It was only after they departed into the servant tunnels that Laczlo reflected on how close he had come to death. As they went through the darkness, silent and attentive, the realization hit him hard, and he almost laughed at himself for his sheer arrogance. To seize command from the tsar and defy his wishes… Laczlo just shook his head. What had gotten into him? We had to defy him to survive. It was the only way, he told himself. It was purely a matter of desperation, almost unconscious and reactionary. He couldn't blame himself for that, could he? Everything else was falling apart. He had to be the bastion of courage and faith. He had to hold strong. Deus, give me the courage to continue. Give me the foresight to be wise in the face of my future challenges.

"Voivode," Isak whispered from ahead, waving him forward.

He approached the end of the tight tunnel past the others. Isak cracked open the door and gestured for him to peer through. Laczlo did so, with the scene before him nearly stopping his heart. In the hall where the service tunnel exited into, he found countless bodies strewn about on the floor. All warriors, all armed and armored. Yet, they were brutalized, ravaged as if set upon by packs of wolves.

"Deus above," he whispered, clutching his sword, "what is this?"

Isak just shook his head, staring at the door, expression knitted in worry.

Laczlo looked back at Paltas. "Which way?"

"Right, then bear left at the crossing with the red carpets. The temple will be close at hand from there."

He nodded, paused, and said, "Cover the children's eyes. And be quiet. Something is terribly wrong here."

With that, he let Isak take the lead, exiting the tunnel and entering into whatever madness lay ahead. They pushed on, silent and slow as they could, weapons drawn, heads on swivels. Laczlo wished for his armor, wearing only his formal robes meant for a peaceful audience with the tsar. At least I brought my blade, he thought with a grim smile. Vida remained with the tsar's family, guiding a few of the many children as they held hands over their eyes. Amidst all the horror, the sight of that, at least, was a comforting one.

Despite the carnage, their route was a quiet one, with none of the fighting he expected. When they came to the intersection of halls with the rich red rugs, he heard, for the first time, the clamor of struggle. Isak peered around the corner, then pulled back, pale and frozen. Laczlo snuck up to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

The druzhina swallowed and whispered, "Dead. Greyskins. And they've got armor."

"What?" Laczlo snuck a glance around the corner and saw them. They were gathered outside a doorway, hacking with axes to get in. Was that the door to the temple? Based on the description he'd received, it had to be. And if the loyal druzhina were still inside… But Deus, the creatures were massive beasts—nothing at all like the normal Corpses he'd seen from horseback that'd wandered in past the mountains. These were horrific monsters in comparison, standing taller than any man, broader too, and Isak was right—they wore iron armor and carried weapons.

It could, of course, mean one thing. Oskar, his band of mercenaries, and the priestess were right to be afraid: Daecinus was already here.

"We need to rescue those men," he found himself saying to Isak. "If we lose them…"

"Yes, of course." He nodded, shaking off his frightened stupor, then gathered the warriors and gave hushed instructions.

In a few moments, they were ready. Laczlo waited back with the tsar, his family, Vida, and Iarek as the others pushed ahead. Part of him wished to join, feeling weak for staying behind, but he knew that already injured and unarmored, he'd be a liability in a fight, even if he were as good a warrior as the rest of them. Newfound confidence aside, Laczlo knew he was not.

Still, he watched from the corner as his warriors and the tsar's approached, slowly catching the attention of the Dead. A dozen druzhina against three of these creatures.

Laczlo exhaled, trying to steady his nerves. It was a winnable fight. It was.

Behind him, the tsar and his family were messes of fear and worry. Laczlo made sure they couldn't see the Dead ahead. The last thing anyone needed was panicking children, or adults, for that matter. Vida did her best to distract them, but her success was middling.

"You know," he said to the children as the clash of iron and shouting of men began, "you are all being very brave. I think you would get along with my children very much." He smiled at the group of them, ranging from an infant cradled in the tsaritsa's arms to adolescents. He huddled closer as someone screamed in pain, and children winced and cried. Only one child seemed calm; he was the oldest boy, but only eleven years of age. He stared up at Laczlo almost curiously. "They are five and two years old. Spirited, like yourselves… Courageous…" He searched for more words to cover the sounds of chaos, meeting the tsaritsa's gaze; she gave a thankful smile, though it was feeble. Laczlo stood and met the boy's intense stare once more. "We will all be alright. Your father will keep us safe, you see? And, well… so will I. See after each other, and don't you worry, for the strong druzhina of Vasia will protect us," he finished lamely, shuffling to the corner to peer down the hall.

There was only one Greyskin left. It was surrounded by his men and those who were blockaded in the temple—it seemed they had emerged during the fight to help. The creature twisted and fought as it was speared, slashed, and dealt enough damage to kill any living thing many times over, yet it fought on. Its axe swung in wide arcs, without much finesse, but powerful enough to smash stone. One of the tsar's druzhina tried to hack off a limb and found the iron axehead embedded in his skull, dashing bloody mush across the stone wall. Then the others jumped in, finding an opening, and bringing the Gresykin-like thing down for good.

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Laczlo shuffled from his position, sword out and gripped tightly, eying the reinforcements. They exited the temple room, and he counted around three score of them. How could so many be caught pinned like that? he wondered. Something else odd stuck out, however: the new men divided themselves into two groups. Why?

"Voivode," Isak said, catching his breath, "we lost a man. So did the druzhina guard… But those in the temple, well, they're not all loyalists."

Laczlo squinted at the new men. Of course! That's why there are so many: the besiegers joined the besieged. Before any new madness began, he made himself stride up to the group—more like limping, beaten as he was—and shouted out, "I am Voivode Laczlo Vilsky, and I demand your attention." The injured, the exhausted, the victorious, and the afraid all turned to look. He felt their gaze—the judgment of warriors, that old rush of fear upon facing druzhina, upon facing anyone, and swallowed. But afraid or not, there was no running from this. Not now. "Some of you took up arms against the tsar, against Vasia. You betrayed what was sacred. You… You broke your oaths! But here, now, we have larger threats before us. A Sorcerer bent upon our destruction has come, and the tsar requires your loyalty again." He looked back at the imperial family, standing at the corner of the hall, some children staring at the massacre, others with heads buried in their parents' clothes. Vida gave a small smile. The tsar met Laczlo's eyes uncertainly, then his jaw set, and the young man, so ready to cede power and submit, strode forward, finally summoning his courage.

He spoke weakly. His words were flat and shaky, confidence a waning thing, but his words were of new loyalty, of requiring their aid to save their city, and thus, all of Vasia. He asked for their swords, for new oaths, and under the threat of battle against an equal number, most submitted. There were a few who would not, but the newly sworn druzhina put them down with a simple order, and that was that. Laczlo spoke to some of the men, finding out that one had run from the throne room, where he'd seen the Dead host enter.

"We need to face Daecinus, if he's there," Laczlo said to the tsar and Iarek. "If he's brought as many Dead as some of the men fear, we need to deal with the Sorcerer directly. And being that I know people he has some sort of relationship with, who are striving in this city to stop him, I think it a good chance I can sway him."

"The Sorcerer bent on our destruction?" Iarek asked, disbelieving.

"Yes. I met a priestess who believed him able to be swayed with arguments of the past—"

"You have done well, Voivode, but this is the time for the offensive. We have the numbers to press our advantage. We should aim to encircle and eliminate the remained of the host, not parley with it."

"And risk death at such a great unknown? He is a powerful Sorcerer."

"And we've over thirty druzhina of Vasia. If we seek to speak to such an enemy, what morale we've managed to sustain could falter, along with any hope of surprising this enemy. Which, I might add, is the prime tactic in killing Sorcerers."

We were too young to know of the Sorcerer wars, Laczlo recalled from his conversations with Mikha. If Daecinus can control these creatures, what else is he capable of… Before he could respond, the tsar spoke, "If what Voivode Vilsky says is true, then we must try a diplomatic end. We cannot lose more men to battle. Once this is done, Vasia will need her druzhina."

Iarek leaned forward. "I do not wish to dissent, your Imperial Majesty, but if this gamble fails, we might take severe losses. Most worryingly, a direct threat to you and the imperial family—"

"I will bear the risk. Should negotiations fail, we will fight."

"Thank you for your trust," Laczlo said, bowing.

…

I waited upon the Vasian throne, fingers digging into the wooden armrests. It was not the violence, nor the stress, nor even the fear that made it all so difficult, rather, it was the waiting. Waiting, when I nearly had everything in hand… What could go wrong beyond my gaze? My Dead, so competent in violence, lacked much of the independent contemplation a human army could afford. It was, as a rule, dependent upon my direction to perform optimally—such drawn-out, dispersed stratagems as this one was bound to expose my ranks to surprises and twists they could not account for. Even my intelligent Soulborne were limited, with only Protis being close to an advanced mind.

"It will happen as it may," Feia said from her place near the stained glass, observing the colorful shapes and designs. "You allow it to torment you far too much."

I shook my head, though she could not see. "I have never failed in anything when properly prepared. It is only through betrayal, deception, and surprise that I've been bested. If I am to lose, it will be beyond my gaze."

She turned to face me, revealing a thoughtful expression with eyes tinged with concern. "The past will not repeat itself here. Fate will not deem it so."

"No one knows what may be."

"They lied to you before, but you are no longer bright-eyed, innocent to their ways. And I am not defenseless."

"No, you are not. But I was far from naïve, then." I looked away. Memories old as the dust of fallen cities and collapsed empires swirled in the ruins of my mind, summoning images, senses, and times I almost wished were lost forever. Not because they were bad, but because they were good, and they haunted me. I risked obsession with what was lost whenever I dared to let myself think of then, of her. "Demetria was taken from me when I was far older than you. I'd seen the state of the world. I knew its evil. "

"Yet, you are more acquainted now than before," Feia replied, coming to stand beside me. "We will not fall for their traps. They shall squirm and lie and scheme, but we will remain immune."

I grunted an acknowledgment, but in truth, I was dubious. We were two people isolated amongst enemies; we had leverage, certainly, but that did not give us absolution from all threats. There were countless what-ifs, countless oversights, and countless possibilities for failure. The line between confidence and arrogance was the estimation of oneself relative to the opposition, and the more rigid we were, the less resilient we could be against changing conditions. No, I would not make myself immune to any and all persuasions, set on nothing but destruction, for even now, I wished a different outcome. I do, I told myself. If the outcome devolves into mindless violence, then I consider it a defeat. The innocent should not suffer for the crimes of those in power. This, I promised myself, even when the temptation of destruction was so potent. To this end, did I risk our lives? Did I tempt fate, as Feia might put it? And more, was my death even a concern for me if some agreeable end was accomplished?

The Corruption that was now a mere nuisance had brought me closer to death than I ever wished, like a communion with that which I harnessed, that which I bent… But even though I tore it from me, thrusting it upon those Souls of priests, I still felt the coldness there, not so distant. By my nature and its lingering sensation, I was never far from death. A familiar friend. But now, I didn't wish to die. I had to live. I had to see this monument to my people through to a more complete end.

"Daecinus," Feia hissed.

I stood in alarm and turned, following her gaze to the doors at my rear from which footsteps emerged. Not my Dead, certainly. I sent out a mental command to all those in range—limited as it was to the palace, for the many structures of the city blocked my direct command to the Column's Soulborne—to return. I said aloud to the few present Soulborne, "Close ranks upon me." They did as commanded, standing beside the throne like bodyguards. "Feia, you as well." She did as I said, sitting in what was likely the tsaritsa's throne close at hand, smaller but no less grand in the fine carving. And there, together, we awaited these bold intruders.

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