Mark almost felt sick as he watched arrows cutting into the already wounded men, stubbornly trying to pull themselves through the barbed wires.

Driven by religious fervor, the cultists pushed on, ignoring the wounds opening up across their bodies until they could no more and sunk into the deathly grasp of the trenches.

But those behind them saw an opportunity, climbing over the bodies of the fallen to avoid the wire and charging into the icy trenches—only to lose their footing against icy dirt and snow, impaling themselves against spikes that littered the trenches.

It was worse than Mark had imagined, but it was a necessary evil to save his followers and his growing fiefdom.

A handful of cultists at various points surrounding the fort managed to break through both rows of wire, but they didn’t make it much further. With every step, they grew close to the fort, becoming easier targets for the archers and being shot down as their numbers thinned.

Within minutes of their attackers reaching the defenses, only writhing bodies lay scattered around the fort and curled up in its defenses, discolor already marking their skin as the frozen land claimed more souls.

Good, their first attack didn’t reach the flamethrowers. We still have a surprise up our sleeves for them.

He could see the hesitation of the remaining cultist soldiers along the tree line. It was too far to make out features, but he could see them looking at one another—no doubt surprised at how effective some metal wire could be.

He had hoped another push might have recklessly followed the first. However, Mark was sure they had intended to follow the probing attack once a weakness had been found, but it stopped short when they witnessed the devastating effectiveness of the fort’s defenses. That was both good and bad. Damaging enemy morale was, without a doubt, beneficial, but he had hoped to take out more of their numbers.

“You were right,” Henric said, near speechless. “I tested the wire myself… but seeing it in action. It was something else.”

“Like I said, have some faith.”

"There's still a lot of them."

"And we've still got plenty of surprises," Mark said, eyeing his people as they cheered the enemy corpses along the walls.

**Callum**

Standing on the Imperial district's inner walls, Callum groaned impatiently. He wanted them to win, of course, and so far, everything looked good—at least from where he stood—but being held back here meant that he might miss out on the battle entirely.

I’m not going to reach the heights I need to hide away.

He pulled his sword from its sheath, glancing down its sheen as it caught what little light pierced through the cloudy cover above. He wanted to use it and prove that he had been deserving when Henric handed it to him. But more so than that, He wanted to prove to himself that he would amount to more than just a hated heretic.

“What are you mumbling about now?” Erin asked, her elbows against the inside of the wall and chin resting against her palms.

“Nothing,” Callum said, pacing the wall.

“Boys—complaining all the time.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Callum shook his head. “You’ve got a future ahead of you. I’ve got to make one. Not stand around wasting my time.”

“Do I, really?” Erin challenged. “You're quick to forget that I shot someone. I suppose it's good to know somebody is," she sighed, only having just had her crossbow returned to her. Not that it did much to ease her mind. Most acolytes had taken to calling her Hamstring, which might not have sounded so bad on the surface, but if anyone asked why she got the nickname, it would kill any ambitions she had within the Imperium. "Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like anybody else forgets. My future in the Imperium may as well be done for. Not that I care.”

“What do you mean you don’t care?” Callum turned to her with a twisted brow.

“You heard me. I don’t care. Why should I? I just hope the Imperator knows what he’s doing and we never return to the Imperium’s rule. A girl can only dream.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? What good has the Imperium done for us, Callum? Sent out here to die?”

“We’ve got a chance to become Imperators; what about that?”

“Do we? Do you really think any of us are going to be selected?”

Callum fell silent, his eyes falling to his feet.

“Didn’t think so. We’re just cheap disposable bodies to keep an eye on this wasteland. Sent here with troublesome Imperators as an excuse to send untrained kids instead of valuable soldiers. You know, Callum, I wish I knew what happened to Imperator Atlas; something changed in him. It’s like he sees the bigger picture now. Not just another blind Imperator that only cares about enforcing their laws. And you know what? It actually inspires me. It's like things can actually change for the better now. I used to think the Imperium was all there was. Nothing was ever going to change, so why bother fighting it.”

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"Be careful what you're saying, Erin. Many would consider these words of heresy."

"Oh, I know, Callum. What about you? Is that what you think?"

"I ah... I dunno—what about the Imperium? What about everyone you know?”

"The only people I know sold me to this place," Erin shrugged. "I won't be seeing them again regardless of what happens."

"I see," Callum slumped. He didn't know how to respond. His life within the Imperium hadn't been much better, but it was hard just to accept walking away from everything he knew. "Are you sure that's wise, though? The Frontier isn't the kind of place to make home..."

“Well, you go back then if you love it so much. Keep that rag wrapped around your head tightly for the rest of your days, and hope nobody sees what the wound on her head says. That’s about the best you can hope for now.”

“Erin," Callum raised a hand and gently let it fall. "I'm not saying... actually, I don't know what I'm saying. I just—what if he doesn’t achieve all that? What if the Imperator isn’t the man you think he is?”

“Eh,” Erin shrugged. “We go back to what we were before. But I doubt it. He bought one of those priests from Deloise with him. He’s a heretic now. The College of Legates will kill him if they find out. The man has no choice. Either that or run away, but if that was his plan, why would he have returned from the Archbishopric in the first place?”

She had good points that Callum couldn’t refute. There was no way the Imperator could just pretend like nothing had happened, and there was no stopping him from staying on the other side of the ocean. It’s not like he or Radic could have stopped the man. Worse of all, he wasn’t sure it bothered him. He should be disgusted by these actions; he was an Imperial, after all, and one loyal to the God-Lord… or at least he had thought he was. Now, Callum found his thoughts twisted and changing. He wasn’t sure he believed the same things anymore. The Imperator was a good man and an ingenious one. It only took one look around to see everything he had done for them. If he had been the man he once knew, the fort would have already been overrun and destroyed. He would be dead.

Callum swallowed. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel, but one thing was for certain: he couldn’t bring himself to go against the Imperator regardless of what happened. The man had earned his trust, that much he was sure of.

**Trumus**

“Them cultist fellas falled at the wall, bossman,” a skinny, crooked-toothed feral said, rubbing his hands.

“Did you consider thems offer?” Another said, standing at the side of the short-statured feral’s makeshift throne.

“I did,” Trumus waved his ringed hand dismissively. “I say we give the Imperator a little more time. No point making enemies until we're certain who will win.”

“Yes, yes, always the smart one you are,” the feral tapped his forehead.

“Shut up,” Trumus sighed. “If I’d hired you to pay me compliments, I’d have chosen someone prettier and with bigger tits. Just do your job and keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“Err, yes, my sorries,” the feral bowed down to his knees. “Forgive me, bossman.”

“Get off your knees, idiot. I’m not that kind of leader,” Trumus shook his head with an insufferable sigh and turned his impatient gaze to the feral that had entered the room of his cabin. "Make sure to keep a close eye on the loyalists. We wouldn't want one of them slipping free from our grasp and causing issues until we're sure what side to pick, okay?"

"Aye, bossman. Will do."

Trumus wasn’t about to go down with the ship, but he couldn't yet figure out who would come out on top. He preferred the Imperator to win. He was the devil, after all. But he couldn’t deny there was a real risk he would fall.

The Imperator impressed him with how fortified he had made Winterclaw, but the cultists still possessed an impressive army, and a few casualties wouldn’t deter them. For now, he would hold off on making a decision. But if things worsened, he would activate the contacts he had built up and do what was necessary to survive this mess.

If there was one thing Trumus was good at, it was surviving, and he wasn't going to change anytime soon. One mistake had already been enough. It had cost him his place as an elder among his clan and seen him expelled. That was not a mistake he had any interest in repeating.

**Imperator**

Mark could see the cultists gathering for another attack. However, their strategy had changed a little. Now, they were split into two much larger groups and aimed at the two spots where the probing attacks had reached the furthest.

They would have to wait until repelling this attack before moving the bodies of the dead and the wounded, but if they didn’t soon, the enemy would overwhelm his wires and trenches with bodies alone.

Leaving the cover of their trees, the enemies pushed forward, their banners waving in the cold wind, and broke into a charge when a horn bellowed out across the field.

Mark realized this was an actual attack. Each group must have had at least three hundred men, and if they managed to make a bridgehead, more would follow.

Arrows flew out, volleys slamming into the attackers one after another. But they were faster this time. The bodies of their comrades already gave them bridges to climb over much of the wire and even provided somewhat solid ground to walk over the icy floor of the trenches. However, many still fell. Arrows and confusion took their lives as the panicked men tried their best to clear the trench as quickly as possible; many found themselves caught on spikes, tripping and even trampled by their own allies as a growing pile of bodies, wire, broken spears, and blood mixed into the frozen landscape.

But when the determined attackers reached the walls, a glimmer of victory flashed upon their faces, only to be hastily stolen and twisted into horror when flames roared out, catching their bodies and sending them screaming into retreat.

Dozens of men fled in panic and agony as the flames ripped across them, tumbling backward and pushing into the men at their backs. It took but one touch, and the sticky flames caught on to the next man, traveling along the soldiers from one to another.

Some ran, engulfed in flames, while others rolled, but it made little difference. Flames burst up from the ground, igniting patches of the earth when burning cultists flailed across the flammable substance Mark had his people pour on the ground, and soon, the attacking brigades were reduced to a chaotic, flaming mess of fleeing men.

Through all this, the arrows never relented. A rain of terror in the confused and terrified army caught within the surrounding trench. Some fled, dropping everything they carried and running as fast as possible. But not many were that lucky.

Most importantly, the spectacle wasn’t lost on the commoners of Fort Winterclaw. They had gone silent when the cultists arrived—no doubt, terrified by such a large army. They had placed faith in Mark's plans, but no one could have expected an army of this size to fail this badly against the Imperator’s defenses.

Crowding the narrow alleys and courtyards of Winterclaw, they cheered. What fear they had was crushed, and people climbed out from their huts and cabins and threw their fists into the air as they watched the writhing cultists flail in agony until they fell to the ground and stilled.

It was as Mark had expected; he wanted to put on a show and he delivered. This was exactly what he needed to gain the confidence of the ferals and create a name for himself within the Frontier.

However, that didn't change the fact that he could still see the army surrounding them. As impressive as the spectacle had been, less than a fifth of their enemy had been destroyed.

We've got a long road ahead of us, Fort Winterclaw.