As we left the desolate slaughter grounds, the cheers of the Dwarven Shieldmaiden rose -- growing louder and merrier with every step we took. Talus, in particular, received only admiring looks from all, except Inga. Her eyes were firmly fixated on my Adjuration.

“You were amazing,” said Cosette to Talus, voice bubbling with unconcealed admiration.

A regal purple glow emanated from behind Talus’s helmet. In the light cast from his glow, Cosette's eyes glistened, and stars twinkled in them.

“That was big meanie beastie and you put him to place,” Cosette caught up with Talus with a swiftness that betrayed her stout form. “He was great, was he not, Inga?”

“Yes, he was,” said Inga absent-mindedly. With a hand on her hip, she uncorked an earthenware flask and drowned the contents down her throat.

“He flew like this.” Cosette moved her hand animatedly, pushing a stream of air through her mouth, making a whoooshhhh sound like children describing something amazing that they witnessed -- which she probably did. “And wham, bam, one more wham.”

Cosette vocabulary slowly reduced to primitive noises with every receding moment.

Firmly rooted to the ground, Inga’s stubborn glare fixed on what was wound around my hips. She took another mouthful of the drink.

“Inga, you stink of that foul fluid.”

Her eyes hawked at my comment.

“Found it on one of those poor sods. Apparently, some cultures bury a flask of good stuff with their dead.” She drained the content of the flask and then, threw it to shatter. “Since it is a sin to let it go to waste, I helped myself.”

“That thing was left to mature with corpses,”

“Aye, and matured, it did well.”

I might have seen my share of bloody slaughters -- flesh and viscera and all -- even instigated a few, but I still threw up at her comment.

“Even Eddyrn cannot hold her shield against his punches, don’t you think so Inga?” asked Cosette, lost in reverence.

“Probably,” replied Inga. Unable to abandon the scrutiny residing in her eyes, she followed.

*****

The wide-shouldered silhouette of Ar’krak perched atop a jagged rock came into view as we wandered into the snaking path of High-Crag Pass. Soon, Zurin revealed himself. Where I expected a sense of haste in both, the deep sunken eyes of Ar’krak pierced the darkness with silent vigilance.

As I neared, the druids came into view. Relief and fear washed their pale faces in equal measure.

“We should head back to High-Crag Hold with haste,” uttered Ar’krak. Not even a sliver of panic laced in his gravelly calm voice.

“I need a full report.”

“The enemy was better prepared than we anticipated,” replied Ar’krak over the clanging sounds of Talus’s metallic frame marching. “It is a race against time, now.”

“Are we being pursued? A larger force, perhaps?” I asked. High-Crag Hold is unprepared for such an early assault. My thoughts swirled around preparations to evacuate.

“The One-Horned Warlord has eyes and ears everywhere,” added Zurin, voice lowered conspiratorially.

“Not just eyes and ears,” spat Ar’Krak.

Theko slowly approached, breaking his shackles of trepidation and spoke, “Grand Mistress, three of the Shieldmaiden have broken arms and ribs. I could run ahead carrying one of them.”

“I would volunteer to carry two of them to High-Crag Hold,” added Ar’Krak, “but I await your decision on how to proceed further.”

“Were the Conjunct-Born successful...”

Ar’Krak raised his palm, interrupting with a sibilant hiss as he watched Talus, surrounded by the adoring Shieldmaidens pass.

“We have been betrayed.” In a barely audible whisper, Ar’Krak added, “from inside.”

“I need more details of your assessment,” I asked, voice masked in a sea of calmness.

“You don’t seem surprised, Lady Rylonvirah,” uttered Zurin.

“Show me a Dark Elf who is shocked by betrayal.” Concealing a scoff, I continued, “In a campaign of this scale, spies and traitors are expected. So who is it?”

Ar’krak exchanged a very disturbed look with Zurin. After an interminably long moment of protracted silence, an acknowledging nod passed between them.

“Perhaps, the most prudent path would be to present the facts,” uttered Ar’Krak finally, “And let you form your own judgement.”

“Please continue.”

“The plague samples have been tampered with. There is more. When leaving High-Crag Hold, I personally checked those samples.” After a long drawn-out sigh, Ar’Krak added -- with dark tendrils of apprehension chocking the words, “Someone tampered it on the way.”

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“Which one of them is it?” With a hard squint of scrutiny focused on the retreating form of the Shieldmaidens, I continued, “Zurin, to whom does your sense of smell point?”

“None,” replied Zurin. “The samples are so potent that the infection would spread through the skin on contact. At near, enough proximity to open the vials and replace them with a mundane substance would be tantamount to infection through breathing.”

“Only the Conjunct-Born are immune. Even a little prolonged exposure is infectious, even for us, druids,” added Ar’Krak.

“So someone wearing strong gloves and a protective mask opened and replaced the samples?”

“Or someone who has metal hands and does not breathe air.” Ar’krak glared intently at the fading form of Talus

“And does not carry the smell of the living,” added Zurin.

Watching the rest of the ragtag bunch that I lead climb the trail ahead with a pitiful gaze, it became evident that both Ar’Krak and Zurin were treading an untouchable line separating loyalty and doubt.

“I permit you to speak your minds.”

Ar’krak’s tensed shoulders relaxed. The grim coil of apprehension, manacling him, dispersed at my words.

“The One-Horned Warlord is of demonic brood...” He left his words trailing.

Even without Ar’krak completing his opinion, I could infer the obvious conclusion he was aiming for.

“I have failed Lyria a thousand times,” Words spilled out despite the heavy chunk lodged in my throat. Blinking a lonely teardrop away, I continued, “and yet, she had never given me a reason to doubt. My lovely Lyria, accepted me, despite my flaws. Doubting her is the biggest sin I could commit against her.”

Yet, the steely thorn of Phaedra’s revelation -- of Lyria’s own admission -- lodged uncomfortably inside me, lanced further. Phaedra’s version was just one perspective. Lyria’s own admission might be the culmination of her own grief. After all, until High Archoness Stormaire revealed my own flaws, I was blind to my own actions.

“Understood,” said Ar’krak with nerves taut. He stood still, debating internally. Eventually, he decided to address the topics of immediate relevance to him. “Since I would reach there ahead of you, how much should I reveal at High-Crag Hold?”

“Just say that we subdued a huge force and killed a Prime Demon.”

“Will that be all?”

“Actually, make it five Prime Demons,” I said suppressing a grin. “Imagine if whoever the spy or spies they have planted inside were to relay incorrect information back?”

“Is this how Dark Elves fight?” asked Zurin with contorted mirth.

“My biggest weapon, spreading misinformation,” I replied, smugness and pride swelling inside.

“Even amongst allies?”

“Especially amongst allies.”

*****

Clutching the two wounded Shieldmaidens in his large thews encased arm, Ar’Krak leapt, an impossible height. Enabled by leg muscles, enhanced through his simian form, he scaled the rocky terrain with relative ease.

Theko, carrying the last of the battered Shieldmaiden, followed with an endurance blessed by his bugbear heritage.

As the huge mangy form of Ar’krak shrunk, becoming a dust mote in the distance, I liberated the controlled smirk.

For the right price, for the right threat, anyone could be a traitor, a spy -- if motivated in the right manner and even T’orrac is not immune.

*****

As the dawn slowly slipped by, I was surprised to catch Inga watching me with an interrogative expression. Basking in the warmth of her newfound treasure, the brawler of the Shieldmaidens did not even bother to conceal her intention. A host of all things, awe and curious, resided in her stare.

“Inga, a moment please,” I uttered, imbibed with an air of authority.

“Aye.”

Either it was a suppressed hiccup or an affirmative. I settled on the latter.

“During the engagement, you were far ahead from the rest of the Shieldmaidens, almost close to Talus and me?”

“Aye.”

“Could you describe what you saw?” Remembering Inga’s state, I added softly, “Or what little do you remember?”

“Did your dark elven eyesight fail that you needed to ask a dwarf to describe things in the gloom?” asked Inga, obviously annoyed.

The famed dwarven adamancy. I chomped down on an admonishing retort, reminding myself that Inga is a dwarven brawler. Bluntness is a necessary trait, the result of having taken one too many blows.

“Not so much as describing but my request has more to do with getting an altered perspective. Four colossi, a Prime Demon and an Arch lich occupied my attention, but you had a better view. So help me.”

“So you spun your weapon,” Reverence slowly replaced the annoyance in her tone. “and you opened the portal.”

“Inga, please rejoin your Shieldsisters. You were clearly drunk.”

“I might have warmed myself a bit, but this is Inga you are talking about.”

Great! Now she is addressing herself in the third person. Then again, she is Arlene’s friend.

“By Allfather under the mountain, I clearly saw what you did.” Inga leaned closer and continued.”You spun your weapon, opened the portal and the strange wind you summoned sucked all silvery wispy streams from the demon insects.”

Were it not for Talus’s confirmation of the demons of The Scourge Warren bound in eternal servitude in The Undying Forge, Inga’s claim would have been a wistfully fabricated tale. But now, the most obvious lead lay hidden in the narration of an unreliable Inga.

“But I did not open any portal. I could not open any portal.”

“Nay, it was your portal. Clearly saw it,” replied Inga.

“What did you see exactly?” I asked.

“I saw portal clearly.”

“What did you see inside the portal?” I uttered with a sibilant hiss, annoyed with her obtuse ways.

Inga let a hiccup, then tilted her head furtively, lowered her voice and said, “The other side.”

I flirted with the idea of strangling Inga with my Adjuration. But deep in my subconscious recess, a sentiment rose. I would not put it past Inga to respond with Choke me harder.

“Inga, where did the portal lead to?” It took every shroud of my willpower to not scream.

“It is your portal. If you don’t know how would I know?” For an instant, I felt as if Inga considered me as the drunk, inebriated one.

“Anything you can remember about how the other side looked like?”

“Well, nothing much except for one thing,” Inga ran her callous palms over her loose braids, scratching her scalp as if that would help her failing memory. “It wasn’t my hometown.”

Resigning the futile quest of extracting any meaningful information from Inga, I walked away bearing a wistful hope that perhaps Theko had witnessed something of interest.

“Where I come from mud elves do not raise Bloodtrackers in pens or have Hellhounds for a pet,” murmured Inga over the sound of my fading footsteps, arresting me midstep, forcing me to pirouette with ophidian celerity and face her.

“Also there was this strange warrior but he was more statue, a living, moving statue surrounded by a thick layer of billowing smoke and ash.”

The Knight of Ash and Smoke!

Like a crucial piece of thread woven into an incomplete tapestry, unravelling the hitherto hidden pattern, the series of events since my exile, slowly connected in a surreal manner.

The dwarven puzzle box of Lady Wysteria hinted at a clan of wood elves, lost in a demonic realm during the purge of Verdant Hegemony.

The demonic assault and the arrival of the Knight of Ash and Smoke in Asterlund was an incorrect inference. A blunder! The Knight of Ash and Smoke appeared -- to protect Celerim.

And the Knight of Ash and Smoke's remark about the Dame of the Demesne ruling in the absence of the sovereign.

All of which led to a singular conclusion.

Lyria is the Dame of the Demesne.

The very thought made me chuckle, baffling Inga.

I must be losing my wits. A Dame of the Demesne ruling a demonic realm in the absence of a Demon Monarch, is hardly a role Lyria could fill. In all her years, she never took an apprentice. Claimed it was too much of a management hassle. My lovely Lyria could hardly widen her smithy. Lyria lacked the abilities to run anything more than simple smithy.

As improbable as it might sound, it is easier to imagine Delyn to be the Dame of the Demesne than Lyria.