Laczlo held the letter in his trembling hands, wishing he'd never left Nova for this damned war. Wishing he'd never become tsar, never won the rebellion, never survived against his uncle… He squeezed his eyes shut, fists pressing hard on his eyelids, trying to erase the words from his mind just in case they were all a lie made up in his exhaustion. Yes, the decision about what to do with Oskar and the voivode was a difficult one, keeping him up and raising tension between him and his people. That was all, wasn't it? Just a simple case of self-deception and exhaustion?

He let out a shaky breath, glancing around the small chamber he'd acquired to work out of, fit with a table, sets of chairs, a small window for lighting, and a scattering of parchment of various reports on states of supplies, money, intel, political alignments, and more. A brass pitcher of wine with tin chalices. Isak at the door with his arms crossed, watching with some concern as Vida leaned forward, elbows on the table, lips pursed with equal worry. Intrigue. They'd interrupted his reading with two pieces of news, one good, but any sense of optimism was quickly squashed, for the second came in the form of an unopened letter; Isak joined, having escorted her. There was a sense of distrust among those closest to Laczlo about Vida, as if she would try to seduce him and bend him to her will or some such. That wasn't her. It was obvious that even Kapitalena admitted it, didn't she? Pure foolishness and excessive worry. If anything, Laczlo was the sinister one. He'd exploited everyone he could to get where he was! Didn't they see it? Why worry for him? They should be worried about him!

"Are you okay?" Vida asked.

He rubbed his face, then just tossed it down for her and said, "It's from Varul."

She picked up the letter tentatively and read so Isak could hear, "Great Tsar of Vasia, it pleases us to know of your safe arrival to the voivodeship of Vetera. It is a land home to those who chafe under the right rule of your tsardom…" She trailed off, mumbling through the preamble. "Yet, all is not well in Nova. A plague has struck the city, slowing commerce and administration, hampering our attempts at reasserting order alongside the tsaritsa, your designated regent—an appropriate decision she is quite worthy of. Despite our best efforts at quarantining the dockside districts, the sickness spread rapidly. The tsaritsa ordered a city-wide policy of isolation, taking on oversight of her policy's implementation personally. Yet, the gods were angry with our past failings, and this plague has struck the Column, despite our prayers. Already, many of our new priests are sick and dying. We are pursuing options for treatment, Sorcerous and otherwise. However, the plague has, unfortunately, additionally claimed the lives of…" Once more, her voice faded, but this time not for the sake of conciseness. "Oh no…"

Isak grunted, shaking his head. "Amon's dead, isn't he?"

Vida licked her lips, slowly setting the letter down, hand covering her mouth in some combination of horror and consideration. "Yes. And Alasa took her own life from the grief."

"Who else lives?"

"Isak, is that—"

"Who else lives?" he repeated, eyes narrowing.

"All the children died of sickness."

The druzhina scoffed. "Sickness."

"Do you have something to say?" Laczlo asked, voice harsh and jaw tensed.

"Besides the obvious? He killed her and the heir. It's the cruel, practical thing to do. You think he wouldn't?"

"I heard of the disease, though," Vida protested. "Maybe they really were sick. It's certainly possible."

Isak's brow rose incredulously. "While stowed away in the Column of all places? Most of the priests there don't even leave. How'd they get sick?"

"Transmission isn't impossible. It could be in the air… Or something in the food. It's not like they can grow things in the Column, after all—"

"Stop." Laczlo slapped a hand down, then cringed at the noise. He slumped in his chair, anger fading like adrenaline after an exhausting fight. "It's alright. You don't have to search for something convincing. Isak's right, the answer's obvious." I'm a pretender who seized the throne when convenient, then killed the rightful heir and the tsar's wife, he thought to himself, almost drowning in it. No, I went further. I killed them all and now rush to make war on a neighbor.

How could he have strayed so far from his ideals? How could he have allowed this? Become this?

The others stared at him, lost for words. How to comfort the tsar of all of Vasia when he slumped down like a sad, pathetic mess?

You couldn't. The man had to pick himself back up. He had to move forward.

Laczlo stood and took a deep, shaky breath. He looked at Isak with red eyes, blurry from tears. "Gather the voivodes, the boyars, the commanders—I want everyone in the hall tonight. We're proceeding with my judgment of Oskar Koyzlov."

…

Emalia scrambled away from the imposing, feral Greyskin as it twitched and convulsed, collapsing to its knees. She'd put her knife in it, but that's not what killed it. Black, crawling lines rippled through its pale flesh, encompassing its torso, limbs, neck, and face like a spilled inkwell trickles down pages of discarded parchment. It let loose a moan of a dying animal and struggled toward her with a sort of stumbling determination. Emalia leaped in and seized her knife, then jabbed it through the Greyskin's eye, almost by accident. Enough damage to Dead ended them, even if they didn't possess functional anatomy. A Soul's bond to the body is tenuous, broken with sustained harm to the physical form, the ramblings of a panicked mind finding what comfort it can in the normal, perhaps.

She pulled the knife back and fell with it, butt thudding onto the ground as she stared at it, toppling over. But this was hardly the time for shocked celebrations and rest, so she leaped up and scanned the area, finding Sovina nearby, dodging swipes of a Greyskin, dueling it with frightening speed. Sometimes, it seemed the woman was hardly human. Emalia wanted to go and help, but the last time she did that, things went quite poorly, so she retreated with her back to a tree as Ignatia stepped out of the river, sopping wet and stern. Ahead, Protis was laying into a few remaining creatures with their usual ferocity, outmatching them easily, taking only glancing blows off their armor and superficial cuts. In a few moments, they relieved Sovina as Ignatia put down the last of the stray Greyskins in the water with some type of Corrupting Spell similar to the one from before.

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Emalia kept searching. Where was Daecinus?

She asked Ignatia just that as Protis and Sovina regrouped.

"He went on his own," Ignatia said, clearly frustrated. "We need to hurry."

Emalia looked over to the distant dock and small village near it. They'd been carried quite a way from the boat, and it would take some time to cross the river, too. "There were horses there. Not many, but certainly one rideable one. He likely took one to ride into Novakrayu. We won't reach him." She smiled at Sovina, glad for her safety, and inspected her for wounds. Nothing serious. "We will need to go on our own. That was his intention anyway, wasn't it?"

Ignatia grumbled an affirmative, but Protis grunted out, "Yes. Find the temple room underground. Destroy it. Stop Maecia."

"Thank you for coming for us." She grabbed Ignatia's forearm and squeezed it. "Really."

The New Pethan Sorcerer nodded. "It was necessary. We must go now. Stay together on foot."

"Very well." She sighed. Back across the river, then.

When they made it to the other side, tired and worn out, poor swimmers as some of them were—well, mainly Emalia, who had to cling to Protis most of the way—they started for the city. It would not be a quick journey, and backtracking to the port village to find horses was not likely to get enough of them a mount, Emalia decided to keep forward. Not that it was her decision. Not that she was the leader, but that was what seemed logical, and so that is what she argued, and that's what they did.

"Hey," Sovina said as they jogged toward Novakrayu, not even seeming tired, "we fought a Sorcerer like her before, and it didn't go well. This time, we won't have a convenient room that blocks Sorcery."

"We'll be fighting near one that amplifies it instead, yes."

"Right. So, I don't want us taking chances. I don't want you taking chances."

"This is my fight too!"

"I know, but I don't want you getting hurt, Em."

Emalia shook her head at the thought, wishing she could stop and shake Sovina. "I know I'm not a warrior, but this is Maecia we're talking about! What use will a sword be against her? None of us are prepared for this."

"I can fight her," she said, voice firm. "I know it."

"You know it."

"Yes. More than you can. You will get in the way, so I want you to stay out."

"Sovina, that's not fair—"

"Do you need me to ask as your guardian?" she said, giving almost a warning glare, as if daring her. "I'm not going to be persuaded."

She's right. Of course, she's right, Emalia thought, stopping herself from arguing, thinking on it as she ran. I can't fight her, but I can't just sit this out if it comes down to it. It's too important. But what else was there to say right now? What compromise? She just aimed toward the city, focusing on the task, on what Maecia might do and how to stop her.

It was well over two miles to the city, and after the fighting and swimming, Emalia wasn't the only one exhausted. Well, just her and Ignatia. Protis was inscrutable while Sovina was… Sovina. They paused at a hillside, peeking at the battle beginning to unfold. It was a terrible sight. A core of armed townspeople buffeted by what looked like New Pethan warriors and Soulborne held the line against Dead. In the south, closest to them, Targul riders tested Maecia's line of Greyskin and mounted warriors. To the north, those strange people clad in white tabards bearing lances and banners rode hard, pressing with Dead-like ferocity.

"Who are they?" she asked Protis, pointing north.

The Soulborne stared, an almost reflective, considering look in their eyes. "Men of the Kingdom of Sadovoe. They are of the White Order—Deus worshipers. They come in crusade."

"Crusade? As in, against the Dead? Why here…" She stopped to think. "They heard of Daecinus's presence, didn't they? They certainly heard that one who matched his description was behind the deaths of their members in Levanksa." Gods, that was so long ago. She and Sovina had rushed out with Oskar to help, only to find all those cultists dead and in their place, Protis.

"Yes. They learned of him when we were north in the forests." Protis paused, considering. "In Venport. They ride against Maecia, but will attack him when it is done, it seems. They must all lose for us to win."

"Or we can reach an understanding. Some kind of treaty."

"They are determined."

Emalia's voice hardened by some strange sense of stubbornness and passion. "We can always reach an understanding. People have that potential."

The Soulborne did not reply as they moved on, heading for the southern gate of the city. She hoped the guards there recognized her. They would be of Targul, likely, but the people of Novakrayu knew her as well. She'd drawn quite the crowds toward the end, oddly. She still wasn't quite sure what they saw in her, even if her words rang true.

Fortunately, as they approached the walls and were called to halt lest they be fired upon, she shouted out in Vasian to match theirs, "I am Emalia, friend of the temple here, friend of Novakrayu! I was taken by Maecia but I have escaped and am here to help!"

"And how do we know this is no Sorcery?" one of them shouted back, a certain sense of guarded hope in his voice.

"I can tell you things that only I would know, maybe of my words to the people about faith, maybe of Taraz, the Black Han, or your head priest, Wracen. With me are Protis, Soulborne of Daecinus, whom you have seen and know, and Sovina, my guardian and partner. Even Ignatia, Archon of New Petha, is here. But none of these things prove our identity, not truly." She took a deep breath, hoping they would be willing to listen. "You will just have to trust me. Take me to Wracen, and he can identify me! Maecia, the Sorcerer behind this attack, and—"

She was cut off as the man looking down upon her from high up, toppled over, and fell, smashing into the ground below the walls. Emalia gasped and looked back up. There were shouts, screams from all about the gatehouse. In the madness, a stranger's voice called down to them, confident and snide, "Now, now, you weren't supposed to be here! You're ruining everything, little priestess! Best to run along now before you find out what your faith earns you!"

"They were ready to take the gatehouse," Ignatia muttered through bared teeth.

Sovina grabbed Emalia's arm, pulling her a few paces from the walls, likely concerned about arrow fire. "We can't scale this."

Emalia looked over to Protis. The Soulborne was studying the half-repaired, plastered stone, not entirely flat but seemingly impossible for anything to climb, let alone the hulking, heavy Protis. "Can you?"

"Not here." Protis turned and grinned at them, revealing sharp, almost frightful teeth in an expression easily misconstruable as a threat. "But I planned for this. Follow." They ran north and east, along the wall. Everyone followed with haste, having to nearly sprint to keep up, until a few minutes later, out of sight from the gatehouse, they reached a section of the wall in worse repair, pot-marked and infested with ivy. Still quite impossible for anyone to scale, but weak to siege engines, perhaps.

"Maecia would have her plan," Protis explained, approaching the wall. "I… advised the Black Han to repair the west side and leave this open. Above is a rope."

Emalia looked up. It was still a very tall wall, and her fear of heights hadn't faded exactly since the Sinking Cities, as much as she wished it had. She swallowed it and nodded. "So you go up and we climb?"

"Yes." Protis looked at Ignatia. "Climb on me."

"Sorry?"

"I will not fall. If they attack me, I need you to fight them while I hold the rope."

Protis is getting smarter. This is incredible. Emalia almost shook her head in disbelief at it all. Planning for the future, expecting opponent contingencies… This was strategy. It was also personhood, hence the new pronoun for the Soulborne: they, implying such personhood. She and Daecinus figured it was more appropriate, and respectful, even. What a world we live in these days.

"Fine," Ignatia climbed on the Soulborne's back, and the contrast in their sizes highlighted how large Protis had grown. They were around seven and a half feet tall, and broader than any human she'd ever seen. Protis abandoned the axe with an eerily-human sigh, since there was no way to hold onto the axe nor a sheath to stow it in, and began to climb with the kind of energy of a focused attack, seizing handholds and navigating footholds with what looked like experience.

Gods, Emalia thought, watching them go, Protis didn't just plan this. They practiced it. She smiled. They were all in good hands. And maybe, when this was all over, Soulborne like Protis would make for a more interesting future. Whatever Maecia argued about Souls, one thing was clear: sentience could be created from Sorcery, and so there couldn't be only destruction. There could also be life.

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