High noon found Ezril in his room, having given their reports of their findings to the captain over an hour ago. The tent was without personal effects, as was the case with his brothers’, save the sack bundled in the corner housing three cassocks and two other war cloaks. Next to it laid another sack, this one held the war garments popular to priestesses.

Since their return to the encampment Lenaria had been spending more time in his tent than ever. It did much to make his nights confusing. She no longer kept her distance while they slept. Often he’d sleep before her only to wake up to find her cuddled up against him with at least an arm wrapped around him.

The news of Abbess Lyniah’s death did more than enough to answer for what had invoked the change. Still, he wondered what exactly her change inferred. Fear or a need for assurance. But regardless of how much she made sure they were together while she slept she hadn’t kissed him again. Oddly, it troubled him.

The entrance to the tent flapped open. Darvi walked in and Ezril rose to meet him. “I will have words with you, brother,” Darvi said, an edge to his voice. “But first…”

The only warning Ezril received was a mild twitch in his brother’s shoulder before Darvi struck him. The blow caught him square on the jaw and sent him reeling back down.

Ezril shut his eyes for a moment, willing himself from sliding out of consciousness. Certain of his success, he opened them. He Tainted his jaw. Nothing broken, he noted as he rose again to his feet. The blow had not been intended as a warning or an act of humiliation. His brother had struck with every intention of inflicting pain. Darvi was still growing as a Hallowed. A truly powerful Hallowed would have shattered the jaw of an unHallowed with a blow if he chose to will his power into it.

Darvi studied him. Satisfied with what he saw, he spoke. “Now we can have words.”

Ezril nodded and spat. He was pleased to find his saliva free of blood. “And what words are we to have that we couldn’t have them first?”

“It’s simple.” Darvi folded his arms before him. “You will never challenge my authority in the presence of our brothers, ever again.”

“Challenge?” Ezril asked, puzzled.

Darvi looked at him, no doubt considering if a second blow was in order. “If you do not like the orders I give, you will inform me in private. The events of this morning are never to repeat themselves. You are second in command, brother. A title that does not exist in a team of priests. And I have afforded it to you for certain reasons. None of them involves insubordination.”

Ezril felt his rage rise. But the throbbing in his jaw was all the reminder he needed that the man standing before him wasn’t someone he could take. He nodded, accepting a defeat in a battle he felt he hadn’t even fought. “It will not happen again.”

“Good.” Darvi turned to leave. Then he stopped at the entrance. “Also,” he added reluctantly, “against my better judgement I will tell you this: the priestess has not returned from her mission and I fear the worst may have happened.”

Ezril, rushing forward, grabbed Darvi’s arm before he could leave. “What do you mean?” he asked, desperation riddling his voice. Fear, too. “What do you mean she hasn’t returned?”

Darvi shrugged his hand off. “I mean she wasn’t sent with nearly enough men and they have been away for too long.”

Panic shook Ezril’s feet. They moved before his mind processed any command.

Darvi grabbed his shoulders as he stormed passed him. “Don’t do anything stupid, brother.”

Ezril shrugged his hand off without care.

He cut through the encampment at a sprint, his brother’s words lost in the wind. The pain in his jaw was long forgotten. All he thought of was how they could’ve sent one of their best fighters without enough men and not send a search party after so long.

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Ezril stormed into the war room.

He found Noem at his table flanked by three veterans as he surveyed the map before him, a scowl on his face. Whatever thoughts rampaged in his mind, he clearly had no fondness for them.

However, that was his problem.

“Where did you send her?” Ezril roared as he approached. “WHERE?!”

One of the men moved to intercept him. “You are speaking to the captain; you will show some respec—”

He reached for Ezril’s shoulder and Ezril reacted. Years of training under Father Fravis displayed in one move. His hand slipped beneath the man’s arm. He pushed his shoulder up, locking his assailant’s. Finding leverage at the back of the man’s head, his hand brought it down with all its might. He smashed it into the table that held the map with a crack. The impact filled the tent. The table shuddered, and the man slid to the floor. Unmoving.

Ezril splayed his hand on the map, fixed Noem with a glare. He tasted the venom in every word he spoke. “Where. Did. You. Send. Her?”

Noem returned his glare, unfazed. “There’s no point in telling you,” he said. “It’s too late. You cannot save her.”

You cannot save her from what is to come.

Ezril gritted his teeth in rage. His hand came up, and he slammed it into the table. The sound was louder than that of his victim’s head. It cracked through the tent and he felt the table almost give way beneath his fist.

Unacceptable! he fumed. “You’ve sent her to her death!”

His words seemed to strike a nerve.

Noem rose from his seat in equal rage. “I send no one to their deaths!” he spat. “I am a soldier! I follow orders!”

Ezril looked from him to the map, and back.

Noem returned to his seat, almost spent, looking older than he was. “Some battles are meant to be lost,” he said, and Ezril didn’t know if the man spoke to him or himself. “…For the greater good.”

He sent her, knowing she would not return, Ezril realized. He sent her to her death.

“Where, Captain?” The desperation had returned to his voice. For all his rage, he was more desperate than anything, and the man with the answers refused to release them. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice soft, almost broken, “where?”

Noem did nothing. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Father.” And he seemed to mean his words. “But I cannot tell you.”

Ezril slumped to his knees. His eyes stung from the tears welled up behind them. This cannot be happening. He knew if he spoke now the tears would flow. I can’t lose her like this. It can’t end like this…

“Southeast of the encampment. They were sent to test the gates of the city. Fifty men in all.” There was a pause. “And your priestess.”

Ezril turned to the entrance of the tent. There, he saw the last person he expected to see.

Dragmund was a domineering man in all sense, standing as tall as even Noem. Though the captain was easily bigger, the hero’s presence demanded a greater authority. And yet, his face was easy, unhardened by whatever ordeals had forged him into the legendary hero of the realm. His skin was a bronze tan, and he held his long black hair up in a bun. His eyes seemed to always smile but there was no denying the years of wisdom behind them, giving a greater age than he was to the man.

“You must be the priest everyone keeps talking about,” he said, walking into the tent. Even the way he walked was different. Though alone, he walked as though an army stood behind him. “The one with the bow… and the priestess,” he added. “I did not think our first encounter would be like this.”

Dragmund turned his attention to Noem, his expression austere. “No battle is meant to be lost, Captain. Some should be lost, but none are ever meant to be.” Eyes growing jovial, he added. “When the younger ones ask questions, it is only right that we, the older ones, give answers. Don’t you think so?” He smiled, solemn. “Besides, it’s his woman. He deserves that, if not for anything but closure.”

He had his answer. And now, Ezril cared for nothing else. He rose to his feet with a purpose and made his way for the exit.

Dragmund grabbed him by the arm, stilling him. “You’re bleeding, Father.”

Ezril looked down at his forearm. The sleeve was stained crimson. He ignored it. He shrugged off the hero’s hand and made to leave but it didn’t budge. It took him a moment to realize it was a grip he would not escape unless he was allowed to.

“Do you know the difference between bravery and foolishness, Father?” Dragmund asked rhetorically.

“You see,” he continued, “I’ve always felt bravery to be the ability to step into the world of impossible means just to achieve a possible end. Foolishness, however,” he smiled, “that would be walking into impossible means for an impossible end.”

He fixed Ezril with a gaze, all joviality gone from his countenance, and Ezril knew that now the hero addressed him. “Know one thing, child. On the battlefield, the difference between bravery and foolishness is often a thinner line than you would expect.”

“Besides, it’s already too late,” Noem offered from his seat. “You cannot save her.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Ezril spat, his eyes never leaving Dragmund’s.

Seeing whatever he saw, the hero released him.

Ezril left the tent.

Sunders strapped in place along with his bow Ezril bounded towards Apparit. He carried two full quivers. After leaving Noem’s tent, he’d sprinted straight to his and packed what he needed.

And without delay he had found Apparit.