The road to Stormbridge was a scar of churned earth and forgotten dead. The air hung thick and cloying, a foul broth of wet ash, spilled viscera, and the sweet stench of rot just beginning to bloom. The ground itself seemed to weep a rusty fluid, and the persistent drizzle did little to wash the filth away, only stirring it into a more profound misery. Charred spears of timber jutted from the mud, their ends seared black by the flames. A Wesian berserker, frozen in a final, monstrous roar, was half-swallowed by the mud, his distended jaw hanging open in a silent scream. An Argent soldier lay nearby, his silver-tree sigil melted into his chest plate, the flesh beneath cooked and blistered.
Through this carnage rode a column of ten silent figures. At their head was Lord Valac, Duke of Arcadia, his gaze missing nothing. His warhorse, a massive black charger, paid no heed to stepping on the dead. Behind him, his personal guard followed in perfect formation, their black-plate armor deflecting the grim morning light.
Lord Nillen was waiting for them at the hastily repaired gate, his own armor dented and splattered with mud. He offered a crisp, formal salute. "My Lord. Welcome to Stormbridge. We held, as you commanded."
Valac dismounted in a single, fluid motion, his eyes already sweeping past Nillen to the broken battlements beyond. "Holding is the minimum expectation, Nillen," he said. "Begin your report. Show me the cost."
He walked the broken battlements of Stormbridge, his expression as cold and gray as the storm clouds overhead. "In total, forty-seven berserkers, thirty-two hardened and four officers expended, my Lord," Nillen recounted. "But they bought us the time we needed. They held until the reinforcement from the west arrived."
"The losses are regrettable," Valac said. He stared at the field of corpses, his mind distant. But it wasn't the loss of men that concerned him; it was the speed. The Argent Covenant had been too fast at sending an army. Somehow, they seemed to have learned of Illias before Wesia did.
Nillen nervously pointed at the massive breach in the wall. "We were caught off guard. An intruder attacked from behind, breaching the wall. It allowed a portion of their army to slip past our main line and into the city."
Valac said nothing. He ran a gauntleted finger along the cracked stone. The force that struck it was formidable. "Who defeated the intruder?"
Nillen lowered his head. "No one, my Lord. After breaching the wall, the assailant turned away and fled without reentering the battle. I sent pursuers, but they were unsuccessful. Duke Belial's reinforcements had brought us many mind crystals, yet no prisoners knew about this accomplice."
Valac's eyes narrowed. "To attack with such power… and then just… retreat? If the goal was the fall of Stormbridge, why would the mage leave the fray? Were you not in a pincer? The lack of distance should have prevented deployment of any more berserkers."
"We were, my lord. We had gotten lucky."
"And when were you notified that Illias would seek refuge here?"
"The very day before the battle, my Lord. I was told that the ones escorting her had judged Pirzen to be a worse choice, and that she would be brought here instead. And we immediately started preparing for the siege."
"And yet, before their army had arrived, someone was already within your walls, Nillen. Is it because they knew," Valac mused, his voice a low murmur, "or is it because they were looking for something else?"
"There was… another incident, my lord," Nillen added, his voice hesitant. "On the night of the feast, someone had used a flask of Camael's Tears. And I don't believe that was the intruder."
Valac turned from the battlements, his black cloak swirling around him, his expression hardening. "And you present these to me as two separate events?" Nillen visibly paled under the weight of Valac's cold fury. "Nillen," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument, "assemble your men. Have every report, and I mean battlefield losses, interrogations, gate logs, everything, laid out in the keep. I will join you in an hour."
Nillen looked terrified. "Yes, my Lord. And you?"
Valac's gaze was fixed on the highest, most secure tower of the keep. "First," he said, "I am going to see if the asset was worth the price."
***
The highest tower of Stormbridge was a place few were ever granted access. Its halls were silent, the stone scrubbed clean of the fortress's grime, the air still and heavy. As Valac ascended the narrow, torch-lit stairs, his mind was not on the battle, but on the weapons that truly decided wars. The Maker's departure had not been a tragedy; it had been an opportunity. The heavens had shattered, casting their inhabitants, the Celestials, down into the mortal coil. The very virtues that had once been pillars of order were now scattered like seeds in mortal bloodlines, lying dormant, waiting to be harvested.
And his Emperor had been the first to understand their value. Valac ran through the litany of acquisitions, like a general counting his swords. Ariadne, the first-sworn, Twisted Commitment, whose blood was forged into the unbreakable chains of the oath. Then Knoss, the Hallowed Wisdom, whose knowledge gave them their mages. Camael, Maddening Courage, whose tears fueled the berserker legions. Usurious Generosity, Crushing Humility… each awakening was another asset, another weapon added to the Emperor's hand.
Valac's eyes gleamed with the cold fire of a conqueror. They were about to acquire a new one. He pushed the door open. The room he entered was a well-appointed guest chamber. A warm fire crackled in a brazier, and a plate of untouched bread and fruit sat on a small table. The girl, Illias, sat on a soft bed, wrapped in a clean wool blanket. She was meant to feel like a guest, not a prisoner.
Valac pulled the chair to face her, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn't loom over her. "Illias," he said, his voice a disarming balm.
She flinched at the sound of her name and gave a small, jerky nod, hugging her knees tighter to her chest.
"You've been through a terrible ordeal," Valac continued gently. "The scouts who found you… they were quite disturbed by what they saw at Southpond." He paused, letting the silence hang in the air. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Her composure broke. "They… they just wanted a better life for me," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "Father… worked so much… he never stopped. Mother… her hands were always bleeding on the loom…" She looked up at him, her face crumpled in pure, uncomprehending grief. "I begged them to stop," she cried. "But they wouldn't. They wouldn't stop working…" She broke down completely, her small body wracked with sobs.
"And what prompted this… change?"
"I… asked them. I asked to go to the Academy. It was my dream. But… not like this. They wouldn't stop…"
Valac leaned forward, his expression unchanged, his voice a low, clinical whisper that cut through her sobs. "Even after they were gone, Illias? After their bodies gave out? The work… did it continue?"
She looked up, horrified, and gave a single, jerky nod.
Valac leaned back in his chair, a slow, terrible smile touching his lips for the first time. Two peasants were found dead from terminal exhaustion and malnutrition. Yet their bodies continued their labor, animated by an unknown force. The father's skeleton pushing a plow, her mother's fingers still weaving with a purpose that transcended life itself. It was an Undying Diligence. Hers was a power that could till the earth until their granaries overflowed, reopen mines too dangerous for living workers. But more than anything… it could give purpose to the rage of mindless berserkers. It could truly direct them.
She was a weapon, and like any weapon, she needed to be properly aimed. He leaned forward again. "That power is a storm inside you, Illias. It is not your fault. It destroyed your home because it is untamed. It needs an anchor."
He knelt before her, taking her small, trembling hands in his gauntleted ones. "The Emperor can provide that anchor. Swear an oath to him, child. It will be your shield. Swear an oath, so that your power may never act by itself again."
He produced a small, ornate vial from within his coat. It was Ariadne's Blood. He offered it to her. Seeing the hope, the promise of control, of an end to her horrifying guilt, the terrified girl took it with trembling hands and drank.
Valac stood, his gentle demeanor vanishing as if it had never been. He looked down at the now-bound Celestial. "Rest," he commanded. "You will be needed at dawn."
He turned and left the room without a backward glance, the heavy oak door sealing Illias in with her grief and her new, invisible chains. As he descended the stairs, his mind was already turning to the next problem on his list. The butcher's bill for Stormbridge was not yet fully paid.
***
A massive, age-cracked oak table dominated the room, its surface a chaotic mess of hastily written reports. Nillen and the two interrogators, Reed and Gerald, stood at rigid attention.
Valac ignored them, his gaze falling upon the piles of parchment. He picked up the first report. "The West Gate Captain, Argos." He looked at Nillen. "Where is he?"
Nillen swallowed. "Missing, my Lord. He vanished from his post sometime after the feast, after it was reported that he let them go."
"How convenient," Valac mused, his voice dangerously soft. He picked up another report, this one from the mind scouring. "And the historian, Kreil. Your assessment, Gerald?"
"The mind was fragmented, my Lord," Gerald said, his blood-red eyes focused. "He was an Argent scholar who deserted. He was obsessed with his daughter, Lilian, believing her to be special in some way. He seemed to believe he could convince the commander to spare her."
"Indeed," Valac said, his eyes still scanning the page. "A man with a fragmented mind who, on the same night the West Gate Captain vanished, somehow acquired a flask of Camael's Tears and created a diversion that cost us a bridge and a dozen men."
He let the silence hang.
"And finally," he said, picking up the last report, "the two conscripts Captain Argos permitted to leave on the night of the feast. When you scoured the witnesses' minds, you confirmed the girl was the one from Kreil's memories."
"If I may, sir," Gerald stepped forth. "The one who carried her out was Gremory's survivor. Bastet. From Briskwood."
Valac's eyes lifted from the parchment. "And how did that come to be?"
Gerald hesitated only a moment. "As I said, Kreil's mind had been altered. Pieces removed cleanly, and no explanation for why. It had to be something dangerous. But if we killed him, we could never uncover the scale of what was going on. So we put him together with the heretic. To let the rot spread and see what it ruins."
"And he took the girl?" Valac scoffed. "Some good news at last. Contact Gremory and tell him. He'll know where to look." Valac placed the three reports side by side on the table: the missing captain, the rampaging historian, and the two escaped conscripts. He tapped the report on Captain Argos. "Oath-bound for twenty years," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "That night, he demanded that they show him the Warden's seal as proof that the order was real. And then he suddenly, inexplicably changed his mind, and let them go, acting against his orders." He finally looked up, his gaze fixing on Nillen. "It is a power to compel. I have an idea of who this might be." Valac's voice dropped, cold and absolute. "Gremory is not enough. Nillen, assemble your best trackers. If they went this far for her, the girl's a potential asset." He then fixed his terrible, calculating gaze on Gerald. "You, interrogator, have an important task. Our intruder might still be in this fortress with the goal of preventing pursuit. You will scour the minds of the trackers before they're sent out. In the meantime, shut the gates. No one enters, no one leaves. With fortune, we might get another Celestial in our hands."