I remembered the last time I saw Adela.

She'd been the first girl I'd ever loved—My childhood friend, and the burgomeister's youngest daughter. She wasn't like anyone I'd met before, or since. It was hard to describe her, in a way. She had a presence, an aura. A feeling you couldn't ignore. You just wanted to be near her. And when she smiled at me, I felt as if the whole world was right with itself.

It had been dusk on the first day of spring, four years ago. The air was beginning to cool off after a warm afternoon, and a flock of swallows dipped and swooped overhead like a silvery cloud as I walked along a trail leading to the edge of town. The sun was setting behind the hills, casting long shadows across the landscape.

Adela stood at the top of the hill, watching the birds wheeling around overhead. Her lustrous black hair streamed out behind her, and she wore a simple white dress, tied to her waist with a blue ribbon, and a pair of trousers underneath. It was a peculiar Eastern fashion, but she wore it well—Then again, I bet she could wear just about anything well.

"Hi," I finally greeted, after realizing that I'd been staring at her for some time.

Adela started in surprise, whirling around to face me, before finally smiling back. "Hi," she replied, beginning to step towards me. Then she stopped, as if remembering herself, and stuck out her lips in a pout, hands at her hips. "You're late, Ansel."

"How's that? You said to come at sunset, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, but sunset technically began nearly a quarter hour ago. So you've kept me waiting!" Despite her scolding, the pout was beginning to waver, the corners of her mouth curling upwards.

Sounds more like you're too early rather than me being late," I said, grinning. "What's up? Were you that eager to avoid Monika?"

Adela let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, her cheeks growing slightly pink. "Mm, right. Damnable woman." She closed the distance between us and pressed her head against my chest, arms wrapping around my waist. Though Adela was well over a year older than I was—On her way to eighteen when I had only just turned sixteen—she didn't even reach my shoulders.

I couldn't help but laugh as I hugged her back. "That any way to talk about your sister?" I teased. "The lessons can't be that bad, Del. I'd bet even I could get the hang of the whole embroidery thing."

She giggled in response. "Gods! I can't imagine you holding a needle to anything!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're clumsy," she said, tilting her head up to kiss my chin. "And oafish. I'll bet you could make a fine mess of something as simple as a kerchief. No offense, of course."

I rolled my eyes and pressed my lips to her head, feeling the softness of her hair against my cheek. "Offense taken."

Adela relaxed against me, her head resting on my shoulder. I took in a slow breath, taking in the mingled scents of wildflowers, grass and hay, and Adela herself. It was nice, holding her like this, feeling her warmth against me even as the setting sun hid behind hills and trees.

And, for however long we stood there, we could pretend that things could stay this way forever. That nothing would change.

I almost didn't notice it at all. Adela's grip on my tightened ever so slightly, and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "...You know, the recruiters will arrive tomorrow. I've heard plenty of the other boys plan to join up. Jost, Havel, Kyler. And even Antoniette and some of her cousins, too."

"...Yeah."

Recruiting parties were always a common sight, especially down in the Südland. Every spring, they would travel the length of Eostia in large caravans, beating their drums and waving banners and singing their cadences, trying to attract new recruits. They ran that circuit every year, without fail. By the time I had turned six, I already knew the lyrics to If Ye Should Return to Us, Blessed Lady by heart. There was never a shortage of young men and women wanting to join up and fight for their homelands—And it was only right that we do so.

I'd missed my chance the year before, but this time around, I...

"Annie... Are you really going to go, too?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her head still resting against my chest.

And there was the one question I'd been dreading, the one I didn't even want to think about. I swallowed hard, staring into the orange-tinted sky, and nodded.

Adela sighed, and she pulled away from me, standing up straight, and meeting my eyes. I couldn't hold her gaze—There was something in her eyes that made my throat tighten, and I had to look down instead. After a moment, Adela lifted a hand, cupping my cheek, raised her chin, and pressed her lips to mine. It was a simple kiss. Soft. Gentle. Undemanding. We didn't know any better, and honestly, neither of us needed it to be more than that. Because, gods, we were practically just kids then; It was as innocent as love could be.

After a few moments, when we finally broke away, I closed my eyes and waited for her to say the words. I knew that the moment she asked me to stay, all the courage and resolve I'd been building up would crumble like dust.

But she didn't. Instead, she whispered, "Why do you want to be a soldier so badly?"

"Because..." My voice caught in my throat, and I cleared it, swallowing hard.

Because I was born into this world.

Because I have family here.

Because I want to protect all of you.

Because I don't want more people to die.

And because, as stupid and childish as it sounded, even back then...

"You know why, Del," I said. "I want to change the world."

Everything I'd told her had been true back then. It still was. But there had been something else, too. Something deeper. More honest. I left everything I'd ever known behind that day—My family. Herr Ehrhad's memory. Adela. And I pretended that I didn't know what was missing.

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I did, of course.

I knew just how terrified Adela was for me. I knew just how terrified Adela was for me. I knew what I should have said way back then, but I was too proud to say it—Too stupid to understand that I might be wrong.

So, just how different would things be now if I hadn't left home? If I'd stayed where I belonged? Maybe Adela and I would be married by now. Maybe we would even have children together. That Ansel would be a completely different man than who I was now. That Ansel wouldn't be out in this wasteland, throwing himself headlong into hell for the sake of a childhood dream.

...No. None of that mattered anymore. Dwelling on those kinds of thoughts wouldn't do anything but stir up guilt and regret, which brought me no closer to solving anything. All I could do now was keep moving forward.

I could feel my hand wrapped around my sword's hilt, and I could hear the wind blowing past me, and I could smell the acrid tang of blood dripping down my face. And I could feel my fear too, forming like a solid, heavy thing inside of me, a cold weight dragging at my insides, threatening to crush me. But somehow, all those sensations felt numb. Distant, as if they belonged to someone else. As if I were seeing through another person's eyes. Someone who wasn't afraid.

My horse kept on running like a mad thing, its hooves pounding against the ground, its breath coming in ragged gasps. It kept running, pressing on into the night. I had no idea where we were going, or if this was even possible.

For some reason, that thought made me smile. "Gods," I said aloud. "Keane wasn't wrong about me at all."

I couldn't help but think of the times I'd gone off on my own, following my instincts and launching myself into the fire for just about anyone. Back at Halem, back during our invasion of this place, and even right now. Just like Keane said, I always took that gamble, no matter the odds. Up until that moment, it hadn't even occurred to me that I could have followed Hicks' wishes—That I could have kept on riding, and gone back home, instead of squandering the opportunity to escape by going back for him.

But, then again, that had never really been an option for me. "Whatever," I muttered. "Now's not the time to dwell on it."

Then, someone laughed behind me.

My heart leapt to my throat and I whirled around with my sword at the ready, so suddenly that I nearly made my horse rear up.

"Gods, Ansel!" Ryam called out, a wide grin on his face. Behind him were over a dozen more men; Fat Edd, Klein, Matz, Karsten, and the rest of them. They were all riding in a tight formation behind me, and all wore the same amused expressions.

"What the hell?" I lowered the sword slowly. "Why are you...?"

"Even while fighting for your life! Even when you're bleeding all over yourself! Strike me deaf, but you'll just find a way to brood every single minute of the day, won't you?" Ryam said, laughing all the while.

I wasn't anywhere near as amused as he was. "What're any of you guys doing here?" I shouted back to them. "You had a clear shot! You could have gotten away!"

"Sure, we could've," Matz said. "But then the same could be said for you, Herr Red! We saw you strugglin' with Longshanks. And when you started heading the wrong way, well, we decided we'd follow your lead!"

I let out a breath that came out almost as a snarl. "Are all of you out of your damn minds?! I'm the last person whose lead anyone should follow! Get the hell away from me!"

"And leave you to throw your life away all by your lonesome? Not a chance in hell," Fat Edd shouted over the rushing wind. "We're coming with you! You said we could survive this, Red! Well, we'll not give you the chance to make a liar out of yourself!"

The rest of the men shouted their agreement, their voices carrying as the horses picked up speed. The air whipped past me in waves, and my skin tingled with the chill of the breeze. I glanced over my shoulder at the others. They looked the same way I felt—Nervous. Tired. Terrified.

Leihn Theïká, mother of all virtue… Was the whole world just conspiring against me tonight? Everything I wanted to accomplish... Everyone I wanted to save... It was all slipping further and further out of reach with every passing second.

I gritted my teeth, refusing to acknowledge the growing sense of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm me. I clenched my jaw shut and forced myself to focus on—

—I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. Something large, which made the clouds of smoke ripple even before it emerged from the darkness. Acting without any thought, I had already moved my horse to bring myself between Ryam and what—or rather who—burst through the smoke then.

Back in Ken, I once saw an Eastern artist paint a portrait of what she had called an ogre, though it had nothing in common with the types of ogres I was familiar with. Its skin had been a bright, angry red, and it had sported two massive horns that curved up from its forehead, a wild mane of black hair flowing behind it. The most striking feature, though, had been its expression. Its bulging, unblinking eyes had stared blankly forward, its fanged mouth spread into a rictus grin, as though it was enjoying some malice that it caused simply by existing.

Though he lacked the "ogre's" horns, fangs, and red skin, the man who hurtled towards me wore the same expression as that creature. His body was covered in seemingly endless wounds, angry red burns scarring his flesh, and the stench of blood hung heavily around him. Laughing and howling at the top of his lungs, Ghirem the mountain man brought his sword down in a great, sweeping arc.

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He hadn't been walking long before he finally encountered the first of his would-be killers.

In all truth, he found himself almost impressed that they'd managed to haul ass all the way out there quite so fast. He'd expected them to take their time, limping along like half-blind old men. Still, what had driven them this far forward—be it determination or sheer fury—he couldn't tell. All that truly mattered was the fact that his time had just about run out. Someone, a Man, by the shape of his silhouette, approached with slow, careful steps, his weapon held low and steady.

Hicks tensed, licking his lips, sword held loosely at his side as he waited for the man to come within range. He realized then that he felt good, actually. Energized, confident, without even the slightest trace of a tremble plaguing him. Perhaps it was because he knew death was mere moments away, and he'd accepted it. Or perhaps it was because he'd have the chance to avenge himself upon his fellow conspirators. Whatever the case may have been, Hicks found himself eager as he awaited the inevitable confrontation. Then, he let out a low whistle.

"Well, holy shit…" He almost relaxed as the man grew nearer, and his image became clearer, and Hicks was able to recognize him. Again, despite himself, Hicks couldn't help but laugh. "Hi, Mal," he said to the approaching enemy.

Malvin Lang hesitated for a moment as he also recognized Hicks. The boy—because, hell, he must have been sixteen, tops—didn't move, his eyes roaming over Hicks' bruised and blood-soaked form. "Hicks," Lang said. And, gods, even his voice still retained that light, nasally tone of a youth. "Didn't think you'd end up sidin' with the Shielders."

Hicks chuckled softly, nodding his head. "Yeah, well... I guess I'm not as smart as any of us thought I was," he said, shrugging slowly.

Lang didn't respond to that, but he did begin to step closer, prompting Hicks to step aside. Slowly, the two of them began circling each other, blades held down by their sides.

Hicks felt his cheeks start to ache: He realized then that he was grinning, widely. "Though, now that I think about it, I didn't think you'd be one of the ones to survive the purge, actually. I mean, bright-eyed kid like you? Hell, I figured you'd be the first to go."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Lang laughed and grinned back, his teeth shining white against his ash-stained features. "Me? Nah. I ain't no coward. Not like you, Longshanks. Not like you at all."

The two continued to circle around each other, neither making a move nor lowering their guard. "Oh, I see you know me all too well, don't ya?" Hicks asked, his grin widening. "This is real cute, Mal. But if you're seriously thinking you'll put me down all by your lonesome, well..."

With that, Hicks lunged forward, swinging his blade upwards in a powerful overhead strike aimed directly at Lang's throat. He ducked under it easily enough, bringing his own sword up in response. Hicks parried it expertly, their blades locking with a resounding clang. With a grunt, Hicks pushed himself backwards, forcing Lang to retreat a few paces. Then, he stepped forwards, trying to regain the momentum of the fight.

"You ain't shit, Hicks!" Lang said, his face almost twisting as his smirk widened. He began to press forward. "No wonder Vault didn't want your sorry ass on our side! You're just a little pussy-whipped—"

Hicks feinted left, then swung his sword straight down at Lang's feet. His foe barely had time to jump out of the way. In that brief moment, Hicks brought his leg around in a sweeping motion, aiming for Lang's gut. It connected, hard and true, ripping a breathless scream from his throat. As he stumbled back, Hicks followed through, his sword describing a red arc across Lang's chest. Blood gushed freely, staining both of their clothes crimson, and Lang sprawled back onto the ground.

"There, y'see what I mean?" Hicks gasped, as he moved to stand over him. "You gotta learn to take a hint from your elders, Mal." He twirled his sword about his hand, its tip now pointing down. The blade glinted, a lone star in the empty night.

"Yield! Yield!" Lang yelped, raising his hands. "Stop! Shit, Hicks, you don't have to—!"

The blade slid in and out of Malvin Lang's throat easily, with barely any resistance. He gurgled quietly as blood welled out of his mouth like a dark froth, soaking his shirt, splattering the ground beneath him. A small pool formed around his body, growing quickly. He stared up at Hicks with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Bye, Mal," Hicks said.

Just as he began to stand himself back up, he spotted their audience. Dozens of men stood around them in a loose circle, watching in silence. One of them met Hicks' eyes and grinned. "Hi, Hicks," he said.

"Teull's shit," Hicks cursed by way of greeting, stepping back and bringing the sword to bear again.

The men began to advance on him slowly, spears and swords and axes held at the ready. Hicks eyed them warily, taking note of their weapons, their stances, how many of them there were, before finally coming to the conclusion that this would be his end. For a moment, he considered muttering a quiet prayer to whomever might have been listening. But he doubted that any of the gods would be much inclined to receive a soul such as his, much less intercede on his behalf. So instead, he just stood his ground, readying himself to kill as many of the bastards as possible before they ended him in turn.

Then, a shout went up somewhere behind the traitors. "I said 'Hold it!'" the voice shouted again, and the men stopped immediately. And so did Hicks, feeling his jaw drop agape, and his sword waver in his grasp.

"No need to get ahead of ourselves, boys," Vault continued, slowly striding closer to Hicks. He was badly bruised, purple and yellow welts covering his body. His eyes were bloodshot, and the bridge of his nose was bent at an awkward angle, spilling blood freely with every breath he took. Yet, he walked forward with an eerie confidence, the Thousandlimbs hefted over his shoulders as though it weighed nothing.

"Of course," Hicks hissed through clenched teeth as Vault approached. "It only took setting the whole damned Citadel on fire to get your attention." He fought down the tremors in his limbs, keeping his grip tight on the hilt of his sword. He could feel sweat trickling down the nooks and crannies of his body, causing his clothes to cling uncomfortably. Gods and shit and damnation... This is it. This really is the end. "We doin' this or what?"

Vault came to a step just in front of him. He smiled, revealing a row of bloodstained teeth. "Ahh, I guess we could just cut straight to it. Seems fitting, somehow. But, don't it seem like kind of a waste?"

Hicks glanced down at Lang's bloody corpse, lying helplessly at his feet. Though they were already empty, Lang's eyes still seemed to stare right back up at him. "What are you talking about?" he spat.

Vault shrugged, as though the answer should have been obvious. "I'm sayin', after all the time and effort we've all spent tonight, there's no point in rushing things along. Hicks, before we get to killin' each other, why don't you and me parley?"

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I swung at the same moment that he did. My sword just barely grazed Ghirem, cutting a shallow line across the bridge of his nose, but he didn't seem to even notice that. Instead, he continued his attack, swinging his sword in a mighty downward strike. Like an executioner's blade, it cut cleanly through my horse's neck. The headless body flailed wildly for a moment or two, as though it didn't yet understand where its head had gone, then it tumbled to the ground with a great, sickening thud.

I shouted as I was launched off the saddle and sent crashing to the dirt. I rolled end over end as my horse collapsed beside me. In less than half a heartbeat, I found myself lying facedown on the ground, breathing heavily as I struggled to rise.

The air smelled like smoke and death, and the stench of it mixed with the taste of iron, filling my lungs. For several seconds after my fall, I lay there motionless, trying to recover my bearings. Then, as I forced myself upright, I spotted him again. Several paces away, Ghirem stood, smiling widely as he brandished his weapon. Around us, my friends cried out and began to approach, but yet another pack of beastmen came charging through the smoke and engaged them.

In the middle of that loose circle of combat, Ghirem and I stood alone.

"Red Ansel!" he bellowed, arms spread wide, the sword held high. "I knew it! I knew you wouldn't be felled by petty treachery and deceit!"

I pushed myself to my feet, wincing as something inside me creaked in protest.

Approaching with slow steps, Ghirem continued speaking. "My soul rejoices that we stand here and now! Our paths have crossed, our destinies at odds!" He reached down, and yanked another, shorter sword free from his belt. He tossed it forward, and it landed by my feet. "Arm yourself, Ansel Eschenwald. I, Ghirem, son of Khoril and Yalu, will slay you!"

If this had been any other person, in any other situation, in any other place, I probably would have laughed. Every part of this was so ridiculous it practically begged for mockery. But none of this was a joke. Hicks was still somewhere out there. The others were fighting for their lives. And this maniac was standing in the way between me and them.

So, I picked up the sword, and shifted my stance. With my legs spread wide and my sword raised high in front of me, I now stood at the ready in Einhorn. "I've got no idea what you're after, Ghirem," I called out, "but if you really wanna do this, then quit wasting my time."

"Very well, Red. Let this revel begin!" One solid step propelled him forward, then another, and another, closing distance with a maddened bull's stride. Each stride carried him nearer until he was upon me.

I batted the opening blow away with one of my own, feeling the sheer force of our opposing swings reverberating throughout my arm. He continued the motion regardless, wrapping around for a second strike, which I met with a third, then a fourth. We traded furious blows like this, neither giving ground or letting an opening slip through. But he had the advantage in both height and strength—Ghirem began to push forward more forcefully, forcing me to use all I had to defend each new onslaught. Leihn's blood, if only I had a shield.

Step by step, we fought. The rest of the Hounds were still fighting off the beastmen around us. I could hear them shouting and roaring, caught glimpses of bodies being thrown aside and blood flying. Somewhere, Mikkel was screaming for help.

"My heart sings! My blood boils!" Throughout it all, Ghirem still laughed aloud. "This is what I've been waiting for!" Even as I managed to score tiny nicks on his bare chest, he laughed and laughed like a child at play. It was almost enough to drive me crazy. Joyspren, like tiny blue leaves, floated up and danced around him, bouncing from side to side, fluttering along the clashing blades as though caught in the middle of a storm.

And, gods, fighting him truly was like fighting a storm—one that threatened to swallow me whole at any moment.

He was strong. Stronger than I'd ever seen anyone fight. No matter how much power I threw into my defense, no matter how hard I tried to hold back, he always seemed able to counterattack. And every time my guard was broken for a split second, another wound opened up on my body. The cuts started to pile up, adding to the pain that throbbed through me with every movement.

This freak! For all the training I'd had, and for all the experiences I'd gone through, the truth was clear to me: I was no match for Ghirem. My arms trembled under the strain, and my breaths came short and rapid. But still... I couldn't just go and let myself die. In a contest of strength, I would never win. So I needed to find another, come up with something different. I needed to...

...His sword.

If it could even be called a sword. It was an oddly shaped thing, with a handle that was the same length as its curved blade. One might even say it was a glaive, rather than a sword. But that was its weakness, wasn't it? Being such an overly long weapon, it was meant to be used from a distance like any other polearm, maybe even against cavalry. In close quarters, the way we were fighting now, that sheer length was nothing but a disadvantage, making it harder to swing the thing properly.

So step in. Get in close, stay well within his arms' length, and make his own reach work against him. That was my only hope. Then, I could—

That line of thought shattered when Ghirem tossed his weapon up into the air, out of his own grasp. That was so bizarre, so sudden, that I actually stopped moving entirely, staring up dumbfounded at him. And that was a mistake. He exploited that moment of hesitation, bringing up a leg, and smashing his knee into my wrists, nearly making me drop my sword completely. He followed up with a punch to my chest, sending me reeling backward again. Several somethings cracked loudly within my ribs as I staggered away, wheezing as the air in my lungs was forced out.

His next strike came faster than any other. Without missing a beat, Ghirem snatched his falling sword out of their air, pivoted on one foot, and swung. Heavy, like a boulder had just crashed onto me, Ghirem's blade clashed once more against my own, and I felt the impact rock through my entire body. My sword's blade snapped cleanly in half, flipping end over end in the air. Something flared, sending sparks of white-hot pain shooting up my spine. A warm trickle began to run down my side.

"Zell's bones," I muttered. Three swords in one day. Gods, I truly was the worst swordfighter in existence.

"'Tis done, then," said Ghirem. His smile had waned now. Rather than manic glee, his expression was now one of cool satisfaction. "From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew—I knew—you would give me one hell of a fight. Fierce and unwavering to the last... You've made this all worthwhile, Red Ansel."

He lunged forward, the glaive whistling through the air. But for some reason, I wasn't paying all that much attention to him. Rather, my eye was drawn to a bright, screaming shape that drew closer and closer towards us, flailing wildly in agony. Ghirem didn't see it coming at all.

Baring my teeth in a last, desperate snarl, I brought what remained of my sword up above my head, into Vom Dach. I caught his attack—just barely—in the space between my crossguard and the broken blade. A scream ripped itself from my throat as the sharp edge bit deep into my palm, putting more effort than I'd ever known possible into stopping Ghirem's weapon. I could feel my pulse pounding against my temples, and saw Ghirem's eyes widen, before his lips tilted up again. There was no laughter this time. If anything, there was something strangely mournful about it.

"That defiance is admirable. But it can't save you anymore."

He was right. I could barely stand, my sight was blurring. This feeble effort wouldn't be anywhere near enough to actually stop him.

But it did give him a moment's pause. And that pause was all I needed.

"Sorry," I told him. "But I'm not dying here." And with that, I let my legs crumple, and I fell back onto the ground.

The sudden disengagement left Ghirem overbalanced, stumbling forward before he caught himself. Frowning, he looked down at me, and began to form a question—

—Just before the burning minotaur slammed into him with the force of a siege ram. For a single, brief instant, Ghirem hung limp in the air, his mouth open in a silent "Oh." Then he was propelled away with the aberrant's momentum. The two of them became a blur of color as they hurtled past me and disappeared through the thick plumes of smoke.

I laid on my back, taking in short gasps of air. My muscles, my head, my chest; every inch of me felt like a single, continuous wound. The smoke stung my eyes and choked my breath and veiled the sky. There were no stars visible, not even a sliver of moonlight. Just a darkness that made everything haze and muted. Is that sky ever going to clear? Is this night ever going to end...?

...A pair of hands grabbed at my arms, half dragging me back along the dirt. The dizziness and exhaustion were gone in an instant, replaced by a pulse of adrenaline coursing through me, shocking me lucid. A shout tore itself free as I blindly lashed out with both hands. I caught someone square across the face, knocking him back several steps, then threw myself forward, slamming into a man who'd been going to grab at my feet. I rolled over him, forcing his chin up with one hand, while I reached for my sword with the other...

No. There was no sword sheathed at my waist. Clumsy. How'd I let myself get unarmed?

The man beneath me cursed and twisted, trying to throw me off. I suddenly realized that his voice was one I recognized. Ryam.

"You brainless asshole!" he grunted through gritted teeth. "Get the hell offa me!"

I did. I scrambled back, a hand pressed to my chest, and tried to breathe normally. Ryam swore again, struggling onto his knees.

"Ysphine's blood," the one who'd been holding my hands breathed. Edwin. He looked every bit as battered as I felt, and his nose bled from the punch I'd landed on him. "Strike me blind... You're alive?"

I turned to look at him. Some of the others were there, too, but not many. Of the twenty-something men who'd come with me, only eleven were standing around me now.

"What happened, Edd? The aberrants? The horses?"

Edwin shook his head slowly. "We fought 'em off, but we lost eleven men, and all our horses. All things considered, it could have been worse..." He trailed off for a moment, staring at me. "We thought you'd died. Gods alive, man, you sure look like any corpse I've ever seen."

I coughed, tasting the coppery tang of blood in my mouth. I spat it out, feeling the ache in my chest where Ghirem had struck me. I nodded. "You should see the other guy."

Karsten frowned at that, brows shooting up. "What, you mean you actually beat Ghirem?"

"Not really. I cheated." Edwin helped me to my feet. We stood there for a few moments, catching our breath, before I turned to face the rest of the Hounds.

Some of the riders had died along with their mounts, pinned beneath the bodies. Others lay scattered across the ground, having been trampled over by the beastmen's hooves. Those who had survived limped as they formed up around us, clutching at wounds and gasping for breath, supporting each other. The smoke didn't seem quite as thick as it had just moments ago. I must have drifted off for some time.

Ryam smiled tightly as he met my eye. He ran a hand through his hair, and then winced as fresh pain flashed through him. "So much for the escape plan, eh?"

He and the others looked at me, silently asking if I had one last-ditch idea to throw out. But my attention was grabbed by the distant shapes that approached through the smoke. And all of us understood the answer there and then: This battle was over.

Dammit. These men were supposed to have made it out of here, to safety. It shouldn't have ended like this, with all of them standing here, helpless, staring at that incoming doom. If only they hadn't followed me. If only I'd been strong enough to save Hicks. If only I could have changed all of this.

If only, if only, if only...

"...I wish you hadn't come back."

That gave them pause. Everyone stopped moving, turning to stare at me. Even Ryam's grin faded.

"I'm sorry." My throat felt dry as sand as I spoke. "You guys… I wanted all of you to live long lives. You shouldn't have gotten dragged back into this. You shouldn't have to throw your—"

"Oh, shut up already," Edwin said, his tone flat. "Every last one of us knew what we were getting ourselves into, lad. You'd do the same for any of us. Shit, you have done the same for us.

"Besides, this meant something, didn't it? We got our boys outta here; they'll spread the word. And we hurt the traitors, besides. They expected to cut us down while we were all drunk and stupid. Instead, the whoresons found themselves facing a pack of mad dogs. They'll remember this day. They'll remember us."

And he believed that, too. In his eyes, there truly was nothing to forgive. Knowing that, more than anything else, made it all so much harder to accept. But there was nothing else to say after that. No words could change this. Our paths just led us here.

"Ansel." Ryam took a step towards me. "You've still got the badge?"

I nodded, reaching a hand up to my breast pocket. The badge—which Vault had given to me over a year ago—was still there, nestled next to a tiny vial I'd almost forgotten about. I fished it out, and showed it to Ryam.

He took it, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, then held it up for all to see. "Right then," he said, "I know this is as shit a time as any for this, but we won't get another chance for it."

With that, he made a show of clearing his throat and raised his voice for all to hear. "We don't have much in the way of formal vows, or pretty oaths, or what-have-you. But we're always recruiting—Young or old, man or aberrant, we're not picky, so long as you can fight." Ryam paused for a moment, meeting my eye. He smiled. "Whaddaya say, Herr Knight? We're going to show these turncoat shits how the real Black Hounds fight. Will you join us for our last job?"

For a long moment, no one said anything. I stood there, numb, as the last of the Hounds all looked at me. My throat tightened, and all I could do was nod.

As the men laughed and whooped, welcoming me into the free company, one of them offered me a sword. Some part of me wanted to speak; to offer words of encouragement or thanks, or anything at all, but... I just didn't have that in me. Not anymore.

This was the moment. This was the exact scene that was often immortalized in paintings, in frescoes, in epic poems and plays. Warriors fighting to the last, dedicating their hearts in a final, doomed struggle against evil.

But there was nothing glorious about this. There was no honor or beauty in me and my friends killing and being killed here for seemingly no reason at all. Ours was far from a heroic last stand—It was an ugly, deranged thing, fueled by desperation and rage and grief.