Commander Derald stared down at the report knight-captain Rory had brought him, his sky blue eyes betraying nothing of the turmoil roiling in his gut as he read it again. He leaned back in his chair, doing his best to appear calm as he tapped the unravelled scroll for emphasis.

“Has this information been verified?”

It was a simple question, yet the knight-captain’s spine straightened as he answered.

“It has, commander.” Rory said immediately, his deep voice coming out more as a rumble than speech. “Through the methods still available to us.”

Derald nodded, appreciating that while Rory had referenced the Oracle of Ember’s betrayal, there had been no hint of judgement to the order he had given. Normally, it was the oracle’s job to verify messages like this. Without him…

We will be weakened for a time. The commander mused, before reeling his thoughts back from that particular source of recurring irritation. His eyes glanced back down at the report. And this doesn’t help.

The report itself was only three lines. Encoded, as all their messages carried out in the field were, it was nevertheless easy to read despite the dried blood staining most of the parchment.

Fort Forward had been destroyed. Ravaged, really, byut an undead horde. A horde whose master the commander had no doubt he knew. This Bancroft creature that their wayward zealot had spoken of previously had apparently decided to go on the offensive. That the necromancer could so readily destroy a fortified location was troubling, and the loss of lives pained his soul.

But not nearly so much as the information contained within the last line of the letter:

His special project, the Brightmaiden, had been taken.

‘Taken’, but not killed. Derald’s sharp blue eyes had not missed that detail. This is getting swiftly out of hand.

The scout he had placed to watch over Fort Forward from afar had not sent in any further reports. Derald guessed that if the man were still alive, it was likely he had taken it upon himself to pursue this ‘Bancroft’ in the hopes of gaining more information. A brave move, and one he would have to reward if it succeeded. Even so…

Commander Derald’s left hand curled into a tight fist, his knuckles whitening as he struggled to keep his jaw from working. Showing reactive emotions to the troops was the policy of lesser officers however, so he forced his body to still as he addressed his knight-captain once more.

“We cannot allow this to go unanswered. Without the oracle or a Brightmaiden’s power for the next phase, we will need to send greater numbers in order to be assured of success against such a foe.” The commander’s quill rapidly scratched out a number of names, appending them to the order he had already been planning to send. “This upstart necromancer must be crushed, and his foul stench extinguished from the land, before we can work towards healing the rift within ourselves.”

Derald finished writing, setting the quill down and marking the parchment with his personal seal. When the yellow light finished blazing, he rolled up the scroll and handed his latest order over to Rory’s outstretched hand.

“Go.” The commander of Gold Spire ordered the scarred man before him. “Take your usual squad, the names on that list, and whoever else you think you need. Spare none who can be spared. I leave such decisions to your judgement, but do not linger in the city. I want your war caravan in the sands before nightfall.”

“Yes, sir!” Rory rumbled, snapping a crisp salute. The knight-captain turned to leave, but Derald continued before he could. Sky-blue eyes met dark brown like that of hardwood, the fierceness in both unwavering.

“Do not fail the Light in this.” Derald added, his voice low. “If the Brightmaiden is unmarred, retrieve her. If she is corrupted…”

Rory’s hard eyes did not so much as twitch. He simply nodded, acknowledging the unspoken command.

“Make sure the necromancer burns for his crimes.” Derald said, his tone taking on the note of finality that signalled in no uncertain terms that this meeting was now officially over. “And send Isla up before you go. Her counsel on this matter may be crucial.”

At that, Rory’s hardwood eyes did twitch. Whatever question was behind them however, the knight-captain kept it to himself. After another nod, the knight captain departed. When he was gone and his fading steps no longer in earshot, Derald finally allowed himself a sigh. Then, the Gold Spire commander imagined smashing his expensive, handcrafted desk of office to pieces in pure, unfiltered rage. If Isla could have the satisfaction, why couldn’t he?

Derald shook his head, letting out his fury in slow, controlled breaths. He tapped a single finger repeatedly against the desk, the only outward allowance he would give the emotion. Long minutes passed as the commander stared out his open window into the desert, and carefully gathered his thoughts.

The goal is close. He reminded himself, repeating the one solace he had these days. Whether it is in the necromancer’s possession, or the man merely knows some hint of its location, it matters not. We are closer than we have ever been.

Sky blue eyes flicked over to the ancient device resting on the mantle just below the window’s sill. Three hundred and sixty interlocking rings of blackened steel made up its exterior, and until only recently the sphere’s interior had been just as dark. Just days before their wayward zealot had returned to them however, reporting of encounters with rare undead and spinning tales of a Morian family necromancer, its center lit up with a single, golden flame.

Even now, Derald found his attention drawn to the soft flicker of light emanating from it. The ancient device was a remnant of the order’s earliest days, back before Dervash itself had even been founded, and supposedly reacted only to the presence of mana signatures powerful enough to be a part of the Lost Regalia.

If only that fool oracle could have been trusted. If he had only worked with me, we might have found it already. Derald’s irritation flared anew, and as there were none in his office yet he did nothing to quash the bitter expression spreading his features. He could not work the device. His predecessor might have known its secrets, but the man had died unexpectedly in the field. Experimentation was out of the question, it was – like the artifacts of the Lost Regalia themselves – irreplaceable. It should have been an honor to even inspect it.

The bearkin had recoiled from the device when Derald had first shown it to him, and then sequestered himself in meditation for several days. Afterwards, neither had spoken of it. He had never inducted the oracle into a seat at the Table, and clearly could not do so when the man was so easily shaken. So, the commander had kept what he knew of the device to himself.

Which, thus far, had been surpassingly little. Hidden records he had memorized in his earlier days suggested it would not activate unless the mana signature it sensed was within a certain range– but that range could be anything. Ancient items of power could do things that defied reason, he had seen the truth of that himself on his own induction to the Table.

And yet, it remains lit. That fact alone was still cause for celebration– even with every other problem on his plate, staring at the lit flame made the commander want to raise his fist in absolute victory. Decades he had been here. Centuries, they had searched. And I am to be the one who finds it.

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Even if it was only a single piece, finding just one of the Lost Regalia would change the landscape of this entire continent. If he found the entire set? He would not be a mere commander for long. Emperor was the smallest title history would ever attach to his name. He would have to pass on whatever he found to the Table for the Light to use, of course, but the recompense for that alone would guarantee his lineage would only ever end if it chose to.

Daydreaming about unrealized power and wealth was a path to sin, he knew. But it was a path he could avoid when the time came. His self-control would not fail him.

Lesser men crumble. The Light guides my way.

As if in response to that very thought, there was a sharp pair of knocks at his door. Derald straightened in his chair, his thoughts returning to the now. Knowing who this had to be, he reached behind his chair and casually flicked the latch free of his sword’s hilt. Just in case.

“Enter.” He ordered, and the newly promoted knight-captain Isla did as he bid.

Her face was a mask of neutrality as she marched into position before his desk. A crisp salute followed.

“You called for me, Commander?”

“I did indeed, knight-captain. I need your perspective.” Derald lifted the report of Fort Forward’s demise and extended the scroll to her, careful to keep his own expression grim. “On this.”

Isla’s sharp intake of breath – not quite a gasp – and the sudden fire that lit behind her eyes reassured Derald that he had made the right decision in calling her here. She was already angry, the decision of her former student to follow the oracle against the light had hit her hard. This would send her over the edge and maybe, just maybe, make her amenable to his proposal.

“The information has been verified.” Derald said swiftly, answering the question she had not bothered to ask. “Knight-captain Rory is forming a war caravan now. If the Brightmaiden yet lives, he will rescue her.”

“Permission to join.” The ‘request’ was intoned as more of a statement, but the commander didn’t call her on the breach of protocol.

“Denied.” He said smoothly, and the muscles in Isla’s jaw tightened as her fury grew.

“She was my sister.” The knight-captain growled, her teeth clenched so hard it was a wonder none of them cracked. “With all due respect, commander. I have the right to–”

“You have the right, yes.” His hands came up, placating, before folding back onto the desk before him. “I will not deny you that.”

“Then–”

“But what I hope you choose.” Derald said, swiftly cutting her off. “Is not to join a mission whose purpose is a slim hope in the shade as-is, but to to serve the same mission your dear sister has already given her life for.”

Confusion mixed with anger crossed the knight-captain’s face as her mask of neutrality shattered like silence before sound. Then, understanding dawned. Her face slowly paled.

“You can’t be serious.” Isla whispered, and there was a hint of fear underlying her tone. “You can’t order me to do that.”

“No.” Derald agreed readily. “I cannot, nor would I. A sacrifice as noble as the one your sister chose to give for our cause is one that none can ever be pushed into. Even so, I have hope that you will choose the right path here.”

Silence stretched between them as Isla digested his words. He gave her the time she needed, seated still and stoic in his chair. The very picture of a perfect superior officer, one as concerned about her own wellbeing as he was their shared cause.

Isla’s eyes scanned the scroll again, and its smooth parchment crumpled slightly in her hands as the muscles in her arms tensed. Again, he simply waited. He hadn’t lied, one could not be forced into becoming a Brightmaiden. But the cause– the search – needed one now if they were to succeed. How else can I hope to fight an oracle and necromancer both? The Morian family may have only sent one of their number, but he has been living up to their reputation thus far.

“How did he find out about the fort?” Isla asked, and it was a fair question. One Derald himself had wondered.

“Our current assumption is he got its location from one among the most recent trio sent to stop him.” Derald’s expression tightened, his expression darkening as one would expect it to on alluding to the capture and probable torture of his men. In truth, he felt nothing at the loss. Fodder died in battle all the time, and none of these men had been loyal to his true cause. If anything they should have at least kept their own oaths, but they hadn’t managed even that.

And now here I am, cleaning up their mess.

“Either that,” The commander continued. “Or the oracle’s betrayal of our order goes deeper than we know.”

Isla, to her credit, said nothing of the political ramifications of an oracle working openly with a necromancer to defy the Spire. She was a simple creature. One of passion, and her response proved it.

“That blood-soaked bastard… he’ll pay for this.” Isla swore, her fist crumpling the rest of the scroll as if it were the bearkin’s own head. Her eyes blazed with fury as she made her decision, and Derald had to admit, that had been easier than he had expected. “When can we start?”

“You are resolved then?” Derald schooled his expression, adopting the tone of a mentor. “You may have the rest of the day– rest of the week, really. Take as much time as you need. I may have hoped, but one should be sure before–”

“I’m sure.” Isla growled. “She was my sister, sir. And if that black-hearted bastard thinks he can do whatever he wants to her, or use her as bait? Well.”

The knight-captain put her hand on the hilt of her own sword.

“The ritual doesn’t take my mind right away, does it? It didn’t for her.”

“It does not.” Derald affirmed. “You will remain yourself initially. It is only as the Light’s strength swells within that I am told you will begin to lose yourself to its glory. Your dear sister was lucid for several weeks, I am told.”

“Then I have only one request, sir. If you can do it for me, then I will walk into any ritual you point me towards.”

“Name it.” Derald said, forcing his internal relief at resolving this devastating issue so swiftly from his voice. With a Brightmaiden here, in the heart of the Spire itself… he would have nothing to fear from the oracle. He’ll be just as his namesake. A mere ember before my stomping boot.

Outwardly, Derald inclined his head respectfully to his knight-captain. “Know that any request you make of me here will be followed to the very letter. By the Light, I swear it.”

“I want to watch.” Isla said savagely. “Whether I am myself or not, no matter how long it takes. I want to be there when he dies, to Rory or whoever else. I want him to know that my sister’s Light came for him through me.”

Fierce eyes only slightly touched by tears that she would never allow to fall met his as Isla finished her proclamation. “I want to watch that bastard burn.”

Commander Derald pursed his lips, considering. He wanted her here. Needed her here, really. It wasn’t only a resource issue, but one of practicality. This Bancroft had already proven himself a capable foe. He couldn’t risk the loss of another Brightmaiden, and he couldn’t delay Rory’s expedition. As a strategy, giving enemy mages time to prepare their defenses was literally always the wrong move. Death mages were no exception.

“I will change the war caravan’s mission to capture, instead of kill.” Derald said finally. “That way he can be brought before you when they succeed. Should that prove impossible, I will purge his corpse in the Light of your own glorious power.”

Isla nodded, somehow twisting her face to pinch back the tears without reaching up to brush them away. Perhaps he had underestimated the depths of her grief at the course of recent events. The loss of one’s former students had never bothered him, but she had taken it rather hard.

“Then I am ready, commander. When can we begin?”

Commander Derald rose, and saluted her with all solemnity. Giving her the respect owed to one who would soon selflessly give themselves to the Light forever. He was glad that his unlatched sword had not been required, here. That one would have been hard to explain to the others.

“Right away, ma’am.” He said, switching to the official term of deference instead of her rank.

“Right away.”