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Cold water poured from the sky. Violent gusts slapped waves after waves of thick rain into our clothes and fur. Our boots sank into the muddy road, making every step tiresome. Under Markel's advice, we'd abandoned our mounts at the final Southern Kingdom village that we went through -- Markel simply allowed his to return to the pieces from which it'd been raised. We also buried most of our equipment and outfits, purchasing cheap grey or brown cloaks with hoods from the villagers. Edan and I kept one sword each. I struggled against a sense of vulnerability without my armor, but Markel explained that we were too obviously Southern with our stuff. At that moment, we all looked like our shabby necromancer guide.

The withered black cat bravely walked alone in the front, unaffected by the storm, or unwilling to reveal that he was. We canines huddled together closely. Edan and I flanked Aerin, attempting to shield, and to warm her with our bodies. My wizard teacher uttered no complaints, but since she was over sixty, and had been profoundly drained by Markel's spell only two days prior, she barely hung on. Whenever I could, I joined my hands, and focused to form a sphere of flames above them. It was much harder to contain fire than to unleash it, so I never lasted very long. Edan wrapped his large arms around her shoulders. Our efforts to warm her were failing. Her wet, blond head hung just as limply as her ears. Water dripped from her snout. She mumbled something about the cold. I squeezed her, and patted her back.

-- I know. We're doing everything we-

-- Enough of this cold! she repeated in a scream.

Before we could even understand, the Head Wizard pushed us back. She adopted a wide stance. Her fingers flexed shakily as she coaxed the power of the sun from the earth that had absorbed and hidden it away. A blazing ring burst out from under us, growing much taller than we were. The fire tempest danced gleefully above us, beating the heavy storm. Powerful burning currents swirled around us while we were blinded by the bright flames, locating every gap, every path through our clothes to dry our furs deeply, and heat our skins. I opened my arms to let the hot embrace cover me. Edan fell to his hands and knees, hoping to get even closer to this wondrous source of comfort. Aerin beamed, at the center of it. For a few seconds, we all looked at each other, laughing. Then, her expression collapsed, and so did she. The flames flickered, and became a distant memory, as the evening storm instantly regained its rights. We were soaked and cold again. Edan and I ran to Aerin.

-- That was stupid, I said. You shouldn't have done that in your state.

-- It was worth it, she stubbornly responded.

We grabbed her arms, lifted her, and dragged her off of the muddy road, and through some bushes. We sat her against the trunk of a tall tree, to get her some foliage cover. Markel watched us, immobile. I got closer to him.

-- The fortifications are very close, he yelled to me in the rain.

What fortifications? I'd been in the Lowlands once or twice. There was no fortified position this near the border. The Southern lords would've attacked, and razed it. I didn't care sufficiently to ask, I had more important things in mind.

-- Aerin needs to stop! I shouted.

I saw it distinctly: his hooded shape nodded. After that, unexpectedly, he turned his back on us, and continued alone on the road, swiftly disappearing into the curving, twisting deluge. I ran to attend Aerin.

-- Where's Markel? she whispered.

-- I don't know. Don't worry about it.

Edan and I cuddled Aerin for half an hour. She fell asleep. The downpour wasn't as bad under the trees, but there was no way we'd dry. My mentor's breath became short. I worried, powerless. Edan sent me a begging glance, hoping that I'd tell him what to do. I had nothing. I swore.

"Fuck. Shit. Fuck."

That was when Markel returned, followed by two armored figures. I stepped onto the road, and waved to them. I didn't care who they were; I was plenty happy to have someone come and help. The trio joined us. No one said a word. Markel pointed to Aerin. The two strangers, Edan and I held her up, and we all hurried. She was cold. Ten minutes later, I saw the terrible outline through the dark and the rain. A massive circular palisade wall, centered smack-dab in the middle of the road, forbade our passage. The strangers accelerated toward it. We paused before a deep trench, about two meters wide, dug around the fort. He heard shouts, pulleys, and before long, chains lowered a wooden drawbridge for us.

The inside of the palisade wall was lit with carefully isolated torches. The place was crammed with troops, clustered around bonfires or under the unsteady-looking raised walkway going all around the wall. They all glared at us while we advanced toward a large, central stone hut with white smoke coming from its top. There stood river people, keeping warm by the fires, large gators with their spears and loose-fitting wooden armors. There stood marsh dwellers, bare-chested tigers and long-tailed serpentine soldiers, with bows and javelins, skirmish warfare experts. Most importantly, however: Boneheads. Boneheads everywhere. Their white painted faces followed our movements, felines and manacharians alike. At last, we made it inside. The strong wind slammed the door shut. I examined the two wet felines that braved the monsoon, as they helped us carry Aerin near the hearth, and I thought disturbingly that they were enemies. Their face paint was washing, running under their eyes, giving them the terrifying looks of agonized barbarian ghosts, with their chain belts, crude, but efficient iron armors, and the skulls and other bones from their defeated enemies grafted into their gear. One of the two was different from the others, I noticed as they shook themselves near the fire. He was young, and his face paint was red instead of the usual white. They gave us a hand, to push Aerin as close to the fire as we could. After that, the red-faced one said something in a deep Lowland tongue that I couldn't quite catch, and then he spat at our paws. Edan and I withdrew one step in surprise. More shadows emerged from the somber side of the hut, pointing crossbows to us. Markel moved in-between. They argued.

-- What's going on, Markel? I asked stressfully.

-- When I arrived, I explained that we are necromancers, on a pilgrimage westward to seek the Diviner's wisdom, but they saw the column of fire.

I understood that Markel was careful in the likely case that one of them could understand what we were saying.

-- So what, they don't like us because we have bases in elementalism?

The red Bonehead talked fast, and gestured angrily. When he was done, Markel turned to us, with a sorrowful expression.

-- That's what they assumed at first, but then they saw that you guys are canines. There's no point in pretending. They know.

-- We could still be on their side.

Markel shook his head.

-- There's only one place that trains canines in elementalism, and don't take this the wrong way, but the Wizards Guild is very, very Southern.

Yet another figure left the shadows. He wore ample, warm-looking green shamanic clothes with darker details. The colors were dull, but the linen had a thick, durable appearance. The jaguar shaman was even younger than the red warrior. I wasn't the best to evaluate the age of felines, but that shaman wasn't over twenty. Yet, when he spoke, the reactions around the hut made it clear that he was in charge.

-- Not to mention that you're speaking Southern to our faces, said the young caster.

I attempted to sound more confident and neutral than I was.

-- We're not your enemies.

-- That's for us to decide, hammered the shaman.

Markel designated the jaguar.

-- This is my friend, Harik. Harik has taken over the leadership of his clan since his mother was executed by the Blood Masks. Before that, her husband led until he was killed by a Southern expedition to cull the barbarian raiders.

Harik crossed his arms, and stood quiet. The red-faced, aggressive cat gripped the axe that hung at his belt, and the round shield at his back. He waved the weapon authoritatively, snapping orders at Markel. The latter translated:

"They want the warriors to drop their weapons."

I didn't like it at all. I was an expert fighter, and a skilled caster. In the middle of an enemy fort, I wouldn't have much of a chance. Without a sword, it'd be much worse. I wondered how I'd allowed us to get into such a situation. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to defend Edan and Aerin in a fight, by myself. The best bet was to avoid hostilities. Still, I hated it.

I nodded to Edan, and we dropped our swords. One of the Boneheads moved them away with his boot. At this moment, Markel said something else. He mentioned the Diviners. The red warrior seemed shaken, but he accepted what had been said. He wasn't alone. All of the other soldiers appeared less confident.

-- What did you tell them?

-- I mentioned that I follow the Diviner's code of conduct.

-- What does that mean?

-- That, as your guide, I will defend your lives with my own.

-- Are they scared of you?

-- They'd better be.

That last part was directed at Harik, his "friend". The jaguar raised an eyebrow, unprovoked, unafraid. I suddenly remembered that I knew very little about our new necromancer friend, save that he was frighteningly skilled as a caster, with deep knowledge about at least three domains of magic. It reassured me to have him with us, especially with Aerin out of commission. Just as I thought about her, I heard her weak voice.

-- What's going on?

Her eyes were open, and she looked at various objects around the hut, baffled. I was about to reassure her, but Edan was quicker that time.

-- Everything is okay.

The red Bonehead got agitated again. He spoke. Markel argued. Red insisted. Our cat faced us, embarrassed.

-- They don't trust you. They want you to take off your clothes.

-- What? I exclaimed, outraged. We don't have any more weapons!

-- I told them already. It would be truly for the best if we could avoid ending this in bloodshed. I don't think we can win. I'm sorry. You have to do it.

It was different when Markel said that we had to do it. I trusted Markel. Since we'd left the Heaven Tower, he'd gradually grown into our de facto leader, since he was also our guide. I went from fury to queasiness, as it occurred to me that he was probably right, as he generally was. We were already unarmed; we wouldn't be all that much more vulnerable without our cloaks. At the same time, disrobing in front of those barbarians seemed like just about the worst thing to do.

We sort of idled there, stuck between the fireplace and the crossbows. Red was losing patience. He sprung toward Edan, preparing to swing his axe at him.

"For fuck's sake, do it!" shouted Markel.

-- Alright!

I showed my palms. Mortified, I began to lift my cloak, and to pull it over my head. All that I had under were my tightly fitting white shirt and short trousers, which were, at that moment, perfectly transparent. I was horribly conscious of my very visible dark nipples and sex. Edan's shirt was just as pale, but at least, his underpants were grey. We threw our cloaks to the Boneheads. They took them, wrung them, and laid them over the hearth to dry, which reassured me a lot that they were planning to return them to us. Red kept his bad-tempered air. He pointed to Aerin. She looked at our bodies in near-disbelief, alarmed.

-- Uh, guys, I don't think I want to do that.

Sullen, I bent to help her up. Edan took her other arm, as infuriated as I was by what we had to do. Pull by pull, we managed to remove her cloak. I dreaded to see that noble soul so humiliated. Her breastcloths and underpants were pale, but luckily, they were also solid and opaque. Still, she shivered, and struggled to hide herself with her arms and hands. We all stood in a line, exposed for what was, ultimately, the enemy. I'd never been so under-control in my life. I experienced it as a different kind of peril than the one I was used to. I struggled to put words on it, even in my mind. The hazards of combat were impersonal. I could get wounded and killed, but those were simply the rules of battle. Here, we stood at the mercy of these thugs with a reputation for depravity. It wasn't a matter of good or bad fortune; it was a matter of what they'd decide. I loathed it.

Red relaxed a little, apparently content with the disgrace imposed to his captives, or almost. He said one more word. Markel got mad, and a shouting match begun. The shaman, Harik, became irritated in turn. He stomped on the ground repeatedly, until both were silenced.

-- No! No negotiation. Wizards are tricky, and we don't know you. Strip off the rest, right now, or die here.

My blood boiled. The crossbowmen twitched. Even unarmed, I still had my arcane training. Depending on how the fight shaped up, I might be able to take a number of them, but all of that was moot if those crossbows shot us dead first. I didn't want to die lined up in my underwear, so I had to choose quickly. Fight back, and probably cause Aerin's and Edan's deaths -- and mine -- or continue to comply with the increasingly distressing instructions. What if they demanded to restrain us, next? That was when I detected the movements to my side. Edan's shirt lay on the floor, already. He pushed his braies down to his ankles, and stood, nude and afraid. He'd made his decision. It pushed me over the edge, too. I swallowed my pride, and I stripped of my wet clothes, offering away my privacy. Red gauged me for a while, disdainful. He looked at my flabby penis. I shoved aside a few terribly self-doubting thoughts. Some Boneheads snickered. Their eyes moved to Aerin, still static.

-- I can't, she said.

I tried to defend her.

-- Can't you see that we have nothing? Neither does she! You're a shaman! Don't you have any respect? How can you behave so dishonorably?

-- Dishonor?

The kid shaman was shocked. At first, I thought he was about to go berserk, but, instead, his expression collapsed into a portrait of bitter grief. Markel gave me an eerie look as well, as if I'd just said the worst, most unfair thing imaginable. He too calmed down after a few seconds. He spoke softly to me.

-- Trust me, my friend. Harik is the most honorable person you'll ever meet. That's why I brought you here.

Markel addressed Aerin directly.

"Please do as he says."

Aerin changed. She hardened, no longer looking as old and feeble as she did a moment before. Her hands still trembled with exhaustion and cold, but she defied the entire barbarian army when she exposed her almost completely firm breasts, and lowered her panties to her knees. I wanted to look away. I would've preferred never to know that my teacher remained somewhat desirable. I didn't want to think of her in this fashion. I couldn't force myself away, however, because what I saw astonished me too much. Red grinned exultantly. No one moved when the warrior stepped forward, and ran his fingers along the thin black strap encircling Aerin's right thigh, close to her sex. He reached far into her inner thighs, nudging her pussy with his knuckles to provoke her. A swift motion broke the strap. The minuscule blue crystal attached to it was held high, for everyone to see. It was condensed, crystallized energy. While stable by itself, it was extremely volatile in contact with active magical energy, like that which magic-users radiated while casting. With that thing strapped to her, Aerin had practically been a living bomb. Had she lost focus during a spell, for even a sliver of a moment...

I was silent. What the fuck could I say, then? The shaman took the crystal, and threw it into the fire. The flame went white, like an arcane bolt, and burned so hotly that we moved ourselves and our clothes away. The stone would consume itself for many more hours. We waited, bare, for the shaman's judgment. I couldn't accept that Aerin hadn't told us about the crystal. It angered me. Suddenly, Red declared something to his boss. Markel seemed horrified, and shifted to witness Harik's reaction. I couldn't understand a lot, but the shaman denied the demand. Red became furious. The rest of the soldiers carefully observed the power-struggle. Harik acted first, and decisively. With a twist of his hand, blood strands extended out of his wrist and choked Red with a loud whipcrack. The strands released the warrior with a brutal pull, and Red fell flat to the hut's wooden floor, coughing. The tiny insurrection ended. Harik pointed to the door. Red left, massaging his throat, followed by many other Boneheads, giving their leader black looks. In the end, all that remained was our group, the young shaman, the white-faced soldier who'd helped us carry Aerin, and two more crossbowmen who lowered their weapons.

-- What happened?

Harik answered:

-- My second-in-command wanted to capture you, and to sell you to the Blood Masks, to be added to the rest of their slaves. I said no.

While he explained, the white-faced soldier brought us blankets, to cover ourselves for the time it'd take our clothes to dry. The shaman invited us all to sit around the hearth, and so did he.

"Why are you here?" he asked without preamble.

It created an uncomfortable silence when nobody responded. Eventually, I remembered that I'd initiated this whole trip. I decided to be straightforward as well.

-- We want to know if the Southern Kingdom is about to be invaded by Lowlanders.

-- Yes. Was there anything else?

-- Why?

Harik frowned.

-- Why? he repeated, incredulous. Why? Because you are arrogant, and arrogance is a weakness. Because you won't see it coming. Because our people are fed up with starvation.

-- Is it arrogant to eat well? How are we at fault for your bad harvests?

Harik sighed. He shook his head slowly, but his eyes remained fixated in the center of the shining flames.

-- I tried to explain to them that their anger is misplaced. I tried to convince the other shamans, the other chiefs, and my own people, but they won't hear me. Their pain is too deafening. I know that you're not to blame, but neither are we. Our soil is poor. Our weather is bad. Why should we suffer and die for being born here? The arrogance is to expect nothing, to expect us to accept our misery forever. You think us beasts.

Wrapped in my blanket, I was warming up. I listened to Harik speak. He had a monotone, but pleasant voice. Markel was right. I already liked him. He should've been a Midlander. We might've been friends. Around me, also cozily blanketed, I had Markel, the wise necromancer; Aerin, the kind wizard; and -- well -- Edan. But even he had demonstrated that he was willing to give of himself, and to do the right thing, when presented with the opportunity. I was proud of my new and older friends likewise, and my instincts so far were telling me that the jaguar shaman would've belonged among them. I focused as he continued:

"When the Blood Masks came, and killed my mother, I grieved. I grieved, but I wasn't filled with hate. I accepted their rule. In a terrible way, I was almost happy. For once, I had hope that war would be put aside. I thought that we would be able to concentrate on what truly matters: clearing more fields, creating more tools, and striking a balance between our numbers, and what we can reliably be provided with by our lands. Equilibrium is the path of the shaman. When we cast, we shorten our stay in this world. This price to pay is a blessing. We learn the true meaning of necessity, a lesson that many of my brethren have forgotten, in their rage."

-- What happened?

-- Matriarch Asnor unified the Lowlands, but it didn't end our plight. The only real solution was long-term, but our hunger was immediate. The Living Plague arose then. The Night-Plated Demon.

-- The Outsider, specified Markel.

-- Yes. The Outsider. That indestructible witch. He proposed a solution. It solved the matriarch's problem, for the people had an outlet to the agony in their hearts. He became the true force in the Lowlands, though he had nothing but the loyalty of his troops, his reputation, and his ideas. His army grew vast. Perhaps even the matriarch fears him, now. When the Blood Masks demanded that I order my clan to join him, I refused, and I forbade my warriors to do so. Yet they built this fortress on my lands, and said that I had to hold it. They keep sending more soldiers that I can barely control, and as you've already seen, many of my own clan are eager to fight alongside the Outsider's Black Guards, to slaughter and pillage the South.

-- What if we convinced the Fair King to send food?

-- Long ago, it might've stopped this entire catastrophe, but now it's too late. Hatred feeds hatred. The war will happen. It's already begun. They called it the first wave.

-- I'm aware, I said. I witnessed the devastation. Many innocents perished.

-- Many more will, somberly added Harik. And on both sides.

Aerin chipped in.

-- Isn't there anything we can try? What about the other shamans? How do they feel about this?

Harik got agitated. He fumed, and he gestured aggressively as he spoke.

-- My peers have lost their ways! The young ones are untempered, and the old ones have seen too many sons and daughters die. When the Masks came, Asnor reached out to us first. She knew of our worth in battle. A devoted shaman can cast continually without exhaustion until they fall dead, and what is a better motivation than hatred, or revenge? She lured us with talk of change, of balance through unification. She offered us her clan's massive resources, to recruit and train more of her new, fanatical blood shamans. They lapped it up like sweet honey, the fools! They have no notion of their place in the world, now, no respect for the continuation of life, no respect for the lands that mothered them, and which contains part of their souls! They want to leave and to kill, they know only hatred, and I can't even blame them. I can't, because I feel it too.

Our clothes were dry. We put them back on. Harik even accepted to return our swords, on the condition that we keep them sheathed. Enveloped in my warm garments and cloak, I listened to the heavy drops battering the roof and walls of the hut, and I felt sheltered. I'd been purged of fear and worry. Our mission was already a success: we'd seen the Lowlanders' war preparations with our own eyes, and we knew pretty much everything we needed to know about the invasion. All that was left to do was to return home, and to deliver our report to the Wizards Guild and the Fair King. I'd no doubt that they would understand the severity of the circumstances. Preparations would be made, and the Southern Kingdom would be safe. When they'd understand that they'd lost the element of surprise, the Outsider's barbarians might even cancel the attack altogether. Perhaps, just perhaps, the relationship with people like Harik could be mended, in time.

The shaman had withdrawn into himself. I approached his side carefully, making sure that I stood within his view, and I touched the back of his shoulder. I wanted to convey that I understood the difficult and dangerous position that he was in, that I was thankful for his help, and that I wished him the best.

"Are you leaving?" he asked.

-- Yes. We must warn our people. If we act swiftly enough, it could still be possible to discourage the attack, and to prevent this war.

-- I doubt it, but do try. You should wait for the storm to pass, however.

Harik glanced at Aerin, who'd fallen asleep over Edan.

-- We will.

Markel stretched.

-- Since I'm not heading back south with you, I'll stay awake, and warn you when the rain stops. Get rest while you can. You'll be traveling night and day.

I accepted the offer gratefully. The necromancer extended his arm. I would've sworn that I shook hands with a skeleton.

"I'm glad that you live up to your reputation, Silver Warrior."

I laughed.

-- What do you mean? We haven't fought anything.

-- Exactly.

We spaced out around the hearth, and then I spaced out looking at the white glow shimmering on the polished dark wooden floor. I faded away.

Markel didn't wake us, after all. The commotion did. I sat up in my blanket with a feeling of urgency, of bad, atrocious things. The storm had diminished, but I still heard light rain. I also heard shouts, and laughs, and heavy marching, out there on the road lost in the middle of the night. Aerin and Edan arose, as confused as I was. Many things were being chanted by ominous, belligerent voices, but two words reoccurred more often, and more cleanly than the others, because troops from inside the palisade intoned them as well. Markel and Harik were looking out the window by the door. The two Bonehead crossbowmen had moved from their seats in the back to face the door. They weren't aiming their weapons, but they were loaded. The white-faced Bonehead had pulled out a military pick, his bone shield, and he waited in the center of the room. Markel noticed us.

-- It's good that you're awake, but there's not much we can do. We have a big problem.

I rubbed the fatigue away from my eyes. They burned under my eyelids.

-- What is it? What are the soldiers chanting?

-- Second wave, translated Harik. The invasion is now.

We heard the drawbridge being lowered in a hurry. It slammed into the wet dirt. Roars and cheers resounded. Heavy boots walked onto the bridge. Edan lifted Aerin by her underarms. I jumped to my paws, trying to focus.

-- What do we do?

Markel squeezed my shoulders.

-- I don't know. Be calm.

The shaman exhaled.

-- They're coming. We have to talk to them.

I didn't like the strange detachment in Harik's voice. He moved in front of the door. It opened. His second-in-command, Red, stepped in, and flung his war axe deep into the shaman's skull. He screamed two words, one of which I recognized as "traitor". The corpse went limp, but remained standing, maintained by the axe stuck into its face. I drew my sword. While I did so, Markel, who was still facing me, shook. A sharp metal spike pierced out from the inside of his chest, and through his heart. The white-faced soldier had stabbed him in the back with the pick. The necromancer stared down at the deadly wound, disappointed. The backstabbing Bonehead was disappointed too when Markel decided not to die, to spin on his heel, and to stomp the ground with his other paw. Ice shards exploded from under the soldier, flying upwards and carrying him with them in the air. He swirled and fell lifeless over the sharp cold chunks embedded into him, pushing them further in. During the two seconds it took Markel to demonstrate that -- yes -- he felt that elementalism was linked to necromancy, his wound had blackened, and putrefied with an unbearable stench. When it ended, his fur, flesh and organs had withered and disappeared completely two or three centimeters around his wound. Even his cloak degraded around the hole. I could see through him. The pick hung stupidly, stuck between his clean white ribs. The rest of him appeared totally okay with this. He turned to the door, and fired off more volleys of ice to stem the arrival of new threats, but many had slipped in. During that time, Red had abandoned his axe into his old chief, and he moved, unarmed, toward Edan and Aerin. My squire pushed Aerin away, and drew his sword as well, panicked. Red confidently dove in, blocking the blade with his armor, and grabbing Edan's arms. They struggled. I couldn't pay any more attention, for I got busy as well. Three Boneheads went for me from the entrance. One fell, his back and throat pierced by bolts. The crossbowmen dropped their ranged weapons, and drew gigantic two-handed swords, and charged outside, fully prepared to die while fucking up as many of the Blood Masks loyalists as they could to avenge their clan's chief. The two other enemies split. One came for me with a mace; the other wore a savage grin as he moved toward Aerin, slumped in a corner.

Time seemed to slow down. I envisioned my strike, and the exact curve it would follow. My target was clad in heavy iron and chainmail. I ignored it utterly, and continued to concentrate, getting a precise feeling of where my blade would be for every fraction of a moment that my strike would last. I swung hard. It was called a ghostblade spell, and it was a summoning trick. I phased out the portions of my blade at the exact moments when they were about to hit the armor, and phased them right back in as they finished getting through. I sliced the feline in two halves. The armor remained undamaged, so he didn't fall apart, but, under it, his thorax and abdomen would now enjoy separate existences. His little buddy headed for Aerin didn't even realize that I'd already dealt with his partner. I pointed my sword toward his neck, and fired off an arcane bolt: plain unshaped energy. It went right through. Carried by the impact, he stumbled headfirst into the blazing hearth. Burning fur and charred flesh soon joined the aroma of decay. Edan yet struggled, down on the floor. Red was over him, about to manage to squeeze the sword out of his grip. I prepared to slice that murderous fucker's head off. Between two volleys of icy projectiles, Markel spoke. His tone froze me in my tracks.

-- Can you feel this?

Dozens of blood strands pierced through the door, the stone walls, under the windows and around the lumber beams in the corners. They tore out the entire façade in a chaos of splintered logs and crushed stones. Part of the roof collapsed over Markel, who stood too close to the door. More armed figures darkened as they approached through the floating dust. I heard Edan squealing in terror. Red had the sword. I leaped to his aid, but I tripped. I rolled around, ending up face-to-face with Aerin. She'd just released my ankle.

-- What-

She put her palm to the side of my muzzle. She was afraid, but she produced a reassuring smile anyway.

-- Warn them.

I didn't understand. It went fast. My old wizard mentor pushed herself up, staggering to the fireplace. She kicked the consumed barbarian remains away. I gazed in shock as she plunged her hand into the flaming embers, and pulled it out. The fire in the hearth returned to a regular orange hue, but the flames licking her fist remained white. She assumed a strong stance, and opened her arms.

She channeled perfectly, for less than a second, while her hand burned to the bone. I would realize only later that Aerin's last act in this world had been a feat of magic of legendary magnitude that should've seen her immortalized in books and songs. With her still valid hand, she struck the floorboard with her palm. The world quaked. My vision was distorted, but I saw it, and I heard it when her head cracked. Thick red mist spurted out of her orbits, snout, and ears when preposterous amounts of magical power wracked her body. Her back snapped backwards. She ripped apart. The blur became too much too see through, and it was a relief. The floor was checkered into separate discombobulated chunks, rising and lowering violently, throwing me in one direction or the other.

I vomited into the fresh grass. Rain fell onto my back. I breathed the untainted scent of wet herbs and mud, and only then did I scream.

-- No!

I looked up. Aerin hadn't displaced me very far away. I could still see the palisade's form. Soon, I heard a single order being shouted and repeated from further and further away. The second wave resumed, and the Bonehead heavy infantry, accompanied by their blood shamans, and by their various subjugated allies, marched heavily along the road. The fort was theirs again. They left the new local clan leader to clean up the mess. I hid away, further into the dense forest by the side of the road. I reflected that Harik's entire bloodline had been annihilated by these monsters, and I wanted to cry. I remembered that Edan was alive when I'd last seen him, and that he'd been completely abandoned to his fate, and I wanted to cry. I thought about Aerin, and I felt nothing, except nausea. I saw her awful demise in my head. I saw it again. I hit my head. I hit harder. It had to stop. It did when I remembered that I was far from safe, and that I had to survive. I wondered what good my warning would be. The Outsider's troops were already pouring in my country. I shook my head. I blew smoke in the cold air of the night. I channeled my magic to fuel my muscles, my body, and it felt great. I wasn't distressed anymore. Bitches needed to die. Those Lowlanders thought they had it rough? They thought they were angry? They didn't even know anger, but they would. They would.

I thought of that prophecy. After Blackpatch, the Fair King had arranged, at great price, for a Diviner to travel all the way from the deep Lowlands to the Quiet Palace, to tell me my fortune as a reward. The Diviner announced that I would protect the kingdom against the greatest evil that would ever threaten it, and that I would smile at the moment of my death. No Diviner's prophecy had ever been wrong, so it sounded pretty good. It was in light of that new information, that the Fair King named me Guardian of the Silvergate. Since I had grey, silverfish fur, I became the Silver Warrior. It was silly, but I liked my new nickname.

I had yet another name in mind. The Outsider. Behind that name was the person responsible for the horrors of the last day, for the raids, for everything. In that moment, I knew the exact meaning of the prophecy. It was him. I would kill him. I would destroy him. After that, and for the rest of my life, I'd smile, knowing that I'd have fulfilled my duty to my king, to my kingdom, and to the Silvergate.

Fueled by a combination of magic and rage, I ran.