Fists full of flames, Skippii waded into the enemy. Sparks erupted as their weapons struck him, but he beat them back. Each blow cost him a fraction of his magia in flux. His breath would not bring more power, and what he had stored was dwindling. Where once had been a raging inferno now burned a meagre firepit. But it was enough. His flames caught the hides of the enemy, setting them ablaze, leaping from one foe to the next with pitch screams, making a pyre of their scarecrow forms.

Terror was rife with the stench of detritus and charcoaled meat. Skippii shut his heart to it and barrelled towards the stairs from which Ürkün reinforcements emerged. Plunging forth, he beat them back and summoned the magia of his core for an explosive blast. Dipping into the narrow stairwell, he planted feet atop the stone steps and released a measure of his power through his legs, evoking a Seismic Quake.

The steps shook and cracked. Dust and rubble. The Ürkün beneath him fell, groping for the walls, tumbling down the stairs. But the archway above him did not collapse–he had made a perfect assessment of force–not so powerful as to bring the roof down upon them.

As the wooden floorboards creaked under the strain around the stair's entrance, Skippii staggered back into the tower's chamber. Tenoris was guarding the way, his spear pointed at the enemy wardingly. With the stairs' collapse, their rear was guarded by the wall. But dozens of the enemy remained, lingering just out of their range. Fear inspired hesitancy. His flames had burned terror into their faces as the agonising screams of their immolated brethren echoed off the walls. Many who could stand, had fled. Some remained frozen by fear–dressed in pale rags–Philoxenian countrymen forced into evil deeds. Others gathered, weapons in hand, stalwart hatred in their eyes. The enemy's elite.

The farthest door had been congested with the fleeing enemy, but now it was clearing. The gate's rampart was visible ahead, and beyond, the second gate tower. But before them stood many more warriors–the bravest who had not yet fled. Beside them, the door which had admitted them moments ago shook as warriors clashed against the latch.

Quickly, he summoned a slither of his strength and pressed his palm into the metal fixing and hinges, evoking a Metalurgic Warp. A flush of heat ran through the metal, expanding and seizing it, turning the complex metallurgy into lumps or slag.

But while he was distracted, the enemy fell upon Tenoris. He heard ragged breaths of battle–the clashing of axe against shield and shuffling of feet on cobblestone. Turning, he brought fire upon his foes. But weapons struck in response. The enemy fought viciously. Axes battered aside his fists. Arrows struck him in the chest. Swords clanged off his helmet. Skippii threw fists in return, each a devastating blow that cast them into the fires.

But more of the enemy came from the ladders above, and his strength was waning. Panting, he retreated behind Tenoris' shield and dashed for the remaining door. Dragging it shut, he sealed it while Tenoris guarded his back. Now they would not be disturbed by reinforcements.

Tenoris followed after him, spear poised at the eight Ürkün who followed. All others cowered at the corner of the rooms. Eight would be easy, were he on the ground. But here, in the high tower, his magia had dwindled to a flicker. The light of his core faded to a mere candle, stretched thin throughout his body. He had not expected it to go so fast, but ever since setting foot upon the battlements, his connection with the source had stretched so thin–a rope unknotting into a spider's silk–that he could not detect it anymore.

It was as though his enemy sensed his diminishing, for they advanced slowly. For the first time since entering the gatetower, he had but moments to consider. His eyes darted around the smokey room, searching for a mechanism. There should be a crank here which would raise the iron portcullis which barred the gate. However, all he saw were stores of arms, braziers and bodies. The crank must be beneath them, on the ground floor. Grimacing, he recalled destroying the stairwell which led down to it. But if he hadn't, the entirety of Nerithon's garrison would be upon them now.

If he could reach the ground, he could restore his core to its full strength. He did not know how long it would take–a mere breath or prolonged rest? Right now, he had enough magia in reserve to evoke an Enkindled Burst, and detonate the wooden floorboards beneath their feet. However, the fall was far, and Tenoris would not survive the collapse, if at all he himself could. It was a desperate gambit.

All of this, he considered in a matter of moments. But then the time for tactics was gone. The enemy neared. Survival took precedent.

Kneeling, he grabbed the haft of an enemy spear and drew it towards him. Now, twelve or more Ürkün filled the room, slowly fanning out, cornering them. Neither force wanted to make the first move. Though they were outnumbered, he and Tenoris had already killed dozens of their kin. But the enemy was smart. They smelled blood–an aftertaste of fatigue; they sensed the fight was nearing an end, and sought to end it themselves.

Each of the tower doors drummed as axes bit into the wood. Skippii reached out behind him and found the latch, sending a trickle of his magia in the form of a Metalurgic Warp to melt the bolt and secure it to the frame. Then, grabbing a pouch at his waist, he burned through the leather, gripping a handful of stones within.

"Ark kabool," the Ürkün shouted. They raised their weapons and bashed their shields, snarling like beasts, jeering and lurching forward, each step bringing their biting weapons closer to his neck.

Melting the stones slag, Skippii launched a hail of Blister Arrows upon the dogs. A thud and patter, as flesh was subdued by force, then several fell, howling in pain. But their flanks avoided the hail. An axe fell to slice his shoulder in half, but he caught the head in his hand. Sparks burst as his Blazing Armour absorbed the attack, and his magia dwindled. Gripping the head, he softened its edge with a swift Metalurgic Warp. Meanwhile, Tenoris was sparring with two others, battering their attacks away with his shield, thrusting his spear as much to ward them off as for any hope of piercing them.

The Ürkün held back, like wolves stalking their prey, picking their moments to strike. Tenoris panted with exertion, noticeably slower. Skippii's fires burned to an ember. The legionnaire's cloak had long since singed atop his back, revealing Hespera's glimmering tunic beneath, but no longer did the flames wreath his body. Scant flames lapped at his fists, blossoming in waves as he parried an enemy's sword and struck with his spear.

Dim light suddenly cut through the door opposite them as an axe split the wood. Soon, the enemy would break in, and they would be overwhelmed. At the sight of their allies' approach, the Ürkün in the gatetower retreat slowly, muttering to one another in their accursed language. Seven remained–the seven strongest who had withstood them so far–now standing guard before the opposite door, awaiting relief. One tried the latch, but found it welded shut. Another axe fell, widening the breach. Skippii had but a moment to act before the tide turned against them, and all was lost, and the remaining battle would be fought without them.

"On me, brother," Skippii hissed. "To death."

Launching his spear as a Firetail Lance, he pierced the meanest Ürkün through the chest. The big man struck the stone wall behind them, and Skippii charged. Arms flung wide, the remainder of his energy burning upon his flesh. He tackled two of the warriors while they beheld their dying kinsman, pinning them to the stone wall. Then he released his reserves, summoning a Rockfang from the brickwork. Power fled him, sweeping through the stone walls. He was not sure it would work, and for a moment, it felt as though his magia had stalled…

The wall detonated as though struck by a catapult. Skippii was flung backwards as the enemy landed on top of him. Struggling to rise in the rubble, he staggered clear of the smoke and dust as a fresh wind blew into the tower. Boulders fell from above as the wall continued to crumble, exposing them to the outside air. The two Ürkün he had grasped were flung across the room. Others were crushed by stones, but a few struggled to their feet. Tenoris's spear brought them swift deaths.

Suddenly dizzy, Skippii fell to his knees. He gazed about the tower in delirium. The shattered wall revealed the parapet beyond, and the grey sky above. It cracked at head-height, and crumbled down the tower's flank. The climb was precarious, but the enemy could make it quickly if they were to brave the fall. Already, pale faces appeared through the clearing dust, searching for a way inside.

Tenoris hauled him to his feet and towards the stairwell to the towertop. Arrows shot through the breach, scattering off the stone. There was a scream as stones dislodged, and the Ürkün fell trying to scale the treacherous rocks. More behind them were hesitant to follow.

Turning from their foe, he dragged himself up the steps. Tenoris languished, weighed down by his arms and armour. Skippii pushed him from behind. In the small space, the scent of his brother was strong in the air. Suddenly, he remembered a similar climb which they had taken just weeks ago in the stairway of a Philoxenian farmstead. It was almost comedic how the fates had placed them in the same situation again.

Finally, they emerged into the dull morning light and drew in clean air. The tower rose above the parapet, exposed to the stormy sky. Men in rags fled from them, arms held out to show they were unarmed. Philoxenians–slaves made to man the ballistas which were fixed to the tower's parapet. Four siege weapons in total, and tall buckets of arrows, all meant for the legions below, all abandoned now. Skippii glanced at operators, huddled as they were against the far parapet, and knew they would not give them trouble.

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Approaching the tower's edge, he sheltered his eyes from the storm. Rain pelted the towertop, obscuring all in a shower, raking the edges of the world so that it seemed all beyond Nerithon was but a grey haze–inconsequential.

Standing shakily–for once feeling the chill–he stared over the parapet upon the legions. The breath caught in his mouth. It was a sight to behold. Red cloaks bloomed in the fields below. The orderly formation of white shields and leathers advanced like brickwork, bringing order to the wild lands.

A district of ruin spread from Nerithon's walls; a dirtied surf of scorched and abandoned slums. Three paths had been cleared of the rubble, and three siege towers lumbered through them. Bolts and flaming arrows found the towers, two of which were incomplete in their construction. Rickety, and trembling in the fierce winds, the farthest tower shuddered as a ballista found its mark and shattered one of the foundational posts. The legionnaires below cried out and raised their shields as debris fell upon them.

Between each tower–amongst the wreckage ground down by war–marched ranks of legionnaires carrying ladders. Towards the north, many ladders had already been sprung against the tower which he had collapsed with a Seismic Quake. Red cloaks climbed them, white shields strung over their backs, like a chain of flowers, or trickle of blood.

Skippii shook himself, fatigue was beginning to dim his mind. If only he could find a way down to the ground to restore his magia reserves… But with the tower's stairwell destroyed, and the enemy swarming in, he could see little more way of doing so than jumping over the edge of the sixteen-metre battlement.

"Must we open the gates?" Tenoris shouted to contest the howling winds. "Will our towers not be enough?"

Only one of the three siege towers was of sturdy make–fitted with bronze armour and leather treated to avoid fire. But valiant defenders were packed upon the walls to oppose it–the Ürkün's elite. Their fight would not be easy, nor swift. Skippii sighed, and resigned himself to the dark fates.

"No relief will come for us soon," he said. "If we cannot give them access to the city streets, and the siege towers fail…"

"Then let it not come to that," Tenoris cried.

"I thought…" Glancing north, he caught sight of lumbering shapes in the storm's haze. There, a shadow filled the city, thicker in spots, like low black clouds above the rooftops. Near the city's centre, the mightiest of the cyclops kin began to topple. A black cloud consumed its form as it collapsed at the feet of the central temple. Even from so far, its ruin shake was felt through the tower's floorboards.

"How did they repel the monsters?" Skippii said over the winds. "Look how many warriors are upon their walls. Why aren't they fighting the cyclops?"

"Ponder not the fates," Tenoris said. "Our fight is here, and now."

"But I must ponder. My strategy was meant to change the fates. Why didn't it work?"

"I cannot be helped."

The nearest siege tower crawled up an embankment–dug many months ago by Legion V's slaves–and trundled towards the parapet. So close, he could see the faces of the legionnaires pushing it from below, and spotted the insignia of their standard.

"Second Cohort," Skippii pointed. "Which tonnage? Ours?"

The tower's drawbridge was lowered, and hooks caught the stone. Legionnaires crossed the gap, assailed by a hail of arrows. But Kylin's winds swept over their flanks, speeding their charge and deflecting the enemy's darts. The Auctorian warriors roared like a gushing tide. The enemy bayed, receiving their charge. The symphony of clashing weapons and screams was one familiar to him as a child, of watching battle from afar. A cacophony rose about the city–thousands of men matching their strengths, and meeting their deaths. And thousands more civilians, helpless in panic, unable to affect the fates, forced to simply bear witness as slowly, a victor was decided.

Then, in the chaos, a chime. A revolting sound. Abutcher's bell to the calf.

Above the battlement suspended a small orb, black in its entirety. So peculiar was it that, despite the turmoil of battle raging below, Skippii's eyes were drawn to it. All the world seemed to lean into it. The storm's winds swept around the orb, circling like water in a deep basin. Many legionnaires on the siege tower's drawbridge looked up, shrinking beneath their shields. Their cloaks whipped about, torn by its current; but those directly beneath the orb could not see above the rim of their helmets. A rift was caused by those legionnaires pushing forward, and those holding back from fear and confusion.

"By Gods," Tenoris whispered. "Diamortis has risen."

"That's not Diamortis," Skippii said, but he would not name it now.

The orb swelled–a black blight on the world. Debris: stones, arrows, discarded weapons and the like, rose into the air. Mens' arms were lifted against their will as a stream of dirty, bloody water was sucked from the battlements. The orb consumed it all hungrily, disappearing beneath its depths. It even seemed like the colour of the world was drained, and an ashen haze replaced it.

Then, as all looked up in dismay, with a deep clashing of tides, the black magia burst.

An impact shoved Skippii solidly in the chest. Clinging to the tower's parapet, he saw those closest to the orb hit hardest–flung from the battlements to their deaths. A spray of rust-coloured sludge pelted those atop the wall–Auctorians and Ürkün alike–bending them to their knees.

Slow to recover–gripped by fear–the legionnaires were sprung upon by the enemy awaiting beyond the edges of the blast. Arrows and spears fell upon them in a hail. For a moment, the enemy were unhindered by Kylin's winds. Spikes found their mark, piercing flesh. A legionnaire arched his spine in the squall, screaming as an axe, thrown, split his spine. Though swiftly, his agony was ended by arrows.

Skippii watched in a cold horror, too weak to help them, sick to his stomach at the carnage.

Suddenly, the heavens burst, and thunder showered the wall. A din of shattering stone. The crackle of searing power. Skippii ducked as a bolt struck the tower parapet a few metres away, but the storm was not meant for him. Bolts slew the Ürkün either side of the siege tower's parapet. Where it struck true, their bodies exploded. Brutal, was Kylin's strength, and the Coven had wrought her truest wrath.

As the thunder abated, and heated mists cleared, the dead and doomed lay atop the cobblestone battlements. Red legionnaire's cloaks mingled with the earthly colours of Ürkün hides–a mass of bodies with little movement–all enemies made equals in their mortality before the Gods. None remained to fight. All had fled to their towers and walls.

Below came voices. In flight or fury, the enemy had scaled the breach, or else broken through the gatetower's doors. Instinctively, Skippii reached out towards the ground for strength. A mere sliver found him–a candle flickering in the storm. Picking a discarded sword from the rain slicked floorboards, he and Tenoris faced the hatch, readying for battle.

"Such an end for heroes," Tenoris said. "The legion will tell our tale for many decades to come."

"I can't die here."

"All is well in the heavens," Tenoris soothed.

"No, I can't die here." Skippii said. "I'm not afraid, Tenoris. But it's not done. My duty. I must kill the heretic."

"Then do not die," Tenoris said, shoving him lightly, and grinned. "And I shan't either."

An arrow flew from below, and struck Tenoris in the head. With a ding, his helmet was flung and he toppled backwards. Crying out, Skippii tried to catch him, but he was too slow. The big legionnaire fell onto his back, legs raised in the air, shield and spear clattering across the towertop.

With bellows that reverberated the chamber below, the Ürkün charged up its steps. A shield filled the entryway, pressing upwards before spears. Skippii hacked and kicked them back, but they pressed on, determined. Without his magia, he was too weak to oppose so many. Just as the enemy rose onto the towertop, Tenoris rose and dove upon them like an enraged bull. He smashed their foremost shields, sending them back. Many lost their footing and fell down the steps, tumbling over the sides, but the closest enemy did not scatter. He gripped Tenoris and dragged him down.

Skippii darted into the reprieve, stabbing through the hatch while Tenoris struggled with his foe. Out of the gloom, a spear found his hand, slicing his thumb up to his wrist. The pain jolted him. Blood spilled as he switched sword-hands, clutching the wound to his chest.

An arrow caught him in the cheek, turning his head, slicing his mouth open. Upon giving ground, the enemy climbed after him. Tenoris was locked on the towertop with his foe as each man struggled desperately to bring a dagger to the other's throat. Though Tenoris was much larger than the enemy, he was fatigued, collapsing under the weight of his own mass, red faced and panting like a horse ridden to its last legs.

The foremost Ürkün rose, shield in hand, then turned on Tenoris, axe raised for his back. Skippii yelled and charged forward, swinging his sword overhead. The Ürkün turned at the last moment to catch the blow on his shield. Skippii swung again, screaming, drawing him away from Tenoris, whose back was exposed. But more of the enemy rose from the tower's bowls, their evil faces transfixed on killing. Magia flickered in Skippii's fists–a morsel of the power–and he channeled it into Blazing Strikes.

Deflecting the enemy's weapons with his arms, he struck them as hard as he could. But each blow no longer burned, and powerful as he was, he could no longer sunder them so easily. The light of the world fled, replaced by a burning image that flickered before his vision. The sounds of battle dulled. The cold air lost its bite. Blows struck him, but the pain receded. He found a familiar place–the space between consciousness and the beyond. Gone was his body and mind, burned to insignificant ash. All that remained was his lifeforce–pure and potent–fueling his magia.

Skippii burned brightly once more–an ember in a gale–glowing from the core upon a final dwindling plight. His magia swirled–flames beyond control. Burning. Burning. His life's energy fueld the wrath. Heat death creeped upon him. And beyond: an eternal cold.

Cold, like wet, charred wood. Lifeless. Dead.

In the blackness, an ancient enemy. Eighteen lidded eyes. Eighteen sleeping suns suspended in the black. A blight beyond reckoning, awaking slowly to the battle of its design. Cosmipox, the incursor god, unravelled a legion of limbs and reached to brush his soul.

Then, in the blackness, a voice familiar. Light permeated the darkness. The vision faded, and the world reluctantly returned. He was teetering above bodies that were not his–limbs which splayed lifelessly. But which was his? The cold rains had numbed his flesh, and his mind half-slept to reason.

A figure rose from the chamber below, pale flesh on dark furs, like bright moonlight in a starless sky. But Skippii had not the strength to meet it. The executioner's axe rose. His death arrived, and he closed his eyes for one final breath. The ruination of his plight. The undoing of prophecy, for all its worth. The end of days. He would not be around to see them, but his mother would. For that, he lamented.

There was a scream, gargled with blood. He blinked and opened his eyes. A spear jutted from the Ürkün's chest, and pressed him aside. Behind, a legionnaire stared aghast. Thunder flashed in the sheen of his bronze helmet, illuminating his face and anxious eyes. A paternal face, caring, even in the presence of so much death.

"Skip?" Orsin said. Tossing his spear aside, he caught Skippii as he collapsed, resting him atop his knee. The clouds twisted above them, forming thunderous lances, striking the walls with deafening claps.

"Get me to the ground," Skippii murmured as the darkness returned. "I am cold."

"Here," Orsin wrapped his cloak over him. About them, the rest of his companeight emerged in triumph. But their joyous cries were quickly soured as they beheld he and Tenoris upon the floor.

Skippii had burned a flame inside of him to fuel his magia. His core was utterly spent. The seams between his soul, body and mind had frayed, and were tearing apart. His body quailed as unconsciousness rushed to claim him again.

"To the ground," Skippii whispered. "Quickly. I must meet him."

Then all was black.

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