“Have you spoken to Innulus?” asked Orneiades.

“To no avail, I’m afraid,” said his comrade, his eyes fixated upon the piece of parchment in front of him, across which he scrawled.

Orneiades sighed and slumped down on a chair beside him. “As I thought. We should have offered support to the dissidents. Or at least taken advantage of the situation.”

“Orders were given and orders were followed.”

“That’s all well and good, but it’s more difficult to break out of siege than to prevent one.”

“I concur, but it’s done.”

Orneiades shook his head. “I wonder what’ll happen now, especially with the Festival on the morrow.”

The man snorted. “Ironic that our devotion to the very god meant to aid us in war is what’s going to lose us this one...it’s made me think about taking decisions into my own…” he stopped, and his gaze broke from the document and locked onto Orneiades, “…hands.”

For a moment they stared at each other. “Only in ritual do the gods consent to such an act,” Orneiades at last replied.

The man folded up the parchment and sealed it. “It may become the last option,” he said, handing it to Orneiades.

“What is this?”

“Take it to the Bryvwuldian Wall. For Innulus. Its possible counteroffensive plans.”

“He refused your last proposal.”

“It will bear greater weight coming from you. You can at least try to persuade him, along with the Patrisanct.”

“They won’t listen.”

“Then we will be defending the walls from our alters.”

• •

Orneiades slowed his mount to a trot as he entered the courtyard of the Dome, averting his eyes from the brightness of the polished limestone rooftop. Stepping from his horse, he ascended the steps that led into the heart of the structure, an enormous, rounded room lit only by the entrance and the oculus at its apex. The ceiling of the dome featured gold rosettes contained within sunken panels that circled in a single link to the top. Recessed alters flanked by marble pillars were evenly spaced around the room, between which were simple wood doors. Orneiades made his way to the door directly opposite him and entered into a short hallway that led into a large library study. Here the Cenrisanct went about their day, some grouped about a table debating, others by themselves in tight corners or beside a fireplace.

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“Where is the Cenrisanoi of cen Hilmstray?” he asked.

“In Aela’s Heart,” replied one.

Orneiades continued on to the end of the study, where another door led out into a small garden, at the center of which was a single torch, and the Cenrisanoi sitting nearby.

“Father,” Orneiades greeted.

“My son. Have you come to seek Aela’s intercession?”

“Intercession I’ve come for, but from one far more dear.”

His father laughed. “There is none far dearer.”

“Do you know the condition that our city is in?” asked Orneiades.

“Perhaps even more than you.”

“Then you know why I’ve come.”

“I won’t be able to convince the others. Will you stay?”

“What?”

“Don’t go back to the wall. Stay.”

“Have you lost your wits? The walls are to be abandoned by the moon’s highest!”

“All citizens have a duty to serve. But they must also be faithful to Lye’s Commandments and festivals. The absence of his favor breeds failure in war. This belief I cannot turn the Cenrisanct away from.”

“Has the irony been lost upon them? Are we to devote ourselves to a god whose demand for worship will cause its end?”

“The gods have long since looked away. That is the reason I beg you to remain with me here. When the moon is highest, you and I will extinguish Aela’s Flame together.”

Orneiades recoiled. “The gods would damn us.”

“Not us. I will call Aela from the grave, and it will be the Plyreans curse. We shall carry out the D’gata Rouge. We will escape. Not with our feet, but with our hands.”

“And what of the city?”

“I cannot help them. Dire times are when principled men are most at risk. I’ve already given you the best advice I can. Stay here. We will summon the god's wrath from the four corners of the world, and our enemies be cursed.”

Orneiades glared at him, his face flushed and the nails of his fingers digging through the leather to his palm. Opening his mouth as if to speak, no words came. Crushing the parchment in his fist, he threw it onto the flame and strode off.

At length, he returned to his own home, and standing before his alter, fell to his knees and wept.

• •

When he emerged he found that the sun’s setting had cast the city behind a black curtain, and the moon was hidden behind the sky. Another sign of the god's displeasure, he thought. He wiped the sweat from his face. Not with my feet, but with my hands. Not with my feet. My hands.

At last, he ventured to where the Aucksbauian wall merged with the river, and filling his armor with the stones from the battlement, sat in the crenel with his legs dangling over the edge. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Escape. Not with your feet, but by your own hand. And at that moment his eyes caught something. In the distance, the last of the imerth were slipping from the city and disappearing into the wood beyond.

Orneiades caught himself laughing. I would curse them, but the low needs none to be there.