The casualties had been far greater than Senya initially thought — or anyone, for that matter.

Once the poisonous fog had ravaged the banquet with the unyielding force of a landslide, it found its way to the lower levels of the palace, creeping through corridors and down the carpet-covered staircases, diving into ventilation shafts and hidden hatches, like a heavy cloud of death and destruction.

It had found its unsuspecting victims in the kitchens, where sweaty workers prepared batch after batch of delicious meals for the feasting upper class, stirring massive pots and frying pans the size of cartwheels.

It had found its victims in the washing rooms, where hordes of servants were assembling fresh sheets and bedding for the many guests that were expected to stay the night.

It had found its victims in the storage rooms, where aching backs were carrying casks and kegs to sustain the raging thirst of the masses.

And it had found its victims in their sleep, nestled in scratchy blankets on top of stiff beds, exhausted from excruciating shifts that would've lasted from dawn til dusk, if there'd been such a thing.

Most of the servants were found dead, faces puffy and eyes bloody.

Once the purple mist had dissipated, Senya had walked through the lower levels of the palace to see for herself. The stench of death had made her gag, but she still pressed onwards, through heaps of piled-up bodies and soggy pools of blood. There were hundreds of dead people, hunched and crooked in their filthy clothes, their dirty skin pale and patchy.

There were barely any survivors among the staff, and many guards stationed in the lower levels had died as well, especially in the dungeons, where the deadly fog had lingered the longest. Needless to say, the few prisoners unfortunate enough to call the grim cells their home had died as well, but they were only an afterthought in the grand scheme of things.

Despite the deaths of almost the entire upper class of Morathen and his own host of servants, Malvorn's determination had only grown. Shortly after the attack, he had ordered his remaining staff to arrange for a great gathering in the large square in front of the palace stairs, where he would publicly address their people — all their people. He wanted to speak to the Fateless as a whole and let them know what had conspired within the walls of the palace, sparing no cruel detail, and none of the horror. And he wanted to let them know what would happen next, now that their enemy had made their move.

While Senya had mostly recovered from the effects of her very own doses of Night's Oath, she could still hear a raspy undertone whenever she inhaled deeply, and feel a stinging sensation in parts of her throat the moment she opened her mouth to speak. Her skin had lost some of its color, and her lips were dry — all of which were side effects of the light poisoning she'd suffered. And yet, she'd gotten lucky. Of all people present during the attack, she'd been the only one to come in contact with the poison and live to tell the tale. And it had been thanks to Malvorn and his quick actions, the most unlikely of saviors.

He was standing next to her as she contemplated the events of the previous day, his hair greasy and uncombed, the silvery gray more prominent than usual. Dark lines showed underneath his grim eyes, witnesses to a sleepless night full of pent-up rage. Though pragmatic as he'd given himself after the attack, the loss of so many of his followers had left a mark on the man, one that cut beneath the skin. And the irony that he himself had put them in harm's way must've even occurred to the otherwise so self-assured leader, Senya figured.

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"Any final words?" Malvorn hissed through the thick iron bars of the cell.

A purple shadow moved in the dark, like a wolf roaming around a campfire, then emerged into the dim light of the torches with a low growl.

The female Fateweaver was limping, dragging one of her feet, and stains of dried blood covered most of her robe. She had suffered severe injuries, and Senya was surprised to see her standing at all. But she could tell the woman was a proud spirit, and even if the pain had been insufferable, she wouldn't have let it show. Instead, she wore her indifference like a mask, carried by her prominent cheekbones and pursed lips.

"I have nothing to say to you, pretender."

Her cat-like eyes glared at Malvorn with roaring contempt.

Malvorn scoffed.

"You were a fool to come here, and you will die a fool."

To Senya's surprise, his words painted a snide smile on the woman's face.

"I can die happy knowing that we killed so many of your wretched followers. Too bad you weren't among them. But I'm sure you will join them soon enough."

Malvorn tightened his grip around the bars until his knuckles turned white, and Senya wondered if he could rip them out if he tried.

"You are cowards," he rasped, his square jaw grinding against the metal.

"Says the one who is hiding in this filthy cave, playing king of nothing," the Fateweaver shot back without missing a beat, getting up close to Malvorn until their faces were in spitting distance.

The veins along Malvorn's throat tensed, his neck taking on the color of hot iron.

"You have no idea what you are talking about." His voice was nothing more than a gravely growl. "You and your kind are like a sickness that ails this world, reigning terror on everyone around you."

The woman scoffed, and her angled eyes narrowed. "You are the one intent on declaring war on everyone who does not follow your misguided beliefs. There is peace, and you want to destroy it."

"That peace is nothing but a lie," Malvorn snarled. "Our people are the ones bleeding every day at its expense."

The Fateweaver shrugged, and Senya could sense that the gesture caused her immense pain.

"Truth be told," she whispered menacingly, "I care as little for this peace as you do. And you are right, it is a lie. They should've wiped you out long ago, when you were nothing more than cowering scoundrels, fleeing from our might like the rats you are — but at last, we finally get the chance to right our mistake."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Malvorn hissed through gritted teeth, then flashed a sinister smile.

The woman seemed unfazed.

"I'm just sad," she said, and her voice cut through the air like sharp blades, "I won't get to be there when they drive a stake through your sun-deprived body."

Malvorn let out a low rumble and stepped back from the bars. Senya was impressed by the Fateweaver's resolve in the face of certain death. Her threats were hollow, her words misguided by a skewed view of the world, but her poise commanded respect.

"Take her!" Malvorn barked at the surrounding soldiers, "And don't go easy on her."

Two guards rushed into the cell and rudely yanked the Fateweaver off her feet, dragging her over the floor as they held on to her shoulders. Cramps of pain shot through the woman's body and materialized in her tormented face, as her legs and feet brushed against the ragged stone floor.

Escorted by a host of watchful guards, the glum procession made its way through the dungeons and corridors until it reached the large entry hall in front of Malvorn's throne room. Two wide staircases led up to the residential tracts, and a massive wooden portal marked the main entrance to the palace. Survivors of the onslaught were lining the steps and walls, glaring at the purple-robed figure with hate-filled eyes. Senya could hear whispered curses and defamations, and here and there, people forgot where they were and even spat on the neat carpet in front of the Fateweaver's feet — only to hastily bow their heads apologetically when a guard or Malvorn himself glared at them.

At Malvorn's request, the large portal doors swung open and exposed the top of a large staircase, made from marble pure enough for a king. Beyond the steps lay an ocean of pale faces, spread out over the large square in front of the palace and sprawling into neighboring streets — even the pedestal of the large obelisk that stood in the middle of the square was covered with figures in gray rags, holding onto the smooth stone surface as best they could. Thousands of Fateless had gathered to hear what their leader had to say.

The group stopped at the threshold, and only Malvorn stepped forward, his crimson gown in sharp contrast to the shades of gray behind him. He extended his arms like a bird of prey, palms open and facing the masses as if he were giving a blessing. Then, he raised his chin and looked up at the dark ceiling of the main cave, where the darkness hung dense and glum.

"Fateless," he yelled into the void, his voice echoing through the massive stone chamber and bouncing off the facades of tall buildings, until the sound of his words seemed to come from every direction at once. "Today, I speak to you not as your leader, but as a survivor."

He paused and lowered his gaze, watching over the sea of followers that had heeded his call. Senya craned her neck to see the awestruck faces in the first rows. With so many of the elite dead, most of them were commoners, wearing filthy clothes and dirt on their skin. She doubted that any of her former neighbors had come — Malvorn's approval rate was far from high in the outskirts of town. And yet, the news of a great gathering as monumental as this one surely would've piqued anyone's interest — maybe even hers, had she still lived her old life.

Malvorn slightly lowered his extended arms until they were on one level with his chest.

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"Last night," he continued with a voice that seemed to cause tremors in the ground, "we were attacked — in the middle of our home."

A collective gasp resonated from below, as many of the spectators had not yet heard of recent events through rumors.

"We thought ourselves safe in our haven of rock and stone, but our ancient enemy would not rest until they found us."

He lowered his arms and inclined his head.

"Last night, they succeeded in their vengeful quest."

A wild murmur erupted, but was immediately shut down by Malvorn's bellowing voice.

"They struck when our guard was down. We were eating, talking, sleeping — embracing what little joy our generational confinement offers. We were at ease, at peace even, when they descended upon us like a hail of death and destruction."

Shouts of outrage cut through the pause that followed, and Senya could sense the collective anger of the crowd below them, like the seething heat of a thermal fissure.

Malvorn's voice took on a somber tone and did not fail to send shivers through her body with every word he spoke.

"They came to kill me, assassinate me like the cowards they are."

He paused briefly, then declared boomingly: "They failed."

Cheers of defiance filled the square, but were quickly choked by Malvorn's pained expression.

"Yes, they failed. But in their failure, they did what Fateweavers have always done: try to destroy us by any means necessary. It was not enough for them to take my life — they strived to kill as many of us as possible — and in that, they succeeded."

He let his gaze drift over the many angry faces and put his hand on his heart like it had just gotten unbearably heavy.

"Men and women, fathers and mothers, children even — the Fateweavers did not care. Hundreds of our beloved friends and family members died last night, and they died painful deaths. Their disfigured bodies line the palace hallways like the remains of a battlefield."

Malvorn clenched his fists.

"But it was no battle. They did not fight — for there was no fighting the poison that filled their lungs and boiled in their veins, made their eyes bleed and their skin blister like boiling metal. There was no fighting the seizures that shook their revolting bodies, as they squirmed on the floor in gruesome agony, desperately trying to breathe the air that scorched their throats like raging fire. The poison took them all, and it did not care if they were poor or wealthy, master or servant — just like the Fateweavers do not care about who we are. We are but a pest to them, and they won't rest until all of us are eradicated, ravaged like the good people we lost last night."

The crowd's anger washed over them like a heaving wave. People were screaming, cursing, crying, and the expression on their faces had gone from curiosity to hatred — hatred for the Fateweavers that had come to kill them, and wouldn't let them live their lives in peace. Of course, they didn't know that Malvorn had practically invited them. Senya couldn't help but see the irony in how much more effective his plan turned out to be, even if it came at the expense of so many lives.

Malvorn gave the outrage plenty of room, watching the sea of faces surge with anger and despair. After a few long moments, he raised his hand, and the masses calmed down.

"I feel your pain," he bellowed, "I feel your anger."

Malvorn took a step forward, his hands still on his chest.

"The Fateweavers have come into our home and done the unthinkable, playing gods of life and death. But the injustice of their actions led to their own demise — except for one of them, their leader, who is here with us today to face the consequences of their gruesome actions."

Without turning around, he gestured at the guards behind him with an extended fist, and two of them dragged the captured Fateweaver into the open space that served as Malvorn's stage. When they let go of her arms, she fell onto her knees and could barely catch herself with her cuffed hands. There she cowered for a moment, her back trembling with spasms that made her neck muscles twitch uncontrollably. Meanwhile, the crowd started chanting cruel deformations at the woman, and Senya knew they would have tossed stones at her if Malvorn hadn't been standing next to her

After a few deep breaths, the woman pushed her upper body off the marble floor and faced Malvorn with an expression of proud defiance. Her prominent cheekbones stretched her bruised skin like a taut bow, and her eyes were sharp and belligerent.

"I present to you a Master of the Fateweavers," Malvorn growled, his square jaw towering above the defenseless woman.

Senya stared at her in surprise. She didn't know that the Fateweaver they caught was a Master, although it sure explained her prowess in battle, and the fact that she'd worn different colors than the rest of them.

"This woman is the source of your pain, your anger. She was the one who led her companions to our hearth to cause death and destruction."

He paused and soaked in the bubbling outrage of the masses. They wanted her dead, and Malvorn knew it, but he sought to keep the spectacle going.

"Now, I'm not the judge in this matter," he roared. "I was the target, but not the victim. It was your relatives and friends whose lives this woman took. So I ask you: what shall become of her?"

Hundreds of voices shouted all at once, demanding the ultimate punishment. Eventually, the wild jumble of words turned into a unified chant: "Death, death, death."

Malvorn raised his one hand to calm the crowd, and immediately they fell silent.

"You have spoken, and you will be heard. This woman shall face the cleansing blade of justice."

And with that, he summoned a small knife from his crimson robes, with a wavy blade of darkened metal and a hilt that resembled a serpent in scales of gold. He presented the weapon to the roaring crowd like a ceremonial offering, then raised his head as if praying to the dark blade.

"A gift from our ancestors. A blade so pure it can cut out festering flesh like a surgical instrument. And today, it will cut the tumor in our midst that is this Fateweaver."

The crowd roared with excitement and bloodlust. Malvorn lowered the weapon and turned to face the kneeling woman.

"But just like I'm not the judge in this matter, I will not be the executioner. One of you needs to enact justice. One to represent all of us. A true Fateless, born in darkness, destined for greatness."

The crowd grew quiet as they looked at each other, trying to figure out who this champion could be.

A satisfied smile split Malvorn's lips as he turned his gaze to Senya and extended one of his massive arms.

"I present to you," he shouted with a booming voice, "Senya, a Fateless from the darkest corners of the tomb that is this cave, born with no wealth to her name, no power, no privileges — but with ambition. "

Senya could feel hundreds of wary eyes staring at her, and she could feel the heat they created on her skin. Malvorn gestured for her to step over, and she did, but it felt like she was walking in slow motion.

"She has come to me as a victim," Malvorn continued as if he were reciting an ancient verse, "shunned by society, abandoned by her people. But she is Fateless, and she is strong, so I took her in, and now you find her standing at my side. She marks the union of all Fateless, represents the very essence of our values, regardless of wealth or titles: we are survivors, we are strong, and we take what is owed to us."

The crowd quickly overcame its hesitation and started cheering for Senya like she was their savior, an amalgamation of their own dreams and desires. It stirred something deep within her, a feeling of belonging and pride that she'd never felt before. At the same time, she had to acknowledge that she, too, was just a puzzle piece in Malvorn's plan, a pawn to trick and inspire the masses. She knew their relationship was a utilitarian one, but that's how she had wanted it.

Once the ovations subsided, Malvorn placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"She shall be the sword of your will, the enforcer of your justice. Through her, we strike as one, and our vengeance will be heeded."

He offered the blade to Senya, and she carefully wrapped her fingers around the fluted handle. The weapon felt cold in her hand, but awfully powerful. She inspected the dark blade, examining the intricate details of the serpent that wove itself around the hilt in a tight knot. It was an elegant weapon, a deadly weapon.

Malvorn stepped to the side, and just like that, Senya and the prisoner kneeling next to her were the sole focus of attention. When her eyes met those of the Fateweaver, she could feel her body temperature drop a few degrees.

"You have never taken a life before," the woman rasped with a cynical smile on her lips, barely audible through the roaring of the crowd.

Senya considered the statement. Her thoughts went back to the servant in the kitchen, and her gurgling sounds as she struggled for air. Had the woman died shortly after? Had she, Senya, killed before? She didn't know. Either way, the servant was dead now, taken by her internal burns or the poisonous gas — it mattered not.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, "but I had others kill for me."

"That's not the same," the Fateweaver hissed, and her sharp eyes narrowed. "Taking a life leaves a mark on you. It adds a scar to your soul — one for every body that drops before you."

Senya didn't care much for her lecturing, but then a sudden curiosity overcame her.

"What's your name?" Senya asked quietly.

The woman scoffed bitterly. "Nerina — and I will haunt you in your sleep."

Senya nodded, inhaled deeply, then drove the knife into Nerina's throat.

There was only the rapturing sound of metal puncturing skin, no gagging, no choking. The woman's eyes emptied like a snuffed-out candle, then her body leaned to the side, and she collapsed with a thud.

The crowd erupted like a ripe blister. Their screams of joy echoed through the cave and were refracted into a cacophony of satisfaction.

Senya stepped back and watched as the purple robe on the floor soaked up the pooling blood that sprawled out of Nerina's neck. The blade in her hand was dripping onto the seam of her gown, but she didn't care. Her eyes were fixed on the lifeless body of the Fateweaver, staring at the results of her action, and she felt … nothing — no scars on her soul, no tinge of regret.

Satisfied with herself, she looked over at Malvorn, who gave her an approving nod. Then, he returned to the center of their makeshift stage, just next to where the dead body lay, and folded his arms in his blood-red sleeves. The crowd quieted, but Senya could still see the eagerness on their lit-up faces.

"I know many of you are yearning for peace. You want to continue living the honest lives you've built for yourselves in the darkness that is our home."

He lowered his head in what appeared to be sorrow.

"I am telling you now, with a heavy heart, that there can never be peace while the Fateweavers continue their reign of terror. They know where to find us now, and they will not rest until the last Fateless crumbles to ashes. They will be back, intent on exterminating us like vermin."

The excitement on the spectators' faces vanished and gave way to grim determination.

"But why should we let them?" Malvorn shouted into the beginning murmur of defiance. "Why should we wait here until they come to end us? I say it is time to pay them in kind."

A collective shout of agreement washed over the square.

"I say," Malvorn continued, his voice growing even louder, like a raging storm, "we leave this miserable place behind and seek out a future we deserve — the future they've taken from us."

He clenched his fists above the dead body of the Fateweaver.

"I say," he boomed over thousands of agitated voices, "we burn the surface world and the home of these wretched Fateweavers to nothing more than a crisp, and we will eradicate them in their own homes like they tried with us, but unlike them, we — will — not — fail!"

The electrified crowd burst into an ear-shattering roar, their callused fists raised high and ready for war.

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