Percival had to restrain the shaking in his hand to lift the tea cup to his lips. Dread clung heavily on his thoughts, but his body enjoyed the hot liquid. The relief was brief. A few steps away Tireliam was cooking egg and sausage in an iron pan above a brazier. Flames from the blue-hot coals coated the underside of the pan, exciting the oil until sizzling. The mage would flip the food, then curse when a droplet fell on his hand. When he was finished, he fussed about with the presentation on a plate before giving one to Percival.

When Percival wouldn’t touch the food, Tireliam appeared disappointed. But no more so than a mother might with a rebellious toddler.

“You haven’t eaten since the previous afternoon,” Tireliam said. “The soldiery would benefit from a leader in his best condition.”

The human mind might just be ill equipped to process what Percival felt. There was fear yes, that was certainly an ingredient in the mix. But he had been lied to for years. The entire empire had been lied to. The emperor had given the cadres so much power in their government, and they were so comfortable to let Tireliam’s kind do their work. Aldren had forgotten who the mages were. The things they could do.

Tireliam had already finished eating, and sat nonchalantly behind his desk. He pulled up the sleeves of his robe. Iron feather quill in hand, he began writing in the old tongue on a piece of paper. When he finished, the paper burst into flame.

“We are going to reestablish the third line,” he explained. “I’ve just sent the order.”

“Why?”

“What is our friend doing?”

Percival approached the tower’s vantage point. He lengthened his farglass and brought the eyepiece to bear. The monstrous fusions had become statues blacker than coal, unmoving but as hot as a furnace from their baptism by fire. The burning bodies effectively became the citadel’s defense. The pyre illuminated the city beyond. Aldren was clear all the way to the horizon; the undead had pulled back.

“They’ve… gone,” Percival said. “Perhaps to consolidate?”

“Such is the business of sieges,” Tireliam said. “Aldren’s military has had little experience with it. Sometimes our first lesson is our last.”

“What do we do now? Have them sharpen their fangs on our walls until we are ground to dust?” The Faleri would never give up. Aldren’s capital was the last vestige of a great beast. The breastbone of a skeleton long stripped of meat. Nothing of value to the Faleri remained here except victory, for an empire was not slain until its throne shattered.

A sharp ticking drew close from the staircase. Percival turned his head to see the arrival of a robed woman. Her face was veiled, and her scale-armor robes were purple rather than scarlet, but she was no doubt another caster. The increasing itch on Percival’s neck confirmed it. Like Tireliam’s own, her panoply followed her every minute movement, seemingly more skin than armor. Violet garb imitated her form, tapering narrowly at the waist before expanding again below into a skirt reaching the ankles. The fabric followed the inertia of her legs as she moved, accentuating the grace with which she glided across the floor.

Percival stood properly and extended a hand. The woman’s robe slid to reveal a gauntleted hand, her fingers ended in claw tips. The armor was so thin it resembled lustered cloth. They exchanged a greeting shake, his cold metal glove to her strangely warm grips.

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“Malidy,” she said.

“Percival Mason.”

“I am aware.”

Tireliam clicked his tongue. “I don’t remember calling for you.”

“My stroll took me here,” Malidy said. “How fortunate it is that I happen upon a conversation between the Highcaster and the last Hero of Aldren.”

Tireliam sprung from his desk, his robes following the sudden burst of movement out of the chamber to the terrace. Under her veil, Malidy grinned momentarily.

So many revelations had made themselves known as of late. Percival’s curiosity drove him to ask.

“So you know our future?”

“I divine the fates, and in my awareness of them I can nudge their direction,” Malidy answered. The plate of breakfast levitated to her. She held it questioningly to Percival, who raised a hand against it. The Divinator pulled back her veil and began eating, pinching the food between her claw tips. Percival had never seen someone so happy at such a small pleasure.

“You just came here because you saw breakfast, didn’t you?” Tireliam said.

“Your true talents lie in cooking, my Lord,” Malidy replied.

“Oh please.”

Percival saw his chance to leave while they were engaged in their colleague’s spat. Coming here had been a poor decision. A lot of men had died under his watch this night. Those that just barely survived he had to finish off himself. He wore the heavy burden of their memory on his shoulders. The notion of betrayal and pure rage had driven him to challenge the Highcaster, who in the end saw it as nothing more than an act of petulance.

Ignorant, emotional decision making. Percival began to see the folly of his whole career in this world since he had been transported here. More and more he had begun directing the anger at himself.

“Stay a while, Hero,” Malidy said.

Percival stopped in his tracks. As naturally as he breathed, his palm rested on the pommel of his sword. But that was just instinct. He had never been Compelled before. Malidy’s voice was laced with the essence of yearning, obeisance in pure form, layered on his will like hot honey. For a second he was a prisoner inside his own skull.

“Stop it,” Tireliam said in a disapproving drawl.

The feeling cleared. Percival drew quick breaths in his release. He clasped his chest with a hand.

“That was most unkind, madam,” he said.

“But you’d want to hear this,” Malidy said sweetly, “You are curious as to why his plans involve you, are you not?”

“Divinator!” Tireliam said. His armor was brightening.

“Oh please Liam, he hasn’t the power to refuse. You can’t hold him in suspense until Vulkachires eventually wins.”

“The necromancer?” Percival said, “We pushed him back, did we not? His biggest works have failed to breach our walls! There must be hope.”

“Oh my Hero, necromancers use the enemy's dead because they’re lazy. Our friend has yet to begin summoning.”

Percival had never seen anything larger from the enemy during the entirety of the war. This habit of restraint was not unique to Aldren’s mages.

“Then why are we here? Why prolong our suffering like this?”

Tireliam spoke. “We know what you are, Percival Mason.”

“Pardon?” Percival’s feet moved on their own, taking him a step back.

The Divinator drew closer. “It never ceases to amaze my eyes…” Her voice trailed, “Your world lines don’t begin here. Or anywhere in this universe.”

“I must insist I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re both talking about.”

Tireliam hovered mere feet away from Percival. “Don’t disappoint me again, my boy, there’s no use in playing dumb now. Unless…”

“You know the deal, Percy. Your fun is up.”

A current ran through Percival’s chest. It felt like the white hot end of an intangible poker struck deep into his heart. Time stalled and the world seized. The floor rose to greet his head as he fell in a glacial motion. His skull bounced off the floor in the impact, droplets of sweat glistening like snowfall.

“You lasted much longer than the last two Wayfarers. I’ll remember you well. Thank you for the entertainment. Oh, and-” The voice stopped. “Wait. How? No- no mortal should be able to- NO!”

Percival felt the voice's ethereal strangulation leave his body even as his life ebbed away. He exhaled a satisfied breath. Lying there cheek first against the stone floor he finally felt peace: utter silence. For a moment at least. Only an instant later his heart surged with life again and he sucked air like a drowning man. Blurry stars and muddied voices wavered in his vicinity. Unconsciousness was returning.

“…never seen this before. How fascinating.”

“…sight as well…?”

“…was not of this world line either…”

“Most intriguing. We’ll deal with this…”

Percival felt the barest tickle of warm breath near his ear.

“Sleep tight, Hero.