“We’re not surrendering the city.” Standing in the center of the chamber of elders, Mariltu slammed his fist against the table he stood before, daring the man who had just been speaking to defy him.

“I-I-” To Jasper’s surprise, the man, a merchant from the lower quarter, found the courage to continue. “I do not wish to surrender to the lords of Stryn any more than you, Commander Marīltu, but you have to face facts. Our gate was destroyed-”

“And repaired,” Marīltu interrupted him.

“Yes, repaired in a fashion we’ve never seen - wood and stone mixed together. Who knows how well it will hold?”

“And if it doesn’t, we’ll fall back. The walls are only the first of our defenses, but the fortresses remain unharmed.”

“The fortresses are the last resort of fools,” the man snapped back. “Once Stryn’s forces enter the city, do you honestly think your soldiers will be able to drive them back? Those forces,” he added with a contemptuous glare at the western section of the chamber where the remnants of the formerly brainwashed commanders sat beneath a large tapestry emblazoned with the sigil of Lord Sarganīl.

“You would have us trust in the same forces that held us prisoner for the last six months while Atrometos rampaged through our villages unchecked, the same forces that cannot even look us in the eyes now-”

“Enough.” A sharp crack filled the room as Marīltu slammed his fist into the table with enough force to split the aged walnut. “We. will. not. surrender.”

“Commander Marīltu, while I sympathize with your position, you do not speak for the city.” A new voice cut into the argument, as one of the priests, the one Asâta called Master Babbānu, stood up and made his way to the center. “None of us wish to see Stryn rule over us, but what is the point of resistance if there is no city left to save? Many will die if the walls fail, and the forces of Stryn will likely take their aggravation out on the surrounding villages as well.”

“The walls will hold,” the soldier repeated stubbornly. “And if the gate should fall, then the men shall hold the breach for as long as it takes for the forces of Stryn to wear themselves out. Birnah has never fallen and it never shall.”

“Marīltu,” Babbānu’s softened. “I do not doubt the skill of your men, but you’ve seen them. They are shadows of themselves right now, still haunted by the specter of the mindworm. Their resolve is shaken, Marīltu. Do you really believe they will stand firm once the walls have crumbled?”

“They will,” Marīltu gritted his teeth. “They have to.”

“But-”

Jasper tuned out as the merchant started up again, and turned to Ihra. “Let’s dip,” he whispered in her ear. Rising silently, the two left the hall, leaving the citizens of Birnah to continue their arguing. Erin, seeing them leave, followed them, and so too did Tsia, much to his surprise.

“Shouldn’t you stay in there, princess?” he asked as they closed the doors to the meeting chamber behind them.

Tsia grimaced. “They won’t listen to me. Most of them don’t even know who I am, and even if they did, the king’s bastard daughter isn’t a source of much authority. My father doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“You’re not the king’s ‘bastard’ daughter,” he used the word reluctantly. “You’re the most powerful mage in the city, a position that demands respect regardless of birth, and you’re the king’s daughter. You have every right to make your position heard.”

“I’m also the mage that blew up the gates,” she reminded him. “If the gates hadn’t been damaged, there wouldn’t be a crisis. Stryn would have no chance of conquering the city with the forces they brought and would be marching away as we speak. Now?” She shrugged. “I won the battle but may have cost us the war.”

“It’s not your fault,” Erin spoke up. “If I’d done a better job repairing the gate then-”

“You did great,” Jasper interrupted him. “Better than anyone could have expected, especially considering you’ve only been a mage for a few months. Nor is it your fault, Tsia,” he continued, speaking over her objections. “Even if the city ends up in the hands of Stryn, we saved the people from a far worse fate. We did the right thing.”

“My father won’t see it that way,” she muttered quietly.

Ignoring her, Jasper continued. “The question is - what do we do now? Do we help defend the city or leave?”

“Leave?!” Tsia’s mouth dropped. “We can’t leave-”

“This isn’t our fight,” Jasper reminded her. “Well, maybe it’s a little bit your fight,” he conceded to Tsia, “but, still, this is politics, not some battle between good and evil. I don’t think we’re obligated to get involved, not like we were with the defense of Gis̆-Izum or stopping Yas̆gah. I’m willing to stick around if that’s what the party decides, but I can't make that decision for you guys.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

To his surprise, Erin was the one to respond first. “I vote we stay,” the scout said, with a quick glance at Tsia. “I’m not saying we need to die here; if it looks like the city is doomed to fall, we can always leave, but I think we should at least try to help them.”

“Alright,” Jasper bobbed his head. “So two votes to stay. Ihra?” He asked, turning to the elfling, who’d been silent thus far although, remembering the conversation they’d had the day before, he suspected he already knew her feelings on the matter.

“The merchant and priest spoke the truth,” she replied bluntly. “The soldiers have not recovered from what happened. If the battle becomes desperate, they will not hold, no matter how much Marīltu refuses to see it.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we faced a desperate battle,” he reminded her, and Ihra’s face darkened.

“Do you remember what happened the last time we defended a city?”

He did, though perhaps not as viscerally as she did; he was the one who died, after all, and was left blissfully unaware of her grief as she retrieved his severed head and prayed that he was fortunate enough to be resurrected. “The forces of Stryn are hardly a match for that undead harpy,” he pointed out.

She didn’t immediately respond, gnawing on her lip thoughtfully, and Tsia saw an opportunity. “Please, Ihra. I know you probably don’t care about my father, but you’re a Sapīyan, like me. You know how the people of Birnah feel, how we all feel about the lords of Stryn. Surely you don't want them to win?” she pleaded.

“I don’t,” Ihra conceded. “But I am also not keen to throw our lives away in a hopeless battle. I guess I can agree with the scout,” she begrudgingly added. “If we can help the city, that’s fine, but we should be prepared to leave.”

“Then it sounds like we’re agreed,” Jasper cut in. “Although, there’s one person we haven’t asked. Where is the durgu anyway?”

----------------------------------------

Birnah wasn’t supposed to have a rainy season, or at least that’s what the locals told him. Of course, given the fact that it had been raining for nearly a week, S̆ams̆ādur found it hard to believe.

The ground sloshed beneath his feet as he came to a halt by the small plot of land he’d wheedled out of Marīltu. Though the commander had been sympathetic to his pleas, it had been an uphill battle to get approval for the purchase. With Sarganīl dead and his only living child a thousand miles away, the lines of command in Birnah were hazy at best. There was no doubt that the commander was in charge of the troops, but his authority didn’t extend to ruling the city.

In truth, there was no one in Birnah who had clear authority to sell S̆ams̆adur the land he needed, but the matter could not wait. His men’s bodies could not wait.

His aide handed him a shovel as he stepped forward, and he accepted it, planting it between his legs as he bowed his head. Eight bodies lay before him, draped in rain-soaked white shrouds. Eight men who had died because they’d followed him.

How did it go so wrong? Samsadur’s thoughts wondered as he stared at the bodies, listening to the priest consign the men to the care of the Victorious Dead. He’d thought he was doing the right thing when he’d warned the Strythani queen, that he was protecting an ally his father was leaving out to dry. And how many died for that decision?

The queen was dead, overthrown by her own people despite his warning, and her nation had returned to its traditional allies, sure to be a thorn in the durgū’s side when the coming war began.

He had been banished, more than banished really. The man he’d called his father may not have technically disowned him, but the assassins he’d hired had made his intentions clear. Even if S̆ams̆ādur managed to survive their attempts - which, thanks to Jasper’s help, no longer seemed impossible - the prince still knew that there was little chance his father would ever welcome him back. His only hope was that his brother would rescind the order when he took the throne, but who knew how long that would be?

The priest’s voice rose, breaking through his melancholy, and S̆ams̆ādur’s thoughts returned to the men lying before him. Perhaps he deserved his punishment, but they had not. Their only crime was loyalty to their lord, and what had he offered them in turn? I can’t let their sacrifice be in vain - but how can I honor them?

He sighed heavily, his breath rising in the cold air like a column of smoke, and his brows scrunched together as he realized the priest had stopped talking. Did he forget his lines? His head whipped to the side as he turned to his aid, expecting to share an incredulous glance, but the man hadn’t stirred. His head was still bowed, his hands clasped together, and his breathing - if he was breathing at all - was so shallow that the prince could not detect it. None of his men were moving.

The cold, rainy weather had nothing to do with the chill that rippled down his spine and he spun around, a nervous sweat beating on his brow as he searched for anyone in the solemn crowd who showed signs of life.

With a wet thud, his hand smacked into the person standing on his right side, and he pulled his hand back with a hiss of pain as an unimaginable cold flooded his arm. “Kruvas̆…”

S̆ams̆ādur’s curse trailed off as he saw the person he’d assaulted. A woman dressed in black stood beside him, one he was quite certain had not been there just moments before. She was a bit taller than him, with skin as white as the purest snow and long black locks that spilled over her shoulders. The lower half of her face was obscured by a gauzy veil, see-through enough for him to spy surprisingly plump, red lips, but he barely noticed them as he focused on the objects held in her hands - a pair of black, dodecahedron dice.

He fell to his knees, sinking in the mud as he bowed his head. “Lady of Last Light,” he murmured.

The cold emanating from her retreated to more manageable levels as her dainty hand wrapped around him and pulled him to his feet.

Somehow, he kept his wits about him. “My lady, what have I done to deserve your presence?” he asked, as gracefully as he could manage.

She didn’t answer him directly. Instead, the Lady of Last Light turned her gaze to the gathered corpses. “You grieve for your men, don’t you?”

S̆ams̆ādur’s brow furrowed. “Of course, my lady. I…I let them down. A mage should be able to protect their men, but I…I can’t embrace my power lest I become a monster like the one we just put down.”

“What if I bring them back?”

The hope that rose in his chest was quickly crushed by suspicion. “At what cost?”

“Your service. Your service and your aid for the empire.”