When the Fateless army left Cylion through one of the main gates that once protected it from outside threats, an eerie quiet filled the air. A few singed banners of red and yellow flapped above the massive walls, glowing in the morning sun like the raging inferno that had ravaged through their city way past midnight. Most of the fires were extinguished by now, their raging flames gone dormant, leaving behind an apocalyptic scene.

Dark patches of soot framed burst windows and made the tarnished houses on both sides look like weeping mourners at a funeral, presenting fallen beams, shingles, and bricks as their sacrificial offerings. Their owners were nowhere to be seen, unless in the form of dead bodies scattered between the debris or in the ominous darkness of collapsed house entrances. The few pointy rooftops that survived were covered by a dusting of white ash, like the snowy mountains they had passed on their way to Cylion. Once colorful facades had taken on a depressing shade of dark brown, the flowers and bushes in front of them burned to ash, their pots exploded from immense heat and scattered as fragments in the streets, crunching under their heavy boots.

The Fateless didn't talk much. Their quiet march was one of reflection and realization. They were confronted with what they had done, exfoliated by the harsh light of day — the dead bodies they had amassed, the terror they sowed. It was not to say they were regretting their actions, but they couldn't avoid their consequences any longer.

Senya was riding behind Malvorn, on one of the many horses they had taken from the stables along the city wall. Some of them had been too traumatized to use, so they had cut them down like rotting crops. But even the healthy ones proved to be difficult to ride for the mostly untrained Fateless, including Senya — the only thing she'd ever ridden was a downward spiral of poverty.

And yet, Malvorn's officers and advisors, which miraculously included Senya, were determined to travel more comfortably during their upcoming march. What helped was the feeling of victory that came with bobbing atop a captured horse, while its old rider was buried somewhere in one of the many piles of human bodies.

When the ceiling of the city gate gave way to an orange sky dotted with red clouds that looked like they'd been dipped in crimson blood, Malvorn roweled his mare, and the entire track of Fateless soldiers followed suit.

Senya wondered if their leader was feeling pressured, nervous even. He would've never carried such emotions openly, and in any case seemed more reassured after their victory over Cylion, if nothing else. But still, there was a certain wariness to his voice when he shouted orders, and a pronounced haste in his purposeful stride as he scurried down the palace stairs this morning.

Senya couldn't blame him — after all, decades of planning and scheming were finally coming to a conclusion. And while their past success had them in an exhilarated mood, she could tell their ultimate victory was still up in the air. She knew Malvorn was only going to rest once their age-old nemesis was gone for good — and right now the Fateweavers were waiting for them on home turf, preparing, planning, ready to make their final stand.

A few of the officers had asked Malvorn why he didn't take advantage of Cylion's troops before slaughtering the lot of them. Vaelorian, though insufferable, had seemed open to cooperation — after all, they had been allies all along. And if the army of Cylion hadn't been in complete disarray and utterly unprepared for an attack within their walls, they sure could've been a powerful force in their quest against the Fateweavers. But then again, Senya didn't know if they would've ever followed Malvorn, even when ordered to do so. She'd seen their scrutinizing faces the first time they laid eyes on the arriving Fateless, filled with contempt and glee. Now, those same faces lay motionless on the ground, like pebbles in the mud.

#

The farms and small villages they passed were all but deserted, their windows and doors barred provisionally, livestock dragged out of the wooden barns and herded through gates left open. Trails in the mud bore witness to their flight, as they ran for the distant hills and mountains, far away from the coast. It was ironic, Senya thought, that they had just switched places — and it painted a cruel smile on her cold lips.

For most of their journey, they did not see a living soul. They marched through dense forests and shady orchards, across grassy hills and open fields. A chill breeze accompanied them on their way to the coast, carrying salt and a fishy odor, and the screeching of strange birds. The Fateless soldiers were walking in loose formation, their weapons and shields dangling on their backs or lugged carelessly over their shoulders. Individual groups had combat leaders riding in front of them, but they paid little attention to their instructions and orders. Their pace was unsteady as they pushed through the undergrowth or waded through muddy patches that sullied their boots and pants. Most of them did not have time to clean their robes from the slaughter the day prior, or didn't care to, so the dark stains of blood and soot were still a prominent part of their appearance — which would do wonders to scare any farmers they'd come across.

They were no proper army, but they were many, and Senya would turn around at the top of every hill they climbed and look back at the swarm of blue and black figures as they sprawled over the fields like locusts.

After they'd marched for most of the day under a canopy of gray and white, the landscape got more bleak and ragged. Thorny bushes and trees sat atop patchy short grass, with brittle dirt and even sand peaking through. Icy wind swept across the open fields and cut through their thin robes like blades, and it made their cheeks take on a reddish blush. Exhaustion was visible on many Fateless' faces, as their steamy breaths got whipped back into their pained faces. They yearned for a rest, but Malvorn was not about to grant them the pleasure. He was stoically riding in front, his eyes fixated on the path ahead, muscles tense around his exposed neck. Not only did he seem not to feel the cold, he also chose to keep his thoughts to himself, and didn't talk to Senya or anyone else as they rode along.

On a wide patch of open land, Senya caught up to Malvorn and tried to match his pace. She still had trouble controlling the reins, but through a process of trial and error, she slowly got the hang of it. Malvorn briefly glanced over, his flowing hair dancing on his armored shoulders.

"What?" he grunted.

Senya studied him for a moment.

"You seem tense," she finally said, quiet enough so the marching soldiers behind them couldn't hear her.

Malvorn yanked his head around, and his angry eyes darted at her like a pair of glowing coals.

"Do not forget your place," he snarled. "You have served me well so far, and you have earned a place by my side, but speak to me not of such ridiculous matters or —" he stopped mid-sentence, and his heavy breath filled the air with white mist.

"Or what?" is what Senya wanted to ask, but she resisted the urge.

Instead, she said with a firm voice: "If I sense it, your troops will, too. Don't give them a reason to doubt you — not now."

He stared at her for a long moment, his head bobbing with the stride of his black horse. Finally, and to Senya's surprise, he chuckled — not as a sign of joy, or amusement, but in bittersweet realization.

"You dare to say what none of these bloodsuckers will," he rasped and gestured at the other officers behind them, "and you are right."

Senya could feel her muscles relax, and she let herself be rocked back and forth by the trotting horse underneath her.

"What comes next will decide the future of the Fateless," Malvorn said after a moment. "Not just the future of this generation, or the next, but of our people as a whole. There won't be any going back. Either we destroy the Fateweavers, or they destroy us — for good."

Senya nodded pensively as she processed the gravity of his words. After what they had done in Cylion, she knew it was true. Should they fail, the Fateweavers would kill every last one of them, for they all posed a threat, and always would.

"I trust you have a plan?" she asked quietly.

Malvorn scoffed. "I would be a fool if I didn't. Though I have to admit, it is not the one we had envisioned."

"We?" Senya asked curiously. Was he talking about himself and Vaelorian? If so, that plan had definitely changed dramatically.

Malvorn glanced over and examined her for a moment.

"It matters not," he finally said and gripped his reins a little tighter.

"So, what is the new plan?"

"Once we reach the Great Library, we will prepare for an all-out assault. We will snuff them out of their home and descend upon them like wraiths of death and destruction."

In Senya's mind, that didn't sound very strategic.

"How is that different from the original plan?" she asked skeptically, hoping the previous plan would offer a more sophisticated approach.

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"The original plan had us sit and wait while fate takes care of everything." He laughed sharply. "Isn't that ironic? The Fateless waiting for fate to save them?"

He shook his head, then added: "Where would be the fun in that?"

Senya considered his words for a moment, but she couldn't quite make sense of them.

"I don't follow," she admitted.

Malvorn nodded. "In time, you will understand. For now, I just need you to trust me. Our blades yearn for Fateweaver blood, and we will quench their thirst."

#

When they emerged from yet another scrubby forest, they were met with a commanding view over a wide blue sea past the stony rim of a steep cliff only a hundred yards away. Fierce wind rustled their robes and patches of stubby grass as they approached the edge, and still they could not see the distant bottom of the cliff face. What they could see, however, was hundreds and thousands of heaving waves as they clashed against outcroppings and lone rocks in front of the coast, where they burst into white sparkles and eventually dissolved into sparkling mist.

Senya had never seen so much water in one place, and the primal power that was emanating from it sent shivers down her back — that and the biting cold. She could feel salty droplets batter her skin every time the sweeping gusts struck her cheeks, and every breath she drew burned in her lungs with a freshness so unlike the stodgy air in Morathen. Against better judgment, she kept her watering eyes wide open and surveyed the extensive bay they found themselves in, with marble white cliffs wrapping around the spuming blue sea, receding into tight coves along the way, whose entrances were guarded by piles of sharp rocks that broke the roaring waves. Here and there, Senya could see narrow bands of white scree and smooth boulders in between the foot of the cliffs and the stormy sea, with bulging barrels of water sprawling onto the fields of pebbles and sand in an unyielding rhythm.

For a long time, she just stood there and stared at the forces of nature below her, just like many of the other Fateless. Malvorn's attention, however, was aimed in a different direction. His eyes were almost as dark and powerful as the sea itself, and they were glued on the southern end of the bay, where the land rose to an impressive height, surrounded by steep cliffs that almost seemed to topple over. On top stood a structure as extensive as the royal palace of Cylion, with lofty towers that reached for the gloomy sky and pointy roofs and gray walls that looked as ancient as time itself. A sturdy wall wrapped itself around the premises, not nearly as strong as the one they had set ablaze in Morathen, but still big enough to pose a challenge.

Without Malvorn even telling her, she knew they were looking at the Great Library of the Fateweavers, with its spires and grand halls that had withstood the harsh conditions for centuries, and would've done so for another millennium had it not been for them. The monumental building sat atop its ragged outcropping like a king on a throne, daring the raging waves just below with every day that passed. All ships entering and leaving the bay would pass it, and every crew member would watch the massive construct in awe as they went by.

"That's where they are hiding," Malvorn growled, and his spiteful words almost got lost in the thunderous clashing of the waves.

Senya could see the malice in his eyes and the bitterness on his lips.

He turned around and faced his troops that had gathered along the edge of the cliff, or were standing in the clearing towards the treeline.

"That's where they are hiding!" he shouted, a lot louder this time. "Hiding in their castle on the hill, as they've done for generations."

The other Fateless were slowly gathering around them, their patchy faces grim as the sea.

Malvorn extended one of his armored hands and pointed at the building in the distance.

"From these very towers they watched as they spelled doom upon our people," he roared, his face distorted by rage.

Senya wondered if he'd ever seen the place before, but didn't dare to ask.

"That's where they sat," he continued, "as the armies of Cylion did their bidding. Those armies are now corpses, and so will they be. We will breach their pathetic walls, tear down their mighty towers until we have crushed every last one of them. That is what we came here to do, and that is what we are owed."

He clenched his fist and stared at the home of their age-old enemy.

This time, there was no cheering, no shouting, but a determined murmur of agreement. They knew their path now and didn't need any more convincing or inspiration. All of them had come here to destroy the Fateweavers, and for the first time in their lives, they could feel their own power to do just that. The violence of the raging sea below them only underlined their desire for vengeance.

#

It was around nightfall when they arrived in a larger village by the coast, with brightly colored houses that nestled against the jagged stone of the surrounding cliffs. At the lowest point of the town lay a small harbor housing a handful of fishing vessels that bobbed peacefully in the fading light of day. One of the officers explained to Senya that they were coming up on Tavira, a place of great historical relevance and the closest settlement to the Great Library.

Senya had heard stories about Tavira, but she never thought she'd actually see it. About one generation ago, maybe two, this charming village had been at the center of a gruesome battle between the Fateless and the forces of Cylion, joined and orchestrated by the Fateweavers themselves. Unprovoked, they had slaughtered the Fateless living in Tavira at that time, and many more when the armies of Morathen tried to come to their aid. It had been a terrible slaughter, and the Fateless soldiers had been swarmed from both sides by enemy troops, until they eventually retreated back into the valley they came from. One of Malvorn's predecessors, who'd led the Fateless' charge, died that day, along with hundreds of his followers. Many families in Morathen still mourned fallen members, for almost an entire generation had been lost, including both of Senya's grandfathers.

The bloodshed had been fierce and swift, and the Fateless had to accept their defeat. Licking their wounds in the darkness of Morathen, they didn't do much for many years to come, until an odd twenty years later, a man with visions of grandeur came along and inspired the Fateless — so much so they elected him as their ruler. As time went on, many stopped believing in what Malvorn promised them at the beginning of his reign, and they just saw another greedy ruler, who accumulated wealth beyond belief at the cost of his subjects. And yet, here they stood — right where their enemies thought they'd delivered a final blow. And Malvorn had led them here.

They descended into Tavira following a gravely path almost too steep for their horses. The town was awfully quiet. Most of the colorful shutters were closed, and even the market square in the middle of the town was empty — except for a group of about twenty men and women who approached them cheerfully at first sight. While they looked like all the other surface people they had killed so far, Senya knew they were fellow Fateless, formerly under Althor's command. A few of the officers greeted them respectfully and saw to it that they were equipped with proper attire and weapons before joining the ranks of their true brothers and sisters.

Soon after, the large plaza was filled with black and blue figures, illuminated by oil lamps that were dangling from the surrounding archways and a crescent moon that had just emerged behind low-hanging clouds.

There they stood, awaiting orders from their glorious leader, like puppets with weapons. Only the few men and women on horseback stood out from the crowd, including Senya and, most importantly, Malvorn himself. The ruler of the Fateless had decided not to avoid Tavira on their way to the Great Library, but instead gather all of them right in the center of it. As more and more Fateless flooded the plaza, Malvorn got off his horse and walked up the few steps in front of a small church overlooking the plaza. Atop his stage, he turned around and let his gaze drift over the crowds.

When most of them had arrived, Malvorn raised one of his golden fists, and a suspenseful quiet filled the air. Here and there, the clinking and clanking of weapons and armor broke the silence, or the faint cooing of one of the flying animals Senya had heard the night before, when she'd stood on one of the palace balconies to stare at the night sky. She hadn't seen much, except for an orange glow from the smoldering city below. But the pale orb the surface dwellers called the moon had been there, peeking through the black smoke like a pearl in deep waters.

"Citizens of Tavira!" Malvorn shouted into the quiet, where no one answered.

Some of the Fateless soldiers eagerly looked around, as if they were expecting the hiding inhabitants of Tavira to flock out of hiding.

"Do you remember us?" Malvorn's voice was cold and bitter, and it echoed off the pretty facades that lined the square.

Again, none of the shutters or doors moved.

"Many decades ago, we stood at your doorstep," he roared, and a menacing gleam made his skin shine like armor. "You rejected us, fought us — and watched from your pretty little houses as we got slaughtered like animals by the armies of Cylion and the Fateweavers."

Not even the Fateless dared to move, at the risk of making any noise that could disturb Malvorn in his state of rage.

"Injustice is like a rotting limb," their fuming leader continued, "you have to sever it early, and without hesitation, lest it festers and kills the host."

He sighed theatrically. "I'm afraid, it did fester — in all of our souls. When you let our forefathers die all those years ago, we received injuries far deeper than what a blade can cut. Families were ripped to pieces, children lost their parents, brothers their sisters. All that pain festered in us, made us bitter and angry. But we never lost track of what truly matters, and thus we find ourselves here, tonight, in your lovely village — again, after all those years."

He extended his bulky arms, and a cruel smile split his lips.

"Now, you might have heard what happened in Cylion. A terrible fate, but a necessary one. Ultimately, it was their troops that cut down our people like crops ripe for harvest, and so justice was served. There was no other way."

Senya could almost feel the fear seep through the cracks and crevices of the surrounding windows and doors. She was certain their residents were hiding just behind them, listening to every cruel word with horror in their eyes and hearts.

"But we're no monsters," Malvorn exclaimed and chuckled. "We won't do to you what we did to Cylion. You see, life is all about fairness. Yours was not the blade that killed so many of our cherished family members. But your lack of support is what got them killed, leaving holes in our hearts that can never be filled. I say it is only fair if we correct this injustice in kind."

He glanced at the surrounding houses with radiating eyes.

"Spread the word: our troops will go from door to door, and they will cut down one member from every household. You will feel the same loss we felt, and it will stay with you."

He paused, then added: "As a token of my benevolence, you even get to choose who will serve as your contribution to justice. One person per household, no more, no less."

Senya could feel the mood in the plaza shift, as the soldiers were preparing themselves for another bloodshed — mentally and physically.

"If a house fails to present us with a chosen sacrifice," Malvorn continued with a grim voice, "we will kill every man, woman, child, and animal in that house."

He closed his eyes while his words echoed across the market square, soaking in the exhilarating feeling of power with his arms wide open.

Finally, he exhaled deeply, and when he opened his eyes again, they were dripping with malice.

"We will start knocking in 30 minutes. Make your pick, and make your peace."

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