From the safety of the fields far outside the Kesrockian Knight’s headquarters, Lord Commander Aargon Narage watches as the castle he calls home is taken apart from the inside.

The great stone walls, built from his own will, seem to be shivering. Fire breaks out in the western wing. Thick plumes of black smoke rise like a hydra’s tendrils, twisting up into the sky.

Aargon shifts the burlap sack higher on his shoulder. It is the only thing he managed to take from his chambers before the destruction forced him out. He did not even get time to put on his armor before the room started collapsing.

Aargon turns his attention to the flatlands around him. More than three hundred knights stand staring at the shaking castle in awe. Many of them are hurt, though some have managed to escape unscathed. A few knights look lost. They wander the fields in soiled breaches, a slack expression on their dust-covered faces.

At the edges of the field, civilians have begun to gather. Without any physical boundaries, Aargon knows it is only a matter of time before they get too close.

"My lord." Danton Ralish appears next to Aargon, his gold cape snapping smartly in the breeze. “I could not find either Captain Maydan or Captain Tigarn. I’m afraid to say they might not have made it out.”

The sun is bright for an autumn afternoon, as if Nranhana is watching from the heavens and is enjoying what she sees. Aargon lifts the burlap sack even higher on his massive shoulder and addresses the East Gate captain without looking at him.

“We must ensure no civilians get any closer. Set up barriers and tents. Separate the wounded and guard them well. I don’t wish to see any ghouls today.”

Danton bows. “As my lord commands. I shall have archers ready at the borders and outside each healer tent.” He starts to go but stops. “Milord?”

Aargon waits for him to speak.

“Should I send a raven to the Queen?”

Aargon turns to study the young captain carefully. Being a pure-blooded son of house Ralish, Danton showed expertise with both steel and words at an age most boys will still be playing with wooden swords. Danton's ambition is only surpassed by his selfishness. He may have only recently received the East Gate captain's seat, but Aargon has no doubt the boy is aiming higher, already hard at work looking for a chance to use this disaster to further his own military career.

“No,” Aargon answers. “The Queen, in her limitless wisdom, no doubt already knows.”

If I give him permission to write to the Queen and her church, there is no guarantee what he might say in them.

If Danton is annoyed he does not show it. “My Lord is no doubt correct,” he says, bowing again. “Then I shall be on my way.”

As Aargon watch the captain go, he reminds himself that the reason the boy climbed so high so quickly is that he let him.

Whatever he does from here, I am responsible.

Another explosion rocks through the castle. An entire wall crumbles, the shattering of stone echoing even to where Aargon stands. A collective gasp spreads through the survivors as they watch, horrified, at the sheer power of whatever creatures are fighting inside.

Aargon hears horse hooves. He turns to see a young knight riding through the crowd, barely slowing enough for them to make way. The knight rears to a stop in front of him.

“Lord Commander,” the young knight pants as he struggles off his horse, “t-the lashing poles.” He nearly collapses as he hits the ground. "They've been freed, my lord."

Fresh scratches mark the knight's chest plate, carving through his griffon sigil. His helm sports a dent the size of an apple, and when he swings open his visor Aargon recognizes him as one of Sir Jernal Kanson’s newly appointed personal guards.

“Speak clearly,” he instructs.

The knight swallows. “The criminals have escaped. Both of them.”

Aargon waits, giving away no emotion.

“It was the citizens,” the knight continues, struggling to stand on his shaking legs. "They revolted, sir. They charged onto the platform and freed the prisoners."

In all his fifty-some years, Aargon has not been surprised much. Even on the night when he learned of the fall of Castle Ice, his brother's world, the most he did was open a bottle of aged mead in a silent toast of remembrance.

But this...

“Where are the prisoners now?”

The knight shakes his head. “I lost track of them. I was protecting Captain Kanson. He’s safe now, my lord.”

Aargon reaches out a massive arm and plucks up a squire as he passes, nearly scaring the boy half to death. “Fetch my horse,” he commands the squire. “Now.”

“M-m-my lord.” The boy looks around the fields helplessly. “The stables are back at the castle. We didn’t leave with any…”

The squire doesn’t finish his sentence before Aargon drops him. With a mighty heave, the Lord Commander swings himself on the horse Jernal's guard rode on.

Holding the unwieldy burlap sack in one hand, Aargon takes the reins with his other.

“Captain Ralish has the Kesrockian Knights until my return.” It displeases him greatly to give this order, but Aargon does not have any other choice. And before he can think about it too much, the squire and knight have already rushed off with the command.

As Aargon rides away from the sounds of his castle’s collapse, he works to put his emotions in check. Whether fear or anger, hope or loss, he packs them all neatly in an iron case and throws the case away. It is a skill he has mastered a long time ago.

Near the outskirts of the fields, his knights have begun to erect a makeshift wall made of spears and swords stuck into the ground. Aargon charges through a gap, shouting,

“Make way!”

but his voice is drowned by another booming explosion coming from far behind him.

“The twin goddesses be with us.” Despite everything, Aargon finds himself marveling at the scale and speed of the destruction. “Whatever it is in there, may it be on our side.”

He kicks the horse faster, riding past civilians and curious adventurers towards the cobblestone streets of the city. He has no doubt that the Queen’s Church already sent forces to Kesrock some time ago, but he doubts it is them who are battling the Blood Devil now. The carnage is simply... too obvious.

Aargon reaches the inner city circle and cuts down the pathways towards the South Sector. Even without his armor, he moves like a battering ram. On either side of him, people leap of the way to avoid getting trampled. A string of shouts and screams follow his charge but Aargon ignores them all. The sword inside the burlap sack bounces against his leg sharply with each of the horse's strides, and Aargon feels the telltale signs of the sack tearing.

I need to get to her. He snaps the reins, making the horse fly down the winding streets. Before it's too late.

Aargon knows he has reached the Southern Sector by the stench of blood in the air. He has to slow then, as a sea of people are pushing their way out of the Sector, shoving over each other to get as far away from the riots as possible. Many of them are holding belongings and children, making it impossible for Aargon to continue without trampling someone.

The horse whines and tries to turn around to follow the direction of the crowd. The animal is clearly not trained to mass hysteria, so Aargon does not waste time fighting it. He dismounts, letting it go as it pleases. He has barely let go of the horse's reins before a man leaps onto it, only to be pulled off by someone else.

They don’t know who I am without my armor on, Aargon realizes as he watches a fight break out over his discarded horse. Or they do and just don't care. There's no law here.

Aargon turns and pushes through the crowd, gripping his burlap sack close to him to keep it from being washed away.

Soon, he emerges on the other side of the crowd. The sound of his demolished castle is replaced by the clashing of steel. He starts running, rounding corners and shops until the lashing poles emerge into sight. The wind brings the scent of freshly spilled blood. For a sickening moment, Aargon thinks it’s Cathra’s, until a pair of dueling men crash through a store window onto his path. One is dressed plainly while the other wears knight’s armor, though the way the latter fights makes Aargon question if he stole the armor.

The plain man charges, holding his short sword awkwardly to the side. The knight steps past it and aims a hard kick at the man's shins, snapping the bone with a crack. The man yowls and drops to the floor. The knight is on him, kicking. The man tries to fight but it all quickly goes out of him when the knight starts stomping on his head.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Think you can oppose us, do ya?” the knight shouts. “Think you have what it takes to take down a knight of the South Gate, do ya?” Pieces of the man's head splatter across the cobblestone but the knight continues to kick. He's laughing as he does so, right up until Aargon cleaves him in half with the short sword dropped on the ground.

When Aargon reaches the lashing platform, he expects to see a city on fire. Instead, the fighting seems to already be done. A few stragglers on the outskirts of the clearing are still struggling, furtively fending off the knights’ advances. Men and women alike, one by one they fall until only the Kesrockian Knights remain, their armor stained with civilian blood.

Aargon finds Jernal by the base of the platform, having his leg bandaged by a healer. A few knights are lounging against the base of the platform with him, boasting among themselves about who they killed. None of them seem fazed when Aargon approaches. They don't even salute.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed the action for sure, my lord,” Jernal chirps. “But you know what they say, a mage arrives neither late nor early but exactly when he wishes, for sure.”

One of the knights sitting next to Jernal snickers as he wipes his sword with a tattered piece of someone's tunic.

“Speak your mind and be done with it,” Aargon tells the South Gate captain. “If I want to jest I will ask for a fool.”

Jernal chuckles. “Apologizes, Lord Commander. I’ve been hit bad for sure.” He knocks his stump against his temple, where a cut has run a trail of dried blood down his face. “Some boy hit me with a slingshot.” His eyes gleam as he looks at Aargon. “I slew him for it for sure. Right in front of his old man, too. That put a right stop to the uproar before it could get serious, for sure.”

Aargon controls his expression. “The fact that you are here,” he says slowly, “tells me you have the situation under control.”

Jernal nods. “That I do, for sure.” A few houses away from him, a door bursts open and a man stumbles out onto the street, a sword sticking out from his chest. Inside the building, Aargon can hear a woman screaming.

The healer finishes closing the wound on Jernal’s leg. “Do you hurt anywhere else?” she asks, already packing her bag. “The Guild cannot spare any more people right now, but I’ll do my best for your people, Captain.”

“I need some help,” another one of Jernal’s knights speaks up. “Right here.” He points to his crotch. "There's an itch I can't get to. Take a look, will ya?"

The healer looks flabbergasted.

“There’s no more need for your services here,” Aargon tells the healer. He reaches into the burlap sack and takes out Cathra’s sword. Unwrapping it from a bundle of oil paper, the scabbard gleams as it hits the autumn sun like a monster awakening from sleep.

Aargon regards the four knights before him. All four sport shiny new griffon insignias on their breastplates. All of them have been stained with blood.

As if sensing something is amiss, the knights stop their jesting and turn to look at their Lord Commander.

“Hey, my lord, what -”

Aargon whips Cathra's sword from its scabbard, the brilliant blue steel singing as it flies through the air. He cuts down the first knight where he sits, lopping off an arm and a chunk of torso.

The knight dies with a confused smile still on his face.

Chaos follows then.

The healer starts to scream just as the second knight lurches sideways. Aargon catches him on the downstroke, cleaving the man’s face open through his half-helm. The body sails back and crashes into Jernal, sending him toppling to the ground.

Aargon advances quickly, driving through the neck of the third knight before the man can pull his sword out. Aargon shoves the body away, blood squirting down his shirt as it slides off the blade.

He turns to the fourth, blocking the blow with a slash so vicious the man loses his sword and everything below the elbow.

Aargon steps up to the fallen man, who is now on his knees and begging.

"Please, my lord, I was just following orders!" the man cries. "Please, oh please!"

Aargon kicks the knight down and plunges the sword between his legs, ending manhood and life in one stroke.

Turning back to Jernal, Aargon kicks the body off the captain to find him clawing at his stump.

“What is the meaning of this, Lord Commander?!” Jernal screams up at Aargon with eyes wide with fear. “Have you gone insane?!”

“Perhaps I have,” Aargon admits, "to think I never expected you to be capable of this, Jernal Kanson." He lifts Cathra's sword up. "But there is still time to right this wrong."

Aargon plunges the sword into Jernal just as the captain manages to yank off his stump, revealing a flash of silver.

Something snaps against Aargon's chest, stinging.

Aargon looks down. A short bolt sticks out of the left side of his chest. The shaft is made of steel, the feathers slivers of wood. He watches as his shirt darkens around the bolt, spreading quickly with each beat of his heart.

Aargon sits down heavily by the base of the lashing platform, in the same place Jernal and his knights were sitting. He sets the sack down by his feet. He notices Cathra's sword is still in his hand, and starts wiping it down with a shred from his own clothes.

As the blood smears across the steel blade, Aargon vaguely remembers this sword has a name.

Was it Lightbringer? Frost fang? Or was it True North?

Aargon grunts, reaches up and pulls at the quarrel embedded in his chest. The pain tells him to stop. He looks around. The healer has gone and fled, leaving no one to help but more knights as they emerge from the surrounding houses.

"I never thought I'd see the day," remarks one of them. "The Lord Commander, sitting in the dirt."

Aargon lifts his head to look at the sorry bunch. “I am sorry,” he says with a sad shake of his head. “I was not a good Lord Commander, letting such corruption run rampant in my forces.”

“We could trial you for murder,” another knight says, drawing his sword and coming over to Aargon. “But if you ask me, I'd rather have the rights to say that I slew the mighty Lord Commander.” He lunges with a weak swipe, almost playful in his approach. Aargon deflects it hard and throws his blood-soaked cloth into the knight’s face. Then before the knight can recover Aargon springs up and in a clean swing lops off the heads of the two closest knights.

The knights attack all at once. Aargon deflects what he can but without armor, his massive body is a target not easily missed. A few swords get through his defense, sticking into his arms and sides. Aargon uses this to his advantage. He opens himself up for more. Soon, greed makes his attackers careless. They get closer, bloodlust in their eyes.

With a mighty roar Aargon brings Cathra’s sword around in a blinding arc, hacking through bones and steel in an explosion of sparks and gore.

The clearing goes quiet. Aargon waits until the last man drops down dead before he allows himself to collapse.

With extreme effort, he shuffles to lean against the lashing platform, resting his head against the wooden pillars holding the structure up.

A few feet in front of him, Jernal’s body lies unmoving, his eyes open and blank. Aargon wants to get up and check the captain really is dead, but his body will no longer listen to him. He looks down at himself, counting the number of swords stuck into him.

I'm going to die, he thinks, and almost laughs. Slain in my own city.

“Mischief!”

Aargon looks over at Jernal. A crow sits on Jernal's face, pecking at a glassy eyeball. “Mischief!”

“What a sight, huh,” Aargon whispers. “My city, destroyed by my own men.”

The bird looks over at Aargon, studies him with its head tilted to one side. “Mischief done!”

Aargon chuckles, even though it hurts to do so. “You saw this coming all along, didn't you, Hephoene? You knew... what was going to happen.”

The crow fluffs its feathers, so dark they seem to drink in the sunlight. “Done!” it caws. "Done!" It goes back to Jernal’s eyeball, pecking until white puss runs down the man's face.

Then Jernal blinks.

“Done!” The crow screams and takes flight. “Done!”

Jernal sits up. “Damn the goddesses.” He rubs his stump over the gash in his chest. Blood still runs from the cut, rivering down the front of his torn doublet. “You got me good, Lord Commander, for sure.” The man laughs like this is all a joke to him. “But I was prepared, you see, and you weren't.” He twists his wooden stump again and from the side, a hidden compartment slides open. Jernal reaches into it and hooks out a tiny black pearl.

"This is why I live and you die."

Smiling at Aargon, Jernal tosses the pearl into his mouth and swallows.

Immediately, the man’s face changes. Long, spidery veins bulge from his neck, crawling up to cover his entire face. Jernal gasps. His remaining eye turns black and rolls back into his skull. He starts to convulse, his teeth chattering so hard they seem close to shattering. The veins on his face grow thicker, blacker, pulsating erratically.

Then with a long cry of agony Jernal throws his head back and clutches at his chest, his fingers tearing into his doublet. Aargon catches sight of what looks to be black worms crawling beneath the man's skin.

And then all at once, the worms are gone. Jernal takes in a deep breath and looks back at Aargon.

"Impressive, isn’t it? For sure."

“What devilish trick is this?” Aargon studies the captain in disbelief. "What evil forces have you conspired with, Jernal? Answer me!"

Jernal’s smile is a gruesome sight. The black webs have remained etched into the skin of his neck and face. The eye pecked out by the crow has not grown back, leaving an empty, sloppy hole.

“I would be careful not to call the Queen evil, Lord Commander. You can be charged for treason, for sure.”

For the second time in one day, Aargon is taken by surprise. “The... the Queen?”

Jernal gets up. A flap of his doublet falls down, revealing the network of inky webs on his chest. He takes a stroll around the bodies of the dead knights Aargon slew, whistling as he kicks a few over. Finally, he stops by one of them. Picking up a small contraption on the ground he comes back to Aargon.

The crossbow.

“All you need to know, dear Lord Commander, is that you are no longer any use to the Royal Family.” Jernal mounts the contraption onto his stump and reaches into a side pocket for a steel bolt. "And so you may rest in peace where you are, for sure."

“You are a traitor to mankind,” Aargon spits and tries to rise. “I should’ve taken your head.”

Jernal aims his stump at Aargon and fires. The bolt lodges into his stomach. Aargon grunts and slumps to the ground.

“You… Goddesses damn you... Jernal.”

“They will, for sure.” Jernal fires another shot. With a thunk it sinks into Aargon's chest, right next to the very first one. “If they exist, that is.”

The Lord Commander's head lolls and he goes silent.

Jernal’s smile cracks wider across his broken face. “Goodbye, Aargon Narage. We will miss you, for sure.” He aims one last bolt, this time at the Lord Commander's head.

A sudden dark shape spears down from the skies, slicing across Jernal’s face. The captain screams, waving his hand wildly around his head as he stumbles back. The bird latches on tightly, shrieking and flapping its wings. “Mischief! Mischief!”

Jernal trips and rolls and manages to rip the crow free but another crow appears to take its place.

“Done!” the creature cries, talons gouging into Jernal’s face and eyes. “Done! Done!”

Jernal's screams are quickly drowned out as more and more crows fly down. A flurry of black feathers and sharp claws, they peck and scratch and screech like ungodly creatures. They force Jernal down, ripping through his clothes and skin, spilling his blood and the black venom flowing beneath it.

Wailing, crying, Jernal starts to crawl away. He keeps his arms over his head and slowly disappears down the street until Aargon can no longer see or hear him.

The crows return a while later, shuffling along the ground like a wave. One of them hops straight towards Aargon.

“Done!”

Aargon manages a weak smile. Breathing is difficult for him now, but willing all the strength he has left he holds up Cathra’s sword.

“Thank you, Hep... hoene.”

The crow tilts its head sideways. “Done!” it croaks. “Done!”

“One, more,” Aargon breathes. “One last…. mischief. Please.” He tries to bring the sword closer to the crow but his fingers fumble and he drops it.

He looks to the crow.

“Cathra...”

He coughs, tasting blood.

"Cathra. Cathra. Please."

The crow hops over to the sword and starts pecking at it curiously. Even coated with a layer of red, the steel shines bright blue in the afternoon sun.

"Take." Aargon points a shaky finger at the burlap sack he’s carried through so much bloodshed and chaos. “There’s… Goddess Honey. You can… take it… as payment.” His arm drops to his side, no longer any use to him.

The crow fluffs its wings. “Mischief! Mischief!”

With those words, all the other crows behind it start to sing.

“Mischief! Mischief!”

One by one, they flutter down around Aargon, gathering around him, over him, above him, covering him with dark feathers.

“Mischief! Mischief!”

Their voices join, merging together until it seems to Aargon he is not hearing the chorus of many animals but that of a single one.

“Mischief! Mischief!”

The crows continue to sing, their voices ringing out across the yard of dead men.

Aargon listens to them, thinking lastly of his niece, of words that should've been said and songs that should've been sung.