Tarn gripped the polished wooden railing tightly as he stared out into the fog-shrouded harbor, the salt-scented air blowing into his face. This moment was one he had been dreading for months, and facing the truth here of all places only made it more unpleasant.

Standing on the balcony of the Lurim’s majestic Spire in the center of the Realm’s capital brought back too many unpleasant memories. It was here that he and his team had once scaled the smooth sides of the great tower, finding a way into the Old Bastard’s inner sanctum in a failed attempt to save his sister.

Those same teammates stood beside him even now. Lash scampered back and forth across the stone platform, peering between the iron railing slats, eyes as wide as the moon. Urthin stood stoically next to Tarn’s left, arms folded, his expression nearly as stone as the tower itself. On his right, Isca adjusted the lenses of her goggles, trying to penetrate the thick fog’s mysteries.

Questions about his misfired abilities still scratched at the back of Tarn’s mind. Isca had examined his gem and had found nothing. With no answers, he had been forced to just throw that worry on the pile along with so many others. Right now, the ocean fog and what it held were all that mattered.

They each lent him their strength in a way. He balanced himself with Urthin’s solid consistency, was inspired by Isca’s stalwart bravery, and Lash’s overwhelming enthusiasm for life kept his spirit light.

But the mood of one team member was clouded this day, and as was often the case, Tarn had difficulty guessing what her reaction to incoming invasion would be.

Behind him, he could sense Bog’s tension without even seeing her. She had been on edge almost from the day they had left the Sword, her concern increasing as the winter snow’s thawed and the inevitable Blood Summer grew closer and closer.

The mysterious delay in the orc fleet only seemed to raise the pressure upon her. Bereft of her memory but proud of the new person she had constructed, Tarn and Bog had talked about the impact meeting her own kind would have, her fear of how it might change the person had grown into.

What she didn’t say, and didn’t need to, was her fear for her people themselves. Bog may have stopped considering herself an orc, but he knew she still cared. Tarn had never met anyone whose heart beat bigger. More than anyone else on his team, Bog’s passion reminded him why he fought.

He reached his hand back toward her, feeling her large fingers take his.

“It’ll be okay, Bog,” he whispered. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it.”

Below them, he could hear the murmurs of the hundreds of the Realm’s soldiers, armor clattering, weapons shifting. A full dozen catapults waited, flaming shots ready to alight and sent towards the advancing sails. The war machines would take time to reload, but the lead orc ships would be crippled, hopefully slowing down the ones behind them.

The capital’s narrow harbor gave them a tactical advantage. Normally the orcs would make a beachhead farther north, by the broad and sandy shores of the Borian Capes. This had been their strategy for decades, and only the fertile farmlands kept the Realm’s people returning to the blood-soaked plains. Year after year it was the same without change, and the orcs would cut a path to the Capitol, only to be stopped by Lurim’s shield. Eventually forced out by the unbearable cold of the Realm’s winter, they would retreat back to their warm jungles before the northern sea froze, and the cycle would begin.

Yet the lookouts there had seen nothing since the spring. To the south, the volcanic desert lands were too inhospitable for either group.

“May I assume Lash has completed the key?”

Urthin trying to break the tension, something Tarn noticed the monk had started attempting ever since they had left the Sword. It seemed more of a Rykin thing to do, but he supposed Urthin had been in prison for two years. It changes a man, makes him appreciate things.

“Lash here!” The tiny gremlin hopped up and down angrily. “Ask him! Why Urthin always talk about Lash like he not right in front of you?”

His face as solid as stone, Urthin kept his eyes above Lash’s level.

“The gremlin is excitable, as always.” He spoke without the slightest hint of mirth in his voice. “But useful.”

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“He is at that!” Laughing, Tarn knelt to rustle the fuming gremlin’s ears. “Don’t let Smiley get under your skin, Lash. We know you’ve been at this for months, and now we can finally use it to get back in the Sword.”

“Back into the dungeon?” The authoritative voice behind him was a mixture of concern and frustration. “Is that still your intent, Mister Arisfal? The orc fleet is moments away, and you still plan to return to that Sword Dungeon for … I don’t really understand what purpose. The still-bombs are here, the orcs are here.”

Tarn turned to look at Ramad, the man who had stepped up and claimed Stewardship of the fledgling Realm Council. Still in his early thirties, his hair was untouched by the grey that would someday come, his eyes still bright with possibilities. Broad shouldered and big hearted, Ramad had willingly moved from his position as Lurim’s reluctant administrator and accepted the weight of an entire nation on himself.

But the lines were already creeping into his face, the rings of sleepless nights coloring under his eyes. The Arch Mage had used Ramad’s care for the common man to keep him under control, and that same care was now slowly crushing him.

The vacuum created by the Old Bastard’s death could have been filled by any number of horrible people, looking to turn the situation to their own ends. Charismatic, empathetic and with the people on his side, Ramad had been the single biggest reason the Realm had avoided pure chaos.

Tarn was grateful for him and the lives he saved, but Ramad found Tarn nothing but frustrating.

“The problems are here, Tarn. In the Realm, in the capital. This is where we need you.”

“Our current problem is right out there in the harbor, Ramad.” Tarn pointed into the fog. “That’s where my head is at. We’ve got half a legion down there ready to take the orcs on, but you know that’s not going to be enough.”

Ramad shook his head.

“Your head is in the dungeon, Tarn. It’s the one part of you that never left it.”

That’s not damn true. Part of him would always been in the Sword, even if Lash had never found a magical way to reopen the door. The guilt, the remorse, the second-guessing over choices made. Along with Sinah, he had left them behind two months ago. He had gone into the Sword one person, and emerged another.

But that changed man still kept his promises.

“I made a commitment.” Tarn looked over as Isca, now hovering several yards away with goggles over her eyes, peering out into the ocean. “Isca risked everything to help us. Without her, either Lurim would still be in charge, or we’d be running from Progenitors, not orcs.”

“You made a promise, and I respect it.” Ramad ran his hands through his hair, his nerves fraying into his voice “But would you trade a nation for her?”

“It’s not just Isca. These still-bombs aren’t coming from the Orcs. The Progenitors are still coming, somehow. I don’t think it’s a good idea to wait around for them to kill us. The way I see it, the best option is to go back into the dungeon. Take the fight to them!”

They paused, Tarn knowing it was no point in continuing the debate. It had been the same argument for weeks now. Ramad would talk about the security of the Realm and all the people who needed Tarn’s leadership. Tarn would counter that he wasn’t a politician, that he was suited for solving tactical problems not managing countries.

And to Tarn’s mind, all of their long-term tactical problems were trapped within the Sword Dungeon. Locked away, until today and Lash’s invention of a key.

“Look.” Tarn gazed into the mists. Why don’t they just come already? “No one’s going to leave while the Orc problem is in front of us. We’ll deal with that together and-“

“Here they come!” Isca’s cry broke through the tension. One hand held the lenses of her goggles, while the other pointed out into the dark fog. For a moment, there was nothing. Tarn could still hear the fluttering of the pennants in the breeze, the lapping of the waves onto the rocky shore below, the tinkering of men and women standing nervously on the pier, weapons in their hands.

Then a single shadow began to form in the center of the harbor, a dark cloud within the rolling clouds of mist. The vessel’s bow emerged forth from the thick vapor like a thrown dagger. The wood of the spar was painted black and red, the colors of the orcish Chieftain’s Bloodblades, the shock troops that would lead the invasion. The ship came into view, two masts of broad angular sails, the top decks riddled with fire-cannons of blueiron.

Yet as the fog parted, the clench in Tarn’s stomach only grew. He had been expecting to see the vanguard ship of the fearsome Orc fleet, the lead salvo what should have been a hundred vessels, decks teeming with orcs ready to exercise centuries of enmity against the Arch Mage and the Realm.

But no other vessel came, and the single craft that approached them was barely sea-worthy. Two masts held heavily-patched crimson sails, both shredded and torn to ribbons fluttering in the wind. The third aft mast was merely a shattered stump. Dark scorch marks ran down both sides of the ship as it approached the harbor, signs of fire and battle.

On the deck, where scores of fearsome soldiers should be standing, a lone orc warrior stood, a Captain’s cover upon his head. He was tall and muscular, with a dark braided beard that ran to his navel. One eye focused on the tower his vessel approached, while the other lost orb was covered by a bleeding rag.

Behind him were assembled not a score of the Chieftain’s finest shock troops, but rather a shuddering collection of wounded, exhausted looking orc. Many of them were elderly, though Tarn spotted a few scared orc children hiding behind their elders.

Tarn felt the orc captain lock eyes with him as he stared upwards, while at his booted feet rested upon the most astonishing impossibility of them all.

“By history’s thread,” Urthin gasped. “How can – can that be?”

The massive head a Progenitor lay upon the wooden deck, the orc captain’s foot upon it like a prize.