The carnage of Olufemi’s battle against Berlak seemed to stand out over the war that raged around them as Ezril fought off his two opponents. At intervals, priests and kingblades stepped in to aid him but none of the Merdendi ever interfered. It was like when he’d saved Lenaria all over again. The priests and kingblades hadn’t lasted long. While he had outlived two of the three men who’d stepped up to help him, the third man had simply thought his chances better if he faced a more susceptible foe. Still, it had helped him in a way as he evaded a slash on tired feet from the first Broken who was now one armed thanks to an opportunity he hadn’t missed. And yet, having one arm did nothing to slow it down.

Enraged by his growing weakness, Ezril cast his caution to the wind and charged the second Broken as its attention turned to a kingblade that seemed to come out of nowhere in his tattered red uniform, eyes raging mad, high off whatever insanity found him on the battlefield as he howled his arrival. Ezril’s movement was fluid, quick, and efficient as he sailed past the one armed opponent and launched straight at the other as its blade came down on the kingblade with blinding speed, and he took its head as it took the man’s.

He turned in time to evade a blow from the other Broken, its blade simply cutting across his cheek as he swung his Sunder up. It only took him a moment to realize his mistake as the creature took the blow with its shoulder and a decaying grin split across its lips.

His Sunder fixed in its shoulder, Ezril brought the other up. His stance wouldn’t allow for a strong enough blow, but it would suffice to stop the thing’s rebounding strike as it came, as long as he sacrificed the other Sunder to the creature’s shoulder. He hoped.

“NO!”

The roar pierced Ezril’s ear. His blow faltered. Its weight would no longer be enough to achieve the desired outcome as darkness descended on the battlefield and he felt his fatigue abate mildly. Still, it would not suffice. The Broken’s blow would leave an impact, but he would survive. This he knew as he braced for the impact, his strike still finding its trajectory. A moment later someone snapped behind the Broken, and as Olufemi passed, so did its head.

“Olufemi?” Ezril asked, confused.

His brother simply retrieved the Sunder from the headless shoulder and handed it to him. He took it just in time to find Bratvi running to them, enraged as the other Most Reverends headed off in another direction followed by the Highblade.

“What have you done?” Bratvi hissed, his voice barely audible in the noise of war.

Ezril returned the man’s glare. “I’ve done nothing!” he growled as his pain reminded him of its existence along with the realization that Olufemi was the owner of the voice that had distracted him. There had been too much authority in it.

“Not you,” Bratvi spat, then turned to Olufemi. “You!” he hissed and proceeded to shove him. “You had him! You could have ended this war! All you had to do was kill him!”

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Olufemi said nothing. Ezril turned to his brother. He wanted to ask if it was true, but a part of him knew it was possible. He wouldn’t put it beyond his brother to risk the end of a war if he thought it would prevent the end of his life. What grated him was the fact that he would’ve survived the blow. It would have cost him a lot, but he would’ve survived it. No. This isn’t what’s important right now.

Turning to his brother, he made sure he had his attention. “Where will he be?” he asked.

“He retreated back into the city!” Bratvi hissed.

Ezril turned to him. “Then we’ll follow him.”

“Impossible.”

“The gates are already open,” Ezril reminded him. “Reverend Ghimasu succeeded, so all we have to do is follow him.”

Bratvi shook his head, still fuming with rage. “The others went after him. There might still be a chance if we hurry. But Ghimasu didn’t open the gates. The bastard opened them so he could come to us. The gates can close at any time and it’s all because this bastard,” he shook a finger at Olufemi, “decided one life was more important than ending this war!”

It seemed the man’s lexicon got better with anger.

Ezril slapped away the Most Reverend’s hand, feeling his anger grow. “That is enough, Most Reverend!”

When Bratvi moved Ezril didn’t register it. The man took him by the neck and lifted him off the floor in one motion, choking out the air from his lungs. Apparently, fighting Berlak hadn’t weakened him enough. Still, Ezril was angry enough to fight back. His hand moved to Bratvi’s, however, it was not fast enough.

Bratvi released him, reacting to something out of nowhere. Bratvi’s hand wielding his unsheathed Sunder came up with a fury. Olufemi struck the man’s wrist with an empty hand, disarming him, took the man by the neck and brought him down to his knees.

Bratvi’s other hand clawed at Olufemi’s wrist but his grip didn’t wane. When Olufemi spoke, his words were in vrail. His tone was cold and precise, and his words were authority incarnate.

“For that sin, you will be punished.”

His grip around the man’s neck tightened, but before he did anything, Ezril took hold of his wrist looking at him and hoping his brother could see his request in his eyes. Then he spoke when Olufemi turned to him.

“He lives,” he said in vrail, imploration in his eyes. “Let him live.”

Olufemi hesitated a moment before pushing Bratvi away, allowing the man fall to the ground.

The Most Reverend returned to his feet almost immediately, retrieving his discarded Sunder with his other hand. One look told Ezril Olufemi had broken the man’s wrist in that one blow. He ignored it.

“Where would he be?” he asked Olufemi.

Olufemi turned to him. “His tower,” he answered without hesitation. “The highest point in the ruins.” Ezril’s brows furrowed and Olufemi added. “It’s the closest point to the sun.”

It made sense. Strangely.

Ezril turned to Bratvi regarding the Most Reverend. “There are worse monsters upon Vayla than the ones you’ve met. Don’t think you can stop one simply because you’ve read history.” He sheathed his Sunders then added: “If you can still fight then come with us.”

“We need to regroup. Take our time and plan an attack,” Bratvi told him as he turned to leave. Somehow, the war around them seemed to subside.

“There’s no time,” he replied taking another step only to be stopped by Bratvi’s next words.

“You saw the same thing I did, even without the sun, he’s still too powerful without a plan,” he said, cradling his broken wrist. And Ezril wondered if he heard fear in the man’s voice as he continued. “What makes you think we can win without a plan?”

Ezril smirked. The answer was simple.

“We have an Olufemi.”