The ghostly wails outside finally ceased as the summons vanished, and he threw himself on the ground, stifling his breathing. He wasn’t sure if the wights, preoccupied with dealing with the specters, had seen him escape into the building, but as the moments ticked by, there was no sound of shuffling at the wall, and no monster's faces peaked through the gap. After a long few minutes of silence, Jasper peeled himself off the gingerly, and carefully crept over to the hole in the wall.

He peaked through cautiously, and his heart sunk. The wights had moved away from their building, their backs turned to him, but he saw no sign of the elven line. Either he had gotten turned around in the chaos of the battle and was facing in the wrong direction entirely, or he had been driven back so far that he could no longer see his allies. Either way, Seraph Burst wasn't really an option, as it might very well take him even further away from Ihra and the others. Reluctantly, he turned and examined the room.

Like many of the buildings in the valley, the ruined building abutted the cliff face, which curved around the valley floor. Aside from the gaping hole in the wall that he had climbed into, the room was in pretty good condition. The cold stone floor was covered in a thick layer of dust, disturbed where he had lain in it. Behind him, a staircase led down into the darkness, while along the back wall, an arch opened up into the cliffside.

A few careful steps down the staircase revealed it simply led out to the ground floor where, through the windows, he could see the queen's forces milling about. Damn it. With a sigh, Jasper retreated to his only remaining option. The room beyond the arch was cloaked in gloom, only the faintest strands of the dim sunlight trickling beyond the passage. He stepped through cautiously. The light quickly fell away, and the darkness closed around him suffocatingly. Willing a trickle of power into his hands, Jasper let the blue flames dance along his fingers.

In the light of flames, he could see the room was empty except for a few rotting boxes, but another door was set into the back wall, leading deeper into the cliff. He hesitated, half-tempted to turn back and take his chances with the horde, but he knew he didn't have enough essence to fight for long by himself. There’s got to be another exit somewhere, right? Reluctantly, he pressed on.

As it turned out, the next room was not a room at all. The door led out into a natural cavern, the unnaturally flat floor - still covered with a thick layer of dust - the only sign of human craftsmanship. A passage led to the left, in the direction he hoped his allies were - assuming the hole in the wall was facing the wrong direction - and Jasper broke out into a light jog. The air was cold, far colder than even a normal cave, but, thanks to the fires burning within, the cold didn't bother him anymore. Still, as he hurtled down the tunnel, he was haunted by the sense that something was wrong.

The tunnel curved slightly, clearly following the rim of the cauldron, and a faint breeze began to blow on his face, telling him an opening must lie ahead. But the sense of paranoia only grew. He paused, his neck itching with the creepy feeling of being watched, and he strained his ears, searching for even the slightest noise that would reveal he was not alone.

He heard nothing, but as Jasper’s eyes turned back to the path that lay ahead of him, he finally realized what had been bothering him. A trail of footprints, sunken into the dusty floor, led into the darkness ahead. They were not his footprints. He took a step back, as a sudden desire to flee overwhelmed him. Jasper whirled back and forth wildly, the blue light of his hands casting eery shadows down the pitch-black tunnel. His blood froze when he saw a shadowy figure caught in the flickering light.

Its eyes glowed a feral red and, gleaming a dull scarlet in the flame-light, Jasper saw blood dripping from its fangs, the viscous liquid pooling in the thick layer of dust at its feet. He recognized it immediately - the creature in the tunnel to Als̆arratu, a qebru. A rock rolled in the darkness behind him, bouncing off the tunnel wall, and he whirled around to see another monster emerge from the darkness, its glowing eyes no more than ten feet away. Jasper immediately threw himself against the tunnel wall. Raising his hands up to keep both qebrü in the light, his mind raced as he tried to devise a plan.

Purge probably wouldn’t work. Qebrü were the hungry ghosts of the unburied or dishonored dead, so even though they very much wanted to kill and eat him, they weren’t technically evil. After all, the unthinking deeds of the undead couldn’t exactly be held against them. Seraph Burst was also out of the question in the narrow confines of the tunnel. He shuddered at the thought of the wings slamming into the stout stone walls, being ripped out of his shoulders.

As he frantically raced through his options, the two qebrü slowly crept closer to him, but neither seemed quite willing to commit to an attack as long as he was looking at them. Ambush predators, maybe? He moved his feet, readying his stance in case of attack, but stiffened in surprise when his foot brushed up against something hard and sharp. Daring only to take a quick glance down, Jasper saw what his foot had touched. A broken stalactite lay on the floor, flushed tight against the wall until his foot had disturbed it. Its sharp, pointed edge shone in the blue light, and his pulse quickened as a plan finally came to him.

Slowly, he crouched down, keeping his eyes fixed on the qebrū, which edged closer and closer. As his hands closed around the stalactite, he sprung into action. Casting Fiery Shackles on the two, Jasper charged towards the qebru blocking his path forward. As he neared it, he tried to activate Heart Stopper. Please let this count as a dagger. His silent plea was rewarded as the stalactite begin to glow. Guided by the spell, his hand plunged the dagger straight into the heart of the shackled qebru. He rushed past the wounded qebrū, the howls echoing behind him in the tunnel, so loud that it hurt his ears.

He fled, pell-mell, down the passage. After a few moments, it opened up into another cavern. He skidded to a stop, his eyes searching for an exit. Dozens of red glowing eyes stared back at him, but he saw what he was looking for. A door led out of the cavern, the faintest hint of sunlight streaming into the dark cavern. Not stopping in his mad flight, Jasper threw himself through the door as the cavern behind him erupted in horrifying, screaming laughter. Despite knowing better, he looked back over his shoulder and saw the red eyes following him, the first hints of their form revealed in the light.

Compared to the qebrū behind him, the queen’s army held no fear for him now. He raced through the new building, heading towards a window. The window was in surprisingly good condition, most of the glass still clinging to the frame, but he didn't slow down, flinging himself through it without a second thought. As he began to fall, he cast Seraph’s Burst.

He tore through the air, narrowly passing above the astonished heads of some wights, before smashing back down to earth. Spinning like a raging hurricane from the force of his spell, Jasper tore through the front ranks of the queen’s army. When his spinning finally came to a halt, he stumbled dizzily, but his heart flooded with relief when he saw the gleaming silver helmets of the embattled elves, their forces dug in on a small hill a few feet away. He rushed past the dazed wights and raced up the mound towards his allies. Piles of corpses surrounded the hill, and the ground was slick with spilled blood that he hoped belonged to the wights and not the elves. Time moved interminably and he could hear the cries of the wights as they rallied behind him but their pursuit was too late. Jasper reached the elven line, breathless, and it opened to let him pass.

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While he had been gone, Aphora’s forces had been slowly forced back. Now they occupied a small mound at the edge of the caldera, hemmed in on three sides by the larger horde of undead. Their small numbers had only held their own thanks to Aphora’s and the Fey leader’s prowess, but Jasper saw the grim exhaustion on their faces. They couldn’t hold out much longer.

But a quick glance above told him that hope was not lost. The elven mages had continued crafting a ramp that led down from the cauldron’s rim, and the unfinished bridge now stood only 50 or so feet off the ground. Realizing they could not afford to wait any longer for the ramp to be complete, the hardiest of the warriors took the leap. As reinforcements trickled in, their presence quickly bolstered the flagging ranks of Aphora’s troops. With the prospect of relief buoying their spirits, the elves reestablished their lines, fending off the endless assault of wights.

But their even renewed surge still might not have been enough on its own to insure victory. In the end, it was the qebrū that turned the tides of the battle. Thousands of qebrū slumbered in the caverns - the massacred inhabitants of the ruined town - until Jasper’s mad dash through the dark caverns had woken them. Although qebrū were mostly ambush predators, the blood-soaked battlefield drove them into a frenzy. Not entirely abandoning their instincts, the hungry ghosts creeped out of the caverns behind the queen's army and fell upon the turned backs of their prey. Caught unaware, and trapped between two hostile forces, the queen's left flank collapsed in complete disarray.

Aphora capitalized on the opportunity as soon as it presented itself. Leading her troops behind her, she swept through the disordered ranks of the left flank, meeting little resistance, and slammed into the unguarded side of the central column.

Her silver ribbons tore through their ranks, and the courage of the queen’s army quailed as the central column found itself under attack on two sides. Perhaps if the queen had not been fully occupied defending herself against the maryannu, she might have succeeded in rallying her troops but, left leaderless, her army crumbled.

The wights and wraiths turned and fled, pursued by the ravenous qebrū. The elves began to break rank as they chased after the queen’s army, the turned backs of the fleeing undead providing a tempting target. Realizing she was about to lose control, Aphora dashed along the line on her stag, screaming at them to get back in formation. “Stay in your ranks. Reform the battle lines. The battle is not over!”

Her voice thundered across the battlefield, somehow rising above the mayhem of the battle. The elves reluctantly obeyed her command, although a few, ignoring her cries, broke free to pursue the fleeing foes, the lure of easy experience too great to ignore.

Jasper stayed where he was, at the back of the line. As much as he wanted to chase down the fleeing wights, his pool of essence was far too low to risk wading into the chaos of wights and qebrū on his own. The battle line was quickly reformed, and expanded, as the ramp down was finally completed, allowing the last of the reinforcements to join them. Slowly, they begin march forward, toward the queen, executing any of the qebrū or wights they came across.

The queen was still surrounded by the remnants of the Victorious Dead, but dozens of their bodies littered the ground around her, their numbers much reduced. As they approached, a number of the elves flung spells and arrows her away; a few of the lesser carefully aimed hit the Dead, who turned and hissed at them, before flinging themselves again at the queen. Raising her hand, Aphora called for her forces to stop, just out of range of the battle.

Dismounting from her stag, Aphora dug through the packs on its back. Jasper stood on his toes, straining to see, as she slowly unsheathed a sword. Visually, the sword looked much like the khopeshes most of the elves bore, but there was something deeply unsettling about the weapon. She held it above her head, for all her forces to see, and Jasper watched in fascination as the air around it rippled, as if even the heavens shrank back from contact with the sword. The elven forces fell silent, many of them prostrating themselves on the ground before the sword.

“Behold the Avoni, fell weapon of the gods, cursed instrument of punishment, the last great relic of Als̆arratu. Such a weapon should not be wielded lightly.” She slowly swept the sword through the air towards her troops, and Jasper choked down a wave of vomit as its aura passed over him.

Aphora faced the center column. “I call you to witness today against the Queen, my mother. She has slaughtered friend and foe alike, with no regard for innocence. Is my judgment just?”

“May the Avoni curse her,” the elves roared back.

She turned to the right. “I call you to witness today against the Queen, my mother. Is my judgment just?”

“May the Avoni curse her.”

She turned to the left column. “I call you to witness today against the Queen, my mother. Is my judgment just?”

Jasper found himself speaking the words with the rest. “May the Avoni curse her.”

As the last of them spoke, the ripples emanating from the sword grew in strength, its oppressive aura reaching out over the crowd. Unable to control himself any longer, he emptied his guts out.

Aphora raised the sword high again. “Three times have I asked, and three times you have answered. May the Lady of Mourning uphold our judgment.”

The elven princess turned and walked towards the battle that still swirled around her mother. As she approached the queen, the Victorious Dead backed off, scattering out of reach of the sword. Their leader, the giant bird-man, bowed his head to her as she passed. With a word, he led the maryannu away, sweeping out across the valley floor to hunt down the remnants of the qebrū and wights. Aphora approached the queen alone.

The queen’s form had degraded even further since the wall. Little was left of her human features; her body was covered in fur and even her face was warped and distorted. With the maryannu finally gone, she leaned on her spear, her breath coming heavily as the watched her daughter slowly approach, but a haughty look still rested on her brow. But the queen's eyes widened when Aphora brought the blade from behind her back. “How? I left the Avoni back in the city,” she gasped.

Aphora came to a halt a few feet away from her mother. “Yours is no doubt back where you left it, after using it on me. Unjustly - for daring to disagree with you. But this?" She held the sword up, the air rippling around it.

"Do you not remember? Your Avoni was a wedding gift from the Djinn. A pair. We found father’s half amongst the ruins, shortly after the fall.” She pointed the sword at her mother. “There’s still time to end this. Surrender.” Her voice choked. “Please.”

The Queen snorted, crazed laughter bursting through her lips.“I will never surrender to a treacherous daughter, to one who betrays her mother and her people.”

Aphora shook her head sadly. “Then you leave me no choice. The people of Als̆arratu have spoken; your fate is sealed.”

Before her words were finished, the queen struck. She moved like lightning, but her blade was blocked by another, the Avoni. The two fought in a silent duel, their blades moving faster than Jasper could follow. Perhaps the queen still retained some small sense of honor, for, following the ancient custom, no magic was cast by either, only a relentless rain of steel. The queen seemed to have the upper hand, slowly forcing Aphora back across the battlefield, but the elf’s resolve never wavered, and no matter how hard the queen pressed, she could not deliver a crushing blow. Roaring with rage, she swung wildly at her daughter, and seizing the opportunity, Aphora nicked the edge of her mother’s arm.

The queen screamed and fell to her knees, her agony from the wound clearly far greater than the tiny nick should have merited. But she stumbled up almost immediately, deflecting the next blow that arced down at her head. It was a downward spiral from there, though. Her swings slowed and her parries arrived just a moment too late; slowly, the queen accumulated a small collection of minor wounds. Aphora did not escape punishment, as the bloody wounds that crisscrossed her body attested, but the queen’s weapon was ultimately no match for the Avoni.

Finally, the queen collapsed to her knees, unable to lift her spear, which lay on the ground before her, any longer. Her body bled from half a dozen weeping wounds, their edges already turning a necrotic black. Reluctantly, Aphora stood before her, the sword shaking in her hands, as she pled with the queen one last time. “Surrender, mother. You've lost.”

The queen spat on the ground. “Never.” Her hands surged forward, reaching for the spear again, and she managed to lift it up, aiming straight for Aphora's head. With a lightning-fast movement, Aphora deflected the blow, sending the spear spinning away out of reach of the queen.

A silence fell between the two, broken only by the rippling of the sword in the air. And then Aphora plunged it through her mother’s heart.