[i]Take…my…hand[/i], the spirit urges once more, and for all that he carries himself with the dignity of a king, there is a tremble to his tone that speaks of misery, of fear. That you won't free him from his wretched fate, and instead condemn him to another epoch of soul-straining torture. [i]Raegusa…awaits.[/i]

Silence hangs in the air like a physical weight as you consider the memory he had shown you. His last moments laid bare, his courage and weakness and failure and perseverance despite it all. And you had felt it, felt [i]him[/i], as viscerally as if you walked his path yourself. His every fear and every sorrow, every breath taken and every spell cast, haunting the space behind your eyes. A maddening vision you cannot shake off.

You peer down upon the man's ghostly hand, a limb of turbulent mist threatening to dissipate at any moment, and find that the sight of it stirs something deep within your soul.

*choice
    #Pity. He has suffered too much for too long, and I find myself compelled to free him from his misery.
        *set noble %+ 15
        What must it have been like, to bear so torturous a duty? To stand before an eternity of suffering and submit yourself to it, all for a lofty cause you no longer stand to benefit from?
        
        You reach out to clasp the spirit's hand in your own, that you might share in the burden he had so readily shouldered.
    #Sorrow. His fate is a cruel one, much like my own, and I feel a strong empathy for this kindred spirit.
        *set emotional %+ 15
        What must it have been like, to bear so torturous a duty? To stand before an eternity of suffering and submit yourself to it, all for a lofty cause you no longer stand to benefit from?
        
        You reach out to clasp the spirit's hand in your own, that you might share in the burden he had so readily shouldered.
    *if (proarcadia = "pro") #Bloodthirst. Arcadians were debased and murdered by a host of cowardly [i]ercei[/i]—and they must be made to pay for it.
        *set noble %- 30
        *set joaquin +1
        The mere thought of it is enough to make you see red. The Jovian Church is always the first to preach such lofty ideals as honor and peace—and yet their barbaric history tells a starkly different tale.
        
        You reach out to clasp the spirit's hand in your own, that you might share in the anger that had kept him going all these years.
    #I feel nothing for this man. But he's forced me to listen to his tale, and no doubt he will force his power unto me, as well.
        *set optimistic %- 15
        And perhaps it is just as well. Beyond the confines of this abyss, a tremendous battle is raging still, and you stand poised to be its first casualty. If you mean to save yourself and your companions, then channeling Raegusa's lofty powers will be as good a chance as you'll ever get.
        
        You reach out to clasp the spirit's hand in your own, that you might be granted the power he had safeguarded all these years.
    #I feel nothing for this man. But his powers are the key to my survival, and it's not a chance I'm willing to pass up.
        *set noble %- 15
        It is a sober, practical thought. Beyond the confines of this abyss, a tremendous battle is raging still, and you stand poised to be its first casualty. If you mean to save yourself and your companions, then channeling Raegusa's lofty powers will be as good a chance as you'll ever get.

        You reach out to clasp the spirit's hand in your own, that you might be granted the power he had safeguarded all these years.
His skin is cool to the touch, not unlike the that of the deceased—only their suffering ended long ago, while he has only now been released from his misery.

[i]Thank…you…[/i]
        
Slowly, painfully, the spirit loses his form and fades into the recesses of your mind. You catch a glimpse of his visage just before it fully disperses, watch the lines of his face crease into a weep, at once broken and relieved.

The spirit goes.

*page_break And so do you.
*label throb
Consciousness welcomes you back like the beat of a war drum, loud and overwhelming. There is a throbbing, torturous pain lodged in the cavity of your stomach, something wet and raw in your throat as you scream your lungs out. Overhead, the tip of Ralos's spear glints as it reflects the luminous runes. Cold, vicious, and aimed directly at your head.

But Ralos no longer faces a vulnerable mage locked out from the true host of ${their} powers. No—he is staring down something strange and ancient and terrible, an Arcadian birthright that had been paid for with the blood of its finest. And despite the ichor still spilling in streams from your gaping wound, the heat and headiness pooling in the space between your ears, your mana roils and bursts into the air as if it had laid in wait for ages. A foreign strength is coursing through your body, demanding to be used, demanding to be [i]free[/i].

And far be it from you to deny it.
*fake_choice
    #Cast Earthsworn: Cannon.

The air bristles and shifts as Raegusa's powers begin to shape and take up space, the arcane load a foreign presence at the tip of your fingers. And yet the spell comes to you as naturally as the air you breathe—and soon it morphs into a pitch-black sphere of concentrated force, collecting shrapnel and debris from the sacrophagus before barreling straight towards your assailant.

Ralos's eyes widen in shock at your counterattack, and desperately he puts up a makeshift shield of shifting waters between him and the rapidly advancing projectile. For the briefest of seconds, the water depresses and holds against your attack in a way that makes you fear for its rebound. But then the sphere rotates upon itself and blasts clean through the barrier, bounding directly towards the now-defenseless Ralos.

The hit connects and launches the boy clean across the tomb, his body parting what remains of Pyrian's mist as it sails through the air. There is a sickening crunch that resonates around the chamber as Ralos is driven forcefully against the wall; he screams in pain and calls forth desperate bursts of water, trying to dislodge himself from the spell—to no avail. Earthsworn: Cannon pins him there as it hums and slashes him with debris, each rotation carving a new wound into his flesh.

*page_break "Ralos—hold on!"

Altea hisses in fear and frustration as she witnesses Ralos withering under your spell, tears rolling down her face even as she bounds upwards using the propulsion of her lightning. You watch her carefully as she scales the wall, and as soon as she enters Cannon's impact zone, you let the spell perish entirely.

Ralos is dropped bodily into Altea's waiting arms, followed by a hailstorm of rock and debris. The lightning encasing the girl's form lashes out in tongues as she repels the wreckage, so wild and strong so as to shatter the raining debris and smash into the tomb's ceiling. Cracks blossom like cobwebs along the stone surface, and as a second volley hammers into it the ceiling gives out and [i]collapses[/i], a vast section of it tumbling down like a vicious landslide.

A shadow darts in your peripheral vision, surefooted and lithe the way only ${falco} could be. $!{fhe} races toward Pyrian's hosts, sweeping them into a protective embrace as a serpent lurches from ${fhis} back and bends into a dome, forming a makeshift shield against the falling rubble. White mana seeps from ${falco}'s form as Eli's reinforcement spell takes hold, while the healer ${ehim}self scrambles for the crypt's edge, away from the impact area. The wreckage smashes against ${falco}'s serpent in succession, each impact drawing blood from the white-haired mage's mouth—but ${fhis} gambit is successful.  As best as you can tell from this distance, they are none the worse for wear.

Were that you shared their luck.

You grit your teeth as a wicked pain shoots up your spine and sets your skin to crawling. Blood still flows freely from the cavity Ralos left in your stomach, and your calling of Raegusa's powers has done your injury no favors. In most circumstances, such a wound would take you out of the fight, and likely leave you bedridden for many weeks after. But a persistent calmness settles into your mind as Eli's mana extends like tendrils of light, shining through the mountainous rubble, making its way to you.

(The hounds Sister had set on you following your escape had been ferocious. The letter of their orders were to take you alive, and there ended their consideration. Arrows, blades, magefire, all of them had found purchase upon your body—and still when Eli withdrew ${ehis} mana and allowed ${ehim}self to sleep, not even a scar had been left behind.)

You feel that tender warmth encompass your form now, inexplicably carrying with it the scent of wet grass and drifting winds, the image of an impossibly clear night sky. Shelter was a luxury for ones on the run, and so you had made a home in the shade of gnarled trees and the crooks of rivers. Huddled together and looked to the stars as if to chart a course forward, gently convincing yourselves that there yet remained a future worth fighting for. Eli had been a steadfast, grounding presence through it all, a firm reminder that for all the dangers you face, for all the weight you carry, you need never bear them alone.

You push yourself off the sacrophagus's base as the sensation dissipates, leaving only a flicker of warmth where your injury once was. Instinctively, you reach a hand down to inspect it; your palm comes away matted with blood, but no pain lingers. The wound is closed. Healed, as you knew it would be.

*choice
    #I signal to Eli that I'm alright. It wouldn't do to make ${ehim} worry.
        *set reli %+ 8
        More than ${ehe} already does, at any rate. The wave of mana Eli sent your way had been tantamount to a flood, a gross overestimation compared to what was actually needed. $!{ehe} had erred so excessively on the side of caution that you can't help but grimace at the waste. The battle is yet concluded, and ${ehis} healing is a resource you can't afford to recklessly spend.
        
        *if (noble > 50)
            Naturally, the lengths you would go to were the positions reversed is a separate matter entirely.
        *else
            It's not as if you don't understand ${ehim}, especially when you catch sight of the pure terror in ${ehis} eyes. Still, ${ehe} holds more than just your life in ${ehis} hands, and ${ehe} will need to remember that moving forward.

        You spare Eli what you hope is a reassuring nod, noting the way ${ehis} shoulders sink in relief, before turning to scan the room. It takes a while for you to peer past the dust and ruin and find Altea, but you do; she's managed to land upon a particularly tall mound of rubble, cradling her brother in her arms as she feeds him a recovery potion. The latter appears lucid despite the extensive beating he took from your spell, the color returning to his cheeks as he gulps the liquid down.
        
        Elsewhere in the room there's a spike of power as ${yusuha} readies an attack. It appears ${yhe} means to press the advantage.
        
        As must you.
    #I turn towards ${falco} and try to assess the state ${fhe}'s in.
        *set rfalco %+ 8
        It gladdens you to find that the spiritist is very much alive.
        
        ${falco} spits blood towards the ground as ${fhe} rises from the rubble, ${fhis} serpent coiling and pushing to clear a path out. The fury etched onto ${fhis} features is so prominent that, for a moment, you were sure ${fhe}'d leap immediately towards your opponents to finish what you started. But instead ${fhe} hoists the pair of children ${fhe}'d protected onto ${fhis} shoulders and strides away, clearly meaning to deposit them away from the wreckage. $!{fhe} meets your gaze as ${fhe} turns, and you catch the intent there as if ${fhe} had said the words aloud. [i]Deal with them. I'll follow close behind.[/i]
        
        You give ${fhim} a resolute nod, before scanning what remains of the crypt to find Altea. You succeed: she's managed to land upon a particularly tall mound of rubble, cradling her brother in her arms as she feeds him a recovery potion. The latter appears lucid despite the extensive beating he took from your spell, the color returning to his cheeks as he gulps the liquid down.
        
        Elsewhere in the room there's a spike of power as ${yusuha} readies an attack. It appears ${yhe} means to press the advantage.
        
        As must you.
    #I search for ${yusuha} and try to coordinate an attack. We mustn't waste this opportunity.
        *set ryusuha %+ 8
        You find ${yhim} on the far side of the crypt, blades of wind whirling around ${yhim} as ${yhe} steps around the rubble. From what you can glean, ${yhe} appears disheveled but uninjured, though there is distress in ${yhis} eyes as they search for you and ${falco} both. The trail of Eli's blinding white mana proves an effective guide, and an even more potent reassurance; content that both of you are in good hands, ${yhe} turns to find Altea, clearly meaning to finish what you started.
        
        $!{yhe} does so quickly, as do you: Altea's landed upon a particularly tall mound of rubble, cradling her brother in her arms as she feeds him a recovery potion. The latter appears lucid despite the extensive beating he took from your spell, the color returning to his cheeks as he gulps the liquid down.
        
        You catch ${yusuha}'s gaze as you rise to your feet, brushing aside ${yhis} concern by letting loose a powerful spike of mana. Your injuries are healed, and you're more than capable of holding your own. ${yusuha} gives you a resolute nod, and you feel a powerful draft in the crypt as ${yusuha} builds ${yhis} spell. From the looks of it, ${yhe} means to blast ${yhis} spell directly at Altea and Ralos.
        
        You've seen for yourself the destruction ${yhe} can wreak, when the stage is properly set. And you're only too happy to set it for ${yhim}.

*page_break

You feel the thrum of Raegusa's power in your bloodstream as you extend your newfound power forth. You feel the tendrils of it scaling the ruined crypt and slinking towards Altea and Ralos, latching onto the rubble upon which they stand, and exerting its influence there. Compared to the fearsome Cannon, this is a subtler, more instinctual working, intended to pin them in place whilst ${yusuha} does the heavy lifting.

And do it ${yhe} does. The stream of pressurized wind ${yhe} launches is furious, crackling with arcane might, and Ralos lets out a pained yell as he manages a makeshift defense. A wall of water rises in front of the twins and manages to absorb some of the blast's impact—enough to keep it from completely tearing them apart. But an arcanist's spell is a difficult thing to break, and for all that Ralos's resistance is still bolstered by Pyrian's might, it falls short in the end. Blades of wind buffet both Ralos and Altea's forms, extracting pained screams from the tortured pair, the air around them painted with splashes of blood. Your own spell holds strong through it all, binding them firmly in place. You feel them struggle and strain against the arcane bond—an admirable attempt, but easily quelled. You are beginning to see why Raegusa's powers were so adamantly treasured by the Arcadians of old.

A desperate burst of lightning rises from Altea's palms as she shoots for the broken ceiling, bolstered with such force as to dislodge a vast section of the battered masonry. You watch with dawning horror as the ruins descends toward ${yusuha}, who realizes the gambit a second too late; ${yhe} lets out an expletive as a new spell begins to take hold around ${yhim}, tatters of wind too weakly woven to serve as a proper shield.

Gritting your teeth, you turn the whole of your attention on ${yhim}, exerting your new powers on the falling rubble. With an effort that leaves you dizzy, you reverse gravity's influence on the whole mass of it, thus suspending the ceiling's pieces in midair. To ${yhis} credit, despite Raegusa's powers being foreign to ${yhim}, ${yusuha} is quick on the uptake. Even before the spell fully takes hold, ${yhe} terminates ${yhis} own efforts and scrambles out of the impact zone. The ceiling completes is fall as you withdraw your influence, blowing up a new round of dust and debris in the crypt.

Before it even settles, you hear ${falco} shouting from the other side of the crypt. "Damn it, they're running away!"

You swing your gaze towards where Altea and Ralos were, and find that ${falco} spoke true. The pair has made an escape route out of the ruined ceiling; they clear the distance between it and the rubble mound with a magicked leap, landing onto the Heights' ground level and darting out of sight.

*temp choicedone false

*choice
    #I immediately give chase. They can't be allowed to escape.
        ${falco} leaps ahead of you, leveraging ${fhis} serpent to boost ${fhim} up to the upper floor. $!{fhe} extends ${fhis} hand over the ledge; you grab it and let ${fhim} pull you up, marveling briefly at the strength that belies ${fhis} smaller frame.
        
        As soon as you find your footing, a rush of footsteps emerge from the far side of the hall. From the clanging of metal plates and the alarmed shouts, laced with a distinctly Salantir accent, you know that you've drawn the attention of Beris's knights. ${falco} tenses up beside you before leaning over the hole and shouting into its depths. "Fox, Plague!"
        
        "We'll handle them," ${yusuha} calls back. "Go, go!"
        
        No later than the words were said, ${falco} whirls on the balls of ${fhis} feet and immediately gives chase to the fleeing twins, and you follow ${fhis} lead. You spot the pair far ahead in the hall, bounding forward at a distinctly inhuman speed despite their injuries. Lightning crackles around Altea as she leaps for a large, floor-to-ceiling panel of stained glass; she crashes bodily into it, and the window [i]explodes[/i] as she and Ralos both bursts out onto courtyard beyond.
        
        "Damn it!" ${falco} growls, picking up ${fhis} pace as ${fhe} does. There's a swirl of mana as the spiritist forges a spell circle in front of ${fhim}, and you identify the spell with instinctual quickness. A Spirit Gate—${falco} means to catch up to them through arcane means. Show them the futility of their escape attempt. Force them to a fight.
        
        Alas, your current state complicates matters. The binding of a phantasma alters one's mana pathways, introduces variables you haven't the time to properly account for. Following Thaubal's binding of ${phant1}, you had to carefully test and recalibrate every spell in your repertoire. Doubtless the same necessity holds true for Raegusa, meaning you must abandon your tried-and-true spells for the time being.
        
        Which leaves you with arcana. A primal force which, rather than forming a channel for your mana, instead beats it into submission and forces it to accommodate. Powerful, direct, and effective—but as evidenced by your stint in the war, burdened with its own share of drawbacks.
        *choice
            #I let ${falco} know of my predicament. $!{fhe} must know what to expect.
                *set rfalco %+ 5
                Whatever differences you may have with one another, for the moment you are [i]allies[/i]. You hold ${fhis} life in your hands, as ${fhe} does yours. Your collective survival hinges on your ability to work together, and so ${fhe} must know when the variables have changed so drastically.
                
                Were that you had more time to explain. "Zealot, something happened to me back at the tomb," you say. "A phantasma was bound to me, somehow."
                
                ${falco} turns to regard you even as ${fhe} races on, gaze incredulous behind ${fhis} mask. "What nonsense are you spouting?"
                
                "You saw my spell back in the tomb. You must have known that was no ordinary thaum," you say through gritted teeth. "Look, I'm telling you because we have to work together. I can't cast regular spells after the binding—as you well know. I'll have to rely on arcana. Exclusively."
                
                To ${fhis} credit, it only takes ${falco} a moment to suspend ${fhis} disbelief and recalibrate ${fhis} assessment. "Fine. ${phant1}, was it? I have the measure of @{pronvar his|their|his|her} powers, roughly."
                
                You bristle at that—you had never told ${fhim} about your phantasma. Then again, you suppose it wouldn't be difficult for an arcanist to put the pieces together, given how liberally you wielded your powers at Param's behest. "And Raegusa, the Earthsworn. As of moments ago."
                
                ${falco} shakes ${fhis} head, the light of ${fhis} spell circle glinting off the surface of ${fhis} mask. "Never heard of it," ${fhe} says. You're steps away from the broken window now, and ${falco} has a clear line of sight to the fleeing twins. $!{fhe} quickly fills in the final part of ${fhis} spell circle—the one which determines the Gate's location. "But I saw your work in the crypt, as you said. It will have to do."
                
                ${falco} completes the spell not a moment later. Off in the distance you catch sight of ${fhis} violet mana, forming a rent in the space just ahead of the twins. They stop in their tracks and forge spell circles of their own, though the sight soon becomes obscured by the rent's matching pair: the entrance to the Gate, now mere paces away. "They'll attack us immediately," ${falco} warns.
                
                "I know. I'll handle it."
                
                ${falco} bobs ${fhis} head briefly and all but [i]tackles[/i] the Gate. You follow suit, feeling the spell's cool embrace envelop you as it spirits you away.
            *selectable_if (choicedone) #I keep my silence. I don't need ${fhim} breathing down my neck. (INCOMPLETE)
                a
            *selectable_if (choicedone) #What matters is that I remain an effective fighter. I'll figure this out myself. (INCOMPLETE)
                Between ${fhis} sprinting and ${fhis} casting of the Spirit Gate, ${falco} has enough on ${fhis} plate as is. It wouldn't do to complicate matters for ${fhim}—not when you're fully capable of sorting your own affairs. 
    *selectable_if (choicedone) #I take proper stock of the situation first. Is everyone alright? (INCOMPLETE)
        a
    *selectable_if (choicedone) #My grasp on Raegusa's powers is still flimsy, uncertain. I hesitate to go. (INCOMPLETE)
        The vision Lord Ghisan Lucerre granted you had felt so visceral that you were able to replicate Cannon when pressed, but it had still been a dangerous gamble. Arcana is a powerful, primal force, unbending to the rigor and structure provided by runes and spell circles, making it difficult to wield and predict. It took you many years to get a full handle on ${phant1}'s powers, and for all that Ghisan's memories still linger in your mind, it's discomforting to know they're all you have to go off of. So much can go sideways, and with a phantasma involved, they're liable to do so spectacularly.
        
        To make matters worse, you won't be able to rely on your true-and-tested spells. The binding of a phantasma alters one's mana pathways, introduces variables you haven't the time to properly account for. Following Thaubal's binding of ${phant1}, you had to carefully test and recalibrate every spell in your repertoire. Raegusa's influence feels more intrusive still than @{phantvar the High Intercessor's|the Beckoning Hand's|the Clear-Sighted's|the Condemned's}, and you run a terrible risk by going into combat with it untested.
        
        ${falco} scales the rubble and makes to chase after the pair, giving you a frustrated glance as ${fhe} does. "We need to go," ${fhe} growls.
        *choice
            #I refuse.
                a

*page_break
You emerge to a blast of cold air and sweeping rain, the howling winds like a war cry in your ears. The storm is at its height, not at all close to breaking, and in absence of ${yusuha}'s wind dome the full force of it coming down is almost too much to bear. You can hardly see anything for the darkness and the sheets of rain, but a mage's senses are hardly limited to their eyes. You feel mana as acutely as you'd hear a lion's roar—and it is this sense that now blares angrily in your head, a firm warning that something wicked and powerful is coming your way.

A massive working of thaum, emerging from two sources and joined into one. Lightning flashes somewhere in the dark, illuminating a roiling and formless surface, skating all along its length. A blast of water shot through with lightning—certain doom, given the power your opponents have displayed thus far.

It falls to you to break their assault. You could evoke your newfound powers, which are mostly untested, and that may well prove a problem given what's at stake. But they had felt strangely comfortable to wield. Cannon had come to you instinctively, almost as if it did so of its own volition. It partook freely of your mana—that much remains a constant of any arcana—but you did not feel your body actively deteriorate, as had been the case when you called upon ${phant1}.

${phant1}…you could always fall back on @{phantvar him|them|him|her}. You feel their presence within you still—evidently, not even death could separate a phantasma from its host without a Rite of Parting--and @{phantvar his|their|his|her} powers are familiar, reliable. You wield them as freely as any ${specialty} spell, and for all that they had languished in disuse since you resurrection, you know them well enough to be confident that nothing has changed. And yet…you remember the cost vividly, the way you had been left winded and gasping after every battle. It isn't an experience you're fond of, and certainly not one you're eager to repeat.

A split second before the attack connects. What will you do?

*choice
    #I call upon Raegusa.
        *set usedraegusa true
        It feels natural, even intuitive to reach for Raegusa's power, let it latch onto your mana ducts and surge forward from your fingertips. You feel yourself straining to accommodate him—this much has not changed, for it is the nature of phantasma to consume, and that of its contractor to provide—but the power takes from you in measured doses. A marked departure from ${phant1}, whose thirst is so great that you must plumb the depths of your reserves with every cast. You can't help but marvel at the feeling. Raegusa appears to you no less powerful than @{phantvar the High Intercessor|the Beckoning Hand|the Clear-Sighted|the Condemned}, and yet the price you pay for invoking his powers feel significantly less steep.
        
        Still, you can't afford to be haphazard. You have only Ghisan's memories to go off of—a dangerous thing, given that you're toying with a force which can reshape the face of Arvanand.
        
        Your arcana roils violently, demanding to be used, and you heed its call. At your command a few modestly-sized gravity cores manifest around Ralos and Altea, weighing their bodies down and tossing their casting hand to the side. Unprepared for the interruption, your opponents offer little by way of resistance, and so it was that their spell is tossed out of its original path. You grab ${falco} by ${fhis} collar and tackle ${yhim} to the side as the spell swings wide, its terminus sweeping over you both like a thundering blade. In the heat of the moment, you forget that the storm has left the courtyard transformed; muddy earth gives way underneath your boot, and as one you and ${falco} lose your footing and tumble unceremoniously into the ground.
        
        Ralos and Altea are quick to seize the initiative. They terminate their spell immediately and leap forward with their weapons brandished, leveraging their sheer strength to break free of your gravity cores' yoke. ${falco} bites back a curse as ${fhe} launches to ${fhis} feet and moves to intercept them, a serpent once more rising from ${fhis} back. $!{fhe} expertly parries their initial strikes, but ${fhis} disorientation has yet to fade, and you can see that ${fhe}'s beginning to be pushed back by the twins' relentless strikes.
        
        "${callsign}!" ${fhe} calls out, all the while planting a vicious kick on the side of Altea's stomach. "I'll handle her. The other is yours!"
        
        Altea barks something harsh at ${falco}, but allows herself to be swept away by ${fhis} strikes. Ralos steals a glance at them, as if meaning to follow; but then he feels the mana you let hemorrhage into the air, and recognizes it for what it is: a baring of your fangs. You are not someone he can afford to ignore, and you make sure he understands it.
        
        Ralos sizes you up for a moment before resuming his assault, this time wielding a different spell—one that makes full use of the raging downpour. His mana takes hold over you, siphoning the very rain and forging them into small, bullet-like constructs. They descend upon you at a blinding pace.
        
        *choice
            #I stay on the defensive and look for an opportunity to strike.
                It is a clever thing, what Ralos has attempted. He knows from his previous spell that aimed attacks will do poorly against you, and so he's opted instead for a scattershot approach. Even should you interrupt his casting, his spell will still come bearing down on you, swift and true. And so it is that you are forced to consider a new method.
                
                [i]Sanction Grounds[/i], Raegusa's voice echoes in your head, the sound distinctly inhuman. The earth paints itself black in a torus around you, its inner ring some five paces away. You know it to be a sign that a gravity field has taken hold there, and so you pour your mana without reserve as you will for the ground to [i]pull[/i].
                
                And pull it does. The field's influence compels the falling bullets to bend from their course, and to instead arc towards the gravity field. They smash against the blackened earth and seep into its depths, and Ralos reels when he sees his attack foiled yet again. Admirably, he refuses to give up, instead choosing to redouble the mana he feeds to his spell, making it swifter, more vicious. But Sanction Grounds takes and takes and does not let up, and you manage to hold the spell with mana to spare. When Ralos's attack finally terminates, the boy is left winded and breathless—and there lies his undoing. You immediately pounce on that moment of weakness, giving him no time to prepare against your counteroffensive.
                
                Cannon roars through the air not a second later, with such proximity to the ground so as to pick up rocks and debris in its forward arc. Ralos recognizes the threat as it approaches, but can manage no resistance in the split second he has; and so it was that the spell barrels into him wit such force so as to send him flying backwards. You maintain the spell even as your foe hits the ground hard, and you watch as the spinning shrapnel digs into his body. You cannot hear his screams through the rain and the steady hum of Raegusa's power, and so it is a while yet before you withdraw your mana and let the spell cease to be.
                
                When you do, what remains in the spell's wake is Ralos's battered body, perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
            #I mount a counterattack, overwhelming him with my arcana.
                It is a tremendous risk you are taking, in truth. Raegusa's full might had proven difficult for even Ghisan to handle, and compared to his years of experience plumbing the depths of arcane secrets, you are but a fawn still finding its footing. But if you had wanted to be [i]safe[/i], you would have never dealt with arcana to begin with. Such a fearsome power always comes with its share of risks, and you've accepted them time and time again. This time shall be no different, and you [i]will[/i] triumph in spite of the dangers. You always do.
                
                Power courses through you, gushing like a river and molten like lava, and you hear yourself groan as your arcana partakes from your body, your very vitality. It is a terrible havoc you seek to wreak, and it demands a terrible price; you barely register the sound of your knees crashing against the ground, or the pained grunts ripping from your throat. All you can recognize is a pitch-black void closing in on Ralos on all sides.
                
                You cannot hear the boy scream; you do not know if he can even manage that much. But you feel the drawing of blood and snapping of bones as if you were the one to endure it all. You collapse to the ground, vision swimming and bile racing up the back of your throat, well before the spell fully runs its course. But it had never needed to, anyway. For when Black Sun ceases its churning and finally dissipates, what is left in its wake is Ralos's battered body, perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
    *selectable_if (phantvar = 1) #I call upon Satiel.
        It comes to you in a burst, Satiel's might coursing through your ducts so strongly that you feel as though you might erupt. It is always an incredible effort to call upon his powers, and a greater one still to rein it in, forge it into something that will bend, will [i]obey[/i]. The strain would nevertheless linger in you for days, weeks after, eventually quieting into a small corruption, tucked away in some inconspicuous corner of your mana ducts. It collects and builds each time Satiel rises to the surface, easily forgotten, but there nevertheless. A sickness biding its time.
        
        It took its toll on you, in the end. You had felt it getting worse towards the tail end of the war, though you had gotten so good at hiding it that even Ilya had been none the wiser. Not so with Tahlia—the priestess had your full measure at first sight. The strange power she wielded had managed to stitch your broken pieces together—and by the time she handed you off to Senz, you were well on your way to mending.
        
        But her aid had come with a stern warning. Some of the damage had been beyond even her lofty capabilities, and so you will have to live with it for the rest of your days.
        
        You grit your teeth as light enwreaths your form and Satiel is brought to bear. You feel that familiar strain, like nails dragging across your mana ducts, and know that you will pay the price for this calling. You pay it gladly—invoking arcana is a dangerous gamble as is, even without an unknown quantity complicating matters. You may live to regret this, but even then you will [i]live[/i]—and you're more than willing to settle for that.
        
        You hear a familiar whisper in your head—that booming, imperious voice, which had become such a steady fixture during your time in Param. A crutch you were forced to rely on. You can only hope this doesn't mark the start of a relapse.
        
        *page_break [i]Holy Aegis[/i]
        
        A burst of radiance wraps around you and ${falco} both, the rays coursing with Satiel's might. Ralos and Altea's combined blast meets the spell and [i]disintegrates[/i] as soon as it connects, fully dispersed by the shield, droplets and stray bolts pelted aside harmlessly. But your opponents do not let up, bolstered as they are by Pyrian's mana, and the blast continues its battering charge; you feel yourself straining to meet your phantasma's bottomless greed, but your spell holds strong. You've been through much worse, forced as you were to confront entire armies and mow them down by the hundreds. A pair of thaumers still wet behind the ears—no matter how talented they may be—is well within your capabilities to handle.
        
        ${falco} takes the opening you've created for ${fhim}, rushing forward with spear brandished and murder in ${fhis} eyes. Altea withdraws her contribution from the blast and prepares to meet ${fhim} head on, and you feel Ralos scaling back on his spell. A switch of tactics, but from the looks of it, they mean to hold their ground.
        
        Altea meets ${falco}'s spear with her scythe, and soon their engagement devolves into a chaotic dance. Lunges and parries are traded as each fighter tests the other, the air tense with mana as spells are primed. "So even you can recognize that running from a spiritist is futile," ${falco} taunts as ${fhe} brings ${fhis} spear up, parrying a blow. "Some wisdom, finally. But you remain a craven."
        
        "Foolish—we have you right where we want you," Altea growls. Her voice doesn't quite measure up to the boldness of her words. ${falco} will have noticed that—${fhe} will never let a weakness go unexploited. "Don't you see? You're on our turf now."
        
        Altea disengages from ${falco} with a backwards step, leaving a localized thunderstorm in her wake. ${falco} dodges the bulk of it adeptly, but ${fhe} is soaked through by the storm, and so the spell latches onto ${fhim} regardless. $!{fhe} lets out a pained yell as lightning runs through ${fhim} with such force so as to bowl ${fhim} over.
        
        You curse under your breath as you try to cloak ${fhim} in a second Aegis, but are forced to abort your efforts when Ralos redoubles his assault. He's opted for a new maneuver, a storm of countless water bullets he's forged from the downpour. "Eyes on me!" he yells out, wild-eyed as his spell manifests in full. There's an aggrandizement in his tone, a desperate appeal for you to turn your attention fully on him. For all that he had criticized Altea, it seems Ralos would do anything to ensure his sister's survival.
        
        You feel a wild surge of mana from ${falco}'s direction, a telltale sign that ${fhe}'s brought ${fhis} phantasma to bear. You'll just have to trust that ${fhe} can handle ${fhis} share of the fight. Ralos as he stands now is a foe that demands your full respect. A beast is dangerous when cornered, and more dangerous still when it has something it wishes to protect. At all costs.
        
        His spell comes hurtling through the air. What will you do?
        
        *choice
            #I stay on the defensive and look for an opportunity to strike.
                Holy Aegis stays right where it is, lapping hungrily at your mana as it does. To Ralos's credit, his choice of attack is a wise one. The widespread and irregular nature of his spell means that you need to maintain full power through Aegis's entire span, rather than focusing on a single point as you had with the blast attack. But ultimately, you prove to be the superior mage. You maintain Aegis with mana to spare, even as Ralos's spell finally terminates, leaving the boy winded and breathless.
                
                And there lies his undoing. You immediately pounce on that moment of weakness, giving him no time to prepare against your counteroffensive.
                
                [i]Reckoning Light[/i], booms Satiel's voice in your head, and at once the spell manifests in front of you: a massive, spherical host of light, its radiance stark in the storm-born gloom. At your will it bounds forward towards Ralos's prone form, the light growing stronger as it engulfs him entire. You know well the extent of the spell's power, and the pain that it bestows upon its victim; you realize that Ralos must be screaming, but his voice is drowned out by the steady hum of Satiel's power. The sphere remains there for some time, a white sun brought down to earth, until at last you withdraw your mana and let the spell cease to be.
                
                What remains in its wake is Ralos's battered body, perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
            #I mount a counterattack, overwhelming him with my arcana.
                You stare Ralos down as you summon Satiel's full might. Light encompasses you whole, engulfing your surroundings like a small sun in the driving rain. Ralos's jaw drops in awe as he beholds your power, the thing he had hoped to imitate through Pyrian's borrowed might. His spell, mighty and swift though it may be, immediately evaporates upon making contact with the host of light. He staggers backward, every nerve in his body doubtless screaming at him to retreat.
                
                Alas, it is much too late. His fate is sealed.
                
                [i]Great Intercession[/i], booms Satiel's voice in your head, and at once the host of light collapses into itself, becoming more focused, denser with power. And at your will, it shapes itself into a radiant beam, bounding forward at what seems to be an impossible speed. In that dizzying second before the spell makes impact with Ralos, he bodily turns around and attempts to scramble for a safe haven. He could find none. The spell crashes onto him and engulfs him entire.
                
                You know well the extent of the spell's power, and the pain that it bestows upon its victim; you realize that Ralos must be screaming, but his voice is drowned out by the steady hum of Satiel's power. The sphere remains there for some time, a white sun brought down to earth, until at last you withdraw your mana and let the spell cease to be.
                
                What remains in its wake is Ralos's battered body, perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
    *selectable_if (phantvar = 2) #I call upon Airas.
        It comes to you in a burst, Airas's might coursing through your ducts so strongly that you feel as though you might erupt. It is always an incredible effort to call upon their powers, and a greater one still to rein it in, forge it into something that will bend, will [i]obey[/i]. The strain would nevertheless linger in you for days, weeks after, eventually quieting into a small corruption, tucked away in some inconspicuous corner of your mana ducts. It collects and builds each time Airas rises to the surface, easily forgotten, but there nevertheless. A sickness biding its time.
        
        It took its toll on you, in the end. You had felt it getting worse towards the tail end of the war, though you had gotten so good at hiding it that even Ilya had been none the wiser. Not so with Tahlia—the priestess had your full measure at first sight. The strange power she wielded had managed to stitch your broken pieces together—and by the time she handed you off to Senz, you were well on your way to mending.
        
        But her aid had come with a stern warning. Some of the damage had been beyond even her lofty capabilities, and so you will have to live with it for the rest of your days.
        
        You grit your teeth as power mists in the air around you and Airas is brought to bear. You feel that familiar strain, like nails dragging across your mana ducts, and know that you will pay the price for this calling. You pay it gladly—invoking arcana is a dangerous gamble as is, even without an unknown quantity complicating matters. You may live to regret this, but even then you will [i]live[/i]—and you're more than willing to settle for that.
        
        You hear a familiar whisper in your head—that sing-songy, derisive voice, which had become such a steady fixture during your time in Param. A crutch you were forced to rely on. You can only hope this doesn't mark the start of a relapse.
        
        *page_break [i]Arc of Erasure[/i]
        
        Airas's power rushes to obey your will, and for a moment it is as if Ralos and Altea's attack has been frozen in time. And then, like a tapestry coming undone thread by thread, the magical force powering the spell splinters and [i]disintegrates[/i]. Rushing water and furious bolts both fade into thin air as you let Airas's influence take hold, the attack broken before it so much as reaches the halfway point.
        
        Your opponents are dogged in their persistence, however, and do not let up in their assault. Bolstered as they are by Pyrian's mana, they begin a second round of the same spell. Again you call for the Arc, and again it sings in answer, unraveling your opponents' attack even as it manifests. You feel yourself straining to meet your phantasma's bottomless greed, but the Arc yets hold strong. You've been through much worse, forced as you were to confront entire armies and mow them down by the hundreds. A pair of thaumers still wet behind the ears—no matter how talented they may be—is well within your capabilities to handle.
        
        ${falco} takes the opening you've created for ${fhim}, rushing forward with spear brandished and murder in ${fhis} eyes. Altea aborts the spell she'd been preparing to cast and prepares to meet ${fhim} head on, and behind her Ralos shifts his stance and tosses up a new spell circle. A switch of tactics, but from the looks of it, they mean to hold their ground.
        
        Altea meets ${falco}'s spear with her scythe, and soon their engagement devolves into a chaotic dance. Lunges and parries are traded as each fighter tests the other, the air tense with mana as spells are primed. "So even you can recognize that running from a spiritist is futile," ${falco} taunts as ${fhe} brings ${fhis} spear up, parrying a blow. "Some wisdom, finally. But you remain a craven."
        
        "Foolish—we have you right where we want you," Altea growls. Her voice doesn't quite measure up to the boldness of her words. ${falco} will have noticed that—${fhe} will never let a weakness go unexploited. "Don't you see? You're on our turf now."
        
        Altea disengages from ${falco} with a backwards step, leaving a localized thunderstorm in her wake. ${falco} dodges the bulk of it adeptly, but ${fhe} is soaked through by the storm, and so the spell latches onto ${fhim} regardless. $!{fhe} lets out a pained yell as lightning runs through ${fhim} with such force so as to bowl ${fhim} over.
        
        You curse under your breath as you attempt to rush in and assist ${fhim}. You fail in the trying, for Ralos redoubles his assault in a bid to intercept you. He's opted for a new maneuver, a storm of countless water bullets he's forged from the downpour. "Eyes on me!" he yells out, wild-eyed as his spell manifests in full. There's an aggrandizement in his tone, a desperate appeal for you to turn your attention fully on him. For all that he had criticized Altea, it seems Ralos would do anything to ensure his sister's survival.
        
        You feel a wild surge of mana from ${falco}'s direction, a telltale sign that ${fhe}'s brought ${fhis} phantasma to bear. You'll just have to trust that ${fhe} can handle ${fhis} share of the fight. Ralos as he stands now is a foe that demands your full respect. A beast is dangerous when cornered, and more dangerous still when it has something it wishes to protect. At all costs.
        
        His spell comes hurtling through the air. What will you do?
        
        *choice
            #I stay on the defensive and look for an opportunity to strike.
                You grit your teeth as the bullet storm comes closer and closer, racing for you at such a speed so as to leave you dizzy. The Arc still hums in your bloodstream, and you will for it to come surging forth once more, to take hold around the whole of Ralos's spell. It proves a difficult undertaking, for Ralos's choice of attack is a wise one. The widespread and irregular nature of his spell serves to scatter your focus, necessitating you to spirit each individual bullet out of existence. The feat requires a tremendous amount of mana, and an archmage's finesse besides. Unfortunately for him, you are more than capable of rising to the occasion.
                
                The Arc takes hold, and Ralos's spell goes—but not before it relieves him of so much of his mana that he is left winded and breathless.
                
                And there lies his undoing. You immediately pounce on that moment of weakness, giving him no time to prepare against your counteroffensive.
                
                [i]Venom Dance[/i], drawls Airas's voice in your head, and at once the space around Ralos begins to shimmer—a telltale marker that it has fallen under Airas's influence. Before long a sickly green mist begins to drift through the air, and all at once it thickens into dense clouds, buffeting Ralos's form and growing to encompass his whole form. You know well the extent of the spell's power, and the torture it imparts upon its unfortunate victims; you realize that Ralos must be screaming, but his voice is drowned out by the steady hum of Airas's power. The toxin clouds remain there for some time, bound by its arcane tethers and defiant to the whipping winds, until at last you withdraw your mana and let the spell cease to be.
                
                What remains in its wake is Ralos's battered body, perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
            #I mount a counterattack, overwhelming him with my arcana.
                You stare Ralos down as you summon Airas's full might. You feel it in your very bones as the Arc shifts, thrumming with a new, dangerous might, and at your will it surges forth to take hold around the scattered constellation of Ralos's spell. Your opponent's lips edge into a grimace at your success—plainly he had been counting on your control slipping when confronted with such a widespread attack—but he does not seem suitably fearful. He must have thought that you will merely spirit his spell away, as you had done previously. He does not realize that your conduct thus far had been merciful, nor that said mercy has been exhausted.
                
                [i]Arc of Inception[/i], comes Airas's voice. No later than the words had echoed in your mind, Ralos's bullets come to a complete stop midflight, as if they had slipped away from time's influence. But a moment later they begin to careen the wrong way, racing back the way they came—homing in on their very caster, Ralos.
                
                The boy goes wide-eyed, scrambling backward as if in search of some safe haven. Alas, it is much too late. His fate is sealed.
                
                The bullets descend upon him in quick succession, piercing skin and muscle and bone, the muddy ground painted red by the splash of his blood. The sight is so gruesome that you find yourself turning away. Faintly through the rain you hear the sound of Ralos's screaming, punctuating by bursts of the spell as it ravages his body. You maintain the Arc even when he goes silent, only allowing it to cease once the whole of Ralos's bullet storm is spent.
                
                What remains in its wake is Ralos's battered body, perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
    *selectable_if (phantvar = 3) #I call upon Gweila.
        It comes to you in a burst, Gweila's might coursing through your ducts so strongly that you feel as though you might erupt. It is always an incredible effort to call upon his powers, and a greater one still to rein it in, forge it into something that will bend, will [i]obey[/i]. The strain would nevertheless linger in you for days, weeks after, eventually quieting into a small corruption, tucked away in some inconspicuous corner of your mana ducts. It collects and builds each time Gweila rises to the surface, easily forgotten, but there nevertheless. A sickness biding its time.
        
        It took its toll on you, in the end. You had felt it getting worse towards the tail end of the war, though you had gotten so good at hiding it that even Ilya had been none the wiser. Not so with Tahlia—the priestess had your full measure at first sight. The strange power she wielded had managed to stitch your broken pieces together—and by the time she handed you off to Senz, you were well on your way to mending.
        
        But her aid had come with a stern warning. Some of the damage had been beyond even her lofty capabilities, and so you will have to live with it for the rest of your days.
        
        You grit your teeth as the mad ring of Gweila's laughter enters your mind—a confirmation that the shaman has been brought to bear. You feel that familiar strain, like nails dragging across your mana ducts, and know that you will pay the price for this calling. You pay it gladly—invoking arcana is a dangerous gamble as is, even without an unknown quantity complicating matters. You may live to regret this, but even then you will [i]live[/i]—and you're more than willing to settle for that.
        
        You hear a familiar whisper in your head—that high-pitched voice, almost a cackle, which had become such a steady fixture during your time in Param. A crutch you were forced to rely on. You can only hope this doesn't mark the start of a relapse.
        
        *page_break [i]Song of Alacrity[/i]
        
        The spell completes unceremoniously, but you feel its effects as vividly as the heat of a flame. You signal towards ${falco}, around whom Gweila's power also wraps, and as one the both of you move to greet the blast head-on. ${falco} looks at you as if you were a madman—and really, with Gweila cackling in your head, ${fhe} would be correct in thinking as much—but upon the first step ${fhe} takes ${fhe} is fully convinced. Indeed, it would have been futile to describe the effects of the Song, for nothing you could say could do justice to the real thing. This feeling of preternatural grace of swiftness, as if nothing in the world could ever hope to graze you.
        
        The both of you dance around the blast as you bound forward, ${falco} with ${fhis} spear brandished, and you with your mana primed. Your opponents' panic is palpable as they witlessly try to redirect their spell and catch you in its impact zone. You and ${falco} sidestep their attempts with ease, but it turns out the control they have over their joint spell is fine enough to manage a feint. A bolt of lightning fires the wrong way, catching you mid-dodge on the shoulder. It's a glancing blow, all told, but a worrying portent. You grit your teeth, then, and readjust the spell. The Song is redoubled and you bask in its influence, becoming so light on your feet that even their feints fail to find purchase on your body.
        
        Alas, the maneuver is not without its cost. You feel yourself straining to meet Gweila's bottomless greed; but your spell holds strong despite it all. You've been through much worse, forced as you were to confront entire armies and mow them down by the hundreds. A pair of thaumers still wet behind the ears—no matter how talented they may be—is well within your capabilities to handle.
        
        Having closed the full distance of the blast, ${falco} darts forward and bodily throws ${fhim}self at Altea, breaking away from your Song's influence in the process. Altea withdraws her contribution from the blast and prepares to meet ${fhim} head on, and you feel Ralos scaling back on his spell. A switch of tactics, but from the looks of it, they mean to hold their ground.
        
        Altea meets ${falco}'s spear with her scythe, and soon their engagement devolves into a chaotic dance. Lunges and parries are traded as each fighter tests the other, the air tense with mana as spells are primed. "So even you can recognize that running from a spiritist is futile," ${falco} taunts as ${fhe} brings ${fhis} spear up, parrying a blow. "Some wisdom, finally. But you remain a craven."
        
        "Foolish—we have you right where we want you," Altea growls. Her voice doesn't quite measure up to the boldness of her words. ${falco} will have noticed that—${fhe} will never let a weakness go unexploited. "Don't you see? You're on our turf now."
        
        Altea disengages from ${falco} with a backwards step, leaving a localized thunderstorm in her wake. ${falco} dodges the bulk of it adeptly, but ${fhe} is soaked through by the storm, and so the spell latches onto ${fhim} regardless. $!{fhe} lets out a pained yell as lightning runs through ${fhim} with such force so as to bowl ${fhim} over.
        
        You curse under your breath as you try to cloak ${fhim} in Gweila's power, but are forced to abort your efforts when Ralos redoubles his assault. He's opted for a new maneuver, a storm of countless water bullets he's forged from the downpour. "Eyes on me!" he yells out, wild-eyed as his spell manifests in full. There's an aggrandizement in his tone, a desperate appeal for you to turn your attention fully on him. For all that he had criticized Altea, it seems Ralos would do anything to ensure his sister's survival.
        
        You feel a wild surge of mana from ${falco}'s direction, a telltale sign that ${fhe}'s brought ${fhis} phantasma to bear. You'll just have to trust that ${fhe} can handle ${fhis} share of the fight. Ralos as he stands now is a foe that demands your full respect. A beast is dangerous when cornered, and more dangerous still when it has something it wishes to protect. At all costs.
        
        His spell comes hurtling through the air. What will you do?
        
        *choice
            #I stay on the defensive and look for an opportunity to strike.
                You will for Gweila's influence to remain, surrendering more of your mana to leverage his might. To Ralos's credit, his choice of attack is a wise one. The widespread and irregular nature of his spell requires you to dodge it with frantic bursts of movement, invoking Gweila's power each time, and to do so consistently. The feat requires a tremendous amount of mana, and an archmage's finesse besides. Unfortunately for him, you are more than capable of rising to the occasion. You weather the whole of his assault and come out none the worse for wear; and when the spell finally terminates, the boy is left winded and breathless.
                
                And there lies his undoing. You immediately pounce on that moment of weakness, giving him no time to prepare against your counteroffensive.
                
                [i]Shaman's Elegy[/i], echoes Gweila's voice in your head, and immediately it is as if a floodgate has opened. You raise your hands forth and feel them becoming a conduit of arcane might, spell circles blooming from them in all directions as you launch spell after spell in quick succession. A burst of lightning, a surge of spirits, a storm of ice—all of them barrel as one towards Ralos's prone form, merging into a tableau of destruction which engulfs him entire.
                
                You feel it when your spells make impact with Ralos's body; you realize that the boy must be screaming, but his voice is drowned out by the steady hum of Gweila's power. The spells remain there even after Shaman's Elegy terminates, roiling with violent mana, until at last they run their course and fade out of existence.
                
                What remains in their wake is Ralos's battered body, perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
            #I mount a counterattack, overwhelming him with my arcana.
                You stare Ralos down as you summon Gweila's full might. His power encompasses you whole and quietly settles over your skin. The spell you reach for is far from flashy, but the fury of your reckoning will not be dampened for it.
                
                Ralos has done everything he can to make his spell impossible to dodge. It would only be polite to honor his efforts.
                
                [i]Avatar[/i], echoes Gweila's voice in your head. Immediately you feel your body coursing with a newfound might. Ralos's bullets swing down in deadly arcs as they home in towards you, and you refuse to acknowledge them. Instead you charge directly towards Ralos, hands balled up into twin fists. "Fool!" Ralos calls out, fear plain in his eyes. Mana hemorrhages from his form as he doubles down on his spell, and it is a second until the spell crashes into your unguarded back—
                
                And dissipates upon impact.
                
                Invulnerability comes at a great price, and you feel more of your mana being sapped away with each hit of the bullets. But the look of abject terror on Ralos's face when he realizes his mistake is well worth it. The boy stands slack-jawed ahead of you, managing only to stagger backward as every nerve in his body screams for him to retreat.
                
                Alas, it is much too late.
                
                Gweila's power curls around your fists, and you deliver a flurry of blows against Ralos over the span of a second. The impact of your attack is so strong that the boy is flung backwards; he lands in a bad way some twenty paces away, ribs broken and eyes glazed over.
                
                The night's ordeals had already taken their toll on him, and now it appears that your attack has sealed his fate. Ralos's battered body is perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
    *selectable_if (phantvar = 4) #I call upon Nyx.
        It comes to you in a burst, Nyx's might coursing through your ducts so strongly that you feel as though you might erupt. It is always an incredible effort to call upon her powers, and a greater one still to rein it in, forge it into something that will bend, will [i]obey[/i]. The strain would nevertheless linger in you for days, weeks after, eventually quieting into a small corruption, tucked away in some inconspicuous corner of your mana ducts. It collects and builds each time Nyx rises to the surface, easily forgotten, but there nevertheless. A sickness biding its time.
        
        It took its toll on you, in the end. You had felt it getting worse towards the tail end of the war, though you had gotten so good at hiding it that even Ilya had been none the wiser. Not so with Tahlia—the priestess had your full measure at first sight. The strange power she wielded had managed to stitch your broken pieces together—and by the time she handed you off to Senz, you were well on your way to mending.
        
        But her aid had come with a stern warning. Some of the damage had been beyond even her lofty capabilities, and so you will have to live with it for the rest of your days.
        
        You grit your teeth as a shadowy mist erupts around you, drawing upon your magic for sustenance. You feel that familiar strain, like nails dragging across your mana ducts, and know that you will pay the price for this calling. You pay it gladly—invoking arcana is a dangerous gamble as is, even without an unknown quantity complicating matters. You may live to regret this, but even then you will [i]live[/i]—and you're more than willing to settle for that.
        
        You hear a familiar whisper in your head—that polite, dignified voice voice, which had become such a steady fixture during your time in Param. A crutch you were forced to rely on. You can only hope this doesn't mark the start of a relapse.
        
        *page_break [i]Dance of the Dead[/i]
        
        The mist spreads and swells at your will, forming thick clouds of dark energy stretching ten paces ahead of you. The roiling fog gives rise to willowy, desiccated figures, shambling in the dark in their tens, in their hundreds, collecting precisely at Ralos and Altea's line of fire. They throw themselves at the blast with silent indifference, absorbing the spell through sheer numbers; many are tossed aside and knocked down, but their vitality is never gone for long. So long as you have the mana to sustain them, they will rise again and again, ready to throw themselves into harm's way so that you would not have to.
        
        The spell dissipates, fully absorbed by the mass of living dead, but Ralos and Altea are far from discouraged. Bolstered as they are by Pyrian's mana, they manage to get off a second blast, and then a third; and for all that your undead shields remain steadfast through it all, your own mana ducts are not so durable. You feel yourself straining to meet your phantasma's bottomless greed—and yet your spell olds strong. You've been through much worse, forced as you were to confront entire armies and mow them down by the hundreds. A pair of thaumers still wet behind the ears—no matter how talented they may be—is well within your capabilities to handle.
        
        ${falco} takes the opening you've created for ${fhim}, weaving through the field of dead in quick, darting steps, ${fhis} spear brandished and murder in ${fhis} eyes. Altea withdraws her contribution from the blast as soon as she spots ${fhim} approaching, and instead prepares to meet ${fhim} head on. Ralos, following suit, scales back on his spell and instead assesses the situation. A switch of tactics, but from the looks of it, they mean to hold their ground.
        
        Altea meets ${falco}'s spear with her scythe, and soon their engagement devolves into a chaotic dance. Lunges and parries are traded as each fighter tests the other, the air tense with mana as spells are primed. "So even you can recognize that running from a spiritist is futile," ${falco} taunts as ${fhe} brings ${fhis} spear up, parrying a blow. "Some wisdom, finally. But you remain a craven."
        
        "Foolish—we have you right where we want you," Altea growls. Her voice doesn't quite measure up to the boldness of her words. ${falco} will have noticed that—${fhe} will never let a weakness go unexploited. "Don't you see? You're on our turf now."
        
        Altea disengages from ${falco} with a backwards step, leaving a localized thunderstorm in her wake. ${falco} dodges the bulk of it adeptly, but ${fhe} is soaked through by the storm, and so the spell latches onto ${fhim} regardless. $!{fhe} lets out a pained yell as lightning runs through ${fhim} with such force so as to bowl ${fhim} over.
        
        You curse under your breath as you command your undeads to assist ${fhim}, but are forced to abort your efforts when Ralos redoubles his assault. He's opted for a new maneuver, a storm of countless water bullets he's forged from the downpour. "Eyes on me!" he yells out, wild-eyed as his spell manifests in full. There's an aggrandizement in his tone, a desperate appeal for you to turn your attention fully on him. For all that he had criticized Altea, it seems Ralos would do anything to ensure his sister's survival.
        
        You feel a wild surge of mana from ${falco}'s direction, a telltale sign that ${fhe}'s brought ${fhis} phantasma to bear. You'll just have to trust that ${fhe} can handle ${fhis} share of the fight. Ralos as he stands now is a foe that demands your full respect. A beast is dangerous when cornered, and more dangerous still when it has something it wishes to protect. At all costs.
        
        His spell comes hurtling through the air. What will you do?
        
        *choice
            #I stay on the defensive and look for an opportunity to strike.
                You firmly yank the tethers of your spell, willing the undead at your behest to surround and shield you from Ralos's impending attack. You swallow your disgust as their rotten bodies clamber atop one another, compelled to place themselves in harm's way. You bend down to nestle yourself in their midst, your body fully obscured from the spell's line of fire.
                
                The spell descends, hundreds upon hundreds of bullets raining down on your makeshift shield. The undead prove to be effective at their role, but you feel Nyx partake of your mana with every hit. Ultimately, it is a contest of endurance: if you can outlast Ralos's attack, then he will be much reduced, and you'll be able to bring the fight to him.
                
                It is your triumph, in the end. You maintain the Dance with mana to spare, and immediately you will the dead to part, giving you a clear line of sight towards Ralos. The boy is left winded and breathless from his exertion, a hand clutching his heart as he tries to keep himself from collapsing.
                
                And there lies his undoing. You immediately pounce on that moment of weakness, giving him no time to prepare against your counteroffensive.
                
                [i]Plaguehand[/i], echoes Nyx's voice in your head, and at once her power drapes itself over your hand, settling there like a second skin. Ralos only notices you rushing him after the halfway point of your approach, but by then it is too late. Flanked by undead on either side of him, the young mage is bereft of places to run, and can only mount a token resistance as you burst through his desperate spells and wrap your hand around his neck.
                
                A scream rips from the boy's throat, deafening and raw, as his skin desiccates and [i]flays[/i] from his very bones. His body trembles violently as the pain travels through him, forcing his very organs to decay, but it is only when his eyes roll to the back of his head that you release him from your hold.
                
                Ralos falls to the ground unceremoniously, and he squirms there as the rot expands to cover his entire body. By the time the spell fully terminates, his body is perfectly still. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc
            #I mount a counterattack, overwhelming him with my arcana.
                You stare Ralos down as you summon Nyx's full might. Her shadowy mists wrap around you like an embrace, and you let it siphon your mana, your very vitality, to power the carnage you have asked for it to create. It is a breath before that selfsame mist manifests in the air just behind Ralos. This time there is a malice to its billowing reach, the way it curls around the boy's body and seizes him like a hostage. It is only then that Ralos fully realizes the weight of his ordeal, the fact that the breath he draws may well be his last. With every nerve in his body screaming for him to retreat, he staggers backwards; alas, that only serves to push him deeper into the mist's embrace.
                
                [i]Soultaker[/i], echoes Nyx's voice in your head, and at once the dark mist collapses into itself, becoming more focused, denser with power. It is a gentle movement, all told, almost beautiful, yet you know that few horrors in the world can compare to it. Nyx's power courses through that very mist, and in one fell swoop it snips Ralos's tether to life. When the spell dissipates mere moments after, Ralos's body crumples unceremoniously to the ground, becoming perfectly still as it endures the beating rain. The boy is dead, his life extinguished by the fearsome power of your phantasma.
                *goto ralosreacc

*label ralosreacc
*choice
    #Such is the grim toll of combat. It was either him or you.
        *set emotional %- 15
        Despite his youth, Ralos is as seasoned a killer as they come. The blood of many stains both his and his sister's hands, and he had shown neither remorse nor hesitation as he sought after more. You still recall the glint of his spear as it hovered over you, and how only a bizarre twist of luck kept him from sending you back past the veil. You had made the mistake of giving him an opening, and he had made you pay dearly for it. And so when the tables were turned, it was only right that you return the favor.
        
        Ralos had been ruthless, calculating, and powerful. You couldn't afford to take risks with him, and so you had erred on the side of excess. There was no cruelty in the act, just simple calculation. And you can feel neither pride nor pleasure for having conquered such a worthy foe.
        
        And really, how could you?
        *goto phantvariant
    #I try not to retch at the sight. This never gets any easier.
        *set emotional %+ 15
        Ralos had been ruthless, calculating, and powerful—the sort of person for whom you can afford no quarter. But the moment ${phant1}'s power began coursing through your veins, he had become a triviality, an ignorant moth at the edge of a flame. And that's the lot of an arcanist, isn't it? You hold the power to break nations in your hands, the strength to kill others with unimaginable ease. You are the blade of a guillotine, awaiting the pliant tributes come to the slaughter.
        
        In the face of grand goals and noble causes, it can be difficult to forget how you feel in the immediate aftermath. The wretched disgust pooling at the base of your stomach, rotten and twisted, unable to be excised. You can always convince yourself that it's all in service of some greater good, but in the end, you had cut a life short before its time.
        *goto phantvariant
    #What a waste. So talented and young, only to die in the mud.
        *set noble %- 15
        Much as it pains you to admit, you see quite a bit of yourself in Ralos. He had been preternaturally gifted in the art of combat, and despite his tender age he held his own against some of Arvanand's most powerful mages. That kind of power does not come without a price. Likely he had never been able to live out a normal childhood, and though the terms of his sacrifice may well be different from yours, you still felt a strange kinship with him.
        
        And in the end, he met the same fate that you did. To die at the behest of some illustrious master, chasing after a dream he did not live to see manifest.
        
        And all of it happened by your hand.
        *goto phantvariant
    #He had been my foe, but I mourn him all the same.
        *set noble %+ 15
        Ralos has committed a great many transgressions. The blood of many stains both his and his sister's hands, and he had shown neither remorse nor hesitation as he sought after more. He had willingly twisted the bodies of innocent children into Pyrian's hosts, and were it not for the sheer luck of Ghisan Lucerre's intervention, he may well have sent you back past the veil. He was ruthless, conniving, and powerful. The kind of person you couldn't afford to take risks with, or show mercy to.
        
        But despite it all, he was still just a boy. A [i]kid[/i]. And for all that he had put up a front of detached competence, as if nothing in the world could shake him, you'd seen for yourself the terror he felt for his sister. Even moreso than he feared for his own life.
        
        It is difficult to feel proud of what you've done, but you had known this is what it would come to.
        *label phantvariant
        *if (usedraegusa)
            Raegusa is a phantasma, when all is said and done, and it is the nature of phantasma to kill. You've seen for yourself the devastation Raegusa's ilk leaves behind on the battlefield, hear the breaking of bones and smell the peeling of flesh even after all these years. And for all the talent Ralos has, for all the ferocity with which he fights, he proved unable to defy the phantasma's fell might.
        *else
            *if (phantvar = 1)
                Satiel, for all his wisdom and dignity, is a killer. You know this well from having wielded his powers over the years: few who are touched by his light go on to see another day. And Ralos, as strong and talented as he was, proved to be no exception.
            *elseif (phantvar = 2)
                Airas is a killer through and through. You know this well from having wielded their powers over the years: few who are touched by their venom go on to see another day. And Ralos, as strong and talented as he was, proved to be no exception.
            *elseif (phantvar = 3)
                Gweila is more madman than cold-blooded killer, but he always did thirst for bloodshed. You know this well from having wielded his powers over the years: when the Clear-Sighted's powers flow through your veins, few who rise in opposition go on to see another day. And Ralos, as strong and talented as he was, proved to be no exception.
            *else
              Nyx, for all her grace and decorum, plies her trade in the realm of death. You know this well from having wielded her powers over the years: few who are touched by her influence go on to see another day. And Ralos, as strong and talented as he was, proved to be no exception.  

"It's…over."

You break from your reverie and regard ${falco}, who's swiping blood from the edge of ${fhis} mouth. $!{fhe} had come out of ${fhis} ordeal in a worse shape than you did, but the end result is the same. Altea's lifeless body lies at ${fhis} feet. Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating the viscous liquid pooling underneath her form as the rain begins to wash it away. Blood, and in no small amount. ${falco} had been thorough.

*choice
    #"We didn't manage to get anything out of them, in the end."
        "It's for the best," ${falco} says, sighing. "They were loose cannons, and too dangerous to let live. We can't risk them stabbing us in the back—not when there is still work to be done."
        
        You blink at that. ${falco} had hardly been eager to participate in the evacuation, but ${fhe} now appears to have committed ${fhim}self to the cause. "We need to look into Exalted Beris, then. Strongarm her into seeing things our way."
        
        "She had been in league with these two, as well," ${falco} says, tilting ${fhis} chin towards the twins' bodies. "I doubt she has the full picture of what's going on, but she must at least know a useful thing or two. Something we can report back to the [i]ashai[/i]."
        
        "We'll be demanding a lot from her," you remark.
        
        *label bepersuasive
        ${falco} shifts the grip on ${fhis} spear, letting ${fhis} hand rest on its upper section, just under the spearhead. $!{fhe} twists it around as ${fhe} leans down towards Altea's body, wielding the weapon like a dagger. "Then we'll just need to be persuasive."
        
        *if (emotional > 50)
            You purse your lips and turn your gaze away as ${fhe} tends to ${fhis} grisly work.
        *else
            You purse your lips and watch in silence as ${fhe} tends to ${fhis} grisly work.
    #"We should head back inside. The others might be in trouble."
        *set optimistic %- 15
        You are not so far away from the section of the Heights you had exited from, but the storm obscures your vision and hearing both. You can't be certain of how ${yusuha} and Eli fared from this distance. The entire Heights had been swarming with knights, and Eli and ${yusuha} were already spent from the ordeal in the crypt.
        
        "What a useless thing to worry about," ${falco} sighs, crossing ${fhis} arms. "They're both monsters. You're looking down on them too much."
        
        "We can't afford to be arrogant. Not after being so thoroughly put through the wringer," you point out.
        
        "Because we were up against Pyrian," ${falco} answers. "Some knights with only a numerical advantage to rely on will pose no threat to them."
        
        You give ${fhim} a look. "You sound rather eager to stay out here in the storm."
        
        "Only because there is work to do yet," ${falco} says. "With these two dead, Beris is our only remaining lead. We need to get to her to get the evacuation started anyway, so we should milk her for all she's worth."
        
        You bob your head, conceding the point. "She must know a thing or two, given the way she cooperated with them," you say, casting a glance towards Ralos and Altea. "We'll be demanding a lot from her. Perhaps too much for her to be cooperative."
        
        *goto bepersuasive
    #"There's no time to waste. We need to find Beris and start the evacuation."
        A contemplative look enters ${falco}'s face. "There is no guarantee we'll be able to get our way."
        
        You give ${fhim} a look. "What are you on about now?"
        
        "We came to Aulain to pursue leads about the attack on Thulrum, not to organize an evacuation," ${falco} says. "With them dead, the only person we can reliably milk for information is the one who'd been in league with them: Beris. But she won't be inclined to assist us if we threaten her survival by bringing everyone up to the highcity."
        
        You blink your eyes hard, disbelieving. "I hope you're not suggesting that we abandon the evacuation. We've already agreed on that course of action."
        
        "I'm aware," ${falco} grunts. "I'm saying that if we want to push her around, we'll need to be persuasive."
        
        "Persuasive how?"
        
        ${falco} wordlessly shifts the grip on ${fhis} spear, letting ${fhis} hand rest on its upper section, just under the spearhead. $!{fhe} twists it around as ${fhe} leans down towards Altea's body, wielding the weapon like a dagger. "We show her the wisdom in heeding our words."
        
        *if (emotional > 50)
            You purse your lips and turn your gaze away as ${fhe} tends to ${fhis} grisly work.
        *else
            You purse your lips and watch in silence as ${fhe} tends to ${fhis} grisly work.

*page_break

You arrive back into the Heights drenched to the bone, trailing behind ${falco} as ${fhe} strides into the hall above the crypt. The air is dead silent, and within this grand, cavernous space, ${yusuha} stands alone in a field of unconscious bodies. The fight is evidently over, but only just. ${yusuha}'s mana is still thick in the air, and the @{yvar man|woman} himself is staggered and gasping for air.

$!{yhis} eyes narrow as ${yhe} spots ${falco}'s approaching figure. "You always were distasteful," ${yusuha} grouses, pushing back ${yhis} sweat-matted hair, "but this is a new low, even for you."

${falco} rolls ${fhis} eyes in lieu of a proper response. Ralos and Altea's heads bob softly as ${fhe} strides onwards, the wiry strands of their hair clasped between ${fhis} fingers. "Save it. It's not as if I made them any more dead," ${fhe} points out. "And we'll need at least this much to deal with this Beris."

"Indeed. I suppose that would be the quickest way," ${yusuha} concedes begrudgingly. $!{yhe} tosses a look over ${yhis} shoulder, then, towards the retinue of knights who lie collapsed all throughout the hall. From what you can glean, all of them yet draw breath—it appears ${yusuha} and Eli had managed a gentler solution than you did. "Beris took the knights' elites with her. If we can show her that resistance is futile, perhaps we can avoid another unpleasant conflict."

"Then let's do it with haste," ${falco} says. "This was not their full host, I'm sure of it. We should make ourselves scarce before the rest are upon us."

You cast an uneasy glance about the room. "Where's Plague?"

"I sent ${ehim} ahead with Pyrian's hosts. Couldn't very well risk them getting caught in the crossfire," ${yusuha} says. "You remember the abandoned servants' quarter we passed on the way here, I hope. Plague said ${ehe}'ll take them there, do what ${ehe} can for the children. We should go there, as well. Take the chance to catch our breaths."

${falco} purses ${fhis} lips, considering. "Fine," ${fhe} finally allows. "Lead the way, then."

*page_break

The servants' quarter is tiny and austere, an oddly humble structure within the Heights' sprawling complex. You trail behind ${yusuha} and ${falco} as they cross the entrance's threshold, sparing a glance behind you as you do. Lantern light flickers in the distance, within the very hall you had come from. The knights will have discovered ${yusuha}'s work, you solemnly think. Well and good—that ought to keep them occupied for some time.

There's a shuffling of feet as Eli emerges from one of the rooms, a ball of magical light hovering over ${ehis} palm. There's a wild sort of panic on ${ehis} features, and it only softens the moment ${ehis} eyes land on you. "You made it," ${ehe} says, a little breathlessly. "Isha-on-high. I was beginning to worry."

${yusuha} knits ${yhis} brows. "What's this? Scarcely twenty minutes have passed since you saw us last."

"SInce I saw [i]you[/i], perhaps," Eli corrects, smiling softly. "And you weren't the one I was worried about."

${yusuha} scoffs at that. "Picking favorites, are we?"

"I knew you could handle yourself against a few knights," Eli replies. $!{ehe} doesn't quite refute ${yusuha}'s accusation, and judging by the redhead's offended sniff, ${yhe}'s picked up on that, too.

"Enough of this," ${falco} grouses. $!{fhe} strides over to the door behind Eli, peering past the leaf into the room beyond. Eli startles as Ralos and Altea's heads come into the light, but it's only a moment until a quiet, resigned understanding dawns on ${ehim}. "Those kids were in a bad way back in the crypt. How are they now?"

Eli's features grow troubled. "They're…stable, after a fashion. I can manage that much with my arcana," ${ehe} says. "But…well, it may just be easier to show you. Come in."

*page_break

The children lie side by side upon a wide bed, still and peaceful as if in a deep sleep. The thinness of their frames make it difficult for you to place their age, and their pale skin is tinged a pale hue, a cool white that reminds you of Eli's mana. You feel an arcane force simmering within them, slowly seeping out as if from a leaking pipe. Pyrian has claimed them as her hosts, and it seems her influence has yet to leave their forms.

Ice washes over your spine as realization hits you. They are not breathing.

*temp whatitisdoe false
*label expoloop
*choice
    *disable_reuse #"What is happening to them?"
        *set whatitisdoe true
        "It was those twins," Eli says, jaw tense. "They managed to bind a phantasma to these kids, somehow, but something went very, very wrong. They mustn't have known how to carry out a proper Rite of Binding—not without access to Arcadian resources. And I've never heard of a phantasma being bound to [i]two[/i] hosts—it must have messed with the process, as well."
        
        ${yusuha} glances down at the unconscious children, lips pulling into a grimace. "That's a possibility. But this…may have been intentional."
        
        Eli gives ${yhim} a sideways glance. "How do you mean?"
        
        "Pyrian is a phantasma that need merely be summoned, rather than wielded," ${yusuha} says. "If they wanted her power, they wouldn't have needed for the host—hosts, in this case—to be lucid. As a matter of fact, it would've been preferable if they [i]weren't[/i]. Consciousness breeds resistance, and they wouldn't have allowed such a variable if they could help it."
        
        A dark look enters ${falco}'s face. "They paid the price for their cruelty."
        *goto expoloop
    *disable_reuse *if (whatitisdoe) #"You're implying they were able to modify the Rite to their liking?"
        It's a bleak possibility to entertain. The Rite is complex and dangerous, a process which took Thaubal Altinier decades of study and experimentation to successfully carry out, even with his access to the rarefied texts of Old Arcadia. The man was depraved and cruel, but undeniably a bright mind, and even with all the things in his favor he had been forced to make concessions. He had forcibly bound an incompatible phantasma to you, because he could do no better.
        
        If your foes have somehow learned to not only bind phantasma, but do so in a way that suits their particular needs, then their understanding of the process must be advanced. More advance still than Thaubal Altinier's, and judging by ${falco} and ${yusuha}'s shared confusion, perhaps even Thulrum's. You shudder to think of the implications. A single arcanist is a fearsome existence, capable of turning the tides of war all by their lonesome. Add the weight of Ralos and Altea's like behind them…
        
        "This is dangerous," you say, and your assessment is met with unanimous, uneasy agreement.
        *goto expoloop
    *disable_reuse #"Will they be alright?"
        "They're in no immediate danger, as far as I can tell," Eli says. "Their vitals are stable. No activity in their lungs, but I think Pyrian's summoning is maintaining them somehow."
        
        "At what cost?" you ask. "You can't keep an arcana active freely."
        
        "No," Eli admits. "I believe it's running on their life force."
        
        You balk at the statement. "What? You said they were in no immediate danger!"
        
        "Because I'm actively healing any damage as it arises," Eli says, and only then do you notice the beads of sweat trailing down ${ehis} forehead. The light in ${ehis} hands is no lantern—it's an arcane link between ${ehim} and the children's bodies, a channel for ${ehis} arcana to flow through. "I won't be able to keep this up indefinitely, but…" ${yhe} turns towards ${yusuha}. "You've mentioned before that you know how to carry out a Rite of Parting."
        
        ${yusuha} looks stricken. "I'm not an expert. Not the way the [i]ashai[/i] is," ${yusuha} says. "I can do it when the conditions are favorable—they'd need to be lucid, for one, and I'd need a great deal of time to prepare. And the irregular way Pyrian's been bound…there are complications I don't know how to deal with."
        
        Eli lowers ${ehis} head, grimacing. "Damn it, Fox. Are you saying they're beyond help?"
        
        ${yusuha} tosses ${yhis} gaze away in shame. "I believe they're lost to us. I'm sorry."
        
The older mage growls ${ehis} denial, the sound low and guttural—adamant, as if ${ehe} had something to prove. "Then I'll just keep this up until we get back to Thulrum. I won't give up on them."
        
"Plague…"

But then, like a mosaic piece falling into place, something stirs in your soul as if it had been lying in wait for this moment. You feel your body move of its own accord, guided by the strong compulsion—and you find yourself moving forward, compelled by a sense of unerring purpose.

${yusuha} and ${falco} take concerned steps towards you in near-unison, clearly worried that you've followed Eli's suit and planned a folly of your own. But then they feel the waves of mana radiating from your body, thick and heady in a way that speaks of a great, ancient power—and as one they halt their advance, transfixed as you close the distance and lean towards the unconscious children.

"${fname}?" Eli mutters in concern, wide-eyed as you press your palms against their chests. You cannot find the strength to answer ${ehim}, know not what you would tell ${ehim} even if you could. Instead, you watch intently the lines forming against the bedding and the wooden floor beneath, harsh and strange as they snake against one another and converge into a grand and sprawling rune.

Power phases through your body like a coursing river, flowing from a source you can neither see nor feel. All the while, vignettes of a time long past play behind your eyes like a lingering specter, and you watch entranced as it begins to unfurl.

*page_break
[i]"Why do yo do it, Sire?"[/i]

[i]"What do you mean?"[/i]

[i]"This…all of this. Why do you subject yourself to such torture? What duty could be so great that you must die a hundred deaths in service of it?"[/i]

[i]"You've seen my people slain by the thousands with your own eyes, Augur. What more is there to say?"[/i]

[i]"But this burden—you bear it alone. The weight of an entire nation, squarely on your shoulders. How is that right? Sire, how is it [/i]just[i]?"[/i]

[i]"The time for justice is long past. I've no need for your pity. I walk my path willingly."[/i]

[i]"…And when does it end? When will you allow yourself freedom from this terrible curse?"[/i]

[i]"Months, years, centuries, it matters little—I will fashion Arcadia's salvation with my own two hands. I've sworn it upon the name of my beloved, my parents, my unborn son. For as long as I am there, as a man, a spirit, the Tempter himself—"[/i]

*page_break

Light floods the room like the edge of daybreak, blue and tender and warm, painting gentle shadows across the walls of the chamber. You feel something flicker and fade within you, like the lonely flame of a candle spent; and as it melts away and leaves you hollow, there is one last message that echoes like truth through your mind and soul:

[i]No other Arcadian shall ever die in vain.[/i]

A beat of tense, knife-edged silence, and then the children find their breaths once more.

*page_break
*goto_scene Checkpoint_8-4