Year 218. Star Bastion - The Crest - Khirn

“What can one hope to accomplish if all they face is adversity? It is a question I have asked myself countless nights.” - Unknown Scholar of the Golden Lords.

VLAKIS ANTHITI

Rómitas Vlakis Anthiti had only been a Lord of the Star Bastion for three years to the day when the army of Megare ne’Actë—Belanore's Great Huntress—arrived—three years of enjoying the lordship over the land’s most impregnable and isolated fortress. Accessible only by a series of bascule and swirling bridges, hidden behind ancient magics, the Bastion was mountain-built and fortified by ages of ice and stubborn resolve. Thousands of knights could assault the mountains. Carve their way up the unbeaten paths with siege weapons and mystharin sorcerers. And every time, they would be whittled down to a mere dozen to be sent home in blood. Without question, those who ruled the Star Bastion could defend against anyone, any force, any royal, any army.

He entertained the thoughts as he stared out from the balcony of his room, subconsciously devouring the details of the new environment. Over the battlements of the eastern wall, the wind whipped through the air. Screaming in icy voices as the perpetual winter of the mountain’s peak roared with frozen life. Ice and snow fell and formed in quantities of worrying degrees. Yet, none of it bothered the Rómitas or those within the fortress walls. Some would say that it felt warm inside that rugged construct. Sometimes hot rather than freezing, even in roofless courtyards built on sheer cliffs. No one could explain why, though some did suggest severe cases of hypothermia in the first days. Of course, this was proven false when none fell after the expected timeframes.

Vlakis considered the places below the mountain range and whether the residents of those places would feel the same. Surrounding the mountains, miles upon miles of grasslands and forests galloped and grew, untouched by industry save for the tiny developments of villages at the furthest reaches of the fields. Green and verdant for as far as the horizon, ripe for the Star Bastion’s cultivation of agricultural advancements. Preservative farms and ranching, each designed to take and give in equal measures to ensure that the landscape was never tarnished.

Of course, they would have to avoid the parts of it that were swimming with mystharin—the purest form of it, according to the Drayheller. At night, when the world took a breath from this madness between royalty, the lights would glimmer through the gaps in the trees—illuminated by stars and the moon that loomed over the world. Strands would dash over the blades of grass with whistling tunes. They would mingle and dance like lovers before vanishing back into the darkness of the night.

He called them sprites because of how lively they moved, though the bearfolk called them Ti Nam—the All. Vlakis smiled. The All. A naming that made him imagine what other beautiful critters rested in the woods and trotted the lands unseen by his naked eyes. Nestled in the dark creeks and photophobic glens where sunlight had nary touched a speck of dirt in eons. Deer, wolves, bears, elk, moose, maybe a lost kindred of the Dragons. These were expected. But what of creatures like the Drayheller? Beasts so unlike humanity that they defied reason and origin. Maybe cat-like creatures trekked on their hindlegs from edge to edge of the fields, stalking landed nocturnal flyers shaped like a fish with raven wings. He had asked Helgol and his woman about these things, but they were remiss in answering his questions.

Vlakis frowned as his eyes were caught on a glinting ray erupting from the tree line. A barely beaten dirt path parted the thickest visible trees, and things were moving on it. Whatever roamed the untouched nature had undoubtedly been scared off by the arrival of trudging sabatons and the manhandled.

His eyes soaked in the details of that encroaching mass so far below the mountain construct that it appeared as little more than moving black worms. Number by number, they came from the northeast, out of that green with a clear path toward the bridges leading them into the Kallosse Gate. Their songs, chants, and cries were lost to the cold mountain current save for the floating notes of the loudest. Soon, he would hear them in full. An appalling thought, he entertained the idea of ordering his men to move the bridges like the masters of old would. They could not riddle his fortress with their blasted noise if they could not reach it. His eyes spotted seven lone shapes depart the great mass, traversing the bridges before he could fully relay that idea.

Minutes later, his servant came to his room.

“My Lord,” said a frail voice that crackled like rough cello chords. “Riders have appeared at the Kallosse Gate. They wish to speak to you and the other lords to settle the living arrangements for the army.”

Vlakis turned around with a fling of his simple red coat that hung to the bottom of his thighs. The flaps were tied at his waist with an iron buckle. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizingly, on the man at the entrance to his room. He was balding with white hair and a long white beard that hung down to his thighs—dressed in white with numerous baubles and pins and chains decorating its length. Kosas Lentois: a man who gave up his position in the priesthood to serve in the Star Bastion.

Vlakis never wanted such a man in his contingent, for he stipulated his life on a particularly faithful path like the rest of his kin. That is not to say he did not believe, but he did not find a reason to let it dominate a man’s actions. Still, he had to resign to the fact that it was with the most pious of all the people that he could have safely bet his life for a rebellion.

Dioúksis Polydius Audax. The Paragon. What a title recently oppugned—and praised—because of the activities of the Akaios Opos.

“My Lord?” Kosas’ face had frowned with concern for his master’s silence. “Are you well?”

Vlakis clapped his hands suddenly, jolting the energy in the room. He marched forward towards the older man and nodded slowly. “Yes. All is well, Kosas.”

Kosas bowed his head. “I must also inform you that per the requests of the other lords, the army may begin moving up the bridges to ease their process of moving in.”

Vlakis stopped in front of his servant. The fortress could only be described as a massive construction when considering it in the least possible terms. Furthermore, the surface stronghold served as a red herring for the full scope of its foundations. In truth, it spread throughout the entire range beneath the stone, with various outposts scattered across the peaks. To have over one hundred thousand Belanorians suddenly fill it without a definitively settled location would be a logistics nightmare. “No. Send a raven to Megare. Tell her to hold the army until we ascertain where everyone will go. No one is coming up that bridge until we come to an agreement with the riders.”

Kosas licked his lips nervously. “My Lord, the others-”

“No, Kosas. Send the raven.”

“Would it not be prudent to have them begin their transfer? By His grace, we have the supplies to care for them. Food, drink, and medicine. They have just come from a grievous march, and I can only imagine-”

Vlakis shook his head. “No. Tired or not, wounded or not, I will not have them sent to a level they might not even stay on and risk getting lost in the labyrinth. Or angering the bears.”

Kosas began to protest again, thought wiser of it, and lowered his head. “Yes, My Lord.”

Vlakis offered a warm smile. He placed a hand on his servant’s shoulder. “I understand your worries for their health, Kosas Lentois. It is difficult to ignore the wounded and the tired as a healer, no less than a man of the Most Noble. But, we must wait to mitigate the damages upon them. The other lords will understand.”

Kosas gave a solemn but knowing expression. “Your guard awaits you outside.” Kosas turned to leave the room. Vlakis followed him for as much of the way as he could before meeting his personal guard, descending the spiraling tower of the Lords’ Keep. The other three had their own estates here—each emptied as they had gone about their duties throughout the day while Vlakis stayed in contemplation within his.

Five greeted at the base of the stairs, five of the greatest sworders Dioúksis Audax had ever recruited to his cause, each outfitted in the best armor he could buy—aluminum bronze plate armor from the depths of Amphe's vaults, relics of the Golden Lords. Elegant and brutalist in equal measure, the armor's chest plates were emblazoned with the dual sigils of Dioúksis Audax and Belanore's Selk’onal. At the same time, the strands of the bases and the plating of the faulds over it bore the individual sigils of the wearer's family and immortalizations of their individual achievements. The pauldrons were layered like scales, and the only covering for the arms and the legs were vambraces and greaves. Each helm was personally designed by the wearer, some featuring intricate reliefs and others bearing horns. All bore delicate unmarked cloaks of a deep midnight blue.

“Rómitas Anthiti, we are here to escort you to the Great Hall,” the commander of the five, the giantess Orlantha Xathia, informed. “The Bastion is bustling more than usual today in light of the Great Huntress’ arrival, and traveling alone might pose a danger to your health.”

Vlakis nodded and admired the sight of his commander in full regalia. By every stretch, Orlantha Xathia was a freak of nature; her body and skill expanded beyond the norms for humanity. A woman of remarkable height and more significant musculature. Long arms and legs, supporting a physique resembling Erik Apa's if it were leaner. Faster. Her hair—a dawn's auburn—was cut shorter than most women of this land but was still long enough to curl from under the base of her helmet—a winged barbute with a visor crafted to resemble the stern, furious face of her family's founder, Monomachu. The Xathias. A proud family of Aslofidor. Most striking about her unusual nature was her eyes: a deep ocean green, as though she saw with the Jade itself.

“Lead the way, Orlantha,” he said.

Orlantha bowed her head and led her lord and retinue through the winding hallways the bearfolk had renovated for their austere appreciation and desires for research. Vlakis could not blame them. Much of what once decorated this place belonged to a long-dead ego and forgotten power that he and his equals cared little for. Both now, appropriately, fell into the hands of those better suited to study it rather than forced upon those who had no care to look at it. Scrapped paintings of legends, faded portraits of unknown figures, and other broken once-lavish decorations better suited for a whorehouse than a place of myths. Pointless trinkets of a past that reeked of insensibility. The bears had removed what they could in the primary levels of the Bastion, but the artifacts were beyond counting and promised only a headache for the time being the more rooms were found.

Of course, he had to see this redesign from memory, for the halls were filled with workers, families, and the general soldiery. Vlakis whistled as his guard pushed through the masses. He wondered how his equals had dealt with these tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands of people. He had to remind himself of that number, though it drove him closer to madness each time he replaced the false ones in his thoughts. Hundreds of thousands, with only a few going hungry or dying of sickness. Vlakis had conferred with the bearfolk on how this Bastion could support such a number of people as Amphe could when it had no productions of food in sight beyond those in the courtyard that ran every hour of the day.

“Treat this place with respect, and it will return it in kind,” the woman bear had responded before handing him a plate of vegetables of roast pork. It was the best meal he had eaten in days. He said that about everything he ate during his three years lording over the Bastion.

Orlantha led them to the left, past several squabbling clusters gossiping about the meaning of the Huntress' arrival. A return to war? A counter-offensive into Druyan? Vlakis shook his head and silently compared these clusters to schoolyard children. He and his guards headed for the closed double doors of ironwood and engravings some ten minutes later. Past rulers had crafted these doors and carved the wood so those who followed would know their accomplishments. Giants and dragons were the prominent figures in the carvings, slain by champions of ancient pantheons.

Two guards were on either side of the doors, their allegiance to the Bastion’s lords marked by their iron armor and shields quartered with the sigils of the four human lords assigned here by the Dioúksis. Vlakis’ sigil bore the image of a great golden octopus reaching up to sink a golden ship set on a field of black. A curious design to the common folk. In truth, a regrettable connection to an ancient Druyan heritage long kept from the public light. One guard opened the door, revealing the Great Hall’s interior.

Unlike the previous that he had to walk through, this place had been made to be much more ostentatious. Fitting the name, it was rectangular, easily taking up the most significant space in the keep, with a second-floor lounging area supported by ridged stone pillars. Lit torches and firepits down the center filled the room, giving it a celestial orange glow. Long tables with fanciable tablecloths, ornate dining chairs, server stools, decorated end tables, and a river of dishware served as the decor. Audax’s banners, various military flags, and revered Khirnian and Belanorian artwork hung from the stone walls as well as the table-facing sides of the pillars. Three years he had watched the Great Hall become the center of attention at the Bastion, where all diplomacy and military dealings would occur regardless of size or immediacy.

This was a sizable and immediate event, given recognition by the hundreds who filled the Hall in the dark recesses under the second floor to the chairs lining the tables. Those utilizing the second floor for its reading had done away with the amenities at their disposal, choosing instead to see what would come of this grandest of events.

The Great Huntress had arrived at the Star Bastion.

“A great day for these people, it seems,” Vlakis said to his guards as they walked toward the end of the room. “What are your thoughts?”

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“We have no consideration for it,” Orlantha said for the others.

Vlakis sighed. “Come now; you must have an opinion. What do you think of the Huntress?”

Orlantha answered. “She has a dangerous reputation. As long as she acts appropriately within this place per the Drayhellers’ commands, we will have no cause to treat her as a threat.”

“Very proper response, commander. Keep an eye on her when she’s here, eh?” Vlakis said.

At the far end of the room, placed on a semi-raised platform, sat the Table of the Lords, occupied by his three equals. Made of red oak and stretched long for the food of a glutton. Sterling dishes, silverware, and four crowns bejeweled with rubies, amethysts, and quartz lay on it. Vlakis went around the table and pulled out the exquisite mahogany chair cushioned with a plush purple. He sat down and sighed at his exceptional comfort in its embrace.

“Wear the circlet today, Vla’kis,” the oldest of the Lords—the Belanorian Ěspe, Vocor le’Matto—commanded. Vocor le’Matto bore the image of death. No color graced his countenance, and his voice resembled the dying rattle of a cruel gravedigger. The stress he had felt residing in a place empowered by the essence his people had sworn to eradicate had taken its toll on his body. “The Great Huntress does not take kindly to improper etiquette, and the usage of this Bastion will already be troubling to her.”

“I am surprised that she even agreed to come to this place,” Vlakis said as he placed the circlet around his head. “We do not want to anger the Great Huntress in such circumstances, do we?”

“Must you always snark, Vlakis?” Rómitas Miro Remopoulo asked.

“My apologies, Lord Remopoulo,” Vlakis bowed his head. “I am in a mood today.”

“You are in a mood every day,” Ěspe le’Matto commented. “Bip utfě.”

Vlakis smiled. “That I am. Speaking of which, I regret to inform you that I commanded a raven be sent to Megare's army to keep them from ascending the bridges until we have met with her and ascertained proper living conditions, the process of taking in that many people, and so forth. As I have been asking you since we received word of their approach.”

Murmurs spread throughout those close enough to hear his words while his equals glared at him indignantly. "Tsě b’ad’ keb’ǐk?" le’Matto seethed. “That will only serve to anger her and delay the process of the army’s garrison here. Exhaustion will set upon them more than it already has, keeping the army from deploying when at full strength.”

“It will keep them from getting themselves lost or situated in a place they aren’t even staying in, to begin with,” Vlakis defended himself. “How long would it take for them to anger the bears if they traipsed into a place we have not discussed with them first?”

“You overstep once again, Vla’kis,” Ěspe Vendag le’Micha said. “Your Dioúksis will hear of this. The Prime will hear of this.”

“With all due respect, le’Micha, you are not seeing the picture here,” Vlakis tried to say.

The sound of marching feet and the doors opening with dreadful age drew his attention from the argument to those who had entered the Hall. Seven warriors outfitted in elegant scale armor enameled indigo with vertical stripes of deep crimson on the chest, moving as water over rocks. The spurs on their sabatons clinked with each thudding step. Battle axes rested on their hips, and their left hands clutched the snarling helmets of the Great Huntress' elite. All within the Hall fell silent as the leader stepped ahead of her warriors. Her scarred, deathly-pale diamond-shaped face furrowed with exasperation and the inkling to draw her weapon with her free hand. Vlakis’ guards and others flanked her, hands gripping their swords tightly. Their faces read apprehension towards this beast of a woman. She stopped at the base of the platform.

“Let us deal with introductions, Vla’kis,” le’Micha demanded, to which Vlakis forced himself to nod.

“Hets,” le’Matto croaked. "Kan d’up b’ǎ depef ut zǎ ǐn ut Tǎk Kanohutu. How many we assist you?”

The woman turned her gaze from the lords and surveyed the room in its encompassing entirety. She turned back to the lords after locking her pink-glazed eyes on those in the dark recesses of the room. Vlakis watched as they retreated further back. Even the few Belanorians dared not to draw the woman’s ire. “My name is Venica ne’Statho, war-bonded to the Great Huntress Megare ne’Actë, Esteemed Daughter of Actë le’Mutia,” she replied with a bow of her head. Her hair was short white with streaks of ink-black, shining with glistening sweat that had not frozen in the mountain wind. “I am here on behalf of the Great Huntress to discuss the matters of her army’s garrison before our deployment against Vasileús Aslofi’dor.”

Vlakis shuddered as she saw his Belanorian equals grin. “Venica ne’Statho, we of the Star Bastion welcome you to these discussions with open arms,” le’Matto said. “On a personal note, I remember your name well. I served alongside your father Karof against the Druyan’ians some decades ago. You are his youngest girl?”

Venica had the minor grace of a smile to return her kinsmen’s own. “Yes, My Lord. My father now serves on the Prime’s diplomatic council and leaves his children to carry his legacy into war.”

"Fov vě tsu hakusfop?" le'Micha asked.

"Tsa ti tsěnsudz d’ǎ uwïbyïpi. They serve under the Great Brutalizer, Nemeto le’Paulia, at the Druyan border of our homeland.”

The two Belanorians nodded respectfully before opening the floor to Vlakis and Miro. “Lady ne’Statho, it is an honor to meet you,” Miro said. “Apologies for any inconveniences you may have encountered during your journey here.”

“We encountered only the strife of exhaustion and aggravation with news,” Venica responded emotionlessly. Her voice came off as the roughest string of an out-of-tune violin. “As it is, we are here to rest now and prepare. Though there are concerns the Great Huntress wishes to have addressed regarding information that was not relayed to her until we had already reached the borders of the Bastion.”

“Of course, Lady ne’Statho,” Miro replied. “We are ready to accommodate anything you need, within reason. We must still consider the opinions of the Drayheller.”

Venica’s brows creased. “Yes, Ut Hagïr. One of the issues. We are aware of them and their hold on this place. Did the Dioúksis not promise that our service in this war would be rewarded with the ability to wage our crusades against such vile monstrosities?”

“Yi haf taw, ne’Statho,” le’Micha calmed. “They are unlike the ones we loathe. I am grieved to admit this, but they are unique in that they do not seek the annihilation of our people. Only to study and research.”

Venica remained stoically motionless. “The Great Huntress would say otherwise. Their presence remains vexing at a time in which the actions of these Akaios Opos still test our patience. Their usage of the Devil’s magic. The second issue that has yet to be dealt with in a manner that assuages her worries. This place reeks of it. It was born of it, and we are told that we must reside here in its halls? Drowning in the embrace of the Devil?”

“First of all, the Akaios Opos have not used such sorcery since Gortinda, Lady ne’Statho,” Miro reported. “They have since been execrated and brought back into line following extensive conditioning treatments by the Eldest Augur.”

“Yet, the effects of their use of it remains,” Venica said. “Mere reconditioning does not change the fact that the Druyan’ians are in an uproar. The Runemaster now leads his cohort in swaths of brutality against our joined settlements along the borders. The act invigorated him into openly using his family’s power, and the Royal Family does nothing to stop him.”

“What would you have us do, Lady ne’Statho?” Miro asked. “We are here to rule over a fortress for mustering forces, rehabilitating the injured, and searching for anything that could give us an edge in the war. How can we address this issue for the Great Huntress?”

Venica said nothing.

“This is a place of mystharin,” le’Matto said. “I agree that it nears untenability. It has been deemed necessary for the war, however. The Bastion offers possibilities to act upon critical junctures in the conflict against the Vasileús. Unpredictable deployments. The mass mustering of our forces. We have not used the Devil’s magic here, ne’Statho. We have only lived here and waited. The Great Huntress will not be expected to do anything more than wait for deployment against the fiends in the north.”

Venica said nothing.

Vlakis finally leaned forward and lied. “Lady ne’Statho, you and your warriors will not be expected to stay here indefinitely. In time, the war will end in our victory, and you can return home. The Drayhellers will finish their studies and return to their homeland with their artifacts. Hell below, I might plead with the Dioúksis himself to see the destruction of this place for its dreadfulness, if only to apologize to Belanore for the stress placed upon you here. We of the Bastions’ lordship understand your concerns, your countrymen most of all, but you must understand that this place stands crucial. Your journey has been long and hard. Do not let it end here in paranoia and hatred.”

Venica said nothing.

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Megare ne’Actë stood as a woman unlike any other he had seen save for Orlantha Xathia. The legends surrounding her told the story well enough, but to see her in person was entirely different. She had honed her swordsmanship to such a degree that a duel lasting more than ten seconds was considered a lengthy affair. Her ideals of warfare and leadership became as iron-willed as the soul that operated her body. Perhaps this is why so many within the forces of Dioúksis Polydius Audax could not believe their eyes when they beheld her joining the rebellion.

Vlakis was thusly shocked when he saw that Megare stood no taller than five feet and three inches. Much shorter than he expected. Much shorter than the legends had painted her. When she entered the room with fifty more of her war-bonded, she wore no armor, only the modest clothing of a knight waiting to put that armor back on immediately. The hard edges of muscles Vlakis never knew existed in the human body pressed against the fabric of her soot-black shirt and trousers. At a certain angle, she put Orlantha Xathia to shame. Her hair had been cut to a neck-length weave of night black that framed a hardened, squarish face prominent with rounded features. But it was her eyes, truthfully, that froze most who faced her—un-Belanorian eyes. Dark circled and deep-set with irises so brown they bore the visage of a starless sky, unlike the traditional light pink.

She sat on the opposite side of the lords, having pulled a chair up the platform to set it in front of them. She stared at her kinsmen first, as did Venica, who guarded her commander no more than six paces off the side with arms tucked behind her back. Megare shifted her glare to the Aslofidorians next. Vlakis stared back with a neutral expression, though the Huntress' was not and was, in fact, quite aggravated.

“We will make this quick. I do not appreciate being told to wait after a half-year’s journey, My Lords,” she finally said after the near five minutes of tense silence. “I have warriors barely hanging on after such a time following skirmishes with Druyan’ian raiders and Aslofi’dorian scouts. My healers were out of options lest they turn to the forbidden methods. This place being built in Heaven itself didn’t help matters either.”

Vlakis swallowed hard and clasped his hands together on the table’s surface. “I apologize, Lady ne’Actë-”

The Huntress held up a hand. “Tsu hatǐhefob’ gugi, Aslofi’dorian. They don’t do shit for the dead and mean nothing to the dying. Giving us access to your priest’s medicine stock will work wonders on fixing that viewpoint.”

“That is Rómitas Anthiti, Ofhěts ne’Actë,” le’Matto corrected softly. “We have already established that our healers are to treat your wounded alongside your healers. I am sure they are being cared for as we speak in the church. Your soldiers will also be fed once settled into the chambers below.”

“Your verbal assurances also mean fuck all to me until I see everyone healthy again, kinsman,” the Huntress said before clenching her eyes shut. She groaned with a heave of breath. “How are your storages? Food, water. Weapons?”

“We have the luck of possessing many grains, vegetables, fruits, and meats,” Rómitas Miro said. “Dioúksis Audax was also wise enough to send us a great host of supplies when we took dual control of the Bastion alongside the Drayheller—enough for your men and ours for two years and six months without additions. Weapons and armor, however, are to be supplied by the armies themselves. None are to be found here thus far.”

The Huntress sniffed and curled her lip. “The Drayheller? Inhuman vermin in the place you would have us call home?”

le’Micha sighed. “As I clarified, they are not like those of Aqella. They are different. Kinder. Wiser.”

The Huntress nodded slowly. “Where are we concerning the Vasileús’s territory, in full?”

le’Matto explained. “We are the bulwark of the Dioúksis’ most vulnerable parts of his territory, with a clear path to the Vasileús’s own in the north through the River Nyxos to our northwest. Our location, isolated by the dense forests, gives us some reprieve from others possibly considering laying siege. I imagine we will be assailed at some point, given that the Vasileús will surely come to know that we now control the Bastion.”

The Huntress said nothing and looked to her squire. Their faces were impartial, unreadable for any hint of emotion until the Huntress looked back with a smile. No…a sneer. “Such a glorious place to rule. ‘Reprieve from a siege.’ But not from cutthroats killing the unsuspecting when the tides became rough? Or those who claim to be holy yet ally with the inhuman?”

Faces darkened. Miro’s back stiffened. Vlakis barely hid his smirk.

The Huntress turned her sneer into a snicker. “Know this, Lords of the Star Bastion: I will use this place only to heal my wounded and prepare to deploy to the Vasileúsland as soon as possible, if only because there is no other option. Nothing more. Keep the inhumans away from my army, and I will keep the peace for such time as we are here.”

“As long as you keep the bloodshed out of our halls, we will have no issue,” Miro said.

The Huntress gazed around the room, allowing her snicker to morph into a full laugh. “Any blood that is shed is your fault, Aslofi’dorian.”

Miro frowned. “It was not we who will cause it, ne’Actë. It is not we who threaten.”

The Huntress leaned back in her chair, clicked her tongue, and then rose to her feet with a knife-sharp motion. “You ignore the blatant. The wise Dioúksis has this...the impervious Star Bastion. Aslofi’dor will do anything he can to get it for his own. The armies will bloat and swell with numbers beyond measure. One with zealots and traitors. The other with patriots and madmen.”

“And which one are you, Megare?” Vlakis inquired, his voice dropping to an intrigued hiss.

The Huntress backed away from the table, her dark lips curved into a savage knowing grin that revealed prominent, sharp canines. Vlakis shivered and caught his breath. “I am the only one with any damned sense to see that the crimes being allowed here...partnering with the inhuman, overlooking the presence of the Devil’s magic...all of it will cause what happens next. It will be an afterthought to you all at the end of all this,” the Huntress said. “And the thousands I lose will be a statistic in the history books rather than boys and girls who should have had their names read in holier times.”

“Then why do you fight? If you fear the outcome so much, why did you take up arms and join the fray here?” Miro asked, rising to his feet with hands flattened on the tabletop.

The Huntress turned away and walked down the length of the Hall with her war bonded, calling out as she did: “What else can a shepherd do when their herd goes mad?”