While Novakrayu was no Delues, the land was hot with the intense sun of early summer. Emalia squinted out at the sightline of the city, hazy with heat and the blur of a bright evening. Something about how the priests were acting during the meeting was bothering her. A hint of surprise, intrigue, and confusion, perhaps. Whatever it was, it tugged at a little worrisome part of her brain that forced her outside the palace in search of their temple. Sovina came with her, of course, and despite the heat, she still wore her armor. How she managed would forever elude Emalia, even if her casual stoicism and confidence were part of her charming strength.

"Did Demetria notice?" Sovina asked as they crossed a street full of hand carts and bustling peasantry.

"I would be surprised if she didn't. Talking to her feels like speaking to a soothsayer, for she always seems to know what I'm thinking or going to say next. It's odd."

"That's called social skill, Em."

She squinted over at Sovina, eyes narrowed in a joking scathingness. "I've plenty of that, mind you."

With a smile, her guardian replied, "Just enough, I would say."

"Hm. Better." The pretend frown evened out into one of concern. "But say they put the pieces together? Say some doubt creeps in, and they start asking deeper questions? We need to go on the offensive, so to speak."

"But why would anyone in their pretend Column come out and tell us their worries?"

"I don't expect them to. We go out of our way to address them specifically, treat them as equals, and maybe they will brush such concerns aside. Simultaneously, we can gauge their suspicions with a visit." Emalia glanced ahead, finding their destination drawing close. It was, fortunately, not an attempt at recreating the grand Column of Nova in all its glory, but rather, a low-lying temple made almost entirely of timber. Its roof was drastically arched, and it held a spire depicting the figure of Saem, goddess of the harvest and good fortune, carved of wood. In a city of old masonry and brick, forever in repairs, this temple of timber stood out in stark contrast.

"Hm," Sovina grunted, a sort of bemused credulousness in her voice. "They're hardly pretenders, at the very least."

"When we requested the tome, and they directed us to the stone archives, I was confused as to why it would be kept separate and what that may mean. I understand now. One open flame and everything would be lost in an instant."

They entered, finding the interior a narrow, descending set of stairs. With no one at the doors to guard or watch over to speak of, Emalia and Sovina exchanged curious glances and descended. Sovina wore her sword, even in the city, and took the lead, hand casually hovering near the hilt. The way was dark and went deeper than expected—almost an entire story down. Finally, the surface evened out before a second set of doors, barely visible in a faint light from cracks around the frame. Emalia ran a hand over the carved, intricate surface and pushed one open. The sight before her was a curious one: a large landing of packed dirt made up the floor upon which a scriptorium lay, over a dozen priests at work upon regular tables rather than scribing desks, scratching away slowly with quills. But from the center, three sets of winding stairs led up to higher layers of arched timber vaults, rooms hugging the temple's walls, leaving a central shaft of open air where sunlight bore down from slits in the roof. It reminded her of a hollowed-out miniature mountain or, perhaps, more aptly, a dormant volcano.

The scribing priests stopped and looked up at her. A priest who'd been presiding over their work in a slow, patrolling survey turned and approached. Immediately, Emalia recognized him as one of the few who'd been at the voivode's side. His name was Wracen, if she recalled correctly.

"Priestess Emalia from the Column," he said with a solemn bow, "a surprise and honor."

"I had to see the good work being done here for myself." She nodded to the scriptorium. "In the absence of the Column, most would falter, but you continue in your strivings. It is admirable."

"One must, in the face of the religions of artifice."

A curious response, she thought, cocking her head at the gravity in his tone. "Are there many here in Merkenia besides Ekhenism?"

His grave face drew tight with concern. "Many. Some variants of the false faith, though it is only a few centuries old. How they've managed alternate views on this Daes figure in so short a time is beyond me…"

"Excuse me? Daes?"

"Yes?"

Emalia frowned. "Spelled with an 'a' and 'e'? Not an 'e' and 'u'?"

"I am afraid not, Priestess."

She nodded slowly. "Regional variants indeed. There appears to be some change even from here to Vasia."

Wracen's face paled, eyes widened. "Is there such a belief even in the imperial tsardom? Does the Column not shatter such false gods?"

"Belief is a hard thing to change. The fight is a constant one, but Vasia has weakened in some respects where it should not have—the policy of boyars, I am afraid." It was not a complete lie. After shirking the possessing Souls, Emalia returned to her more moderate stance. She was not one to despise a non-believer or force their conversion—both Daecinus and Demetria were not of the true faith, after all. However, as a policy, the Column should naturally take a harder stance. When we are divided on the gods, there is nothing that can bind us back again, she thought, looking over the scriptorium. Even so far from home, such a thing was nostalgic.

"Where are your guardians?" Sovina asked.

Emalia started. That was right! Since coming here, she'd seen plenty of priests, but no one to protect them, like Sovina was there to protect her. Well… They were far more than that now.

"As long as I have been here, we've been without them." He shrugged. "There is little threat to priests inside Novakrayu. I suppose the practice was slowly lost without need."

Stewing on the thought, half-incredulous to the notion of abandoning something as sacred as one's guardian, half amused at the hypocrisy of distaste toward change while they themselves abandoned old principles, she followed as he gave an informal tour of the temple. It was larger than expected, due to the odd recess, and it seemed their dedication toward organization and order was strong, even so far from Nova. Still, they appeared reclusive, meddling little in politics, against what Smychnik might call a great calling: governance. And what did he get for attempting to pursue such a calling? she thought with some spite. Death. But she couldn't blame Daecinus, nor herself. It was the hand of fate, the will of the gods, and Smychnik's own arrogance for trying to undermine the tsar.

The visit was not long, and she used the excuse of a feast to leave before being pulled into any lengthy discussion on their mission here. The priests seemed pleased for her presence, and there was little of the skepticism she saw before during the attendance with the tsar. By all means, it was a reasonable success. Yet, as she and Sovina returned to the street, Emalia felt herself fall into a slowly sinking mood. As usual, Sovina noticed and said, "It's hard not to miss, sometimes."

"Community, shared purpose, structure routine, devotion and praise…"

"Endless rules."

Emalia smiled. "No more penances, it is true."

"But it's not all pleasantries." Sovina glowered and glanced back at the distant temple. "They're hiding something. Did you notice the scriptorium? Didn't look like a real one to me."

"They didn't have proper desks." She thought back, trying to remember the scene through a lens of skepticism. "Or all their materials. Yes… I should have reviewed their work more thoroughly. It appeared as if there were many novices, based on their skill with the quill." She went further back, remembering the archives from a different visit. "And we never actually saw it—the archives where everything is kept. Just the exterior. As is if it is all a display for us."

"And on top of it all, their patron is Saem. What city temple is dedicated to Saem?"

Emalia's gut fell, hit something hard, and twisted sickly. "What we saw was no shallow copy of the Column but a mockery of it." A terrible thought hit her. "What if they're lying to us? Putting on a show with transcribing and so forth? What would that mean? What could they be hiding?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I didn't consider that."

"We must proceed carefully."

On the path they were on, Emalia knew she wouldn't have been able to rejoin the temple here and become a true priestess again, but to see even the slightest sliver of hope dashed so easily and completely… To see the last bastion of faith in Merkenia so radically different? And after the horrors in Nova and the resurrection of the priest who'd surely commit atrocities in the Column's name, well, it nearly felt like there was no true place of the gods left.

It wasn't just that she couldn't go back, but that there was nowhere to go back to. And the thought almost broke her. She and Sovina walked back in silence; her only relief was that her love was here with her, even if that meant they had to be lost together.

…

I paced the chamber, clutching my amputated arm at the elbow where the rest of it should be, applying pressure in a vain attempt to work away the still-lingering pain. Incensed as I was, the burning sensation only frustrated me further. "I planted seeds of doubt, Demetria. I nearly ruined everything because of petty spite. Do not condescend to me by pretending otherwise." I spoke in our now-ancient Pethyan, unintelligible and entirely foreign to everyone else.

"That is not what I am doing," she replied patiently, seated with her legs crossed, hands clasped over her robe-covered knees. "You know I would not."

"Then show your frustration with me. If you want this as badly as I do, then I expect more. There can be no room for blunders. No errors in a position as desperate as this."

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"I do not expect perfection, Daecinus. And neither should you—not from me, not from yourself."

I let out a deep, shaky sigh and pinched my brow. Calm down. Do not make her your enemy here. I sat down beside her, sinking into the wooden chair as if it were a feather bed. "I apologize. I'm still not used to this. The growing pains are… significant."

"I'm sorry." She put a hand on mine. Her touch was warm—relative enough to my lukewarm temperature, at least—and comforting. I looked up at her violet eyes. They shone like Sorcery. "For me, our time apart was brief, spanned only by an empty stretch of nothingness. I told you about it. It was like a long dream—one I can't quite recall. As well as my travel with the delegation, I suppose."

I squeezed her hand, turning fully to face her, worry lancing through me. She'd spoken openly but haltingly on what the Vasians did to her delegation. Her diplomatic companions were tortured for information; her Sorcerer guardians killed or seized. Demetria, sophisticated and persuasive, so seemingly gentle in nature, yielded nothing to them. As such, her time was the worst. All kinds of suffering imaginable. They tried killing her subordinates before her. Torturing them before her… But nothing worked. For five horrid days, they tried to break her. But she did not give. And so, they put her and the few remaining others upon stakes on our border. It was where she died: alone and in suffering, watching those she was responsible for bleed out before her. Just listening to the tale broke me. Even recalling it was a challenge in composure, for every ounce of me wished to shatter and devolve into sorrow and grief.

And hatred.

Blinding hatred. How it possessed me, wearing me thin like iron ground down across a sharpening stone.

Demetria offered a small, understanding smile, likely noticing how my jaw worked and face tensed. "We must not dwell on it. I try not to." She took a deep, shaky breath, her guise of peace, for me perhaps, but certainly for herself, showing its limits. I could not be enraged when she was calm. "But again, I do not expect perfection. Hardly of myself. We shall move forward, my love."

"You're right. As always, you are right." I tried a grin, which she mimicked. Such expressions obviously limited, but mutually appreciated. I felt her empathy deep in my Soul, linked as we were through the better part of a century together, aided by our innate Sorcerous biology. It was deemed an accident of genetics and Soul magic, offering some kind of deeper bonding to others of the same caste of ancient ancestry. "I thought of you so much as the years passed that my memories warped. You were a reminder of the good, yes, but also of what I could be. Of what I felt like I failed to be. I'd bent my memory of you into my own grief and self-hatred. A manifestation of blame, I think."

"And my specter haunts you now, I would imagine. A difficult contradiction to my current form."

"I wish to be rid of it. You are more than my own grief."

Her other hand patted mine. "I do not believe otherwise. We all deal with pain in our own ways. Yours was always a kind of martyrdom through burden."

"A poor fault for a Magistros."

"Hardly," she replied, standing. "You use it to push harder, to aim higher. There are no truly good responses to grief. All we can do is heal." She gave me her hand, and I took it, standing. "Now, shall we discuss our approach to this nearing feast? I am thinking you take a stance of purposeful distance—the variety that inspires mystery, perfect for a Sorcerer. I shall handle the inevitably incessant questioning."

I chuckled. "Distance I can do. And what of the men?"

"It would be unsuitable to invite mercenaries to such an event."

I rubbed my chin in consideration. "Perhaps we do so anyway. Protis, too, I think."

"Oh?" Her brow raised in surprise, then evened in approving consideration. "For protection, I see that… Ah, as an example of strength and authority superseding their preferences? That may fit 'our' Column culture. Still, twenty hungry warriors may be too many even so."

"I'll bring a few then. It would also be good to bind the men further to me. Whatever we find upon this isle, I want loyal, able swordarms." My gaze drifted to the locked chest of silver, gold, and jewels pilfered in Drazivaska—only a portion of my horde, most of which was out of reach in Armagne. "We only have so much coin. And there are other uses for it besides war." I sighed, the responsibilities weighing heavily enough.

I went to leave, but Demetria grabbed my hand and stopped me. I turned back to face her.

"None of this is easy," she said, holding my gaze with one of tenderness. "None of it. But I have faith in us."

"As do I. In more than anything."

"Good. Now speak to your warriors."

I smiled, pushing forth my love through our bond. Her own met me in return, and I left, feeling heartened once again. In difficult times, having her there was a bulwark against the fear and desperation of our position. How I missed her so…

Outside the voivode's hall were a small walled grounds with a stable, smithy, storehouse, and simple barracks. The voivode's men only half-occupied the barracks, as most were druzhina with their own homes in the city. As such, my mercenaries were housed there. We'd picked them up on our journey through Merkenia at various towns, slowly building up the retinue each week. In a way, they reminded me of Oskar's band, rag-tag as it was. Such memories filtered through occasionally, reminding me of those days of travel, of Feia. I tried not to think about her, but it was difficult. The questions haunted me constantly.

But this time, I ensured they had no leader except me. Furthermore, I ensured all those who'd joined did so with no illusion of my purpose: find my people and prepare for the coming storm. It was not a simple sell, but I promised wealth and glory—two things most men of war desire. In time, I hoped they would be loyal because they trusted and believed in me, but I knew such a thing would require patience.

The barracks was filled with mostly my own. They were Merkenian warriors—armed with axes, spears, and polearms, all fought on foot with mail and gambeson armor. Most were mercenaries by trade, though I had a few dispossessed sworn warriors, their lords killed and oaths cut. They formed the strong backbone of my future warband, as it may come to be, over twenty strong. I stood before them in the shadowed entrance, evening sun upon my back. Lively conversation drew to a murmur with my appearance. Hardened, experienced faces turned my way, brows quirked in expectation and perhaps slight amusement at my Column robe. But as there were others not of my band here, everyone kept to the guise. I pay them enough that they would be hard-pressed to find a better deal in a land as poor as this. Even to betray me.

"We have a feast tonight, but I'll only be bringing a few of you," I said, slowly entering the room. "They have a small hall, and I think it is a good gesture to be polite, considering your appetites."

That earned a chuckle, which one of the newer men, named Cynebald from Aethelsty, followed up with a grin and a question, "Will there be women there?"

"Are you a fucking dolt?" Wendof asked, a grizzled veteran of a war in northern Merkenia. "At a feast for priests?"

"I know wise men and women like a good time."

"These here are proper priests with temple and robes and tomes."

Cynebald stood. "Implying something about wise ones? Saying they're not real priests?"

"Not in the same sense, no," Wendof replied, arms crossed. "And that's from a man of Daes, through and through." He caught himself and shrugged my way. "Ah, for now, of course, Priest Aspartes. No offense intended."

"Of course," I replied evenly, fighting through somber nostalgia and its associated memories, sharp as ever. "Wendof, Aelle, Red Locc, and Bowyer, speak to me outside; you'll be joining me at the feast. No weapons besides knives. Aelle, a reasonably sized one. For everyone else, there will be future opportunities. This is the first of many. We're forging something here—something grander than any one of us. An alliance with the people of the isle, long-feared, long-hated, will bring about more than just fortune but change on a worldly scale."

With a fair amount of good-natured groans and grunts at not being chosen, the rest returned to their routine of killing time. The four I chose followed me outside the barracks. I strode with purpose toward an open patch of cracked mud often used for sparring. Standing in the center, I could ensure no one was listening in as I scanned the faces of each man. From what I could tell, they were the most loyal of the bunch and the most capable. Aelle bordered on cruel, the stout and muscled ex-soldier that he was, but treated his word as an oath upon his Soul, which was useful. Red Locc had a habit of animal sacrifice before a duel or battle, usually involving spilling blood upon his hair and beard; though barbaric as it seemed, he was, otherwise, quite a reasonable man. He was also close friends with Wendof, even if he was a believer in the old gods and Wendof an Ekhinist. And finally, Bowyer used to be a famed craftsman of bows, but that ended with the town's destruction and his family's deaths by raiders. Instead of starting over somewhere else, he swore himself to a life of violence against chaos instead. A path that found him in my employment after some years of fruitless work as a guardsman. He was perhaps the quietest yet most intelligent of all the men.

"How do others feel about the plan?" I asked in a hushed voice to them.

They exchanged looks, and Wendof answered, "We're of the same mind, of course. Most are. Some… well, they're taking some time to come around. Most Merkenians hate the islanders, you see."

Aelle grunted. "Burned towns to the ground. Raid anyone near their coast. A bloody reputation."

I nodded slowly. None of this was a surprise, unfortunately. "Do we have any weaknesses?"

"If anyone was planning on turning, you'd know," Aelle said, brow furrowed.

By that, you mean you'd deal with them, and I'd find out. "This only works if we are secure from the inside. Any leakage…"

"All due respect, sir," Wendof said, combing out his cropped beard, "but most men fear you more than the islanders. By the Gates of Light, I'd be a man of Hubris to swear an oath to you and then break it. We've all seen Protis."

That earned a general murmur of agreement. Red Locc added, "Maybe not fear, but, well, one has to be realistic when it comes to Sorcerers. No one signed up blind to the danger of turning tail."

I looked to Bowyer expectantly. He chewed at his lip, scarred from the night of the attack upon his home. "It would help if we knew more. We know about your people, aye, and a sense that Vasia's no friend of yours but little more."

"Need you know more?"

"Well, when nearly all Sorcerers we've ever heard of or seen are mad or on their way to it, it develops a certain prejudice. We're paid well, sure enough, but what's coming is bigger than coin. The men need to trust you're not going to get them killed."

He spoke the truth. But there was danger in transparency, in complete honesty. Besides, I didn't know if I was ready to share such things again, with how Oskar and the others turned on me. Even Stanilo, reasonable and understanding as he was, left me to face Vasia alone. Nevertheless, I nodded. "I can understand such trepidation. You risk much for a man you know little of. One who wears an eye upon his neck." They chuckled, albeit somewhat unsurely, and then I felt the pulse of the fear Wendof mentioned. A trained man, they could face, even if perilously, but a Sorcerer? What do you do against a man who could kill you without even moving? "If I tell you all, can you ensure the others they can trust me?"

"We already do," Red Locc said. "But yeah, we can bolster their faith with something concrete to point to, sure enough."

I looked around at the others and found general agreement. With a deep sigh, I told my story, starting at Demetria's capture and death—they respected and even doted on her, sophisticated and beautiful as she was—so it was a veritable shock to the four. They almost didn't believe the scale of the attack upon my sister and me, nor how I was sealed away, for all had heard of the Sinking Cities. My attack upon Nova, learning the truth of my people's existence, Demetria's resurrection, the return of the Column priests of old in one body and his plans for my people's destruction, the loss of my arm and partner in justice… When it was done, they were silent for a long moment.

Aelle broke it, "Fuck."

"Aye," Wendof agreed. "Fuck."

Bowyer was scowling, his own traumas no doubt relit in all pain and fury. "And so you wish not just to find your sister, your people, but prepare them for what's to come?"

"That is correct." I stopped myself from clutching at my amputated arm. "The priest will be coming for them. For me. It puts you all in danger, facing a nation such as Vasia, a Sorcerer such as he."

"But you're as powerful?"

"Yes."

"And the isle, well, it's got capable seamen, warriors, we all know that. Maybe they're isolated out of fear of another Vasian attack?"

The thought struck all, throwing even Aelle into contemplation. I nodded. "It could be so. If my sister Maecia is there, she may advocate for such an approach."

"Then it's not so perilous."

My brow raised in surprise. Already, one was so certain? Red Locc adjusted the axe in his belt, almost as a reassurance to himself. "You led the counterattack upon Vasia after what they did to Demetria?" I nodded, and he scoffed in near disbelief. "If there was anyone who could face such a foe, well, gods, it'd best be you."

Aelle grunted in agreement, spitting at the thought of peacebreakers killing diplomats and then breaking an oath of truce to attack me. He was not one for two-faced liars such as that.

And finally, Wendof took a deep breath and said, "Well, I think we're all in agreement. If it were anyone else, I'd laugh him off for such a bloody bold lie. Well, you got your men. Twenty against an army. Best get to work, sir."

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