"They knew we were weakened, despite our best efforts to hide such openings. They only needed a target."

Dirk resisted the urge to gag as he pressed the stark red towel against the bloody stump of what was once an arm. The guardsman barely reacted to Dirk's efforts, who did his best to stem the bleeding.

The man had been struck by one of those orc-made bows, his survival a miracle. A miracle that had torn the arm off and left the crippled Raven in clear shock. Splinters from the arrow's remnants were still protruding from the flesh like stakes, their sight both mesmerizing and sickening. Dirk did his best not to outright stare at the wound, his ears filled with the cries and shouts of the injured and dying.

"I need vials of vitality, now!" someone called from the other side of the room, right next to what had once been a bar. Medics ran around the transformed tavern in a rush, carrying a multitude of items. Bandages, vials of potions, and even a few bottles of harsh svidka. Dirk watched them at work, hoping to distract himself from the grisly duty he had been assigned to.

"Dirk?" a voice snapped him from his focus. The young man turned to see Kate, her hands holding the injured patient up as another Raven guard finished tightening their makeshift tourniquet.

"Y-Yeah?" Dirk stammered.

"You can let go now," Kate said. "The wound is tied off. Pass me the staunch potion over there."

Dirk nodded dumbly at the request, his hands slowly pulling away from the dark red rag he had been holding. It stayed where it was, held in place by the tourniquet. Dirk fumbled a bit as he reached for the wooden tray of medical supplies, his blood-covered hands grabbing the brass vial that was tied with a topaz ribbon. He gave it to Kate, who tore the plaster and began to pour it into the injured man's mouth. He stared off into nothingness as he drank the concoction, his eyes glazed over.

"Wash up and see if you can help the others," Kate said idly.

With trembling hands, the young man washed his hands in the basin nearby. Pink stained the warm water, slowly growing more red as the blood was cleaned off. Once he was done, Dirk rose to his feet, his focus breaking from the injured as he headed over the bar. Harris was there, searching through the cabinets and shelves.

"We've already scoured the bar for svidka," Dirk said as he approached. The men here had already made sure to grab anything stronger than the average ale, all to cleanse wounds and sanitize equipment. Some of the Ravens, however, had turned to using the stuff to cleanse their thirsty souls. After what Dirk had seen, he didn't blame them one bit.

Harris tensed up at the sound of the young guardsman's voice, his head turning with a raised eyebrow.

"I know that," he said with a wave of his hand. "I'm just checking to see if there's any mead that might've been passed over. Ah, here we are."

Dirk watched as Harris emerged with a few dusty bottles, still corked and sealed, it seemed.

"If those are as old as I think, you'd have a better chance of surviving a direct encounter with an orc," Dirk said as he watched the other man pull the cork out of one bottle. Harris sniffed at it tentatively. Before Dirk could watch him down the stale mead, a commotion began amongst the sounds of moans and cries.

He looked over at the source, watching with some sense of hope as a man stepped in. Captain Felix looked older than the last time Dirk had seen him, his patchy beard and sunken eyes making it seem like the man was aging by the day. The Captain stopped in the middle of the room, greeted by Kate and a couple other squad leaders. Dirk technically counted amongst them, but his squad was small, and they were more or less focused on the backlines.

Dirk watched as they all conferred, their whispers barely audible through the ambient noise of the makeshift infirmary. He could see how Felix handed a few polished stones to two of the squad leaders, Kate and Savard. He held up a bag, gesturing to them. They all nodded.

"What're they talking about?" Harris said, the guardsman suddenly right next to Dirk. He was taking swigs of the old mead, his face scrunching every now and then from the taste. Regardless, he kept drinking.

"I think Felix is handing runes to the frontlines," Dirk murmured as he tried to focus. "Either to replace the ones the orcs tripped in the harbor or…"

"Or to use against the next wave," Harris guessed. "Ah shit. I thought we were supposed to use them as a last resort?"

"I think we're far past that," Dirk said. "The orcs almost made it through this time, according to the survivors. If it hadn't been for our rangers crippling their archers…"

"So, we're not winning this," Harris muttered.

"I don't think so," Dirk said, a deep sense of horror blossoming in his chest. "Then again, we still have the other Fronts. Maybe they'll pull through."

Harris gave him a look. No words were needed to communicate the obvious. Yorktown was supposed to be their bastion in this raid. If it fell, then the entire island was doomed. There was no falling back.

Without saying anything, Dirk reached over and grabbed the other dusty bottle of mead. With effort, he uncorked the thing and began to drink the foul alcohol.

"Silas? Silas can you hear me?"

A voice called out to the orc, who groggily tried to open his eyes. The action took a great deal of effort.

"He's still breathing… So he's fine," another voice spoke up. A human?

'What is a mere human doing near me? Why are they calling me Silas?'

The orc searched for his given name, his head flaring with pain as he recalled the title of Blood-Rok, Terror of Atrox, and the trusted advisor to Blood-Irk. A bestial brute who tore through every obstacle, his terrible bow feared across the wastes of the Old Continent.

'No, you old fool. That's not you. Hasn't been for the past decade at least.'

His name was Silas. He was an older orc, wiser even. Violence sickened him and it didn't suit him. The humans were not his prey. They were his allies, friends even.

Silas groaned as he opened his eyes, his blurred vision keeping him from recognizing the figures who stood over him. They all moved in unison, leaning closer to the injured orc.

"What… What has happened?" Silas murmured barely, the pain from before returning with a vengeance. It took all his will not to wince.

"You were struck by an arrow," a rough voice said. Gruk. "Damn thing knocked you off the wall and nearly took half your arm off."

"My arm?" Silas' eyes widened, and his focus turned to where the pain was. Gruk forced him back.

"Best you don't look at it," Gruk warned. "It's not completely gone, but it's damn near close."

"Just stay put until Elaine gets back," another voice said, a human this time. One of the guardsmen, perhaps.

"The Bard?" Silas asked, confused.

"She was just here a moment ago," Gruk said. "Said she'll be back with supplies."

"How… How are our defenses? Did we fend off the second wave?" Silas was sure he knew the answer but felt it better to hear it confirmed.

"We barely fought them off" Gruk muttered, hesitant. "They reached our Fireball mines and trenches quicker than expected. Even through that, they pushed hard. We would've lost the wall had it not been for the Bard showing up and casting her magic on our defenders."

"Dammit," Silas cursed. "What are our casualties?"

"Don't worry about that," Gruk said. "Stay put until the Bard gets back. Then, you can go over our defenses. I'll take command until then."

Silas wanted to argue with the older orc but couldn't find the energy to debate the issue. Gruk was right. Silas was currently in no condition to lead, especially with how much pain he was in. He had to fight the urge to look at his injury, for he was sure to lose some sense of nerve if he did.

"Rest, Silas," Gruk said as he propped the orc up against something solid. Possibly a crate. With a careful hand, the orc brought out a small vial, its plaster torn to reveal the grimy brown substance within. Silas hesitantly allowed Gruk to pour it into his open maw.

"We'll handle the defenses for now," the older orc muttered. "Just relax and let the potion do its work."

Silas forced himself to stomach the disgusting liquid, his jaw clenched as he kept it in. After a moment, the vitality potion began to work its magic, the muscles in his body becoming relaxed as the pain from his wound dulled from agonizing to an uncomfortable ache.

Hesitant, the orc assigned command to the older Gruk, who began to rally whatever was left of their forces.

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Helen looked over the piles of corpses that trailed all over the slope that led to the Southern Front's walls. Vultures and black ravens were already flocking over the dead orcs, pecking and scavenging whatever they could. Helen watched them feast, her stomach turning.

'At least none of them belong to us,' she thought as she turned back to her side of the fortifications. Laying in a heap, underneath weighted blankets, were the men and women who had fallen during the second wave. Many had devastating wounds from the war bows, their grotesque visages too much to be left in the open, hence the coverings.

Ravens all around were struggling to prepare, some stricken with clear grief whilst others hurried with fearful, frantic expressions. Helen clenched her fist, the spent rune of the Night Spray spell still in her hold. They only had a handful of runes left, along with the line of Fireball mines that were laid out in front of the wall. Even then, with the increasing number of orcs and archers, Helen knew they weren't going to last long.

They would break through the wall, that was for sure. Once that happened, all that stood in defense would be the guardsmen under Helen's command. And she knew they wouldn't last. Even if they somehow managed a proper pike wall, the orcs would punch through like a knife through the padded cloth.

"And it will all be my fault," Helen murmured softly, her jaw clenching as she forced her gaze to the waters beyond the black shores. Two more longships drifted close, their occupants raising spears and shouting excited war cries. Helen watched them, a sense of realization hitting her harder as the day grew and the sunlight burned.

They weren't going to last another wave.

Even if reinforcements arrived on time, Helen had doubts that they'd make it to the Southern Front in time. Especially if the other Fronts were in just as bad shape as this one.

"Marshal?" a question snapped her out of her revelry. Helen turned to see one of the guardsmen with a pin on his sash, signifying him as a squad leader. He was barely an adult.

"Yes?" Helen answered, using every bit of her will to not allow her voice to shake.

"I don't want to overstep, but," the guardsman hesitated, his hands gripping his spear tightly enough for his knuckles to go white. "Will we be able to hold them off?"

Helen thought for a very tense moment, her brow creasing as she tried to come up with an answer, one that could at least soothe the young man's troubles. Instead, all she could say was,

"I don't know."

Seamus turned back toward the direction of Yorktown, his body turning tense for a moment. Despite being in the middle of the inner forest, he could swear he heard the sound of an explosion.

"You felt that too?" Dahlia asked. She was ahead by a few paces, leading the group of townsfolk. Seamus and Lilith were adjacent to her, keeping watch for any wolves. They had come across a small pack not long ago, which dispersed the moment they saw them.

"Something's not right," Seamus murmured. Then, to Dahlia, "I think I'll head back and see what's going on."

Right as he began to turn around, however, a hand gripped his arm. Seamus froze, his focus settling on the undead corpse that held him in place. Her glassy eyes seemed to flicker as if something akin to a soul was behind them.

"I would advise you not to," Marion said. Her grip was cold, her fingers digging into the young man's wrist.

"Marion?" Dahlia called, stopping her walk. "What the hel are you doing?"

"Following orders," Marion said simply. "I am to guide you three toward the eastern section of the island. Under no circumstance are you allowed to leave."

"What?" Seamus gaped at her, confusion and dread filling his chest.

"I never gave those orders," Dahlia said, the Frue stomping through the snow to reach the two.

"You didn't," Marion said. She tilted her head to face Dahlia, expression still monotone. "The Marshal did."

"Helen?" Seamus asked. "Why would she assign you to that? And why are you following her commands?"

"Master Malik gave me simple orders," Marion started. "To follow and protect the ones closest to Jarl Holter. The Marshal's commands fulfill those objectives much more faithfully than the Frue's. As such, I choose to obey them."

"What do you mean they fulfill them more faithfully?" Dahlia asked, voice shaking slightly. Almost on cue, a distant boom punctuated the words. Seamus heard those much more clearly. Both he and the Frue exchanged horrified looks.

"They're raiding, aren't they?" Seamus asked softly. Marion didn't say anything. The young man shook the undead, his jaw clenched with barely contained fury. "Tell me!"

"I am not allowed to say anything," Marion said.

Seamus stared at her, body shaking as he considered options. Before he could settle on any course of action, a knife flashed before his eyes. Black arterial blood spattered over his cloak and tunic, spouting from Marion's now severed hand. The undead woman inspected the wound with a bored expression, one eyebrow raised in what he assumed was surprise.

Dahlia then came into view, shoving Marion back. "Go, Seamus!" She tossed him her satchel, its contents clinking as it landed in his arms. "Get back to Yorktown, now!"

Seamus didn't even question it. He turned tail and ran off toward the direction of the town. Lilith broke away from the caravan, and the young woman was hurrying to keep up. She gave him a confused look filled with a mix of emotions.

"We're going back," he panted to her, "To help."

Lilith's expression paled, her blue eyes asking a question that Seamus knew well.

'Are they in danger?'

"Let's hope not," Seamus muttered as he sprinted back to the only home he had left.

Dahlia watched as Seamus and Lilith ran, their feet kicking up snow and dirt alike. She turned to Marion, who gave her a quizzical look. The undead woman didn't even react to Dahlia's dagger strike, which had left her hand hanging by the wrist.

"You're going to get them killed," Marion said as she nonchalantly reset her maimed appendage.

"You lied to me," Dahlia said behind a veil of calmness. Underneath, she was seething with anger at the undead's choice to keep them in the dark. Yorktown was under attack, and its Frue was kept unaware of it all. It made her blood boil.

"I don't lie," Marion replied. She held her detached hand in place, necrotic energies flowing from the stump to reconnect the severed tendons and split bone in a cloud of steam. "That attack of yours cost me a quarter of my Life reserve, by the way."

"Like I care," Dahlia managed with barely a growl. She held her dagger tightly as if she needed to use it again soon. She hoped she wouldn't. "Did Helen really give you those orders? To keep us away?"

"I don't lie," Marion repeated, her lips forming into a light scowl. "The Marshal figured—rightly so—that you would try something stupid should you have found out. Such as running headfirst into danger."

"Stupid?" Dahlia asked, the anger bubbling within her. "We left them to die!"

"For a reason," Marion insisted. She seemed a lot more forceful with her words, their monotone rhythm disrupted with hints of annoyance. Somewhere deep inside Dahlia's academic mind, she pondered about the sign of emotion. Could such a thing feel anything?

'No time to think about that,' Dahlia thought furiously. 'I need to get back to Yorktown as soon as I can.'

"Marshal Dunn had reason to limit the amount of casualties," Marion said. "While also being able to hold off the raiding force long enough." She narrowed her gaze at the Frue, who began to step back bit by bit. "There is no point in going back there. You'll die."

"I need to help," Dahlia snapped. "My job is to protect this town."

"Your job is to lead the people," Marion said sharply. "You're all they have left, Dahlia. Should you return, you will leave them without a leader."

"There's still James," Dahlia responded, her voice strained. She hated to admit it, but the undead woman's points were starting to resonate with reason. "He could still—"

"James is dead," Marion said, the words echoing within the forest. The townsfolk who were around them went still at the words, their faces painted with shock and disbelief. Dahlia herself could feel something akin to a cold knife sinking into her chest, her ears filled with ringing.

"What?" she asked, unsure if she hallucinated it.

"James is dead," Marion repeated, softer this time. She stepped slowly closer to Dahlia with raised hands. "It was confirmed by Falrick yesterday when he made contact with the Raven Keep."

"He… He's… No," Dahlia shook her head in disbelief. She staggered away from the undead woman, who froze mid-walk. Both of them stared at each other, the Frost's biting cold seeping in through the breeze. Before Dahlia could even process the revelation, something echoed within her ears.

"I'm sorry."

"Falrick?" she asked, recognizing the old Wizard's voice. "What… What are you—?"

"The time for explanations has passed, my Frue," the Wizard said, his ethereal voice coming from somewhere in the west. Dahlia tilted her head toward the direction, her eyes landing on the mountain that sat near the center of the island.

"You knew," Dahlia muttered, feeling colder than she ever had before. "You knew about James."

"I had to keep it from you, if only so you wouldn't be burdened further," Falrick explained. "You must understand."

Dahlia was silent, the sounds of the forest and the wind drowned out by the beating of her heart. She grabbed at her chest as she tried to regulate her breathing, which came out in quick puffs of mist. Marion stared at her with confusion, clearly not familiar with the Frue's reaction.

'Hyperventilating,' her inner voice diagnosed, cold and analytical.

"Dahlia," Falrick continued, despite her breakdown. "You will have to guide the townspeople to the eastern cliffs, where Nathan will prepare to meet them in due time. Please, this is the most important—"

"Shut up," Dahlia huffed between breaths, her teeth gritting as she forced her lungs to work right. It didn't work. "Shut up."

"Dahlia…"

"Shut up!" she shouted, her face flushed with anger and exertion. "Shut it! I'm not doing this! I'm done giving in! I'm done caring! I'm going back, whether you like it or not!"

She turned her head back, her chest feeling as if it was being asphyxiated. Marion tried to follow, but Dahlia held her back at daggerpoint. "Stay back!"

"But what of the townspeople?" the undead abomination asked.

Dahlia turned to the group of onlookers, who all had a mix of emotions. Most looked terrified out of their mind. They had probably put the pieces together on Yorktown's status. The Frue searched amongst them, spotting a couple of guardsmen that were tasked with guiding them.

'Falrick will guide them to the eastern cliffs,' she reasoned feverishly before walking off despite her deteriorating condition.

'James…' was all Dahlia could think as she stomped through the thick snow. She held tightly to her cloak, which shielded her from the freezing bite of the cold. With heavy steps, the Frue headed toward her doomed destination, where her town was under attack.

'James. I'm sorry.'

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