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Chapter Text

“On your left!”

Siravyn barely had time to react when the bullet whizzed by their ear. They whipped around and glared at Azin, who smiled apologetically. The artificer’s newest shotgun was a powerful model perfect for slaying airborne demons – not his comrades. Siravyn sighed. Azin’s aim needed improvement.

No time to think about that. The Hell Knight swung at them, leaving Siravyn scrambling backwards. They pointed their staff at the beast and a stream of glowing light slashed through its arm. The demon snarled and tried to charge again, but Siravyn dodged and stabbed it in the ribs before blowing it to pieces with their magic. They smiled a bit; they hadn’t yet taken down a heavy demon on their own.

“Nice work!” Deracles yelled from across the battlefield. He had just slain a pack of imps and was charging towards Siravyn. He dashed past a wheezing Azin, who was loading his gun and getting ready to take a shot at a nearby Cacodemon.

Siravyn’s head snapped to the right when they heard a loud wail. They watched in awe as an Arch-Vile screamed in agony, its leg severed. Laervik laughed wildly as she swung her axe into the demon’s chest; it screamed once more, then fell silent as it collapsed to the ground. She wiped her blood-covered face, then, without a second to spare, blocked the heavy hand of a Baron. Laervik shoved the Baron away and stabbed the mini spear on her axe handle through its jaw.

Siravyn sprinted over to help Laervik. Admittedly, the leader of the Order of Night didn’t really need help, but it felt nice to pretend that Siravyn was making a difference in the fight. They used a bit of healing magic to seal up a deep wound on Laervik’s shoulder, then sent a beam of light out before an imp to blind it. The axe-wielding warrior easily dispatched it.

“Thanks,” Laervik exclaimed with a toothy grin. She turned back to the battlefield and surveyed it carefully. Most of the demons were dead; the still-living ones would soon join their still siblings. Azin had shot down the last Cacodemon, and he and Deracles was now approaching Laervik and Siravyn triumphantly. “Another battle won,” she said as the two men got close enough to hear her. “Congratulations, everyone.”

“Hell’s forces are weakening – at least, in this region,” Deracles noted. He ran a hand through his short, dark hair. “Perhaps Ullola will see our victory and join our cause.”

Laervik chuckled bitterly at that. “If Razidore can pull his head out of his ass, sure.”

“He’ll come around,” Siravyn said hopefully. “Remember Aekka? We thought she would never join us. But now she’s always sending us supplies. We have to have hope, Laervik.”

The warrior sighed. “Razidore will be difficult to convince. He’s been in the hand of the Makyrs for a very long time. Even if the Khan Makyr is dead, there are still Makyrs on Argent D’nur, and they and the priests won’t give up their contacts so easy.”

“I’m sure we could convince them,” Azin commented, casually twirling one of his pistols around on his finger.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Deracles scolded.

“Only in the wrong hands!” The artificer quipped, grinning widely. “Anyway, I say we get back to Ullola, talk to Razidore, and offer our alliance.”

Laervik was already walking towards the cart, her battle axe slung over her shoulder. “Well, get your asses in gear, everyone. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

Siravyn trotted beside Azin as the group headed to their wagon, Lady Faithful. The old cart had belonged to Azin’s father and was used to transport minerals and precious gems before the Order of Night repurposed it. Azin had personally modified it to suit the group’s needs and was almost always tinkering with it.

Xea, their horse, was waiting patiently for them when they arrived. Siravyn released the ward they had placed on the cart so that the Order could approach. It was a new ward, one they had learned only within the last month. Zurakian wards were hard to find and even harder to master; Siravyn was impressed with themself for making it last long enough for the battle to end. They hoped their patron god was smiling down upon them for their effort.

Deracles climbed into the driver’s seat and set his helmet down beside him. His dark skin reflected the waning sunlight. Siravyn noticed a small slash across his cheek, so they waved their hand, and light danced over the cut before sealing it. Deracles touched the spot where the cut had been before smiling softly. “Thanks, Sira,” he said. “You’re always lookin’ out for us.”

“It’s nothing,” Siravyn mumbled, embarrassed. They never knew how to handle compliments, so they diverted the attention. “Azin! Your gun worked amazingly. How many Cacodemons did you take down? Ten? Twenty?”

“Thirty-one,” he said proudly as he puffed out his chest. “And a few Pain Elementals and Lost Souls to boot!” The artificer took his new gun out from its across-the-back holster and admired his work. He’d crafted the shotgun from the finest steel he could buy and had engraved intricate details onto the stock and barrel. Siravyn had drawn the designs, which Azin then transferred to his gun. “This is my new pride and joy.” His fingers traced the designs carefully. Laervik reached for the shotgun, and Azin handed to her for her to admire. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“What, are you gonna fuck it?” Laervik jested. Her massive, muscular hands handled the gun like it was the finest artifact. 

The cleric wasn’t really listening to Azin and Laervik’s bickering. Siravyn’s comrades were such talented, strong people. Laervik was six feet tall, muscular, with long dark hair and a fierce fire in her honey eyes. Deracles was about the same height and build; he carried himself with elegance and grace, and Siravyn always found themself surprised by how nimble he was on the battlefield. Azin was a technological genius, able to figure out any artifact in a few hours at max. They all played a specific role in the Order. Laervik, descendant of the late King Novik, was the leader of the Order of Night. She had formed the Order to battle the Makyrs shortly before the Khan Makyr’s death. Deracles was her right-hand man, who she had known since childhood. He was a former Night Sentinel who had left after some kind of tragedy – he never spoke of it, and Siravyn never asked. Finally, Azin was the artificer and gunslinger who took down long-range enemies and sorted out magical technology. He had left his home at the heart of Illkana to join Laervik’s cause.

Siravyn was still trying to figure out their place. They were the healer, of course, and a bit of a diplomat, but they still felt as if they were falling behind. They couldn’t fight as well as the others and were easily frightened in battle. All they wanted was to make their comrades proud, and to save Argent D’nur.

It felt nearly impossible at times. Demons rampaged across the yet-unclaimed parts of Argent D’nur and everyday there were new tales of depravity and slaughter. Though the Hell Priests had died – at the hands of the Forbidden One, some whispered – new priests had risen from the lower ranks to try and claim power. The Order Deag would not die, they said. No, it would grow stronger to appease the remaining Makyrs that still held the Argenta in an iron grip.

“Sira?”

Siravyn was pulled from their reverie by Azin’s voice. “What’re ya thinking about? You were completely out of it.”

“Oh, just… things.”

“Ah, you were thinking about things. Very specific,” Laervik teased. “As you are wont to do, I suppose.”

“How far are we from Ullola?” Siravyn asked, desperate to change the subject and get their mind off things. They were far too close to slipping and reminiscing on their life before the Order, and that would leave them feeling empty and hopeless. So instead they decided to try and think of other things. “We should stop by the tavern, visit Avenna. Get something to eat. Relax.”

“Deracles, take us to the Sleepy Sheep!” Laervik yelled up to the driver’s seat.

“Only because I’m the only one of us who knows how to get there!” It was true – Deracles was talented with directions and could navigate anywhere. Laervik, on the other hand, was constantly getting lost.

“So… We get some food, then go and try to win over Razidore?” The artificer asked, running a hand through his shaggy dark blond hair.

“I think that’s the best course of action,” Laervik declared. “Onward to the Sleepy Sheep!”

---

“Allow me to see if I’m understanding you correctly,” Razidore, mayor of Ullola, drawled. “You want our township to disavow the Makyrs and ally ourselves to your cause – a cause that, should you fail, would end with our destruction.”

“That’s the gist, yes,” Laervik muttered. She did not enjoy debating the semantics of her cause with authority figures; the Order’s leader was not a particularly social person, nor did she pretend to be. Siravyn glanced at her and sighed, realizing that they would have to step in or watch the conversation devolve into a fight.

“Many towns have joined us already,” the cleric explained, stepping forward to stand at Laervik’s side. “Do you know Lady Aekka of Jaerix? Lord Zosa of Syaden? They were apprehensive, like you are now, but they’re our greatest supporters.” Siravyn pulled a small pendant out of a pouch on their belt and held it to the light. “The Seal of Jaerix,” they clarified. “Lady Aekka gifted this to me as a show of her unending support and devotion to our cause.”

Razidore nodded solemnly. “I see.” He tapped his fingers on the large oak desk and sighed. “And what am I to say to the priest in town, hmm?”

“There’s a priest in town?” Laervik snarled; Siravyn had to place a hand on the warrior’s stomach to keep her from lurching across the desk. The Order’s leader pursed her lips and sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I just… wasn’t aware of a priest living here.”

“Deag Ozamzel lives in the north of town, yes,” Razidore said coolly. “We… do not like to speak of him.”

The Order exchanged glances, then Siravyn gave the mayor a friendly smile. “Lord Razidore, you can proclaim your support of us without fear. I’m sure Ozamzel won’t be a problem.”

---

As evening drew close, the Order of Night descended upon the Cathedral where Deag Ozamzel resided. Avenna, the innkeeper at the Sleepy Sheep, had explained that once the Khan Makyr fell, the low-ranking priest quickly seized control over Ullola with a small army of demons. It became increasingly apparent that Lord Razidore was only nominally in charge. It reminded Siravyn of their hometown. They winced at the thought and quickly banished it from their mind.

The Order crept around the back of the Cathedral, and Laervik snorted in disgust. “Look at all the stained glass,” she muttered. “What a beautiful church for the starving, dying people to attend.”

Azin gave her a devious grin. “I’ve got a gun, if you know what I’m saying.”

“We can destroy the stained glass after we kill Ozamzel,” Deracles chided. He gestured to a cellar door further down the building. “We can get in through there, I think. It doesn’t look locked. And if it’s locked, we have an Azin.”

“Fuck yeah you do!”

“Hush! Get ready to strike,” Laervik hissed. She moved lithely to the cellar and nodded to Deracles. The duo opened the door as silently as possible, and the sound of chittering imps rose out of the ground. The knight winced, glaring down into the pit before giving Laervik an annoyed look. Deracles despised imps.

It was no matter, though, as Deracles gently let himself down into the cellar, followed by Laervik, Azin, and finally Siravyn. “Light,” Laervik commanded, and Siravyn snapped their fingers to produce a bright candle-like flame. The cellar was now lit, and ten imps whipped around to greet the intruders.

The demons descended upon the Order. Laervik charged forward, drawing her battle axe and slashing two imps in half with one motion. Deracles stabbed at another imp and tossed it to the ground, smashing is ribs in underfoot. Azin’s gunshots found their marks in three imps.

Siravyn hissed as an imp lunged at them. They grabbed onto its arm and sent light through its entire body. The imp wailed in agony, giving Siravyn time to stab their staff’s tip through the roof of its mouth. They felt a glow of pride – even though it was just an imp, they had taken it down on their own.

Another imp leapt at Siravyn and knocked them to the ground. The cleric drew a deep breath and blocked the imp’s bite with their staff between its jaws. They kneed the imp in the ribs and managed to shove it off. It staggered to its feet only to find Laervik’s axe in its head.

Azin and Deracles had finished the last two imps, so the cellar was totally clear. However, Deag Omzazel definitely knew that someone was after him, and he wouldn’t go down without a fight. “We must move quickly,” Laervik growled. “Come on!”

The wildfire in her eyes was sometimes frightening. Laervik loved the thrill of a fight, and the more bloodshed, the better. She always had a wild look on her face when slaughtering demons, a look of pure elation mixed with the undying need for vengeance. Regardless of whether it scared Siravyn or not, the expression of Laervik’s face conveyed to all that she would do whatever it took to destroy Hell and free Argent D’nur of the Makyrs. For that reason alone, Siravyn shoved away her gnawing paranoia.

Laervik ascended the ladder and burst from the floor. When the other three joined her, she was already engaged in battle with Omzazel. He threw a bolt of Argent energy at her, which she dodged easily. It was then Siravyn could get a good look at him.

He was too far gone. His skin was ashen, and his hands resembled an imp’s more than a human’s. His eyes glowed a fearsome red as he cast another spell. Laervik ducked under the spell but staggered backwards as Deag Omzazel summoned a Hell Knight. She cursed as she slashed at its chest.

Three more Hell Knights joined the fray, rising out of demonic circles on the ground. Deracles thrusted his blade deep into one Knight’s chest. It snarled and tried to claw him, but Siravyn cast a beam of light that knocked its mangled hand away. They saw Omzazel attempting to escape and blinded him with a small ray, causing him to fall to the ground. Laervik stepped past his writhing body to assist the group with the other Hell Knights, swinging violently at the closest demon’s stomach. Viscera spilled to the ground as Laervik finished it off.

Azin struggled with the other Hell Knight; it had closed the distance between them while he was reloading and it was now bearing down upon him. It slammed him into the wall; Azin wheezed, reaching for his short sword, but Siravyn feared it would be too late. They jabbed at its back and a pulse of light caused the Hell Knight to scream. It turned on them, but they cast a shielding spell, and the demon’s claws could not break their ward. Azin managed to stand and fire a shot into the horrid beast’s head, ending it once and for all.

Ozamzel was still trying to crawl away. Laervik cackled at his pathetic display and sauntered toward him. “Like a sniveling little worm,” she scoffed, kicking him in the ribs with her steel-toed boots. “Your dear Khan Makyr can’t save you, Ozamzel.” She punctuated her sentence by grabbing his head and smashing it down into the floor. “No amount of penance will save you!” she screamed in his face as she lifted him off the ground by the throat. As she prepared to slice his throat, she smiled wickedly. “There will be no mercy for the likes of you.” With that, she drew a dagger from her side holster and slit his throat. His blood, black as onyx, spilled over her hand and onto the ground. Laervik unceremoniously dropped his body and kicked at it. “He is dead,” she proclaimed, turning to her comrades. “Another priest down.”

“Fuck, Laervik, you’re scary as hell sometimes,” Azin said, having finally caught his breath. “I mean, you’re totally right, and that guy was a dipshit, but damn.”

“Fear is the only thing they understand,” Laervik responded. She slung her axe back over her shoulder. “In any case, Azin, you suggested we destroy the stained glass?”

“Oh, fuck! Of course!” Azin grinned and turned to the windows. He fired recklessly at the scene – the Khan Makyr, standing before the Argenta, forcing them to repent for sins they did not commit. Siravyn couldn’t help but smile as the Khan Makyr herself shattered into a hundred pieces on the now-bloody floor.

The Order gathered themselves and returned to the Sleepy Sheep. The four retreated to their quarters and finally were able to relax.

Azin threw his armor off and scratched at the neckline of his binder; it had been pressed deep into his flesh most of the day. Deracles gave him a glare. “I told you not to wear that in battle, Azin! Did you see how badly you were wheezing?”

“I know, I know,” Azin mumbled.

Deracles’s expression softened. “It’s alright. You know we worry about you.” He paused, then added, “We should look for a new binder for you, one that you can wear during a battle. I’m sure Auzikath has a shop that sells them.”

“Which is where we’re heading next!” Siravyn said cheerfully, opening the map. They brought it to Azin and showed him. “It’s about four days out. So don’t feel down, okay?”

“Thank you,” he murmured, resting his head on their shoulder.

They gave him a comforting hug before turning back to Laervik and Deracles. “I think that before we leave in the morning, we go back to the church, clean up and look for artifacts or forbidden books, then talk to Razidore. We need to make sure he’s going to support us.”

“We should bring him Ozamzel’s head,” Laervik suggested.

“Too gruesome, but a good idea.”

“He has been corrupted by hell. Will there even be a body in the morning? Or do corrupted humans vanish like the demons?” Deracles asked as he divested himself of his armor.

“That’s a problem for tomorrow,” Azin mumbled, flopping facedown onto the bed. “Let’s just get some fuckin’ sleep. I’m tired.”

“Get your grimy ass off the bed!” Laervik scolded, dragging a giggling Azin off the bed. “Go wash off! Now!”

Siravyn felt warmth settle in their chest as they watched their friends. Cleansing Argent D’nur would be a long, hard process, yes – but they knew that with Laervik’s fierce bravery, Deracles’s quiet strength, and Azin’s wild genius, the world was in good hands.

Chapter Text

Siravyn always loved open air markets. In spite of everything the Makyrs, Demons, and Priests had thrown at the Argenta, the markets were a symbol of hope. Auzikath’s market was no different. Townspeople wandered the streets, and shopkeepers shouted about their wares. Children hid behind their mothers’ skirts when a stranger spoke to their parents or sang and chased each other through the streets. It felt… normal. As if everything was alright, and the world wasn’t cruel and broken.

They watched as Azin stepped up to a cogworks and technology stall. The artificer stroked his chin and tugged on the hair; it was one of his many quirks Siravyn had picked up on during their time travelling with the Order.  His dirty blond hair fell in front of his face as he examined the assorted tech.

“Siravyn, c’mere,” he said, turning to them and tugging on their hand. He gestured to a small pocket watch. It was a beautiful bronze, engraved with delicate silver swirls. “That’s my dad’s trademark. I didn’t know he sold out this far – crazy, right?”

“It’s lovely,” they replied. Siravyn themself wasn’t all that surprised. Technology had long been a part of Argenta culture, and wandering artificers were among the most popular merchants in the world. Of course, Azin was a city man, born and raised in the walled metropolis of Illkana. Laervik and Deracles were also from Illkana, though their backgrounds varied wildly. Nevertheless, none of them understood the world of the travelling merchant or the eager townsfolk awaiting their arrival.

Siravyn was from Ryxmoor, a small village in the mountains, approximately five hours east of Illkana. The town was built in a valley and had grown into its home quite snugly. Siravyn and their family – their father Myraj, mother Keltia, and younger sister Axaliz – lived on the edge of town but owned a shop in the village square.

Memories of the apothecary shop filled Siravyn’s mind, and they smiled to themself. The memory of the shop felt warm if not a bit hazy on the edges. They were usually left to tend the shop while their mother hunted for herbs and or went out with the other ladies of the town. The shop was almost always quiet; Siravyn spent their days drawing and painting behind the counter until a customer walked in. Customers usually consisted of Night Sentinels. The town’s Sentinels were known for getting into scuffles with the wildlife and needed ointments and bandages every other day. Axaliz would frequent the shop for free medicine and just to chat while off duty.

Axaliz…

Siravyn felt a pang in their heart at the memory of their sister. She was younger than Siravyn by three years but was stronger and more powerful than they could ever hope to be. Axaliz was a Sentinel-in-training; their father was sure she’d be sent to Sentinel Prime by the time she was twenty to guard the colosseum of Deag Grav. Axaliz’s prowess in battle was the envy of the other soldiers. When another Sentinel-in-training was in the shop, it was inevitable they’d mention Axaliz and how jealous they were of her. Siravyn quietly agreed with them.

They loved their sister dearly, but Axaliz was everything they could never be. Strong. Valiant. Funny. Loved. The pride and joy of their parents’ lives.

“Sira? You good?”

“Oh!” The mage snapped their head up and blinked. Azin had stepped away from the stall and was giving Siravyn a worried look. “I’m sorry. Just lost in thought.” They smiled apologetically. “Where to next?”

They followed Azin through the crowd as he chattered about the tech he’d picked up. Siravyn felt comfortable in his presence. He was a year older than them, 24 to their 23, and had a warm, friendly “big brother” personality. Siravyn could always count on him to jump between them and a creep, or for him to let them cry on his shoulder. Best of all, there was never an awkward silence between them – mostly because Azin was always talking.

Siravyn stopped and tugged on Azin’s sleeve. “Look there,” they said, pointing to a set of scales carved into the mayoral building’s upper façade. “Symbol of Marzil.”

“Marzil. Remind me again who that is?”

“Wraith goddess of war, justice, and vengeance. In her human avatar form she rode a chariot pulled by wolves.” Siravyn instinctively reached for their journal at their mention of the Wraiths. They had been studying the long-forbidden and forgotten lore surrounding the Wraiths for seven years, ever since they found an ancient journal in the basement of their home. Siravyn had felt an instant connection to the Wraiths. They kept the ancient journal a secret from their family and chose to study it by candlelight, keeping their own thoughts in a separate leather-bound notebook.

Though the Wraiths had disappeared from Argent D’nur, their symbols remained. Marzil, who had been particularly revered by the Sentinels, was still found in murals through her set of scales and her chariot. Her fighting spirit and thirst for justice lived in Laervik and Deracles, as well as in the hearts of the common people who sided with the Order to fight against Hell and the Makyrs.

“Avatar form...?”

“Wraiths are… terrifying to look at. They’re huge, bat-like creatures with claws and horns. They look more demonic than anything if I’m being honest. So the common people who worshipped them gave them human avatar forms in order to… relate to them better, for lack of a better word.” Siravyn gave a soft smile as they stared at Marzil’s scales. “I haven’t drawn Marzil yet. I really should…”

“Ah. Interesting.” Azin stroked his chin. “Who have you drawn?”

“Well, Zurak, of course. My Wraith.” They grinned at the mention of their patron – the warm light who had given them a reason to live, even during their darkest hour. “I’ve also drawn Olfyn, Salra, and Dezir the Wildfather but I still need to draw Marzil, Jira, and Ayrdan.” They paused as Azin processed all the names and associations. “I think you’d like Ayrdan. He’s the god of magic, invention, and creativity. He’s more lawful than chaotic but you have his love of creativity.”

Azin glanced away. “Aww… you think so?”

“Azin! Sira!” Laervik’s voice called to the duo from across the marketplace. The tall, dark-haired woman was easy to spot in a crowd, even in common clothes. Laervik always looked a bit out of place when not in her armor. As Azin and Siravyn approached, her discomfort was evident.

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got a missing kid we need to find,” Laervik explained. She held up a small poster she had clearly ripped off a wall. “Last seen about three days ago. Something tells me there’s a priest involved…” She snarled. “Deracles saw a few clergymen but we lost them in the crowd. I say we try and find them again.”

“I’m always down to harass priests!” Azin chirped.

“Then shall we go and look for them?” Deracles asked with a grin, gesturing towards a belfry to the north.

---

The Church of Blessed Lady Niraza was a large, ornate building made of brilliant white marble. The light of the midday sun glittered off the stone as the Order approached. Laervik pushed the wooden doors open and held them for the others. As Siravyn stepped into the Church, they felt a chill run down their spine. Statues of the Makyrs lined the walls of the nave. Behind the pulpit was a stained glass window featuring the Khan Makyr smiling upon the town. Her cruel grin was always unnerving. The Makyrs were not a race meant to smile.

A middle-aged man exited a door near the pulpit and greeted the Order. “Hello! Travelers, I presume?”

“Eh… yes,” Laervik mumbled. She cleared her throat before continuing. “Uh, we’re here looking for the missing child. I mean, we want to help look for the missing child. And we figured we could get more information from you all.” She shifted from foot to foot; she despised the church and was never comfortable in a holy building unless she was killing the enemies inside.

The man nodded solemnly. “Follow me.” He went back through the door, and the Order trailed behind him.

They entered a small dining hall with a kitchenette off to the side. The man gestured for the group to sit down at a round table as he prepared five glasses of hot tea. When he returned, he sat down with a heavy sigh. “So you’ve seen the posters.” He took a sip of tea. “I knew Mikas and his family. They’re regulars – his mother has been in the cathedral every night, weeping and praying for his safe return. Not seeing him in class fills me with an indescribable grief. He’s only seven…”

“Class?” Siravyn asked, stirring their tea with a spoon and watching the cubes of sugar dissolve.

“Yes. I teach children how to read and write at the northern school.” He paused, then exclaimed, “By the Makyrs! I forgot to introduce myself. I am Drasten, one of the clergymen here at Blessed Lady Niraza.”

The Order politely introduced themselves, with Siravyn finishing the lineup. “Who is the priest here?”

“Deag Iboz,” Drasten explained. “Iboz was sent here about five years ago, when our old priest died -- I had been working in the church for about twenty years at that point. Anyway, Iboz is a wonderful man. A strong man of faith who has worked tirelessly to help this town. He’s been spearheading the effort to find little Mikas as well.”

“I see.” Deracles leaned back in his chair. “When was the last time you saw Mikas?”

“Personally? I last saw him five days ago in class. But I know the last time his parents saw him was three days ago. He had gone out by the River Auzikath to play with a few other children, as far as I know.” Drasten rubbed his temples. “I think that Kasel was one of the children? I can’t remember the others for the life of me. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Laervik stated evenly as she rose from her chair. “We’ll figure this out, Drasten. I swear.” The familiar fire burned in her eyes.

“We’ll report back to you if we find anything of interest,” Siravyn added. Laervik and Deracles nodded their approval; though there was a Night Sentinel post in town, they rarely, if ever, did anything helpful when it came to law. “In any case, thank you for the information.” They smiled politely. “Take care, Drasten.”

---

The River Auzikath was a winding, narrow stream to the east of town. Willow trees hung over the bank and danced along the river’s surface. Siravyn could hear birds chirping and bees buzzing, and it made them feel at ease. Nature did not lie and murder. It simply was. That was the greatest lesson the Wraith god of nature, the Wild Father Dezir, had taught them. Nature did not adhere to laws or morals, the most perfect example of neutrality. It must have been wonderful to not have to worry about things like truth or cruelty.

Siravyn’s attention turned to the sound of children playing somewhere downriver. “Think we should talk to them?” Children were almost as honest as nature itself.

“Good idea. Siravyn, you and I will go and speak to the kids. Deracles and Azin, examine this area – look for any signs of a kidnapping or a struggle.” After giving her orders, Laervik nodded to Siravyn, and the two of them set off to see what the children knew.

It was a group of about five, three girls and two boys, all between the ages of six to ten. The oldest child, a girl, stepped in front of the others and spoke first. “Who are you?” she asked, eyeing the adults suspiciously.

“We’re friends of Drasten,” Siravyn replied. “We’re helping him look for a lost boy – Mikas. Did any of you know Mikas?”

The children fell silent for a moment. “Yes. He was our friend.” The oldest girl kicked at some dirt. “We were playing together the other day, y’know. All of us were. And then he was just gone.”

Laervik knelt to address the child. Her features softened and her voice took on a motherly tone; Laervik had always been more at ease with kids. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“Well… it was me, Mikas, Liessi, Otara, Kaidar, and Zigrel. We were playing hide-and-seek, and it was Liessi’s turn to find everyone. So she ran off to that tree” —the girl pointed to a large oak— “and we all hid. Mikas went across the river and that’s the last time we saw him.” Tears brimmed in her wide brown eyes. “Liessi had found everyone but him. We looked for him, we really did, and we yelled for him but, but…”

“It’s alright,” Laervik murmured, and the young girl embraced her. “You saw Mikas go across the river – did he stop behind a tree or anything? Go into a cave?”

“We didn’t see. We all hid on this side except for Otara, and Otara hid right behind that rock, just across the bank.” The older girl pointed to a small child of about seven, with dark curly hair and sad green eyes. “Otara didn’t see where Mikas went. He sprinted past her and ran off.”

“I see. Thank you for your help.” Laervik stood and patted the girl on the head. “We’ll do our best to find him, okay? Don’t worry about a thing.”

The duo returned to where Deracles and Azin were scouring for clues. “Find anything? Siravyn asked, nudging the crouching Azin with their foot.

“No tracks and no sign of a struggle on this side of the river,” Deracles reported. He sighed and ran a hand through his dreadlocks. “At least this side is ruled out.”

“We talked to those kids. Mikas was last seen on the other side of the river. Apparently, he ran into the woods and hasn’t been seen since.” Laervik gestured to the forest that dominated the area. “I say we search the area. There’s a good chance the kid is dead, as sad as it is. There’s just too many beasts out here – a six-year-old boy couldn’t survive for more than a few hours.”

“Let’s get started then,” Siravyn murmured, lifting their tassets and preparing to cross the river. Their mind fixated on the thought of the boy, frightened, injured, and utterly alone in his last moments. If he was dead, they had to find him and give him a proper burial. It was the least they could do.

The Order trekked across the river and began their hunt for Mikas. As night drew close, the group felt more and more hopeless. There were no signs of the boy, only the indifferent beat of nature going about its business. Siravyn sat down under a tree to recollect themself. They felt overwhelmed. They weren’t meant to track people – hell, they didn’t even know how. Laervik and Deracles had been trained on the art of hunting, and even Azin had casually hunted from time to time. But Siravyn? Siravyn didn’t know where to begin. They rubbed their face and desperately tried not to cry.

The hum of summer filled the air, but beneath it, something sinister lurked. Siravyn’s head shot up and they focused intently. The sound was demonic in nature.

They rose and, as quickly as they could, found the others and explained what they had heard. With their weapons drawn, the Order crept through the forest, attempting to locate the sound. Finally, Siravyn spotted a faint red glow in the distance. “There,” they whispered, pointing through the trees. “That has to be it.”

“Probably where we’ll find the boy,” Deracles murmured.

But as they approached and the demonic drone grew louder, there was no sign of little Mikas. There wasn’t even a sign of Hell’s destruction.

A large tree stood in the middle of a clearing. As Siravyn approached the outer ring of the clearing, their ears popped, and they realized that the clearing was completely silent. No bird song, no bugs flittering about, no wolf howls – nothing. They shivered, but nodded to the others, and willed themself forward.

Carved into the tree was a rune like Siravyn had never seen. It was horrific and jagged, and it seemed to seep glowing blood. They could feel their heart pounding against their ribs as they stared at it. Behold, Siravyn swore they could hear it whisper, I am evil itself. And I am coming for you.

“What the fuck?” Azin hissed, pulling Siravyn back away from the tree. “What is it? What does it mean?”

“It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen. It certainly doesn’t have any Sentinel elements, or even elements of the Order Deag. It’s… I have no idea.” Siravyn reached for their journal and pen, opening to a blank page. They drew the rune but were careful not to connect the lines so as not to summon any unsavory characters. When they finished, they drew the sigil of Zurak at the corner of the page as a ward. “We should show Drasten. Maybe he knows?”

“Drasten works for the church! We can’t trust him!” Laervik pointed at the rune and growled. “They did this, I’m sure of it! They’re fucking monsters!”

“Do we have any choice?” Siravyn’s voice was low and desperate.

“They’re right, Laervik.” Deracles laid his hand on his leader’s shoulder. “Drasten seems like a genuinely good man. He can change. And right now, he’s the only person in this town we know who has a connection to the church and who’s looking for this little boy. As much as we don’t want to trust him, we have to.” He glanced at Siravyn before continuing. “We have to set our grievances with the church aside. There’s a child missing. We have to find him.”

“Fine,” Laervik snapped. “Let’s… let’s just go back to town, find somewhere to sleep, and then talk to Drasten in the morning. But I won’t be doing the talking.” Her heavy gaze fell upon Siravyn. “I don’t trust him. But I trust you.”

Siravyn couldn’t help but smile slightly at Laervik’s words. “I won’t let you down.”

Chapter Text

Drasten was tending to the church’s garden when the Order arrived in the morning. He turned to greet them, his eyes tired. “Good morning.” He was attempting to appear cheerful as he stood up and gestured toward the door. “I’ll be right in. I just need to finish up the weeding.”

There must have been a sermon that day; a few stragglers remained in the chapel and spoke with various clergymen. Siravyn’s eyes roamed the room. They couldn’t spot the priest, Iboz, anywhere in this part of the church. Odd, they thought. Sure, he’s a Makyr priest… but wouldn’t a priest, even an evil one, want to talk to his congregation? As they took a seat in the pews with the rest of the Order, they felt a deep sense of unease wash over them. They glanced sideways at the others; they seemed to be feeling it as well.

Drasten soon entered the building and nodded for the group to follow him into the dining hall once more. As Siravyn passed the churchgoers, they noted that everyone seemed on edge.

“Another child went missing,” Drasten said quietly. “Kasel.”

Laervik’s lip twitched. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Her voice was a low growl. “How many children have gone missing lately? Total?”

“Four.”

“Goddamn it,” Laervik hissed under her breath. “Where was Kasel last seen?”

“By the river, just like Mikas… and the others.” A tear trickled down the clergyman’s face. “We don’t know what to do. Our children are disappearing and we have no answers.” So she vanished last night… and we didn’t realize it. We couldn’t stop it.

“We might have something.” Siravyn pulled their journal from their backpack but hesitated to open it in the church. “Do you have somewhere private I can show you this?”

Drasten nodded solemnly, and Siravyn followed him to a short hallway. There were several offices, presumably for the clergymen. The middle-aged man opened one of the doors and stepped inside. Siravyn and the rest of the Order crowded into the small room. It couldn’t have been much bigger than a closet – all that Drasten had been able to fit into the room was a desk and a chair.

Siravyn laid their journal on the table and opened it to the rune. Drasten stared at it for a moment before a horrified expression overtook his features. “What… what is this?”

“We found this in the woods outside Auzikath. According to Kasel…” Siravyn winced at the young girl’s name, the continued. “According to Kasel, Mikas ran off into the woods and then disappeared. When we went into the forest, I noticed a red light that led us into a clearing. This rune was on the center tree. It looked like it was written in blood.”

Drasten’s fingers traced the rune over and over again. “The demons haven’t attacked Auzikath in months,” he whispered. “Why now? Why take our children?” The pained disbelief in his voice made Siravyn’s heart ache.

“I don’t think it’s the demons’ doing.” Laervik stepped forward and leaned against the table, staring into Drasten’s fearful eyes. “Do you know anything about this rune? Anything at all? Besides the fact that it’s demonic?”

The clergyman wept as, after a moment of silence, he finally spoke. “It has celestial elements,” he murmured. “I don’t… I don’t understand any of this.” Drasten buried his face in his hands. “Why?”

“I’m sorry.” Deracles laid a hand on Drasten’s shoulder. “I know that this is difficult. But… thank you for your help. We can leave you be if you wish.”

Drasten didn’t respond. Laervik nodded to the group, then she, Deracles, and Azin left the room. Siravyn turned to follow them, but Drasten’s voice stopped them.

“I read Deag Iboz’s letters last night,” he said.

Siravyn tilted their head. “Yes?”

“They say the Khan Makyr is dead.” Drasten swallowed hard. “Is that… do you believe that’s true?”

The mage’s breath hitched. They didn’t know how to respond, or if they even could. “I… I don’t know…?” Stupid! They shook their head. “I mean…”

“So you think so.” Drasten picked at a scab on his pale, aging face. “With all these disappearances… I should have figured as much, hmm? The Khan Makyr would not allow this to happen. Right?” His eyes darted across the room before meeting Siravyn’s. “Right?”

Siravyn couldn’t bear the sorrow in his voice. “Right,” they whispered with a weak smile.

Drasten sat back in his chair and sighed heavily. “Right.”

With that, he laid his head down on the desk, and Siravyn left, an overwhelming emptiness in their heart.

---

The Order was awoken by a rapping on the door late at night. Laervik was the first up; she had already grabbed her weapon and was crouched by the door by the time Siravyn had even sat up. Deracles joined her by the door while Azin reached for his shotgun, loading it sleepily.

“Who’s there?” Laervik growled, leaning against the door with almost her full weight.

“It’s Drasten. I need to tell you something.”

Laervik huffed in annoyance but opened the door to a shivering, shaking Drasten. Siravyn realized he was wet – now that they were awake, they could hear the soft patter of rain on the inn’s roof. As they stood, they reached for a blanket and approached the clergyman. They threw it over his shoulders and guided him to sit down, then lit a small light on their fingertips to warm him up. Drasten quietly thanked them before Deracles spoke.

“So why are you here?” he asked, the light from Siravyn’s magic dancing off his umber skin. His features were gentle in the soft light. Deracles, for all his years fighting, retained kindly eyes and a friendly disposition. He was comforting to be around, even on the battlefield.

“I… I need to tell you all something,” Drasten began. “The runes…  I was looking through Iboz’s letters again, and he wrote about… well, not runes, but sigils. Another priest named”—he fumbled with a piece of paper in his pocket, untouched by rain—“Erzhok wrote about sigils being used in Primurenn. For what? I… I don’t know. But…” He took a deep breath. “I think… I think there’s someone out there who knows what these runes are. Someone who will be very hard to get to, because he’s not in Argent D’nur anymore. He’s self-exiled in hell.”

“The Betrayer,” Laervik whispered, pure venom in her voice.

“He’s still out there?” Azin asked in disbelief. “He’s alive?”

“How did you find out about this?” Laervik stood tall, her shoulders back, attempting to be as intimidating as possible.

“The letters. I wish I had brought them, but I didn’t want something to happen to them. What I know is that there’s something in the part of Hell that’s on the edge of Argent D’nur, and it cannot be activated. The Betrayer isn’t guarding it, per se, but his presence protects it for sure. Somehow.” Drasten shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know this is vague, but I think that if we want to figure out this rune… You all will need to go into Hell.”

The room was silent for what felt like an eternity. Siravyn could hear the pounding of their heart threatening to burst through their ribs.

Finally, Laervik spoke. “Thank you,” she said with a surprising softness. Deracles rested a hand on her shoulder as she stared down at Drasten.

He drew himself up to his full height as he stood to face Laervik. “Laervik, I… I get the sense that you don’t like the church, and I can respect that. Because, if I’m being honest, my faith has been shaken. But… I want you to know that if you and your comrades need a place to stay, I will open the doors of Blessed Lady Niraza to you, no matter what happens.”

“Thank you,” Laervik replied. “I’m not good with words, but I want you to know that I appreciate that sentiment.”

Drasten  gave them one final tired smile before turning to leave. When he was gone, Laervik slumped to the ground, her back against the door. “What the fuck,” she mumbled into her hands. “Goddamn it…”

“So… what the fuck do we do now?” Azin had set his gun back down and was now sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“I don’t know.”

Siravyn and Deracles exchanged glances. The mage took a deep breath, then addressed Laervik. “I… I think we should follow this lead. It might be our only chance at figuring out what’s going on.”

“If we leave, more children will go missing.”

“We were here and another child went missing. That isn’t the issue,” Deracles stated calmly. “The issue is that something related to the priests and hell are causing these children to disappear. As much as it hurts, we can no longer focus on the children. We have to focus on the cause of the disappearance – not the effect.”

Their leader let out a frustrated groan. “I know, okay?! I – fuck. Fuck.” She stood up and grabbed her hair, tugging on it slightly. “The fuckin’ Betrayer of all the people on this goddamn world…”

Siravyn winced. The fate of the Night Sentinels was, at times, a sore subject for Laervik. She believed that the Makyrs had ruined the Sentinels, and that the Betrayer had sealed their fate. Before, she would insist, the Sentinels could’ve been saved. But the Betrayer had single-handedly destroyed his people and let the Khan Makyr twist Argent D’nur for her own purposes. Whenever Laervik recounted the history of the Sentinels, she spat the Betrayer’s title with pure malice.

“I know,” Deracles murmured as he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Perhaps we don’t need to even talk to him. It could be that whatever is being ‘protected’ is on the very edge of Hell and far from him.”

“I doubt that.”

“Laervik,” Siravyn began, “I know that you have… negative feelings about the Betrayer. But if what Drasten says is true, this is our chance! If we figure out that it is the priests and Makyrs causing the disappearances, then we can get all of Argent D’nur on our side. We can fight back.” They thought of Drasten’s sorrowful face during his crisis of faith. “It won’t be easy. But… we can’t let Drasten’s sacrifice be in vain.”

“Sacrifice?”

“If Deag Iboz finds out that Drasten told us about his letters, Drasten will die.” Deracles’s voice was deadly quiet.

“Azin? Anything to add?”

Azin glanced up; he’d been reading this entire time. Siravyn sighed but knew that was simply how he was. Matters of the heart did not particularly interest Azin. “Well… it would be a good place for me to study the runes, and possibly incorporate them into my work. And if I get my hands on stronger hell tech, then I’ll have an edge over anyone else. We all will!” He beamed at the idea of new technology. “I say we go for it!”

Laervik pursed her lips and nodded. She reached for her bag and pulled out her map. As she unfurled it, she traced the Stream of Forever with her finger. The river cut through the heart of Argent D’nur and was named such because no one had found its beginning or end. Laervik often recalled fond memories of playing in the parts of the stream that wound through Illkana. She also spoke of how Novik had won his first great battle at the riverfront, and thus had become King of the Night Sentinels.

Siravyn stepped up beside Laervik and pointed to the lost fortress of Exultia. “The castle is on the way, Laervik. We could make a brief stop to explore. You and Deracles can experience the Night Sentinel’s past, Azin can find new tech, and maybe I’ll see something about the Wraiths.”

“Do we have the time for that?” Laervik whispered, more to herself than anyone else. She shook her head to banish the thought. “Maybe. In any case, we’ll need to begin heading southeast, toward the border with Hell. I say that we go back through Ullola, then head south to Edrel. We’ll look for more leads from there, then decide our next course of action. Understood?”

Siravyn spoke for the others. “Wherever you go, Laervik, we’ll follow.”

Laervik nodded, then addressed the group. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we begin the long journey to Ullola.”

Chapter Text

“You’re so beautiful when you cry.”

Siravyn woke with a jolt, their breathing heavy. Sweat beaded at their forehead and a chill crept up their spine, settling at the base of their skull like pure ice. They sat up, then pulled their knees up to their chest and wrapped their blanket tighter around their body. They glanced to their sides; Laervik and Azin were sound asleep beside them in the cart. Deracles must be outside, Siravyn thought. He and Laervik shared guard duty, with Laervik taking the early shift and Deracles capping off the night. The mage carefully reached for their journal, taking care not to wake their sleeping friends, then slipped outside.

Deracles was sitting by the fire, reading a book. Siravyn recognized it as one of Azin’s history books; it appeared to be a volume of History of the Night Sentinels. He glanced up from his reading and gave Siravyn a soft smile. “Are you alright, Sira?”

“Yeah. Just… a bad dream. I’ll be fine.” They took a deep breath and sat down across from Deracles. “Mind if I sit down for a bit?”

“I don’t mind at all. Please, stay as long as you like.” Deracles returned to reading. He studied the page carefully, the light from the flames dancing off his attentive features. When he was focused, he wrinkled his nose without thinking. It was one of the little things Siravyn had noticed in their time travelling with him.

Deracles was the oldest of the group at 28, but he had an old soul. He was wise and serene beyond his years, both on and off the battlefield. Yes, he was a powerful warrior, but he always kept a level head and never so much as yelled during a fight. Siravyn often wondered how he could possibly be so calm.

They, on the other hand, wore their heart on their sleeve. It was one of their defining qualities. Axaliz always called them a crybaby and would frequently tease them for bursting into tears over the smallest things. Their parents scolded them for being so soft. “The world will not be kind to you, Siravyn,” their father would say. “Grow a thicker skin, or you will never find peace.”

Perhaps he was right.

Siravyn sighed. If they were to try and sleep soon, they couldn’t be musing about their father. They opened their journal and thumbed through the pages. Most were drawings of Zurak, both in avatar and Wraith form, but they’d drawn a few of the other old gods. Siravyn found a blank page and tapped their pencil against it. I really should start sketching Marzil… Or maybe Jira or Ayrdan? They drew a circle in the top middle of the page and sighed as their pencil began sketching the familiar jawline of Zurak’s avatar form. Drawing Zurak had become a small source of comfort for Siravyn, since their days in the castle of Graihund. The Wraith was the one thing that had kept them sane.

Siravyn admired all the Wraiths, of course, but Zurak had especially touched them. As they glanced up into the fire, they felt his eternal warmth. Every streetlamp, every ray of sunshine, every flame – all of them embodied the very spirit of Zurak.

Siravyn’s mind drifted to the rumors that surrounded the Wraiths. It was said that the Betrayer had let the Hell Priests into their tomb, and that the Priests destroyed them. Siravyn found that difficult to believe. The Wraiths were all around them, in every facet of Argenta life, whether the Argenta people realized it or not. They couldn’t be destroyed.

When nightmares of Graihund plagued them, Siravyn liked to think of a time in the lord’s garden, when Zurak had made his presence known. It was the first time they had been allowed outside since being brought to the castle. The garden was vibrant and filled with life and warmth they hadn’t known in quite some time. As Siravyn stood outside, they felt the sunlight beat down on their face. A light breeze ruffled their hair, and in spite of their circumstances, Siravyn felt peaceful. Have faith, the sun seemed to whisper. You are not alone.

When Laervik and the others rescued them, they rode in the front of the cart, in the seat beside Deracles. They had felt Zurak’s love then, too. You are not alone.

Zurak’s avatar form had manifested on the page under Siravyn’s skilled pencil. They smiled and lightly blew the eraser shavings off the page. In a way, sketching Zurak was a show of devotion. They prayed that wherever he was, he was smiling down upon them.

Siravyn frowned. Zurak’s satchel looked… empty. They quickly sketched in a familiar symbol, the symbol of the Night Sentinels.

Well, not of the Night Sentinels. Of one former Night Sentinel. The Forbidden One.

Siravyn had only seen one paragraph detailing the Forbidden One, in an old history book they’d found in the very back of the apothecary. The first page had a far ancestor listed as the owner, and the book was practically falling apart. It detailed the early history of the Sentinels; pages had clearly been ripped from it. Siravyn guessed they talked about the Forbidden One. The only paragraph to mention him was brief and simply stated that he arrived four hundred years before the book had been first published.

They often wondered about him. Did he worship the Wraiths? Was he a follower of the Khan Makyr? What was his name? What did he like to do? What made him happy? Where did he disappear to?

Was he still out there somewhere?

Siravyn’s thoughts shifted to another ancient Night Sentinel – the Betrayer, who Drasten had told them about. Siravyn knew his story by heart, at least as Laervik had told it to them. She always told the story with such venom. “He sacrificed us in a moment of selfishness,” she would say. “He doomed us to the will of the Makyrs.”

Siravyn had not yet worked up the bravery to ask Laervik if she, in a moment of desperation, tormented by demonic visions and the weight of a loved one’s mortality, would have done the same.

“Deracles?”

“Mhm?” He looked up from his book, shutting it on his thumb to mark his page.

“Are you...” They paused, unsure of how they wished to phrase their question. “Do you… Are you afraid of what’ll happen when we reach the Betrayer? With Laervik, I mean.”

He gave them a curious look. “Are you?”

“Yes,” they confessed. “The way she talks about him is so vicious. I know that… well, he’s the Betrayer, and what happened to Argent D’nur is…”

“Is what?”

“I don’t want to say it’s his fault.”

“Why not?” Deracles’s tone wasn’t accusatory; it was genuinely curious. He tilted his head, urging Siravyn to explain.

“If one of my loved ones was suffering… if Axaliz was suffering like his son suffered, I don’t know what I would do. The pain he must have felt… I can’t even fathom it. I… I understand why he did it. Laervik doesn’t. Or, she doesn’t try to understand. She is angry. And I get that! I just…” Siravyn trailed off. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Deracles replied. “Laervik is too prideful sometimes. As the descendant of Novik, she feels an obligation to defend the Argenta. The Betrayer was a threat that destroyed the Argenta. It destroyed Novik. I think that that’s what hurts her the most.” He set his book down. “She has a severe inferiority complex and more hubris than any Makyr. She feels as though the future of Argent D’nur rests squarely on her shoulder.” He sighed heavily. “I wish she understood that she doesn’t have to bear this weight alone. We’re right there beside her -- she simply won’t allow us to help her. Only Laervik can forgive the Betrayer, just as only she can allow us to take some of that weight off her shoulders.” Deracles laughed, more to himself than anyone else. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to ramble like that.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry! That makes me feel a lot better, to be honest. Seems like I’m not the only person in the group with an inferiority complex.”

“Oh?”

“Well, when your sister is the strongest Sentinel-in-training, and your Sentinel father can’t stop showering her in affection… It can hurt.” They shrugged.

“It hurts you more than you let on.”

“It’s okay. I’ll get over it.”

He frowned slightly at that. “I can’t force you to talk, Siravyn. But if you want to talk, I’m here for you.” Deracles glanced behind him, toward the rising sun. “I should start breakfast.”

“I’ll help you.”

Deracles gave them a soft smile. “I appreciate it.”

---

“This is boring.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Siravyn asked, looking up from their sketchbook to address Azin. He was cleaning the barrel of his gun again. It was Azin’s most prized possession, the one thing he kept clean and in an organized, safe place.  “I mean, if there aren’t any demons in the area, then we succeeded.”

“I know… But I miss fighting.” He set the gun aside, then flopped back against Siravyn’s shins. “Is that bad of me?” Before Siravyn could answer, he added, “I mean. I miss exploring too! I guess I just miss getting into trouble.”

“Azin, when the fuck aren’t you getting into trouble?” Laervik called from the driver’s seat.

He scoffed. “I’ll show you trouble!”

Siravyn chuckled to themselves before answering his initial question. “Well, I don’t think it’s bad, per se. Everyone wants to have some kind of excitement in their life, y’know?”

Azin was quiet for a moment. “You think we’ll find anything cool at Exultia?”

“I think so! From what I’ve heard, it hasn’t been explored in hundreds of years. Unless someone looted it, there should be plenty for you to find.” Siravyn squeezed his shoulder. Azin often found himself feeling restless for adventure, and required reassurance that he’d be able to explore and innovate during the Order’s journey.

“You know what I’ve heard? Supposedly, King Novik haunts the castle.” When Siravyn was silent, Azin filled in the gap. “If he does, maybe he’ll give Laervik some cool armor or something. Help her feel more like a leader.”

“Didn’t he allow the Priests to first study hell?”

“Yeah, but… it can’t be his fault that they went batshit crazy and started letting the demons kill everyone. He was fighting hell. I don’t think he wanted them to end up being a normal part of our lives.” Azin sat up and crossed his legs. “It’s weird how the Sentinels turned on us, huh?”

Siravyn immediately thought of Axaliz and their father. “Yeah.”

The artificer picked up on the sorrow in Siravyn’s voice, as best as they tried to hide it. “You need to talk?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Just… had a bad dream last night. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Siravyn wanted to forget all about the nightmare. “But thank you for asking. Really. I appreciate it.”

Azin frowned. “Well… I’m here for you. We’re all here for you.”

They forced a soft smile. “Thank you, Azin. Really.”

Azin wasn’t the best with emotional matters, so he changed the subject. “Did I ever tell you how I met Laervik?”

“No?”

“Jail. The Colosseum, specifically.”

“…You’re kidding.”

“Not at all!” Azin laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “I went exploring in a ruin I wasn’t supposed to be in, and a Sentinel patrol found me. I was close enough to the Colosseum that they took me straight there. Lucky me – I never had to fight the demons Deag Grav kept for gladiatorial purposes. I just got the shit beat out of me by other humans. When I passed out, Laervik carried me to the side so I wouldn’t get stomped to death. She slapped me awake, and that’s how we met.”

Siravyn crossed their arms. “Huh,” they chuckled. “Well, I’m glad that you made it out of there.” They paused. “How did you make it out of there?”

“Deracles. I don’t know the whole story, but he busted us out. Laervik could probably tell ya, if you ask.”

“I might have to ask sometime.”

Before Azin could respond, the cart ground to a halt, and their friends up front addressed them. “Ullola coming up!” Deracles called back. “Lunch break, anyone?”

---

Siravyn pulled their scarf tighter around their shoulders as they stepped into The Sleepy Sheep. Avenna, the establishment’s owner, immediately recognized the Order and patted the bar in front of her. Laervik sauntered over to the bar and plopped down onto the seat. Azin and Deracles followed, with Siravyn pausing to look around the bar. They noticed a few clusters of hunters in the corner, their weapons leaned against the wall and their chairs. Siravyn nodded to them when they made eye contact with the group.

They went to move toward the Order when one hunter began to speak. “Did anyone hear about Ryxmoor?” he asked his hunting friends, leaning in close to address them.

Siravyn whipped around. “Ryxmoor?” They realized how sharp their voice sounded and winced; as they approached the table, they mumbled an embarrassed apology. “I… I’m sorry. Can you tell me what happened?”

“What’s it to you?” The hunter crossed his arms and looked Siravyn over, his eyes raking across their form. Siravyn felt themselves shrink under the weight of his gaze. They wanted to crawl out of their skin.

“I… I just knew a few people there…” they murmured. Goddamn it, Siravyn. Really?

“Well, they won’t be there anymore. The place got razed to the fuckin’ ground. Demon attack. Few survivors.”

Siravyn felt their heart stop, and then, the world went black.

---

“Sira? Sira, what the fuck? Are you okay?”

When Siravyn came to, they were staring up at The Sleepy Sheep’s ceiling. Their head was in Deracles’s lap; Laervik and Azin held their hands, with Laervik’s free hand stroking their forehead. “What happened?” she shouted; her voice would have sounded aggressive to anyone who didn’t know her, but Siravyn knew that she was concerned.

They sat up and shook their head. Their long chestnut hair fell around their face. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. In.

Siravyn exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry,” they finally managed to say. “I didn’t know I would react like that. I… I apologize…”

“Siravyn, don’t apologize, okay?” Azin gave their hand a squeeze. “What did he say?”

“Is he still here?”

“Right here,” the hunter said gruffly. Siravyn screwed their eyes shut. His voice was far too similar to Graihund’s.

“I need to eat,” Siravyn murmured. They stood up, supported by the others, and stumbled to the bar counter. Avenna set a glass of water down in front of them and they mumbled their gratefulness. Laervik rubbed their back in an attempt to be comforting. Like Azin, she wasn’t the best with emotions, but she did her best to show her concern. Siravyn appreciated it nonetheless.

At last, Siravyn felt their heartbeat slow, and they were ready to speak. “My home is gone.”

Chapter Text

Siravyn sat quietly at the bar, between Laervik and Deracles. They stared down into their glass of water; their thoughts were like a dense fog. They felt totally, utterly lost. Their home was gone. Destroyed. And they hadn’t been able to see it in its serene beauty before it was ruined.

They mused that, at the very least, Axaliz was most likely alive. As a powerful Sentinel, she wouldn’t have been in Ryxmoor at all – she’d probably been moved beforehand. Their father was also likely alive. He, too, was a Sentinel, so if he had been in Ryxmoor, he would’ve been able to fight back. Their mother, however…

Tears threatened to pour down Siravyn’s face. They thought of everything they had lost. The apothecary. Their bedroom. The wandering feral cats that begged for food. The boys and girls they’d had crushes on as a child. The bakery. Their very first journal, dedicated to Zurak. Their family.

I can’t dwell on this now, they scolded themselves. The others need me. And if I’m like this… I’m of even less use than normal…

The door to The Sleepy Sheep opened, and Siravyn glanced over their shoulder. Their throat tightened at the sight of three armored Sentinels entering the tavern. The trio carried their helmets confidently on their hips as they sauntered in. Please don’t notice us, please don’t notice us…

The Sentinels’ footsteps drew closer. “You don’t appear to be from around here,” the leader, a tall, square-jawed woman said coolly, addressing the group.

Goddamn it.

Laervik’s lip twitched in annoyance. “You haven’t even seen my face.”

“Do I need to?” the Sentinel asked. “You have a distinct accent – it reminds me of Illkana. Am I correct?” She leaned against the counter, her long blonde hair framing her face as she glared smugly at Laervik.

The Order’s leader sighed heavily at her prodding, her grip on her glass tightening. “I don’t answer questions.”

Siravyn glanced to their left and made eye contact with Deracles. He tapped his fingers on the table, shifting slightly in his seat. Deracles was clearly prepared for a fight to break out. They looked past him and at Azin; the blond took a sip of his beer, and the Sentinel’s head snapped up.

“You,” she hissed, and drew her sword.

Laervik was up in a flash, shoving the Sentinel back and reaching for her dagger. “Back the fuck up and we won’t have a problem.” At six feet tall, Laervik towered over the other woman, and the bar’s patrons shrunk into their seats. Deracles hopped up beside Laervik and placed a hand on her shoulder, while Azin grimaced and reached for his pistol.

“And you two as well,” the Sentinel snarled. “The only problem I see here are three fugitives and – who’s this? A pet cleric? How cute.”

Siravyn winced.

“As a commander of the Night Sentinels, I am placing you all under arrest. Come quietly and we won’t have any issues. But should you not comply, we will be forced to take action against you.”

The cleric finally stood, though they hid behind Laervik and Deracles. “What the fuck did you do?” they hissed at Azin.

“A ton of shit. I’ll tell you later.”

Typical Azin.

The Sentinel leader charged forward, swinging her blade at Laervik. Laervik dodged and jabbed her elbow into the Sentinel’s ribs; the reverberation from the heavy armor must have knocked the wind out of her, and she snarled.

Another Sentinel attempted to swing on Azin and Siravyn. The cleric shoved Azin out of the way and barely managed to escape a broken jaw courtesy of the knight. Siravyn cursed themselves for leaving their staff in the cart – without it nearby at the very least, they struggled to channel magic, and was of little use to their comrades. Azin, who had fallen to the ground, fired off a warning shot before scrambling back to his feet. He sprinted to the other side of the bar to reload his weapon in safety.

The sentinel who had attacked them yanked Siravyn toward him by the hair. Siravyn wailed in pain, grabbing around on the nearby bar for any kind of weapon. Their fingers found a fork, and they haphazardly stabbed at their assailant. They must have hit some part of his face, because he screamed and his grip loosened. Siravyn broke free and jerked out of his arms, assessing the damage they’d done. The fork had lodged itself in his cheek.

Siravyn grabbed a steak knife off the bar counter and stumbled back. Deracles decked the remaining Sentinel, his leather-clad fist cracking against his opponent’s jaw. Laervik had managed to knock the sword out of the leading Sentinel’s hand and was grappling with her. The bar’s patrons had evacuated, a few peering through the windows at the chaos.

Siravyn barely had time to react when the knight who’d attacked them swung at them again, this time with his shortsword in hand. The cleric backed up, only to realize there was a table behind them. Fuck! They rolled over the table to escape a killing blow and raced past Azin. The artificer attempted to shoot the Sentinel, but the bullet barely grazed his cheek. C’mon, Azin, please…!

The brunette saw no choice but to run outside and try to grab their staff from the back of the cart. Then, at least, they could defend themself. Siravyn sprinted for the door, the Sentinel on their heels. When they glanced over their shoulder, his face was right behind them, covered in blood with raw hatred burning in his eyes.

They skidded to a halt by the cart and threw open the canvas door, their hand thankfully, mercifully finding the leather grip of their staff. Just as Siravyn grabbed it, they sensed the Sentinel behind him, and ducked to avoid being decapitated. His blade tore through the canvas, and Siravyn retaliated by pointing their staff at him and shooting a blinding ray of light into his eyes. Regardless, the knight raised his sword above his head to stab down. Siravyn quickly cast a shield spell so they could escape to the left side around the cart; they then dispelled the shield, and the blast of energy sent the Sentinel staggering back.

He roared in fury and lunged again at Siravyn. They sidestepped his blow and aimed a powerful attack at his knee. Blood rushed to their ears, and they could barely hear anything other than their pounding heart in their head, but they were sure they heard him scream. Break it down, limb by limb, they vaguely remembered their father once saying. A beast can’t attack you if its limbs are broken.

Siravyn’s next spell targeted his other knee, and he crashed to the ground, but the knight wasn’t giving up. He crawled toward them, sword in hand, and when he looked up, Siravyn got a good look at his face.

They recognized him. It was one of Graihund’s Sentinels.

Siravyn’s blood turned to ice, and they felt all-too familiar tears stinging their eyes. Not now! For fuck’s sake, Siravyn, stop being pathetic for once in your life!

“You,” he snarled, preparing to jab his sword up into Siravyn’s abdomen.

Siravyn didn’t quite know what happened next. All they could comprehend was feeling hot tears pouring down their cheeks, the sound of their heart in their head, and suddenly, he was still.

Siravyn blinked the confusion from their consciousness and realized what they had done.

The tip of their staff was lodged in the Sentinel’s throat, and blood gurgled from his mouth and out from around the wound, coating his skin in scarlet. His eyes were full of fear. A tear trickled down his bloodied face.

Demons were easy to kill. Demons didn’t feel anything but hunger for bloodshed. Demons didn’t have families. They didn’t cry when they died. Not even Priests wept when they died.

Siravyn hadn’t killed a full human being before.

Their breathing stopped. Somewhere beyond this horrible moment, they heard Azin yell for them. I can fix this, they thought, but their body refused to move. All they could do was stare in horror at the Sentinel’s face.

His features, for a brief moment, seemed to warp into Axaliz’s.

Siravyn felt their legs buckle from under them, and they collapsed, their eyes still locked on the knight’s face. He was pale, so pale, and yet Siravyn made no move to help him. They couldn’t. They felt as if their limbs were made from stone.

And so, he died, crumpling to the ground under the weight of his mortality.

Azin was at their side then. “Siravyn, Sira, fuck, are you okay?” The scent of gunpowder clung to him, and in that moment, it was oddly comforting.

Two heavy thuds followed Azin’s shouting, and the duo looked up to see Laervik and Deracles throwing the presumably unconscious Sentinels into the street. A long cut ran across Laervik’s forehead, and Deracles had clearly been thrown headfirst into a table, but they appeared to be alright.

Siravyn was now acutely aware of the fact that everyone – Laervik, Deracles, and the bar’s patrons – was staring directly at them and the bloodied, shriveled body of the Night Sentinel. Their staff, which they still held onto, had somehow been pulled from his neck and now lay in a pool of gore beneath his throat.

Azin was holding them now, and he pressed their head against his chest. “Sira, you’re alright. You’re okay. I promise.”

Laervik and Deracles were beside them now. Laervik placed her large, calloused hand on Siravyn’s cheek and wiped a tear away from their bleary features. “Are you alright?” she asked, worry creasing her face.

“I killed him,” Siravyn whispered in disbelief.

“Listen to me, Siravyn. He was trying to kill you. You did the right thing.”

It didn’t feel like they had done the right thing. “I… he… I was just trying to incapacitate him. I didn’t mean to.” Fresh tears stung their tired eyes. “I hit his legs. I didn’t want to kill him. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Laervik said, her voice brokering no argument. Yet Siravyn disagreed. As they glanced down at the corpse on the ground, they felt as if they had everything to be sorry for.

Deracles was calling for the crowd to return to their duties and to let the Order be. Siravyn looked up at Laervik and asked, “Did I ruin everything for us here?”

“What? Of course not!” The warrior looked confused. “Why would you have? These people hate the Sentinels. They saw him trying to kill you. They saw all those Sentinels attack us, for fuck’s sake. If anything, they would consider you a hero.”

A hero. I doubt that.

Siravyn knelt beside the cadaver and stroked his matted black hair away from his face. “May Zurak’s light shine upon you, and may Salra keep your soul safe,” they whispered. Then, they turned to Laervik. “Can… can we bury him?”

“Uh.” Laervik looked over to Azin, who seemed just as baffled.

“We can’t just leave him in the street!” Siravyn’s voice sounded small and weak as they spoke; they felt themselves cower at how feeble they must have been right then. “It’s… it’s the least I can do for him. Since I ended his life…”

Laervik opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. She sighed heavily before speaking. “Okay. We’ll bury him outside of Ullola. Do you, uh… need any special things to bury him?”

“Special things?” Azin questioned.

“Shut the fuck up, you know what I meant!” She regarded Siravyn apologetically. “So, do you?”

“No,” they responded quietly. “Let’s just… let’s just bury him.”

---

Deracles hauled the Sentinel’s body out of the back of the cart and set it on the ground. Before heading for the outskirts of Ullola, Siravyn had purchased a cloth and a shovel for the burial. It wasn’t much – just a cheap piece of white cotton – but it would do for their purposes.

Siravyn had insisted on digging the shallow grave themself. Laervik and Azin leaned awkwardly against the cart, chatting amongst themselves. They didn’t quite understand Siravyn’s dedication to burying the man who’d tried to kill them, but they supported the cleric nonetheless. It made Siravyn feel… warm. Knowing that, in spite of being the weakest member of the Order, they were cared for. Even if they didn’t really deserve it.

As Siravyn tossed a pile of dirt aside, they thought of their sister. Axaliz was their enemy – a loyal Night Sentinel who was a devoted paladin of the Makyrs. Yet Siravyn couldn’t help but think that somehow, some way, if they could just talk to Axaliz… maybe she would switch sides. Join the Order. Be the great hero Siravyn always knew they could, no, would be.

Axaliz was hot-tempered, with a drive for doing the right thing no matter the consequence. Axaliz was the light of everyone’s lives. The other townsfolk definitely knew her as the Laervik type; she was a strong warrior with a heart of gold. At least, on the outside.

Siravyn loved Axaliz, they truly did, but she could be cruel. She didn’t understand how Siravyn’s brain worked, and it was often as if she didn’t even make an attempt to. Yes, they were a crybaby. Yes, they thought with their heart first, not their mind. Yes, they were a daydreamer, a romantic, an idealist – the empty-headed child their father was disappointed in. But they were also Axaliz’s sister. They were supposed to be close.

Axaliz taunted them for their softness. Whenever Siravyn cried, Axaliz didn’t offer words of encouragement. “Are you seriously crying, Vynnie? What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Her voice would rattle inside Siravyn’s head, denying them countless nights of sleep. “Do you ever realize this is why everyone thinks you’re pathetic?”

Pathetic.

A bitter, ugly word that Axaliz weaponized against Siravyn. Graihund had used it too, but it never quite hurt as much as when their sister said it.

The hole was dug, and Siravyn pulled themselves from their thoughts to do the burial ceremony. They turned to Laervik, Azin, and Deracles and nodded to them.

“Ready?” Deracles asked, picking up the body. He carried it to the shallow grave and set it down gently, something Siravyn appreciated. “Would you like any help?” He tilted his head curiously, giving them a concerned look.

“Not right now. Just being here is enough.” Deracles nodded and stepped back to allow Siravyn their space.

The cleric gently laid the dirt back over the Sentinel’s body, then reached into the bag they’d set aside and pulled out a yellow candle. They’d carved his staff into the candle long ago, when before they’d been taken to the Fortress of Graihund. This was one candle they had never burned. They kept it in their belongings, a symbol to keep them safe during their darkest hours. Now, it was time to keep this body safe.

They set the candle in the middle of the grave and, with a flick of their index finger, they lit it. The candle’s flame was beautiful – a radiant orange that bathed the ground around it in a warm glow. Siravyn watched it for a moment before they began to pray.

“Zurak, allow him to dwell in the light of your blessing. Salra, keep safe his soul and guide him into peace. Exalt him. And… give me strength and allow me to find my own peace. Please… show me mercy and grace, Zurak.” They knelt and gazed into the flame. “Please forgive me for what I’ve done, Zurak. And… to the one I killed… forgive me, too.” They leaned forward and blew out the candle, and sat in quietude, listening to the breeze rustle the grass. Siravyn felt a deep sadness settle in their bones as they stood and gazed down at the grave.

“It isn’t your fault,” Laervik said, laying a hand on Siravyn’s shoulder.

Maybe one day I’ll believe that.

For now, Siravyn would take the blame and carry it wherever they went.

Chapter Text

“No… that isn’t right…”

Siravyn scribbled out the form of Salra in their sketchbook and frowned. They tried to ignore the fact that they’d drawn the dead Sentinel’s face on Salra’s.

They hadn’t been able to draw at all in the past 24 hours, which left them feeling empty. Art was Siravyn’s escape from reality, the way they reconnected with themself and Zurak. Now, their safe place was being invaded by their own thoughts. Siravyn flipped to the next page and stared, tapping their pencil against the paper. They began to sketch again – another attempt at Salra – but once again, the grim visage of the dead Sentinel filled the page. Tears threatened to pour down Siravyn’s flushed face as they scratched out the drawing and shut their journal. They set their head in their hands and sighed before running their fingers through their long brunette hair. Breathe, Siravyn. Just breathe. Their breaths were shaky, uncertain, and Siravyn’s lungs themselves felt like they might collapse under the pressure. A dull ache settled in their chest and blossomed out into their ribs. Their jaw tightened and at that moment, Siravyn was sure they were going to faint.

They were so lost in thought they didn’t notice the Order’s leader approaching from behind. “Siravyn.” Laervik sat down across from them, on the other side of the campfire. “I… would like to talk with you. About what happened.” She gave Siravyn what was clearly an attempt at a comforting smile. “How… are you feeling?” Laervik’s eyes darted across Siravyn’s mournful expression and puffy eyes, and she opened her mouth before shutting it again, as if she had thought better of whatever comment she was going to make.

“Um… bad.” That was an understatement.

“And why do you feel this way? Bad?” Laervik had clearly asked Deracles to help her prepare this talk. The thought warmed Siravyn’s heart – Laervik wasn’t a “people person,” but she had made an effort. That was worth everything.

The cleric hugged their journal to their chest, unsure of how they wanted to respond. They didn’t really want to talk about what happened. It was spineless, but Siravyn wanted nothing more than to simply forget about it. Pretend as if it hadn’t happened, and that everything was okay.

However, they knew Laervik wasn’t going to let up. It wasn’t like her to just give in and ignore a problem; she confronted it head on, no matter how much it hurt. “I killed someone,” Siravyn murmured. I looked into his eyes and saw fear. I saw a person with hopes and dreams that I destroyed. And I could have probably healed him, but… I didn’t. Their jaw tightened as they thought of all the things they couldn’t say. I was a coward, and now I’m a murderer.

“Siravyn, can I tell you something?”

“…Yeah.”

“I’ve killed at least 20 people. So if it makes you feel better, I’m 20 times worse than you as a person.”

Siravyn couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped them. It was a ragged and unseemly cackle, but it felt good to finally express themself in a way that wasn’t a panic attack.

“Whaaaat? It’s true!” Laervik huffed. “But you want to know what? I had to do it. They were going to kill me. If I hadn’t taken them out, they would have killed me. And I wouldn’t be here.” Laervik fiddled with a strand of ink-black hair, braiding it as she spoke again. “He would have killed you, Siravyn. They were sent to kill us. Or at the very least, severely injure us. Bring us back to the Colosseum and have us fight demons and other Sentinels to the death.” Her voice was grave. “Trust me when I say that that was one of the worst experiences of my life.”

“Azin said you two met at the Colosseum.”

Laervik nodded. “Yeah, he was brought in on trespassing and robbery crimes. They got him in Taras Nabad. He was trying to steal some ancient tech and scrolls. You know. Typical Azin crimes.”

“And you?” Siravyn felt relieved that Laervik had dropped the dead Sentinel and moved on to talking about her time at the Colosseum.

“Treason,” she said coolly. “For the whole, uh, Novik thing.” Siravyn didn’t answer, hoping Laervik would continue. Sensing this, the warrior began to speak again. “See, I had always known I was a descendant of Novik. I was raised by my mama – his several-greats granddaughter – and she always told me of my heritage. That I was destined for greatness because of it, but only if I kept my mouth shut and didn’t mention it, ever.”

Of course. In spite of everything Novik had given them, the Makyrs had killed him and did their best to scrub him from history.

Laervik seemed to be lost in memory as she stared into the flames, the light dancing in her tawny eyes. The fire cast long shadows over her scarred, muscular arms. Siravyn couldn’t tell which scars were from demons and which were from humans. The leader of the Order was well-known for her fiery temper and prowess in battle, even if that battle was a common street fight.

She laughed then, admiring her own scars. “Believe it or not, most of these are from my childhood. I was a bad kid.”

Siravyn’s lips twitched into a smile. “I could believe it.”

“I was always picking fights with older kids in the neighborhood. There was this one boy – Aeremund, the leader of a local street gang. Well, a street gang for 12-year-old boys, and he was a real fuckin’ dick. Constantly beating the hell outta anyone who he wanted. One day, he decided he wanted to beat the hell outta me.” Laervik grinned, pointing to a scar on her thick bicep. “He only got one lick in on me before I beat his ass. He’s missing his earlobe now.”

“Wow.” The closest thing to a fight Siravyn had been in before joining the Order was getting picked on by their sister.

“I came home covered in blood and my mama was horrified. I’ve always hoped that secretly, she was proud.” Laervik smiled, tucking a lock of raven hair behind her ear. “I didn’t do much to make my mama proud when I was young.”

“Don’t say that…”

“It’s the truth,” Laervik said with a sad shrug. “I was always getting into fights and getting into trouble. Drawing attention to myself. Which, y’know, was the last thing my mama wanted.” She kicked a few pieces of gravel into the fire and frowned. “She was happy when I met Deracles. He kept me in line… well, just a little bit. I was still wild.”

Siravyn thought of gentle, kind Deracles, and nodded. “He’s good at that, huh?”

“With me, not so much.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone could tell you what to do, Laervik. It was your idea to go up against the Makyrs, the beings that’ve ruled this world for centuries. I wish I was half as brave as you are.”

“You’re brave too, Siravyn.”

“Come again?”

“Not just anyone would’ve come along with me to fight the Makyrs, you know. You’re a badass in your own right.”

Siravyn felt a wave of guilt wash over them. They hadn’t joined the Order for the express purpose of fighting the Makyrs. They had joined because Laervik rescued them from Graihund, and they owed her everything. “I…”

“Don’t say anything. Listen to me,” the warrior asserted, leaning forward, the flames casting deep shadows on her face. “You could have ran away. You could have left us. But you didn’t. And you haven’t, and you won’t. You fight demons and you kick ass doing it. You have survived the worst this world has to offer. I think that makes you the bravest person I know.”

Siravyn blinked, unsure of what to say other than a meek “thank you.” Their throat felt tight. They didn’t deserve Laervik’s praise.

The two were silent for a moment before Laervik broke the quiet. “We’ll be coming up on Exultia soon.”

“Are you excited?”

“And terrified, yeah.” Laervik sighed and crossed her arms. “They say his ghost haunts it. What if that’s true?” She sat quietly, staring into the fire thoughtfully. “Can I tell you something, Siravyn?”

“Of course.”

“I’m so fuckin’ scared that Novik’s ghost actually haunts Exultia, and that I’ll meet him, and that he’ll be disappointed in me.” Laervik glanced up at the full moon, casting blood light over the landscape. “I get the feeling that somehow, I’m not enough, and that in spite of everything I’ve done, I’ll never be able to escape his shadow. What little shadow there is, anyway.” Her voice wasn’t bitter; rather, it was laced with sorrow and a genuine sense of inferiority.

“Laervik, it’s not important that you escape Novik’s shadow. It’s that you carve out your own mark on this world.” Siravyn gave her an earnest smile. “I think you’ve already done that. You’ve done so much good for this world, freeing towns and killing Priests. And you’ve got so much more to do, especially when we defeat the Makyrs and you become Queen.” If only I was this encouraging to myself…

“I hope so.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, and it was the first time Siravyn had ever seen the soldier look so small. “I let my mama down. I can’t let Novik down. Hell, more than that, I can’t let you three down. I can’t let this world down.”

“I don’t think you ever let your mother down,” said a familiar, honey-like voice. Deracles had hopped out of the back of the cart and was rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Nice of you to join us.” Laervik adjusted herself, stretching her legs and scratching the back of her thick neck. “Were you listening the entire time?”

“I just woke up. I wasn’t eavesdropping, and even if I was, I knew all this already.” Deracles shook his head and tried to pop his neck; Siravyn watched as his long umber dreads caught the low light. “But trust me when I say: your mother was never disappointed in you.”

“How do you know that?”

“I grew up with her, dumbass,” he chuckled, moving to sit beside Laervik and elbowing her in the ribs. “She loved you. And she was proud of you.”

Laervik looked into her hands and sighed heavily. “I hope you’re right.”

“Do you remember all the times she would stroke your hair after scolding you for getting into a fight? How softly she looked at you? How she commented on your fighting spirit?” Deracles leaned into his childhood friend and touched his head to hers. “I think that speaks volumes, Laer.”

“I forgot how often she yelled at me in front of you.”

Deracles’s laugh was rich and warm. “To be fair, she scolded me too.”

“But only because I dragged you into my bullshit.”

“There was no place I’d have rather been.”

Laervik laughed, a low, sincere chuckle that warmed Siravyn’s soul. “This is why you’re a wanted man, Deracles.”

“He’s not the only wanted man!” Azin was awake now, poking his head out of the back of the cart. His long butterscotch hair, taken out of its usual low ponytail, hung in his face. He yawned and clambered out of the card, taking a seat at Siravyn’s right. “I’m also very wanted, you know. For many crimes.”

“Yes, Azin, we know you’re an outlaw,” Siravyn teased. “You never fail to remind us, lest we forget.”

“Anyway! We’re having deep heart-to-hearts under the cherry moon? I want in!”

Laervik let out an exasperated but loving sigh. “Come on then. Lay it on us.”

“My parents hate me, if it’s any consolation to you all. I ran away from home because I was a ‘problem child’ who asked too many questions. So I get it.” Azin combed his fingers through his dirty blond hair, pushing it back and watching it fall back in front of his slate blue eyes. “Now, are we all sharing our trauma? Or is it just me being examined tonight?”

“I’ve already shared mine,” Laervik said, crossing her ankles and quirking an eyebrow at the artificer. “Deracles? Siravyn? Don’t be shy, according to Azin we’re all in for it.”

Siravyn swallowed hard. They were not in the mood to share their trauma. As much as they loved and trusted their friends, they didn’t want to dredge up painful memories and explain their feelings. They already thought of their time at Graihund’s castle far too frequently for comfort.

Luckily, mercifully, Deracles put a stop to it. “I think it’s a bit late for analyzing our psychic damage. Let’s just enjoy a nice night together, okay?”

Azin pouted, but relented, and Laervik began to talk about one of her most daring escapades as a child. Deracles and Siravyn listened politely. The cleric opened their sketchbook back up and felt their heart drop at the dead Sentinel’s profile in their journal. They stared into his solemn eyes, then flipped to the next page. This time, Siravyn sketched him willfully, let him speak to them through the page. Instead, however, they found themself drawing their father. He glared at them coldly. A shiver ran down Siravyn’s spine but they forced themself to look at him.

You’re a coward, Siravyn. And you’re a murderer. What would I think of you?

Bitterness swirled in their heart. You are far worse than I am. I will never, ever be like you. I hope.

Chapter Text

“Exultia, up ahead!”

Azin put away his spyglass and pointed triumphantly over the thick woods from. He stood proudly on a large, jagged rock, overlooking a cliff. The artificer went to hop off, and both Siravyn and Deracles offered him a helping hand. He shook his long, shaggy blond hair and grinned. “I told you it would come in handy,” he said gleefully.

“We never doubted you for a second, Azin.” Siravyn leaned against him, laying their head on his shoulder for a moment. They shifted their backpack straps slightly; they missed Xea already. The Order had to leave her in Jaerix, as the dense forest and angular terrain would have been too much for her. The horse had seemed almost sad that the group was leaving, but Siravyn had left her with a light ward and a promise that the group would return.

Siravyn glanced behind them, noticing Laervik’s heavy sigh. As the group had hiked closer to Exultia, Laervik had become more and more agitated. Not even Deracles could calm her down.

“The only way towards the castle is down,” Deracles noted, kicking a rock aside. “There’s an easier path a few hundred meters away, so we won’t have to use our ropes.”

“So let’s fuckin’ do it.” Laervik trudged past him, her heavy boots sinking into the mud. Her armor, co-opted from old Sentinel training armor, was covered in scratches and chipped paint. Her thick, muscular arms were exposed to the elements, which both Deracles and Siravyn disapproved of; there were so many times in battle the duo had feared Laervik had lost an arm due to the lack of protection. Regardless of their worries, Laervik insisted that revealing her muscles to the world was the Sentinel way and couldn’t be changed.

Deracles, in his leather armor vest and thick pants, followed. When they had first met him, Deracles still wore the armor of the Night Sentinels. He always seemed so awkward and unsure of himself when he was wearing it – once he’d discarded it in favor of “normal” adventuring clothes, he was much more relaxed. From what Siravyn understood, Deracles had grown up in a military family. He was adopted as a baby and raised to become a proud Sentinel. Evidently, he had other plans.

And then there was Azin, who was currently putting his hair back into a messy low ponytail. He wore a heavy coat and quilted vest, even in the Argenta summer. His bracers, made of leather, had clearly seen better days, and his boots were scuffed and – if Siravyn had remembered correctly – had holes on the soles. Azin was the type who contended that if something wasn’t completely destroyed, it still had some worth. It was typical of an artificer to think that way.

Siravyn glanced down at their own clothing: a simple leather vest, fingerless gloves, black pants, and black boots. A cerulean tasset hung from their belt, and their sapphire scarf, tattered at the ends, fluttered behind them. These were newer clothes, a luxury Siravyn had not been able to afford after being rescued. The Order had pooled their meager earnings together to purchase Siravyn armor. It was an act of love that Siravyn would never forget.

“You’re safe now.” Laervik’s words rung in their ears. Her hand was outstretched to them; she was covered in viscera, and her long dark hair was matted with blood. “C’mon. I’ve got you.”

Siravyn took her hand, clambering to their feet from the dirty floor. The rest was history.

That night, they walked out of Graihund’s castle and left their nightmare behind. Laervik, Deracles, and Azin took them to their campsite and fed them, though the Order’s own rations had begun to run low. Before Siravyn had joined them, the Order had been struggling to get mayors and other officials to trust them and had almost nothing.

Siravyn supposed that living in Graihund’s castle had given them one important skill – diplomacy. Being sickeningly polite, disgustingly sweet, was the easiest way to convince officials to trust the Order. Small, quiet, cordial Siravyn could weasel their way into any mayor’s mind and persuade them to help the order. When you lived in fear, you quickly learned how to alleviate your suffering through any means necessary.

They looked down the rock face after the others, a bit unsure of themself. Deracles extended his arms to them with a gentle smile. “It’s alright. I’ve got you,” he said, stepping forward. “It’s not as hard as it looks, I promise. You just need to lean against the rock some and step diagonally, if that makes sense.”

I’ve got you. Siravyn smiled to themself at that and stepped onto the rock face, placing one hand on the dusty surface and slowly shuffling down. Deracles and Azin both offered their hands, and Siravyn gladly took them as they scooted down the rock. As soon as they hit the bottom and looked up, however, the dead Sentinel’s face flashed before their eyes, and they flinched, staggering backward.

“Sira?” Azin gripped their wrist tight as he spoke. “What the fuck? Are you okay?”

“I… Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.” They shook their head to banish the Sentinel’s ghastly visage. “I’ll be alright. I promise.”

A wolf howled, echoing through the trees, and Siravyn shivered. It was a byproduct of being raised in the valley; wolves killed livestock and the occasional traveler. Farmers would often come into the apothecary shop looking for medicine to heal their ailing cattle and sheep after wolf attacks, but usually, it was too late. The death of livestock always made Siravyn feel a pang in their heart, but they tried to shove it away. Dezir, god of the wild, decreed it so that wolves hunted what the wanted. He had made it so they were sharp-fanged and clever creatures, and if they killed farm animals, so be it, Siravyn supposed. Still, it made them a bit sad – though they knew Dezir would forgive them for their soft heart.

The worst part was when a traveler’s body was found. Siravyn’s father and the other Sentinels would try to find any identifiers on the body and send word to the person’s family. Usually, though, there were no papers or family crests, and the anonymous traveler would be buried in the local cemetery with a headstone made by the stoneworker Amphisa. The grave marker always said the same thing: “Rest now, wanderer.”

Siravyn would sometimes walk by the cemetery on their way home and, on more than one occasion, wandered in and looked around. They would sit under the large willow tree in the center of the cemetery and sketch, feeling peaceful among the silent and sleeping. Zurak’s divine light filtered through the branches and dappled their journal pages. It was a small reprieve from the days of Axaliz and their father’s constant needling comments and the day-to-day frustration of the villagers and apothecary work.

Siravyn wondered how many travelers had died in these woods but hadn’t gotten a proper burial.

“So, Laervik…” Azin’s voice snapped Siravyn from their reverie. Based on his tone, Siravyn knew he was about to ask for something.

Laervik sensed this too. “Yes?” She glanced behind her, an eyebrow quirked.

“So, I know you said there was a lot of ancient tech and scrolls in Exultia…”

“Spit it out, Azin.”

“Can I please take some?”

“I thought I told you that you could.”

“Well!” Azin huffed, crossing his arms. “I figured I should ask again, just in case.”

“It is your legacy, after all, Laervik.” Deracles placed a hand on the warrior’s back. “Exultia is one of the most important sites in pre-Makyr Argenta history. And if it’s true that Novik haunts it…”

“What if Novik tells me I can’t take anything?” Azin fretted.

“Well, he’s dead. What’s he gonna do about it? Stab you?”

Siravyn couldn’t suppress a laugh. It was just like Laervik to be so snarky with Azin’s questions. The artificer and the warrior’s banter was often the highlight of Siravyn’s day.

Admittedly, Siravyn sometimes felt like they didn’t quite belong to the group. Laervik, Azin, and Deracles had a rich history together; Siravyn was the last to join them. Sometimes the other three made inside jokes that Siravyn knew they would never understand. As much as they hated to admit it, it hurt. They felt so childish for their jealousy.

All their life, Siravyn had been excluded – by their peers, their sister, their parents. And in a way, they felt excluded by the Order. It was silly and immature, and Siravyn knew it. They despised themself for it. Every night they felt that familiar knife twist in their heart, they prayed to Zurak for his forgiveness. Then, they prayed for their friends’ forgiveness.

“Siravyn, you might find something interesting at Exultia,” Deracles noted. “Azin knows the history better than I do, of course – but if I’m remembering correctly, it was built long before the Makyrs arrived.”

“Correct!” Azin’s cheerful voice sounded from Siravyn’s left.

“Oh great, another history lesson,” Laervik muttered.

Azin scowled briefly before returning to his excited chatter, swinging his backpack around to his front and pulling a hefty tome from it. He flipped to a dog-eared page and began to explain its contents. “Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted… Exultia was one of the first Sentinel strongholds built. Much of its architecture is dedicated to Marzil, goddess of war, since, y’know, the Sentinel way is violence. A few other statues are devoted to the other Wraiths – there’s an entire hall for them – but Marzil is the main one. There was a library and halls for soldiers and clergy. Some even say there was a dungeon!” He waggled his eyebrows at that, to which Laervik rolled her eyes.

“A dungeon,” Deracles mused, stroking his chin. “It’s not like the Old Sentinels to take prisoners. It must have been added once the Makyrs arrived.”

“They poison everything they touch.” Laervik crushed a branch underfoot, her jaw clenched and her eyes burning with that all-too-familiar rage. “The Makyrs destroyed what was once such a beautiful world. They slaughtered the Wraiths, and with them, this world died.”

“It’s still beautiful,” Siravyn protested. The Order’s leader gave them a curious look, and the cleric felt the weight of explanation on their shoulders. “Th-the Wraiths aren’t dead. I know it. They might not be on Argent D’nur, but… I feel them here. Zurak is in the sunlight and every candle flame, reminding me that the darkness won’t last forever. Jira and Ayrdan are in every history book and their love for knowledge shines through Azin. I see Marzil’s righteous fervor yet merciful hand in you and Deracles. Olfyn is in the flowers and the cries of babies, and she sanctifies every marriage. Dezir’s pure ferocity is all around us, in nature and in Sentinel beasts. And Salra blesses the graveyards and the grieving with her grace.” They took a deep but shaky breath. “The Makyrs may have tried to destroy this world, but they didn’t succeed. As long as there’s beauty and love in this world, they will never succeed.”

The others were silent for a moment, stopping in their tracks, and Siravyn feared they appeared foolish in front of their dearest friends. They felt tears threatening to spill down their flushed face. “I’ve suffered a lot. We all have. But… if we have each other, if we love each other, we can keep fighting, and the Makyrs won’t win.”

“Siravyn,” Deracles said softly, stepping forward to pull them into his embrace.

“I love you all so much,” Siravyn sniffled. They wrapped their arms around him and hugged him flush against their body. They then felt Azin and Laervik behind them, their arms surrounding Siravyn in warmth. “I… I know I’m not that strong. I know that I’m not good at fighting, but I hope that somehow, someway… I can make up everything you three have ever given to me.”

“You don’t owe us anything, Sira,” Azin murmured; Siravyn was acutely aware that his warm breath was on their ear as he spoke.

Laervik turned the cleric and gazed into Siravyn’s bleary face. “Listen to me, Siravyn. Like Azin said, you don’t owe us a fuckin’ thing. You give so much to us, and honestly, I think that I speak for everyone when I say we owe you. I don’t expect you to believe this overnight, but… you are useful. You are worthy. And we love you.” When Siravyn sniffed, Laervik tucked a strand of their chestnut hair behind their ear and gave them a smile. “If you need an official decree, I can give it to you, as the leader of the Order.”

“Give us the decree, Laer,” Deracles teased.

“Yeah! Give us the fuckin’ decree! Uh, if Sira wants it.” Azin blushed as he added the last bit, embarrassed by how he had been lost in excitement.

“Sure,” the cleric murmured, wiping their tears away with a gloved hand.

“Alright, alright! Kneel, will ya?” Siravyn complied, and Laervik gestured as if she was holding a sword. “Siravyn of Illkana, in service to Lady Laervik of Illkana, descendant of his Majesty King Novik, future queen of the Argenta, you are worthy.” She mimed touching Siravyn’s shoulders with a sword. “You owe her Majesty nothing, nor do you owe anything to Sir Azin of Illkana or Sir Deracles of Illkana. Now rise.”

Siravyn giggled as they stood, a warm feeling flooding their chest as the others hugged them again. “There! How was that?” Laervik asked, ruffling Siravyn’s hair.

“Wonderful, thank you.” Siravyn’s voice was muffled by their face being smushed into Deracles’s chest. When they pulled back, the others were beaming at them. Laervik mimicked putting her imaginary sword away then spoke.

“Onward to Exultia?”

“Onward to Exultia.”

Chapter Text

“So this is Exultia.” Azin lowered his map and squinted at the castle before the Order. Dark grey clouds hung low overhead, and the air was chilly and thick. Siravyn pulled their scarf tighter around them, wishing they had a heavy coat like the artificer. They glanced over at the comparatively scantily-clad Laervik in her sleeveless armor; she was clearly shivering, but trying to hide it.

It was oddly quiet in Exultia. Siravyn realized that they hadn’t heard a birdsong or wolf cry ever since they had crossed the outer wall of the castle. What’s more, there were no demons in the area. Exultia lay near the border of Hell, so the silence was deeply unsettling. “Where are the demons?”

Laervik stopped in her tracks and surveyed the area. “There aren’t any.” A strange mix of confusion and fear played across her features as she spoke. In some ways, the absence of demons was more frightening than the presence of them.

“Maybe all the demons migrated west, where we were killing them?” Azin pointed to the forest behind the Order. “I mean, we did kill a whole fuck ton of them. Maybe they got scared or something, and retreated.”

“Demons don’t run from us,” Deracles said coolly. “Something else drove them from here.” He knelt down and touched the ground, his fingers barely grazing the stone. Like Laervik, Deracles seemed… nervous? Siravyn felt dread creep into their heart. If Laervik and Deracles were anxious, then they had every reason to be afraid.

“Keep an eye out, but let’s move forward.” The Order’s leader offered Deracles a hand and helped him to his feet. She turned and walked off, obviously tense.

Siravyn studied their surroundings carefully. The ancient castle had clearly seen better days. Dilapidated walls had fallen to the ground, and ivy clung to the remaining barricades. Skeletons lay crushed under partitions, their weapons stolen by wild animals or demons. The remains of a Sentinel flag flew above Exultia, just barely flying in the slow breeze. This place is a graveyard, they thought, carefully stepping over what they mused was a femur.

Deracles paused in his tracks and gestured to a massive statue. “Who’s that?”

The statue was of a man in armor unlike anything Siravyn had ever seen. It had what they thought were ridges and buttons all over it, and was shaped more like training armor than official Sentinel garb. The helmet was bulky with a window over the eyes. Its arms were exposed, like most of the old Sentinel armor, and Siravyn instantly thought of Laervik’s outfit as they analyzed it from afar. The statue stood proud by the wall, casting a long shadow over the courtyard.

Siravyn glanced over at Laervik, who nodded, so they stepped toward the statue to examine it closer. Azin followed closely behind and the two crept over to statue. Despite there being no demons – or maybe because there were no demons – even the normally chatty Azin was strangely quiet.

They reached the statue, and Siravyn felt serene in its presence, in spite of the hauntingly thick air surrounding them. The cleric brushed aside dirt and leaves from the plaque, and leaned down, squinting at the words on it – someone had apparently tried to scrape them away, to no avail. “The Outlander,” Siravyn breathed softly, tracing the words on the plaque with a finger, the name sitting on their tongue like a stone. They had the feeling that they should know this person.

“Is this… Is this even a Sentinel?” Laervik had arrived behind Azin, who pulled another book from his bag and flipped a few pages.

“The Outlander. The Forbidden One.” Azin showed the page he’d found to Laervik and Siravyn. He then took the book back and frowned. “No information on him, of fuckin’ course.”

“That’s why they call him the Forbidden One, dumbass.” Despite Laervik’s tired chuckle, it was evident she was exhausted as she turned on her heel and trudged away, her weariness apparent in her slumped shoulders. Siravyn felt a pang in their chest. Ever since they had crossed the threshold of Exultia, Laervik had become more and more agitated. If the rumors were true, and Novik did haunt this place, she would be facing the ancestor who had been slaughtered by the Makyrs themselves. This would be quite the homecoming.

Deracles, who had been waiting patiently about twenty yards away, gave Laervik a tired smile and patted her shoulder. Where words failed, Deracles prevailed, in his quiet, soothing strength.

The quartet made their way to the once-great entrance of the castle and paused; Deracles, Azin, and Siravyn looked expectantly at Laervik, who was staring dead ahead. The Order’s leader then took a deep breath and began her trek into the castle, and the other three members followed her in. No turning back now.

Statues of the Wraiths adorned the walls, as well as beautiful tapestries depicting the Makyrs’ arrival on Argent D’nur. Siravyn felt a pit in their stomach at the sight of the Khan Makyr presiding over a crowd of Sentinels. How had a group devoted to the revering the Wraiths turned on them so easily? What had the Khan Makyr promised this world to earn their trust and convert them?

They paused to examine an engraving of Zurak. The sun sat behind his head like a crown, and he pointed his staff down towards the map of Argent D’nur, a serene expression on his face. Siravyn touched the engraving, hoping to feel his warmth, but there was only the chill of stone. It was as if Zurak’s light could not penetrate this forsaken place.

As the Order trudged onward, Siravyn swore they could hear soft whispers emanating from deep within the castle. This place had a menacing energy to it, and they glanced over at the stone-faced Laervik. Her jaw was tight, and her eyes were set straight ahead, staring into the imposing darkness. Siravyn summoned a small light to float above the Order as they stepped into the dark central chamber.

At first, there was no light save for Siravyn’s spell. The entire throne room was silent except for the Order’s breathing. Truth be told, it didn’t seem like Laervik was breathing at all; she was completely still, her fists clenched at her sides. She wasn’t even blinking. Deracles nudged her with his elbow in a comforting gesture, but she didn’t respond. Her gaze was squarely on the throne her ancestor had once sat upon.

A strange blue mist swirled around the empty throne, and the Order instinctively went to draw their weapons before realizing how silly that was. Not that we could fight a ghost anyway, Siravyn thought, holding their staff across their chest.

The spectral form of King Novik appeared in his throne, and the quartet knelt in respect. Laervik was shaking, Siravyn noticed, as the former king of the Argenta leaned forward in his seat and eyed the Order suspiciously. The cleric caught his cold gaze and quickly looked away. They didn’t deserve to even be in his presence, much less look at him. They didn’t deserve to kneel here with their brave comrades, who had already done so much to protect and save this world. It appeared Novik sensed this, as he huffed before glaring directly at Laervik.

“You,” he said languidly, his deep voice booming from all sides. “You defy the covenant set forth by our ancestors and the Khan Makyr.” It wasn’t a question.

Laervik’s head shot up, and she stared at him in disbelief. “I mean… yes?”

“You have killed several of our priests. They are of Sentinel blood, and therefore, you have committed grave transgressions against our people.”

King Novik’s voice brokered no argument, but Laervik couldn’t stop her retort. “Excuse me? They’ve been ordering the deaths of our people! They’re the ones committing these so-called ‘transgressions!’” Her brows were knit together with rage, and Siravyn saw familiar sparks of wrath in her eyes. “They’re connected to the kidnappings of children!” Laervik’s body shook with indignation, but she remained kneeling – for now.

“They are of Sentinel blood,” Novik repeated, and Siravyn’s mouth went dry. How could he defend them like this? Just because of their blood? “You are interfering with the covenant, Laervik. Do you seek to destroy it?”

“You and I both know the answer to that.” Siravyn had never heard Laervik speak so coldly before. She glowered at Novik. “What fucking ‘covenant?’ The Makyrs made empty promises. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no covenant.”

“It is our people’s time to give penance.”

“Penance?!” Laervik was on her feet then, screaming at Novik as she stormed forward. “There is no penance without mercy! The Makyrs haven’t shown us mercy!” She pointed behind her as she shrieked into her ancestor’s face. “You think that what’s going on out there is okay? Merciful? It’s acceptable because we need to give penance? Do you think that if we just ‘gave penance’ the Makyrs would stop killing us and stealing our children?!”

“That is not our choice to make.”

“Choice?” Deracles echoed in horror. He stood at Laervik’s side and spoke directly to Novik. “King Novik, with all due respect” – his words were like pure venom – “I was a Night Sentinel, and you know what happened?” His voice quivered as he continued. “They slaughtered my family. Sacrificed them in the name of ‘penance.’ This was the family that had adopted me after my birth family was also killed. So forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that the Makyrs are merciful gods.” Hot tears streamed down Deracles’s face. Deracles had not cried in front of the others before; he was the pinnacle of stoicism and strength. To see him breaking down shattered Siravyn’s heart. They immediately stood and raced to his side, with Azin following behind them. Laervik stepped closer to Deracles, but still in front of him, defending him from Novik.

Siravyn wanted so badly to speak up, but their tongue felt like stone. It was Graihund, a devotee of the Makyrs, who had raped and abused them for two years. It was their father, a Sentinel, who had sold them to him. It was the Makyrs who hadn’t answered their prayers; it was the Makyrs who allowed it to happen in the first place. Fury bubbled in Siravyn’s chest, and they felt tears stinging their eyes. Painful memories crept to the edges of their mind and whispered cruel taunts. They sniffled, and Azin pulled them closer, wrapping an arm around their shoulder.

“The Makyrs have done nothing but torment the people of this world. They’ve made my friends suffer,” Laervik growled. “Every day, I meet another person who’s been wronged by them. They are what’s wrong with this world.”

“They breathed life into this world!”

“No, they didn’t! They took a world that was vibrant and beautiful and twisted it for their own selfish reasons! What part of that don’t you fucking understand? Are you that far up your own ass?” Siravyn couldn’t believe how Laervik’s demeanor had shifted from respectful of the man she’d dreamed of meeting to unrelentingly furious. “I don’t give a damn that the Makyrs ‘saved’ this world. The fact is, they’ve caused so much misery, and I won’t stand for it.” Laervik straightened up to her full six-foot-one height and stared down at the former king. “If that means I must battle every Makyr and every Sentinel, then so be it. I will never stop fighting.”

Novik was now standing as well, his angry face next to Laervik’s. “You are a disgrace to the legacy of the Night Sentinels.”

“Then I’ll be a fucking disgrace. I’d rather be a disgrace than a coward.” She stepped back and drew her axe, pointing it at King Novik’s geist. “I will not be the ruler who gave their people up to the will of the Makyrs. I refuse to be the ruler who turns a blind eye to the suffering of this world.” She paused, drawing a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking again. “My mother was always telling me she hoped I would grow up to be like you. Now that I’ve met you, I pray that I never am.” With that, Laervik whirled on her heel and stormed out, the Order following her as King Novik cursed their quest. Siravyn glanced behind them one last time, but his ghost had disappeared as quickly as he had come.

As soon as they were back under the cloudy sky, Laervik collapsed to the ground, sobs wracking her body. She screamed at the sky and beat her fists against the stone. “Fuck!” she wailed, her tears staining her flushed cheeks. “Fuck. Fuck! Goddamn it!”

Siravyn knelt at Laervik’s side and pulled her into a hug. Laervik was still for a moment before embracing Siravyn back and sobbing into their shoulder. They stroked her now-tangled black hair as she wept. “Shh. Shh. It’s okay,” the cleric murmured, knowing that was a lie.

“Meeting him was all I wanted,” Laervik whispered. “I thought… I thought he was a hero.”

Deracles was also at Laervik’s side, rubbing her back. “I know, Laer. I know. It fucking sucks.” He sighed heavily. “But you’re nothing like him.”

Azin piped up, which surprised Siravyn – he usually didn’t involve himself in emotional matters. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks – he’s a fuckin’ coward and history will remember him that way.” He tapped his satchel full of books. “Trust me, no one’s gonna know him as anything but a pussy.”

Deracles mumbled a soft what the hell and frowned at Azin’s crude language; the artificer shrugged, and Laervik couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re always so eloquent, Azin.”

“Oh, I know!”

“Speaking of eloquent, you were amazing, Laervik,” Siravyn said, brushing the warrior’s messy hair from her bleary face. “That speech was inspiring! Did you see his face?”

“He was pissed. It was fuckin’ awesome.” Azin grinned from ear to ear, squatting beside the others and flicking Laervik’s nose. “You’re so good at making people angry.”

“That is your strong suit,” Deracles teased.

The Order was silent for a moment, allowing Laervik to collect herself. She stood with Deracles’s assistance, then glared over her broad shoulder at the castle. “So what now?” Siravyn asked, glancing at the men, then back at Laervik.

The warrior sniffled. “Well… I guess we’ll move further past Exultia, and make camp. We’ll have to move into Hell tomorrow. We’ll need all the rest we can get.”

Siravyn felt a dark weight settle in their chest at the sight of Laervik’s sorrowful eyes. That familiar fire was gone, replaced by agony. If Siravyn could have taken it from her, they would have. She deserved better.

Memories of Graihund’s abuse swirled at the dark edges of Siravyn’s thoughts, but they pushed them away in favor of helping Azin to his feet. Those memories would surely haunt them when they tried to sleep tonight, but Siravyn could deal with those on their own. Right now, Laervik’s world had been shaken to its core, and she needed her friends’ support more than ever.

Zurak, please, watch over Laervik. She needs your light. Siravyn paused, then added onto their prayer. Watch over Azin and Deracles too. And I know I don’t deserve it but… watch over me. Please.

Chapter Text

The journey into Hell was unnervingly quiet.

Sure, the Order had slain a few Imps – and Laervik had slaughtered another Archvile with a clean blow, sundering its head from its body – but other than the occasional disturbance, the landscape was totally dead. Siravyn felt a deep sense of dread coursing through their veins as they and the others made their way into Hell.

Laervik was trying to remain positive after the Order’s encounter with Novik, but Siravyn could tell that the former king’s words weighed heavily on her mind. She walked with slumped, tired shoulders, and she wasn’t as talkative as usual. Not even Deracles’s comforting words or Azin’s chaotic nature could improve her dour mood. Siravyn felt hopeless in helping Laervik too. Their own soul was still in turmoil after Novik’s defense of the Priests and the Makyrs. Graihund’s voice haunted their thoughts, like dissonant whispers in the dark. Sometimes, they swore they could feel his fingers on their skin, and they had barely slept at all, as their captor’s words swirled like shadows in their mind.

“Stop,” Laervik ordered, putting her hand out to keep Azin from moving forward. “There.”

A massive metal juggernaut stretched up from the earth, its bowels exposed to the heavy air. Several smaller mechs surrounded it. Azin took out his binoculars and squinted through them, humming as he examined the landscape. “There’s a big ass hole there, beside the big ass mech.” He pointed out over the horizon as he lowered the binoculars. “Might be some light from down in the hole, but it’s hard as fuck to see.”

“Your language is colorful as always,” Deracles murmured, quirking an eyebrow.

“Anyways, let’s go check out that hole.”

“I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve said that.” Laervik laughed a little at her own joke, even as Deracles sighed exasperatedly. Her tawny eyes still betrayed her deep sense of sorrow, but Siravyn was all too happy to see Laervik smile, even if only for a moment. “But yeah. I think Azin’s on to somethin’. So let’s get our asses over to that juggernaut and investigate, yeah?”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Siravyn murmured; much to their relief, no one had heard them except for Deracles, who nodded in agreement. Regardless, they followed after the others, praying to Zurak as they stepped off the ledge and into the canyon below.

As they drew closer to the juggernaut, Siravyn’s mind began to swirl. If the Betrayer was still alive, as Drasten had said, how would he react to them? Would he even want to help them? Was he still Argenta at heart, or had he cast aside that part of himself when he cast himself into exile? Siravyn began to think of things to say to him, crafting a speech to get him on their side – or, at the very least, convince him to listen. I know you’re a good man. In spite of everything… I believe in you.

Finally, the Order reached the entrance of the mech. Azin had been right – there was light emanating from deep inside. Dread crept up the cleric’s spine. They glanced at Laervik, who had paused to take in her surroundings. Siravyn couldn’t totally discern the look in her eyes, but they had the feeling there was a quiet fury simmering beneath the surface.

“Are you okay?” they asked, stepping up beside Laervik and nudging her with their shoulder. Their five-foot-tall frame only came up to approximately Laervik’s shoulder, so when they bumped her, they bumped into her side. The Order’s leader stood at six feet tall, yet in her current state, Siravyn could tell that she was feeling rather small.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied curtly. “Let’s just… get this the fuck over with.”

Thus the Order followed Laervik into the juggernaut, uncertain of what – or, more accurately, who – would be waiting for them inside.

Metal creaked and groaned on all sides of the group, and the wind howled like a Sentinel beast. Cool air choked Siravyn’s lungs, and they coughed hard. As darkness closed in on the Order, Siravyn flicked their fingers, and a small light hovered over the group. They couldn’t suppress their smile. Even in Hell, Zurak’s blessings held.

Finally, Laervik, Siravyn, Azin, and Deracles made their way to the great iron ribcage of the juggernaut. A campfire burned at its heart, and beside the campfire was the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man. He turned to face them, then jerked slightly in shock. The man stood then, and Siravyn was taken aback by his height – he was six-and-a-half-feet tall, easily. The fire bounced off his Sentinel armor and illuminated his silver mohawk. “Who goes there?” His voice boomed across the empty space.

An icy silence filled the juggernaut before the Order’s leader spoke. “I am Laervik, descendant of King Novik, leader of the Order of Night,” she said. Her normally steady voice quivered, and Siravyn noticed how jerky and unnatural her gestures were. “We’re here on… business.”

The Betrayer stared at them, then turned and sat back down at the campfire without a word.

Laervik grunted in annoyance and began to cross the vast expanse. “Wait!” Deracles yelled after her; when she didn’t stop, he huffed and lightly jogged after her.

Azin groaned. “Damn it.” He glanced at Siravyn with a shrug. “Might as well follow ‘em, yeah? Don’t wanna miss out on the drama.” He winked, though Siravyn could tell that he, too, was anxious. The two set off after their comrades in trepidation.

“Hey, dipshit!” Laervik screamed as she stalked toward the Betrayer. When he didn’t respond, Laervik’s posture straightened with rage. “You fucking dick! Hey! Listen to me!” Her voice, in spite of its volume, quivered with wrath. It sounded as if she were about to burst into tears.

Deracles, Siravyn, and Azin caught up to Laervik, who had slowed to a walk. Her braids, normally neatly laid over her shoulders and down her chest, were messy and her long brown hair was in desperate need of brushing. Deep frown lines cut through her typically youthful face, and her tawny eyes were filled with anguish. Tears glimmered on her thick lashes.

The Betrayer refused to acknowledge Laervik’s insults. His jaw and shoulders were tight as Laervik placed a comparatively small hand on his trapezius. When he didn’t respond, she yanked her hand away and balled up her fists. Deracles looked questioningly at the Order’s leader, but said nothing.

“Listen to us,” she pleaded, softly – like a child begging their parent for one small shred of mercy. Yet the Betrayer did not move.

With that, Laervik drew her axe and attempted to slam it down – beside the man or in his back, Siravyn couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The Betrayer had whipped around and grabbed the belly of the axe, stopping it in its tracks. Laervik’s muscular arms trembled as she pushed on the handle of her battle axe. She and the Betrayer were locked in an icy stare as Deracles, Azin, and Siravyn looked on in both awe and terror.

Siravyn watched as tears began to spill from Laervik’s amber eyes. Her face was flushed with anger, and sweat beaded her forehead. “How dare you,” she whispered.

“How dare I? How dare you,” the Betrayer corrected, and Laervik snarled, ripping her axe away and trying to lodge it in the man’s chest. The former commander drew his own axe and blocked her blow with the belly of the weapon.

“Fuck you!” Laervik screamed, attempting to hit him again, only to be blocked again. “Fuck you! And fuck everyone like you! Treating me like I’m nothing! Like I’m no one!” She smashed her axe’s head into the ground before swinging it wildly at the Betrayer. “I am not worthless! You will listen to me! Or I will fucking make you!” Her voice quaked as she ranted.

Deracles moved to intercept Laervik, as he normally did when she was overtaken by rage, but Siravyn stopped him with a hand on his chest. They pointed the tip of their staff at Laervik and cast a minor paralysis spell. A beam of cold light left the spear and landed in the warrior’s chest, freezing her in her tracks. Frustrated tears poured down her cheeks as Laervik was immobilized and collapsed to the ground onto her knees. Deracles raced to her right side, cradling her head against his shoulder as she sobbed in indignation. Azin joined him on her left and rested a hand on her shoulder. Laervik stared at Siravyn, her eyes giving away her lost faith in the cleric. They straightened their posture but averted their gaze.

The Betrayer looked down at Laervik coolly, then sat back down at his campfire. “Leave.”

Siravyn glanced over at Deracles and Azin. “Look after Laervik. I’ll take care of this.”

They tiptoed over to the Betrayer, sitting across from him. They adjusted their tasset over their knees and crossed their ankles politely. The emblem of Zurak, the sun, was now in the Betrayer’s view. He glanced up slightly. “I told you to leave,” he said in a low, gravelly voice.

“I only need to speak with you for a moment. Please – just hear us out.” Siravyn did their best to sound concerned – time with Graihund had made them an incredible actor. “I promise that if you just listen to me, I’ll leave once I’m done, if that’s what you want.” They caught Deracles’s gaze, and he nodded solemnly to them.

When the Betrayer didn’t reply, Siravyn took it as their cue to continue. “My name is Siravyn, and those are my comrades. We’re the Order of Night – we’re a group dedicated to fighting the Khan Makyr and Hell Priests, and liberating Argent D’nur once and for all. We have a small but strong following among the Argenta, but we’ve hit a block. Children have gone missing in Auzikath… and maybe in other places as well. We can’t be sure. But the only connection between the disappearances is a mysterious rune.

One of our contacts in Auzikath, a cleric of the Makyr church, gave us information gleaned from a letter one of his superiors received. Apparently, there’s something in Hell, near your mech, that is connected to the runes.” Siravyn pulled out their journal, opening to the page where they’d sketched the rune, handing it to the Betrayer; much to their surprise, he took the book and looked it over. “All we want is to stop children from disappearing, and to free our people.” They took a deep breath. “I know you cast yourself into exile, but… I believe that you’re still a good person, who truly wants to help your people.”

The Betrayer eyed them suspiciously. “How do you know of me?”

“Laervik over there is a descendant of King Novik. She and Azin know the history of the Argenta like the back of their hands.” They gestured to Azin, who grinned when he was acknowledged. “Azin was arrested for trying to steal history books and ancient scrolls from Taras Nabad, so you know he’s legit.”

The man nodded. “Your friend Laervik has the same fiery spirit as her ancestor,” he commented. “She is also dictated by her emotions, like him.”

“Like us all,” Siravyn replied.

He didn’t respond, but the cleric knew they’d at least made him consider helping them, and that was enough for them.

Out of the corner of their eye, they spotted Laervik shakily getting to her feet, supported by Deracles on her right. Her eyes were still bleary from weeping, and her posture was slouched. Siravyn felt a pang of guilt for paralyzing Laervik, but they hadn’t seen any other way to stop her rampage. They prayed she would forgive them.

Siravyn cast the thought aside and addressed the Betrayer again. “It’s late, and we’ve been hiking for several days through Exultia and Hell. Is it alright if we rest here for the night, and then we can talk in the morning?” They tilted their head innocently at him.

The Betrayer didn’t speak for a moment. Then, he looked up at Siravyn and sighed heavily. “You may spend the night here, and we will speak in the morning. I make no promises to help you. But I promise that I will listen.”

The cleric gave him a smile. “That’s all I ask of you.”