Silence enveloped Valencia in its crushing embrace as she strode through the tower’s stone hallways, the bloodbath outside only heard in the faintest of noises. The ancient arcane slumbered within these stones, a force that unsettled her on some primal level. Constructed untold centuries ago before the Rise, it was a maze of stone hewn out by magicks and malice. Untouched by the machines that proliferated the dark ages of technology afterwards, it was in all possibility one of the few locations in Famine’s Throne to exist untouched from before the Fall.

She ascended ever upward, in hurry within her strides. Whatever treachery Ilorath had uncovered, it warranted more than a luxurious pace. Her pace only slowed to take stock of her weapons and ammunition as the armored woman paced up endless sets of stairs that wound like serpents. The auto-bolter, she checked twice to make sure the magazine of dense boltspikes was fresh. The thin magicka velocity shield upon her back whined, a plea to be fed soon. Nothing was at hand to appease its hunger, and it went un-sakted.

She rounded a corner with bolter in hand and crashed into a sprinting form. With a grunt, she shoved the man away and paused only to take in his appearance. Valencia quickly surmised that he was hiding from the battle outside by his frightened appearance and robes that marked him a knowledge-seeker. With a twitch, she dismissed his cowardice, shoved past him and kept momentum forward. Galled as she might be, he served no purpose in battle.

His presence indicated that the tinbacks might have teleported directly into the tower, given that he seemed to be fleeing for his life and not cowered in some dark corner.

Suspicions that proved themselves correct less a handful of heartbeats later. A tinback assassin stalked around the shadowed corner ahead, all sinuous metal limbs, crimson sensor-eyes and wicked blades.

The bolter clanked twice and the abomination staggered, a duo of freshly-gaped holes in its chest. The warhammer battered its feet out from beneath it and a steel boot crushed both its head and its miserable existence underfoot.

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The elf awaited her beneath the hewn-open stone floor, bathed in the crimson light that spilled from above. A lantern that wailed in silent agony dangled from a cold chain bound to her hand, the visage of tortured faces carved upon it’s surface. Sacrilegious as it was to meddle with souls, she begrudged not the elf her weapon. Largely because it was turned upon Valencia’s foes. Mostly.

“Untimely intervention from the tinbacks has forced the Graftmaster’s hand.” Ilorath shared once the armored woman stepped close. Her blank eyes gazed through the narrow hole, whispers and strings of her listening magick barely audible. “They will flee soon, to-”

“Cowardice.” Valencia coldly cut in.

“To preserve whatever relic they found.” Ilorath continued softly.

“And damn the rest to rot on these barren wastes once the tinbacks overrun us.”

Ilorath shrugged. “I would do the same, in their stead. An object of great importance was wrested from its cradle here, and they see its return to human lands of absolute importance. A few are sacrificed for the good of many.”

“The stink of cowardice reeks too hard to be covered by a perfume of petty justifications.” Valencia uttered, voice hard. “If they will not render us aid within the very pit they dug, their corpses will at least serve to slow the breach.”

“I would caution against this.” The elf sighed. “But I already know such words fall upon ears of stone.”

“Your support would be welcomed.” Valencia intoned, Her bolter brought to ready as she stepped into the crimson radiance from above. “Not, however, strictly needed.”

She could have sworn her ears caught an exasperated sigh as she bent and then leapt straight up.

Cruel crimson light blinded her for a mere heartbeat. She felt her feet slam into the weakened stone floor. The panicked shouts reached her before sight returned. The smart raised shields in the heartbeat her presence became known. The foolish hesitated.

“What foul treachery is this?” Graftmaster Ilanthis snarled from within his pack of lackeys. “You come to take my head to appease the beasts outside? Have you no shame, mercenary?”

Valencia did not deign to reply.

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“They come, drawn by the stench of your fear, craven.” She snarled, judgment already passed. “The pit of a hundred graves you have dug, and now you seek to fill it with other’s bodies.”

The pale mask of flesh the filth wore darkened with rage.

“I do this for the good of our people. For the betterment of humanity. To bring this eternal war to its rightful conclusion!” He shouted, flushed with rage. “If a few misbegotten outcasts must be the foundation upon which our road to victory is built, then so be it.”

“What we have found here is larger than you, larger than I!” He continued to ramble as Valencia raised her bolter. “It will change this bloody war in our favor. No longer will we be forced to scrabble for desperate survival, barely able to eke out a miserable life on the edges of this hellish wasteland, only able to dream of humanity’s former glory! I would trod a million wretches like you underfoot to give back our dreams, to make a better future for our children. Who are YOU to stand in its way?”

For all his bluster and rage, the graftmaster had not spared a single ounce of magick to turn against Valencia. Even as he spoke, those around him stayed silent. She could smell it in the still air, the desperate pace with which they poured their energies into whatever spell they wove.

“I have judged thee coward.” She replied. “A traitor who would damn others to save his own miserable hide. You have been judged, and found wanting.”

“Ilorath.” She commanded the elf that appeared behind her.

The lantern screamed, and magick gasped for life. Shields flickered and faded as a void of hunger sucked the arcane inwards. The bolter spoke it’s thunderous judgment, and blood began to coat the stone.

An explosion hurled Ilorath forward, past Valencia. Her concentration faltered, and might was restored. The Graftmaster, blessed with the tenacity and nature of a rodent, had survived unscathed. With a curse, he shoved the bodies around him aside and exploded upwards. A purple veil surrounded his form, arcane being siphoned from his veins to fuel his sorcery.

With a wave of his hand. The ceiling exploded.

Rubble rained through the room as Valencia dropped her empty magazine and calmly reloaded to the sound of his booming voice.

“I had thought you would chose wisely, elf.” He raged, magical amplification in his throat. “You have sided poorly this day.”

“You needed me.” Ilorath responded, the lantern summoned back to her grasp. “It was not mutual.”

Anything further was drowned out as Valencia fired once more. Bolts ricocheted off his shield as the coward turned and fled into the night sky.

Valencia expended another magazine as he levitated away, slowed to aim every shot. Every bolt his shield blocked was another fabric of the arcane she forced him to call upon to maintain his protections. Another mile he could not fly. The journey between the tower and human lands was long and fraught with danger. If she could not have his life, then he would at least die tired.

His form vanished into the distance before Valencia ceased to pursue him with steel death.

She turned to a room filled with the dead and the damned. The Grafted who still lived had actual weapons at hand now, their arcane might rendered weakened by Ilorath’s presence. Her bolter was empty, ammunition spent to ensure the Graftmaster’s eventual demise. She raised it anyway. Less than a dozen of the Graftmaster’s inner circle remained both alive and able to move under their own power.

Valencia paid no heed to the groans of those who were busily engaged in their death-throes. Instead, she addressed the rest, those who could still serve a purpose.

“Fight the tinbacks alongside your fellows or rot in this room in your leader’s stead. The choice is yours.”

Overmuch convincing was not needed. Warily, eyes locked on her and faint magick at hand, they commenced to slowly leave as Valencia endured their suspicion and slow pace.

“Leave.” She barked, scorn in her voice. “If I had want to gun you down, I would not need trickery.”

Ilorath brushed past as Valencia’s bolter guided the last of the Grafted down through the void. Once they were ushered upon their way, the armored woman turned and marched back to the elf’s side.

“They were attempting a spell of mass teleportation, localized within this chamber,” Ilorath knelt, the lantern's pale light shone upon the spot where they had gathered. With a gesture, a body was tossed aside by invisible force and the elf peered closer.

A carved wooden doll lay upon the floor, unstained by the puddle of blood it rested within. Purple runes bound it, layer after layer of arcane weaves that bent around the elf’s touch.

“I have no suspicions as to what this is.” She pre-empted Valencia’s question. “Its importance is clear, however.”

“Bring it, then.” Valencia spoke. “We shall have naught but time to examine this thing once the Machine God’s spawn have been thrown from these walls.”

It vanished into the swirls of Ilorath’s clothes as the elf turned and rose.

“From the strife we came, and to it we shall return.”

Their presence was not needed, as fate would have it. Valencia emerged from the tower’s depths to find Johann sat atop a felled pile of machine children, covered in blood and oil. The Blackguard weakly raised an arm in greeting, exhaustion writ upon his features. In her younger years, Valencia had heard the taking of lives described as swift, chaotic and able to quickly induce exhaustion into the strongest men. A life ended between the blinks of any eye, a soul sheared from its body between breaths. Slaughter was a bloody business that quickly tired all involved.

She had never found reason to disagree.