Tenoris tossed his shield over the palisade and leapt over after it, followed by Fulmin, Kaesii and Drusilla. The four legionnaires parted the acolytes, striding towards him. The Coven rushed to intercept them, all but Aetheria, who remained lying in the mud not far from where Skippii was suspended.

"Halt," one of the Coven commanded. "These are sacred grounds. Kylin observes your insubordination. We execute her bidding. This legionnaire has been condemned as a heretic. He is no longer a servant of Auctoritas, but a boon of flesh to be sacrificed."

His companions slowed to a stop and the two sides faced off. Twisting, Skippii reached out for the ground, eager to connect with his magia. But two of the Coven's cloaked company still had their attention locked on him, muttering a prayer, maintaining the invocation.

"He was taken under false pretense," Maritor announced over the winds. "I have not relinquished him from my command."

"He is no heretic," Tenoris declared. "Kylin be my observer, and hold me to my words, he is a hero."

"Paltry testimony of the plebs." The warmagi took a glance at Aetheria, then stepped forward to take the lead. It was a man's voice, though he was short of stature–one of just two men amongst the Twelve. The magus turned and gestured at Skippii, his unkempt, mud-speckled beard ruffling in the wind. "This man is astray by his own admission, and yet possesses terrible magia, not of our Gods. That much has been divined and thus displayed here today. He has faced the trial of combat and been bested by Kylin, and thus, we have learned how to destroy his kin. We have proven the might of the Pantheos before the Gods. He is no longer your legionnaire. He is a soul wearing a corpse, who must now reckon with our masters."

"While he breathes," Tenoris stepped forward. "He is my brother. I am his kin, and I know my heart as well as his. There is no darkness there. You are mistaken."

"This is not your expertise, legionnaire. Take your charms and your bedtime prayers, and hope that the Gods forgive you for this transgression. Lay down your arms and depart, or else witness your legio be sacrificed, and beg for his forgiveness, for should you intervene, we shall be forced to submit you too."

"He is a subject of Oyaltun." Cliae's voice flitted on the winds, scattering over the parade ground meekly. "He has Oyaltun's favour. He is no heretic."

"Enough of this," Fulmin shouted, striding forward, a grim expression beneath his helmet.

The leading warmagi thrust his palm out and the winds rose around him. The remaining magus rallied to his side, chanting in unison. Their cloaks remained deadly still in the growing gale. "Oppose us and perish."

"Hey, Skip," Fulmin shouted over the winds. "This makes us even in the afterlife, yeah?"

"Don't come," Skippii blurted. "They'll do it. They're fanatics. They'll kill you all."

But Fulmin pressed on, followed by the others. Behind on the palisade, Custos Maritor watched on bleakly, hands gripping the parapet.

"Tonnage Six," he commanded. "On my orders, fight if we are attacked. Do what you must."

At his side, Vexillum raised Tonnage VI's standard and yawped; his bellows possessed a bluster unblunted by his long years. The trumpeter took up Vexillum's call as others atop the palisade joined in, roaring and raising their weapons. But as the wind howled in Skippii's ears, their bellows were suffocated. It was a futile fight, and they would all die for his mistakes.

"Stop," he yelled, but as though in a dream, his words had no power nor effect. Debris swirled around them, forming vortexes, enclosing his companions in the jaws of beasts. But the four legionnaires pressed onwards, challenging the Coven, slowly coming together to form a phalanx. Shields raised, spears poised, red cloaks thrashing behind them in the wind.

"Cease!" A voice cut through the wind cleanly, seeming to reach the ears of all. Suddenly, Skippii hit the ground. Struggling to his knees, he hissed as his ribs creaked. His bones ached, muscles strained. Bearing the pain, he turned towards the voice.

Aetheria had risen to her feet and stood with her arms spread out, her cloak taut like the wings of a bird in flight, lifting her off the ground. The winds' current rushed into her open palms, draining away. So too did her aura grow, soaring over the warmagi and legionnaires, commanding their obedience.

Slowly, the storm died down, and she settled on the ground, head bowed, arms folded across her chest.

"Release him," she said, but Fulmin was already at his side. The stout legionnaire lifted Skippii to his feet and began carrying him as others came to help. The arena was so quiet, the wind so still, that only the sounds of their heavy footsteps through the mud could be heard over their breaths. Exhausted and concussed, his thoughts came to him slowly and in chunks. He grasped at one, but it fled, then again, he reached for it and came to a halt.

"The others," he sighed, almost too weak to speak. "Prisoners, all like me. Free them."

His companions stopped beside the palisade walls, looking around. Above him was his tonnage: fifty brave legionnaires who were willing to offer their lives for him–many of them strangers whom he had shared the battlefield with, but never a campfire or meal–never a story of home or a prayer. The weight of their devotion to him–to the legion–pressed on his heart, but his duty ran deeper; it was one of humanity. He had come so close to death that suddenly he felt intimately one with all of the Coven's victims, who had borne that same primal fear as he. They were all human at the core, despite their race or crimes. They all had a desire to live.

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"They earned their freedom." Turning, he picked Aetheria out of the crowd of magi and acolytes, standing dumbfounded in the arena. "Your terms were survival and freedom. We have survived. Let them go. All of them."

Aetheria stared at him as though not understanding the demand. Gone was the hatred from her eyes, anew was a fragile clarity, and a hesitation to act.

"You swore on Kylin," he pressed. "As she is witness, do not torment them anymore. Don't be cruel."

Aetheria nodded stiffly. A murmur rose about the arena as the surviving prisoners relayed the message, but many were Ürkün, and did not understand the command.

"Go," he shouted. "Run. Be done with this madness."

As a few Auctoritas-born prisoners took the lead, many of the barbarians followed. They fled past him in a rush, exiting through a gate in the walls.

"But…" Kaesii started. "The enemy are amongst them."

"Our enemy," Skippii scoffed. "Who is that now? These beggars? Women? Look at them. Let them run."

In the rush, a tall man caked in mud made his way to Skippii's side.

"My thanks," Carus said. "And debt. You have some loyal friends. I do not see my companions amongst those who are rallied here."

Together, they navigated the low interior of the tunnel, passing the cave's entrance in which the prisoners had been held. The smell of it followed them all the way to the exit and the open air. Outside, a phalanx of legionnaires waited. They all stared at him as he was carried into their ranks–a mixture of expressions. Some were glad–relieved–while others were stern, admonishing. Skippii sought the eyes of them all and gave his thanks, but there were too many and he was too weak.

Hobbling with his arm around Fulmin, he was led through the forest and hoisted onto a mule-drawn cart. There he lay while the tonnage caught up and formed on the road, though Custos Maritor had stayed behind. Skippii did not envy the man for the conversation he must be having with the Coven.

"We came as soon as we learned of the Coven's deceit," Tenoris said.

Drusilla scoffed. "He half-ran off in the wrong direction to save you."

"You ran after him," Kaesii said.

"To catch him, idiot," Drusilla said. "We told Maritor. He didn't hesitate. He rallied us all and told everyone to follow."

"Voluntarily," Tenoris added. "Only one man stayed behind."

"Can you guess who?" Fulmin said.

"The Octio," Skippii murmured.

Kaesii whistled. "You should have seen his expression. The rage…"

Drusilla nodded. "He hates you now, Skip, if he didn't before."

His companions grinned cynically, but Skippii didn't share the joke; his heart was grave, for in a way, he knew the Octio had been right.

"I'm a danger," he confessed. "I can't control it. I thought I could."

After a short pause, Drusilla scoffed. "Danger to the enemy, I should think."

"The enemy," he whispered. Suddenly, the word's meaning alluded him. Who had been his enemy this day?

"I knew that this would happen," Tenoris said gravely. "The Coven of Kylin are malevolent–uncaring, like the storms themselves. They have no compassion. They have gathered clouds above your head for some days. The downpour was inevitable, but I did not consider them so bold as to render you from within the camp while legionnaires watched on. Were there not too legionnaires amongst those prisoners, garbed as filthily as the Ürkün enemy?"

"A few," Skippii croaked, grasping for a waterskin. "For petty crimes, unless they were lying. As for the rest, some were warriors. Others…" Their gaunt faces appeared in his memory; their hopelessness–something which he knew himself. His eyes fell over the forest. Dark shapes melded with the udnergrowth's clutter, retreating into the mountains. The prisoners escaped, but to what fates? The wilderness was unforgiving, and perhaps they would seek out their camps–re-join with their allies. Perhaps Skippii would come to clash shields with those Ürkün, or perhaps the fates would weave a different tale.

"How is he?" Orsin asked as he approached the cart with Cur and Arius in tow. "How are you?"

"Good," he said. "I didn't know you cared so much Cur."

"Maritor's orders," the old legionnaire said with a scowl. "I thought we were coming here to kill you ourselves."

"You're not?" Skippii joked dryly, but nodded a silent thanks.

Somebody pushed themselves through the pack of legionnaires, and a slender form in a grey toga appeared at the fore. Cliae leaned over the cart wide-eyed, tracing the wounds which covered his body. His blood seeped with the wet mud. He was cast in pottery–a layer of fire-dried mud encrusting his skin. The more he lay still, the more the clay set in, forming a silhouette tomb.

Tears welled in Cliae's eyes as the slave looked upon him compassionately. Words appeared on their lips, but disappeared in a breath. Skippii watched as grief swirled with fear, then came a rare spark of anger.

Clenching their jaw, Cliae swallowed and rested a gentle hand atop his. "It's going to be okay."

That stung. Skippii looked aside, unwilling to face Cliae's sincerity. It wasn't okay. They were a fool for even speaking those words–better to jest like Cur and Drusilla. The mule was whipped, and not for the first time in his campaign, he was drawn away from the battlefield bloody, beaten and utterly depleted.

Cliae strode by his side, hand forever on the wagon's edge, as though letting go might cause it to fly away. His companeight surrounded the wagon, with the tonnage marching behind, and they headed back down the rough trail towards Legion IX's camp. There, Skippii knew his tribulations would not end. Though his life had been spared, the die had been cast, and his fates secured. He would lose everything. He knew that was inevitable. To contend it would only cause him more grief.

His heart hardened to the fact. Until the morning, he had been granted life, and had the grace to call himself a legionnaire. But on the morrow, his superiors would have to choose one of two paths: commend the firebrand magi, whose powers were unaccounted for amongst the Pantheon, or else condemn the Coven, who were essential for the upcoming battle of Nerithon; for whom Legion IX and V were betting their lives and the very success of the campaign.

He had never sought out such an ill fate, but it was his. He accepted that now, and would make of it what he could. He would arise, alone, and forge his own path. He would not retire, a disgrace, and return to his mother. He would redeem his name. He would find a way...

But much sorrow and duty lay before his hour of redemption. Much loss.

"It's over," Skippii said, clenching his eyes shut as the feeling of shame washed over him. "We tried, but it's over."

"Do not speak ill," Orsin said softly.

Skippii raised his arm over his face so that his companions would not see his tears. He didn't want them remembering him like that. "Thank you."

"Nothing is over until the Gods decide it," Tenoris said.

"They have decided," Skippii whispered. And so have I.

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