Chapter 3

The Lily Returns

Valora played the game that night—and won again.
When she first arrived at Brecastell Edmonda, her faith had wavered. Her army outnumbered the defenders two to one, but the fortress was heavily defended, its garrison more than prepared for her assault. Initially, she had considered a siege, planning to starve the defenders into submission. However, knowing they were kentu, she dismissed the idea outright; she had no doubt they would eat their own before yielding to an invader.

Her captain, Claw Silver Teeth, a fiercely loyal hound, suggested bombarding the keep with fire to burn them out. But Valora found the notion distasteful, a failure of her duty. Fire would have been faster, but it would also damage the fortress—an asset crucial for defending the Midnight Kingdom from the lawless Otpa Sjee. Furthermore, her siege engines had been left behind on Nesskar to ensure a swifter journey home.

In the end, Valora chose the hard way. Under the cover of darkness, she sent her elite elven troops, the Sha Tee, to scale the walls, while she led the main force in a frontal charge on the gates. When the alarm finally sounded, the elves had already split the defenders, leaving the gate under-defended. Personally leading the vanguard, Valora pressed the assault as the gates were breached. Though she disliked taking up arms herself, her soldiers were inspired by the sight of their princess fighting alongside them. It drove them into a fervour, adding another layer to the legend of Valora Lilium.

After ten brutal hours of wall-to-wall combat, the remaining defenders retreated to the citadel. Valora’s right hand, Cenric, led the Sha Tee in scaling the citadel while her main force battered down its gates. The defenders, caught between hammer and anvil, were forced to surrender. A few holdouts remained, but they would be dealt with in the coming hours. Brecastell Edmonda had fallen, another fortress claimed by Valora's relentless crusade.

Despite the victory, Valora's elation was tempered by the grim sight of the dead—both her own troops and the enemy. Part of her craved the battlefield, finding it liberating compared to the court's stifling rules and endless discussions. Yet, even amidst the chaos of battle, her duty weighed on her heavily. Her moment of triumph was further soured by an urgent, though mundane, problem: the need to relieve herself after hours in thick, cumbersome armour.

The rebels of Brecastell Edmonda were defeated, and Valora’s first mainland conquest was complete. Each victory washed away the shame of her exile, a faint glimmer of hope sparking that her honour might yet be restored. As she descended from the citadel, her soldiers—mostly hounds—howled her name, their voices a pounding war drum.

“Valora! Valora! Valora!” they chanted.

Gripping her House banner—a golden lily with a sapphire at its centre—she thrust it into the battlements. Cenric appeared at her side, gripping her hand as they raised the banner together. A rare smile crossed his face, and she grinned back, unleashing a war cry. Euphoria coursed through her as she looked down at her army. They gazed upon her as if she were a goddess.

With the fortress secured, Valora left the citadel and walked towards her siege camp, the kentu leader dragged in chains behind her. Her royal guard shadowed her movements, loyal extensions of her will. Cenric, coated in more blood than anyone, strode beside her, his unwavering devotion evident in every step.

She often thought Cenric would find greater satisfaction carving his own path in the Otpa Sjee, where his unmatched skill and ruthless efficiency could earn him a kingdom of his own. With his blade and mind, he could easily claim a vast territory amidst the lawless chaos. Yet, despite the lure of independence and power, he always insisted that his place was ‘by her side.’ The conviction in his voice when he spoke those words left no room for argument, and though Valora never voiced it, his unwavering loyalty was one of the few constants she trusted in her tumultuous life.

At the height of the battle, riders had arrived bearing the flag of a silver oak—the King’s orders. Though Valora noted their presence, she chose not to act until the fortress was taken.

As she approached her tent, the riders stood waiting, their Autem features unmistakable. Valora clenched her jaw at the sight of them. Without a word, she swept past and entered her tent. She was more frustrated by their intrusion upon her much-needed rest than by their presence itself. Her guards stationed themselves outside while Cenric followed her in.

Inside the tent, two kentu servants awaited her, their red eyes widening at the sight of their princess. Valora’s white skin and golden hair, usually flawless, were now streaked with blood. Her silver armour bore the scars of battle, dented and cracked at her ribs where axes had struck with brutal force. Even the protective runes inscribed on her armour were spent.

“Make me presentable!” she commanded.

The kentu rushed to her aid, unclasping her armour and helmet with surprising strength for their small frames.

“Do you know why they are here? It's been so long since we’ve heard anything from the capital; I was beginning to think they were happy to leave me cleaning up their mess,” Valora asked, resisting the urge to tap her foot—a habit her mother’s scoldings had beaten out of her as improper. Her body, fully exposed, was attended to by her kentu servants, who eagerly scrubbed away the layers of grime and blood from her skin with warm towels. The water had been pre-heated and readied for her return, as per her strict instructions.

Nothing eased Valora’s weariness like a warm bath, especially when her hair was being carefully massaged and cleaned. However, the situation robbed her of the chance to relax fully, as her mind churned with the implications of the messengers’ presence.

“I can only guess,” Cenric replied, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity. “The last word from your mother was to return to the mainland and begin the reconquest of the Sjee. She also kindly reminded you to avoid the capital.”

Valora scoffed lightly, though the mention of her mother set her teeth on edge. Her mother’s influence was as oppressive as it was inescapable. Even after all this time, her shadow loomed over Valora’s life, a storm she couldn’t outrun. The thought of her meddling grated like an old wound.

“Perhaps she’s decided that I’ve been enjoying myself too much,” Valora quipped, her tone bitter. “The woman wouldn’t let me escape her sharp tongue for long.”

Sliding into the hot bath, Valora sighed as the water soothed her aching muscles. The kentu girls worked diligently, scrubbing away the sweat and dirt of battle with their dexterous hands. Reine and Cosette moved with an almost feline grace, their quick, strong movements a testament to their heritage.

Reine and Cosette were kentu—humanoid beings with dark purple skin etched with crimson birthmarks resembling ancient tattoos. Their sharp, ruby-red eyes gleamed faintly, and even with their mouths closed, their long fangs lent them an air of predatory menace. Delicate flaps along their necks allowed them to extract moisture from the air, a unique adaptation from their ancestral home in Eden’s arid deserts. Though shorter than elves, they moved with fluid precision, their agility a constant reminder of their lineage. Once royalty in their clans, they now served Valora as both trophies of war and guarantees of their fathers’ submission.

The two kentu had been taken as hostages during separate campaigns: Reine from Valora’s exile in Nesskar and Cosette during the Sjee crusade. Both now worked diligently to please their mistress, cleaning her wounds and taming her hair with swift efficiency.

Cenric stood nearby, his presence as solid as ever. His battered armour bore more blood and grime than Valora’s, but as a Pendula—one of the lesser elven bloodlines—no one expected him to present himself otherwise. Occasionally, Valora caught his eyes drifting from hers, but she let the fleeting glances slide. He had earned more than a few glances at her body for such fine work that day.

“Your mother’s words should hold no sway over you, not after all you’ve done,” Cenric said quietly, his voice cutting through her thoughts with its steady warmth. “You’ve proven yourself in ways none of those pampered lords in the capital ever could.”

The compliment tugged a faint smile from Valora. “And yet, here I am, still enduring her judgment.”

As the servants finished their work, Valora motioned for her travel armour. It was a lighter set, made for practicality rather than war, with barely any wards. Even so, the craftsmanship was immaculate, its silvery sheen catching the dim light as the kentu girls helped her into it.

The armour was as light and flexible as cloth while retaining the strength and durability of steel. A long white cape flowed from her back, engraved with the symbol of the Midnight Kingdom: a silver oak crowned with a white diadem, a single ruby embedded at its heart. Her hair had been braided into a sleek, golden tail cascading down her back, stopping just above her waist—a vulnerability in combat, but one she refused to cut. Her hair was among her most cherished features.

Atop her head rested a silver tiara, its central ruby matching the one in the Kingdom’s emblem. Her crystal-blue eyes, glimmering faintly with gold, seemed to radiate light, a striking feature that only enhanced her otherworldly beauty. Many among her people, and even outsiders, whispered that she might be an avatar of Nara, or one of the goddess’s children. Though Valora dismissed such notions as fantasy, she secretly reveled in the divine image the rumours lent her.

When the last buckle was fastened, Cenric stepped forward, his keen eyes scanning her appearance. Like a predator sizing up prey, he circled her with the same meticulousness he applied to every battlefield. Where he found flaws—a loose braid or an off-centre clasp—he corrected them without hesitation. His intensity drew a faint grin from Valora. Though she felt no attraction to him, the scrutiny thrilled her, an odd echo of her mother’s harsher inspections.

“Well?” Valora asked, spreading her arms slightly in mock impatience. “Do I pass inspection?”

Cenric’s usual stoicism softened briefly as he reached for her father’s golden lily brooch. He pinned the treasured symbol to her chest plate, its ruby heart gleaming like a pulse of fire. “You look every bit the warrior goddess they believe you to be.”

Valora inclined her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Then let us see what the messengers from the capital have to say.”

The two Autem messengers entered, their eyes immediately locking onto Valora. Their awe was evident, and Valora suppressed a smile, knowing this was the desired effect. Even her kentu servants seemed momentarily entranced by her radiance.

The messengers were unmistakably Autem, their features flawless yet lacking the strong glow that once illuminated all elves. Valora’s own glow was brighter than most, a source of pride and frustration. In battle, her radiance marked her as a target, but it also left her opponents stunned, if only briefly. The messengers knelt as protocol dictated, rising only when Valora granted permission.

“Princess Valora Lilium, second of her name, Lady Silver Dance, future Queen of Scarvo, Nesskar, and Yult!” Cenric’s booming voice filled the room, his tone as commanding as ever.

Valora kept her expression neutral, though the title “future Queen” felt hollow. The King had not named her his heir, and her disgrace still hung heavy. But it was tradition to boast such titles, and she would not undermine her position by refusing.

The messengers exchanged pleasantries and shared details of their journey, adhering to the rigid formalities of elven diplomacy. Valora played along, though the rituals bored her immensely. After half an hour of empty words and customary exchanges, the leader of the two finally addressed the purpose of their visit.

“We are here under the King’s orders, my Lady,” the lead messenger announced. His voice was calm, though there was a faint edge of urgency. “He humbly requests your immediate return to the capital.”

Valora raised an eyebrow. “I appreciate the King’s interest in my whereabouts,” she replied, her tone polite but firm. “However, my current campaign requires my attention. The first months of conquest are critical, and my presence here ensures its success.”

The messenger was unfazed. “His Majesty anticipated this response, Princess, and bade us inform you that his time is running short. He has not much longer to live.”

Valora froze. The messenger’s words struck her like a blade to the heart. She had suspected the King’s health was failing, but to hear it so plainly—so carelessly—was another matter entirely. Her mind flooded with memories of the King, a ruler who had treated her with kindness even as others turned their backs on her.

“His Majesty grows weaker with each passing day,” the messenger continued. “He will likely not see the end of the year.”

Silence fell over the room. Cenric raised a hand, silencing the messenger before he could say more. Valora’s thoughts churned. She remembered the promise she had made to the King during their last meeting, a promise she intended to keep. Returning to the capital had not been what she wanted, but she had a sinking suspicion she knew why the King wanted her to return. If his life was coming to an end, it likely meant an all-out war was about to begin, both on the political battlefield and perhaps even the literal one. Every House would squabble and betray one another. While it was rare for Kings to die, whenever it happened the ensuing chaos was always a bloody affair.

Finally, she spoke, her voice steady and resolute. “I shall ride immediately. Give me half an hour, and we will depart without delay.”

Valora wasted no time. She ordered her guards to bring in the kentu leader, a towering figure with crimson patterns etched across his purple skin. He was dragged before her, his fangs bared in defiance.

“What is your name, traitor?” Cenric demanded, his disdain evident.

The kentu spat at him, earning a swift backhand from Claw. Valora examined the rebel leader, noting his spiderweb-like markings and the sharpness of his gaze. Unlike others who had broken under her rule, this one remained defiant. Usually, Valora would make them submit to her rule, becoming an extension of her House and merging their forces into hers. However, because of his pointless refusal to submit, there were very few survivors left. The clear disrespect on the kentu’s face gave her no reason to prolong a pointless discussion, except there was one thing she needed answered.

“Why did you betray us?” Valora asked, her voice calm but cold.

The kentu’s lips curled into a sneer. “You are no longer the Gods’ chosen,” he growled in the true tongue. “The humans are stronger, smarter. Why should we serve weak, corrupted beings like you?”

Valora frowned. It was the same response she had heard from others. The island of Nesskar had revolted after the war, most of which were also kentu. Valora had bled to bring them back into submission, installing a loyal government, yet rebellion persisted.

Valora nodded, frustrated by his venomous words. She raised a hand, and Claw wasted no time. He snapped the kentu’s neck in one fluid motion, the body crumpling to the floor.

Cenric stepped forward. “Another one spouting the same nonsense. But why now? Nesskar is under control; their support should have been cut off. What drives them to continue?”

Valora stared at the corpse, her thoughts clouded. “Perhaps it is not a what, but a who,” she mused.

She turned to her guards. “Prepare the horses. We ride for the capital. We will deal with whatever troubles have arisen there. Once we are done, I will scour this entire continent of every traitor until they once more see us as the Gods’ chosen race.” Then, with a wry smile, she added, “But first, I need the privy.”

Deciding her army might be needed, Valora ordered them to capture a fortress known as Gaslon to mask their potential arrival at the capital. Gaslon had been previously overlooked due to its insignificance, serving primarily as a watchpoint against the Sjee and to monitor the tribes inhabiting the Syanor forest. Located west of Brecastell Edmonda, it was out of the way of Valora’s northern campaign, but it would begin bringing her forces southward, positioning them closer to where they might be required. She instructed them to take the fortress and then move toward the capital. If their presence proved unnecessary, she would send new orders for them to continue the conquest without her until she could rejoin them.

For a moment, she considered leaving Cenric in charge of the army while she travelled to the capital. However, she knew the idea was futile—he would refuse, as stubborn and loyal as he was. The thought of not having him by her side, after nearly one hundred and thirty years of unwavering companionship, left her feeling more exposed than she had felt an hour earlier, even in her bath. Instead, she entrusted command to one of her most dependable guards, Claw. The hound, known for his calm and calculated demeanour, was missing his right eye and had one of his large canines replaced with a silver one, earning him his moniker. Valora trusted his steady judgement and leadership to follow her orders precisely.

She briefly debated whether to bring Reine and Cosette along but ultimately decided it was better to keep the hostages close. Their presence was a vital reminder of her power, and she couldn’t risk leaving them too far from her reach in case they were needed.

With her preparations complete, she mounted her white stallion and departed for the capital, accompanied by Cenric, her loyal companion, and four of her finest guards.

The ride had been long and arduous but effective. They stopped only once at Meo, much to Valora’s annoyance. Her fellow Autem were not as well-travelled as she and Cenric, looking half-dead from so little sleep. Cenric had even remarked to Valora that he feared they might fall from their saddles. Valora had insisted they sleep on the road rather than within Meo, knowing that if they did, House Sorbus would undoubtedly descend upon her with pleasantries and invitations she could not accept. Her disdain for many of the Autem resurfaced when they bothered her with complaints about sleeping on the ground. While Valora did not enjoy the discomfort herself, she saw no point in whining and detested those who did.

That night, Valora did not rest. Instead, she remained awake, vigilant for any potential ambush, her mind turning over the possibilities for her summons. She doubted the King intended to name her his successor. While she had once again brought glory to her name, the shame of her past still hung over her like a veil. Perhaps there was a threat to the King’s life, and he needed loyalists to protect him from an untimely death.

Her pondering was interrupted when Cenric joined her. His eyes glanced over the horizon as he looked northward, toward the endless expanse of flat terrain behind them. The two sat in comfortable silence, gazing out over the open landscape that stretched for miles. She felt his hand grip her leg suddenly, causing her to jump at the unexpected contact.

“You’re tapping again,” he muttered, making her inwardly groan. Valora, you should know better, her mother’s scolding tone echoed in her mind, sharp and unrelenting.

“May I ask you a question, Valora?” Cenric whispered, careful not to wake their companions or alert her guards. She did not feel like speaking, but her curiosity won out, so she gave a silent nod.

“Why do you return to the city?” he asked.

“That is a strange question. I was ordered to by my King,” she replied simply. There was no need to think it over—what other option was there?

“You have a loyal army at your back. The Otpa Sjee is filled with warbands who bow to no one and do as they please. You must know that I—and most of your soldiers—would gladly follow you, carving out a portion of this world in your name. Why would you return to the King who cast you out, who shamed you before the court? Why return to your mother’s grasp, where we both know she will dig her claws into you once more?” His voice held more truth than he ought to have spoken, and his boldness was clear. He rarely spoke so freely, especially when others might overhear. Yet Valora could not bring herself to chastise him. Betraying the King had never even crossed her mind—not even in her darkest moments of anger.

“I am not a traitor,” she said firmly. “I will not lower myself to their level, and I expect you to hold the same loyalty. While I do not agree with everything King Folas decides, he is still my King—and yours. We swore oaths and made promises. While many are willing to forget that, I am not. An oath of loyalty lasts for life.” Her voice carried the passion of her convictions, though her anger toward the traitors slipped into her tone. In the recesses of her mind, one word surfaced: Dovanga—the words of her House, her bloodline.

“Forgive me, I spoke out of turn, and perhaps I’m about to again,” Cenric admitted, though his gaze remained unflinching. “I never swore any oath to the King—only to you and to your father. But you and I both know the Midnight Kingdom is doomed. All we’ve done is heal fingers while the heart rots.”

“If all I can do is prolong the inevitable, then that is what I shall do,” she countered, her voice steady with renewed determination. “If you wish to be freed from my service, simply ask, and I will release you. But I have no intention of giving up, nor will I become a traitor. My loyalty is eternal.” Her crystal-blue eyes searched Cenric’s for a response. His own gaze hardened, and whatever doubts he harboured melted away.

“In that case,” he said with a faint, grim smile, “we shall burn alongside the Kingdom together.”

A slight grin mirrored his own on Valora’s lips. In that moment, their fates were sealed.

The walls of the Midnight City were awe-inspiring. They were made of living roots sung into shape from the world tree that nestled at the heart of the city. These roots had been moulded into a sturdy, living barrier that healed itself even during a battle. For miles around the southern wall, the land was open and scarred. Even where the woodlands began, they had been pillaged and burned, leaving behind only a few living trees amidst the charred remains.

Several sections of the wall remained broken, even forty-seven years after the war machines of humanity had torn them down. Though grass had begun to grow over the churned earth surrounding the city, the ground had not levelled, and the deep scars in the terrain remained—a haunting reminder of the elves' brutal defeat.

The city itself was a melting pot of cultures. All the races that had joined the elves during their exodus from Eden were allowed within its walls. Most created territories on nearby islands or ventured into the Otpa Sjee, where they waged endless battles amongst themselves. The capital, however, housed the more civilised and controlled factions, individuals whose minds were geared for more than simple warfare. Crowds of creatures, both dominated and free, surged through the main street leading to the heart of the city. By the time Valora and her group reached the gates, the throng was so thick they found it nearly impossible to push through.

The buildings within the city were constructed from the world tree itself, each structure sung into existence by elven Singers. Singers shaped the roots running beneath the city into shells, which were then wrapped with other materials, giving them the appearance of pure white. Most buildings shared this pristine hue, matching the silver-coated structures of the central district where the nobility resided, encircling the base of the world tree.

The world tree itself was colossal. Valora had heard it said that its towering form could be seen from across the sea on Eden's mainland. It rose into the heavens, a beacon of nature defying the encroaching age of iron. Much of its interior had been hollowed out and shaped into chambers where the leaders of the Midnight Kingdom ruled, yet even they had not reached its highest branches, which rose above the continent's tallest mountains. Its beauty was unparalleled: the bark shimmered with silver and white, sparkling under the moonlight and casting a luminous glow over tens of miles when the sun set.

The tree's branches were so vast that even the sprawling Midnight City—the largest on Scarvo—did not reach a quarter of the smallest limb. Their immense thickness blocked the sun from reaching the city below, plunging it into perpetual twilight. Many residents had adapted by following a nocturnal schedule, using the tree's glow as a substitute for sunlight and sleeping during the day when no light could penetrate. Each leaf was the size of a building; when they fell, they were repurposed for construction or decoration. Some were even sold across the seas to the Tillian elves, the Autems' ancestors, who remained enslaved by humanity on Eden.

Valora spotted a large force of silver-clad elves waiting at the entrance, their tower shields towering over their forms. As one of the guards took the reins of her horse, she recognised Captain Norton, leader of the Silver Guard. The Pendula elf met her gaze, his hardened expression revealing a weight she hadn’t seen even during the siege.

“I see things haven't improved,” Valora remarked, her tone clipped.

“They’re standing on the edge of a knife,” Norton replied grimly. “We’ve already put down five riots this year. It’s only a matter of time before the whole city erupts.”

He led her and Cenric to the centre of the formation, where the guards formed an unyielding wall of silver shields around them. The streets were packed with creatures of all shapes and sizes, including Pendula elves marked with engravings of the Houses they served. Others were free, but all stared with undisguised hatred. From children to elders, the expressions of contempt were universal, their eyes burning with a misguided rage against the Autems—a burden Valora could not ignore.

Anticipating the danger, Valora had already sent Reine and Cosette through the rarely-used southern gate, ensuring the two kentu girls would not vanish into the chaos. Her own arrival at the northern gate would attract the crowd's attention, leaving the southern route safer.

As the guards pushed forward, they slammed their massive shields into anyone who refused to move. From her elevated position, Valora scanned the sea of faces, their anger palpable. Everyone from children to the elderly seemed ready to set their great city aflame. She felt Cenric’s leg brush against hers as he rode as close as possible, his short sword resting atop his horse Dunelle’s back. Unlike her companion, Valora despised horses, finding them dirty and unruly creatures.

“I don’t like this,” Cenric whispered, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “It’s clear things haven’t improved. They still see us as weak rulers.”

Valora nodded faintly, unwilling to speak but unable to deny the truth. Her gaze returned to the crowd, scanning for signs of danger. Guilt tightened her chest. She wondered if things would be different had she succeeded in taking the Third Shield. Most nights, her mind wandered back to that fortress and the cunning Wraith of the West. His laughter haunted her dreams, echoing down from the impregnable walls as his fire rained upon her forces. He was a mad god, drunk on power, commanding legions of fearless corpses who threw themselves into battle without hesitation.

Her people had deserved that victory. They had fought harder, truer. But no matter what she tried, the Wraith always won. Even when he forced her to retreat, he had chased her to the walls of the Midnight City, defeating her once more. The memories stung like an open wound.

“Are you all right, my Lady?” Norton asked, glancing up at her with concern.

“Yes, just remembering…” she began, but her voice faltered. Norton nodded in understanding. He too had fought in that final, fateful battle.

“The Gods abandoned us when we needed them most,” he muttered, his voice heavy with the sorrow of a former believer.

“They didn’t abandon us. I simply failed them,” Valora replied quietly, more to herself than to him.

“False shepherds!” a voice roared from atop a nearby rooftop. Three large kentu stood above them, armed with rocks. Before anyone could react, they began hurling the stones with deadly accuracy. The first struck Valora in the head with a sickening crack, the force twisting her in the saddle. More rocks followed, slamming into her side and sending her tumbling to the ground. She landed hard, the impact jarring every bone in her body. Her panicked horse reared, stomping its hooves in a frenzy. Several blows struck Valora, and she screamed as her bones cracked beneath the animal's weight.

Dazed and disoriented, her vision spotted with light, Valora curled into a ball, shielding herself as best she could. She could just make out her horse charging through the rear of her guards, scattering them as it bolted into the crowd. The two guards it knocked down were immediately set upon by the mob, their bodies bludgeoned with fists and makeshift weapons. One rabid attacker tore a helm from an elf’s head and brought a rock down repeatedly until the body ceased twitching. The crazed commoner roared in triumph, his face more animal than kentu.

As Valora struggled to stand, more attackers breached the defensive line, rushing toward her prone form. The first—a man wielding a pickaxe—lifted his weapon high, but Valora lashed out with a swift kick, her boot connecting with his ribs. The crunch of breaking bones made them both scream in pain, her broken leg unable to bear the strain. Another attacker, armed with a butcher’s knife, lunged at her, but Cenric was there, cutting the man down with a single, fluid stroke that split him from neck to waist.

Cenric glanced at her once before charging to the breach, his blade a blur as he cut through the attackers like a force of nature. Though some fled at the sight of him, many others pressed forward, forcing him to fight savagely to protect the weakened line. Cenric’s eyes were almost maddened, screaming silently for vengeance against those who would dare hurt his Valora. Valora, knowing she needed to help despite her injuries, focused her healing energy on her legs. Her mind felt sluggish, as though drugged, and she struggled to recall why. When she finally tested her leg, it was weak but functional. Drawing her short sword, Mistress Death, she limped toward Cenric’s side.

As Valora limped toward Cenric’s position, she gripped her sword tightly, willing her body to move faster despite the lingering pain. The chaos around her was deafening—screams, shouts, and the clash of steel against makeshift weapons created a cacophony of violence that rattled her already-fractured mind.

Cenric stood alone at the breach in their defences, his sword a blur as he fended off the frenzied mob. Each strike of his blade was precise, severing limbs or cutting deep into flesh. Despite his skill, the sheer number of attackers forced him into a relentless rhythm, a dance of survival against overwhelming odds. Valora finally reached him, joining the fight with uneven, laboured strikes. Her usual finesse was gone, replaced by raw determination and a will to survive.

She caught Cenric’s eyes for a brief moment. They were filled with fury, but there was also something else—concern, or perhaps horror at the sight of her battered form. Valora ignored the look, focusing instead on the attackers in front of her. Her movements were slower than normal, her body heavy and uncooperative, but she pushed through the pain. Together, she and Cenric managed to hold the breach, though it was clear they could not maintain their position indefinitely, especially as Cenric was doing most of the work for the ever-slower Valora.

Looking around, Valora saw that the situation was devolving into utter chaos. The mob, fuelled by rage and desperation, had begun to turn on itself. Fights broke out within the crowd, their reasons unclear. It was as though the madness that had infected the city had spread to all within its walls, blurring the line between enemy and ally.

“We have to force our way into the building to the right!” Cenric shouted, his voice barely cutting through the din. He gestured toward a nearby structure, its sturdy walls offering the possibility of temporary shelter.

Valora nodded, though her mind felt sluggish, struggling to process his words. She watched as those guards positioned to her left began pushing their way through the mob, clearing a path toward the building. Before she could fully understand the plan, she felt Cenric’s arm wrap around her waist. He half-carried, half-dragged her toward the structure, his movements urgent and efficient. Valora tried to protest, but the strength of his grip and the force of her injuries left her with little choice.

As they neared the building, Valora turned her head to check on the rest of their formation. She spotted Norton, still holding his position at the head of their line, locked in combat with a massive kentu wielding a crude but effective club. The captain’s tower shield held firm, but the strain on his face was evident. Beyond him, she noticed Cenric’s horse, Dunelle, moving calmly through the chaos. The animal seemed eerily unaffected by the frenzy around it, trotting steadily toward the building as though drawn by some unseen force.

When they reached the structure, the guards kicked the door down and began flooding inside. Cenric carried Valora to a large wooden table in the centre of the room, gently lowering her onto it. She gritted her teeth against the pain, forcing herself to sit upright even as her body screamed for rest. Cenric wasted no time, returning to the entrance to help secure the building.

Outside, ten of the Silver Guard remained, forming a half-circle around the entrance to prevent the mob from storming the building. Their tower shields interlocked to create a nearly impenetrable barrier, though the relentless assault from the crowd tested their resolve. Inside, the rest of the force worked quickly, barricading windows and doors with whatever furniture they could find. Cenric led three guards upstairs, his face a mask of dark fury as he disappeared from view.

Valora’s vision blurred, her head swimming from the effects of her injuries. She felt the pain in her leg bones as they slowly reset themselves, the sensation a dull throb that clouded her thoughts. Her fingers brushed against the table’s surface, and it was only then that she noticed the crimson river flowing across it. Blood, thick and glistening, pooled around her, its source unclear. Her breathing slowed, her mind drifting as the sounds of battle outside grew distant.

She tried to focus, to force herself to stay conscious, but her body betrayed her. The world tilted on its side, and darkness crept in at the edges of her vision. Her last coherent thought was of Cenric’s voice, commanding and clear, echoing in her mind like a lifeline she could not grasp.

Then, everything went silent.