CHAPTER 15

One Day

Upper Fire Month, 22nd day, 23.00

Gazef frowned as he observed the sight before him; a flat silence characterized the surroundings, whose unnatural calm was the source of an uneasiness that ran along the captain's skin. Not even the sign of the slightest trace of demi-human warriors looming on the horizon.

He sipped a glass of cool water, feeling the freshness moisten his lips and regenerate his strength. A long night's watch awaited him in the cold, but that was no problem. Not for him.

He had seen worse in the past during his life as a mercenary, and it would certainly not be a leathery breeze that would put him out of action.

The warrior observed the men under his command; like him, they too were on high alert, aware of the onerous task they had been given. Their equipment was well maintained, their weapons ready to be unleashed at any moment.

"All quiet for now, captain." Iovino approached him, the earth God's paladin armor shining like a splendid diamond. "Any recommendations you want to impart to the men?"

"No, they already have clear in their minds the orders they must follow. I don't want to create too much confusion before the decisive moment. Let them enjoy these last moments of tranquility." He replied, clutching the enchanted blade entrusted to him.

"Do you think that Cerabrate will be able to draw the enemy army this far? I still haven't been able to get a clear picture of that man."

Gazef thought back to the leader of the Crystal Tear. He had seen him in passing only once, when he had shown up on his arrival at Gelone's fortress, and he had not yet been able to get a clear idea of his character.

"From what I have heard Cerabrate is an exceptional man, worthy of the utmost respect," he began. "He is an unbridled admirer of the queen and has given her a favorable price for what is an incredibly dangerous assignment. I'm inclined to believe that, at least for the time being, we can trust him."

"Yet there is something about him that doesn't convince me." Replicated Iovino, still not entirely persuaded. "Perhaps I just have an innate dislike for adventurers that hinders my judgment."

"You'd better get over it then," Gazef's voice suddenly became stern. "In war, it is not good to doubt comrades just because of silly prejudices. Your life could depend on it."

"You are right, captain!" His second-in-command pulled back slightly, like a child being picked up by his parents. "I will no longer let my biases compromise my vision."

"All right," for a moment Gazef thought he had been too harsh, but he immediately banished that foolish thought. "Let's go over the plan one last time, it will help ease our nerves."

"It's simple. The village of Rota, more or less a hundred kilometers from here, has been attacked by a horde of Beastmen. Cerabrate has the task of luring them here, into the Weeping Dragon Pass. Thanks to the camouflage spells of our magic casters, they will not notice us until it is too late. At that point, our paladins and the Draconic Kingdom soldiers will lock them in a lethal grip."

The Weeping Dragon Pass took its name from an ancient legend about how the founder of the Draconic Kingdom shed so many tears for his sons lost during the war against the 8 Greed Kings, that he dug that pass into the ground itself between the mountain range of the Sovereigns of Heaven.

To reach Gelone's fortress, the stronghold that guarded the westward passage of the Draconic Kingdom, that was surely the safest method, as it would avoid running into the many races of monsters that lived in the mountains.

Now Gazef and his forces had secluded themselves above a cove a few meters from the entrance to the pass, camouflaged by the aid of magic.

"'Everything's right! Anything you think needs to be added?"

"Hum..." Iovino ran a hand over his unkempt beard, the hairs stiffened by the cold of the night. "I wonder why Sunlight Scripture didn't come with us. Their help would have made this battle so much easier."

"General Barca only mentioned to me an assignment of theirs of the utmost importance, which the fate of the war might depend on."

"Oh, so this is classified information for us as well."

Gazef had not yet had a chance to speak in detail with Nigun, the Scripture captain, but he was aware of his unit's capabilities in "cleansing" nonhuman beings. Capabilities with which he did not always entirely agree, he had to admit.

He was a warrior, accustomed to wielding a weapon against opponents who themselves had made the same decision he had.

On the other hand, the Sunlight Scriptures, from what had reached his ear, did not perfectly share this philosophy of life.

Was he the one who was too naive? He certainly would not have called himself a fine intellectual, capable of discerning the complexities of reality and all the nuances that came into play for the survival of the human race.

And yet...and yet, part of him, perhaps the dumbest part, wondered if another way was not possible. A way different from the extreme methods by which the Slaine Theocracy was trying so hard to ensure the prosperity of the human race.

He knew that these doubts of his might be mistaken for blasphemy by ill-thinking ears; since he had joined the Theocracy, he had sought more than once a friendly voice to confide in. But the confessors he had met, however zealous, did not seem to travel on the same wavelength as him.

Not like that old friend of his.

"Everything all right, captain?" Iovino asked him worriedly. "You have been running that hand over your right eye for a few minutes. Would you like me to bring you something to clean it? Perhaps the eye got sore."

Indeed, his fingers had begun to run over the right side of the eye, as if in the grip of a mystical possession.

"No, don't worry. An old acquaintance had a similar tic, I think I also acquired it unconsciously." He reassured his friend.

"No, I'd better get you something. Neglect could prove fatal at a critical moment."

Iovino turned away momentarily, to take from one of the divine healers a cloth soaked in a medicinal substance.

Dear Iovino, I am truly fortunate to have you at my service.

After cleaning himself up, Gazef returned to direct his attention to the cove of the pass where they were hidden.

For the moment, all was still quiet. But he knew that soon things would change.

He waited a minute. And he waited some more. The tension was beginning to eat away at him.

It was a game he had played many times; cultivating his patience while waiting for the propitious moment, yet he still felt as excited and unsure as an unprepared schoolboy before an important test.

"They are coming." A whisper. One of the scouts stationed at the far end of the hiding place brought the news with the utmost caution.

Gazef felt a jolt of apprehension, his body stiffened, aware that chaos would soon break through their disciplined formation.

He swallowed. The muscles tightened. The breastplates of his red armor emitted a dim glow reflecting the starlight. The emblem of the Fire Goddess, engraved at the height of the heart of his cuirass, seemed to be animated with a life of its own.

"Something is wrong." The scout reported worriedly, a note of turmoil in his voice.

As the incoming figures began to take shape, Gazef understood. He understood how foolish they had been.

Cerabrate and his group were heading toward them, just as planned. But, unlike what they had anticipated, the adventurers who had left with him had almost all been exterminated.

Of the original group, numbering at least sixty members, now only a dozen or so were spurring the weary horses on with their utmost energy.

"Quick, faster!"

The Crystal Tear leader incited his men, with a feeble conviction not at all befitting a man of his caliber. Was that fright that Gazef heard in his voice?

As the group entered the cove, the Slaine captain understood where that agitation was coming from.

The attackers were far more numerous than they had expected; according to his sources they should not have exceeded a few hundred but that approaching horde was far greater in number than even his most catastrophic prediction.

Leading the line of Beastmen was an imposing figure whose shadow could have swallowed one of the stars shining in the sky.

He rode a stall which to describe as gigantic would be an affront to his size. The mount's face was hollowed deep, and a large, sharp horn towered over its forehead.

Its red eyes were fiery as hell, and the sound of its neighing spread for yards and yards with the power of a crackling explosion.

But the rider in the saddle was even more awe-inspiring, as absurd as that sounded. His features were a cross between a human being and a lion; a long, snowy mane crowned his feline head, a fringe of manes hanging from the upper edge of his neck covered much of his face, on whose forehead was set an exquisitely crafted tiara.

Immaculate white, pure as the snow falling on a forest in winter, was also the color of his fur. The Beastman wore a complete suit of armor, dazzling like the most precious and treasured gold. Behind his shoulders, a colored cloak of aquamarine green waved proudly, giving its wearer the appearance of a valiant warlord.

At his side, a broadsword whose reach far exceeded any other Gazef had ever seen. He imagined that warrior wielding that mighty weapon, cutting through his soldiers like pieces of paper.

We must retreat. There are too many of them.

He raised his arm slightly and enclosed his hand in a fist to give Iovino a sign of their impending retreat.

His deputy had no trouble understanding the previously agreed signal and began rounding up the hidden men with the utmost diligence, ready to flee as quickly as possible.

But something strange happened.

The demi-humans, having come within a few meters of the entrance to the pass, stopped. Their commander looked around for a few seconds, contemplating the view.

After addressing a few words to some of his subordinates positioned in the second row, which neither Gazef nor the scouts of his unit could discern, a handful of men with wolf-like features, covered in long dark cloaks, began making strange movements toward the entrance of the pass.

Once they were done with those strange rituals, they began to point out the location where Gazef and his men were hiding from their general.

Shit. They found us out.

The lion-man remained in contemplation, giving no hint of the slightest movement. Finally, he emitted a roar whose gasp spread throughout the valley, bringing terror to the ranks of Slaine's men.

After a few moments that seemed eternal, that fearsome army turned around, raising an immense cloud of dust as they departed.

Gazef stood motionless, stunned. His nerves were on the verge of bursting from his temples. Why had they not gone ahead with the assault after coming all that way?

Even if they had been aware of their presence, the difference in numbers was so abysmal that they would hardly have found it difficult to annihilate them all.

Perhaps they did not have an accurate idea of how many men were hidden in the creek of the pass, and so they had thought it more prudent to backtrack.

Or perhaps...something else was in the air.

"Captain, how should we proceed?" Iovino asked him, also shocked by that turn of events.

"For now, let's rescue Cerabrate's unit. We will decide after we hear how things went in detail." Gazef commanded, still unsure of what to do. A streak of worry began to peep on his forehead.

"Roger that. Let's get this done right away!"

Iovino gathered the members of his unit, heading in the direction of the other group.

After realizing that they were no longer being pursued, Cerabrate and his fellow sufferers had decided to catch their breath, taking advantage of that momentary instant of rest.

Gazef noted with apprehension the pitiful state of the most valiant knight in the Draconic Kingdom. His armor was covered with dents and bruises, losing part of the splendor that characterized it. On his right shoulder was a deep cut that had completely broken the shoulder strap.

Rivulets of copious blood gushed from the exposed skin and, judging by the Holy Knight's expression of pain and suffering, the wound that had been inflicted was very deep, perhaps even reaching the bone.

"Fuck it, fuck it!" The champion's shrieks of frustration filled the surroundings, his hoarse voice clashing with the religious silence of his other companions.

"Don't struggle like that, or I won't be able to cure you!" A young woman tried to tend his wounds with a healing potion, achieving little result.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Damn it, Lilianne. How can you be so calm after they killed Talico? Wouldn't you like exterminating all those filthy beasts? Right here, right now?" Cerabrate blurted out, still in pain from the wound.

"Of course I do!" She retorted; her large amethyst eyes on the verge of tears. "But for now, we must think of those who survived, like you!"

"Bah! Sorry, it's just so ... frustrating," Cerabrate replied, his face lowered in shame. "I didn't think they would inflict such a sound defeat on us. Maybe we have sinned too much in pride lately."

"...I know. Now let's think about recovering." Lilianne begged the wound with a gauze she kept in a small woven hemp bag.

Meanwhile, Gazef and Iovino had joined the surviving adventurers.

"What happened?" Gazef asked, the wrinkles in his forehead contracted in the center, unable to hide his concern. "I thought you were sure that in facing the Beastmen there would be no difficulty."

"Well, it didn't go as we planned." The Holy Knight responded with a scowl. He had taken off the silver helmet he usually wore, revealing a tired, sweat-streaked face. His usual histrionic smile, capable of giving confidence to even the most skeptical and fearful of soldiers, had been replaced by a dull, despondent stare.

"At first things were going just as we had planned. We arrived at the village of Rata, carried out a lightning strike against the demi-humans, and wiped-out part of their troops." Lilianne began to explain, running a hand through her short black hair.

"But then," Cerabrate continued. "We were attacked. By the group led by that impressive lion man. I have met many Beastmen lords since the war began. But one so terrible, never. It was like being trapped in a nightmare from which you can't wake up. He reduced me to this pitiful state with just a couple of lunges." He pointed to the wound that was still bleeding on his shoulder. "If Talico had not rescued me in time, I would now be smashed in an anonymous village. Not her."

"From what I was able to observe, he appeared to be a terrifying opponent." Gazef was seized by a shudder, just remembering the features of that colossal creature. "But I ask myself why he decided to let you go. Not that I am complaining about it, mind you. Only, I find something strange about the whole thing."

"I think it was ... a test." Lilianne ventured, glancing for assent from her companions. "There was something strange about these Beastmen."

"What do you mean?" Inquired Iovino, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

"They were trying military strategies copied from us, however rudimentary. They copied the classic stealth assault by a specialized unit with which we routed them more than once in the last skirmishes." Speaking this time was Imilcone, the third remaining member of the Crystal Tear. "We were just a test bench for them. I suspect they left us alive because they were eager to learn more from us."

"Nonsense!" Cerabrate shouted, a glutaral sound coming from his mouth. "Those animals have never shown any familiarity with any form of tactics since they began this conflict. Why would they start now? It must have been just a fluke!"

Imilcone did not seem to share his leader's viewpoint. "As much as I would like to agree with your words, I don't think we should underestimate them. Look at what being overconfident in our methods has led us to, just because they have worked in the past."

Cerabrate did not respond, merely hitting the ground with his still-healthy arm, as if that futile gesture might have brought relief to his state of mind.

"Did you notice anything else strange during this encounter of yours?" Gazef interjected. "Every smallest detail could prove crucial for the future."

"Yes..." Lilianne hesitated before gathering the courage to answer. "Magic."

"Magic?" What was strange about that? Indeed, it was normal for a well-trained army to have capable spell casters.

"Did you notice that too, Lilianne?" Imilcone scratched his right cheek, evidently uncomfortable. The fingernails croaked on his unkempt beard, causing a screeching noise.

"I admit that I have difficulty understanding what is so troubling about it," Gazef confessed, unsure where that concern of theirs came from.

"Until now their magic casters were few and unorganized. Now, on the other hand, I'm sure I've seen third-tier spells, as well as various enhancement spells."

"They are adapting," Imilcone observed the spell staff he always carried with him. " If things proceed at this pace, soon we won't be able to contain them anymore."

Gazef thought back to those strange figures he had glimpsed earlier. It was very likely that they had discovered their location through a tracking spell, but so why retreat? More importantly, what magic thyme had he used to locate them?

"Shamanic magic?" He pondered aloud. "That they used that to be able to detect us?"

"It didn't seem arcane, like mine. Nor do I think it belonged to the divine branch. So, it's very likely." Confirmed the enchanter of Crystal Tear.

"In any case, I would say we would be wise to return to Gelone's fortress as soon as possible. We must inform General Barca of what happened."

Gazef turned his face to the sky. How strange, they had not had any fighting but he still felt depleted; that first battle, already over before it had even begun, had taken a toll on his body.

Looking up at the stars, the former mercenary wondered if he was the man best suited for the task. Foolishly, he silently hoped that their light might dispel the dimness of his doubts.

The enemies still hid several pitfalls to be discovered, would he be able to foresee them or would he be overwhelmed like a fool at the first opportunity?

He could wield a sword, at least he could boast that. But military tactics? Predicting the enemy's future moves? Could he confidently claim to have the necessary knowledge?

"Captain Gazef, what should we do?"

"Let's retreat. We will study a plan of action at the fortress."

He could only hope that soon his worries would find peace.

Upper Fire Month, 23rd day, 6.00

Dawn was making its entrance into Silksunteck's heaven. The sky was limpid, the air lent itself to make room for the first rays of the sun while a small breeze was still blowing over the city.

The low humidity of the north wind allowed the viewer to look at what was around with new eyes: everything was pulled together; everything was bright as if someone had removed a veil from the eyes that men and women alike didn't know they had.

Antilene contemplated the spectacle from the window of her room, watching the courtyard of the Cathedral of Darkness slowly beginning to come to life.

The first prelates and bishops assigned to the morning services were already in position, to fulfill their duties: some tended to the church garden, others prepared to declare the first sermons of the day, and a small group cleaned the immense statues placed at the entrance.

Antilene pondered for a few more seconds, still groggy from the morning wake-up call. Her tousled hair mirrored the still confused state of her mind.

She yawned. Her rumpled robe wrapped her trained form, heating her numbed limbs with a welcoming warmth.

Heading to her private bathroom, the half-elf began to rinse her body, still dizzy from sleep. The sleepy face gained a hint of acumen and radiance after it was deftly cleansed with water gushing from a small shower head powered by tier zero and one magics.

Another day commences.

Antilene opened her vast closet to survey what would be the most appropriate outfit for the day. She opted for a black skirt with small streaks of white and a cotton sweater, colored beige, on which were affixed small buttons also decorated with black and white, or more generically light and dark, alternating surface symbols.

The humanity trump card completed the task by resting the ornament in the shape of a cobalt rose, Nazaire's latest gift, on the top of her right breast.

After dressing, she looked at herself in a huge mirror, positioned on one of the living room walls. Her ears stuck out resolutely from the mass of her hair.

The half-elf took a brush carefully stored in one of the closet drawers and began to tidy up that thick, disheveled mane. Gathering most of her hair into a thin ponytail, extended to the height of her feet, she began to arrange the foliage on the sides of her head.

First the right side, an ebony black hid in its color the first object of shame.

Then the left side, an ivory white concealed from view the legacy of that cursed lineage.

Now I am perfect.

The not-so-young girl enclosed the remaining hair in two voluminous-sized hair clips and headed for the kitchen.

She opened the cupboards; nothing that caught her attention or desire loomed in her sight.

I might pop into town and have breakfast at some inn or buy some sweets. How long has it been since I've been downtown? Two weeks? Three? Surshana, maybe even a month!

Determined not to rot another minute in that boring place, she slipped on her socks and boots, ready to pay a visit to the outside world.

Her hands brushed against the doorknob as she realized she had forgotten a vital object for her outing.

For a moment, I almost thought I was normal.

Resting on a nightstand near her bed was a small box, inside of which was kept a magical object of the utmost importance.

It could have been called a platinum earring, but it had a special feature that distinguished it from other precious items. Embedded within it was in fact a small gemstone, whose magical properties allowed the wearer to slightly alter his or her physical characteristics.

In Antilene's case, it would have made her elven features less recognizable to sight.

Her skin would lose some of the perfect smoothness that distinguished her father's race, appearing rougher to casual observers.

Her body would exchange the slender shape for one more curved by a few millimeters, while her tips of the ears would flatten.

The changes were minimal, nonetheless. Anyone with even a superficial familiarity with the half-elf would have had no trouble recognizing her or her lineage. But for not standing out in a crowd, it was more than a perfect tool.

Now that she was ready, Antilene could head freely toward her destination.

After descending the stairs of the Cathedral, she popped into the main hall of the church, reserved for ordinary religious services.

Given the early morning hours, not many people were there. Mostly a few deacons, intent on tidying up the various shelves containing items for religious services and cleaning the hall's immense floors.

One image caught her attention.

Near the central altar, there was a man. And that man was on his knees, deep in prayer.

His body showed the inexorable passages of time: withered skin of an unpleasant dusty brown hue had lost the whiteness of youth; wrinkles contoured his face as if they had been there since the dawn of time.

The physique was frail and helpless, bones were visible within the folds of the clothes. It was not difficult to imagine a soft breath of wind carrying him away as if he were a slender sheet of paper.

The headgear he wore on his head, from which spilled a sinuous and thick multitude of shrunken gray hair, accurately indicated his rank within the ecclesiastical hierarchy of the Slane Theocracy.

He was Zinedine Delan Guelfi, Cardinal of Water.

What is he doing here? Is he in adoration?

Accustomed as she was to meet Cardinals only in mostly military contexts, Antilene did not always realize that her nation's foremost authority was first and foremost a religious, rather than a political, leader. At least to the common masses.

And indeed, seeing him from afar, even the most secular of men could not have failed to admire rapturously the grace and devotion with which he recited his invocation.

"O Surshana, almighty and eternal, Lord of the living and the dead, full of mercy toward all your creatures, grant forgiveness and peace to all our departed brethren, that immersed in your bliss they may praise you without end."

His voice was faint but firm. In the silence of the Cathedral, it resounded like an angelic choir benevolently embracing the first morning visitors.

Could he be asking for mercy for the soul of that nephew of his who had gone missing in the war?

The half-elf listened in contemplation to that plea, undecided about what to do. Finally, for a whim or other reason that she could not clearly explain, she positioned herself a few feet from the man, kneeling as he did.

The cardinal immediately noticed her but continued undaunted with his prayer. Except for a brief initial nod, neither of them exchanged any interaction with the other.

They remained together, their legs touching the floor, their heads lowered, their mouths expressing words filled with veneration.

"From the depths to you I cry, O Surshana;

Lord, hear my voice.

Let your ears be attentive

To the voice of my supplication.

If you consider the faults, Surshana,

Lord, who can resist thee?

But with you is forgiveness:

so shall we have your fear."

They prayed like this, together. In reality, only a few minutes passed; in their hearts, lifetimes.

As she concentrated in meditation, the past began to unfold before Antilene's eyes.

An image came to life. An elderly woman, plump-looking and kind, was helping a little girl with a dull smile cross her fingers and ask the Gods for help.

Another woman, younger than the first but still no longer in her prime, joined them.

Just as Auntie Nazaire and I did. And... her.

When they were finished, they stood up, still not addressing each other. Only a sincere nod of the head was addressed before they each went their separate ways.

The rays of the sun, now high in the sky, illuminated the path shaping a radiant road.

Walking the streets of the capital, savoring the penetrating smells of the city, and feeling the fresh air tickling her face, was a refreshing experience for the half-elf.

When she served at the Cathedral, she was the ace of the Black Scriptures, one of the two surviving Godkin, the disciple of the tutelary Deity of the Theocracy of Slaine. She was Antilene Heran Fouche.

Now, however, she was none of these things. To that passerby she had just brushed past, she could have been the blacksmith's or tailor's daughter.

To that old woman who greeted her politely and with a smile full of affection, she was the betrothed of a young soldier or the new apprentice of a magical researcher.

To those children skipping rope she was just a dull adult, devoid of any attractiveness. Just one face among many others.

But to all of them, she was something more... She was free.

Who knows what it would be like to unleash these impossible dreams of freedom? I could leave here and no one would be able to stop me. Yes, I could do that.

A life whose path was not already charted, in which there were no limitations except those she wanted.

She looked up at the sky. Affixed to an administrative office, the flag of Theocracy flew high and proud in the sky.

Her heart missed a beat.

But I won't.

"Welcome!" A welcoming voice greeted her as she entered the small bakery.

An elderly-looking woman was intent on arranging a varied assortment of cakes and other confectionery in the store's display cases.

"How can I help you?" She asked her, still intent on sorting the treats on the counter.

Antilene did not need to think much about it; she had made up her mind even before she entered the store.

"Six pastries, three with cream and three with black cherries, please."

"Coming right up. Just a second to put the freshly baked goods in place. I opened the shop just some minutes ago."

"Sure, I'll wait."

The half-elf moved her head, bored. The place was small, but well-kept. Not a trace of dust or dirt was visible, nor any other detail that might have been unsightly.

As her eyes darted from one spot to another, she noticed a small figure forcefully clutching a stuffed bunny.

A little girl, probably the owner's daughter, was sitting in a small chair near the counter.

Her gaze was lost in the void as if she were in a different world than the real one. She wore a cat clip in her long brown hair, the size of which was pathetic compared to those that adorned Antilene's head.

"Who are you?" She had noticed the half-elf's steady gaze.

"I am..." Antilene pondered carefully before answering. Obviously, she could not share her true identity with a mere peasant girl. "Nazaire. Yes, that is my name. And yours, little girl?"

"Marguerite. Marguerite Cara Loi." She replied shyly, her hazel eyes unable to sustain Antilene's stare. "And this is Mr. Plompfkel. Say hello, Mr. Plompfkel."

The little girl moved the toy's patched arm, trying to make it show off in sumptuous reverence.

The eventual result was more akin to a silly ballet, but it still put the half-elf in a good mood.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Plompel!"

"No Plompel. Plompfkel!" She corrected her sharply.

"Sorry for the rudeness. Let's try again. I am Nazaire and it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Plompfkel!"

This time the child seemed satisfied. She began twirling the bunny around, making him try his hand at somersaults and jump across the counter.

"Hey, lady, why do you look so funny?"

Despite her earring, Antilene's appearance still retained some peculiar features, which to the child's eyes must have seemed unusual, especially as the double color of her hair.

"That's what I was born with," she said. "You are right, it's very odd."

"And you like it that way?"

Such a trivial question, but one that the half-elf had never thought about in her long existence. Or perhaps she had never dared to.

"Yes." She thought back to when she had seen herself that very morning in front of the mirror. "Yes, I like it that way."

"Oh, I see."

Marguerite had already lost interest in her, and after hearing the answer she had resumed fiddling with Mr. Plompfkel.

"Here you go." The confectioner interjected, handing her a small bag containing her order. "It's five copper coins. I hope my daughter has not bothered you."

"No, no trouble at all," Antilene replied, still amused by Mr. Plompfkel's performance. "She is a very sweet little girl."

"She is my joy. I'm so proud of her. Just..." The woman's forehead wrinkled, clearly disturbed by something. "Lately it hasn't been easy. Raising her alone, I mean."

"Is the father no longer with you?"

"He is...he was a paladin stationed in the forest of Evasha." The baker drew closer, in such a way that the daughter could not hear the rest of the conversation. "He has been listed as missing for six months now."

"I..." Antilene did not know what to say to comfort her. "I'm sorry!" These were the only words she could string together.

"I appreciate it." She offered her a smile, more to hearten herself rather than Antilene. "He...he served the Gods to the end. Nothing could have made either of us happier. Sorry if I bothered you."

"It's ok. May the Six Great Gods bless your family!" The half-elf handed her the sum due, before taking her leave.

"Likewise to you. I hope to see you again soon!"

Back in her apartment, Antilene began eating the pastries she had purchased. Normally their taste would have been a riot of sweetness and flavor, a symphony for the taste buds.

Yet, when they touch my tongue, I feel only a bitter taste tickling my palate. If it were not for me, there would be no war. If it were not for me, Marguerite's father would still be alive.

Guilt is a powerful weapon, with the potential to inflict deeper wounds than even the armaments of the Gods would have been able to do.

The spears of the strongest men cannot scratch my skin, the sharpest swords fail to cause even the smallest cut. But a woman's words stir me more than I would like to admit.

Din. Don. Din. Don.

The loudly tolling bells rang out like hymns in the Cathedral. Their slow pulsar reproduced countless shades of sound, like so many varying moods.

It is time. The Gods are calling.

Din. Don. Din. Don

Some are convinced that the tolling of bells is a mirror of the soul of the city. That the Gods communicate with us through melodies, for their words are incomprehensible to ordinary men.

That it was a sign then? That the auspicious hour had arrived? Perhaps Surshana, Alah Alaf, or someone else of her ancestors was warning her.

They were warning her that the auspicious time had come.

One day the war would come to an end. One day.

But that day was not today.