The command debated almost the entire next day, weighing various options. Everyone needed rest after such a battle; the troops couldn’t be immediately sent marching again, even if that had been desired. The day was also used for funeral rites to pay proper respects to the fallen. Some of the wounded survived the night and showed promising recovery, but many succumbed to their injuries. With only a handful of medics and too many patients, the losses were inevitable.
Moira slept until noon and then spent most of her time eating and resting. At least half the squad was always nearby, ensuring no rogue cultist would have the chance to take her out of the equation in this war.
In the evening, new orders were distributed. The plan that emerged was somewhat bold but not surprising. Reinforcements were to be brought into Hooren from reserves in other cities, including local civilians who would defend their homes and property alongside coalition forces. This was in case the Last Tribe managed to muster any significant strength from provincial sympathizers—an unlikely scenario but one the command didn’t want to risk after the heavy losses suffered to secure the city.
Most importantly, after another day of rest, the majority of the troops would march straight to Forgdom to cut it off from all supplies—both goods and manpower. Simultaneously, word would be sent across the north about the Last Tribe's defeat at Hooren and the encirclment of Forgdom. Instead of chasing small groups of cultists across villages and towns, the goal was to undermine their support in the region. If public sentiment shifted toward the coalition and moderate sympathizers abandoned the tribe, seeing it as a lost cause, operations would become much easier. Local communities might even seek help themselves, revealing cultist hideouts or similar intelligence. The command also hoped this strategy would force the Last Tribe to act—perhaps to break through the cordon around Forgdom. Time was now on the coalition's side, and they intended to make the most of it.
The team thus had another full day to rest before setting out with the rest of the army toward the cultists’ last bastion—a reprieve Moira welcomed with visible relief. She was still regaining her strength. Though it wasn’t quite like Iskev, she once again felt the comforting acceptance—even celebration—of her craft by her comrades in this campaign. People were eager to ask her about necromancy and how it could be used when wielded not by a madman like the Elder but by decent folk, like herself. She answered readily, drawing upon both contemporary and ancient traditions she was familiar with.
She was pleasantly surprised when, on the last day before their departure, she was invited to participate in the funeral rites. There, she performed a spell to bring peace to those who had passed on. Vengeful wraiths could naturally arise if echoes of powerful emotions lingered long enough in a place and interacted with the currents of magic. Thanks to her intervention, the likelihood of any of the fallen heroes manifesting in such a form was reduced to almost zero.
As Moira sat with Tex over a bowl of hot soup that evening, Tex casually asked, "So, is that how it used to be? Helping the dead not turn into wraiths and questioning murder victims to find their killers, stuff like that?"
Moira finished her portion, swallowing thoughtfully before replying. "It touches on the entropy of the spirit, emotions, or echoes of consciousness. And yes, there were times when necromancers participated far more commonly in such matters than they do today. Rarely, in some places, there's still room for it."
"Like your mentor working for the Emperor's house," Tex observed astutely.
"Exactly," Moira confirmed, adjusting her seat. "But there’s another side to the coin, the realm of the body—blood, bone, flesh. Everything that makes up the physical form also falls under the entropy central to our craft."
"Yeah, I can see why that side might be less popular."
"Take my ravens," Moira said, growing animated. "I’ve been summoning the same three for years now. At this point, they’re little more than the abstract idea of a bird. Magic has transformed them into something new, something better in my eyes. But it took time to perfect that spell."
"Sure, and no offense," Tex replied, "but to an outsider, they do look a bit like nightmare fodder at first glance. Today, hey, I’m glad they’re up there keeping watch, but the first time I saw them..." She grimaced, shrugging. "Let’s just say hand-feeding them wasn’t my first instinct."
Moira chuckled. "Well, in times when death was more common, more inevitable..." She searched for the right words. "Oh, for instance, in mines. Even now, conditions can be rough, with high mortality despite dwarven engineering advancements. It used to be far worse. So, it wasn’t entirely shocking to see the dead employed in the most dangerous work areas."
Tex wrinkled her nose. "You’re joking," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Seriously?"
"Why risk the living when the dead could handle such perilous tasks? The bodies of convicts, the forgotten, or the family-less could still serve the living," Moira explained with conviction.
"I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I can see the logic," Tex admitted, finishing her meal.
"The trouble is, that same logic got applied to warfare. No army wins hearts and minds outside its own people, and an undead army? Well, no one sympathizes with those. A few bad apples took things too far, and now every necromancer pays the price for their ideas. This so-called Elder is doing exactly the same thing, perpetuating the stigma."
Tex was quiet for a while. "I know it’s a dumb comparison, but all it takes is one corrupt roadwarden for the whole area to believe we’re just thugs preying on honest travelers, shaking them down with bogus tolls."
"Something like that. Just on a different scale and timeline," Moira admitted with a sigh.
"Well, good luck rebuilding your reputation. You’re off to a decent start," Tex said with a conspiratorial wink. "But don’t count on undead miners just yet." She stood, stretching. "See you in the morning. Don’t lose sleep over all this."
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"Sure, sleep well," Moira called after her, then made her way to the small storeroom where she still, for one last night, had a bed of her own.
It took them three days of marching to reach their destination. The small detachments of the Last Tribe that they encountered either fled northward to join the garrison at Forgdom or scattered across the province. None dared to engage in skirmishes, let alone direct confrontation. Their forces were far too meager to attempt such actions.
The coalition forces set up camp and positioned their supply wagons at a distance sufficient to monitor all movement in and out of the city while remaining far enough away to be out of range of projectiles from siege engines or archers. Forgdom nestled against the base of a mountain, with its rear section climbing into the rocky terrain. Its walls were tall and well-maintained—perhaps not particularly thick, but without powerful siege engines, they were impenetrable. However, the coalition had no intention of taking the city by force. They planned a less elegant but highly effective method: starving the defenders into submission.
Knowing they would be there for an extended period, they began constructing permanent structures in the camp on the first day under the supervision of an imperial academy-trained engineer. With the support of Ashan, Moira, and the other scout groups, they secured the surrounding area, ensuring complete control. Mountain trails, side paths, and unexpected approaches to the city were swarming with patrols and strike teams within a week. By the end of the second week, nearly no one even attempted to smuggle goods into the city. Forgdom was left entirely dependent on whatever supplies it had stockpiled beforehand.
According to the city council exiled from Forgdom, the city's stores and the goods from its markets would suffice for about a month of normal consumption. This could be stretched to three months by rationing strictly, though at the cost of morale and health. Beyond that, there would be nothing.
Ashan, during his closer reconnaissance near the walls, reported glimpses of spellwork being performed inside. However, he couldn't get close enough to discern the details. It was clear they were working on something, but neither he nor Moira's crows could determine precisely what.
The optimistic expectations of the command were not fully realized, but they were not entirely in vain either. Week by week, more towns and villages approached the coalition to coordinate a transfer of power. Their loyalty to the Last Tribe, it seemed, had its limits. The most devoted followers were either lying dead beneath the walls of Hooren or cowering behind the defenses of Forgdom. Meanwhile, moderate sympathizers were rapidly losing faith in the sustainability of the Tribe’s cause. One village after another began shifting allegiance toward the coalition—the force that clearly intended to remain in the region for the long haul.
From Forgdom itself, however, there was silence. No envoys, no threats, no pleas, nor any attempts at negotiation emerged from the city.
The turning point came during the second month of the siege. By then, the other cities had stabilized and sent additional recruits, allowing forces to be reassigned to persuade or subdue the remaining unconvinced settlements in the region. A series of skirmishes over the span of a week resolved the issue in the coalition's favor. Ultimately, aside from Forgdom, there were no organized remnants of the Last Tribe that anyone needed to consider.
It was during this period that the coalition began to capture deserters. Moira took a particular interest in interrogations when they touched on the runes or peculiar activities of the Elder within the city. The fragmented accounts painted a picture that was both vague and deeply unsettling.
From the scraps of information, she pieced together a theory, which she presented to the coalition leadership in good faith. Her conclusion, however, was met with reluctance rather than enthusiasm.
"But does the esteemed advisor confirm that this is merely a hypothesis?" asked Kaarv's senior representative during a wide coalition meeting in a wooden barrack cleared of soldiers for the occasion.
"Indeed, I lack sufficient information to confirm the exact nature of the spell. However, I am nearly certain of its scale. This man has created his own branch of magic, blending rituals and runic symbols. I stand by my earlier assessment." She surveyed the assembly with a stern gaze. "I believe he intends to enact some form of ritual over the entire city."
Dissatisfied murmurs rippled through the gathering.
The treasurer, who, in Moira’s estimation, had aged a decade in the past two months, responded in a weary tone. "We understand and respect your assessment. However, bringing in dwarven siege engines, announcing another draft, or, as you suggest, hiring mercenary companies to launch an assault on the city, is beyond our means." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"We don’t even know what kind of spell this is. Perhaps it’s something defensive? Some fortresses of the empire are protected by barriers cast by mages; maybe it’s a similar situation?" speculated one of the council members from Kardum. He was a former captain of the guard, though he now held a different title—one Moira couldn’t quite recall.
"Honored members," Moira interjected firmly, "our experience with the Elder's spells so far compels us to consider worse scenarios. It is far more likely that this is yet another abomination—grander or more numerous than the ones before!" She raised her voice, striving to convey the urgency of her warning.
Murmurs of discontent rippled through the assembly, prompting the chairman from Kardum to interject. "Let us thank our esteemed magical advisor for her insights and deliberate on her counsel among ourselves. Thank you, Miss Moira. Please, accompany me," he said, offering his arm. Together, they stepped outside the meeting hall.
"I’ll try to persuade them," he assured her quietly, his voice heavy with the weight of responsibility, "but I can’t promise anything. Our coffers are truly running dry. Still, I believe you’re right." He gave her hand a reassuring pat. "In the worst case, we’ll have to pray that whatever he’s concocting, our forces—especially with your help—will be able to counter it."
Moira sighed deeply. "I hope you succeed. Whatever this is, I’d much prefer to stop it before it takes shape. For now, good night," she said, parting ways and heading toward her unit’s quarters.
When she returned, they didn’t need to ask how it went; they could see it in her expression.
“You did what you could; the decision is now in their hands,” Tex said, putting her arm around her.
“I know; I just hope it’s enough,” Moira replied in a somewhat disheartened tone.
“Sit down! They kept you there for so long; eat something warm!” Otan called out, serving her a steaming portion of stew. During those long months of traveling together, and now being stationed in one place, the whole group had grown closer and could read each other’s moods much more easily.
Furthermore, she and Ashan had decided not to put things off any longer. He had just brought her a cup of water to go with her meal and placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head, adding, “Good job; enjoy your meal.” For over a month, after a long conversation, they had agreed to give their relationship a chance and not hide it from the team, as that made no sense. The field conditions might not have been ideal, but life was too short to delay anything, and for now, they were both happy with their situation.
With each spoonful, her frustration eased a bit. Part of the team sat down to keep her company. So as soon as she finished eating and washed it down with water, she looked around at their friendly faces and really wanted to be wrong about her assessment, but the feeling of unease wouldn’t leave her. She worried about how this campaign would end, but most of all, she was concerned for all of them.