I drank fine wine from a cup of silver, old and well-worn, as I reflected on my discussion with the four mercenaries. The voivode's hall was alight with laughter, lively conversation, crackling fires, and even music from a group of bards singing a tale about a malevolent creature who lived in Hazek's Hills. I still never learned why the land of Pethya was called Hazek's Fields, or who Hazek even was, if he was real at all.

Perhaps I have too little faith in humanity, I thought, staring into the cup, lost in the subtle motions of swirling wine. They all seemed to believe in me so quickly. Why do I always expect opposition? Violence?

Demetria was off talking to Voivode Krayusky, making him laugh. He was probably already in love with her—she tended to have that effect on people. I smiled, gazing upon her, reflecting upon my fortune, having her once again. Protis loomed near the wall, unarmed—not that weapons were even necessary for it—ever ready. Emalia was nearby, occasionally aiding Demetria with her own contributions of Column knowledge. Sovina, normally Emalia's veritable shadow, lingered near me, also watching from a distance. She disliked crowds and shmoozing even more than I.

"I don't know how they do it," she muttered, taking a healthy drink from her cup. "One conversation with him made me want to knock in his teeth."

I chuckled and glanced at her twisted frown. "Good that I am here to lighten your mood."

She scoffed. "Right." Then grinned my way. "And it's a good thing I'm here to help you eat, old man."

"Of course," I said, frowning at my scarcely touched meal Sovina had helped prepare. Certain food items were quite difficult with only one arm, I'd found. "It is the inconvenience that has been most upsetting. I was used to the pain with Corruption, but being unable to do even the simplest of things…"

"If only I knew that's why you wanted to borrow my knife back in the Column." She shook her head, setting the empty cup down, cheeks warm with drink. "Took some real guts, Dae—ah, Aspartes. Real guts. How'd you get through the joint? Never mind, you don't need to answer that."

I waved aside her concern. "The grisliness does not bother me. I made a lever with my knee as the fulcrum."

Sovina whistled. "If you weren't so weak, you'd make a good warrior."

"And if you were more talented, a good Sorcerer."

"Hah! Never. On that, how'd you know to bring a knife in the first place? Did you know about the Souls coming back?"

I shook my head, frowning in remembrance of that turbulent day. "My sister is a reasonable person, so if she were alive, she wouldn't just leave me in Rotalaan without a good reason. She must have known about the purpose of the Crown of the Column, for she knew that if I learned of it, I would stop at nothing to use it to bring Demetria back." I turned the piece of meat upon my plate with the small knife, staring at its browned fibers. "And that meant danger."

Sovina grunted in understanding. "The priests' Souls."

"I suspected I'd killed them in Drazivaska, but I couldn't be certain. Consequently, they might use me as a means to return. If that were the case, then it could very well be that it would flood me with the Corruption I used to kill them. But more likely, the process itself of bringing Demetria back would kill me with Corruption—this was the result I planned on." I picked up the blade, holding it tight, remembering the sensation of jamming it in my flesh. "So I would concentrate the Corruption, sequester it as best I could, then separate it before it turned my blood black and killed me outright."

Sovina leaned in, shoulder brushing mine. I looked over and found her staring intensely at me. She did that often. "I hated you for what you did to the Column. I wanted you dead, I think. But you also saved Emalia, saved both of us from that priest… These months have been hard for us, for her. But after everything, I know I'm in no place to judge you. Rotaal knows that if we changed places, I'd do the exact same things." She extended a hand. "I've nothing but respect for you, Daecinus."

I took her hand, my chest tight with unexpected emotion. "That means a great deal to me, Sovina. Thank you."

She nodded brusquely and released my hand. "I'm going to go get more wine." With that, she stood, then left.

I watched her go, further confounded by the surprising kindness of others. She should hate me, with all that happened, and yet—

A loud burst of laughter drew my attention, and I watched with amusement as the mercenaries doubled over at the table, faces red, drinks sloshing with cackling humor. They drew some looks, to be sure, but I didn't pay it much mind. It was simply good to see them in such spirits.

"Your men seem to be enjoying themselves," someone said.

I turned and found Elizar there, the guarded boyar from the attendance with the voivode. He was tall for regular humans, perhaps at Demetria's height, coming up to my nose, and used it to his advantage, almost leaning over me as he spoke, seated as I was. A most domineering type.

"They are," I replied noncommittally.

"Foreign warriors in a voivode's feast." He shook his head and sat beside me in Sovina's spot. "Never would I have thought to see the day."

"You've been isolated for a long time here. But you cannot survive as an island forever."

The hawkish man frowned and clasped his hands on the table before him. "Decades of silence, and then a flurry of demands for diplomatic movements, treaties, promises for aid in war at the exact moment we have been pressed harder than ever before with the Targul to our south? Forgive me if it is all too convenient. Besides, we both know the downward trend of Vasia was an irreparable one, so what changed?"

"Your questions host presuppositions I would not agree with."

"No? Has the great Tsardom of Vasia not lost holding after holding? Its borders continually shrunk until it had no right to call itself an empire? That's how it would appear to me."

The line of questioning was intended to upset and offset me, but as I was no Vasian, I merely stared back at him, unimpressed. "Vasia has reformed, as we explained. Some might say Novakrayu has no right to claim the titles of voivode, boyar, and druzhina. You are barely Vasian."

His face tightened. "That's a dangerous thing to say here, Priest Aspartes."

"Good thing I am not one of those people who would claim such a thing." I cocked my head, observing this man so aggressive in his posturing. What did he want? What was he pushing me for? "You're skeptical. I cannot blame you. But your people here clamor for reunification. Positioning yourself as the opponent to that—it is a dangerous thing."

He scoffed and combed his hair back with his fingers, turning from me to stare across the many people at the feast. "It is easy to want what is put before you. It is much harder to keep a healthy separation, to caution oneself before simple solutions." Elizar looked back at me, a wary and critical skepticism in his gaze. "I do more for the people of this city than any other. And the people know it. The other boyars, too. You'll need more than the voivode's assent to blunder our small fleet away trying to make contact with the islanders."

"Why speak to me on this?"

"Please, I understand how power works. Those women," he said with a smirk, nodding to Emalia and Demetria, still speaking to the voivode, "are a mere extension of your direction. You've the men, the Sorcery. They're mouthpieces. You're wearing the diadem, after all."

Despite the strong desire to hurt this condescending little man, I kept my expression calm. "And what do you want?"

"Assurances." He leaned in, eyes alight, sharp as daggers. "You want to bring back the imperial tsardom here? Fine. But I know how these things may go. The tsar can appoint new voivodes, yes?"

"In extenuating circumstances," I lied, hardly certain of the truth of the matter myself, yet knowing what he was getting at.

"Then, if Vasia wants Novakrayu to be an effective extension of its new borders. Or, better yet, a potent vassal; it may benefit to have someone competent running things."

"I'd imagine that is a desire the tsar would most certainly share."

"I need more than that."

How about a city seized and your forces crushed? "Then I give you my word."

"Good." His demeanor shifted toward easy confidence, with a spark of observant cynicism about him. "We'll be talking, you and I. This diplomatic expedition will be very fruitful for all, I think." Elizar left, sweeping his fine cloth cloak over his shoulder as he strode away, the picture of arrogance. Yet, compared to the rather slow and transparent Voivode Krayusky, it was understandable how such a man could feel deserving of higher rank and power.

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I scanned the room, finding Demetria glancing my way. She'd been watching the encounter, I would guess, always aware of where the players in the room were. I gave a shallow, brief nod, eliciting a victorious gleam in her eye that few except me could recognize. She'd predicted this, of course. And while we could try to expose the boyar, undermining our greatest opponent while strengthening our bond with the voivode, it simply wasn't worth the risk. Demetria had significant plots in the work, having sent letters south through Protis, prior to our arrival in Novakrayu.

The only problem was how Emalia and Sovina would react to a slight pivot in plans, necessary though it was.

…

Emalia was thankful when the voivode eventually left, satisfied with their explanations of Vasia's current plans for a campaign into the east. As they told it—or mainly Demetria—Nova had undergone some inherent restructuring, many voivodes having been replaced by way of civil war, and the Column revived by new leadership. These changes left the tsardom well-positioned to redirect its activity east. Such an argument was believable, for, as Emalia saw it, any future campaigns or grand projects required the kind of funding that only its old holdings in the Silver Peaks could finance. If war with the Rodezian Dynasty was brewing, Vasia had time to move east while the Dynasty dealt with their perpetual border problems with migrating tribes alongside whatever internal drama might unfold as a result of that prince dying in Nova, whatever his name was.

I think on this as if I am some expert in such things, she thought with an internal sigh, following Demetria back to Daecinus and Sovina. It was a good thing she had others of experience to rely on for this. Daecinus was a commander and some sort of elected statesman of Sorcery, while Demetria had brokered many diplomatic dealings and was on the rise toward an elected position herself. Emalia fell into a seat next to Sovina and had to force herself not to sink her head into her arms in exhaustion. I'm just a priestess. A researcher, really. How did I get here?

"You did well," Demetria said. "It wouldn't have been possible without you, Emalia."

She looked up at the strange, captivating woman. Did she read minds, too, or was Emalia just that transparent? She guessed the latter. "Do you think the voivode will amass the fleet soon?"

"If he is reasonable, yes. We made it clear there was no time to waste."

"There's just the problem of what comes after," Emalia said, then glanced around to ensure no one was close. Protis had moved over with them, and people seemed to give the Soulborne a wide berth. "The problem of their reaction to the truth that we'll be abandoning them to the Targul."

Demetria nodded slowly, then glanced over to Daecinus, who was frowning her way. They exchanged some sort of look that meant more than it seemed, as they often did, and Demetria turned back to her and whispered, "We think it may be best if the problem is not left so open-ended."

"What does that mean?" Sovina asked.

Emalia's expression fell. "You're thinking of more than an alliance, aren't you? You want to enable the Targul. Gods, you aren't considering aiding them in taking the city, are you?"

Demetria spread her hands in a gesture of acknowledgment of the situation. "The Targul are powerful. It would be foolish leaving such an opportunity on the table."

"We're talking about a whole city, not just some opportunity."

"Novakrayu is isolated. It will fall eventually."

"Not necessarily. Vasia could come in support, or we could try to make them see reason…"

"They will always position themselves against us. There is no future where the city remains and does not pose a problem for us. If it does remain independent, then it would give Vasia a perfect base from which to attack us, at the very least. That is not allowable."

"Do you know what happens when a city is besieged?" Emalia asked, voice rising before she dropped back into a whisper. "When it is sacked?"

"Better than you," Daecinus answered. "Your history was my profession, Emalia."

"Then you should know the evils that would occur at your behest."

"This is war. It has been since they destroyed our people. Since the priest returned. You heard how he spoke, what his intentions were. Demetria and I will not sit aside and let it happen."

Sovina put a hand on Emalia's shoulder. "They're right." She scowled up at Daecinus. "But the problem isn't the plan; it's that you two came to the decision without us. We're helping you here. If we're on the same side, we need to mutually agree."

"We're posing the consideration," Demetria replied.

"Are you? Sounds like your minds are made up."

"And yet, the decision is not made."

"Will you compromise if we disagree?"

Demetria's extended open hands in a sort of pleading, her brow creased in concern. "If an effective alternative is found."

Sovina glanced at Emalia, who found herself twisted up in clashing emotions. They were supposed to betray the Novakrayuans to the Targul, yes, but never forcibly! This was a far crueler plot than she originally anticipated.

On one hand, she saw their argument—she truly did. History made it clear enough that a war was best won when a more numerous enemy was defeated in detail, securing potential alliances to protect flanks and concentrate offensive power. And yet, she couldn't rationalize this logic with the present situation—this was a city of civilians, primarily, not some enemy fort. They'd be threatening countless innocents with a Targul conquest, which was historically cruel to resistance. She'd read enough about the sack of cities to know the horror that could be involved. And it'd be done to those who looked to her for authority. Those who wished to become Vasian once more. Temples of her gods, nobles that call themselves boyars… It all just felt more personal, more like a horrid betrayal than a matter of strategy and logistics.

"I can't make a decision on this right now," she said, finally. "I'm sorry. I need to think on this."

"We haven't much time," Demetria prodded.

Sovina bristled beside her. "Give her at least a night. You want an alternative, too, right? This gives us time for that."

Demetria acquiesced, giving a slight bow. "No, you're right. Of course. We should have spoken on this earlier. I am sorry we appeared dismissive of your wishes. Think on it. We can discuss tomorrow. If they send a spy to communicate with us, we can delay until, as a group, we come to a consensus."

Emalia nodded in thanks, and they spent the rest of the night in surface-level, somewhat awkward conversation. Eventually, they split, and she and Sovina left for the room early. They spoke a little before sleeping, but Emalia felt lost and in a poor mood. Nothing was ever clear, and nothing was ever simple. If anything, she was glad Demetria was here, or otherwise, she might be facing a Daecinus who would push forward with his plans regardless of what anyone thought, like back in Drazivaska. She shuddered under the blankets, thinking of that wretched city, the portal, and the Souls who took control. Those same Souls had assumed corporeal form and nearly killed Sovina and her.

Daecinus and Demetria were right. The Vasians had to be stopped, especially if the priest was at the helm. By the gods, if she was a priestess of truth and knowledge, knowing every side and weighing every outcome, she should try to find a better compromise. She would not sacrifice the innocent for the expedient solution.

Novakrayu would not become another Nova and most certainly not another Pethya.

…

Protis stared at me over the bloody haunches of a goat torn from its wrecked torso. An offering from the feast as a gesture of goodwill toward my creation. It was hunched over the corpse outside the hall, under the light of a cloudy moon, blood turning dirt to mud.

"Kin?" I repeated. "You want others?"

Its jaw worked, shredding the flesh with its powerful jaw. It swallowed and spoke, "Yes."

"You understand my current limitations. In power and resources."

"I do."

I touched the diadem; it was potent, yet I was only half as strong as I was when I managed my small army from Drazivaska. But the issue was Soul energy, as I simply didn't have such concentrated fuel as I did then. "We will have to wait until we reach the isle. Now, did you sense any Sorcerers?"

"No."

"Neither did I. They either lack them here or hide them from my sight." I frowned and let my senses roam my immediate surroundings, covering the hall's interior. Merely a handful of Souls. Sorcerers often stood out for their potency, sometimes having a certain hazy aura like the remnants of Souls lingering about them. "There are few Sorcerers in these lands. In all our travels, we found one, and he was a fledgling. And a half-Corrupted mad one at that."

"Satisfying fuel."

"Yes, I suspect so." Though it was stomach-turning, I did consider repurposing the Sorcerer's bones or organs for the creation of an Artifact. Ultimately, I let Protis consume him instead. And, like a Greyskin eating a man and strengthening, Protis actually grew in height from the Sorcerous fuel. "I will try to find you more in the future."

Protis did not reply, but its gaze moved past me.

I turned and found the four mercenaries approaching, not nearly so drunk in their stride as one might have believed from their display inside.

Wendof's brow rose at the sight of Protis and the goat. "I see why you're out here, then. Messy."

"Did you leave Demetria inside alone?" I asked.

"Escorted her to the chamber, sir. Don't you worry."

I nodded, looking off. Sovina could help protect her. Besides, she had some Sorcerous power herself—enough to deal with regular attackers, anyway. "My thanks."

Red Locc gave Protis a nod. "Good kill. Bright blood there."

The Soulborne grunted and extended a meaty chunk.

"Not now, but my thanks. Only before a good fight for me."

"What did you find?" I asked, shaking my head with a slight smile.

"Not a lot of fighters in there," Wendof said. "Their druzhina, as they call themselves, well, they're no warriors. Not really. Like them boyars, if anything."

Aelle had 'drunkenly' arm-wrestled one. "Fine enough armaments, but if their troops had any discipline, I'd be fucking shocked. Hard to respect a man that's never killed another."

"You think they're that inexperienced?" I asked.

He spit and nodded. "A few skirmishes with the Southerners, to be sure. But that's mostly hired men doing the fighting. The rest of 'em hide behind the walls, letting the fortifications do their job."

Bowyer leaned in furtively, holding my gaze. "They don't have the men for a war with the Targul. There is not enough land to go around to entice new druzhina, which means it's just a hereditary title. No new warriors are joining either—everyone fears the Targul."

"And the thing about sellswords is when the fighting gets tough, a lot of them will run." Aelle glowered like someone had just accused him of being a coward. "Except us, of course."

Red Locc looked out over the city and said, "A hundred good men could take this place. Get past the walls, find a way in here… It could be done with only a few casualties. Don't see why Aethelsty doesn't come and take the city already."

Wendof snorted. "Because its soldiers are the like of Cynebald."

That earned a round of laughs, and I informally concluded the discussion, sending them off to sleep with thanks and promises of due reward. They were good men to have in a time like this. Pulled as I was between the cold practicalities of war and the empathy of a humanist by the likes of Emalia, it was difficult to keep grounded. I wanted to commit fully to one or the other, to harsh destruction or soft empathy. But the future would be one of compromise—it had to be, if we wished to be different than the Vasians.

I looked back to Protis, still watching me with its dark eyes, face stained in blood. "What are your thoughts?"

"Soul fuel." Its eyes scanned the surroundings, then slid back to my own. "Aplently."

Something deep in me shivered, but I would be a hypocrite to say the thought had not crossed my mind. But we were not so desperate yet. "A step too far, Protis. Sorcery is a bludgeon ill fit for problems of politics and diplomacy, even in wartime."

It grunted and turned to its meal, ripping and tearing. I watched for some time, then left to return to my room, leaving my Soulborne to its own feast.

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