Darkness looms all over me. Faces drift amidst the void. Friends, companions, fellow acolytes—all of them from recent memories. A sharp painful wave echoes through me. All at once, the void is lifted.

The faces vanish in a moment, replaced by a harsh throb that felt like searing iron pressed against my scalp. Taking a deep breath, the world slowly returns under a dim shade of green.

The stench of charred soil quickly draws me back to that ill-fated battle. I push myself back up and piece together what had happened, recalling the struggle that was more akin to a slaughter.

There were soldiers—eight veiled in deep black. They adorned no clear allegiance or sigil. They came down harshly, and without pause. There were sparks, and yells in a language foreign to me. It was relentless, that ear-splitting rattle that sounded more like thunder than as weapons of any ilk.

But we were spared, left alive at their whim. Now everything is silent. The veil of night is on the cusp of returning and those unknown soldiers are nowhere to be seen. There was no true menace in the way they fought, just the cold resolute steel of warriors seeking the means to victory and nothing more.

"They're... gone," a familiar voice mourns.

Dread quickly fills me. To my left, fallen bodies. Those of my cadre—two, drenched in their own blood. A third kneels over them, quietly sobbing.

"No," I gasp, stumbling over to the grisly discovery.

Sephra turns with dried tears staining her face and raises a hand, the fingers marred red with blood which I dearly hope is not her own.

"Fatal puncture wounds, very clean, very deep. Gareth and Ranai have left for distant shores," the Cadre's Mender murmurs.

"We're alive, thank the Herald," Oswin says as he leans upon the charred remnants of a tree. He looks up with dreary eyes, harbouring a grim tone as he continues, his staff cradled in hand. "They were not Yhunian assassins, let alone their common soldiery."

I feel the rush of tears prickling at the edges. A reckless choice led to this. This is my doing. The loss is beyond words, as though their blood is on my hands.

This is hard to accept, but the harsh pounding in my head tears asunder such ignorance.

I push onwards even as the ensuing grief claws at my heart.

"What shall we do?" the timid voice beside me asks.

"We... return back to our encampment," I groan and pick up my scepter, its crystal no longer gleaming and pristine as it once had been.

"I could not... " Sephra once more gazes over our fallen, her words fading in a sob.

Messily strewn over the Mender's lap and all around her is a myriad of herbs. In her other hand, a roll of unused silk still lies clutched between her fingers, no longer of use after the passing of our kin. They were slain long before Sephra could tend to them.

Their armour is ridden with small holes, each as clean an entry as the last. Ranai's chest piece is afflicted with no less than ten of them. Her glazed eyes stared back from within the helm, no longer imbued with the spark of life.

She was the youngest of us.

Gareth lies further away, three paces to the right. He is splayed on his belly, head engulf in a grisly sheen of blood. There was so much of it pouring out, all of it from wounds no larger than a finger's width.

This place is not worthy of being their final resting place. Not under my vigil. They both deserve that dignity.

"And we return with them, however long it takes," I say and place Ranai's limp arm over my shoulder. They deserve no less.

Carefully, I lift her body up and rest it across my back. Her arms dangle before me, one across each shoulder. I grab her wrists to keep her steady—both are cold and clammy. Her blood spills onto me, more than I expected.

Oswin takes the mantle of carrying our other slain kin, Gareth. Together we begin the journey back east, trudging through the woods with a steady flow. There is no time for mourning, not yet. Still, the silent tears fall without pause. Each breath invokes a tremor of grief in my chest. This is a nightmare of the worst kind.

Exhaustion quickly takes root. Every step now is harder than the last. Both my legs burn with a painful throb, almost unbearably so. The weight of another is too much, especially with armour.

After untold leagues, the forest finally relents into rolling hills and sparse roads. Lights glinted in the distance, friend or foe, I could not tell. The exhaustion is simply too much to think through.

"Halt, identify or be slain!" One of them bellows without hesitation.

A soft, blue glow emanates from them. There is at least one amongst the gathering that is versed in the arcane.

"Speak, in the name of her Majesty!" The voice echoes louder, this time with the lilt of impatience.

That last snippet eases my worries. These are fellow Euralians on the field.

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I stop and heed his instructions, legs finally buckling. "Inora, 3rd battle-cadre, Pathfinder detachment of the 21st Royal Cohort."

"Under the decree of Lord General Thellius?" The same voice replies.

I nod, even though the gesture would not be seen. "Yes, sent to hunt those who mean to pester our supply lines."

"Same as us then," another says. That would explain their wariness and reasons for prowling at such a perilous time and place.

The soldiers draw closer, unveiling the assuring regalia of the Crown seared upon their chest plates. A few break ranks and step aside, spreading outwards from the path. Sparse whispers linger amongst these arrivals, but the exchanges are too subtle to discern.

A few words make it through the veil—ambush, danger, and assassins. The threat is always there, but now more so ever since the sun departed. Apprehension runs rampant—infectious even, almost like a tangible blight with no cure.

"Regular line troops, we're safe," Oswin murmurs, his strength faltering with each breath.

"Soldiers of the 10th Dauntless Cohort," Sephra remarks, her tone steady as she points at the sword-inspired sigil fashioned upon their pauldrons.

From the crowd of over thirty, there is only one wielding a scepter. The rest carry an assortment of weapons—swords, spears, and bows alike. All look none too pleased at halting in such an open, vulnerable expanse even if it lies well behind the front lines.

"What happened?" A soldier asks with a stern glare as he kneels, gaze drifting towards the body of my fallen companion still hoisted on my back.

"There is something else to our west. Not Yhunian military, but soldiers of another state," I answer, then move to rest Ranai's body gently onto the ground for much needed respite. Her skin has since gone deathly cold, and her expression remains unchanging.

A few gasps emerge from the curious few that gathered around me. The silence that follows is equally as unsettling as the sudden emergence of those unknown, black-clad warriors.

"They spared us," Sephra pauses with a wince, as though the very memory of that battle causes her turmoil, "then spoke amongst themselves, but their tongue is foreign."

"As are their weapons," Oswin adds with a grunt.

"So, this region is rife with more than just Yhunian subterfuge, am I correct to think that?" The soldier that first yelled—a Low Marshall from his stature and emblazoned rank, rightfully concludes.

I nod, pushing aside the vile imagery of those battle garbs. "Yes."

"I see." The Marshall turns away, gravely pondering with furrowed brows.

A cold silence looms over the air as the rest of his soldiers mull over what has been said. A few questions emerge and we answer them as best we could, fatigued as we are. Some looked as though they held doubts, whilst others take our words in stride, truly believing what we said.

The mention of weapons that thundered loudly whilst spouting shards at untold speeds raises concern amongst the gathering. A few menders boldly step up and kneel before me and offer a consoling look before examining our fallen.

With tender hands they trace each of the wounds which are spread across armour and flesh.

“Her neck is stained with entry and exit wounds. The greater, left ascending vessels are breached,” a mender reveals.

"These are odd," another remarks, face twisted as he inspects the fatal wounds upon Ranai’s chest.

His hands travel across her chest plate, resting at the vital point where her heart lies beneath. "Deep and fine punctures, even in the thickest parts of her armour. The heart and its major vessels are also undoubtedly breached," he sighs.

"Certainly not by battle sorcery. Nonetheless, it was a quick death," the first one adds, concluding his grim appraisal with a dark look. For a moment they both kneel in silence, mourning her as we did, heads bowed in reverence to the person that once was.

In the morning, she was still alive and well. The both of them were alive.

Following our warnings, the detachment's Marshall offers a few of his soldiers—just three, to guide us back to the encampment. We readily take it, and part ways after bidding them farewell as they continue onwards with their hunt.

For their sake, I pray it proves uneventful.

We continue journeying east alongside the three extra soldiers. They offer to lend their strength and carry our fallen, but we refuse out of principle. This is the Cadre's burden to bare, not theirs. The silence is profound. I struggle even now to accept the finality of their deaths.

It is overwhelming, like a tide destined to sweep all in its wake. It took only a moment—a mere decision, to render their lives forfeit. There is no measure of peace to be found. Despair is just a breath away from me at every turn.

After untold paces in silence, the encampment's thin walls come into view. The town's gates open and we enter, greeted by only a single soldier. His face is young and simmered on the cusp of manhood, maybe a season too young to be wielding a spear.

“Blessings to you, honoured Arcane-sister,” he smiles, though it quickly falters upon my frown.

“Pathfinder Inora Ver’Riyya, alert the menders at once,” I decree with a bitter edge.

“I—yes. Of course,” the young man answers with ample haste.

As he strides away, I resume and enter the encampment. The passing wind carries a cold that seems out of place, as though a brush of winter had crept onto the land. Footsteps pattered from the Mending wards in the distance, and robed figures soon emerge out its doors.

The encampment's healers, alerted to our arrival with a call from that lone sentry, rush out to meet us. Their clothes are stained a deep red, yet they carry onwards without heed to their muddled appearance.

"Two dead, give both their final rites," I bitterly announce as they approach, scepter and bandages in hand, both utterly useless.

"Very well, leave them to us," one of the Menders decrees.

"He... is in your hands," Oswin whispers, finally passing the healers their quarry.

I give Ranai's arms one last squeeze before lowering her to the ground. There is a sickening stiffness to her limbs which I dare not delve into.

"She is yours," I say, relenting possession with no small amount of joy.

The healers place the two onto stretchers, wrapping both fully in wraps to be carried away to the town's Mending wards. As they left, so did a part of me.

Stubborn tears hinder my vision, but I blink them away. There is still a warning to be passed. I will mourn them in due time. The pressing matter of those we had fought must first be brought to light.

"We shall rejoin the garrison's ranks, as per the decree of our Low Marshall." The three soldiers offer their regards and begin making haste onto the battlements. Theirs is a brief farewell, with little need for pleasantries.

"You have our thanks," I call out to the three, yet they march on without pause.

"Honour and fealty, arcane-sister. May your battle-cadre recover from this blow,” one amongst them answers back, offering a final salute with an arm crossing over his chest.

Soon they join the town's outer defences, mingling with the soldiers already on guard at the top. The streets are barren, lacking the simple charm it once possessed no more than twenty days ago. They lie battered, a result of the endless processions of foot soldiers and cavalry that once marched through this town.

All is silent save for a few paltry soldiers on vigil across various intersections. They numbered no more than a dozen, and over half belonged to the militia.

Our quarry is none other than our Lord Captain, and so we proceed onto the only place a man of his stature would linger at this time—even now. The Cohort's command tent stands proudly in the town's nexus. Within lies my fate, perhaps even punishment. Both, I will accept without question.

"Be silent, stay outside, and let me answer on behalf of our cadre," I exclaim, regarding both with a grim look.

'Or what remains of it,' I think silently, the thought only raising more despair.

"As you wish," Oswin answers.

Sephra hesitates for a moment, soft, violet eyes imbued with turmoil. She glances to the command tent, and finally answers under a meagre tone. "I will not expect good fortunes for us. We may—" she halts, her parched lips pressed into a grim line.

I raise a hand to defer her thoughts. "Enough," I proclaim, garnering her attention. Her eyes gleam with intrigue, hands slowly weaving together on her front. She patiently waits, her musings left unspoken at my behest.

There is no explanation to be given, nor is it owed. I steel myself and turn around, striding proudly into the Lord Captain's tent. There are lingering doubts, fears, and ample worry as I pass. All of that will be well-founded beneath the Lord Captain's tired, but searing gaze.

A large map is spread upon a central table, marked with the army sigils for both friend and foe. The battle formations offers a glimpse into the grim war we face. Tentative were our gains, and our holdings, even less so—just as I suspected.

His lesser Marshalls watched, judged, and frowned, as though privy to such a conclusion. The time has come to bring forth my tidings, and to accept retribution, if he deems it so.

'Herald protect me.'

And so, I begin.

===End===