Ash and smoke rises towards the luminous ceiling of the Upper Stratum. The grounds littered with the remains of tents and carts, the cadavers once resting peacefully now stood once more. They waited for the command in tender silence, remaining still like a collection of statues in an exhibition. The Arnyak stood in the center menacingly, then it got down on its knee a moment before The Nameless appeared in front of him.

The skin on his face constantly shifting, taking different forms. His features soften at one point, at another become sharper, his bones seemingly move around creating a slender, angular look with high cheekbones. Then after minutes pass by the constant shifting stops, his face once more androgynous, alluring to the eye. He looks up to the ceiling, basking in the lights as he smells the smell of death lingering in the air. The Nameless seemingly reminisces of olden days when he traversed one battlefield to another littered with the corpses of the honor and duty bound.

Then he turns towards the east ever so slightly, his dark eyes staring into the rocky distance, an ideal place for scouts to surveil without being noticed. His shadow seemingly disappears as he slowly lifts his left arm up, unfolding his hand. It rotates slowly, three of his fingers folding back once more, his middle fingers making swift, small motions then two dark elven scouts in their shimmering black armor with their hood veiling their faces appear out of thin air.

“Excuse u… how can we be of service?” They quickly get down on their knees, the fear of death gripping them as they try holding back their shivering. Their fearful gazes turn empty then somewhat friendly as they fix their postures, with one leg up with their arms resting on it.

“Tell them to send whatever they left to the Middle Stratum’s entrance.” The Nameless spoke in a softer voice, carrying echoes of others in the air.

“They shall receive your command!” The masculine scout said as he bowed deeply after standing up. With a flick of his middle and index finger, he sent the two back before starting his slow glide across the tainted ground. The Arnyak slowly following after as the massive army of the dead start moving towards Oplikynasc.

**

“He is gone.” The old withered man speaks in his unnatural voice, his royal attire slowly sliding off his upper body drenched in grease that drips into the collection of maws from which he sprouts from, attached to the slim twisting tongues.

“He truly left us.” Eurdydice says as her black tears flow down on her vulnerable face.

“How vexing it must be for you, Beelzebub.” The Demon of Wrath emits a weird cackle from its burning jaws while his grip tightens.

“He was mine.” He yells, echoing as his voice emits from the maws as they imitate the motion of speaking. They do so with a force that snaps the moon elven slave in two, her upper body slipping into the thin chasm between their side and the centre. Her exposed lower body is quickly chewed exactly 36 times before it disappears in the gaping hole of a throat.

“I was so close to claim him, his taste I can now only imagine.” Beelzebub continues with a solemn tone as grease flows out from his tired eyes as his upper body slithers down, resting his arms on his decaying teeth.

“And now he’s gone, forever.” Eurydice cuts in with her voice shaking while wrapping her arms around her chest, resting on her knees in a position revealing her inviting parts.

“Which one was it, Ferthur or Him?” The Wrath Demon asks, each time his jaw opens, flames whip out, dressing the area in their hellish light.

“Neither.” Beelzebub starts while massaging his temples with his slender fingers. “His soul just evaporated into nothingness.” He adds while his weight pushes his arms onto the fangs of his, drenching them in his black blood.

“So, it was the necromancer. Interesting.” The Wrath Demon leans forward in his sitting position. “Yes. Seems so he is more dangerous than I first thought. He feels familiar.” Beelzebub adds as he racks his mind trying to recall the taste, he felt in the moment of Griggorn’s demise, absolving his pact that was still in action.

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“At least we can focus on Cacmieh now.” The Wrath Demon leaps to the other side, the ground trembles under his feet. He stabs his spear into the centre, its sharp end piercing it easily like flesh, followed by blood flowing out, taking on Cacmieh’s form. Eurydice appears directly on his right, while Beelzebub’s upper body slithers to the left. Their arms lock around his shape and their whispers fills the area as they each tear into the recreation of his appearance.

“We should keep an eye on him too. Beelzebub adds as they finish with the ritual. “Before he snatches the elves from us.” As he speaks, his upper body splits into an upright maw arrayed with teeth the size of his head. A locust of flies swarms out, disappearing in the cavities of the ceiling.

**

“It’s beautiful!” Acniss says as she opens the box, revealing the piece of onyx jewelry resting in a rosy cushion.

“Not as you.” Griggorn says as he slowly embraces her from behind, his arms wrapping around her perfectly shaped waist. His sweet, hot breath, a gentle wind on her neck. “Come on, put it on.” He adds while walking back to his seating, a victorious smirk on his face as he sees Acniss mesmerized by his gift.

“How is it?” She turns around with the necklace peeking out from between her flamboyant dresses collar, the silver Vicidium contrasting flawlessly her dark, oily skin. “Perfect, just like you.” Griggorn says with an affectionate look as he takes a sip of wine.

“Ah, so the two of you are already here.” Cacmieh’s cold voice breaks her out from the memory as she gently strokes the amulet with onyx embedded into it.

“Yeah, the scouts returned. Griggorn is dead.” Zoklaeth says in his typical blunt manner with a smile on his face. For the first time in a hundred year, he is full of joy. In one hand he holds his claymore resting on his throne’s left arm, a keg filled with mead to the brim in his right.

“Anything else?” Cacmieh asks as he sits down on his throne.

“He asked for our aid. To send whatever we’ve got.” Acniss joins the two, crossing her legs. For a moment, she wonders how she should feel after losing Griggorn, the one she would call as friend if someone asked her.

“Should we?” Cacmieh ponders while lifting a jug of wine from the nearby table, it leans over the cup hovering in front of it, filling it with the sweet beverage just as old as the anniversary of the Deadfire’s rampage in the Upper Stratum.

“I say we should.” Zoklaeth speaks up after cleaning the foam off his beard. “We sat on our arses long enough. And my sister took back the border town at the entrance to the Middle Stratum. If we don’t hurry, the Dhaugrians gain his favour.” He continues, surprising the other two mildly as this is one of the few times, he added something noteworthy to their discussions in a long time.

“As weird it may sound, I agree with him.” Acniss adds as her mild aching heart calms down, as if Griggorn was just a pet that got way past their expiration.

“How much do we even have left?” Cacmieh asks, feeling a bit unsure about the proposition, even though a part of him wants to agree with the two. For the simple reason of learning from the Nameless. To be taught a potentially new aspect is a prospect that makes him want to abandon reason. But his inner voices tell him that it would be better to just wait and see.

“Close to five hundred warriors, two hundred maguses that have experience in real battle, a few dozen Arachnids and some tamed beast numbering at a hundred or so.” Zoklaeth counts what they have left, curling up his right hand into a fist, unfolding his fingers at each, while his forehead wrinkles at the counting.

“How about sending half of those?” Cacmieh sighs before speaking at the sight. “That seems appropriate.” Acniss adds calmly taking a little sip from her wine.

“As much as I want to refute, I agree.” Zoklaeth says while slamming his keg on the cold arm of the throne. “There are not many Dhau-Íssz remaining.” His burp echoes loudly in the chamber, even the guards outside let out a sigh.

“As a sign of good will, should we bring the heads of the nearby ones?” After a bit of consideration, Cacmieh speaks up, coldly looking at the two. “Would be a good exercise beforehand.” Zoklaeth adds with dreaming eyes, envisioning himself on the battlefield covered head to toe in blood.

“Do you want to lead?” Cacmieh asks, prompting a questioning look from Zoklaeth, standing up to refill his keg from the barrel he carried into their meeting chamber. “Who else would?”

“Are you lacking in trustworthy generals?” Cacmieh asks, almost in a mocking tone. “If so, I could lead the army.” Before Zoklaeth could retort, he spits out his mead, Acniss does too with her wine almost as she turns towards him with a puzzled look on her face.

“I am somewhat versed in the arts of warfare. You should know it too, Acniss.” He speaks to the two with frustration in his tone. “We can go both. Only Acniss is needed here anyway.” Zoklaeth says, opting to not go for a less headache inducing resolution to this conversation.

“Then I’ll guess today we celebrate. Then depart in three days.” Cacmieh says as he stands up, raising his glass. “Fine by me.” Zoklaeth walks closer as Acniss stands up, the three toasting as the hope for their kingdom’s revival renews within them.