It was early evening, just as the sun was dipping below the treeline, painting the sky with fat fingers of pink and gold when I finally ported into Darkshard Keep. I pressed a hand to my gut as a grumble of hunger burbled up and out, reminding me that my last meal had been a spit of roasted rat well before noon. All I wanted was a mug of ale, a heaping plate full of something hot—it didn’t even matter what—and an opportunity to relax for a few hours. Fat chance of that happening, though. Despite a long, tiring day on the wall and winning yet another skirmish against the Imperials, my work was far from done.

Heck, these days, my work was never really done. I had a Faction to run, which meant reports to file, briefs to hear, decisions to make, fires—both metaphorical and often literal—to extinguish.

I sighed heavily as I threaded my way through the crowds near the stone port pad, all waiting to head from the Darkshard Keep into Yunnam proper. I kept my head down and my hood up since there’d be less of a chance of someone spotting me; at this point, any moment to myself was something to cherish. The Keep grounds had changed a lot over the past week. The rubble formerly littering the area were completely gone, and the foliage—assorted trees, vines, and hedges—had been painstakingly trimmed back while a host of exotic swamp flowers and shrubs had been sculpted into pristine gardens by a handful of hardworking groundskeepers.

I ambled past the barracks—a boxy, three-story stone monstrosity with terraces running along each floor. My gaze momentarily lingered on a group of squealing children racing over green grass in a frantic game of tag. One boy, little more than a toddler, clapped frantically as he ran in circles while an overgrown Dread Hound—two-hundred pounds of black fur, yellowed fangs, and hellfire eyes—chased along, its great tongue lolling out in what amounted to a doggy smile. Another kid, a little Dawn-Elf girl with pig-tails, leaped over one of her friends, a Risi boy of maybe twelve, before turning a cartwheel and streaking off for one of the manicured gardens.

I glanced up.

A knot of adults watched on from the terraces above, leaning against the stone railing, smiling. I grinned too, my sour attitude improving just a hair. There were a surprisingly high number of children who’d made the transition, and even more surprisingly, the game had spawned custom children NPC companions for each of them. I wasn’t sure what would happen to them—would they grow or would they be kids for all eternity? —but for now, it made me happy to see them. Kids, running around in the green grass, carefree despite the fact that the world had ended a week and a half ago.

Maybe there was some hope.

I dropped my head and trudged into one of the shanty towns, weaving past the sprawl of bulky, leather tents and through the graceful archway connecting to the Keep’s inner courtyard. The Keep’s courtyard—a giant slab of ancient, weathered stone—sat empty, but several of our new training areas were bustling with activity: Men and women scuttled along narrow beams or climbed up swaying cargo nets on the new Agility Course. Meanwhile, the clash of steel, followed by cheers and jeers from onlookers, rose up from the Melee Combat Arena off to the right.

I ignored them all and beelined toward the weather-beaten steps leading from the courtyard into the Keep. The Darkshard Keep stood in stark contrast to the castle looming high above Rowanheath, carved high into the cliffs above the city. Instead of hard lines, gray stone and, high walls built for war, Darkshard looked like a Buddhist Temple plucked out of a bygone era. The place was all rounded edges, flowing curves, elegant spires, and artfully carved stonework depicting fantastical beasts and epic battles from long, long ago.

Once I’d made it up the stairs and through a pair of double doors, big enough to admit a herd of wild elephants, I pulled up my user screen and scrolled over to the Keep’s interface. I could do all kinds of things from there—summon guards, oversee the Keep’s defenses, upgrade structures—but what I really wanted was the internal port-feature, which we’d added as soon as we had the points. The Keep itself was a sprawling place with rooms upon rooms to explore or get lost in, and the Command Center sat at the tip-top of the highest turret on the premises.

The view was to die for, but the climb up the stairs might actually kill.

“Command Center,” I muttered, pressing my eyes shut as I activated the Keep’s teleporter. The world shivered, shuddered, shifted and suddenly the clamor of voices washed over me as the floor reeled below my unsteady feet. I wobbled for a moment, pressing a hand against my queasy stomach as I waited for the surge of vertigo to pass, then cracked my eyes open. The sprawling entryway was gone, and now the octagonal Command Center sat before me. Flickering firelight, from both the stone fireplace at the far end of the room and an elaborate chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceilings, filled the room with a warm glow.

The place, as always, was busy and buzzing with life and restless activity. Players from a host of different IRL nations dallied around the room in small pockets, speaking in muted conversational tones as they poured over reports or discussed camp operations. As usual, I felt a flicker of guilt looking at them—they were all better at this than me. We had attorneys, doctors, professors, former military officers, even a smattering of politicians. Any of them should’ve been in charge of the Crimson Alliance, yet for some reason, they were following my lead. Well, me and Abby.

Mostly, Abby.

Sure, I came up with plans and saw they got carried out, but Abby was the brains behind the operation. She was the elbow grease that kept everything running along, nice and smooth. Or as smooth as an upstart rebellion could be, anyway.

I untied the velvet rope, cordoning off the telepad, and quickly scanned the room: Abby was hunched over a sprawling table, her hands planted on the dark wood, her brow furrowed in thought as she scanned a leather-bound ledger filled with reams of hastily-scrawled parchment. She was a beautiful woman, Abby. Short and perfectly curvy with dark skin and a pile of intricate brown curls. Chief Kolle, the leader of the Ak-Hani clan and our Murk-Elf advisor, flanked her on the right, while Anton Black—a former tax accountant from the UK and now our Chief Logistics Officer—stood to her left.

“I just don’t understand what they gain,” Abby muttered, pouring over the ledger. “It just doesn’t add up. They’ve got to be losing money with all of these pointless incursions. It’s not like they even come close to breaching Rowanheath.”

“Oh, they’re hemorrhaging money,” Anton replied, nodding vigorously, his blonde hair bobbing. “Moving that number of troops and supplies on a consistent schedule can’t be cheap, plus it must be costing them a fortune in missed quests and dungeon raids. And they accomplish nothing. Nothing.” He shook his head, dumbfounded.

I slipped past a pair of bulky Dwarves—heatedly discussing the finer points of mine-craft and ore deposits—and plopped down in one of the padded leather chairs edging the bulky table.

“Jack!” Abby said, her face lighting up with a smile. The smile slipped after a second, her nose scrunching up in distaste. “God, you look terrible.” Her gaze swept over me, pausing on the blood-stains decorating my armor and splattered across my hands and face. “Tough day?”

“They brought siege weapons this time. Big ones. Still not enough to break our defenses, but it’s getting worse. I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up. I mean the Faction is growing, sure, but not fast enough to sustain this kind of pace. Even with the rotations, our guys on the wall are getting tired—I can see it in them. They’re pulling twelve-hour watch shifts five days a week, and on top of that, most have died multiple times already.” I reached up and tapped a finger against my temple. “It’s messing with their minds.”

“And that,” the Chief interjected, leaning forward, his hands resting on the table, “is what the Imperials are accomplishing. We’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle. They are not seeking to take Rowanheath—their numbers tell us as much—rather, their goal is to crush our will to fight. And though it may be costly to wage such a war, it will prove to be far costlier to us in the long run. Now, aside from what Grim Jack has already mentioned, I want you two”—he paused, staring at Abby and Anton in turns—“to think, really think, about what else they’ve achieved.”

Abby and Anton were both silent for a beat, sharing sidelong glances at each other like school kids who’d been called out by a particularly demanding teacher. “Well, it’s costing us significantly in terms of trade.” Anton eventually answered, his words slow and thoughtful. “With the constant siege, caravans from other cities haven’t been able to get through, which is a serious blow to Rowanheath’s economy. Food and basic goods will get more expensive, which can’t be good for morale …” he trailed off, anxiously running his hands over his silky robes.

“And, I suppose, it’s costing us a ton in terms of quests, too,” Abby offered. “Our defenders are leveling up off the battles, but with the demanding watch shifts, they don’t have the kind of time they need to complete quests. Not to mention, killing Imperials earns a bit of coin but no loot. I mean a lot of those guards don’t even have their Specialty classes yet, which means they’ll eventually be at a disadvantage against the troops the Empire is sending our way.”

“Now you begin to see,” the chief replied sagely. “They’re not trying to eradicate us—which is consistent with what Grim Jack told us of this Osmark’s offer. They’re trying to bring us to heel, like a hunter breaking a war-hound. Moreover, this Osmark is appeasing the various Imperial-aligned factions in the process. This is not a war of physical domination, it is a war for the mind, for the heart.” He thumped a fist against his chest.

We were quiet in the wake of his words; in fact, I noticed the whole room had fallen silent, all the various pockets of conversation cut short as everyone eavesdropped.

Abby stood, arms folded, a frown glued in place. “If you’re not a Faction Officer”—she stared daggers around the room—“or the Chief, please leave.” Her tone stated plainly that prompt compliance was expected. It took only seconds for the room to empty, people breaking for the exit in a barely-controlled panic, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. Abby rounded on me, her frown turning into a heavy scowl. “Okay, Jack, we need to do something different. I know you don’t want a war, I know you want to trust Osmark, but this isn’t—”

I cut her off, “You weren’t there, Abby. You don’t know,” I said, recalling my strange encounter with Osmark after the battle for Rowanheath. “I don’t want to be ruled over by a tin pot dictator any more than you do, but Osmark made some good points. I mean he did save us all. Obviously, he made a few of the deals that were unethical, but if he hadn’t done that, we’d all be dead, Abby. Dead.” I slammed a hand down against the table, envisioning a tsunami of fire washing over the world. “Besides, what about all of the travelers from places like China or Saudi Arabia? Osmark’s right, a lot of those people wouldn’t want what we have to offer. Maybe there really is some way we can make peace with the Empire.”

“Attacks every. Single. Day. Isn’t peace, Jack,” Abby said. “Osmark’s playing you. He’s just trying to get inside your head, in the same way he’s using this siege to get inside the heads of every faction member we have.”

I waved her objection away. “Eldgard revolves around conflict—the Overminds demand it. Osmark already told me he’d send some token forces against us. None of this is a surprise to me. Besides, they’ve focused solely on Rowanheath. Just look around, Abby. Things have never been better in Yunnam. The economy is growing. We’re recruiting more people every day. We haven’t seen an Imperial in the swamp in a week.”

“This is true, but for how long?” the Chief asked, his rough voice brimming with concern.

“How long what?” I snapped back, too annoyed, tired, sore, and hungry to be diplomatic or tactful.

“How long before his benevolence lapses, Grim Jack? Right now, we exist at his mercy. But what if that mercy should fail? We have a saying among the Dokkalfar: ‘never trust a fat crocodile.’ This Osmark, he may have a full belly now, but eventually he will be hungry again, and then he will turn his jaws on us.”

I stood up, feeling the weight of uncertainty press down on me, and began to pace, the sound of my boots absorbed by the thick carpets underfoot. I was reluctant to admit it, but Osmark had shaken me during our brief encounter. Carrera was scary, sure, but he’d been scary in the way a rabid pitbull is scary: all muscle and rage, but nothing else. Osmark was different, though. He was smart—­smart enough to envision Viridian Gate and see it through to completion, despite all of the obstacles stacked against him. He’d offered me the semblance of a truce, but he’d made it clear what would happen if we pushed back too hard …

He’d come at us with everything he had, and the way he’d said it—like someone absently explaining how he’d wipe up a glass of spilled milk—made me believe he could destroy us. Who knew what a man like that might have hiding up his sleeve?

“I know this isn’t easy, Jack,” Abby said, her voice soothing, concern lining her face, “but we’re the only ones that can stop him. Chief Kolle is right. Maybe he’s being genuine, but we’re going to be here a long time, Jack. Maybe forever—no one really knows. Are you sure his good intentions will hold forever? Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the power to stop him if push really did come to shove? We’re only still alive because we were proactive and bucked the system. Do you honestly think Osmark would’ve stopped Carrera from hunting us down if we hadn’t backed him into a corner by taking Rowanheath?”

I took a few deep breathes, running my sweat-slick palms through my dark hair, then flopped back into my chair. Abby made some good points, too. My fear of Osmark, my fear of the unknown, urged me to sit back and not rock the boat. To fight for the status quo. To turn inward, build up Yunnam, and leave the rest Eldgard to fend for itself. But, that same fear also whispered something else in my ear, it’s only a matter of time … eventually, he’ll come for you.

Abby looked like she was going to continue, to push her case, but the Chief stopped her with an upraised hand. “Abby speaks the truth, but”—he dropped his hands, folding them in resignation on the tabletop—“we will not force you into a decision, Grim Jack. Your instincts have also played a major role in the victories we’ve had. Let us all”—he stole a long look at Abby and Anton—“never forget that.”

I sighed and slouched back in the chair, letting the comforting leather cradle my battle-sore muscles. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to at least talk about our options,” I finally conceded. “But first, food.”