You lean against the wall, willing the exhaustion to leave your body. You're close to the finish line, now. It would be a poor time to collapse.

Still, you allow yourself a brief respite as the party prepares for the next step of the plan. Time is ticking away for the evacuation; you know that your rest will be short-lived, so you make good use of it. You describe in non-exhaustive terms your encounter with Lord Ghisan Lucerre, and how Raegusa's power now courses through your veins. Evidently, such a binding is unheard of even for ${falco} and ${yusuha}. Still, you had proved the truth of your words in the fight, and in the way you had managed to unbind Pyrian. And so despite the air of bewilderment still lingering over your group, they're content to table the issue for another day.

What comes next is piecing together Ralos and Altea's identities. A theory prevails that they serve as elite fighters of some broader organization, the very same one to which belongs the lightning wielder in Thulrum and the enchanter in Reglaire. You have only their accents and their coloring to go off of, but you're able to make some educated guesses on their origin. Thulrum's assailant appeared to be a Parami native, while the man in Reglaire took great pains to appear Salantir. Altea and Ralos made no such effort, all but declaring that they came from an entirely foreign land. And given their strength and what they managed to accomplish so far away from home, an uncomfortable conclusion soon becomes plain.

"Imperials," ${yusuha} says, closing ${yhis} eyes. "They've turned their sights on Arvanand yet again."

"Worse yet," you add, "they've turned their sights on [i]arcana[/i]."

A tense silence washes over the group. The Gespenst Empire is the strongest nation in the world, a state of peerless conquerors with the might of a thousand armies at their beck and call. The Empire's territories span over the vast majority of the Imperial Continent, and bleeds a great deal into the Yire continent to the north. Their conquest of Southern Yire had been so total and devastating that the people of Yotai fled across the Imperial Ocean and settled in eastern Arvanand centuries ago. The generational scars left behind by the gruesome occupation was what drove the merchant nation to offer such a desperate resistance each time the Empire set its hawkish eyes upon their new home.

They had committed their full naval and financial mights to the cause every time, and with Param and Salantira's support, they would manage to eke out a narrow victory. Ironically, the Empire's efforts had managed to solidify the Yotai people, their former subjects, as a vital cornerstone of Arvanian welfare. And so despite the gold in their coffers and their wealth of arable land, Yotai has ever remained at peace with Param and Salantira. For if the coastal nation was ever to be devastated, it would only offer the whole of Arvanand up to the Empire on a silver platter.

But now…${yusuha} has posited the uncomfortable possibility that the Empire seeks to have its fill regardless.

*choice
    #This is all conjecture. We're jumping at shadows, and I tell them as much.
        "Let's not get worked up over nothing," you say. "Even if they were foreigners, nothing about them points to the Empire in particular. And even if they were of Imperial origin, they might not be here at the Emperor's behest."
        
        "But someone is still looking into Old Arcadia's secrets. Secrets we thought lost to everyone outside of the Ishavak Church," ${falco} says, gritting ${fhis} teeth. "Whatever this is, it can't be good news."
        
        "Then it's something the Saber will have to deal with," you say. "And from what I've seen, you can deal with anything short of an Imperial invasion."
        
        ${yusuha}, at least, appears mollified. "I…suppose you're right. We shouldn't hastily rush to the worst-case scenario," ${yhe} says. "We had better investigate further, then. Our leads are not yet exhausted."
    #If we're truly on the precipice of another invasion, the whole continent must work together.
        It's a dizzying possibility, and you struggle to parse through your emotions as you consider it. You've little clue on the specifics of Tahlia's plan and its timeline, but you can be certain that she intends to come to blows with Param at some point. Ostensibly that conflict will serve as just desserts against a past oppressor, all the while allowing her to bring more Arcadians under Thulrum's protection. So for all the costs inherent to warring with Param, you can understand why she thinks it's worth it.
        
        But the possibility of another Imperial invasion changes things. Tahlia will have need of a strong and united Arvanand, lest her fledgling state fall under the dominion of a new conqueror. Evidently she has power enough to keep the Parami and Salantir both at bay, but even she will struggle to present a meaningful resistance against the behemoth nation.
        
        And so rises a new possibility Tahlia hasn't been willing to entertain: the brokering of a lasting peace, to safeguard against a common enemy. Unity has been the only thing that allowed Arvanand to keep its freedom, and now it may well be the key to preserving its peace.
        
        "We will have to see what the [i]ashai[/i] makes of this," ${yusuha} says, appearing thoughtful. "And at any rate, there is still more work to be done. Perhaps if we have a chat with the Exalted Beris, we'll have a better view of the overall picture."
    #Imperials may be involved, but invasion can't be the goal. The Empire can't afford it.
        For all their might and numbers, the Empire's expansion has grown stagnant over the past couple of decades. The Empire's population has been bled dry by its ceaseless campaigns, and they can only grow so inured to the bloodshed demanded of them by the crown. A wave of discontent has come upon many of its newer territories, those vassals which have yet to truly accept the Emperor as their true master. No full revolt has risen as of yet, but the discontent is there, simmering, and stoked by the Empire's enemies on its home continent.
        
        It seems to you, then, that the Emperor is unlikely to spill more of his people's blood on a campaign against Arvanand. Not for another decade or so, at least, assuming he can rein in the annexed territories' malcontents within that period. And if needs must, he will need the bulk of his force at home to deal with the impeding unrest. Given the tableau of his problems, an invasion into Arvanand would stand a nonzero chance of collapsing his Empire—and for all his persistent lust for new conquests, the Emperor is hardly stupid. He will not entertain such a risk, even with so attractive a prize as Arvanand dangled before him.
        
        You relay as much to your group, and they're only too willing to accept your reasoning. The last invasion had been hell on everyone, with the entire continent's coffers straining to accommodate the resistance, and no one is eager to repeat the experience.
        
        "They'll be here for something else, then," ${yusuha} says, considering. "Arcana. And judging by this whole Pyrian ordeal, they're well on their way of achieving their goals."
        
        "Imperial arcanists," you say with a grimace. "I have to admit—I'm not fond of the thought."
        
        "We don't know how possible it would be without proper access to Arcadian knowledge. Again, I'm hardly an expert of the subject—if only Mirage had come along," ${yusuha} mourns. "Still, this is valuable information. And I trust the [i]ashai[/i] will know what to make of this."
        
        "Then we had better give her something more to work with," ${falco} interjects.
        
        ${yusuha} nods in agreement. "One lead yet remains. Exalted Beris."

"We should go, then," ${falco} says, fixing ${fhis} mask back on ${fhis} face. "Plague, you'll be staying behind. Keep looking after the children, do what you can to heal them."

Eli shifts ${ehis} gaze towards you, but nods ${ehis} agreement after a moment's hesitance. "I understand," ${ehe} says. The older mage turns towards you. "Be careful," ${ehe} says simply, but you feel the gravity of ${ehis} words all the same. It has only been days since you were reunited, and already you've met with grave danger. And at ${ehis} urging, no less—none had been more eager to get to Aulain than ${ehim}.

$!{ehis} terror had been palpable, back in the crypt. You believe you understand why.

*choice
    #"Don't miss me too much, now. I'll be back before you know it."
        *set reli %+ 5
        *set charming %+ 15
        Eli's smile edges into a smile, but you can tell ${ehis} heart isn't in it. "I'll be waiting," ${ehe} says.
        
        You pause a moment, eyeing ${ehim} scrutinizingly. "Is everything alright?"
        
        "Of course. It's just…" Eli draws a breath, resting a hand on the back of ${ehis} neck. "I can't help but to worry. I felt so helpless when Ralos managed to run you through, and it brought up something…unpleasant."
        
        Eli does not specify the memory in question, but then again, ${ehe} didn't need to. You know well the moment which occupies ${ehis} thoughts. Shadows darting on the Parami border, the scent of dew and blood carrying on the wind. Sister, bright eyes taunting, talons burning. And Eli ${ehim}self, wreathed in the light which would save you. The very same one which had extinguished ${ehis} life.
        
        "I'm not eager to repeat the experience, believe me," you say, trying to keep your tone light. "I'll be more careful this time."
        
        "That's all I can ask for," Eli says, and this time ${ehis} smile appears a bit brighter.
        
        ${yusuha} clears ${yhis} throat and steps gingerly between you and Eli. "If you're both quite finished—we should be on our way, don't you think?"
        
        "Alright, Fox. Isha-on-high speed your way," Eli says. $!{ehe} gives you a little wave as ${ehe} sees you out; a draft picks up as ${yusuha}'s wind barrier comes back to life, and then as one you disappear into the stormy dark.
    #"What happened in the crypt is an anomaly. Stop underestimating me."
        *set charming %- 15
        Eli looks at you with surprise. "I wasn't…" ${ehe} retreats into ${ehim}self, closing ${ehis} eyes. "No, you're right. You can handle yourself. And I should trust you to."
        
        You cross your arms at ${ehis} choice of phrasing. "But you don't."
        
        "It's a process," ${ehe} admits with some difficulty. "And that's no criticism on you, to be clear. You've grown stronger than ever—and truly, I'm happy to see it—but whenever I see you in danger, I keep thinking…"
        
        $!{ehe} fails to find ${ehis} next words, but then again, ${ehe} didn't need to. You know well the moment which occupies ${ehis} thoughts. Shadows darting on the Parami border, the scent of dew and blood carrying on the wind. Sister, bright eyes taunting, talons burning. And Eli ${ehim}self, wreathed in the light which would save you. The very same one which had extinguished ${ehis} life.
        
        "You were the one who died that day," you say, low and quiet. "I went on living. In spite of the pain, the loneliness, I kept going. So don't…don't you dare look down on me."
        
        Eli appears chastened by your words. "${callsign}…no, ${fname}," ${ehe} says. "I'm sorry. You deserve more faith from me. If you say you'll come back safe, then I believe you."
        
        "Good," you say, swallowing the thickness building in your throat. "We won't be long."
        
        Eli manages a small, awkward smile as you turn to leave. ${yusuha} and ${falco} fall into step behind you after a moment's hesitance—and though they have decorum enough to keep their silence, you feel their stares boring into your back.
        
        You feel a draft pick up as ${yusuha}'s wind barrier comes back to life, and then as one you disappear into the stormy dark.
    #"Surely you don't think some noble will do me in."
        *set optimistic %+ 15
        Eli's face falls. "I thought as much when I was first dispatched to deal with those twins. I paid dearly for the mistake."
        
        "You heard that guard, didn't you?" you say, turning to properly look ${ehim} in the eyes. "Exalted Beris only took her own guards with her. Knights who have served her for years—not some unknown quantity like Ralos and Altea were."
        
        "I…suppose," ${ehe} says, straining from the effort. "Ignore me—I know I'm being paranoid. It's just…when I saw what Ralos did to you in that crypt, the way he ran you through, I felt so helpless. It brought up something unpleasant."
        
        Eli does not specify the memory in question, but then again, ${ehe} didn't need to. You know well the moment which occupies ${ehis} thoughts. Shadows darting on the Parami border, the scent of dew and blood carrying on the wind. Sister, bright eyes taunting, talons burning. And Eli ${ehim}self, wreathed in the light which would save you. The very same one which had extinguished ${ehis} life.
        
        "I understand," you say, in a tone you hope is reassuring. "Sorry, Eli. I hadn't thought…I'll be more careful this time."
        
        "That's all I can ask for," Eli says, sighing in relief.
        
        ${yusuha} clears ${yhis} throat and steps gingerly between you and Eli. "If you're both quite finished—we should be on our way, don't you think?"
        
        "Alright, Fox. Isha-on-high speed your way," Eli says. $!{ehe} gives you a little wave as ${ehe} sees you out; a draft picks up as ${yusuha}'s wind barrier comes back to life, and then as one you disappear into the stormy dark.
        

*page_break

Tracking Exalted Beris down proves to be a simple affair. Her secret meeting was not so secret after all, for three different knights you plucked from their respective patrols around the Heights—following a bout of persuasion—sang the same song. The noblewoman is meeting her political enemy, Exalted Iril, at the latter's highcity residence. The knight ${falco} had accosted—Beris's own blood relative, as it turns out—had been particularly generous with details. Beris apparently means to negotiate a close to the conflict, and would concede a great deal to Iril in exchange for amnesty for Ralos and Altea.

You almost laugh at his words. Beris risks a great deal to meet her enemies at their turf, to make no mention of the assets she's parting with to secure the deal. Alas, her desperate politicking will be in vain, and a grim fate is all that awaits her. ${falco} is not the sort to regard ${fhis} enemies' lives, and ${yusuha}—bleeding heart though ${yhe} may be—is unlikely to come to her defense after all she did to the Aulaini. When this is all said and done, Beris will likely find herself bereft of life this night. And if ${falco} is allowed to have ${fhis} way, it will likely be neither quick nor painless.

[i]And here comes the unfortunate lady now[/i], you solemnly think, watching as she comes around the corner and walks into the parlor. Exalted Iril's highcity getaway is large and sturdily built, likely repurposed from some older building which survived Aulain's decline, But the structure is ill-maintained, with peeling plaster on the ceiling and a persistent mossy smell pervading its spacious halls. You imagine one such as Beris is used to creature comforts greater than this, but it seems a more pressing worry currently occupies her thoughts. She bites the nail of her thumb in a nervous tic, pacing restlessly in the empty parlor.

Her distracted reverie comes to an abrupt end as she crosses the parlor table, upon which once sat the tea and refreshments Iril had set out for her. In their place are instead the trophies ${falco} has made of Ralos and Altea, eyes and dull and lifeless, hair tangled and streaked with hair.

${falco} draws ${fhim}self up behind Beris as she stumbles backward at the sight; she whips her head around and beholds ${fhis} masked figure in the shadows, her jaw dropping open. The terror in her face is plain. She looks ready to scream murder, but in a moment ${falco} yanks her by the collar and slams her against the wall, ${fhis} forearm pressed up against her throat and choking out her shriek.

"I would advise against it," ${falco} growls. "Unless you wish to meet your allies' fate."

"H-Help…" she manages to choke out.

${falco}'s arm presses harder against her windpipe. "Let me be clear: anyone steps foot in this room, I will kill them. But not before I kill you."

${falco} keeps her pinned there for a few seconds more, likely searching for confirmation that ${fhis} words will be heeded. Whatever the noblewoman did must have satisfied ${fhim}, as soon ${fhe} removes ${fhis} forearm and lets Beris collapse to the floor, heaving and gasping for breath.

"Who…are you? Do you even know what you've done?" she demands, hoarse. "Did Iril send you to kill me? She should have done it herself, the craven."

You scoff at that, and for the first time Beris picks up on your presence. You come out from behind the far side of the mantelpiece, from where you were meant to launch an ambush had Beris called in her knights. ${yusuha} has stationed ${yhim}self elsewhere in the building, watching the movements of Iril and her people.

Eli truly did have nothing to fear—for if anything, you were overly prepared, it seems. Beris is proving to be more cooperative than you thought.

*choice
    #"Please. We have no interest in the quarrel of backwater nobles."
        Her eyes are hard as she regards you. "Then leave."
        
        You shake your head. "I will have to disappoint you." You stride over the doorway. The light seeping in from the lit hallway beyond shrinks to a slit, then disappears entirely as you pull the door shut.
    #"I mislike your tone. Do you not understand your own predicament?"
        Beris scoffs at your words, though the tremble of her hands betrays her bravado. "This is not the first time my life has been threatened. That you do not kill me outright means that I have something you want. No—something you [i]need[/i]."
        
        You answer her with silence instead of a concession. She watches your face hawkishly as you stride over to the doorway. The light seeping in from the lit hallway beyond shrinks to a slit, then disappears entirely as you pull the door shut.
        
        "Let's hear it, then," Beris says. "Why are you here?"
    #"You have no right to speak of cravens. Not after what you've done."
        "I have done a great many things in service to this city," she retorts. "If you wish to censure me, you will need to be more specific."
        
        "You still dare claim to act in Aulain's best interests?"
        
        "Aulain is doomed. It has been for a long time," she answers. "I am but one person, and Aulain's demise has been centuries in the making. I will not allow it to stain my conscience." She shakes her head. "Enough of this. You are here because you want something of me. I would hear it. And quickly, so that we can both be quit of this place."
        
*choice
    #"You've made some dangerous friends, Exalted. Tell us about them."
        She peers up at you, her gaze combative. "My connections are too many to count."
        
        ${falco} emits a burst of mana from ${fhis} hand, and a small explosion manifests upon the parlor table. The force of it dislodges Ralos's head from its perch, and it rolls across the floor to land at Beris's feet. The woman swallows an involuntary gulp. "Stop wasting our time," ${falco} says, a dangerous glint in ${fhis} eyes.
        
        "I can tell you nothing about them," the noblewoman says, and you almost admire her for it. You can plainly see the terror in her features, the irregular rhythm of her breaths, and yet she seems intent on holding her stance. Whether that is courage, loyalty, or stupidity, you wouldn't be able to say.
        
        ${falco}, however, appears to have ${fhis} mind made up. "You think our threats empty?" ${fhe} says, lips pulling into a cruel grin. A serpent rises from ${fhis} back and rears up, black scales and wicked red eyes, venom misting from its mouth. "Let us see whether a bit of pain can restore your reason."
        
        The sight of the serpent collapses Beris's facade in one fell swoop. The woman scrambles unceremoniously away, unheeding of the tears in her fine sillasilk garment. "You don't understand," she says desperately, "I [i]can't[/i] tell you about them. Truly!" ${falco} takes a step forward, and she backs up against the wall, shrinking into herself. "They've—"
        
        *label whoever
        Whatever Beris meant to say appears as if it's been plucked straight from her mouth, and she reaches up towards her throat, shifting with discomfort. There's a trace of foreign mana in the air, so faint and subtle so as to be barely noticeable. You blink, a familiar sensation clouding your thoughts.
    #"This city will be ruined due to your actions. Don't you care about its people?"
        She tilts her head to regard you. "A terrible misfortune. May Jove receive them with care into Their embrace."
        
        You don't miss the tightening of ${falco}'s jaw, or the way ${fhis} hand almost reaches for ${fhis} spear. "You and your ilk were the one to forbid entry to the highcity," ${fhe} says. "Their blood will be on your hands."
        
        "What use is there in prolonging their suffering? This city is on its last legs, and the greatflood will only seal its fate," she says. "Look around you. Even with most of the rabble kept out of the gate, this place is already a slaughterhouse. You bring the whole of the city up here, and there will be a ceaseless struggle over food and shelter. It will be a [i]bloodbath[/i]."
        
        "And so everyone must die, so that you may live," ${falco} says, ${fhis} tone dark. "You've neither honor nor worth."
        
        "Haven't I? That you have sought me out seems to prove otherwise," she says. "What is it that you hope to gain? Information? Power over the city? Both of these things lie with me."
        
        ${falco} bristles at her words. "I should run you through right here."
        
        "But you will not," Beril points out. "You need me alive."
        
        "Alive," ${falco} agrees, a dangerous glint in ${fhis} eyes. "But not unharmed." No later than the words leave ${fhis} mouth, a serpent rises from ${fhis} back and rears up, black scales and wicked red eyes, venom misting from its mouth.
        
        The sight of the serpent collapses Beris's facade in one fell swoop. The woman scrambles unceremoniously away, unheeding of the tears in her fine sillasilk garment. "What do you want from me?" she demands, wide-eyed.
        
        "You will do everything we say, and tell us everything we want to know," you say.
        
        She shifts her gaze uncomfortably. "I…will cooperate, to the best of my ability. But as for them," she says, looking over to the parlor table, "I can tell you nothing."
        
        ${falco}'s serpent lets out a furious hiss, the venom spewing from its mouth thickening. "It will not take much to break your resolve," ${falco} says.
        
        "No, you don't understand," she says desperately, "I [i]can't[/i] tell you about them. Truly!" ${falco} takes a step forward, and she backs up against the wall, shrinking into herself. "They've—"
        
        *goto whoever
    #"Cease the fighting and organize an evacuation of the lower city. [i]Now[/i]."
        Beris laughs, the sound raspy and dry. "You had better have this [i]talk[/i] with Iril. She holds all the cards now, the blasted woman."
        
        "Stop wasting our time," ${falco} hisses. "You're the most powerful noble in the city. This should be well within your capabilities."
        
        "Such was the case prior to this greatflood business, but Iril has outmaneuvered me at every turn. She now has the run of the council, and with it the Trueblades," she says. "But perhaps we can come to arrangement. You are fighters of some mettle, clearly—if you can…[i]incapacitate[/i] Iril, a great deal of my authority will be returned. I would be able to aid you, then."
        
        You can scarcely believe her words. "You would have us fight on your behalf?"
        
        "I am offering a solution in which we both get what we want," she says. "You will get no such offer from Iril. She would have nothing to gain, and everything to lose."
        
        "Enough of this charade," ${falco} says. "Iril will sing as well as any when we press a blade to her neck. As for you—you've had dealings with our enemies. Tell us the terms, and everything you know of your supposed allies."
        
        "I cannot," Beris says firmly, though she is betrayed by the trace of fear in her eyes.
        
        "You think our threats empty?" ${fhe} says, lips pulling into a cruel grin. A serpent rises from ${fhis} back and rears up, black scales and wicked red eyes, venom misting from its mouth. "Let us see whether a bit of pain can restore your reason."
        
        The sight of the serpent collapses Beris's facade in one fell swoop. The woman scrambles unceremoniously away, unheeding of the tears in her fine sillasilk garment. "You don't understand," she says desperately, "I [i]can't[/i] tell you about them. Truly!" ${falco} takes a step forward, and she backs up against the wall, shrinking into herself. "They've—"
        
        *goto whoever

*page_break Could it be...?

You lean down to face Beris, your hand reaching up for the base of her throat. At your will mana phases from your hands onto her skin, and you find that a spell has been nestled underneath. The runes are harsh, curled with malice, an ancient curse now lost to even the continent's brightest mages.

But it's one that's all too familiar to you.

"An arcane collar." The words taste foul as they leave your mouth. The pyre had been what extinguished you, in the end, but it had been this curse that set things into motion. This instance is weaker, not so airtight as the one Sister had cast on you, but that anyone would have access to it at all is cause for alarm. Many tomes survived the fire in Thaubal Altinier's home, but Sister made sure the scroll bearing this curse had burned. How then has one ended up on Beris?

${falco} looks at you quizzically. "What?"

"A curse. The caster can forbid the afflicted from discussing something, and the curse will enforce it," you explain. "She must have been ordered not to speak of those twins—and whoever's backing them."

Relief floods Beris's face, though ${falco} is too occupied to notice it. "I've never heard of such a spell," ${fhe} says, crossing ${fhis} arms.

"The spell was developed within the last decade. I'd be more surprised if you [i]were[/i] familiar with it," you say. And then, after a moment's consideration, "It should have fallen to obscurity. None were capable of casting it, save for the inventor and his daughter. Both…are dead now."

${falco} keeps ${fhis} eyes on you for a while, as if searching for something in the nooks of your features. And then, with a sigh, ${fhe} relents. "Very well," ${fhe} says, turning ot Beris. "You're coming with us. There is someone who will know what to do with you."

"What? No," Beris says, the fight returning to her voice. "You can't do this to me, I'm—"

*page_break The door swings open.

"I would suggest against further resistance. You will go with them, one way or another. Best to pick the one that doesn't earn you their ire."

You turn to face the new figure as she sweeps into the room. She's not someone you recognize: a tall, reedy woman with a bony face, her graying hair pulled up into an old-fashioned, austere bun. She regards you with her set of blood-red eyes, and for a moment you feel as if you're staring Tahlia in the flesh.

You hear Beris's growl from somewhere in your periphery. "Damn it, you old crone. Ever the opportunist…"

*choice
    #I demand to know who she is.
        "Who are you?" you ask simply, meeting her gaze evenly all the while.
        
        "Where are my manners? Exalted Iril, at your service," she says, pressing a hand against her chest and dips her head slightly. A Salantir curtsy, though it's the lightest one you've ever seen. "I have served as the Councilor Prime of Aulain for, oh, three hours now. It is a pleasure to meet you."
        
        "You willingly walked into a lion's den," you remark, regarding her coolly. "Why?"
        
        "Because I believe we would gain much from a dialog," she says. "Your colleague agreed. Why would ${yhe} have let me past, were it otherwise?"
        
        *label thenspeak
        ${falco} steps forward slowly as ${fhe} sizes her up, hand tight around the grip of ${fhis} spear. $!{fhe} stops not one full pace ahead of Iril, golden eyes scrutinizing. "Then speak."
        
        *label postthenspeak
        To her credit, Iril appears to be completely unfazed. "Very well. You should know that the evacuation of the lower city is well underway. The full might of the Trueblades—what remains of them, at any rate—-has been charged with the task. They will do so in cooperation with the Order, as facilitated by one Sir Meviel."
        
        "You fool," Beris jeers. "We've not enough food stockpiled—all of you will starve."
        
        "Therein lies your mistake, Exalted," Iril says. "Unbeknownst to you, the highcity stockpile has been restored to its historical high. My faction has worked tirelessly for this, aided by our friends and sponsors of the city of Thulrum."
        
        Your eyes widen. "You have dealings with the Church?"
        
        "They have been preeminent supporters of our cause. Aulain will be saved this day, and we owe it all to the Diocese," Iril explains. "Your [i]ashai[/i] is a brilliant woman. She has been instrumental in Beris's deposition, despite it being plain that she counts some powerful force as her supporters. And now that I have risen to the position of Councilor Prime, and the rot within this fair city has been excised, I intend to repay Thulrum's favor in full."
        
        ${falco} narrows ${fhis} eyes. "And how will you do so?"
        
        "Financial restitution will be plentiful, though dispersed over a long period. But perhaps more pertinently, the council is so appreciative of Thulrum's efforts that we would be amenable to a…closer relationship between our two cities. Provided, of course, that the Church is able to perform the necessary maneuvers in the Salantir court."
        
        "You would have the city defect," Beris says, her voice low and horrified. "Treason. Treason!"
        
        Iril laughs drily at that. "The true betrayal is what Salantira has done to once-glorious Aulain," she says, shaking her head. "But Thulrum has shown us that not all is lost under Salantir dominion. If they can guide us through the process of recovering from its ravages, then I for one would happily bend the knee."
        
        "An interesting proposal," ${falco} acknowledges, "if one were to believe you are telling the truth."
        
        "I ask not for your trust. Merely your time," Iril says. "I go now to assist in the evacuation. Afterward, the highcity stockpile will be distributed, and I will oversee the process. I invite you to see for yourself the truth of my words. Or, if you wish, merely hear it from your [i]ashai's[/i] own mouth. I will still be here if you decide you want my head. Such is the lot of a councilor."
        
        ${falco} meets your gaze for a moment as ${fhe} considers Iril's words, but eventually nods ${fhis} assent. "You will be forced to remain in the highcity for the foreseeable future," ${fhe} says. "Go, then. We will find you in time."
    #I grit my teeth. ${yusuha} was supposed to prevent this.
        "So you've managed to get past our colleague," you remark, watching her expression closely. "It's unlike ${yhim} to be so sloppy."
        
        "You think me capable of besting one who has laid low all of Iril's guards? Flattered though I may be, I must clear your doubts. $!{yhe} [i]let[/i] me through," she says. "Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Exalted Iril, at your service." The woman presses a hand against her chest and dips her head slightly. A Salantir curtsy, though it's the lightest one you've ever seen. "I have served as the Councilor Prime of Aulain for, oh, three hours now. It is a pleasure to meet you."
        
        "And why, pray tell, would ${yhe} do that?" you ask her, carefully neutral. "$!{yhis} instructions were quite firmly the opposite."
        
        "I told ${yhim} that we would have much to gain from a dialog. And, following my explanation, ${yhe} concurred," she says. "And so it is that I stand before you, as the good @{yvar man|woman} is presently otherwise engaged."
        
        *goto thenspeak
    #We can leave no witnesses. I duly inform her that her life is forfeit.
        *set noble %- 15
        "You're privy to something you should've never seen, Madam," you say, matter-of-fact. "All loose ends must be tidied. It's nothing personal, you understand."
        
        If the woman is fazed, she does not show it. "I understand well the risks of appearing before you," she answers calmly. "But I thought it possible that we come to a mutual understanding. There are things I must tell you—things that would benefit you to hear."
        
        ${falco} regards her with disdain, but tosses her a bone. "Start with your name."
        
        "Exalted Iril, at your service," she says, pressing a hand against her chest and dips her head slightly. A Salantir curtsy, though it's the lightest one you've ever seen. "I have served as the Councilor Prime of Aulain for, oh, three hours now. It is a pleasure to meet you."
        
        *goto thenspeak 
    #I let my mana spike in preparation of an attack spell.
        The spell builds with a ferocious intensity, setting the very air of the room to humming. It is a second before the spell circle manifests in full—and it truly feels like child's play compared to arcana, like a worn-in pair of shoes. And though it does not hold up to the fearsome powers you had invoked, you are a master mage even without your phantasma. A simple command, and your guest will immediately depart for the Source.
        
        "Wait. Please," the woman says, more resolute than nervous. "There are things I must tell you—things that would benefit you to hear."
        
        ${falco} steps forward, then, and you allow the spell to hold. The runes remain primed, ready to activate at a moment's notice, but you allow your companion the space to do as ${fhe} wishes. "Start with your name," ${fhe} says, crossing ${fhis} arms.
        
        "Exalted Iril, at your service," she says, pressing a hand against her chest and dips her head slightly. A Salantir curtsy, though it's the lightest one you've ever seen. "I have served as the Councilor Prime of Aulain for, oh, three hours now. It is a pleasure to meet you."
        
        ${falco} steps forward slowly as ${fhe} sizes her up, hand tight around the grip of ${fhis} spear. $!{fhe} stops not one full pace ahead of Iril, golden eyes scrutinizing. You let your spell relax, then dissipate—from that distance, ${falco} would need only a fraction of a second to neutralize Iril. Permanently, if need be. "Then speak," ${fhe} says.
        
        *goto postthenspeak

*page_break

You keep your eyes on Iril's retreating form, even as she exits the mansion flanked by her so-called Trueblades. In the meantime, ${falco} incapacitates Beris with a swift chop to the back of her neck and hoists the noblewoman over ${fhis} shoulder. The both of you exit the mansion and find ${yusuha} in the courtyard, heaving from the exertion of having taken on Beris's stragglers all by ${yhim}self, but barely injured otherwise. It only takes minutes by Spirit Gate for the three of you to reunite with Eli, and another few to find an Order member Eli finds trustworthy enough to entrust with your charges. Relieved of the children and Beris both, you move to see if Iril is making good on her promise.

You are pleased to find that she is.

The evacuation is a haphazard, disorderly affair, what with the threat of the greatflood looming over Aulain. Though officially to be conducted through caravans, the evacuees have taken whatever measures they can to secure their spot in the earliest processions. In most cases, this means walking up along the caravans' path, hugging what shade is offered by the carriages' flaring roofs. Many fall on the mud-streaked path to the highcity, and others yet are encumbered by the runoffs sloshing down the slope. You can be certain that the treacherous conditions will have caused a significant number of deaths. Most of them avoidable, had the evacuation order been given out sooner.

The thought must have been at the forefront of Eli's mind as ${ehe} meets Iril at the top of the climb, mask removed and glamor cast, watching the sea of humans desperately stumbling up to their salvation. You recognize ${ehis} fury and indignance, can almost hear the words ${ehe} only just manages to bite back. Iril notices ${ehis} ire, and gives a whole spiel on the necessity of Beris's deposition, and why concluding that dirty business prior to the evacuation would save many more lives in the long run. Eli does not look the slightest bit mollified, but neither does ${ehis} balled-up fist find itself buried in Iril's face. You count it as a minor miracle, and silently wish for more as the final batch completes its ascent.

*page_break

Next comes the distribution of the first rations, and it is here that Thulrum's involvement begins to make itself clear. The main storehouse Iril leads you to is an incredibly spacious, three-story affair, spanning nearly a full third of the road it sits on, and counts among its wares a truly staggering amount of felmin. The Arcadian grain crop keeps for an inordinately long time in storage, making it ideal for Aulain's purposes. However, the crop grows only in a select few sections of ancestral Arcadian lands, and a supply of this size must have been sourced from Thulrum's environs, where felmin grows easier still than weeds.

With how many spacious, abandoned buildings present in the highcity, shelter becomes highly available, if not necessarily ideal in density. In the end, what strains the highcity is disease: many had already endured illnesses prior to their journey up, and more still became afflicted on the way. And so it was that pockets of outbreaks began to afflict the tightly-packed halls, and the air all but groans with the sounds of pain and discomfort.

Neither Iril nor Eli's friends in the Order ever alludes to the fact that they need your help, but the highcity's desperation is a frigid, palpable thing. It occurs to you that with the obfuscation of ${falco}'s glamor, you would be able to poke your nose into Aulain's affairs yet again.

*choice
    *selectable_if (alchemy > 50) #I find a cauldron and immediately get to work.
        *set noble %+ 15
        Desperate times call for humiliating measures, as it turns out, for you had to seize your instrument from Iril's kitchen. You rig it up with the necessary enchantments with Eli and ${falco}'s help; then the liquids flow and the herbs are dropped in, and you dole out your potions by the dozens. Though you begin at a feverish pace, you are soon forced into a leisurely one for want of ingredients. You make do with whatever you can get your hands on, crafting haphazard tinctures using ingredients with yet-to-be-proven benefits. Any alchemist worth their salt will call you a hack. You take comfort in the fact that they have never been tasked with the grim business of plague-breaking, of which you have unlikely expertise.
        
        The city's need is great and ceaseless, and you know what you manage to produce isn't nearly enough to sate it. Shutting yourself away in Iril's manor, you feel as if you're a golden goose in an iron cage, chained to the cauldron by the weight of your duties. You hardly get the chance to leave your makeshift workshop, and so remain largely unaware of the impact of your efforts. But ${yusuha} and Eli both assure you that you're making a dent in the city's ordeals, and it is all you can do to take them at their word.
    *selectable_if (enchantment > 50) #I use enchantments to bolster the refugees' recovery.
        *set noble %+ 15
        You make the rounds with Eli, who manages to pass ${ehim}self off as a wandering theurge with the help of ${falco}'s glamor. $!{ehis} is a contrived claim, in truth, for the Jovian Church keeps its theurges on a tight leash. But you plumb Ilya's story for inspiration whenever someone elects to investigate ${ehis} claim, and in so doing allow ${ehim} to parry even the most inquisitive queries. And at any rate, the Aulaini are too battered by their ordeal to press their salvation for answers, and Eli thusly transforms into a saint in Aulain's hour of need.
        
        Your role is that of the second fiddle, in the end. You cast Glyphs which bolster the strength of the patients and endow them with resilience, allowing Eli the berth to attempt riskier, more invasive procedures. You know precious little of the ${ehis} arcana's workings—young Eli never was fond of utilizing Thaubal's gift to ${ehim}—but ${ehe} manages to heal ${ehis} patients with a startling rate of success. What follows is a slew of relieved tears and effusive gratitude, which Eli accepts with grace, all the while ensuring you receive your due share of the credit each time.
        
        Of course, in the grand scheme of things, your efforts put but a dent in the refugees' suffering. The city's need is great and ceaseless, and your combined efforts feel as if you're using a pail to plumb the ocean's depths. There is always another death at some other corner of the highcity, someone begging for the mysterious theurge to heal their dying child, father, niece. Eli remains steadfast through it all, grim but resolute as ${ehe} tends to ${ehis} endless work.
    *selectable_if (learning > 50) #I use my medical knowledge, using Iril's supplies to stem the tide of disease.
        *set noble %+ 15
        You make the rounds with Eli, who manages to pass ${ehim}self off as a wandering theurge with the help of ${falco}'s glamor. $!{ehis} is a contrived claim, in truth, for the Jovian Church keeps its theurges on a tight leash. But you plumb Ilya's story for inspiration whenever someone elects to investigate ${ehis} claim, and in so doing allow ${ehim} to parry even the most inquisitive queries. And at any rate, the Aulaini are too battered by their ordeal to press their salvation for answers, and Eli thusly transforms into a saint in Aulain's hour of need.
        
        Your role is that of the second fiddle, in the end. Your propensity for scholarship allows you to complement Eli's efforts—that type of rash is worsened by sun exposure, and can be treated with topical application of the felmin chaff—and in so doing you lighten ${ehis} burdens somewhat. Eli is able to conserve more of ${ehis} mana, tend to more patients as ${ehe} does the rounds. What follows is a slew of relieved tears and effusive gratitude, which Eli accepts with grace, all the while ensuring you receive your due share of the credit each time.
        
        Of course, in the grand scheme of things, your efforts put but a dent in the refugees' suffering. The city's need is great and ceaseless, and your combined efforts feel as if you're using a pail to plumb the ocean's depths. There is always another death at some other corner of the highcity, someone begging for the mysterious theurge to heal their dying child, father, niece. Eli remains steadfast through it all, grim but resolute as ${ehe} tends to ${ehis} endless work.
    #I do nothing. I'm certain I would only get in the way.
        You've encountered no shortage of tribulations ever since you stepped foot in Aulain. From traversing the storm-battered city, fighting Ralos and Altea, and suddenly being bound to Raegusa, everything you faced has left you much reduced. Pushing your luck and playing savior in such a state carries a tremendous risk, certainly for you, but more pertinently for the people who would have sought your help. Better that they get treatment from Iril's people, who have purportedly been preparing for this eventuality.
        
        Upon being informed of your decision, Iril is happy to furnish you with a room in her mansion, as well as what supplies she is able to spare from the stockpile. The rest of your companions—even ${falco}, which comes to you as a surprise—elect to venture out into the city and assist in the recovery efforts. Your decision is met with their universal understanding, for there can be no doubt that your exertion over the course of this mission towered well over theirs.
    #I do nothing. Let the healers handle healing; I must focus on my own recovery.
        *set noble %- 15
        You've encountered no shortage of tribulations ever since you stepped foot in Aulain, and your victories have purchased for these people their path up to the highcity. They will have to be content with that much. Traversing the storm-battered city and fighting Ralos and Altea on top of that has left you much reduced, and in desperate need of rest. You are well within your rights for an extended rest, and you rush to claim it. Iril is happy to furnish you with a room in her mansion, as well as what supplies she is able to spare from the stockpile.
        
        The rest of your companions—even ${falco}, which comes to you as a surprise—elect to venture out into the city and assist in the recovery efforts. Your decision is met with their universal understanding, for there can be no doubt that, with Raegusa's sudden binding, your exertion towered well over theirs.

The storm rages on, and from your vantage in the highcity you witness Aulain's worst fear manifesting in real time. A full greatflood ravages the city, bursting up from the city's weary, overstuffed waterways, gushing with such ferocity so as to destroy entire structures and swallow all its pieces. The scale of the devastation invites disbelief, and the sight is gruesome to behold. The lone silver lining is in the fact that the city's people have been spared the fate of their homes. Cold comfort for a people whose lives are well and truly broken.

It is days before the storm finally breaks, and another few before the greatflood subsides, leaving in its wake the ruins of a once-great city. What sobs choke the air are sparse and quiet, as if Aulain as a collective has been drained of all their grief in the days prior.

"We did everything we could," Eli says, in the end. You know immediately that the words are intended for ${ehim}self. $!{ehe} had called the city home, and now it is gone. And it may well take many decades for Aulain to get back on its feet again, if it manages the feat at all.

"Yes. Everything," says ${yusuha}, looking similarly disheartened. "We…should be getting back to Thulrum. There is much to report and discuss."

*page_break

Despite their solemn resignation, none of you had been particularly eager to leave the city to its fate. You drag your feet for a couple days more, before ${falco} finally finds the strength to point out that you're all still knee-deep in the mire. ${yusuha} purses ${yhis} lips glumly, but accepts the accusation, and neither ${yhe} nor Eli offer resistance when ${falco} insists on finding a way out of these storm-broken lands.

You and Eli had been trying to secure a carriage back to Thulrum—Spirit Gate travel would prove unwieldy with the children and Beris in tow—when a commotion rises from the refugees all around you. Striding over to the source, you spot a swathe of the people collecting nearby, upon a tall bluff which overlooks the path into Aulain. You exchange curious glances with Eli before shimmying your way to the front of the crowd, turning your gaze to follow their line of sight to the dirt road below.

It is then that you find yourself utterly dumbfounded.

A caravan comes ambling down the dirt road, pulled by beasts of all types and colors, and manned by personnel in familiar garbs. The procession stretches all the way to the horizon, more than twenty carriages in all; from those among them with an open hood, you can spot stone and wood, grain sacks and manure, bars of copper and silver, and even magical artifacts. The sheer abundance on display is enough to leave you dizzy, and you only grow more breathless as you discover that a full five minutes would pass before the caravan's tail rears its head.

Slowly and steadily, the caravan makes the ascent to the highcity, and is greeted at the gates with the refugees' raucous cheers. It is only at this distance that the caravan-sender's identity is made clear. On each and every carriage a crest is emblazoned: a golden lantern shining blocky beams of light, set against a pitch-black shield. The crest of the Ishavak Church.

You spot a familiar face near the caravan's rear, and she saunters over to you with a wave. "It's been a little bit," says Myst brightly. She shifts over towards Eli, then, and gives ${ehim} a firm pat on the back. "And you—it's been forever and a half, hasn't it? Glad to see you're still in one piece."

"Same here. Though I couldn't have imagined this is how our meeting would go," Eli says, chuckling softly. "You always did know how to make an entrance."

"I'm no good at fighting, so I can't shove myself into the mischief you get up to. I've got to make my own fun," Myst laughs. She then gestures over to the caravan, and gives you all an expectant look. "So, what do we think? Impressive, no?"

*choice
    #"And timely, too. This is much needed: Aulain now has a fair shot at rebuilding."
        *set noble %+ 15
        You shake your head with wonder as you say the words. The scale of the operation truly boggles the mind, as even now the carriages have yet ceased to pass through the gates. It is no trifling work to rebuild a shattered city, but you believe much headway could be made with the resources in this procession alone. At the very least, it could transform the highcity into a place capable of sheltering all these people indefinitely, as true restoration work is carried out in the city proper.
        
        "A fair shot? Nay, a guarantee," Myst says. "The [i]ashai[/i] will have my head otherwise."
        
        "I didn't know she cared so much for this city," Eli says, sounding a little surprised.
        
        "Well, there are reasons for that," Myst says off-handedly. And then, as she vaguely gestures to the crowd, "but perhaps not a topic for polite company." She winks. "In any case, you'll likely be needed in Thulrum, given all that's happened. There are a few carriages heading immediately out after this. Catch one of them—Isha-on-high knows you could use the rest."
    #"This seems to me an unwise investment. These resources can be better spent elsewhere."
        *set noble %- 15
        You shake your head softly as you ask the question. The scale of the operation truly boggles the mind, as even now the carriages have yet ceased to enter the city. It is no trifling work to rebuild a shattered city, but you believe much headway could be made with the resources in this procession alone. At the very least, it could transform the highcity into a place capable of sheltering all these people indefinitely, as true restoration work is carried out in the city proper. But even now Thulrum is reaching its tendrils outward, evacuating Arcadians from Arvanand's most decrepit corners and building homes for them in the Holy City. Whatever loyalty they might induce in the people of Aulain, it seems painfully unstrategic to prioritize it over Thulrum's ongoing efforts.
        
        "How crude," Myst complains, a hand placed over her mouth in mock offense. "Why is it that no one ever believes in the goodness of our hearts?"
        
        "The [i]ashai[/i] is hardly the charitable sort," you point out drily. "Do you not find it foolish? To give so excessively to a land that's not even your own?"
        
        "You know as well as I that she's a true pragmatist," Myst says, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "She has something she want out of this, and you can bet that she will collect, when the time comes. As for now, though? I feel good about this caravan. We're able to do so much for so many—I could get drunk on this feeling." She shakes her head. "But look at me rambling on. The [i]ashai[/i will want you back in Thulrum soon, I think. There are a few carriages heading immediately out after this. Catch one of them—Isha-on-high knows you could use the rest."
    #"This is quite the brazen move. Salantira will not take this lightly."
        *set optimistic %- 15
        There are only so many ways this move can be interpreted. The Aulaini discontent for Salantir rule is notorious, and the city's proximity to Thulrum is notable. For all its troubles, Aulain remains a valuable city, nestled as it is in the Parami-Salantir border. The new Grand Duke won't be pleased to find it tethered so strongly to the fledgling state which broke away from his Duchy a mere five decades ago. 
        
        Myst leans closer and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The thought occurred to me, too, until I remember just who it is that hatched these designs," she says, grinning. "[i]She[/i] will not have made this move recklessly. Hers is the sort of mind which granted Thulrum its independence to begin with, and though I lack the specifics, I know for certain that she's muddied the waters of Salantir politics this past year. You can be certain that it's partially in preparation of this day.
        
        "But look at me rambling on," she says, taking a step back. "You will be needed back in Thulrum soon, I think. Long overdue debrief and all that. There are a few carriages heading out immediately after this. Catch one of them, tell them Myst sent you—Isha-on-high knows you could use the rest."
    #"How is this even possible? Is Thulrum so wealthy that you could afford to do this?"
        *set optimistic %- 15
        You shake your head softly as you ask the question. The scale of the operation truly boggles the mind, as even now the carriages have yet ceased to pass through the gates. It is no trifling work to rebuild a shattered city, but you believe much headway could be made with the resources in this procession alone. At the very least, it could transform the highcity into a place capable of sheltering all these people indefinitely, as true restoration work is carried out in the city proper. But even now Thulrum is reaching its tendrils outward, evacuating Arcadians from Arvanand's most decrepit corners and building homes for them in the Holy City. Maintaining that project alone must be a significant strain on the fledgling state's coffers, so how is it that they're able to manage this much?
        
        Myst leans closer and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "One of the [i]ashai's[/i] gambits paid off in a grand way recently. We've come upon a sizable windfall, as it were," she says. "I had thought the funds would be directed towards internal expansion projects, but I suppose this is fine too. I can't claim to be capable of following her thoughts, but I know she can run circles around me when it comes to scheming and politics. And I, for one, am content to let her do so."
        
        Myst takes a step back, then, grinning. "But look at me rambling on. You will be needed back in Thulrum soon, I think. Long overdue debrief and all that. There are a few carriages heading out immediately after this. Catch one of them, tell them Myst sent you—Isha-on-high knows you could use the rest."

Eli shifts uncomfortably. "Will there be one outgoing tomorrow? I would rather go then, if possible."

Myst knits her brows. "Should be easy enough to arrange. But why? You got a date tonight?"

Eli shakes ${ehis} head a bit too firmly. "No, nothing like that," ${ehe} says. "I…there's a funeral tonight, held in honor of a personal friend."

Myst's face falls. "Oh. I…wasn't aware." She gives ${ehim} an apologetic smile. "Take the time you need. I'll have a carriage prepared for tomorrow morning."

"Much appreciated."

Myst looks as if she's searching for another topic when a commotion rises out from somewhere near the front of the procession. The quartermaster curses under her breath as a shouting match breaks out, and she immediately turns and breaks into a jog. "It was nice catching up—let's do it properly once we're back in Thulrum!"

And with that, she races down the procession towards the source of the commotion. You watch her retreating figure disappear into the distance, your eyes landing on Eli as you do. There's a downcast quality to ${ehis} expression, and you realize then that ${ehe}'s never had a proper chance to mourn Father Gerian.

"Alright?" you ask, the word proffered like an olive branch.

"Mm," Eli confirms, managing a small smile. "Alright."

*page_break

You walk to the woods when the moon is high, silvery and strange in its perch between the clouds. The lantern you carry burns with a fickle flame, casting crooked shadows down the stony path. The trees stand tall and imposing, the night breeze biting—it is an odd time for a funeral, but no one is spoiled for choice in the aftermath of a disaster.

The treeline thins and opens up into the banks of a river, one which extends past the lower city and onto the valley beyond. There is a small crowd gathered at the water's edge: black cloaks and lanterns, each a mirror of your own, the clearing a cocoon of firelight in the dark night. At the center of the congregation is a simple wooden boat, floated gently upon the still water. It is where the Father's body has been laid to rest, the corpse motionless under its white gauze.

Eli draws ${ehim}self up beside you, and for all that the lanterns illuminate ${ehis} face, you still can't make out the expression ${ehe} wears. The older mage stares in silence towards the dinghy, at the mentor ${ehe} will soon send down the river.

*choice
    #I offer ${ehim} my condolences.
        *set noble %+ 15
        "I'm sorry for your loss, Eli," you say quietly. "I'm sure the Father was a great man."
        
        Eli's lips pull into a nostalgic smile, though ${ehis} gaze on the dinghy never wavers. "He was. And I don't make that judgment lightly," ${ehe} says at length. "But he went out the way that he would have liked: in combat, protecting the innocent. I'm sure he would've had no regrets."
        
        You take a glance around the riverbend, drink in the sight of the figures nestled between the trees. The expressions etched upon their faces are uniform—abject, crushing sorrow, the kind reserved for those who truly deserve it. You can find little reason to doubt Eli's words, knowing that so many would grieve the Father's passing so fervently.
        
        "Father Gerian always did enjoy being the center of attention," Eli says after a while. "I'm sure he would have been pleased by the night's turnout."
    #I try to lighten the mood.
        *set charming %+ 15
        "Trust Jovians to make funerals unnecessarily complicated," you sigh, keeping your voice low enough so that only Eli can hear. "Bodies don't feel, you know? They could've spared some of that resource to throw us a feast or something."
        
        Eli's lips twist into a wan smile, though ${ehis} gaze on the dinghy never wavers. "I'll cook for you once we get back," ${ehe} promises. "I've picked up quite a few new dishes since the last time you've had my cooking."
        
        "I'll be looking forward to it," you reply, and mean it. Eli had never spent an extensive amount of time in the kitchen, but ${ehe} certainly cooks like it. Even the royal chefs would shake their heads in disbelief when ${ehe} completed ${ehis} first three-course meal, a mere two weeks into ${ehis} lessons. Within the year, the Duke would request that Eli's food be served at supper, and refuse all others.
        
        How is it that Eli has improved upon perfection? You suppose you'll have to wait and see.
        
        "I'm glad the turnout is so high," Eli says after a while. "I'm sure Father Gerian would have been pleased. He always did enjoy being the center of attention."
    #If a conversation would help, Eli would start one ${ehim}self. For now, I match ${ehis} silence.
        *set charming %- 15
        It is a while before Eli breaks out of ${ehis} reverie. When ${ehe} speaks, it is with ${ehis} gaze still trained upon the dinghy—though ${ehe} manages a wan smile for your benefit.
        
        "Thank you for coming, ${fname}," the older mage says. "Father Gerian always did enjoy being the center of attention. I'm sure he would have been pleased with the night's turnout."

"Self-aggrandizement," you remark with a smile. "Hardly the attitude a priest-commander ought to have."
        
Eli scoffs at the statement, though the gesture is nothing if not fond. "That would be the least of your concerns, if you'd known the man," ${ehe} says. "He swore like a sailor, could drink the entire order under the table. He's technically a high-ranking member of the clergy, but I don't think Jove would have a place for him in the Field of Plenty."

"I didn't know you were a believer."
        
Eli shrugs non-committally. "I don't believe one way or another, but life can be a bit easier if people think you're a Jovian faithful," ${ehe} says. "I suppose you'd never needed to put on airs, though, being a friend of the saintess and all."

*choice
    #"You say that, but I'm still clueless as to what's going on here. Don't the Jovian normally bury their dead?"
        Eli nods thoughtfully, before turning ${ehis} gaze skyward. "'The earth is forged of Jove's mercy, and so lay the faithful there to rest, in their embrace,'" ${ehe} says. "Thirty-fifth passage of Heaven's Reach. Do you recall the rest, ${fname}?"
        
        You close your eyes and think back to the days you spent in Salantira, amidst filtered sunlight and yellowed tomes. The royal chaplain had tasked you with committing the words to memory, even knowing you will likely remain a heretic until the day you die. The Jovian certainly had no lack of optimism—nor dogged persistence, as even now the words still roll lightly off your tongue, easy as your own name. "'Fire burns with Jove's wrath, and so fasten the heathens upon the stake, that they may bear the weight of their sins,'" you say.
        
        (It is impossible not to think of your own execution, the stake that towered over Sienan Square.
        *if (emotional > 50)
            The perturbation you feel must have shown on your face, as Eli reaches an arm around your shoulder and squeezes there gently in assurance. You make no mention of the steel in ${ehis} grip, more akin to wrath than succor—and ${ehe} returns the favor, making no mention of the tears threatening to roll down your cheeks.)
        *else
            Eli appraises the expression on your face—a quiet calm, stony acceptance—and casts ${ehis} gaze again towards the heavens, like ${ehe} might find something writhing there, in the clouded night. Few understand death as well as ${ehe}, as well as you—in that, at least, the both of you are kindred spirits.)
        
        "The last part you had never bothered to learn," Eli murmurs, after a long silence. "'Water flows from Jove's sorrow, and so sink their beloved into its depths, that they may be washed of their mortal impurities.'" A laugh, then, mirthless and hollow. "Of course, the boat must be set afire first, or else said beloved may wash ashore weeks later, all bloated and decidedly unsaintly."
        
        *choice
            #"They certainly know how to pick and choose their scriptures, huh?"
                "Don't begrudge them their rituals, if you can," Eli chuckles. "Dead men can't feel, so it follows that funerals are the affair of the living. If this can grant Father Gerian's family some sort of closure, then that will be more than worth the hassle."
                
                *page_break "I didn't expect such wise words out of you, Eli."
                *goto yupriest
            #"Practical. I like that in a religion."
                "Jovism has its share of pretenses, but they seem to serve an end, at least," Eli chuckles. "Even if Jove's existence turns out to be a farce, just the thought of them has granted no shortage of solace to those who need it most. One can argue the morality behind preaching falsehoods to the vulnerable, but it is hard to deny the results."
                
                *page_break "I didn't take you for a theologian, Eli."
                *goto yupriest
            #"For an Arcadian, you seem rather invested in [i]ercei[/i] doctrines."
                "Par for the course, for a priest of Augur," the older mage says easily. "They recruited me for my skill with a blade, but I still had to attend prayers and vigil nights. In return, they didn't prod too much about my arcana. It wasn't too bad an arrangement, when all is said and done."
                
                *page_break "The [i]ashai[/i] won't be too pleased to hear that, you know."
                *goto yupriest
    #"I'm a long way from Sienan, Eli. I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring her up."
        In the eyes of the world, a full year has passed since the Jovian faithful threw stones against your body and fastened you against the stake. But the year you spent adrift in the sea of death had passed in the blink of an eye, and you can still image the coarse wood against your back, ropes fraying as they are set ablaze.
        
        For all that Ilya had tried to free you from the pyre, she can remind you of nothing but—and the sound of her name still rings strange and hollow in your ears.
        
        *if (emotional > 50)
            (The perturbation you feel must have shown on your face, as Eli reaches an arm around your shoulder and squeezes there gently in assurance. You make no mention of the steel in ${ehis} grip, more akin to wrath than succor—and ${ehe} returns the favor, making no mention of the tears threatening to roll down your cheeks.)
        *else
            (Eli appraises the expression on your face—a quiet calm, stony acceptance—and casts ${ehis} gaze again towards the heavens, like ${ehe} might find something writhing in the clouded night. Few understand death as well as ${ehe}, as well as you—in that, at least, the both of you are kindred spirits.)

        "I apologize," ${ehe} offers, after a long silence. "I should've been more considerate…I think the somber mood may have gotten to me."
        
        *choice
            #"Already forgotten."
                "I appreciate it," ${ehe} replies. "I wish you'd have gotten to meet the Father, ${fname}. I think he would've taken a liking to you."
                
                You feel your eyebrow quirk up. "Why do you think so?"
                
                "Call it a hunch. The old man was always an easy one to read," ${ehe} chuckles. "Never was one for elaborate funerals, either. Not that his opinion matters anymore—funerals are the affair of the living, after all. If this can grant the Father's family some sort of closure, then that will be more than worth the hassle."
                *page_break "I didn't expect such wise words out of you, Eli."
                *goto yupriest
            #"Hey, you're the one grieving here. I should cut you some slack, right?"
                *set charming %- 15
                "I'd appreciate it," ${ehe} replies. ""I wish you'd have gotten to meet the Father, ${fname}. I think he would've taken a liking to you."
                
                You feel your eyebrow quirk up. "Why do you think so?"
                
                "Call it a hunch. The old man was always an easy one to read," ${ehe} chuckles. "Never was one for elaborate funerals, either. Not that his opinion matters anymore—funerals are the affair of the living, after all. If this can grant the Father's family some sort of closure, then that will be more than worth the hassle."
                *page_break "I didn't expect such wise words out of you, Eli."
                *goto yupriest
            #"So long as you understand."
                "That I do," ${ehe} replies, ${ehis} gaze fixated on ${ehis} shoes. "I wish you'd have gotten to meet the Father, ${fname}. I think he would've taken a liking to you."
                
                You feel your eyebrow quirk up. "Why do you think so?"
                
                "Call it a hunch. The old man was always an easy one to read," ${ehe} chuckles. "Never was one for elaborate funerals, either. Not that his opinion matters anymore—funerals are the affair of the living, after all. If this can grant the Father's family some sort of closure, then that will be more than worth the hassle."
                *page_break "I didn't expect such wise words out of you, Eli."
                *goto yupriest

*label yupriest
You turn around and behold ${yusuha}, looking prim and put-together in a white robe with golden details. $!{yhe} sticks out like a sore thumb amidst the black-clad congregation, but such is the price of wearing priestly habits to a funeral.

"What's with the garment, ${yusuha}?" Eli asks. "Don't tell me you'll be the one performing the rites."

"You see any other theurge around here?" ${yhe} grumbles. "Your little band of knights fancy themselves some sort of paladins, but most can't tell the Script of Merit from Heaven's Reach. Were it not for me, they'd have needed to wait for the Jovian Church to dispatch a priest for them. I can tell you this much: being deployed to the site of a greatflood isn't exactly an enviable assignment, so who knows how long you'd need to wait until some poor theurge shows up at the highcity's gates." The arcanist sighs dramatically and trails a hand through ${yhis} red locks. "But we have places to be, and I [i]know[/i] you'll give us grief if you don't get to stick around for the funeral. And I don't know about you, ${fname}, but I don't feel like traveling with a gloomy cloud over my—"

"Thank you, ${yusuha}," Eli interrupts. "I mean it."

The redhead crosses ${yhis} arms in satisfaction. "Well, you're welcome, I suppose," ${yhe} allows. "If I'm forced to carry out this accursed rite, at least it's to the benefit of someone like the Father. He seems to be one of the good ones."

Eli's smile is fond, nostalgic. "None here would tell you any different."

"I'll take your word for it," ${yusuha} says, patting the black-haired mage on the shoulder. "Well, the congregation awaits. I'll see you all after the rite."

*page_break

${yusuha} walks towards the riverbank and peers inside the dinghy, assesses Father Gerian's embalmed corpse as if to judge its purity. $!{yhe} places a hand above the Father and summons a curtain of theurgic light, tinged with the faint red of ${yhis} mana. It drapes itself over the corpse and stretches to the night sky like a beacon, and there is a break in the crowd's sorrow as together they gaze with wonder at the rising pillar of light.

"Father Gerian Norlaire, Child of Jove," ${yusuha} says. There is a faint tremble to ${yhis} voice that speaks of exertion, though the crowd is too transfixed by ${yhis} spell to take note of it. "The Most Holy has taken note of your piety, your light. May you be received into the Field of Plenty."

And all around ${yhim}, the crowd echoes the sentiment in unison: "May you be received into the Field of Plenty."

${yusuha} answers the chant with a solemn nod, before turning ${yhis} gaze towards the far edge of the crowd. "Paloma Norlaire, step forward."

A gaunt young woman breaks from the crowd and joins ${yusuha} on the riverbend, her golden strands gleaming as they catch the theurgic light. She is a paradox of a girl, with steel in her eyes and a tremble in her lips. Each step a battle, she makes her way forward—and for all that tears brim in her eyes when she catches sight of the Father, her hands are steady as they reach down and place a flower upon his chest. A bloom of luminescent blue, plucked from the tomb of Saint Augur.

"Go with Jove, Papa," she whispers, pressing a kiss upon the Father's temple. "Thank you for everything."

*page_break

There is a shift in the air as ${yusuha} summons an arcane wind, blowing gently against the dinghy and pushing it off shore. The girl watches in solemn silence as the boat slowly drifts away from her and into the night. In a moment she parts her lips and begins singing in high, hollow notes, and all around her the onlookers join their voices with hers. A song of prayer, to lead the Father back to Jove.

[i]Still water, deep earth,[/i]
*line_break
[i]Guide you back down to the hearth.[/i]

*temp singalong false

*choice
    #Sing along.
        *set singalong true
        The words taste sweet and strange as they dance on top of your tongue. A kind and somber melody, passing like a breeze through the trees.
    #Keep silent.
        The chorus of voices heeds not your absence, growing in cadence every second. A kind and somber melody, passing like a breeze through the trees.
        
[i]May your soul burn bright, become guiding light,[/i]
*line_break
[i]Lead the faithful out the dark of night.[/i]

*choice
    #Gaze out onto the water.
        Red tongues of flame begin to crackle along the boat's length, flickering bright against the water's surface.
    #Hold Eli's hand.
        *set reli %+ 10
        The healer silently returns the gesture, ${ehis} hand trembling lightly against your own. $!{ehe} flinches when the boat is set afire, holds on tighter like ${ehe} might never let go.
    #Look towards ${yusuha}.
        *set ryusuha %+ 5
        $!{yhe} stands tall and solemn at the water's edge, the picture of clerical dignity. Down the river the boat is set afire, and the glow of it paints orange the planes of ${yhis} face.

[i]Strength for the weak, rest for the weary,[/i]
*line_break
[i]May you find peace in the Field of Plenty.[/i]

*choice
    *if (singalong) #Finish the song.
        Paloma crumples upon the shore, wails as if she had held her mourning for years. Even as she weeps, even as she gasps through her pleas, all around her the melody continues unbroken.
    *if (singalong = false) #Let the congregation finish.
        Paloma crumples upon the shore, wails as if she had held her mourning for years. Even as she weeps, even as she gasps through her pleas, all around her the song's melody continues unbroken.

[i]Rise unbound to the light's apex,[/i]
*line_break
[i]Child of Jove—[/i]

*page_break

[i]May you live a better life next.[/i]

*page_break
*goto_scene Checkpoint_8-End