Twenty-three men. Twenty-three men had died in the fight. Cut, smashed, ripped apart, brutalized. No small percent of Vasia's best-trained and armed warriors, slaughtered in a few minutes by five Soulborne and a single woman. Oiir dead among them, but killed by Oskar. And I forgave him, Laczlo thought, cursing himself for ever trusting the mercenary with anything more than a blade through the heart. More were injured—nearly everyone, in fact. Laczlo, who'd been in the worst shape of all earlier, was now one of the few still standing. He hobbled around the hall, seeing to those who remained, tending to wounds with what knowledge he had, comforted the dying. That was the hardest part. He sat by a druzhina who'd been with him since the crisis and held his hand as the man bled out from a ruptured stomach, trying to keep him from looking at his guts spilled out over the floor.

Where are you, Deus? he thought over and over again. Where are you?

Some other druzhina had joined them in the aftermath, venturing in the city to purge the remaining Dead, taking to the walls and instilling order, securing Nova's gates. He figured the perpetrators were already gone, but they had to try, nevertheless.

Now he sat, back to a wall, with his elbows resting on his knees, hands extended out before him, limp and dangling from his arms as if the muscles were cut. His anger, his need to lead, to win… all those things just fell away, leaving him little more than tired and hurting.

"Laczlo." He looked up. It was Vida. Her injured arm was limp while the other extended a clay jug. "Drink."

He took the jug from her and did as she suggested. The wine was bitter and dry on his tongue, but he gulped down much of it before handing the jug back and gasping for air. His head rocked back, thumping against the stone as he closed his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be all right." She sat beside him, far enough away that their legs didn't touch and he couldn't feel the heat from her body. How he wished to. "I was seen to quickly, you know. Probably sooner than I should've been."

"You deserve it. The imperial family has you to thank for their safety."

"Maybe." Vida sighed and scooted closer, resting her head on Laczlo's shoulder. "I'm just lucky. And foolhardy, I suppose."

He knew he should move away. Still, he stayed where he was, too exhausted to bother. He took another drink from the jug, feeling the warmth fill his chest comfortingly. "You're more than just lucky and foolhardy. I'd be dead in Delues if it weren't for you."

"It could've gone all wrong. I took an excessive risk when I was supposed to leave."

"But you stayed."

"Yes."

He opened his eyes, looking down at her. "Why?"

"You know why."

His mouth went dry. She tucked back strands of her long, black hair and met his gaze. He stared into her dark eyes. Her face was soft, almost unassuming, yet her confidence and self-assuredness promised anything but the ordinary. His arms slipped to his sides off his knees, and her hand slipped into his; her long, delicate fingers played with the new calluses on his palms. "You can stay with me, if you wish," he said. "I want you to be safe until this is over."

Laczlo saw more than just lust in her eyes, though it was present, and his body reacted with dire need, barely constrained. No, he saw something deeper. Something he feared addressing directly as if in doing so, it would suddenly become real and unavoidable. He looked away.

"Thank you," she said, voice cracking. "That means a great deal to me, Laczlo."

"I'm pulled in every direction. I don't know what to do, what to be. Not anywhere, but especially not here, in Nova. And most of all, Vida, I don't know how to feel about you."

"You don't know how to feel or don't want to acknowledge the truth?" When he didn't respond, she continued, "I don't mean to pressure or corner you… But what am I to say? What am I to do? It's probably in my interest of self-preservation to leave you, yet I cannot. And you cannot. So where does that leave us?"

Laczlo wanted to kiss her. He wanted to sweep her up and hold her close. It wasn't just desire anymore, but something deeper that held his heart in a tight grip. "I don't know." He closed his eyes and prayed for strength. It came, by Deus's blessing, and he pulled away and stood. A little wobbly, though if that was the wine, his injuries, or something else, he couldn't say. A flood of energy and courage pushed him to open his mouth to tell her that it just couldn't be as she wished, when a commotion near the hall's entrance drew his attention away.

As a shock to all, the tsar, limping, looking beaten and bruised, led the way. He walked without the shameful defeat of before, but Laczlo could tell his confident stride was a lie. The tsar's face looked like a mask of smugness drawn over one of fear, the cracks showing. Little hesitations in his step combined with the slightest hint of a limp marred the picture of imperial certainty. But behind him, even odder, was a Column priest. This priest was thin, as most were, with soft, experiened features brutalized with swollen bruises and bloody cuts, one eye swollen shut. If Laczlo were asked to identify him in a crowd, except for the injuries, he would not be sure he could. His robe, however, was covered in blood—far too much to be his own. Immediately, something felt off about this stranger beyond even his strange appearance. A presence that raised the hair on his skin and made him want to check behind himself for dangers. He followed the tsar a step behind, though strode not with a servant's gate but a conqueror's strut. More, Laczlo's eye caught a glint at the base of his robe's sleeve. Bronze and ivory. He has Daecinus's Artifacts, Laczlo realized with a jolt, then glanced up but found no circlet. He must be a Sorcerer. Perhaps Emalia knows him? He looked past, waiting for Emalia and Sovina, but they did not appear. It was just the two of them.

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All in the hall that could stand were on their feet, the others silent and watching. Laczlo spared a glance for Vida, who frowned at them warily. She met his gaze with equal confusion. Before he was drawn back in to speak with her, he went to meet them halfway through the chamber. He licked his lips and bowed to the tsar, unsure how to treat the priest. "Your Imperial Majesty," he said, rising. "It's good to see you've returned in good health."

"Ah, Voivode…" The tsar looked around, jaw tight. "What happened here? Where's my family?"

"This way." He gestured to the hall, where they remained under guard, too afraid to be moved to their chambers. The tsar began walking over, so Laczlo followed. "The Sorceress Feia initiated a battle. We had to deal with her and the few Soulborne under command." He wished to ask questions of his own, but held his tongue. "One of the mercenaries who came with the priestess Emalia escaped with Feia and a single Soulborne, though we killed the others."

"A battle? We had one ourselves. A violent one. Terrible indeed."

Laczlo glanced from the tsar to the priest, then back again. "With Daecinus?"

"Him and the traitorous priestess and her guardian, yes." He paused and frowned at Laczlo, serious as a bared blade. "We must hunt them down. They roam the city as we speak, Voivode. They must be dealt with too."

That almost made Laczlo's heart stop. "In the city? He's alive?"

The tsar exchanged glances with the priest. "For now."

"I see. I will… We will attempt to find him."

"Though it is doubtful that you could succeed," the priest said, his voice weak and mushy with his injuries. He was even missing teeth. "We imagine he is already gone."

The tsar cleared his throat, gesturing to the priest. "Ah, Voivode, this is High Priest…"

"Varul," he finished.

"Yes. High Priest Varul."

Varul scowled at all the bodies scattered about the throne room and great hall of Nova, and said, "This is a new day, anointed in blood. The Column has been purged, readied for a new tomorrow. Our title shall be Vicarr, the true title of High Priest before its simplification, centuries ago." He nodded to the tsar, who stood hesitating. "Go see your family. We shall tend to matters here."

With that, the tsar hobbled off, eager to hand the reins of power to another, it seemed. Laczlo watched him go, feeing uneasy. He saw me kill another voivode right before him. I did it to preserve the peace, and look at what came of that… He turned and found Vicarr Varul watching him.

"You're Laczlo Vilsky," he said matter-of-factly.

"I am."

"We heard what you did." His eye wandered over to the voivode's body, still present in the hall. "Killing him took courage, and it had the boon of being the correct decision."

Laczlo nodded slowly. "Thank you."

"You have questions, we would guess."

"Many." Such as your use of 'we' instead of 'I' when speaking of yourself?

"Allow us to ease your mind, then." He put a hand on Laczlo's arm and directed him to the thrones, further from the others.

Laczlo caught Isak's eye, who'd been helping with the wounded and organizing things. The druzhina cocked his head, but Laczlo extended a hand subtly to signal him to wait.

"We were told how you acted out of line, ordering the tsar about under threat of violence," Varul said. When Laczlo stiffened, he offered a small, close-lip smile. A knowing one, even. "Do not fear, we recognize the necessity of your actions. And as with Voivode Kostuveski, we consider your decisiveness necessary. Again, it would appear the tsardom is in your debt."

"Thank you," is all he replied with, uncertain of how to proceed.

"As such, going forward, we will expect great things from you. Vasia will. Wherever you found yourself prior, whatever debts you held, station you commanded, the situation has changed, and your contributions to Vasia will not be forgotten. In the coming months, as we purge the empire of the malignant voivodes who seek to call themselves princes once more, you will be the tsar's hand—an advisor of the greatest importance, not unlike us. How does this sound, Voivode Vilsky?"

His head was swimming. He wasn't confused exactly, but most certainly disoriented. Who was this self-proclaimed Vicarr? How could he presume so much? And more importantly, how did he have the power to make such declarations? Whatever happened in the Column changed everything. If I didn't know better, I'd guess this Varul was born of the Column itself, manifest for this very day to pull us all from the brink for their own purposes. But whatever his possible fears, Laczlo nodded anyway. "I would like that very much, if that is something you can offer."

Again, that same enigmatic smile, even more unsettling on such a damaged face. "We most certainly can. You will find that we are a potent ally to have in these times. And an even worse enemy." Before Laczlo could digest and respond, he continued, "Go home, Voivode. You have done much, but the tsardom would make better use of a healthy leader when the time comes than an injured, ready one. And do know, that time will come."

He wanted to stay there, to argue to stay and continue to help, but Laczlo had nothing left in him. With a simple grant of permission, he nodded, mumbled a thanks, and left the strange priest to command the druzhina around as if he'd always had such authority. All listened, all obeyed. Laczlo told himself it was because Varul had entered with the tsar, but it was more-so his bearing, self-confidence, and undeniable experience despite his serious injuries. Laczlo was jealous, listening to the priest toss out commands, but he was also thankful. For he could finally go home.

He watched Varul bend down and pick up the thin bronze rod Feia had wielded, for all had avoided it, afraid of its Sorcery. The strange priest observed it and smiled, tucking it away in his bloodied robe.

"I can take matters from here, Voivode," Isak said, coming up beside him. "I don't trust this priest, but he's right about one thing: you need some rest."

"You've had no less a harsh day than I," he replied without conviction.

"I'm not sure about that. The voivodess will be worried."

Shame gutted him like a Soulborne's crooked claws. "Right," he managed, voice thin, "of course. I should go."

"Let me arrange a guard."

Laczlo turned to head toward the palace entrance when Isak caught his shoulder.

"Apologies, Voivode, but, uh…" The druzhina scratched his cheek, glancing away, then to his feet. "About Kostuveski… What you did, well, it's going to get out. I already heard some of the men talking."

"And what do they say?"

Isak shrugged. "You know how they are. After Ygon, well, they figure he deserved it by crossing you."

"He was going to ruin everything—" Laczlo caught himself, realizing that which he feared had mostly transpired anyway. "He was putting the tsar in danger," he corrected. "I stopped him because I had to."

"That may be, but still, you're building a reputation, Voivode. Not a bad one, in times like this."

"I don't wish be known as a killer with a temper."

He smiled. It was a toothy, proud smile. "Not a killer. A warrior prince."

"Prince?" Laczlo sighed and let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. "Is there anything else I must worry about?"

"Warriors will respect you for it, but I can't speak for the boyars of the city."

"I see. Even those loyal to the imperial throne will see me as a threat."

"Nothing's ever over, huh?"

"No. Certainly not." Laczlo gave Isak a nod. His chest flooded with warmth suddenly, with the relief that he was not alone in all this but had men he could count on. "Still, I wouldn't have made it through today without you. Thank you, Isak."

The druzhina grinned and shook his head. "Voivode, none of us would've made it without you. Come on now, go get some rest. Of anyone, I'd say you deserve it most."

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