Thankfully, they had not needed to spend much more time in the dead lands of the Lich-King. Though vast the southern reaches were thin, granting a swift journey to those skilled and cunning enough to brave the horrors of his blighted lands. Only a few more days of travel saw them reaching the edge of his territory, a sight that might have been more pleasant had it not been so reminiscent of where they had started.

The borders between the Lich-King and the All-Seeing were as much a blasted hellscape as the borders beyond Le Mur Sacre. Barren mud and lifeless lands stretched beyond the horizon in all directions, if nothing else more honest in its desolation than the unliving forests which they'd cut through before.

For the younger among them it was a surprising sight, though not unexpected to the more knowledgeable of their party. Despite their professed unity, Demons warred between each other as much as Men did.

What was far more surprising to everyone was the sight of a lone tower, rising high above the barren wastes. Grey stone weathered and beaten, yet unnaturally smooth compared to the craters and trenches which shattered the earth around it. It loomed above the ruined battlefields like a single finger raised in stubborn defiance.

That alone would not be so shocking. Perhaps the tower was manned by Demons, a singular surviving fortification built for some border skirmish long forgotten. It's not like it would be the first they'd seen. No, what drew their attention to this tower in particular was not its odd height or remarkably intact structure, but something much, much stranger.

For flying from its battlements was a flag, brilliantly clear and well maintained. A flag depicting a Griffon Crowned in Gold, holding a silver sword and a red rose on a royal blue background.

It was a flag none had flown in decades. One not seen beyond tattered remnants tucked away in noble trophy rooms or curio houses. A flag bearing the image of a state dead and buried.

The flag of the Roisuissian Empire.

-<X>-

Teresa leapt from the Bed of Roses, huffing lightly as her feet planted on solid earth for the first time in a week. A louder grunt and the sound of clinking plate heralded Charles joining her, the two of them chosen as the vanguard for this new mystery.

"I still think this is a bad idea," the old knight groused, blade drawn as he eyed up the suspiciously well-cared for stone which made up the tower. "I've never seen something which so obviously screamed 'trap' in my life."

"I don't disagree," she hummed a quiet hymn, her sword beginning to glow faintly at the song. "But if it is so then would you not call it our duty to see it destroyed?"

"Hell no," he scoffed. "There's nothing out here worth protecting beyond the pride of a dead empire. Better just to move on and pretend we saw nothing at all."

"Yet you were a knight for that empire, were you not?" Her voice was without judgement, but undeniably curious. "Do you not feel the need to protect its legacy from those who would use it for vile ends?"

"Some days, perhaps. But not here, not now. Your lives are far more important to preserve than the dignity of the long dead."

"How very honorable, Ser Charles."

"I have my moments," he drawled.

They quieted as they reached the door to the tower. A great oaken barricade, crisscrossed with steel bars and anointed with holy silver, it loomed thrice the height of the average human. So massive and heavy, it would have taken the strength of an ogre to budge it even an inch.

Luckily, there was a much smaller, human-sized door built into the bottom, which Charles rapped the knuckles of his gauntlets against with three sharp knocks.

"To whomever remains within," he boomed, a sharp frown etched beneath his helmet. "I am Charles, a White Knight of the Second Empire. Know that using the flag of the Empire unsanctioned is a treasonous offense, subject to dishonorable discharge, execution, and a stiff fine! Open this door in the name of the Empire so that you may explain yourself and accept your lawful judgement!"

Teresa gave him an amused side-eye, raising an eyebrow. "Treason? Really?"

Charles simply huffed quietly. "If they want to use the Empire's flag as a trap, then I will simply remind them of the consequences of doing so."

"A knight!" a voice suddenly boomed. Teresa startled and brandished her sword, but it continued uncaring. "One of the old guard, here at last!?"

Above the grand door the stones shifted, mortar expanding and shuddering as a great grey eye grew from within the grout. Slate irises twitched erratically, glancing down and up and down at them. Then it seemed to widen, and a dozen more appeared all along the frame.

"And you're human to boot! Human, human, human! Oh, its been so so so long! Quick—quick. Come in, before they come back!"

The door—the whole door, all twenty feet of it—suddenly swung open, silently and swiftly. As though not the tiniest bit of effort was needed to move it. Beyond a dim foyer loomed, as ominously pristine as the outside had been.

"Hold," Charles narrowed his eyes and raised a hand, looking a moment away from cutting their losses and running away. "Do you think us so foolish? Answer me now—who are you to command this tower and fly that flag? What trickery did you pull to claim it for yourself?"

"Oh, forgive me, forgive my manners!" Teresa could swear the tower almost seemed to… undulate as the voice spoke. It was disturbing to witness. "Yes, yes, you're right! Caution is good, it's important! Demons are such vile, disgusting tricksters! You can never be to careful, oh no no no!"

She turned to give her companion a look, feeling much less confident about this whole endeavor. In an act of valiant chivalry he managed not to respond with 'I told you so.'

"I am Commander Baptiste Rosilard IV, once mage-captain of the Ten Towers," the voice calmed somewhat as it introduced its—himself, as though the act of speaking its own name was enough to center it back in the realm of sanity. "Last of my line, now and evermore, sworn to guard the Final Tower until the Goddess' faithful return to burn the Demons one and all!"

That, more than anything, seemed to shock Charles.

"Rosilard?" he gasped, eyes wide. "Dukes of the Ten Towers, who ruled as mage-lords of the southern heartlands? Those Rosilards!? I thought you were all dead!"

"Dead, dead, dead, yes. My brothers, dead. My father, dead. My mother, dead. My sons, dead. My daughters, dead. My cousins, dead. Dead, dead, dead," the voice was dull as it spoke, a rhythmic madness underpinning its solemnity. "They died well. They died poorly. They died. But I did not, and neither did you! So please, please, from one who did not die to another—come in, come in and greet me. Before they kill you, the Demons, the damned damned Demons!"

He grimaced, and Teresa nearly swore as she realized he was actually considering it.

"Charles," she hissed, grabbing his elbow sharply. "I know I was the one who brought us down here, but please, do not just walk into this madman's tower!"

"He… might be telling the truth though," the older man's frown deepened, a tinge of melancholy flickering along its edges. "I hadn't thought to remember them, as I'd assumed they were all destroyed, but this should be around the place the Ten Towers had once stood. And Rosilard… I'd had a sister-in-arms, back in the capital. Bianca de Rosilard. She died in the initial invasion, but if one of her family still lives…"

"And is that not more suspicious?" she shook him slightly. "That he bears the same name as one of your old friends? It could easily be a trick!"

"Perhaps," he murmured lowly, clearly deep in thought. "But… what if it's not? I'm not sure I could live with myself if that were the case."

"Charles…"

"…I'll go in alone," he said at last, like the honorable moron he pretended he wasn't. "If this is a trap then I will bear the brunt of it myself."

"You will go in with me," she disagreed dryly. "Because if you are certain of entering then I'm not going to let you die alone."

"Teresa."

"Charles."

"Baptiste!"

Right, she'd almost forgotten about the crazy bastard in the tower.

She turned back to the Bed of Roses, resting off a safe distance away. The others were watching over the edge, tense and ready to jump in at the slightest sign of danger. She calmly reached into her pocket and pulled out the tiny diamond mouse which had hidden within.

"We're going in," she murmured to it softly. "It might be safe, but stay on your guard. We'll be back soon."

The warning given, she turned back to Charles with a sharp, tense smile.

"Well then," she gestured in. "After you."

He gave her a sour look, but the untensing of his shoulders gave away his relief. He trudged into the maw of the tower, and with a murmured prayer she followed close behind.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The silver glow of her faith faintly lit up the dim foyer, each step further echoing through the empty space. It was immaculately, uncomfortably clean, not a speck of dust on the furniture nor any cobwebs clinging to the corners. A welcoming area was set out before them, plush couches arranged about a cold fireplace. A noble's residence, prepped and ready to welcome visitors in carefully curated comfort.

And yet… there was a staleness to the air. An emptiness which clung to the heart of the room, like even the ghosts had abandoned this place.

There was no dust nor dirt, but she doubted anyone alive had been in this room in a long, long time.

"Welcome, welcome," the voice—Baptiste—continued cheerfully as they slowly shuffled further in. The stone shifted as they walked, more grey eyes slinking across the walls. "So so very sorry about the mess, but I wasn't expecting visitors, you know? Ah ah ah but where are my manners! Welcome honored Knight and his Holy companion, to the Last Tower of the Rosilards!"

Charles frowned. "I thought you said this was the 'Final' Tower."

"I… did I? I suppose I did. Well, its not like it matters—Final, Last, Only, its just words! Words which only I've ever spoken. At least before today! Now two more people are around to know them. Oh, is that not wonderful? Is that not enchanting! Oh, I must slay a thousand Demons before I calm myself again!"

As the madman giggled maniacally, Teresa glanced warily about the room. "Lord Rosilard…"

"Oh, please, Lord Rosilard was my uncle! And then my cousin, and then his son, and then that son's brother…"

"Signor Rosilard, then," she cut him off dryly. "Where are you, per chance? I can understand your hesitance to meet with us outside, but surely now that you've let us in you'd be willing to at least speak with us face to face."

"Face? You mean—ah, face! Face-to-face. Of course, that's what you'd want, you don't understand! Ah, but don't worry, don't worry! I remember where I hid my face!" he chuckled, though beneath the mania was something almost… sad. "Up, up, up! Upstairs, to the top of the tower, where a Fragment of a Fragment is protected even now! I'm up there, don't you know? Up, up, up!"

"…It's rather rude not to come greet us yourself, don't you know?" she asked cautiously, before turning to lock eyes with Charles. She was not so valiant as to not mouth 'I told you so.'

The knight merely scoffed, hand not leaving his own blade.

"Ah, I know, I know! How so very rude of me, and to the only polite guests I've had in years!" he bemoaned, sounding genuinely distraught. "But I'm afraid that's just how the coastline crumbles! You want my face—well, its up on top!"

It was worth a shot at least.

The two of them carefully made their way to the staircase at the other end of the room. Each step they took was a stressful shuffle, wondering if now would be the moment the trap was sprung and they would be forced to fight for their lives.

But beyond the ramblings of the madman at the top of the tower, nothing happened. And somehow that was worse than anything at all.

"…How long have you been guarding this tower, Ser Baptiste?" Charles asked as they climbed, only the faint light of the arrow-slits enough to see the steps. "The last of the Heartlands fell over a decade ago—surely you haven't been fighting alone here all this time?"

"Oh, you'd think, you'd wish!" The eyes slid along the cracks in the mortar, following up with them as they ascended. They seemed to hone in on her own sword the most, softening in contentment as they got near. It was the only thing that kept her from calling the whole thing off and physically dragging Charles out of the tower. "But all alone I was! Once there were more—more mages, more knights, more men! But then they died, one by one by one! First to fire, then to Demons, then to thirst and hunger and madness! Until there was just me—lonely, lonely me."

"That sounds…" he glanced at her, the 'I shouldn't have asked' clear in his eyes. "Horrible. How did you survive?"

"I almost didn't!" they cackled, the sound shuddering its way between the bricks. "But I'm quite the stubborn mage, don't you know! I was taught the magic of the Towers, and when all the others fell I knew I just needed to dig deeper to survive! Deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper!"

The laughter seemed to shake the tower, yet still they climbed. For minutes, maybe even hours, carefully keeping idle small talk with the madman at its peak. Until, eventually, finally, they made it to the top of the last flight of stairs, and at the surface emerged from the stale darkness into blinding, burning light.

The roof of the Tower was a small, crammed space. Over the edge one could see the blasted hellscape sprawl out in every direction for miles around, the bleached brown almost beautiful when you couldn't see the details of the desolation packed throughout it.

But such sights meant nothing compared to what they saw above the tower itself.

A massive shard of silver, twice the length of her body and twisted horribly floated above their heads. It glowed faintly with holy light, so empowering to stand beneath it almost burned her. From the shard seemed to hum a chorus, a song, a hymn. Something rarely remembered yet never quite forgotten.

And beneath that divine shard was a man.

Or, at least, what was left of a man.

A faceless body sprawled sunk into the stone, its flesh of brick and its blood of mortar which melted into the grey slate that surrounded it. It was impossible to tell where the body began and the tower ended, mangled limbs weathered away by the winds and calcified hair anchoring the skull like roots to the roof.

Then the ground warped, the space between the stone twisting as grey eyes slipped along the cracks in the mortar toward the body. They climbed up its arms and over its shoulders before coming to rest about where the face should be, off-center and misaligned but presumably where they might have once been in life.

Then with a loud 'CRACK' the stone along the body's face jerked and splintered open, a fractured mouth slowly creaking open and closed, like it was trying to work a muscle long unused.

"Well, I tried my best, but here it is!" the body clacked at them, something almost cheerful in its expression. "My face! The face of Baptiste Rosilard IV! Or, at least, what it might have been if it were still made of meat."

"I…" Charles wet his lips, eyes wide as he stared down at the thing before them. "Are you… dead…?"

"No, no, not dead, not me!" it chuckled, the Tower shuddering with his laughter. "Never me. I fought and fought, but it wasn't enough! So I asked the stone to stand, the walls to hold. I begged and pleaded and begged, and they answered! Oh, how they answered! The tower must stand, you see—the Empire must never fall. And so I gave my life to the stone and the stone gave life to me!"

Teresa closed her eyes, softly muttering another prayer under her breath.

This… she knew was this was. Perhaps not as intimately as a true mage, not with the degree of separation the Divine gave her, but she knew what happened when a mage gave to much of themselves to their magic.

Magic corrupts. That was the first thing any mage learned. It corrupts the body, the mind, sometimes even the soul. Yet the changes tended to be small, for all but the most powerful of them. Because there was only so much the average person needed to use their magic—only warriors and adventurers and academics tended to see true changes to their bodies, with how often they used it. But even they had a limit. What laid before them… it was the kind of thing that was told to new adventurers to scare them off of overreaching.

And yet, in these hostile, horrible lands, so far from safety or salvation, what other choice had he had?

To go so far, for so long… it was an admirable sort of stubbornness, the kind she prayed to never witness again.

For a long while the two of them stood silent above him, only the mad laughter of the corrupted mage to fill the silence.

And then Charles stepped forward, something sad in his eyes.

"Ser Rosilard," he asked softly, palming the handle of his sword. "Do you… would you like me to end your suffering?"

The laughter ceased instantly, the silence which snapped into place behind it almost eerie.

"No, no!" he snapped, angry in a way they hadn't yet heard from him. "I cannot die! Not now, not yet! Not until every Demon is slain and every city and town liberated! Not until the Emperor returns, and the Empire with it!"

The Empire was dead. But somehow, speaking those words now… they felt wrong. Cruel.

Charles lowered his head, kneeling before the stone man to look him in his unsteady eyes. "You are suffering," he told him softly. "You have been suffering for a long, long time. Surely you do not wish to continue to suffer alone?"

"But I am alone no longer!" he seemed to cheer, the slate shifting with it. "A knight and a priestess have come to my aid! Oh, oh, it's like the early days come again! Together we shall slay so so so many Demons!"

"…I'm sorry, but we cannot stay," he grimaced. "We are on a mission to save a young girl, and there is not much more time to waste. Even now, she could be suffering at the hands of Demons."

The world seemed to freeze—silent, still, the tower and the shard alike stopping utterly.

Then, slowly, the world sighed, and the eyes fell off the body until only the cracked mouth remained.

"Ah, ah," the Tower creaked with his sigh, forlorn yet unsurprised. "I should have expected as much. The Knight must save the Princess from the Demons. That's how the story goes. That's how all the stories go. Ah, ah, ah, I should have remembered, how foolish!"

"I'm sorry," Charles murmured. "But that is why I ask—the only aid I can grant you is a swift mercy."

"Mercy for me, maybe," he moaned. "But not for she!"

"…She?"

"She! Her! The Lady, The Divine, The Goddess Herself! She touched us, long ago, don't you remember? The Ten Towers, each to hold a Fragment away from sinful, prying eyes! But now nine have fallen and only mine remains! Mine mine, mine alone! I cannot die, not now, not yet! Not until the Empire returns, and the Fragment is safe once again!"

Teresa grimaced at that, wondering if it were truly so important or if the madman had simply latched on to a simple holy relic as an excuse. Though, from the strength of the empowerment she felt…

She turned her gaze upon the shard, looking into it in a way that might have seen her censured if anyone else knew what she was doing, and there—

Something looked back.

-<ʘ>-

The Sky bleeds.

Angels fight Dragons in a war of ancient cataclysm. Boundless cruelty marches on wings of glass as Daemen lay low the old order of things, as Horrors and Broodmothers shatter mountains in bids not for blood or cruelty but simple escape, as Aelves tear the Heartroots of the world in desperate defiance of the End—

The World is wounded.

Geometric patterns dance across the clouds, what was severed from what will be as Foreign blood taints Fate and muddles Death. The Song was not yet Sung. The Song will never be Sung. The Song was never Sung. There is no Song.

Ichor is drained of the Divine.

Gods die. Burned, Broken, Banished. One by one by one. The fields of Divinity are left fallow. One does not die, and vengeance and wrath are redefined. Babbling Men laugh in the face of Hell and are granted its gilded key. A dead God dies again and its corpse is dragged down, down, down.

The Earth is consumed by Ash.

-<X>-

Teresa gasped, falling out of the vision.

Her hands flew to her eyes, only a great force of will stopping herself from clawing them out. Instead her fingers simply soaked themselves in her tears, as she let loose a long, hollow sob.

Then, under the confused and wary gaze of Charles, she slowly regathered herself.

"He's right," she said at last, her voice barely wobbling. "We can't let this fall into the hands of Demons."

The stone man grinned at her. "Indeed, such vile, vile, vile creatures! Demons, Deathmen, disgusting beasts of burden! They should have all died out long, long ago."

Charles frowned, glancing up at the Fragment warily. "So you say, but… does it have to remain here? If it's so important, should we take it with us?"

"I don't think you'd want to touch it," she told him dryly. "And that's if it can even be moved at all. …No. The Goddess wanted it here for a reason. And unfortunately for all of us, there's only one person left capable of guarding it."

The old knight's eyes closed, frustrated but resigned. "…Very well."

"I told you, yes I did!" the smile finally slipped off the face, returning to the Tower with the rest of his eyes. "I'll be here forever and ever! Until my watch finally, finally ends! Until the Empire finally, finally returns!"

"…Then may your watch be fruitful, Baptiste Rosilard. And may it come to a swift and honorable end."

He turned to her, and the two nodded in quiet understanding.

There was nothing left for them here.

The mad laughter and slate eyes followed them back down the stairs, past empty bedrooms and silent solars. To the foyer at the bottom, perfectly preserved by the man in the Tower. And though it fell quiet as they left through the great oaken door, the eyes continued to watch them silently as they left it behind.

As they marched back to the Bed of Roses Teresa couldn't help but give one glace back at the tower, where the flag of a dead Empire fluttered from its peak almost like a hand waving goodbye. A final farewell, from a man with nothing left but duty and death.

She closed her eyes and began to pray.

For that is all the mercy she could grant him.

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