.   Kosark said, “No, he’s right. The gate was drawn open. If the mechanisms still work, it’s doable.”   Favré said, “And if they don’t, we’ll hold them there.”   “Right,” Alexandre said with a nod. “You four handle that, and keep anyone you can from entering this cursed realm of hers. I’ll take care of the rest.”   Vexed looks crossed Kosark and Favré’s faces, but they too eventually nodded. Favré slapped a hand onto Alexandre’s shoulder, a light of flame and heat coursing from his arm into the hero for a moment. When he lifted his hand, a blazing symbol of a hammer glowed Alexandre’s armor, then slowly faded away. “Take this ward,” Favré said, “it should help ease things up.”   “Against her I’m leery about relaxing at all,” Alexandre muttered under his breath before flashing a smile. “Thanks, Favré. Best hurry.”   “Burn true, Alexandre.”   With little time to spare, the four of them hurried off toward the guard’s gate.   Alexandre and Duchess Louva remained where they were, staring one another down.   Loup, spying at them from over his shoulder, couldn’t help the dreadful knot in his gut. Not from fear of that abominable woman, but concern for Alexandre himself. Any soldier knew the signs of fatigue, and great as he was, Alexandre looked worn down. “Will he really be alright?” Loup asked, glancing at Favré, then Kosark.   Their grim faces remained heavy and unmoving.   “He’ll be fine,” Favré remarked.   “You say that,” Kosark retorted, “but I haven’t seen him pushed this far since the war.”   “She isn’t Vorhein,” Favré shot back just as easily. “Alexandre can do it. We just have to do our part as well.”   So they said. Loup himself had nothing to offer, only taking comfort in their faith in that one man on such a terrible night. He spared one more glance over his shoulder before passing through the realm’s edge. Alexandre stood tall in that gloomy, evil place, the flame of his sword an unwavering light.   The hero and vampire lady regarded one another, each looking for some means of attack. Neither made a move, and after a long moment, Duchess Louva smirked.   “I believe you have the first move here, no?”   “Ordinarily, yes,” Alexandre agreed. “But there’s hardly a need to be hasty about it.”   “Hmm. Seeing if they can hold off the swarm or not, I presume. Not an unreasonable approach.”   Though he couldn’t see why she wouldn’t press her advantage, he wouldn’t foolishly point that out. Simply put, if the Duchess received blood from other forced sacrifices, he’d lose. It’d be a war of attrition he’d never surmount on his own, perhaps even with all five of them working together. But, if she could be starved out, a victory wouldn’t be impossible.   Even that had some bold assumptions inside of it, though.   A creature like her—a vampire—truly posed such formidable questions it left him on the back foot. How much was her own excellent skill, or the evil power suffusing her, Alexandre couldn’t tell. Rolling his shoulders and hoping his muscles would keep being agreeable, he straightened himself up. “While we have this moment to ourselves, though, I hoped you might entertain a question?”   “Oh?” Duchess Louva inclined her head, looking both incredulous and speculative. “Nothing as trite as begging me to reconsider, I should hope?”   Alexandre smirked. “No. I do admit I wonder how a woman of your incredible standing could fall so low—but even that doesn’t matter anymore. Rather, the one thing I can’t figure out is where Vorhein fits in all of this. I fought her and her progeny in the war. Vampires aren’t counted among them.”   “Ah, that.” Duchess Louva glanced down to her blade, idly inspecting it and the ravenous blood squirming over it. “The undead are slaves, to themselves and their own past lives. The more they cling on, the more they lose themselves. After a certain point, they’re just beasts wearing the skin of people. Like any beast, the right collar and stick will discipline them enough.”   Alexandre squinted, finding the idea rather distasteful.   “A madam happened to visit upon me, Vorhein in tow like any broken wolf. We both fought in that war, Alexandre. For all our struggles—yours, especially, even—“ Duchess Louva waved her blade in some flippant gesture toward him, “—it took so much to bring that beast down. And here she came, pliant and obedient as any other. Never in all my days had I imagined seeing something like that, and yet there it was, all the same.”   “I’ll have to take your word for it,” Alexandre said, giving a half-hearted shrug. “You’re right, it’s hard to imagine.”   How much of a fool you really are, he added on silently. The mere thought of Vorhein, that being of endless hunger and sinister cunning would be brought to tow—it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t see it happening, and even on the off-chance it’d actually happened, it wouldn’t last. From the start of the war to the moment he thought he slew her, Vorhein devoured and clawed everything away from everyone. Nothing would be left in her wake, no matter what.   The deep, rumbling groan of metal caught both their ears. Glancing to the side, they watched as the guard house’s gate slid down. A diagonal construction meant for quick sealing, it only took a few moments before one half of it slammed into the ground. The other half, unfortunately, jammed half-way. Alexandre knew then that the gate wouldn’t fully stop the swarm rushing toward them.   “Well, isn’t that awkward for you?” Duchess Louva remarked, sounding amused. “It looks to be my win then, Alexandre. Not one of them is remotely close to your level, and four half-wits won’t make a difference.”   “They’ll hold out.” Alexandre regarded Duchess Louva properly, casting his stern, unforgiving eyes upon her.   “Not for long, I suspect.”   “Long enough. The honor of the opening move is yours, Duchess.”   “Ah, manners! They really are a luxury sometimes,” Duchess Louva said, seeming pleased as she brandished her beast-slaying blade once more. “I swear, the number of men coming to my balls and having the audacity to ask me to dance—not a lick of sense in people these days.”   For all her candor, Duchess Louva vanished in a misty stream of shadows. Alexandre tensed and gripped his sword. While the streams dissipated, he knew her to still be near; that foreboding presence and particular mana she exuded was simply too noticeable. [Invisibility]? No steps, nor is the ground disturbed either … No, it must be something else.   An invisible person could be cut down the same as anyone else; if Duchess Louva wasn’t solid, then she quite possibly couldn’t be hit. If he swung to find out for certain, he’d only senselessly expose himself to an easy counter attack. It’d be damningly foolish to test theory out against someone as skilled as her.   He breathed in, then out, the only sounds to hear were his breath and heartbeat. In a place of such complete stillness, such a slight disturbance behind him couldn’t be missed. Whirling around, Alexandre brought his flaming sword up just as the materializing Duchess swung down upon him. With strength far beyond every blow they’d traded, he set a hand on his sword, bracing against her overwhelming force. The ground beneath him shattered in an instant.   “AND YOU! BURNING MY HOUSE DOWN!” Duchess Louva roared with an indignant rage that showed her fangs. She suddenly eased from her deadly blow, but before Alexandre could adjust, something rammed into his side. Her leg, he realized somewhat dimly, swept in a devastating kick that sent him flying sideways. Air rushed past his ears, fiery light swallowing the edges of his vision just before Alexandre slammed against a building’s wall, almost bouncing back off of it.   Despite the pure, shocking pain of the impact, he still held up his sword on raw instinct. Blocking the Duchess’ lethal slash, their weapons crossed and she shoved him into the wall. The unyielding stone held for a moment before cracking behind him. Scorching hot flames gushed above, terrifyingly close to catching both of them.   Duchess Louva crushed him against the wall with all her strength, her face contorting into a frightening scowl. Between his unyielding body or the mason-worked stone, the stone failed first, cratering around him as he sunk into it. Then the Duchess pivoted, directing both her blade and his sideways. Ramming Alexandre into the mansion’s wall, she used his entire body to carve through the foundational stone.   They yelled at one another, one defiant, and one raging, both trying their hardest to overpower the other. His [Unyielding] and torso armor held fast, keeping him from becoming a bloody smudge painted along the wall. Sheer determination kept his arms up, holding the Duchess’ fearsome blade off from cutting him in half. The Volapaws standard strapped to him fared far worse, ripping and shattering off of him in the struggle.   He didn’t know how far she pushed him, but at the end of it all, she eased up only to thrust her hand into his chest. Or, try to—he felt the mana-steel there dent inward from her fingers trying to pierce through. Hissing a disgusting sound, Duchess Louva instead grabbed him by the clothes and threw him back across the estate grounds. Shoving his sword into the ground for anchor, he cut through dirt and stone, skidding to a stop. Still the Duchess pursued him in great, almost leaping strides, her blade at the ready.   He really just … couldn’t win.   The realization weighed on his mind, a feathery thought that nearly sucked the will out of him.   In strength he nearly matched her, and yet she had reserves to spare. In technical skill, Duchess Louva undoubtedly beat him—he barely kept up with her incredible swordswomanship. No, Alexandre knew quite clearly the sharp divide in their skills and power. Perhaps if she’d exploited her magical talents to their fullest, he wouldn’t have even gotten as far as he had. With some inventiveness maybe he might match her, but the power of a vampire truly changed everything.   Alexandre smirked, all the same.   A wistful and joyous feeling that, in spite of everything, felt a little light in his heart. He hadn’t much longer before he lost enough energy [Unyielding] would cease. Without that to bridge the difference, he’d surely be crushed in a few blows. Alexandre squinted, the raging firelight blooming behind the Duchess, casting her in terrifying shadows. Those murderous eyes—so far from the noble woman he once respected.   He really—he really couldn’t see her anymore, only a stranger that wore her face.   Smiling bitterly and yanking his sword from the ground, Alexandre swung it once to clear the dust away. “Great people of Jalken,” he muttered, readying his weapon one last time. “Stand with me on this blackest night.”   The flames adorning his sword flickered in a peculiar way, not that he noticed.   Possessed of a singular, focused thought, Alexandre ran forward—sprinting with vigor. For him, a man who lived the life of an adventurer, braving certain death was in his blood. Not once did the idea of retreating come to him, for that would mean leaving other innocents to die by the Duchess’ hand, or worse. While a chance remained he could win, he would give it everything he had.   Still, the faces of the others hung in his mind. Friends and comrades dear to his heart; and his menacingly adorable wife most of all.   They came into range of each other, weapons swinging. The Duchess’ eyes filled with decisive delight, seeing all the faults in Alexandre’s form. His desperation—a reckless abandon for any advantage, forsaking defense and safety alike. She held out her unarmed hand, quite glad to sacrifice it and stymie his sword utterly. In turn, she swung her awesome blade, slashing into his belly’s side through cloth, armor, skin, and magic alike. Deeper and deeper her blade carved into him, goring through flesh and organs and nearly cleaving his spine in half—   And then it stopped.   Alexandre, his off-hand wrapping around the Duchess’ sword arm, screamed inside his throat. Pain, fear, and desperation behind the solid, gritting teeth of a man in the worst agony imaginable. His eyes remained focused, galvanized with purpose. In one quick, powerful flex, he broke the Duchess’ arm at the elbow, fully inverting it into a useless lump of meat. Sheer, pained surprise overcame her, but like him, she grit her fanged teeth so hard blood drooled out.   Knowing certain victory remained at hand, she lunged for the kill, her claws nearly sinking into his neck and—   They harmlessly flopped over his shoulder.   In one smooth, decisive strike Alexandre skewered the Duchess up through her gut, a lung, and into her wretched heart. She exhaled in one pained, breathless wheeze, embers of holy flame spitting out between her lips. The two slumped against each other, both impaled on the other’s weapon. With the last vestiges of his strength, Alexandre shoved away.   They stumbled backward and that cursed blade tore out of Alexandre’s side, dropping uselessly to the ground. The Duchess tore out the burning sword, her fatal wound gushing blood and fire. Like a hearth fed the freshest wood it crackled and flared in fiery jets, devouring her from the inside out. She tried saying something—only for flames to spit out of her mouth, and devoid of a heart, the Duchess fell over onto the ground.   Alexandre himself collapsed onto one knee, his hand already trying to hold his split-open side together. A touch of magic is all that kept his blood and shredded innards from spilling out. His vision dimmed and flashed, pain so great even his tolerance couldn’t bear it. Gritting his teeth and holding his side, every huffing breath filled with searing, sharp pain.   Yet, of the two of them, only he remained standing.   Barely, but standing.   For all of what they seemed to be, vampires needed their hearts—he saw that much in the scuffle inside the mansion.   It’s over then, he thought, but an uneasiness bothered him. Alexandre glanced upward, gazing at the inky shadows of the Duchess’ cursed realm. Magic like this should—should, disperse, when … when they’re …   He looked over at the sound of rustling clothes and clawing fingers. Despite the fatal wound, broken arm, and the flames consuming her whole, Duchess Louva hadn’t died. She lurched forward on all fours, galloping like some disgusting creature straight at him; half-incinerated, flames gushed out of her wounds, fanged maw, and burned out eyes. A beast even Relentless would admire in its savage mindlessness.   If she reached him, it’d be his own blood saving her.   Yet, he had no more strength to fight.   “Come!” Alexandre shouted, and finding something within him still, roared louder with his one free arm open in welcome, “COME!!”   The Duchess lurch-sprinted closer before leaping toward him in one savagely howling, postmortem lunge.   Only then, when she committed to such a reckless attack, did Alexandre use his other hand. Abandoning his side, blood spilled out when he reached for the dagger on his chest. Drawing it in one practiced motion, he met the pouncing Duchess, ramming it up through her jaw and skull alike. Forcing himself to roll backwards with the vampire lady’s momentum, he kicked into her with his one responsive leg, launching her further behind him. As he completed the roll, he slammed into the ground and his side finally did him in.     The shadowy realm the Duchess conjured vanished swiftly, dissipating like ink in a pond. With it gone, the storm winds returned, buffeting the estate grounds furiously. The smoldering mansion flared alive, roaring to even greater heights as the winds spurred the flames on. Smoke, too, furiously clouded around the area, dancing in the downpouring rain. Through it all, Loup saw two figures lying on the ground. One burned in fire, turning to ashes; the other remained still and unmoving.   “Alexandre!!” Loup shouted then looked over his shoulder. “Favré! Kosark!”   Those two sprinted with urgency and overtook him quickly, Kosark moving to one side of the downed Alexandre, while Favré slid onto the other. Discarding his weapon, Favré ripped open pouches all along his waist. Yanking out a handful of vials filled with red liquid, he passed some to Kosark.   “Force it down his throat!” Favré barked, hastily splashing the red liquid onto Alexandre’s torn open side. Kosark, meanwhile, worked on making the unconscious hero drink somehow. “Push his guts back inside!” Kosark barked back.   Loup and Annette stood by, guarding their flanks from anything surprising.   Once they were done emptying vials, Favré picked up his hammer and held it over Alexandre. He called upon his magic, but the flames shimmered over the metal and nothing more. “Fuck! Curse this rain!” he shouted.   “The rain or his guts, which is it?!” Kosark demanded. “I can only do—“   “THE RAIN! LOUP, COME HERE!”   Loup hurried over, taking Alexandre’s other side and pressing the gored open wound shut. Kosark raised a hand, releasing a swirling white light. Rushing winds flew up from him and shoved the rain away, forming a canopy-like barrier. Favré raised his warhammer over the hero again, but the holy flames were just as pitiful as before.   “Great fire, take heart upon my iron,” he begged, trying again and again.   “We’re not alone here,” Annette said ominously.   The three of them looked up quickly, watching the mansion’s burning flames flow toward them. In a great, roiling wave it coursed around, the outlines of people emerging. Many hundreds, in fact, came to stand around them like fiery mirages. Whether finely dressed nobles, hardworking folk, or the city’s paupers, all of Jalken could be seen around them. One clapped a hand over their breast, then another, and another; soon all of them did so, bowing in a solemn, respectful gesture.   The ghosts of the dead themselves.   “Please,” Loup asked, his voice wavering, “can you help him?”   Some smiled, others looked annoyed; all of them, so very much like people. They shimmered and flickered, turning into smattering showers of embers and sparks. In flowing streams they swirled around them again, rushing onto Favré’s warhammer. It ignited with a roaring flame of truly great heat and ferocity. Favré spared it a moment’s recognition, then hurriedly took something out of another pouch. A simple, thick stick bound in leather, one that he shoved between Alexandre’s teeth.   “No matter what, hold him shut,” Favré ordered in a dire tone, and Loup nodded seriously. And so, Favré hefted his hammer up high.   “From veltron we come, to iron we are made!” he yelled, and swung down. In a mighty clanging sound like metal-against-metal, he struck Alexandre’s wounded side, and sparks exploded outward. Loup winced and his ears rang, and for all the scorching heat his hands felt, he did not let go. “In fire we are smelted, cleansed, and purified!”   Another swing and clang.   “Upon the anvil are we shaped and made!”   Another swing and clang, heat and magic insufferably hot and crushing around his hands. It didn’t seem to hurt, but he couldn’t feel his hands anymore, either. Still, he held on.   “To the nail we are sharpened and cut!”   Upon that swing, Alexandre jerked underneath, screaming a shrill, terrible sound no man would make save for the worst of pains. Loup winced again, all too understanding. The fire-based healing magics of Volapaws were legendary in their terrible potency.   “By the Hammer we are forged and made whole!”   If the last swing was bad, the fifth drew out the worst sounds Loup ever heard come from a human being. When Favré went for the sixth strike, Alexandre himself reached up, grabbing him by the wrist. Panting and sweating furiously, the hero wrenched the leather stick out of his mouth. “Do you—do you ever wash this thing?” Alexandre wheezed out, spitting and dry heaving.   Sweating and huffing from exhaustion himself, Favré slowly lowered his hammer to the ground, its flames dwindling away. “He’s fine now,” was all he said before sitting back and slouching for rest.   Loup slowly lifted his numb hands away. For all of what Alexandre’s terrible wound had been, only a red-hot, blank slate of skin remained. Cooling like any metal, fresh from the fires into more regular flesh that a person should have. Feeling as if the worst of it had passed, he himself sat back as well, wringing his hands together until something resembling sensation returned.   “Can I stop now?” Kosark asked. “This is getting tiring!”   “Rain’s fine, just cut the wind out,” Favré remarked.   “Oh, wonderful.”   Like a door had opened above them, rain crashed down in a wave, soaking them all immediately. Aside from that unpleasant rush, Loup rather liked the pitter-patter of the rain afterward. Kosark seemed to have an easier time keeping the storm winds out as well.   “E-everyone,” Alexandre asked, hoarse and winded but somehow managing. “How is everyone?”   “F-fine, sir. Everyone’s fine!” Loup answered when no one else seemed to want to. “The undead, they, uhh—they started eating each other. Eating or running away. Like someone just flipped a switch.”   “The Duchess’ influence is gone,” Annette said from the side. “There’s nothing binding them here anymore.”   “We have … to … we have to, ugh, stop them. From leaving.”   Kosark’s ears shot up, waggling angrily. “You’re in no condition to walk, let alone fight. Are you crazy?” he scolded. “If you die your wife is going to murder us all.”   Amidst the burning flames of the mansion and the falling rain, Alexandre chuckled. A mirthful, if pained sound that the rest of them made as well. Release, if a little, from the night’s terrible tension.   “There’s movement,” Annette said, readying her weapon. Everyone but Alexandre looked up hurriedly, and started scrambling to their feet. A dark figure ran through the gates, the night’s shadows and flame-kissed light obscuring them. Of all the things that were to come, though, it would be Zai landing nearby that caught their attention.   “Ravener’s dealt with,” she said curtly, eyes expertly sweeping across the four of them. They soon fixed upon Alexandre with alarm, though. “What happened here? Does he need healing?”   “Magic, potions, the grace of the dead themselves,” Favré remarked and waved her off. “He’s fine. Half-dead, but fine.”   Suhla, coming upon Zai’s flank, soon stood beside the jiuweihu herself. Of the two, she seemed far dirtier, covered in mud, dust, grass, and anything else. “Good. Is the noble-prey dead or not?”   “Should be,” Alexandre wheezed, then flopped his arm in a direction. “Favré, make sure—make sure she stays dead.”   Inhaling like a man with work left to do, Favré pushed himself up. He went off to inspect the Duchess’ corpse, or what was left of it. The flames of Jalken made sure to leave nothing behind, not even her bones. Ashes, and a few pieces of durable clothing, were all that really remained. Her fearsome blade, divorced of its wielder, laid inert and useless.   Suhla, looking over, asked, “Was she strong?”   “Strong-strong,” Alexandre affirmed, finding a bit more comfort in his voice by the moment. The cool, wet rain really did feel refreshing. “Beat me on everything I threw at her.”   “Mm. Not everything. Hero’s always cunning and quick-smart to kill-win.”   “Thanks, Suhla.”   Loup would be next to ask, “Is that it then? You seemed worried about the undead.”   “I—Zai, read my mind for me,” Alexandre asked, waving his finger in a circular motion like a magic trick.   “I don’t—“ Zai sighed and rubbed her eyes with a paw-hand for a moment. “A lot of undead start to disperse and wander if their leaders are killed. The ravenous kind will either eat each other, or flee Jalken. Which means they won’t be contained here since we can’t stop them all. So what you’re saying is, I should send a disaster alert and get the nearby lands awake and on watch?”   Alexandre, without looking, pointed at her and then made a thumbs up.   “Do you ever take five minutes to worry about yourself?” Zai asked incredulously. “How are you still alive?”   “Got all of you to watch my back. Besides, I’m doing it right now,” was all Alexandre offered.   Sighing, Zai said, “We should get to shelter for a while, at least. I’ll need proper concentration and time to send out the alarm.”   “Okay,” Kosark said, patting Alexandre on the shoulder. “Time to get up, hero. Loup, grab his other arm and help me.”   “Right.”   “Now hold on a—“ Alexandre’s protest disappeared into a grunt of exertion and pain as he was ‘helped’ up onto his feet.     By the time dawn approached, or what approximated it, the worst of the rains had passed. A light shower persisted, coming in sudden downpours before vanishing again for a while. The storm winds, at least, proved more merciful as they eased to hair-tussling speeds. Heavy, gray and dark clouds remained in the sky, though sparse enough in some places sunlight shined through.   As close to a good morning he'd get that day, not that Alexandre would complain.   Another, rippling chain explosion sounded, followed by the deep, ringing boom of the temple bell higher above. It drowned out the idle conversation around him, but the crowds of the righteous dead kept marching. They, victorious, returned to Andura’s temple, heading up its stairs and into the great, burning entrance that awaited. Rampant flames spat out the windows and front doors, a veritable furnace to which he, nor anyone else, could see far into.   Still, the bell had been rung again, and figures yet walked through the fires. Obscured, blackened, and impossible to see, but figures all the same. Jalken’s dead filed into the temple with solemn expectation. Even some ravenous dead joined them, ones who crawled back to their lost selves, their heads hung low and shameful. All would be welcomed by the fire.   More than half the city must’ve done the march by then, though he gave up counting long ago.   “That’s another ring,” Suhla remarked.   Kosark, grumbling, reached into his pockets and handed a fistful of coins over to her. “Take my pack while you’re at it,” he muttered.   Suhla reached over, trying to yank the pack off his shoulders. He barked at her to stop, but she insisted he meant his words—and so the two started fighting again.   At least those two are in the mood, Alexandre mused, glancing from the squabble over to Loup and Annette farther away. The two of them stood at the same stone rail where Alexandre had rallied the undead the night prior.   “It’s looking to be about that time soon, huh?” Annette asked, light in her tone.   “… Yeah, I guess,” Loup said in return; surprisingly easy to do, despite the weight in his chest. He sniffed and rubbed his forehead for a moment. “I, uh … yeah.”   “It’s not that bad, Loup. Fighting the battle of our lives to take down such an awful evil; it’s the stuff stories are made of.”   “The better ones had a happier ending,” he remarked, unable to stop the bitterness in his words. Annette squeezed his side, giving him a poignant look. One he tried to ignore, but he couldn’t avert from her gaze for long. “I’m sorry, is all,” Loup said, glancing at his wife-to-be. “That I couldn’t do anything to save you, in the end.”   The hand wrapped around his side reached up and smacked him over the head. “Ah! Hey!” he yelped, looking at Annette’s annoyed face in surprise.   “There’s no changing what happened,” she said seriously. “But you did save me—all of us—from suffering something even worse. That counts for something, Loup, so at least act like it.”   “I—“ he stared for a long moment, her words undoubtedly true no matter how indecisive his heart felt, “—yeah. It does. But, you know, it’s just … I finally learned the Spring Waltz, you know? So your mother wouldn’t laugh at me during the wedding.”   “She’d find something else to complain about,” Annette remarked dryly, and both of them shared a smiling, conflicted look. Holding up her rotten hand, she almost brushed his cheek, but paused. Instead, she laid it upon his shoulder. “And if she complains when I meet her again after this, I’ll beat the dough out of her myself.”   Loup snorted, and then chuckled, a mirthful feeling that kicked at his heart and every stuffy thought. He wasn’t sure when the laughing became crying, or how the two blended together, and wrapped his arms around Annette. She embraced him as well, chuckling and dryly coughing. Dead, yet alive somehow, devoid of warmth and still so much the woman he remembered and loved.   How long they remained there, he didn’t know.   “LAST CALL!” came the shout of the Volapaws priestess. Standing at the threshold of the temple entrance, one half of her burning brightly, the other ironclad and waiting. Only then did Loup really notice that the crowds had vanished, the last of them disappearing into the temple.   “Well …” Annette started, gazing upon the stairs and the end that awaited. “It’s no isle of flowers and fruit, but, would you walk with me, Loup?”   “Of course,” he said in timid quietness. Taking her hand in his, he walked beside her, crossing the stony grounds. Alexandre and the others, relaxing as they were, stood at their passing, coming to follow from behind.   “For anything that might’ve happened, I’m glad we got this, at least,” Annette said, her strength of voice having left. Neither quiet nor loud, just honesty itself. “It’s still the time of my life. Or what’s left.”   “Yeah.”   “I thought I’d have more to say, but … it’s kind of hard.”   “… Yeah. I’m glad, too,” Loup said, rubbing one side of his face. “Despite everything. Meeting you. Being together. Saying … goodbye, I guess.”   “Mm.”   For what more could be said, they walked on, coming to the base of the stairs to the temple proper. They stood there, and then slowly regarded one another, both their faces seeming troubled. Happy, sorrowful, regrets yet voiced, burdens that’d always be worn heavily …   “There’s one last thing I want you to do for me, Loup,” she asked, staring with glassy, dead eyes into his.   “Anything.”   Annette huffed and smirked for a moment. “However—however long it takes, don’t be afraid to love again.”   “I couldn’t—“   “—my part in all this is already over,” Annette cut in sharply, stopping his argument before it began. “And I get to say this much, no matter what anyone else thinks. You have a long life ahead of you still, so don’t close that door.”   He pursed his lips, desperately wanting to argue, but knowing it’d be pointless to try.   “Live your life; for me, if nothing else. When everything’s over and done, let’s try again. In our next lives, whatever or wherever that may be.”   Loup swallowed dryly and looked up, staring at the dispassionate, cloudy sky. “I—if you, ask to. With me, that is.”   Cold fingers grabbed his chin, pulling him down to meet her gaze once more. “I don’t regret my choice at all. It’d be nice if you believed in that some time.”   “… Sorry.”   “If you’re sorry, then live a good life and mean it,” Annette said, and with a firm slap on his shoulder, pushed away from him. They shared a look a moment longer, and with difficult smiles on both their faces, she started up the stairs. Loup remained at the bottom, watching with long, unwavering eyes. Anxiousness boiled in his chest with every step, a need to say something—anything at all, clawing at him.   When she reached the top, but before she entered, he shouted out to her, “I will! Live well, that is! So no one will be ashamed of me!”   Annette huffed and looked over her shoulder, something of an incredulous expression. “The first step is having more confidence then, isn’t it?!” she barked back, annoyed, but playful and friendly in a way he understood.   “Hey I fought a bunch of undead! And vampires!” he retorted indignantly, but the two of them only laughed.   Shaking her head and waving over her shoulder goodbye, Annette headed into the temple’s flames, vanishing in its burning hall. They all watched for a long moment before their gazes settled upon the Volapaws priestess. She, in turn, bowed to them, her one remaining arm across her chest in reverent respect. A moment of silent recognition, punctuated by crackling flames. Then, duty fulfilled, she turned toward the flames herself, and headed into them. The doors creaked and groaned shut behind her, one final ‘clunk’ as the lock fixed in place.   So the temple burned as they stood and watched silently.   Loup smiled stiffly, or cried, or maybe sniffled; he wasn’t sure what face he made anymore. Feelings that he wanted to let out, but just couldn’t. Or he didn’t know how. Or didn’t want to. He wasn’t sure what was what, really.   Someone stepped up beside him. A solid, unyielding presence that made him look over despite his apprehension. In Alexandre’s eyes, though, he found no judgment nor scorn. Sympathy, perhaps; or a kind, caring look of someone a bit uncertain of what to say.   “I, uh …” Alexandre scratched his nose, quite out of his element. “You’ve done good work, Loup. You and Annette both. Things scraped by pretty close, but if you two weren’t here, we might not have won last night.”   “Thank you, sir,” Loup said, polite in a way only a trained soldier could be. Though his gaze fell to the ground, he saw a hand extended toward him. Offered, even.   “It’s not much, but, I can give you my shoulder, a two-to-three week carriage ride back, and whatever we can find to eat along the way,” Alexandre offered.   Loup’s brows furrowed and he looked up, a bit perplexed. “S-shouldn’t I be the one giving you my shoulder, sir? What with your side?”   “Ehhh—okay, a little of my shoulder, a little of yours; how about it?”   Perhaps chuckling then wasn’t entirely proper of him, but it just seemed to work. Loup grasped Alexandre’s hand, the two tightening together in a hold of comradery. Alexandre nodded with an understanding look of his own, and with a slight tug, helped Loup move away from the temple stairs. “Alright everyone, we’re heading back!” he declared. “Let’s get out of here!”   Their way out of Jalken went uneventfully, a solemn, dying wind following in their wake through the city’s empty streets. At rest, some could say, after a long, suffering nightmare.     Tick, tock, tick, tock.   The clock went on and on, uncaring of the tense silence or ambivalent atmosphere of the royal office. A sound she so often tuned out, but it ever had a habit of grating her ears irritatingly. She wasn’t sure why she kept it around, really. Perhaps for such mundane distractions as right then and there.   “That concludes my report,” Alexandre said in a voice of professional courtesy and noble refinement. “The written one has all the exact details, your majesty.”   Standing at the floor-to-ceiling window behind her desk, Corentine Durand found no measure of peace in the flower gardens outside. Refreshing to her eyes, though her mind was far, far away from it all. For the first time since the meeting began, she deigned to sigh. One long, deflating exhale that helped push her forward. “I see. You have done the impossible once again, Alexandre.”   “If only it were better. Or sooner.”   “Be that as it may, knowing that Vorhein yet lives, and that vampires are the mistresses behind this tragedy does well to arm us. If we are lucky souls, Jalken will be the worst price we pay for that knowledge, and nothing more.”   “I can only hope so.”   They were both veterans of conflict, and she most of all knew the great troubles to come. “As much as I would want to see Jalken sanctified properly, the border queendoms are already moving. I should hope they’re only looking for scraps, and not our western territories. To think our side would be ripped open again like this—it’s always the western frontier.”   Jalken had been the last line of defense that saw the end of the Traitor’s War. Duchess Louva herself proved an admirable force that held that very line against armies of undead. To think she’d side with such evil herself sounded so bizarre and uncharacteristic, Corentine couldn’t even imagine it. Something about it all seemed so terribly off, but there’d be no answers for her to find.   Nothing that wasn’t from the mouth of the vampire responsible for it all, at least.   “And here I thought there were none left,” a third, different voice interjected. “But now I wonder if they went to ground after my arrival, hm?”   Corentine looked over her shoulder, regarding her ‘guest’ sternly. Dressed in a fine white attire and possessed of the palest, corpse-like skin, she sat on one of the two stately couches the princess kept in her office. Moving, blood-like globes of creatures surrounded her, each roughly twice the size of a head. Within them, the barest image of a white skull could be discerned, more the result of differently-colored fluid than actual bone. “And what have you to offer on all of this, Lady Akai?” Corentine asked with sharp steel in her voice.   “Conjecture, mostly,” Akai offered before sipping from her glassy tea cup. Something the slime on her lap looked quite interested in trying to get to itself. “Hardly a useful bother for you right now.”   “Humor me,” Corentine ordered.   “Ah. Once I did my initial tour of your Federation for my favorite snacks, I suddenly couldn’t find them so easily. Obviously they ran and hid somewhere, but I’ve had trouble finding them since.”   Alexandre said, “You’ve stated that more than once. How is this any different?”   “Because now they’re sticking their necks out with this little diversion of theirs.”   “Diversion?” Corentine squinted, one thought among many others she had to tackle. “For what?”   “This would be the conjecture part. If they’re after what I’m after, they’ll need a distraction. Something that will force their huntresses away, so they can keep working in secret.” Akai, having finished her tea between sentences, set the cup down on the table in front of her.   Alexandre scoffed. “And since you won’t tell us what that is, how are we supposed to know where to look?”   “That is my ‘job’, is it not?” Akai asked rhetorically, smiling in a way her lips peeled uncomfortably high into her cheeks, showing all her disjointed teeth. “But the behavior fits. Vorhein can raise armies and raze cities by herself; she’s the perfect tool. One that would force all of Aerthen to deal with her.”   Corentine turned more properly around, regarding Akai grimly. “What could be worth burning Aerthen down for? You can surely say that much.”   Akai clicked her tongue, seeming conflicted for a moment. In a very improper way she simply shrugged her shoulders, making a disgusting, grinding pop. “The same thing all vampires covet: ultimate power. I’m not convinced it’s real myself, but more than a few of them are certain it is. If I find it, I will find more of them as well.”   “And you would surely tell us if it is, in fact, real?” Alexandre asked what Corentine herself thought about saying.   “Mm, perhaps. Power is a meaningless thing to me, after all. If it draws them out, well … who wouldn’t want their meal to walk toward them willfully?” Her question hung in the air, neither of the other two willing to say anything. Akai clicked her tongue again and then made to stand. The slime on her lap rolled off and ‘plopped’ harmlessly onto the carpet-covered stone floor. “It does sound as if the hunt is back on again. May I count on your continued patronage, Princess Durand?”   “… Marianne will receive the budget for your expenses by tomorrow. Do what you’re best at, and keep me informed.”   “Of course,” Akai said, giving a polite curtsy of a bow. “I do enjoy giving you my memoirs. Writing is such a fun pastime, I will say.”   With no more seeming to be said, Akai headed out of the office, followed after by a dozen skull-slimes rolling across the floor. The last one shut the door behind it. Upon her departure, Alexandre visibly eased, letting out a stressful sigh that Corentine felt herself. “I don’t know why you keep her around,” he remarked.   “Sometimes it’s easier feeding a small problem than dealing with a bigger one. At least I don’t have to wonder about what damage she does,” Corentine said before stepping over to her desk. Her tense features gradually eased, showing stressful weariness rather than relief. “Never mind her for now. It’s good you made it back, Alexandre.”   “Glad to, uh, still be in one piece,” he said with a half-cocked smirk, patting his side. Given the open, flowing vest he wore, it wasn’t hard to see all the white, gold-threaded bandages wrapped around his midsection. “Itches like crazy but at least it works.”   “I don’t need Vorhein, vampires, and Yrlanna on a killing spree because of you,” Corentine said reproachfully enough Alexandre cowed under her words. “If your stupid smile hadn’t won her over we’d still be dealing with that problem, if I need remind you still.”   “Hey now, she’s a wonderfully bossy woman,” Alexandre said, and though she may be the Crown Princess, he more than willingly used that tone with her. Disrespectful in its implied admonishment, should any other hear it. “If anyone’s going to be killed by her rampage first, it’ll definitely be me.”   “I suppose she’d hire a necromancer just to raise you from the dead and kill you again?”   “… Yeah, probably.”   The fact he sounded so convinced and serious is what made her snort an undignified laugh. Not for a moment did she doubt Yrlanna wouldn’t do it, either. Alexandre smiled uneasily, and some of the tense air in the room seemed to lift. Corentine looked down at her desk, strewn with Alexandre’s hand written reports and their messy, leather-bound wrappings. “All that said, it seems I need to read this more. This Loup of yours, the army soldier—what happened to him?”   “Laughed, cried, parted ways where we met so he could work through things on his own. Gave him some coin and a recommendation to the academy here in Fleursowurm.”   “And he’s worth that?”   “Federation needs people like him.”   Corentine made an agreeing sound and stood up straighter. “I see. I’ll keep an ear out if he shows up here, then. As this all falls onto my lap now, Alexandre, I think you need some time off. A few months, if nothing world ending happens in the meantime.”   “Really?”   “Yes. Really.” She met his questioning gaze sternly. “Go home, Alexandre. Spend some time with your wife, and hang that mantle on your shoulders up for a bit. That’s an order, not a recommendation. I’m not having you run my knights out of a job by doing everything yourself.”   “I … very well, your majesty. If I may, then?”   That he didn’t protest earnestly really did speak enough on its own. She nodded, and Alexandre bowed properly to her, then made to leave. Watching him all the while, Corentine couldn’t help but wonder, How close was it, Alexandre?   Not that she’d ever get a clear answer.   He, however, turned around part way. “And my smile’s doing quite well, I’d say!”   Corentine gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “It needs some work.”   “Pff.”   They shared a smirk for a moment, then he went on his way.   After the door shut behind him, she sighed once more, sitting down in her plush chair and decompressing. Corentine stared up at the artful ceiling of her office, her eyes busied by a sight her mind once again left behind. Vorhein and vampires. This could spark another war, but … we’re better prepared now. Trained, and capable. Vorhein alone wouldn’t be a problem. But, vampires?   There was going to be a lot of work that needed doing.     The dull rumble of conversation and people enjoying themselves was ever familiar to Jorn. Another decent night, as far as he was concerned; few trouble makers, plenty of coin, and decent company coming through. Balancing the tray on one hand, he approached a table with the latest order, one already with a couple tankards and empty plates on it. Quite a lot for just one person, who seemed a bit out of it—or passed out. He frowned, glancing about, but no one looked suspicious to him.   Dine, ditch, and leave the bill to your friend? Jorn thought with unbridled scorn. “Here’s another round, though it seems you’ve had plenty enough, eh?” he asked, nonetheless trying to be friendly.   The poor soul, dressed in worn army attire, picked himself up from the table. Jorn, half-way to putting another tankard down, froze at the sight of him. “I say, Loup, is that you?”   “Mmm? Oh. You’re uhh—you’re Jorn, right?”   “I am,” Jorn affirmed. “You alright? You look like death out of the grave, friend.”   “Ohh, that.” Loup chuckled, the maniacal laugh of a man not quite fully drunk but getting there. “Definitely been some of that. Definitely.”   He knew drunkards, but something about Loup didn’t fit right. “Is that so? Weren’t you headed home to your wife? Fiancée, even.”   “Yup! Yup, yup, yup. Went all the way back and look at that! Jalken’s all dead and gone.”   “What?”   “Wiped out to the last!” Loup held his hands up for emphasis. “Dead eating each other over here, priestesses lighting themselves on fire over there—just a big fucking mess all around. Oh, and the vampires. A lot of those too.”   “You’re serious?” Jorn asked with a sinking feeling in his gut. Loup nodded and went about fishing something out of his vest. He then slapped it down onto the table—a coin-like object, bearing the insignia of Imperial renown. Not something anyone would be caught carrying if they shouldn’t have one. Being executed was the lighter end of punishment for impersonation.   “As serious as this medal, friend! Straight from Alexandre’s hands to mine, that it was.”   “The hero was here?”   “Oh, no. Just me.”   Jorn regarded the wide array of empty plates in front of Loup dubiously. “Really?”   “Almost dying a dozen times works an appetite, you know?”   Knowing the incredible problems that would happen if he didn’t keep things under control, Jorn hurriedly set his tray down on the table. Loup himself jumped in his seat, seeming wide-eyed at the suddenness of it all. Jorn, though, smiled with some measure of comfort and unease, sitting at the table. “Sorry about that, but uh. Seems like you need someone to talk to?”   “Ain't much for talking right now if I’m honest,” Loup grumbled and slicked his sweaty hair back.   “Well, I said I’d treat you next time you came around, right? Seeing as how you’ve already eaten plenty, how about lending my ear?”   “Uhhh—sure, I guess?” Loup sat forward, visibly trying to get everything in working order again. He picked up the medallion, staring at it with some inscrutable, questioning look. “Not that I know where to start.”   “Why not when you left here a couple weeks back?”   “Oh. Sure. The—the story goes something like this …”     //END