On the steep downslope of the Bloodspires, Taelsin stood with mounting frustration searing through his veins.

Just within reach lay the promise of sanctuary for his people within the City of Velasir. Its tall walls were less than a stone's throw away – well, a cannonball’s shot distance anyway – and yet they seemingly stood impassive and unmoved by the plight that gathered at their feet.

The focus of his frustration, Captain Grigor sat atop his horse, his silhouette standing out against the dying light. His posture was rigid, as suited a man bound to orders as if shackled, and there was seemingly no wavering within him. His gaze met Taelsin’s with a hardness that brooked no argument as he shook his head once more.

A biting wind swept down from the Bloodspires, slicing through the refugees with a chilling indifference to their suffering: cloaks whipped and huddled figures flinched under its raw touch. Carried on that gust was the faint clash of steel upon steel, echoing like a drumbeat from the hidden paths above—a stark reminder of the struggle that had pursued them through the mountains and the threat that continued to pursue them.

“Captain Grigor,” Taelsin said, holding back the full flood of his anger, “we are within touching distance of safety, with injured soldiers and civilians in tow. There can surely be no question as to our intentions. I know Mayor Talsoon—he would never deny us refuge in a moment of such need.”

Grigor’s gaze remained fixed upon the procession of wounded souls limping down the mountainside. His silence was infuriating to Taelsin, as was his refusal to meet the Wandering Steward’s eyes.

Stifling a growl, Taelsin moved closer. “We are not invaders, Captain, nor thieves slinking towards Velasir under cover of night.” He placed a hand against Grigor’s horse, making it shift and snort, its ears flicking nervously. “We are what remains—battered, broken and bloodied by a fight thrust upon us.”

Grigor’s hand tightened on the reins, his knuckles white against the dark leather. A faint shimmer of mana glowed in his palm as he subtly activated a Skill—a calming pulse that washed over his men and steadied the restless horses behind him. It was an old Commander’s trick, one he had called upon many times in preparation for battle, but never before used in such circumstances. Right now, it seemed wholly inadequate. A poor salve against the unease tightening in his own chest.

He twisted in his saddle, glancing anxiously down the road that led back to the distant gates of Velasir. He had sent his corporal—a young lad, but loyal and quick-witted—back to confirm their orders with the Mayor. By now, surely, he should have returned. But the path remained empty.

What in the name of the Lords are they waiting for? he thought, his fingers tapping impatiently on the pommel of his saddle.

“Captain Grigor, please,” Taelsin moved to the other side of the horse. “I know Mayor Talsoon—he would not abandon us in our need. I have men injured on that slope, and there are children and women amongst our numbers. I am not asking for open gates and parades. I am simply asking that you allow them temporary shelter. A chance to heal before we move on. Do you not hear the fighting? It draws closer with every moment!”

“Sir, I am sorry to extend your people’s suffering, but you must understand the position Velasir is in.”

"Suffering?" That word struck Taelsin like a slap, and he felt a fury rise that he had seldom known. "Captain, these people have nothing left but their lives—and even that is hanging by a thread. If your Mayor knew anything of duty, he’d be here himself to look upon these people and weigh their plight against his precious walls."

“Steward Elm, I respect your position but do not question the honour of my Mayor. Our City’s survival rests on more than one tragic tale from a man who invited woe to his own gate. Velasir has its own wounds, its own broken families. Do not think that you are alone in your losses.”

Another gust howled down from the mountains, sending shivers through the refugees huddled below. The wind carried with it not just the scent of the Bloodspires, a harsh mingling of pine and cold rock, but also the faint, metallic taste of blood. Behind Taelsin, the sounds of ragged breathing, the occasional whimper, and the quiet moans of those too hurt to remain silent underscored the urgency of his plea.

“Captain, we are broken remnants of a people you once called ‘friends.’ Our dead litter the passes through the moutains. These few here with me—these are all that remains of Swinford. Have mercy.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Grigor’s expression softened, but only for a flicker of a moment. His gaze went to the twisted trail of refugees behind Taelsin—the wounded soldiers, the weary civilians, some slumped together in makeshift cloaks, their faces pale and haunted by exhaustion.

He released a deep breath, and Taelsin noticed the faint shimmer of mana in his clenched hand as he sent out another wave of calming energy, his Skill stabilising the restive mounts and the men on guard, steadying hands that might have trembled and voices that would otherwise have whispered dark fears.

“I know my duty,” Grigor replied. “I must hold Velasir safe. The Mayor cannot risk into the City those who may bring . . . corruption. The Bloodspires are tainted; we’ve seen enough evidence of it to know.”

“And what of loyalty? Have the West’s cities grown so isolated, so quick to draw lines against their neighbours, that they would shut their gates against those who once would have fought for them? We are allies, Captain. Velasir is our last hope! Do you not hear it, Captain? That sound?” He gestured to the mountain, where the low beat of distant drums, interspersed with screams and yells, rolled down through the rocks like thunder. “That is death marching toward us!”

Grigor’s gaze flicked back to the slope, his face darkening as the sounds of battle grew. The flickering light of the city gates was now a distant glow in the falling light, and still, his corporal did not return. “I have my orders, sir.”

“You cite orders when your fellow Westerners lie broken upon this mountain, hunted like beasts? There are children among us, Captain, not soldiers. There are mothers who have walked barefoot through the snow to reach this place, men who have stood shoulder-to-shoulder with your own in days gone past.”

“Do you think I wish to turn you away?” Grigor’s tone was bitter. “This cursed secession of the West has set our world ablaze, and Talsoon’s hands are tied. He’s enraged, believe me. Yet, we are bound by duty, Elm, and Velasir will not let its walls fall on account of your desperation.”

Then the horses reared and whinnied in alarm, their eyes rolling as Eliud Vila—Pendragon, Duskstrider, and legend of countless tales—landed beside Taelsin with a searing flash of energy that crackled off him in purple spirals.

Grigor went rigid, the blood draining from his face as he met Eliud’s gaze. It was the kind of stare he’d only imagined in fireside stories—the sort of look that set Kingdoms on edge and might just compel even gods to blink first. This was not just a man; this was the embodiment of every tale whispered to thrill the curious and terrorise the unruly.

“For clarity, sir,” Eliud said, “do you know who I am?”

Grigor swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving Eliud. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. I do so hate having to outline my biography. And, once more, just in the search for complete understanding, knowing who I was, your City chose to fire on me without warning.”

“Yes, sir,” Grigor managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I wonder, sir, how do you think that usually works out?”

“Not well, sir.”

“Good,” Eliud said, his tone light, though his eyes glittered with something far less so. “Then how about I make it really easy for Velasir, Mayor Talsoon and you, sir, in particular, to make this up to me before I get all ‘fighty.’” He jerked his head in Taelsin’s direction. “Get your people moving toward the city. They’ve waited long enough.”

“Sir, I must protest!” Grigor moved his horse forward “I have my orders—”

“Please,” Eliud said, “feel free to protest. Do so in writing. And in triplicate if it makes you feel better. I used to have a Secretary whose sole purpose was to follow me around for people to lodge official complaints about my appalling conduct. Can’t say it ever really caught on. I wonder what happened to him.” He looked Grigor up and down. “I’ll let you know if the position opens up again.”

Grigor’s grimaced but he kept his silence, eyeing the refugees now stirring behind Taelsin. Their eyes were wide with the shock of Eliud’s sudden appearance, yet there was a tentative hope as they shifted toward the promise of safety. Taelsin turned to them, a faint smile breaking through his own tension. “Everyone, to the City,” he called, his voice steady but firm. “Move forward—no more delays.”

Grigor opened his mouth to protest, but Eliud raised a single finger, and the Captain froze, the words dying on his lips.

“For clarity, Captain,” Eliud said his voice dropping to a silky, almost conversational tone that only sharpened the menace in his words. “If a man of Velasir so much as breathes on one of Swinford’s refugees in a way that displeases me, I may well become all ‘fighty.’” The threat lingered, heavy and electric, each word dripping with a cold promise. “Trust me,” he added, his eyes narrowing, “we all want to avoid that.”

For a moment, there was only silence—the kind of silence that felt like the breath held before the apocalypse. Grigor’s hands trembled as he tightened his grip on the reins, but he did not speak.

Taelsin nodded at Grigor, who, to his credit, managed not to flinch as the refugees shuffled past him, many casting wary glances back to where Eliud still stood. And when Grigor caught Eliud’s eye, he held his gaze only a second before turning his attention forward.

A deafening boom reverberated from the Bloodspires, echoing down the mountainside like the world itself had decided to explode. Horses reared in alarm, scattering as a ripple of panic passed through the crowd. Eliud cocked his head, an expression of mild amusement on his face as if he were listening to a distant and highly amusing joke.

"Ah," he said, "that sounds like our Celestial Harbinger finally discovering her mojo. Delightful.” Leaning into Taelsin with a theatrical sigh, he added, "Remind me again—did we assign anyone to 'unexpected celestial blasts' in the evacuation plan? I feel like that box went unchecked."