The knight who guided you here knew little about specifics, which ought to have spelled trouble for your search. The Holy Mausoleum's tombs number nearly a hundred, each one bearing the name of some saint or other. Some genuine heroes, others venerated by virtue of their wealth and influence. There are no signs you can follow in this cold, high-ceilinged space, all stone walls and mildewed air, the flicker of torchlight slow and hypnotic.

But you've no need of them, anyhow. Not when mana thickens in the air so powerfully that it makes your head spin, the feel of it caustic, like venom, like bile. You pass by rotting flowers and offerings, oblations well past their expiration, but their putridity doesn't even give you pause. They are but candles in the face of a raging flame, one that demands to be felt. And feel it you do—more acutely than you would have liked.

If nothing else, you are not alone in your discomfort.

"This is horrible," Eli says through gritted teeth, steps growing more reluctant by the second. "I've never felt anything like it."

"Specter would have known what to make of this," ${falco} says. "And Mirage, perhaps. If only she could be bothered to leave her bloody parlor."

"It does feel…familiar. Arcadian. I don't know how to explain it," ${yusuha} says, turning to regard Eli. "Could it be that your assailants…?"

"No. I would recognize it if they used arcana. They did nothing of the sort," Eli says, shaking ${ehis} head.

"I see," ${yusuha} says, sounding unconvinced. "Let us hope that's the case."

You follow the trail of corrupted mana through the mausoleum's winding halls, moving past ancient doorways to the tombs of nameless saints, heading deeper and deeper into the structure. Eventually you come upon a long, unadorned hallway, one that splits off a considerable distance from the mausoleum's main mass, glowing with a soft, somber light. You find there that the hallway bears no torches, unlike the rest of the mausoleum. Instead a patchwork of runes line the walls from ceiling to floor, denoting some manner of spellwork that has now been lost to time. They loop and snake into each other like the roots of an ancient tree, clearly crafted by a master mage of a bygone era.

You can tell by the feel of them that they have been dormant a long time, and only recently reignited. Doubtless the work of your quarry, and possibly the cause of this foul torrent of mana.

It is a few minutes more until you trace it to its source, all the way at the back of the structure. A crypt, understated and unassuming. The litany carved onto its stone arch of an entrance declares it as the crypt of Saint Augur, named guardian of Aulain, and patron of the order that bears his name. Eli's eyes widen when ${ehe} catches sight of the words. It seems that despite all the time ${ehe} spent with the order, ${ehe} had no idea that the saint's place of repose was but a stone's throw away.

Wordlessly, the four of you enter the crypt, keeping a vigilant watch for any signs of ambush. There is a poignant simplicity to how the space has been arranged, a mostly empty room carved of stone and obsidian, illuminated by the gently pulsing light of the runes. At the center of the room are a pair of stone sarcophagi, unmarked but for a single phrase carved onto both headstones. [i]Together, even in death.[/i]

You feel a cresting of power, a subtle rustling of boots against stone, and swing your gaze forcefully to regard the signs. Something in the shadows shifts and pulls taut before barreling towards your party, cold iron gleaming in the dark—

*page_break [i]SHING![/i]

The sound of metal clashing immediately startles you into a combat stance, both of your hands reached forward and ready to strike at the assailant. Unfortunately, a clean hit would prove impossible—the shadowy figure has become locked in a duel with ${falco}, their dance of iron and combat steps too fast for your eyes to follow. The latter would leap back into a somersault, dodging a far-reaching swipe of the assailant's scythe, and sticks a poor landing on account of ${fhis} surprise; the assailant spots the vulnerability and moves in for the kill.

In a second, ${yusuha} and Eli both leap into action. Eli draws ${ehis} blade to block the attacker's advance while gusts of wild winds spill forth from ${yusuha}'s fingertips. The shadowy figure weaves past the torrents of wind with a series of acrobatic jumps, ignores the few that manage to strike them in the limbs cleanly enough to draw blood. The figure exchanges a cursory strike with Eli, the blow glancing in a way that makes it clear they had no intention on engaging ${ehim}, and then uses the momentum to vault off of the healer's weapon and dive scythe-first towards ${falco}.

Unfortunately for ${them}, you are ready to unleash your spell.

*choice
    *selectable_if (thaum > 65) #I cast Flametongue.
        *set thaum %+ 15
        *set flametongue true
        *set tcounter +1
        You had contemplated the wisdom of casting Morana's Wail to bludgeon the figure backwards, but they have proven themselves too agile for your larger, more lumbering spells to strike. Flametongue, on the other hand, did exactly what you needed it to. Despite being considerably weaker than the ice missile, the localized explosion catches the assailant towards the middle of its impact zone, and forces them to roll backwards into a somersault, away from their compromised target.
        
        "Ah, I've messed up," the assailant says sweetly, their voice carrying a thick accent you can't quite place. Their hood appears to have fallen off during their mid-air maneuver, revealing underneath a lithe girl with black hair and violet eyes. She seemed to be incredibly young, younger still than ${falco}'s twenty years, and you can't help but to wonder what sort of life she must have led, to fight as effectively as she did at such a tender age. "A pity. Things will be difficult now."
    *selectable_if (enchantment > 65) #I cast Glyph of Subjugation.
        *set enchantment %+ 15
        *set glyphofsubjugation true
        *set ecounter +1
        Given the assailant's skill level, you are under no illusion that such a haphazardly cast Glyph would override their control of their own body for more than a few seconds. Fortunately, a few seconds is all you really need. You watch carefully as the figure's muscles seize up underneath their clothes, their limbs violently jerking to and fro as they attempt to brute-force their way through the spell. They succeed sooner than you had expected, but it's of no consequence—their assault is successfully foiled, and they are forced to stick a less-than-ideal landing some paces away. An average person's ankle would've been in a bad way from the impact, but they show no discomfort.
        
        "Ah, I've messed up," the assailant says sweetly, their voice carrying a thick accent you can't quite place. Their hood appears to have fallen off during their mid-air maneuver, revealing underneath a lithe girl with black hair and violet eyes. She seemed to be incredibly young, younger still than ${falco}'s twenty years, and you can't help but to wonder what sort of life she must have led, to fight as effectively as she did at such a tender age. "A pity. Things will be difficult now."
    *selectable_if (alchemy > 65) #I cast Everblaze.
        *set alchemy %+ 15
        *set everblaze true
        *set acounter +1
        As far as combat spells go, Everblaze is definitely on the weaker side of the spectrum; its advantages lie in its cheap ingredients and its large damage profile when accumulated over time, making it better suited for battles of attrition instead of the dire situation you're currently faced with.
        
        However, a good alchemist knows how to graft new twists onto time-tested concoctions, and this particular condiment has been formulated to create a flashy explosion upon impact, immediately followed by an illusory explosion. As the exaggerated blast makes contact with the assailant, it achieves the intended effect; the false threat makes it so that their refined battle senses work against them, and they roll backwards into a somersault, away from their compromised target.
        
        "Ah, I've messed up," the assailant says sweetly, their voice carrying a thick accent you can't quite place. Their hood appears to have fallen off during their mid-air maneuver, revealing underneath a lithe girl with black hair and violet eyes. She seemed to be incredibly young, younger still than ${falco}'s twenty years, and you can't help but to wonder what sort of life she must have led, to fight as effectively as she did at such a tender age. "A pity. Things will be difficult now."
    *selectable_if (spiritism > 65) #I cast Spirit Cloak.
        *set spiritism %+ 15
        *set spiritcloak true
        *set scounter +1
        Given the speed at which the assailant is hurtling towards ${falco}, Spirit Cloak's extremely narrow window of activation leaves you feeling much more nervous than you care to admit. Fortunately, you manage to release the spell at just the right moment—${falco}'s body turns incorporeal just as the scythe would have embedded itself onto ${fhis} chest, the sight catching ${fhis} assailant off-guard. The young mage seizes the opportunity and launches a kick to the shadowy figure's side, before bodily throwing ${fhim}self over their crouching form. Before long, the white-haired mage is standing beside you once more, looking none the worse for wear.
        
        "Ah, I've messed up," the assailant says sweetly, their voice carrying a thick accent you can't quite place. Their hood appears to have fallen off during their mid-air maneuver, revealing underneath a lithe girl with black hair and violet eyes. She seemed to be incredibly young, younger still than ${falco}'s twenty years, and you can't help but to wonder what sort of life she must have led, to fight as effectively as she did at such a tender age. "A pity. Things will be difficult now."

"Brat," ${falco} snarls, anger flashing in ${fhis} golden eyes. "You'll pay for that."

"It was a simple greeting. Surely you can tolerate that," the girl says, her smile unfaltering.

"We're not exactly a tolerant bunch, but we may be willing to make an exception," ${yusuha} replies airily, ${yhis} smile edged like a knife. "You can start by identifying yourself, if you're feeling generous. It'd be hard to become fast friends when we don't even know each other."

"We don't make a habit out of talking to corpses," says another voice behind you. You turn your head and cast him a cursory glance—and find that he is the spitting image of the black-haired girl, right down to the mana signature percolating his form. It crackles in the air around him, restless and turbulent, before parting like a fruit cleaved into halves. What remains in its stead is a pair of youths gathered around the boy's feet, their eyes a blinding white and their entire bodies covered in illuminated runes—the tell-tale signs of a phantasma-binding ritual.

A force radiates from their pliant forms with the fury of a hundred burning suns, and all at once your senses are set ablaze. There can be no doubt—this is the root of the corruption.

*choice
    #I can feel my stomach turning upon itself. The torture, the runes, Thaubal Altinier—everything comes rushing back to me at once.
        *set emotional %+ 15
        You try your best not to let the horror show on your face, even as your heart threatens to burst out of your chest. Research into arcana is the vilest thing you have ever encountered on the face of the earth—no one should have to suffer through it, least of all another set of [i]children[/i].
        
        It appears that Eli, at least, shares your distress. You know ${ehim} well enough by now to hear the healer's thought process without so much as a word exchanged, understand that every quirk of every crease is all but screaming in agony. That there are children here which might share ${ehis} brother's fate, become slaughtered at the altar of their Arcadian heritage—it is a thought too sorrowful for ${ehim} to bear, and so ${ehe} moves upon the boy in an instant, ${ehis} blade swift as death as it plunges through the air.
    #I expected this to happen sooner or later. Arcana is too strong and tempting a power not to draw this sort of attention.
        *set emotional %- 15
        It no longer comes as a surprise to you that people consider sinister, life-threatening rituals a worthy price for the awe-inspiring powers of arcana. Crueler things have been done for much less—such is the nature of humans, of the cruel world you are forced to live in.
        
        Of all people, you expect Eli would understand this best, given all that ${ehe} has suffered alongside you. But it does nothing to allay ${ehis} indignation, that history is once again repeating itself—that there are children here which might share ${ehis} brother's fate, become slaughtered at the altar of their Arcadian heritage. It is a thought too sorrowful for ${ehim} to bear, and so ${ehe} moves upon the boy in an instant, ${ehis} blade swift as death as it plunges through the air.
    #I have no time to ponder such concerns. Those children are in grave danger, and we have to rescue them [i]now[/i].
        *set noble %+ 15
        You do a cursory scan of the ritual's spell circle, trying your best to spot stray runes that you can exploit to prematurely abort the process. Back in Thaubal Altinier's underground chamber, the survival rate of test subjects was a measly ten percent; you don't imagine these children's chances to be much better.
        
        A sideways glance at Eli tells you that the healer shares your distress. You know ${ehim} well enough by now to hear ${ehis} thought process without so much as a word exchanged, understand that every quirk of ${ehis} every crease is all but screaming in agony. That there are children here which might share ${ehis} brother's fate, become slaughtered at the altar of their Arcadian heritage—it is a thought too sorrowful for ${ehim} to bear, and so ${ehe} moves upon the boy in an instant, ${ehis} blade swift as death as it plunges through the air.
    #Those children must be a valuable resource for the pair. We might be able to use that to our advantage.
        *set noble %- 15
        Cruel though it may be to say, taking down these foreign fighters must take priority over the children's survival. Leaving them to roam free would only result in the abduction and sacrifice of others; there is far too much at stake here to let concern over two deathbound individuals compromise the mission.
        
        Of all people, you expect Eli would understand this best, given the procession of dead children ${ehe} had seen carted out of Thaubal Altinier's lab. Your folly is in thinking that it would allow ${ehim} to override ${ehis} basest instincts, the indignation ${ehe} must feel at seeing history repeating itself once more. That there are children here which might share ${ehis} brother's fate, become slaughtered at the altar of their Arcadian heritage. It is a thought too sorrowful for ${ehim} to bear, and so ${ehe} moves upon the boy in an instant, ${ehis} blade swift as death as it plunges through the air.

Unfortunately, the violet-eyed fighter is every bit ${ehis} equal in close combat; he has his lance drawn in the blink of an eye, parries Eli's strikes with rhythmic precision. When Eli redoubles ${ehis} attacks and makes a grab for the captive children, the boy twists his mana into a lurid, harsh-edged spell circle, and forces Eli back with the torrential blast of water it spits out.

"Come now, Brother Ralos," the girl groans from the other side of the room, teeth grit in what appears to be genuine frustration. "You agreed to let [i]me[/i] handle things here."

"You lost us the first strike advantage, Altea. All for the sake of toying with them," he says flatly. "Our foes are not so weak so as to be trifled with, and your overconfidence has cost us dearly. I made the necessary call."

"Who in Isha's name are you?" ${yusuha} interrupts, plainly shaken by the sight of the rune-carved youths. "You seek to bind a phantasma through this—this abomination? Have you any idea what you're putting them through? Stop this at once!"

Altea beams at ${yusuha}'s words. "Aha, so you all [i]do[/i] know more than that Eli lets on! How wonderful," she says. "If you are so concerned that we're doing the ritual wrong, then all you need to do is teach us the proper way. Not that we'll leave you a choice in the matter. I've already decided—you're coming with us."

"Arrogant," ${falco} declares, the skin of ${fhis} back already distorted by ${fhis} rising arcana. "You are the one who will be at our mercy. And we'll drag the truth out of you, one way or another."

"Well, you're certainly no slouches in battle…unfortunately for you, we have, ah, how does the saying go? An [i]ace up our sleeve[/i]?" the girl says, laughter lacing her words. "You understand, I'm sure. Ralos, will you do the honors?"

*page_break

Ralos hears her words and moves to obey them. There is a surge of mana that leaps through the air like lightning, a flash of all-engulfing light, a beat of perfect silence.

And then it is as if the entire crypt has collapsed into itself.

*page_break

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize that the weight bearing down upon you is neither dislodged stone nor fallen debris. You couldn't really be blamed for it, however—not when you feel the oppressive force upon your shoulders like a physical load, hefty and back-breaking—who could have guessed that it was really a massive host of mana, so concentrated that it has begun to coagulate into fog?

You force yourself to look at where the boy had once stood, a magical attack already brewing on your fingertips. Unfortunately, all that remains there are the pair of phantasma-bound children, fingers clawing into their own skin, their mouths opened in a silent scream. Wave after wave of phantasmal energy radiate from their forms periodically, steady as a heartbeat, richer still than all four of your phantasma put together.

"Pyrian, the Wellspring," ${yusuha} hisses beside you. "This is bad."

It is not a name you've ever heard before—unsurprisingly so, given how recently you've been added to Arcadia's roster. Fortunately for you, Eli and ${falco} seem to share your confusion, though at the moment they seem more concerned with locating Ralos and Altea amidst the arcane chaos. ${yusuha} nevertheless picks up on their incertitude, gives the explanation even as ${yhe} readies ${yhis} next salvo of phantasmal wind.

"Pyrian is a nigh-inexhaustible mana source," ${yhe} says. "She grants her host no power of their own, but when summoned in this way, her mana may be used by her host's allies."

"These two are talented thaumers. They can definitely use that to their advantage," Eli mutters. "We must move in quickly. Can't afford to let them wear us out."

"What are we whispering about over there?" Altea yells out from the other side of the room. ${yusuha} immediately responds by letting loose a barrage of wind spells, casting as wide a net as possible in the general direction of her voice. "Missed me!" she taunts, still masked by the thick mist of mana.

*page_break "My turn!"

Altea bounds out of the fog amidst a whirlwind of raging lightning, expertly spinning her scythe around and imbuing it with her thaum. She is quicker now, her steps lighter as she glides and closes the distance between you, approaching quickly enough that you haven't the time to devise a countermeasure. Thankfully, ${falco} is quicker on ${fhis} feet—the mage's serpent rises out of ${fhis} back and lunges forward, all scales and fangs and deadly venom, forcing Altea to lean into a sideways dodge and abort her forward strike. She instead rolls into a crouch and unleashes her built-up thaum,
*if (skywrath = true)
    manifesting a Skywrath so vicious that it puts your own iteration to shame.
*else
    a vicious blast of lightning you recognize as Skywrath, one of the deadliest thaum spells in existence.

${yusuha} takes the opportunity to release a surprise of ${yhis} own, and with a hastily-cast series of glyphs ${yhe} erects a protective dome laced with turbulent wind currents. The gales roil and screech as they are struck directly by Altea's spell, and for a tense, nerve-racking moment it seemed as if ${yusuha}'s wind-shield would collapse upon itself. Thankfully, it holds strong for the most part—and damages incurred by what stray bolts of lightning manage to slip through the cracks are quickly reversed by Eli.

Just as you are about to breathe a sigh of relief, a torrential downpour rains down upon your group, the sudden pressure of it blasting cleanly through ${yusuha}'s spell. This time it is ${falco} who goes on the defensive, ${fhis} serpent twisting into a protective coil above your group. The young mage growls in pain as ${fhe} is forced to take the brunt of the spell head-on, but when Eli attempts to heal ${ehim} ${fhe} simply wrenches the older mage's hand off of ${fhis} shoulder.

"This is—nothing," ${fhe} heaves through gritted teeth. "Take them out, go!"

$!{fhe} would not need to tell you twice.

*choice
    *selectable_if (thaum > 75) #I cast Skywrath.
        *set skywrath true
        *set thaum %+ 15
        Lightning spills forth from your fingers in violent, leaping arcs, an almost nostalgic sensation after years of using ${phant1}'s powers like a crutch. There is something liberating about not having to rely on the strength of arcane deities, being unafraid that their might could backfire against you at any given moment. That every bit of mana surging through the air right now is entirely, unequivocally [i]yours[/i], fueled by the strength of your will and decades of magical learning. You had forgotten how good that feeling could be, how utterly validating—and now it feels as if you'll remember it for eternity.
        
        Adrenaline courses through your veins as the spell strikes Altea directly on her side, too quick and irregular for her to make a perfect dodge. Her brother swings down from his high perch in a bid to rescue her, counting on the recoil of your spell to keep you from firing once more; but your small victory has put you on an adrenaline high, and against conventional wisdom you launch a second barrage of the spell directly at the unsuspecting boy.
        
        Your gambit succeeds, though the strain of it forces you onto your knees. The burst of lightning's impact upon the boy is not quite the direct hit you were hoping for, but it thwarts his assault and lands him on his back. Before the boy could fully comprehend what had happened to him, Eli is already bearing down on him with ${ehis} blade drawn; a razor-thin dodge leaves the weapon embedded upon the stone floor, Ralos's face twisted into a grimace as he kicks himself up into a high vault—
        
        Right into the center of ${yusuha}'s spell.
    *selectable_if (enchantment > 75) #I cast Banecircle.
        *set banecircle true
        *set enchantment %+ 15
        The glyph carves itself onto the floor with a flourish of mana, the sight of it almost nostalgic after years of using ${phant1}'s powers like a crutch. There is something liberating about not having to rely on the strength of arcane deities, being unafraid that their might could backfire against you at any given moment. That every bit of mana surging through the air right now is entirely, unequivocally [i]yours[/i], fueled by the strength of your will and decades of magical learning. You had forgotten how good that feeling could be, how utterly validating—and now it feels as if you'll remember it for eternity.
        
        Adrenaline courses through your veins as the spell strikes Altea before she could escape its area of impact, the Glyph too quickly cast for her to make a perfect dodge. Her brother swings down from his high perch as she clutches at the hemorrhaging cavity where her shoulder once was, uncharacteristically clumsy in his rush to rescue her. He had been counting on the recoil of your spell to keep you from firing off a follow-up attack; but your small victory has put you on an adrenaline high, and against conventional wisdom you immediately cast a Glyph of Subjugation on the unsuspecting boy.
        
        Your gambit succeeds, though the strain of it forces you onto your knees. The Glyph is painted in mana streaks onto the air around him, seizing up his muscles mid-dive and sending him hurtling towards the ground. Before the boy could fully comprehend what had happened to him, Eli is already bearing down on him with ${ehis} blade drawn; a razor-thin dodge leaves the weapon embedded upon the stone floor, Ralos's face twisted into a grimace as he kicks himself up into a high vault—
        
        Right into the center of ${yusuha}'s spell.
    *selectable_if (alchemy > 75) #I cast Widow's Stream.
        *set widowsstream true
        *set alchemy %+ 15
        The stream of toxins spill forth from your fingers like a rushing river, hissing angrily as it corrupts the very air it sails through. It must have been years since you've properly used the spell in combat, and the sight of it is almost nostalgic after years of using ${phant1}'s powers like a crutch. There is something liberating about not having to rely on the strength of arcane deities, being unafraid that their might could backfire against you at any given moment. That every bit of mana surging through the air right now is entirely, unequivocally [i]yours[/i], fueled by the strength of your will and decades of magical learning. You had forgotten how good that feeling could be, how utterly validating—and now it feels as if you'll remember it for eternity.
        
        Adrenaline courses through your veins as the spell strikes Altea directly on her side, the toxins' area of impact far too wide for her to make a perfect dodge. Her brother swings down from his high perch in a bid to rescue her, counting on the recoil of your spell to keep you from firing once more; but your small victory has put you on an adrenaline high, and against conventional wisdom you launch a second barrage of the spell directly at the unsuspecting boy.
        
        Your gambit succeeds, though the strain of it forces you onto your knees. The cloud of poison catches the boy mid-dive and sears painfully against his skin, thwarting his assault and sending him hurtling onto the floor. Before the boy could fully comprehend what had happened to him, Eli is already bearing down on him with ${ehis} blade drawn; a razor-thin dodge leaves the weapon embedded upon the stone floor, Ralos's face twisted into a grimace as he kicks himself up into a high vault—
        
        Right into the center of ${yusuha}'s spell.
    *selectable_if (spiritism > 75) #I cast Gatebreaker.
        *set gatebreaker true
        *set spiritism %+ 15
        The stream of spirits spill forth from your fingers with a deafening wail, turning the very air putrid as they sail forth towards Altea. It must have been years since you've properly used the spell in combat, and the sight of it is almost nostalgic after years of using ${phant1}'s powers like a crutch. There is something liberating about not having to rely on the strength of arcane deities, being unafraid that their might could backfire against you at any given moment. That every bit of mana surging through the air right now is entirely, unequivocally [i]yours[/i], fueled by the strength of your will and decades of magical learning. You had forgotten how good that feeling could be, how utterly validating—and now it feels as if you'll remember it for eternity.
        
        Adrenaline courses through your veins as the spell perfectly engulfs Altea, the spirits too fast and far-reaching for her to make a perfect dodge. Her brother swings down from his high perch in a bid to rescue her, counting on the recoil of your spell to keep you from firing once more; but your small victory has put you on an adrenaline high, and against conventional wisdom you launch a second barrage of the spell directly at the unsuspecting boy.
        
        Your gambit succeeds, though the strain of it forces you onto your knees. The spirits catch him in the back and eats into the skin there, quick and merciless—the pain of the assault foils his attack mid-dive and sends him hurtling towards the ground. Before the boy could fully comprehend what had happened to him, Eli is already bearing down on him with ${ehis} blade drawn; a razor-thin dodge leaves the weapon embedded upon the stone floor, Ralos's face twisted into a grimace as he kicks himself up into a high vault—
        
        Right into the center of ${yusuha}'s spell.
        
*page_break

You can't help but be awestruck by the churning, violent sphere of winds ${yusuha} has unleashed upon the center of the room. It expands and collapses onto itself like a rapidly beating heart, each cycle sending a fresh host of blade-like gales towards the spell's center. A sideways glance tells you that ${falco}'s serpent has snapped Altea up and forcefully tossed her into the sphere as well, and together the pair are consumed by the all-engulfing hurricane.

Or so it likely would have gone, were it not for the aid of Pyrian. Instead the pair casts a desperate barrage of thaum spells to act as a counterforce to the whirling winds, water and lightning swirling around their forms as a sort of makeshift barrier. By the time ${yusuha}'s control over the spell expires and they are released from the winds' clutches, the siblings have been visibly wounded and beaten down—but far from incapacitated.

"Damn, damn, damn!" Altea curses, forced into a low crouch by the severity of her wounds. "You weren't supposed to be this strong!"

"Keep a cool head, Altea," Ralos says in turn, rubbing his shirt against the bleeding head injury he's sustained. "This is far from over. We can still turn the tides."

"Learn to read the damn battle, you halfwit! We don't stand a chance against them!" she shrieks. "I can't die here, I don't [i]want[/i] to die here, I—! No, no, no!"

"[i]Altea, stop[/i]—"

"We have to do it," the girl says then, her tone urgent, desperate. "We have to destroy the limiter seal."

"Impossible. We would compromise the targets' lives—and return to the Grandmaster empty-handed."

"Better than dying here in the middle of nowhere!" she spits back. "Look, they're all arcanists, aren't they? We can just take [i]them[/i]! Fully matured spellcasters who'll likely be of much better use to Resnik compared to a couple of snot-nosed brats. The Grandmaster won't be able to complain!"

Ralos chews on his lower lip as he considers his sister's words. "Tch," he says after a while, dropping into a combat stance. "I suppose we're out of options."

"And here we were, kind enough to let you do the rational thing and surrender," ${yusuha} says, affecting an amused grin despite ${yhis} visible exertion.

"I'll wipe that damn smile of your face," Altea snarls, before slamming both of her hands onto the ground.

*page_break "You're all finished!"

There is a burst of magic that flashes like lightning—is there one moment, and gone the next—and as it passes you can almost feel the entire room beginning to [i]shift[/i]. It is a moment before you can recognize exactly what happened—and despite your group launching a second round of attacks, desperately trying to interrupt the pair mid-cast, it was already too late. They shake off the attacks like rainwater, steps fluid as they dance around blade and spell alike, their speed and strength decidedly superhuman.

"Pyrian's mana fog is thinning," Eli remarks, your own horror mirrored in ${ehis} eyes. "They're absorbing all of her ambient mana."

${yusuha} takes a cautious step back, eyeing the siblings with open disbelief. A series of fire spells shoot out from ${yhis} fingertips, more a formality than a genuine attack—the siblings easily dodge them with a series of acrobatic leaps, all the while Pyrian's mist continues to fade. "There are no records of Pyrian ever being used in this way," the redhead remarks, uncharacteristically nervous. "How could you modify the terms of the contract? Just who is it that you're working for?'

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Altea replies haughtily, her voice carrying a ghastly echo as it reverberates through the tomb. Lightning crackles and swirls around her as the last of Pyrian's mana seeps into her form, her smile widening all the while. Beside her Ralos is similarly surrounded by a cascade of raging water, growing more torrential by the second as he shifts into a combat stance. "Last a couple of minutes against us, and maybe we'll tell."

"[i]Altea[/i]."

"Fine," she sighs, running a hand through her black hair. "You may blame my brother for it, but I'm afraid playtime's over."

*page_break

As soon as the words leave her mouth, Altea bounds forward at a breakneck speed, propelled by bursts of thunder that shoot off of her form like crossbow bolts. ${falco} and Eli take vanguard in a bid to halt her advance, weapons and spells expertly brandished and slung, but Altea is as swift as lightning as she weaves through their charge. A feinting step, a burst of Thunderstrike, and she has the pair disoriented and reeling from her assault, her feet solidly planted on their shoulders before launching forward in a deadly arc.

[i]Towards you.[/i]

You feel your limbs moving of their own accord, desperately reaching for whatever spell might foil her attack. But the effort is in vain—she is upon you before a single incantation could leave your mouth, the lightning surrounding her twisting into talons before her hand is driven directly into your gut.

You scream as you feel the sharp pain spreading in your stomach, even as the force of the impact sends you flying towards the center of the room. Something breaks in your shoulder as you crash side-first onto one of the sacrophagi, the impact spilling rivulets of blood from the fresh cavity in your stomach. Before you could so much as wince from the agonizing pain, Ralos comes bearing down upon you with a plunging attack, the glinting tip of his lance promising a quick and painless death.

You refuse to close your eyes even as the younger mage dives, remaining defiant even in the face of death—and in doing so, you had full view of the crypt behind him as it begins to [i]light up[/i].

A breathtaking, mazelike array of runes reveal themselves on the crypt's walls and floor and ceiling, bathing the room in a flood of arcane light—and you can't help but to marvel at the sight, so otherworldly and trancelike, even as your vision slowly fades to black.

*page_break

When you are lucid once more, you are back in a familiar place—one you thought you wouldn't see again for some time yet. The frigid expanse of the abyss welcomes you with a baleful sort of silence, completely bereaved of noise but for the sound of crushed pebbles underfoot, giving way as you walk to reach the edge of its depths.

"${phant1}?" you call out uncertainly, your voice echoing off the walls of the chasm. "Did you bring me here?"

And then a sound rattles in your head, resonant and oddly melodic, and it takes you some time to realize that it's forming [i]words[/i].

*page_break [i]Be,..loved...of...Is...sha.[/i]

You whirl around instinctively, feeling a presence lying in wait just behind you, and find there a specter carved of white mist, floating in the air. The man's intangible body shifts and swirls with every movement, as if struggling to keep its own form.

[i]You…have arrived…at last.[/i]

"Who are you?" you demand of the spirit, for none have ever stood upon the abyss other than you and your phantasma. "How have you come here?'

[i]I…did not…ah…so pain…ful,[/i] the spirit laments. He holds out a frail, decaying hand, trembling as he urges for you to take it. [i]Please…release…me.[/i]

*choice
    #I don't make a habit out of trusting strange spirits I don't recognize. I jerk away from him.
        *set optimistic %- 15
        [i]A shame…Be…loved[/i], he says, even as the turgid mist percolating off his form begins to bend and swirl. [i]Very well…I…will make…you see.[/i]
        
        And with these final, sinister words, the figure dissipates into a cloud of white smog, obscuring your vision and consciousness both in one fell swoop.
        *page_break You fall.
    #I take his hand in my own, compelled by an odd sense of pity.
        *set noble %+ 15
        [i]Thank…you…beloved…[/i] he says, a turgid mist percolating off his form. [i]I…will explain. I…will make…you see.[/i]
        
        And with these final, ominous words, the figure dissipates into a cloud of white smog, obscuring your vision and consciousness both in one fell swoop.
        *page_break You fall.
    #I take his hand in my own, if only because I have nothing left to lose.
        [i]Thank…you…beloved…[/i] he says, a turgid mist percolating off his form. [i]I…will explain. I…will make…you see.[/i]
        
        And with these final, ominous words, the figure dissipates into a cloud of white smog, obscuring your vision and consciousness both in one fell swoop.
        *page_break You fall.

…

*page_break

*label thulrumfallsection
Thulrum has fallen.

It is a scene from your worst, most improbable nightmares, to see the bastion of magic and wisdom overrun by invaders under a heathen creed. The air is acrid, thick with the scent of burning flesh and smoke, rising in clouds from the smoldering ruins of the Arcane Sanctum. Heraldry, scrolls, and paintings have all been set ablaze, centuries' worth of heritage turned to ash as the blood of your people splatter across the ceramic floor. Blasphemous knights yell out the name of their demon king as they filter into the halls in waves, all clanging armor and battle-cries, their blades finding purchase in the backs of lord-mages.

[i]Your[/i] lord-mages. Researchers who had been by your side as you made breakthroughs in arcane theory. Healers who had protected the innocent from plagues, distilled potions which had saved countless lives. Warmages who would have been able to repel the incoming army, were they given half a fair chance.

They fall one by one like puppets with their strings cut, the thud of their bodies hitting the ground loud as wardrums in your ears. The sound of your failure, whole and absolute. You struggle to keep the bile down.

It should have never happened. Arcadia is a nation as powerful as it is noble, and defense of the land should have involved little more than border scuffles and a grand ritual or two. Instead, Param and Salantira both have descended onto her streets like a towering, violent wave, throwing all sense and honor to the wind as they slaughter mages and civilians alike.

The ink is still wet on the alliance treaty. What would possess them to pursue such cruelty?

*fake_choice
    #Greed and selfishness. They are after our knowledge, our resources—no matter the cost.
        After all, Arcadia has long since outstripped its neighbors in both wealth and knowledge. Were it not for the formidable mages in Arcadia's employ, these barbarians would have long since raided Arcadian coffers.
        
        They would never have succeeded on an honorable assault. It's pitiful comfort, however, when the nation you faithfully served and bled for collapses around you, battered and burned from the traitorous strike.
    #This is a crusade, pure and simple. They have been swayed by their accursed Church to slaughter our people.
        You can already envision that witch they call a saintess, black-hearted and honey-tongued as she calls for her people to slay the non-believers. She plasters on a smile and speaks of peace, of salvation. But ever were the Ishavak exempt from the mercy she preaches.
        
        The murder of innocents amounts to sacrilege under the Jovian Faith—but who pauses for such considerations when there are infidels to put to the sword?
        
        You grit your teeth as another mage falls, as another pillar falls in the burning hall. All around you, the nation you faithfully served and bled for begins to collapse, and that cruel fate you had fought so hard to avoid looms ever larger on the horizon.
    #Who can understand the thought process of heathens? They are bastards, one and all.
        But then again, they had to be. For what hope did they have against Arcadia at full strength, prepared for an honorable assault which broke neither truce nor alliance?
        
        In all your years of being alive, no realization has ever stung more than this. That were the conditions reversed, that Arcadians were the dishonorable swine and these invaders the hapless victims, their destruction would have been total and complete. It would have been a swift and merciful end, rather than the slow, staggered death that Arcadia has fallen victim to.
        
        Not that it matters, in the end. You cast a glance around the room, watching helplessly as the nation you faithfully served and bled for teeters on the edge of collapse. Mustering what little strength remains to avoid its final, inevitable fate.

"Lord Dynast, sire, you have to evacuate!"

You turn your head towards the source of the noise, and find your beloved at the edge of the sanctum, holding back a fresh wave of knights from the lower floors. The Lady Dynast frantically weaves a gout of flame into existence, lets it rip through enemy lines and slip into the gaps of armors. The spell has the intended effect—the vanguard is left writhing on the floor when the flames subside, grasping at the heat that seem to pierce through their very bones. And yet before long the rearguard has barreled up the staircase, stepping over their comrades' bodies and charging at the Lady with the fervor of madmen.

"I will not leave you," you hiss, your own spell whistling through the air like missiles. Many of them bound towards walls and fixtures and ripple into nothing (you are too exhausted to aim, but there are hundreds of them and so few of your own, and worry for friendly fire is a luxury you can no longer afford—), but a handful hit the invading knights in the neck and leg and back and send them flying down the staircase. The Lady Dynast seizes the momentum and summons a tongue of flame that flows down the steps like a river. The wooden planks give way under the unforgiving heat, and the invaders fall by the dozens to their deaths.

"You must secure the Mateus's escape," says the Lady Dynast—strong, noble Ophea. so beautiful even in the midst of pandemonium, even with blood coating her teeth. "I'll hold them off here as long as I can. Please, my lord—there isn't much time."

In the depths of your heart, you know that she is right. All of your lord-mages lie dead and broken on the floor, completely decimated by the unexpected assault. There is no way for you both to make it out of this ordeal alive—and you both know that if one is to survive, you are the more valuable asset.

You know your duty, but your unsteady heart does not. It seeks out Ophea and her noble spirit, her sweat-matted auburn hair, eyes of burnt amber reflecting the flames. It makes its traitorous demands: for you to save her, as any husband deserving of her would. Or failing that, to ensure her death is not a lonely one.

Would it be so bad, to go as one into the void?

*choice
    #I resist the thoughts. I must heed her words, for the good of Arcadia.
        "I love you," you splutter, still convincing yourself that this is the right thing to do. Even as the words leave your lips, even as a thousand reasons in a thousand wise voices race through your mind in agreement of your course, it feels devastatingly [i]wrong[/i]. Craven. Traitorous. "You are the greatest joy of my life, Ophea."
        
        "And you mine," she replies, sturdy and calm, despite the wretched fear reflected in her eyes. "Farewell, my love. Glory to Arcadia, at all costs."
        
        As soon as the words leave her mouth, you hear the clangor of a fresh batch of knights bounding up the staircase, and know then that this is farewell. You take one last glance at the love of your life, her tall figure seeming small and lonely in the growing distance, and make for the exit. Despite the heaviness in your heart, so leaden that you can scarcely breathe, despite the tears streaming down your face.
        
        *page_break You go.
    #I am staying here until the end, and damn anyone who would tell me otherwise.
        Ophea's smile is small, forlorn. "You are always like this," she sighs, sounding almost resigned. "I had hoped it would not come to this, my lord."
        
        "Ophea, I—"
        
        You never get the chance to finish your sentence, as Ophea rapidly aims an explosive spell towards the hall's ceiling. The blaze crackles and groans as it chews through plaster and metal, and it is only a second until the room collapses onto itself. You leap back out of sheer instinct as burning panels crash onto the floor, one after the other. When the dust settles, a fiery wreckage has sealed Ophea away from you—and from her only escape route.
        
        "Go, my love," she orders, sturdy and calm and—final. You can still see her through the gaps of the wreckage, witness the wretched fear reflected in her eyes. "And thank you. Glory to Arcadia, at all costs."
        
        As soon as the words leave her mouth, you hear the clangor of a fresh batch of knights bounding up the staircase, and know then that Ophea has all but met her end. To stay any longer would be to spit on her sacrifice—and so you turn around and make for the exit. Despite the heaviness in your heart, so leaden that you can scarcely breathe, despite the tears streaming down your face.
        
        *page_break You go.

The ground is shaking beneath you as you continue your ascent through the Sanctum, hobbling past wide halls and still-pristine rooms. You know that within minutes the whole place will be ruined and torched to the ground—for the moment, however, you derive some small comfort that the last you'll see of the Sanctum will be it at its best, marble statues and sturdy sandalwood shelves, stained-glass panels which glisten as they catch the light.

You nearly lose your balance when you make it to the other side, and you lean against the doorframe to keep yourself upright as a wicked, bellowing boom echoes through the entire building. You purse your lips together and do your best to swallow your despair. That will have been Ophea, exerting the last trick in her book to buy you what time she could. She is dead and gone, now. You would be glad to join her, in truth, but you would be spitting on her sacrifice. Arcadia still has need of you, and it is your duty to draw breath in her service.

"Good to see you still alive and kicking, old man," says a low, gravelly voice to your right. You whip around and reach for your mana, operating on pure instinct, arcane words already dancing at the tip of your tongue—and then let your spell dissipate into air. In front of you stands a young man in his early twenties, his red hair pulled into a tight ponytail, both arms raised in front of himself in surrender. Dain Wiarosa, the youngest child of the Lord Dynast Wiarosa—who had already fallen at the Sanctum gates, along with the entirety of his brood. Or so you had thought.

"Dynast Dain. You've survived."

"Just barely," he says, his grin bloody. He shifts his robe to the right, and through the gap you could see the hole in his stomach. Grisly, hastily healed, and most definitely in need of further attention. "My Lord Father was as impressive as ever, right up until the end. Almost makes me feel bad for beating a strategic retreat."

*choice
    #"The Lord Dynast was a good man. He would have wanted you to save yourself."
        "Too good, if you ask me. Not that I'm complaining," the boy says. He's affecting an airy, carefree facade, but you can easily detect the distress underpinning his tone—it's clear the boy is more anguished than he lets on. "He should've been the one to live. I'm not half the mage he is—Arcadia has little use for someone like me."
        
        You've seen enough of survivor's guilt to recognize it at first sight, and it's clear that the boy is affected by it. Worse still, he's letting it cloud his judgment—Dain is an immensely talented mage, one who is almost guaranteed to outstrip his father when his powers have matured. "That old friend of mine made the right call," you say simply. "You will become an invaluable asset to the Arcadia." You catch yourself, then, and reconsider your words. "Or what remains of it after this dark day."
        
        "Ha! You know just what to say to keep my spirits high, my lord," he replies with forced cheer. "Regardless, it would be premature to count our blessings already. Those blasted knights are still hot on our heels."
        
        "The Eye is right on the other side of this hallway. As long as a Mateus has made it…"
        
        "Pardon me for not holding my breath," he huffs. "I saw Dynast Aire Mateus lose her head two floors down. Our odds seem more and more grim by the second—"
    #"A cowardly choice, Dynast—and one I have made myself."
        "Would you look at that," the boy says, laughing. "Are you trying to cheer me up, my lord? There is no greater honor than to be in the company of Lord Dynast Lucerre, the infallible Lord Peacekeeper of Arcadia."
        
        "And a damn fine job I've done at that," you scoff. "For she has never seen more peaceful times."
        
        "Touche. Then let us bask in our shared disgrace," he says cheerily. "Perhaps we ought to just stay here. If we are to die either way, I'd rather go down fighting, salvage what honor I can."
        
        "Don't be ridiculous. The Eye is on the other side of this hallway—as long as a Mateus has made it…"
        
        "As far as conditions go, that's a pretty big one," he huffs. "I saw Dynast Aire lose her head a couple of floors down…our chances are looking pretty grim, I have to admit—"
    #"It's important that the Wiarosa bloodline lives on. You made the right choice."
        "Spoken like a true dynast," the younger man scoffs as he falls into step beside you. The statement was light-hearted, but you detect the distress underpinning his tone—it's clear the boy is more anguished than he lets on.  "He should've been the one to live. I'm not half the mage he is—Arcadia has little use for someone like me."
        
        "The Eye is right on the other side of this hallway. As long as a Mateus has made it…"
        
        "Pardon me for not holding my breath," he huffs. "I saw Dynast Aire Mateus lose her head two floors down. Our odds seem more and more grim by the second—"
        
The boy halts his words as you round the corner, and come upon a sight that makes your heart swell with relief. The Sanctum Eye—a marble altar covered with layers upon layers of ancient runes—stands in one piece at the center of a marble platform. Standing over it is a familiar woman with a cascading crown of black hair, her breaths labored as she pours her pale red mana onto the Eye.

"Lady Dynast!" you find yourself yelling, suddenly finding the strength to scuffle forward at a brisker pace. "You've survived. Isha-on-high smiles upon us today."

The woman diverts her attention from the runes for a moment, and manages a tense smile as she sees you both approach. "Lord Dynast Lucerre, Dynast Wiarosa. It does my heart good to see you both safe."

"My lady," Dain says behind you, casting a concerned gaze around the room. "Surely you were not the only one to make it."

The Lady Dynast laughs mirthlessly at that. "Worry not. Lady Roumen has already taken some fifty people with her, and they're now only awaiting the Eye's activation," she explains. "Her arcana is really quite useful. It is a shame that we dynasts cannot contract her phantasma."

"Our blessings are plentiful enough as it stands, my lady."

"That they are," the woman concedes with a sigh. "Can I count on them now, Lord Dynast? I do believe we've attracted company."

*page_break

As soon as the woman says this, you hear a thundering of footsteps from the hallway behind you. Out pours from around the corner a stream of charging knights—some singed and heavily wounded, undoubtedly the work of the Lady Dynast—but spirited all the same. Their pace only seems to hasten as they continue the approach, and you have no doubt in your mind that they think of the battle as already won. All that stands between them and resounding, glorious victory are three wounded, battered mages, and so they charge forward like men and women possessed.

Alas, they'll soon find that they're in for disappointment.

Your sword hand flexes and retracts, missing the weight of a weapon in its grip. Its aid would have been welcome in this circumstance, with much of your mana spent, and your enemies descending upon you in their tens, in their hundreds, like a starving murder scouring the battlefield. You cannot be sure that you have strength enough to overwhelm them all. And yet you have no choice but to try.

Mana roils and surges underneath your skin, a force ancient and certain as gravity, and as it crests you stare down upon the advancing mob. They circle you like hyenas, grips firm on their weapons and eyes vigilant, convinced that the blessings of their heathen god will preserve them, make smooth their righteous crusade. Bridge the massive rift between your powers. 

You may well die for it, but you will make them learn of their foolishness.

What spell will you cast?

*label earthsworn
*choice
    #Earthsworn: Cannon
        Earthsworn: Cannon is a spell that manifests a number of gravity fields in the air, each with a strong pull which attracts matter and debris towards its center. The resulting constructs are coated with haphazard arrays of scrap and shrapnel, rotating quickly around the projectiles as the field's flux pushes and pulls against them. They make for a deadly method of ranged assault, racing across the battlefield at high speeds and ripping into any enemy unfortunate enough to be caught in their path.
        
        Will you cast Earthsworn: Cannon?
        *choice
            #Yes, cast this spell.
                *goto cannon
            #No, I'll cast something else.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto earthsworn
    #Earthsworn: Sanction Grounds
        Earthsworn: Sanction Grounds manifests itself in the form of a powerful gravity field, spreading radially outwards form the caster's position. The field's pulling force completely immobilizes all creatures within its range—bar the caster—thus rooting them to the ground and rendering them vulnerable to further attacks.
        
        Will you cast Earthsworn: Sanction Grounds?
        *choice
            #Yes, cast this spell.
                *goto sanctiongrounds
            #No, I'll cast something else.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto earthsworn
    #Earthsworn: Black Sun
        Earthsworn: Black Sun creates a massive gravity core in the air, which exerts a powerful pulling force on its surrounding environment. Enemies caught in its impact zone are immediately suctioned towards the core, to be distorted and churned by the forcefield until naught remains but powdered bones and crushed remains. However, the spell's fearsome power imposes a terrible toll on your mana, and it is likely that you will not be able to sustain the spell for long.
        *choice
            #Yes, cast this spell.
                *goto blacksun
            #No, I'll cast something else.
                What spell will you cast?
                *goto earthsworn

*label cannon

There is a low, jarring rumble in the air as you bring the spell to bear, and immediately a cluster of five gravity cores manifest into existence, seemingly out of thin air. By your command, they launch forward with the force of a battering ram, hovering low above the ground as they pick up discarded weapons and broken glass and distort them into deadly coats of shrapnel. By the time the first of the cannonballs hit the knights' vanguard, you're already charging up a second salvo, and before long the invaders' bravado turns to fear as they watch their comrades fall around them in droves.

There is a sudden crackle of mana beside you, and without turning your head you know that Dain has entered the fray. With a flourish of his arms he calls upon the powers of his phantasma, and at once it is as if the knights have thrown themselves in the path of your cannonballs. One after the other, their bodies are yanked into place like ragdolls, and they can only watch in horror as your spell comes barreling down the hall and collides with their body.
*goto postearthsworn

*label sanctiongrounds

There is a strange, hollow ache in your hands as you bring the spell to bear, and as soon as you feel it crest you kneel onto the ground and slam your palms against the ceramic floor. Immediately the field flows from your fingers like water from a wellspring, spreading rapidly across the hall and catching the unsuspecting knights by surprise. Thirty, forty knights become rooted where they stand when the spell is complete, every one tossing their torsos about in a bid to break free from the spell's grasp.

They are unsuccessful, though the strain of their resistance feels like knives upon your mana ducts. It has been decades since you were last forced to cast so demanding a spell against so many targets, and it appears your skills have begun to rust in the meantime. You almost breathe a sigh of relief as a gout of familiar mana crackles in the air beside you, and without turning your head you know that Dain has entered the fray.

With a flourish of his arms, the young mage calls upon the powers of his phantasma, and at once it is as if the knights have been yanked upwards by an invisible force. They scream and flail and shriek as their bodies are pulled in opposite directions, can only watch in horror as their comrades are pulled and bisected by your combined spells, knowing full well that they will soon share a similar fate.
*goto postearthsworn

*label blacksun

There is a low, jarring rumble in the air as you bring the spell to bear, and immediately the gravity core twists into existence with an astral screech. By your command, the spell hangs in mid-air and exerts a tremendous suctioning force upon its immediate surroundings, and knights and rubble alike are pulled by the phantom force and churned within the core.

There is a sickening squelch as the spell takes the first of the invaders, and another as it spits her body back out, twisted and broken. A second knight tries his best to escape the core's pull, but the force swipes his legs out from under him and mercilessly yanks him to his death. Before long seven or eight knights have met their end this way, and every time they scream and flail and struggle in a bid to break free from the spell's grasp.

They are unsuccessful, though the strain of their resistance feels like knives upon your mana ducts. Black Sun always makes you feel like death upon every cast, fitting though the cost may be given the power it holds. It is a relief, then, when you feel a gout of familiar mana crackling in the air beside you. Without turning your head, you know that Dain has entered the fray.

With a flourish of his arms, the young mage calls upon the powers of his phantasma, and at once each knight stops their resistance right before they are fed to Black Sun. There is a remarkable tension to their muscles, palpable fear in their eyes as their limbs refuse to obey them—they can only watch in horror as the gravity core pulls them ever closer, a gaping maw in which they will meet their end.
*goto postearthsworn

*label postearthsworn
*page_break

"Looks like our luck is turning," Dain says, even as he furiously casts his spells. "Just keep this up a little longer, and we'll—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Dain's body is hurled backwards by an attack neither of you had seen coming. The boy yells out in pain as a morning star connects with his chest, clutches at the wounds seeping through his clothes as his back meets the floor. The flail swings over his sprawled body and arcs over to you, and it is only your years of combat experience that lets you leap away from the blow and land several paces away, unscathed.

"You lot truly don't know when to give up," remarks a voice, low and imperious. You turn your eyes upon its source, and struggle then to keep your expletive down. Nantael Randall de Param walks out from amidst the retinue of knights, his polished golden armor all but drenched in blood. In his hands is the morning star with which he had struck Dain, though it is now reverting back to its original form—a large claymore marked with the insignia of the Parami royal house.

Param's Golden King in the flesh.

Your luck is turning, indeed.

*choice
    #"So the double-crossing king has shown his face. Have you no shame for what you've wrought here, Your Majesty?"
        "Audacious words from a demon-worshipper," the king says sagely, slamming his blade against the floor. "I'll take your tongue before I do your head, Lord Dynast."
        
        You can't help the incredulous laugh that leaves your lips, at the threat and the accusation both. "Is this the pretext you've settled upon, Your Majesty? Did you line up all your little lambs in a row, have your saintess tell them that all who believe differently from you must be put to the sword?"
        
        "Enough!" King Nantael bellows, his blade lifted off the ground once more. "Your lips flap far too freely, Lord Dynast. It's time I teach you how to keep them sealed."
        
        "Come, then, and show me the mettle of your words," you hiss, mustering together more confidence than you feel. You steal a glance behind you, watch the Lady Dynast gather Dain into her arms even as she continues her spell. Nerves bid you bite down on your lip, because you know that her spell on the Eye is still far from complete—and you have scarcely any mana left.
        
        It increasingly feels like your separation with Ophea will be short-lived. But in the meantime, perhaps you can take the king down with you.
    #"You'll come no closer to the Lady Dynast, knave."
        "Where do you derive such confidence from, Lord Dynast?" the king asks as he peers down on you. "You tossed around a few of my knights, and think that you can now hold a candle to me?"
        
        "And [i]you[/i] must rely on a craven's attack to remove our youngest lord-mage from the battle," you sneer. "A cowardly move from a cowardly king. Come, Your Majesty, and die a coward's death."
        
        Your taunts have the intended effect. King Nantael's features twist into an expression of indignant fury, and at once he shifts into a battle stance and brandishes his claymore. You steal a glance behind you, watch the Lady Dynast gathering Dain into her arms even as she continues her spell. Nerves bid you bite down on your lip, because you know that her spell on the Eye is still far from complete—and you have scarcely any mana left.
        
        It increasingly feels like your separation with Ophea will be short-lived. But in the meantime, perhaps you can take the king down with you.
    #There is no time to waste on pleasantries. I immediately ready a second round of attacks.
        Sunflame was your first true combat spell, reliable and familiar, and after decades of using arcana you still reach for it like an old friend. The spell obeys your command and shrieks into being with a blast of hot air, before barreling forward in arcs, headed straight for the Golden King and his knights—
        
        And then the king's blade glows and shifts into an aegis, one that scatters the bulk of the spell as the two collide. Stray flames are hurled every which way, searing and red, catching some of the knights in the back and chest—but not the Golden King. True to his reputation, the king remains invulnerable even in the face of a master thaumer.
        
        "Weak," he scoffs then, green eyes piercing as they peer down on you. "You hope to stop me like this, Lord Dynast?"
        
        "A mere test of the waters, Your Majesty," you bluff, even as you wipe at the blood trailing down your chin. The taste of liquid iron at the back of your tongue feels nostalgic. It has been a long time since you were so pushed to your limits. "They tell such tall legends of you, even here in Arcadia. And yet even these rumors pale in comparison to the genuine article."
        
        "You wield your words most expertly. I pray they are outstripped still by your abilities."
        
        You scoff in lieu of a proper answer, and command what mana you can still scrape together to rise and twist into runes. You steal a glance behind you as you do, watching as the Lady Dynast gathers Dain into her arms even as she continues her spell. Nerves bid you bite down on your lip, because you know that her spell on the Eye is still far from complete—and you have scarcely any mana left.
        
        It increasingly feels like your separation with Ophea will be short-lived. But in the meantime, perhaps you can take the king down with you.

You hear the Lady Dynast speak behind you, her words carrying the weight of a eulogy. "I am sorry to ask this of you, Lord Dynast. But it is time."

You shake your head—there was never a need for apologies. You know the score as well as she. "By your will, my lady."

*page_break You know what you must do.

A strange calm washes over you in the face of your impending doom. House Lucerre is among the three noblest houses in Arcadia, traces its bloodline all the way back to the nation's founding countless centuries ago. Your ancestors had sacrificed their lifeblood to bring Arcadia onto her feet. And now you will purchase her survival with yours.

*fake_choice
    #I cast Earthsworn: Origin.
        *goto origin

*label origin
For a moment, it is as if the entire world has faded to black, and you are left alone in the center of the room—a wellspring of agitated, violent mana, undulating in torrents from your fingertips. And then, like a switch being flipped, the whole world flashes back into existence, and your spell has taken root in all corners of the room. The knights whip their heads around to regard the surge of hostile mana, their formation tightening and turtling around their king. Their pesky discipline and loyalty presents an unfortunate complication, but one you had expected. With any luck, you may still be able to ensure the Golden King meets his death in the very city he sacked.

And so you let the spell loose, and immediately fissures appear around the room and rapidly spread along the walls, corralling the invaders in where they stand. They cast wary glances at the enveloping darkness, watch in silence as the blackened walls roil and pulsate all around them.

*page_break And then it begins.

It starts with a weapon being ripped from the hands of a knight, hurtling towards the western wall as if pulled by an invisible string. The woman runs after her weapon out of sheer reflex, and by the time she notices that she too is beginning to lose her footing, it is already too late. She has made it to the center of Origin's impact zone, and her fate has been sealed.

At once all four sides of your spell yanks and prises at her form, the conflicting gravity fields crucifying her mid-air in a permanent scarecrow position. As Origin swells and grows in power, the rest of her comrades are similarly pried from where they stand and affixed several feet above the ground, their eyes bulging and forms tense as they feel their bones and muscle begin to give way. Before long, the knightly barricade surrounding the Golden King has thinned significantly, and it is only a matter of time before he too will fall victim to the spell—

*page_break You taste blood.

A violent, blinding pain shoots up your spine, then, and blood begins to flow freely down the side of your mouth; it is only discipline that allows you to stay upright and maintain your control over Origin. You know then that the spell has run its course, that to force it any further would make the spell implode upon itself and kill everyone within the room, Dain and the Lady Dynast included.

And so you terminate the spell and watch as the carnage ensues. The gravity fields churn and collapse upon themselves, ripping holes through the sanctum walls as they grow and throb and [i]expand[/i]. The hapless knights can only scream and watch as their limbs are ripped from their bodies and their blood spill down in rivulets onto the sanctum floor. Their obliteration is total, merciless—and the sight still makes your stomach turn, even after all this time.

When you turn your gaze towards the king, he is apoplectic, red in the face. Blood coats his limbs where the spell had managed to take hold, but his back remains straight, his steps untroubled.

You have failed.

"You will pay for this!" the king bellows, his weapon transforming once more into the morning star that had nearly done away with Dain. The spiked ball is still blood-slick as it sails through the air, and you find you cannot muster enough strength to dodge it. You glance back towards Dain and the Lady Dynast, and take some comfort in the fact that the Eye is now all but activated. You've bought them the time they needed, and they will see to it that Arcadia survives this ordeal.

Beyond the windows span the endless night sky, a sea of stars that has endured for millennia. One hundred years from now, those very same stars will shine over a stronger Arcadia, paint light across its tomes and statues and temples—and you can't help but to think what an honor it is, to have laid down your life in its service.

You feel the flail connect with your ribs, spikes digging into flesh. A strangled scream makes its way up your throat, gurgled by the blood pooling in your mouth, and then the world falls to perfect darkness.

*page_break

…

*page_break

"So you have fallen."

You snap awake as the booming, gravelly voice echoes in your head, your knees nearly buckling under the weight of its oppressive power. This is not the first occasion that you've met your patron in the flesh, but it is always the same feeling, to be pulled back to the abyss he calls home. Nausea and fear churn together in your stomach—the sensation so strong that you nearly retch. Your patron graciously allows you the time to compose yourself, though you can feel the dismay radiating off of him, like heat emitted from the sun.

*choice
    #I apologize to him.
        "My…apologies," you manage after a while. "I did what I thought was best, but my failure still costs Arcadia dearly."
        
        The failure you speak of, of course, refers to the powers of Raegusa, the Earthsworn—an ancient phantasma, and one of the most powerful in Arcadia's roster. Your death in combat means that the power will die out with you, as no Rite of Parting has been carried out to annul your contract.
    #I stand by my actions. There is nothing I could have done to achieve a better outcome.
        "I carry no shame for my choices," you manage after a while. "I obeyed the orders of the Lady Dynast, and the call of my own conscience."
        
        Even as you say this and mean it, there's no helping the worry and doubt still circling your mind. Arcadia has now lost the powers of Raegusa, the Earthsworn—an ancient phantasma, and one of the most powerful in Arcadia's roster. Your death in combat means that the power will die out with you, as no Rite of Parting has been carried out to annul your contract.

It is a grievous blow to Arcadia, to lose one of its Lord Dynasts to a foreign invasion. More grievous still is the loss of a power that has helped build and shape Arcadia since time immemorial. You have no shortage of faith in the Lady Dynast's capabilities, but the prospects of her charge, the duty she must fulfill, is bleaker than it's ever been. You can only hope that she will rise to the challenge, impossible though it may be. Lead a broken Arcadia to her salvation.

"I do not intend to reprimand you," Raegusa replies, his gentle tone a mismatch to the booming quality of his voice. "I have spent decades as a witness to your honor and resolve—and this is why I have prevented your return to the Source."

You look up at the phantasma for the first time, and cannot help but be taken aback once more. The Earthsworn towers at nearly three times your height, and looks every bit the demon that the Jovian faithfuls have accused you of worshiping. His body is a patchwork of black scales and taut musculature, the runes tattooed on his violet skin gently pulsing with an arcane light. A crown of long black hair trails past the horns protruding from his head, and those eyes—black as the night sky—still inspire terror in you, after all this time.

"Look upon where you stand," he says.

You turn your head down obediently, and find yourself startled by the sprawling complex of runes painted on the abyssal ground. It is a thing of terrifying beauty, archaic sigils you have only ever seen in ancient tomes, woven together into a single, intricately constructed whole. You have no way of knowing what spell calls for so large and mazelike a circle, but you've no doubt that its effects will be miraculous.

Raegusa peers down on you, his gaze appraising. "This is the Sigil of Sustenance. The Mateus woman had managed to complete it before your met your end," he explains. "Should you desire it, another dynast may claim my powers once more, many years in the future. Such is the power this Sigil holds."

*choice
    #Immediately, I feel a surge of relief and elation.
        Were that it was not so short-lived.
    #There must be a catch to this. I wait for the axe to fall.
        Your suspicions, it turns out, would be well-founded.

"Do you not find it odd that you've never heard of the Sigil of Sustenance? Should not one of such high stature like yourself be privy to its existence?" the phantasma asks, with a strange wryness to his tone. "There is a reason that such a powerful spell is used and discussed of so sparingly in Arcadia. The Sigil of Sustenance requires a tremendous sacrifice from the soul of its host—that will be you."

You look up at Raegusa, making no secret of your confusion. "What sacrifice do you speak of? I am already…"

"There is a fate worse than death. Years, decades, perhaps centuries of agonizing pain, with no guarantee that it shall ever end," Raegusa explains. "The Sigil requires that I sink into a deep slumber, and that you take my place as the bearer of my power."

"Such a thing is possible?"

"Indeed. You would become the Earthsworn, until the conditions for my reawakening are met," he confirms. "But your soul is not meant to bear so perilous a load, and it will slowly wilt and wither under the duress. When it does, the strain it places on you will feel like torture upon your soul, the likes of which you have never experienced—and you will only be free of it once another dynast comes to claim my powers."

You feel your lips going dry. "And if none do?"

"Then your fate is one of eternal damnation."

You feel a rush of ice in your veins. How could one consign themselves to such a tremendous risk, no matter what they would gain in exchange? You have always been a dutiful servant of Arcadia, right up until the end—but how could the Lady Dynast cast this spell upon your death, demand of you so torturous a sacrifice?

*page_break [i]Glory to Arcadia, at all costs.[/i]

The memory sears into your mind like a flash fire, the sight of Ophea amidst her inferno, standing tall and proud in the face of her impending doom. She is only one of many, you know, scholars and warmages, nobles and peasants and knights who have laid down their life so that the Sorcerium might live on. Thrown themselves bodily into the line of fire to salvage tomes and artifacts, gather what resources they can to ensure that those who survive will be able to one day flourish, reclaim Arcadia's lost glory, her storied legacy.

And here you stand now, presented with the chance to allow one of Arcadia's strongest assets to remain in its hands. What does it say about you, that you would even consider turning it down?

*fake_choice
    #I agree to the offer.
        *goto agree

*label agree
Raegusa solemnly closes his eyes, and you feel as if his demonic visage is aging before your eyes. He appears melancholic—a strange match for his demonic features. "Yours is a courageous soul, and Arcadia is richer for mages like you."

A violent ripple of mana spreads across the room, then, teeming with the dark energy you've come to know the Earthsworn for. It seeps deep into the crevices of the rune upon which you stand, casting a cold, ambient glow around the abyss, at once ominous and beautiful.

"Once the Sigil is completed, you must search for a host with which to form a contract," Raegusa adds, even as his powers thrum in the air around him. "You will have little more thirty minutes to do this."

"Thirty—!" you splutter, incredulous. "What remains of the dynasts must be days of travel away from Thulrum by now!"

Raegusa nods his head, acknowledging your concern. "You are to become a false phantasma, an imitation—the contract will have no need of a dynast bloodline. Find a host who will cooperate with you. This is all you will need to do."

The relief you feel at that statement is short-lived. "The Arcane Sanctum has been entirely overrun by invaders—how will I find a willing host?"

"How does one tell apart a beacon in a sea of darkness? A gemstone amidst the mud?" Raegusa asks. "There will be no riddles in this affair, Cherished. When the time comes, you will understand."

And with those final, echoing words, Raegusa fades back into the abyss, leaving you alone with the still-blazing rune. Slowly you begin to feel something shift within you, spinning off-kilter in a way that you cannot understand—and then it is as if the very ground has been ripped out from underneath your feet, and you are hurled headfirst into the abyss.

*page_break You fall.

When you are lucid once more, you find yourself not in the darkness where Raegusa had stirred in silence, but instead upon the courtyard of the Arcane Sanctum. There is a strong wind that is whipping through the air tonight, carrying with it the torrential downpour that had been brewing over Thulrum for days. And yet none of the raging gales so much as stir a strand of your hair out of place, nor do the pouring water lay damp upon your skin. No—everything phases through you like a hot knife through butter, and you know then that you have become something both more and less than human.

*fake_choice
    #The power thrumming through my body is exhilarating.
        It is one thing to borrow the power of arcane god, but another entirely to become one with it. However wretched this existence may be, whatever torment awaits you when all is said and done, right now you are power incarnate—and you shall remain so for decades, centuries to come.
    #I can't help but feel wistful, alienated from everyone I've ever known and loved.
        You have stepped into a realm of existence no mortal ought go, condemned—perhaps forever—to the limbo between life and death. It is a hefty price to pay, but you have chosen to pay it all the same—all that remains now is to see this through.
    #My feelings on the matter are irrelevant. Raegusa's powers must be salvaged—that is all.
        You are a humble servant of Arcadia, the sanctum of wisdom which have fallen victim to the treachery of [i]ercei[/i] dogs. It is an injustice too great to ignore, and you will exert your utmost effort to see their cruel deeds punished.
        
"S-stay back!"

You whirl around towards the voice, and find yourself beholding a young knight with long, straw-colored hair, brandishing his standard-issue sword with a trembling hand. A pack of his comrades circle around him like wolves, the apparent leader of the group snarling at the boy as he inches forward.

"I never thought you of all people would turn traitor, Augur," he sneers. "You must have gone mad, fallen victim to the demons' whispers."

"Please, Rosario," the boy pleads, even as he takes a step back. "She was only a child! What honor would we have as knights, to slay her as we did her father?"

"How dare you speak of honor! A baseborn scamp like you, who would defy the orders of our king!" the leader yells, jerking his blade forward in a bid to disarm his subordinate. The attempt is successful, the iron sword clattering as it hits the courtyard pavement. "That girl belonged to the Mateus bloodline, the root of all the Sorcerium's evils. In a few years' time, she will come back for vengeance and hunt our people down! Salantir blood, spilled in the name of demons because of your incompetence!"

You are beside the young knight before his aggressor could take another step forward, melding your consciousness with his own and dragging him down into the abyss. The world spins in and out of focus as the boy lets out a scream no one else can hear—and in a single instant you are both standing on the grounds where Raegusa once stood, you looming over the teen and him cowering back in fear.

It takes a while for the boy to gather his bearings, and when he does, he shrinks back in fear. "D-demon," he breathes, tripping over his own feet as he retreats.

*temp ghisan
*fake_choice
    #I introduce myself as Ghisan Lucerre, former Lord Dynast of Arcadia.
        *set ghisan "Lord Ghisan"
        The boy's eyes widen at the declaration, and he only seems to shrink further into himself. "L-Lord Dynast…? Then it's true that the Arcadians are—"
        
        "Am I to be a demon worshiper or the demon himself? I would have thought the Salantir more consistent with their slander than this," you grouse. "But know this, child: I am neither. I am but a mage suffering a complication. One tends to encounter those when one's people are slain by the thousands."
        
        The young knight—Augur—has the grace to look apologetic. "I—that is—" he splutters, before pausing to compose himself. "What has happened to your people…it is unacceptable. My words must mean nothing to you, but I am sorry for everything that's happened. Truly, I am."
        
        You gaze down upon him appraisingly, this boy who is barely an adult, who can muster more compassion within him than the rest of his nation put together. What sort of circumstance would bring this boy to the battlefield, make him brandish the blade of a murderer? "Your words indeed carry no meaning," you declare, slow and deliberate. "But your actions may. Forge a contract with me, and wield my powers as your own. This alone will earn you my forgiveness, and that of all of Arcadia."
    #I introduce myself as Raegusa, the Earthsworn.
        *set ghisan "Raegusa"
        In lieu of allaying his fears, the declaration only seemed to confuse him. The boy shrinks further into himself. "A-Are you with the Arcadians? Has it been the truth all along that they consort with—"
        
        "There are no demons in Arcadia," you declare, gentle, but firm. "We are merely vessels of magic, to be used according to the wishes of our host. Tell me—do you ascribe evil to a bolt of lightning, or a flask of Everfire? Why is it that we deserve your punishment and subjugation, but not the mages in your employ?"
        
        The young knight—Augur—has the grace to look apologetic. "I—that is—" he splutters, before pausing to compose himself. "You…you have a point, um, Sire. They tell us that Arcadians are demon worshipers, that they deserve all—all of this, but," he looks way then, biting down on his lower lip. "I've seen women and children, unarmed and defenseless, slaughtered without a second thought. If…if this is truly what Jove desires, then how could they be a god worth our worship?"
        
        You gaze down upon him appraisingly, this boy who is barely an adult, who can muster more compassion within him than the rest of his nation put together. What sort of circumstance would bring this boy to the battlefield, make him brandish the blade of a murderer? "Your words are heartening to hear, but they make a poor salve in the face of Arcadia's' destruction," you say, slow and deliberate. "But you may yet grant us some succor, if you so choose. Forge a contract with me, and wield my powers as your own. This alone will assist us in greater ways than you might imagine."
    #I introduce myself as the only way that he'll make it out of Thulrum alive.
        *set ghisan "Sire"
        The boy seems to register for the first time that he is no longer in the Sanctum's courtyard, and the realization only makes him shrink further into himself. "A-Are you with the Arcadians? Has it been the truth all along that they consort with—"
        
        "There are no demons in Arcadia," you declare, gentle and firm. "I am merely a vessel of magic, to be used according to the wishes of my host. Tell me—do you ascribe evil to a bolt of lightning, or a flask of Everfire? Or perhaps you only consider magic evil when your Church tells you so?"

        The young knight—Augur—has the grace to look apologetic. "I—that is—" he splutters, before pausing to compose himself. "You…you have a point, um, Sire. They tell us that Arcadians are demon worshippers, that they deserve all—all of this, but," he looks way then, biting down on his lower lip. "I've seen women and children, unarmed and defenseless, slaughtered without a second thought. If…if this is truly what Jove desires, then how could they be a god worth worshiping?"

        You gaze down upon him appraisingly, this boy who is barely an adult, who can muster more compassion within him than the rest of his nation put together. What sort of circumstance would bring this boy to the battlefield, make him brandish the blade of a murderer? "Your words are heartening to hear, but they still make for a poor salve in the face of Arcadia's' destruction," you say, slow and deliberate. "But your action may yet grant us some succor. Forge a contract with me, and wield my powers as your own. This alone will assist us in greater ways than you might imagine."

"Y-Your powers…?"
        
Compassionate he may be, but bright he is not. It is difficult to believe anyone would think him a good fit for the battlefield, but you suppose the Salantir had little luxury in the way of manpower. "If you do not forge this contract, then that boy and his lackeys will slay you where you stand. The contract is to your benefit as well as to mine."
        
"I-I can't die here," the boy replies quickly, panic setting into his features. "My sister, she'll be all alone and I—"
        
"Then you know what you must do," you interrupt, holding out a hand in invitation. "I am
*if (ghisan = "Raegusa")
    Raegusa,
*else
    Ghisan,
the Earthsworn. Augur, Knight of Salantira—will you agree to the terms of our contract? That you shall become the host to my powers, and use them to ensure your survival?"
        
"Yes," he replies quickly, despite the fear and unease still brewing in his eyes. "I will. I don't care what happens to me, but I—I have to make it back."
        
"So it shall be done," you say judiciously, letting your body melt into a smog of concentrated power. You feel yourself seep into his being, find home within the crevices of his mana ducts. He screams as the burden of your power sears through his nerves, does not stop even as the abyss melts around him and returns him into the world of the living.

*page_break

Augur is returned to his own body with a violent discharge of mana, the pressure of your power cleaving through the air around him like blades. The force breaks his aggressors' forward momentum and sends them hurtling towards the ground, and when they look up at Augur once more it is with fear and surprise in their eyes.

"What are you?" Rosario demands, horror percolating his tone. "What have you done—"

[i]Kill them[/i], you advise to Augur, even as Rosario continues to whimper in the background. [i]If you want to escape with your life, and ensure that they do not come after you—slay them now, as they would have slain you.[/i]

A wave of emotions from the boy—reluctance, dismay. [i]But—[/i]

[i]They will have branded you a demon worshiper by now, boy,[/i] you tell him. [i]Do you think they will sit still as you continue to roam free? That your sister will be spared the executioner's axe, despite having harbored a demon in her home?[/i]

You feel his thoughts begin to shift and mutate—the image of a girl, young and freckled, laying dead in a pool of her own blood—and instantly the boy's reluctance shifts into desperate resolve. [i]I-I understand,[/i] he thinks, determined despite his anguish. [i]Then, ${ghisan}…[/i]

[i]Call upon my powers, and wield them as you would your blade. Worry not, you will understand.[/i]

And he does. Augur unsheathes his first burst of arcana, resolutely powers through the strain and torture that it must have put him through. Black Sun whirls into existence and swallows his assailants whole, their bodies suctioned and churned by the magic that they had so greatly feared. Augur watches in horrified silence as his former friends twist and bend and break under the spell's cruel influence, and before long he is left standing, alone and shaking, in an empty courtyard.

The moon shines brightly overhead, its light piercing through the overcast skies. Augur remains still and stone-faced amidst the pelting rain.

[i]We must go,[/i] you say to him, not unkindly. [i]Quickly. Or this slaughter will have been in vain.[/i]

Augur releases the breath he had been holding, trembling, despondent, before moving to obey you. The road back to his village is a long one, but he is now an arcanist donning Salantir colors—few things in Arvanand will ever pose a threat to him. He will make it home safely, go on to live a long and fulfilling life. And at the end of it all, Raegusa will be preserved. Your duties are as good as accomplished.

Arcadia will be saved.

*page_break

*if (arailefull)
    *goto fullver
*else
    *goto summary

*label fullver
"A-Augur!"

There is a sharp noise that pierces the air as the girl's plate makes impact with the floorboards, and a series of thumps as she runs across the room. Immediately her arms are slung around Augur, a hug so tight that you can almost feel it yourself. "Y-you've made it back," she says, gasping through her tears. "The town crier told us that the death toll was—and you've only been training for three months, and so I—I wasn't sure if you would—" She lets out a wet, choking sob then, tightens her hold on her brother. "I'm so happy you're home."

It takes a moment for Augur to recover from his initial surprise, but before long he's sunk deeper into his sister's arms, buries his head on her shoulder. "I-I promised you I would come back," he says, his own tears already threatening to spill forth.

*temp attitude ""
*choice
    #I can't help but to resent Augur for his familial bond, after everything that I went through.
        *set attitude "resent"
        Augur and his sister have their whole lives ahead of them, an unbreakable bond to be tempered by time and memories shared. You, on the other hand, have lost everything and everyone that you've ever held dear. Fate has not even granted you the luxury of burying your own wife—is her body now rotting on the Sanctum floor? Did the invaders even leave anything of her, when she had been the one to foil their advance?—and it leaves you with a hollow, harrowed feeling where your heart once was.
    #I am happy for him. We have both seen enough grief to last a lifetime.
        *set attitude "happy"
        Augur and his sister have their whole lives ahead of them, an unbreakable bond to be tempered by time and memories shared. It would be a lie to say that you don't feel wistful or jealous, but in the end you are an old man, one who had led a full and accomplished life. Augur and his sister are [i]children[/i], and by all accounts their entire lives have been colored by grief and hardship. If your existence could grant them some small succor from their cruel lot in life—nothing could make you happier.
    #I feel strangely protective of them both.
        *set attitude "protective"
        You don't regret a single call you made on the day that Thulrum fell, and yet everything about the whole affair still feels distinctly like [i]failure[/i]. You had failed to save the love of your life, the mages in your charge, the hallowed sanctum that should have never been breached by infidels. The only thing you manage to salvage from Arcadia's wreckage was Augur's innocent soul, too young and kind for the battlefield, a heart full of love and devotion for the only remaining member of his family.
        
        And so you will ensure that they live long and fulfilling lives. No harm shall come to them while Raegusa's powers still flow through your body—you'll make sure of it.

The pair would not speak another word for the next few minutes, simply basking in the peaceful silence, awash with gratitude that they had been able to reunite once more. And then Augur catches a sight that makes him forcefully part from the embrace, and instead turn a scrutinizing gaze upon his sister's neck. "Araile, what is…?"

Araile is quick to pull away, then, her palm a firm cover over the patch of skin Augur had seen. It's a vain effort; inexperienced though he may be, Augur has still seen his fair share of injuries—and few wounds are as distinctive as knife lacerations, even after they have scabbed over.

"Araile," Augur says, his voice low and horrified.

*page_break "What happened to you?"

Araile purses her lips, for a while, and keeps her gaze trained on the window. And then a look of resignation crosses her features, and you know then that she has decided to talk. "Some time ago, group of soldiers moved into town," she begins. "They told us that they were stationed here on the king's orders, to help protect us from Arcadian hordes. The village head arranged for them to stay in the north side, gave them what provisions we could spare without going hungry."

You don't like where this is going one bit, and it appears Augur is in agreement. "Go on," he urges.

"That was four months ago. They…never left town, never went to fight any battles. They've just been…staying here, demanding our crops and coin and—" By this point, Araile's speech has devolved into wracking, full-bodied sobs. She pauses to heave a long exhale, attempting to calm herself, and valiantly continues when it bears no fruit. "I…missed a payment, a few weeks back, because they've already taken everything we had. And so one of them came here, and he—"

Whatever words Araile had been meaning to say next are promptly swallowed by her tears. She crumples to the floor like a ragdoll, still trying to talk through her sniffs and blubbers. Augur joins her on the floor, his hold around the girl at once firm and gentle, nodding along to her explanation as if he can understand a word. Not that he needs to—what has happened to Araile is easy enough to piece together, given the grim customs of war. The fury etched onto Augur's face tells you that he comprehends the situation all too well.

[i]Deserters[/i], you say solemnly. [i]Only greenhorns would commit so grievous a crime and think they could get away with it.[/i]

You feel an intense ripple of emotions from Augur: sorrow, resolve, and above all—rage. [i]All the better for me, then.[/i]

Augur is thinking of taking them on, you realize. He will be vastly outnumbered, perhaps fifty-to-one—arcanist or no, he would be placing himself at tremendous risk.

But given what has befallen his sister, could you blame him?

*choice
    #I can, because in doing so, he would get himself killed.
        The biggest kindness he can do for Araile would be to stay by her side, ensure that she never has to experience the trauma of losing her brother. What good will vengeance do for her, when it leaves her all alone in the world once more?
        
        You tell Augur as much, but the boy scarcely spares your advice any thought, so blinded is he by his mounting fury. [i]Please, ${ghisan}[/i], he begs, desperation plain in his tone. [i]I will never ask you for anything else—for as long as I live, I will do your every bidding, I swear it to you. But these—these [/i]mongrels[i] cannot go unpunished.[/i]
        
        [i]I cannot stop you, however foolish this risk you're taking may be[/i], you tell him candidly. [i]So long as you hold up your end of the contract, my powers are bound to your will, and yours alone.[/i]
        
        Augur is silent as he considers your words, though his resolution never seems to waver.
    #I can, because this decision ought not be about him. His sister is the one truly aggrieved, and her wishes should be paramount.
        You have only been in Araile's presence for all of a minute, but already you have a strong suspicion of the kind of person she is. The kind who doles out mercy by the armful, and would rather take her demons to bed than risk the strenuous peace she's finally been granted by fate.
        
        Perhaps you are wrong, and she would rejoice at the sight of blood upon Augur's blade. All the same, it is important that the words leave her own lips—and you tell Augur as much.
        
        [i]My sister is a kind person—too kind for her own good,[/i] he tells you, confirming your suspicions. [i]She will insist that I let these mongrels go.[/i]
        
        [i]Then obey her will, for she bears the wounds upon her skin—and not yours.[/i]
        
        He considers your words for a moment, and you feel that surge of hesitance like warm waves upon your skin. But then it curdles and writhes into something cold and wretched—terror, the kind that cannot be reasoned with. [i]For her own good, I cannot[/i], he insists. [i]They might come back for her, repeat their transgression when I'm not looking, and—" a pause, a purse of the lips. [i]${ghisan}, please, you must help me.[/i]
        
        [i]The terms of the contract are clear. I am subordinate to you, and your path will be my own,[/i] you admit. [i]But I will say this: your insistence on denying her any choice in the matter is truly disgraceful.[/i]
        
        [i]And I will be the most disgraceful man in all the world, if it serves to keep her safe,[/i] he says, resolute.
        
        [i]Fool,[/i] you say to him, spitting the word out like a parting shot. [i]You are making a mistake. But my powers are yours, and so they will remain for the remainder of your days.[/i]
    #I advise him to lay low. He's an arcanist now, after all—showing off that fact will only net him a death sentence.
        You would exert your utmost efforts in ensuring that Augur does not fall to the deserters, but they would be the least of his troubles. If he makes a habit of using ancient, inexplicable magic to get the results he needs, he may find himself at the business end of a guillotine sooner rather than later.
        
        You tell Augur as much, but the boy scarcely spares your advice any thought, so blinded is he by his mounting fury. [i]Please, ${ghisan}[/i], he begs, desperation plain in his tone. [i]I will never ask you for anything else—for as long as I live, I will do your every bidding, I swear it to you. But these—these [/i]mongrels[i] cannot go unpunished.[/i]
        
        [i]I do not think it worth the risk, Augur, but I cannot stop you/i], you tell him candidly. [i]So long as you hold up your end of the contract, my powers are bound to your will, and yours alone.[/i]
        
        Augur is silent as he considers your words, though his resolution never seems to waver.
    #His fury mirrors my own. What these deserters have committed is inexcusable.
        It seems that [i]ercei[/i] knights will always find a way to outdo their own dishonor. What does it say of the kingdom's morals and discipline, when its own knights would prey upon the very people they are supposed to protect?
        
        Augur seems to mistake your fury for disapproval, one that is directed at [i]him[/i]—and at once he all but begs for your assistance. [i]Please, ${ghisan},[/i] he pleads, desperation plain in his tone. [i]I will never ask you for anything else—for as long as I live, I will do your every bidding, I swear it to you. But these—these [/i]mongrels[i] cannot go unpunished.[/i]
        
        [i]You are taking a tremendous risk[/i], you tell him candidly. [i]But ultimately, I cannot stop you. So long as you hold up your end of the contract, my powers are bound to your will, and yours alone.[/i]
        
        Augur is silent as he considers your words, though his resolution never seems to waver.

*page_break [i]Then I know what I must do.[/i]
Augur leans down and presses his nose against Araile's forehead, remains there until her weeping quiets into muted sobs. When it does, he wordlessly parts from the embrace, one hand reaching for the sheathed sword that had fallen from his hip. The young knight rises from the floor and begins to tighten his armor, and his sister watches him all the while, first with concern, and then with dawning horror.

"Augur," she says urgently, scrambling forward on the floor, desperate hands grasping for his legs. "Augur, [i]no[/i]."

"Those scoundrels must pay for what they have done," Augur says gravely. "I'm sorry, Araile. I cannot let this be."

"No, you can't Augur, [i]stop[/i]—" Araile begs. "What happened to me doesn't matter. The important thing is that you've made it home, and everything else can be forgotten and—please, Augur, we've already lost Mother and Father—"

"And we'll lose each other, if we leave these bandits to do as they please. Or do you think that was the last you'll ever see of them?" the knight replies, at once gentle and assertive. "I'm no longer the weak boy I was when I left. Have a little faith in me, Araile."

Araile turns her head up and looks Augur dead in the eyes, searching for any sign that he might be dissuaded from his reckless plan. When she does not find it, she all but collapses into herself, lips pursed to keep herself from crying. "Swear it to me," she says then, her tone heavy and insistent. "Swear that you'll come back safely, that I won't—I won't have to bury you, too."

It is a monumental request, you want to tell her, that she ought still prepare herself for the worst. Because for all that immeasurable power courses through his veins, Augur is still ill-equipped to wield it. The most novice of arcanists, with not a drop of dynast blood to cushion his peril—his odds are grimmer still than you care to admit.

And yet Augur does not share your hesitation, his back tall and straight as he turns and moves for the cottage door. He takes one last glance at his sister, slumped on the floor and despondent, and makes the oath with conviction it did not deserve.

"I swear it to you, Araile," he says, quiet, certain as gravity. "I will never leave you, and we'll always be—"
*goto evenindeath

*label summary
Augur arrives at his home, and is greeted by Araile, his sister. After a tearful reunion, he discovers signs of injuries that have been inflicted upon her in his absence. She tells him with some hesitance that it had been inflicted by a group of soldiers newly stationed in the village—ones Ghisan identify as deserters based on their behaviors as told by Araile. Augur furiously vows to avenge his sister's suffering and prepares to fight the deserters. Araile desperately pleads for him to stay, but when she sees that his resolve is final, she instead extracts an oath from him.

"Swear that you'll come back safely, that I won't—I won't have to bury you, too."

And he gives it willingly.

"I swear it to you, Araile," he says, quiet, certain as gravity. "I will never leave you, and we'll always be—"

*label evenindeath
*page_break

[i]Together, even in death.[/i]

Augur traces his hand along the gravestone once more, brushing lightly against those fanciful words. A mortal declaration if ever there was one, though you find it difficult to begrudge him for it.

You know him well enough by now to understand that he'll remain here for hours, should the choice be left up to him. Augur is nearing the end of his natural lifespan, now, his white hair reaching the small of his back, his back set to a hunch by the weight of time. He had accomplished much over the last eighty years, since that fateful day when he brought the deserters to heel. He had performed miracles which attracted the attention of kings, struck down knaves by the hundreds—but when it comes to his sister, he would always be that young, wide-eyed knight of eighteen.

Even so, you know that he cannot be left to reminisce. It's not a luxury you can afford him, not when you are pressed enough for time as it is. Luckily for you, another person is all too prepared to shoulder the task in your stead.

"We apologize that we could not do more for her, Your Worship."

The Jovian theurge—Reina, she had introduced herself as—leans into an apologetic bow as Augur retracts his hand from the headstone. Finally breaking from his reverie, the former knight pushes himself up with what strength still remains in him, turns his head to face the healer. "There is nothing to apologize for, child," he says sagely, pushing back the strands of hair that has grown to cover his face. Once a healthy shade of brown, now bleached white by time. "She lived a long and fulfilling life, and she went with no regrets."

"Even so…" Reina mutters. "You have done so much for the Salantir faithful, and we cannot even fulfill the one request you've made of us. Words can never express the depths of our shame."

You can't help but to bristle at her words. Even after all these years, it is still strange to hear the Jovian clergy treat Augur with such reverence and respect. His powers are plainly the result of arcana, the selfsame art that the Church had reviled and torched Arcadia for—and yet here they are now, declaring Augur a Jovian saint for having used it to their benefit.

*choice
    #Hypocrisy of the highest order. It boils my blood just to think about it.
        If nothing else, you can derive comfort from the fact that the Church's hypocrisy will be to its own detriment. After all, the feat you are about to accomplish would have been impossible without access to Jovian resources. That its leaders had granted sainthood to one so deeply indebted to you…it must have been a blessing fashioned by Isha herself.
        
        This is not to say, of course, that Augur did not earn the position. Few individuals have ever devoted so much of their life to the deliverance of others, and demand so little in return. In the war-torn remains of that storied city which had long since fallen to ruin, Augur had become the people's lone beacon of salvation. No one deserves to be named saint more than he.
    #All Augur has ever done is to help those in need. It matters little to me which king stands to benefit for it.
        If nothing else, the Church is at least an excellent judge of character. Few individuals have ever devoted so much of their life to the deliverance of others, and demanded so little in return. In the war-torn remains of Aulain, that storied city which had long since fallen to ruin, Augur had become the people's lone beacon of salvation. No one deserves to be named saint more than he.
        
        That being said, you are hardly impartial in making such an evaluation, given how much you stand to benefit from his sainthood. The feat you are about to accomplish would have been impossible without access to the Church's resources—it is fortunate, then, that its own saint is so deeply indebted to you.
    #Such trivial matters do not concern me. All that matters is the salvation of Arcadia.
        There is no denying that Augur's sainthood has been instrumental in securing the resources you needed to safeguard Raegusa's powers. The feat you are about to accomplish would have been impossible without that kind of access, especially given how protective the Church is of their own secrets. You had always been nervous about the whole affair, for the Church is nothing if not distrustful—and few would attract their suspicions more than arcanists.
        
        Luckily for you, Augur did not need to rely on deceit to earn to the Church's trust. Few individuals have ever devoted so much of their life to the deliverance of others, and demand so little in return. In the war-torn remains of Aulain, that storied city which had long since fallen to ruin, Augur had become the people's lone beacon of salvation. No one deserves to be named saint more than he.

"It is as Jove wills," Augur says serenely, despite having forsaken his faith long ago. "Then, Reina…"

"Your Worship," the theurge says, a hint to agitation to her tone. "Is your decision truly final?"

Augur replies to the young woman with a tranquil smile. "Ho…I have inscribed it upon the tombstone, have I not? That we would remain together, even in death. It would not do for me to betray sweet Araile here at the end."

Reina stubbornly refuses to back down. "With all due respect…surely she would understand. The people still need their saint to guide them, show them the way."

"Ho…I understand your concerns, child. But I have spent many years training the next generation of peacekeepers, and I have every faith that they will be up to the task," Augur says, perfectly diplomatic. "I am well past ninety now—quite useless on the battlefield, with wits that are dulling every day. I am quite certain—this is the best thing I can do for the people of Arvanand."

"But—"

"The arcane lines have aligned," Augur interrupts, knowing full well that the statement means nothing—being an arcanist in a world that seldom understands the art carries its perks. "It is time. I have instructed Yure on the intricacies of the sealing ritual. Please follow her lead, and grant me this one last act of kindness."

Reina purses her lips together, clearly far from appeased—but she eventually relents to Augur's wishes. "By your leave, Your Worship."

*page_break And she goes.

"Ho…she certainly is a persistent one, isn't she?" Augur remarks, once the healer is out of earshot. "Perhaps it is her noble upbringing that makes the difference…no matter. How are you holding up, old friend?"

[i]Poor…ly[/i], you manage to say with some effort. Recently, it has become exponentially more difficult for you to communicate with Augur. Raegusa's powers would seethe and flare each time you make the attempt, burn through your soul like a raging inferno. Something dark and ashy where your throat once was, smoke pooling in non-lungs. [i]But…used…to it. The…ritual?[/i]

"Hm…yes. It is quite fortunate that the runic arrangement is so similar to mass benediction spells, isn't it? Why, our Reina never suspected a thing," he says cheerily. "But you are sure that this will achieve what you need?"

[i]Yes…the Lady Dynast…told us…as much.[/i]

Augur hums in approval. "If you say so," he says. "Though I must confess, I would have preferred a less painful way to go…the things I do for you, old friend."

Despite his protests, the man makes his way across the room, opens the lid of the other sacrophagus and forcefully tosses his body inside. He produces an ornate dagger from his robe, then, traces it across his chest even as his mana hemorrhages into the air. Runes flare to life wherever his power passes, beneath him at the coffin's base, snaking out onto the floor and up onto the ceiling, a glorious patchwork of sealed power that will keep Raegusa intact for all eternity.

As the last of the runes have lit up and dulled into repose, the coffin lid closes upon itself, encasing you both in perfect darkness. You hear a shift of skin and clothing as Augur drives the knife into his own heart, his blood spilling in rivulets onto the base of his own coffin.

"May we meet again someday," he chokes, the word barely legible through the blood in his airways. "Fare…well."

You seethe in silence as Augur's body jerks and spasms for the last time, a muted shuffling of fabric against stone until true silence dawns upon the tomb. The deed has been done, you realize lucidly, and the ritual cast. Raegusa's powers have been preserved.

And now you wait.
*page_break
*goto_scene Checkpoint_8-3