Neda looked to the disappointing cart strapped to the four, black horses with a crooked smile. Whereas the carriage had been a majestic construct, the carriage on its four, worn wheels was, comparatively, little more than junk. The wood had splintered and left gaping holes in the forearm-high walls along the sides, where Barrel had chucked a selection of supplies. The Ogre had, as gently as possible, laid Ellie and the necromancer down on either side of the carriage, where both contorted with pain.

Neda scratched the back of her head and did her best to count their men, only to reach the disappointing conclusion-… they were hardly better off now than they had been when they arrived in Pilta.

The four Banshees sat in hunched stances around the cart, while Kerras sat at the front with a slack jaw- next to his one, surviving man.

“C’mon, Yurgen, we’ve gotta go- quick!” Barrel spoke from further down the dirt road, where the camel had finally consumed most of the trough of water. It sounded an ungodly burp, to which Barrel continued: “Well because they says so! C’mon, stop fightin’ me!” Neda turned to see the small, fat man push the lazily chewing camel’s backside with fervor. The camel inhaled sharply and with a long, drawn-out exhalation, began thumping onwards towards the carriage. Satisfied that he had gathered up most his men, the bare-chested, small, round man walked around the carriage for Kerras to grip him by the shoulder and raise him to the bench overlooking the horses.

Neda skipped up to the carriage and sat down- provoking loud creaks from the wheels in the back. She nearly missed the screeches of the cabin’s door, where Kester quickly stepped out to throw a mournful look over his shoulder and whisper a solemn: “I’m sorry...” He gently closed the door in his wake and raised the tattered sleeves of his once-white shirt to wipe the corners of his eyes.

Despite her companions writhing in pain atop the carriage, Neda could not help but smile as she saw the approaching tavernkeeper and asked: “You coming with us, Kessie? Really!?”

If the tavernkeeper heard her, he made no sign of it as he made his way over towards the cart and sat down on the ledge to stare into his palms. Asrael scooted back to secure his feet and slammed his fist into the front panel to shout: “Depart immediately, Barrel! Southwards- away from the gates!” The small, fat man had assumed as much and had taken care to orient the cart southwards in preparation of their departure. Squeezed in between Kerras and the dead soldier, Barrel whistled and commenced their ride with a snort from the horses.

The two Purged held Bartholomew up by his shoulders. Ingvard stood by the door of the guests’ quarters as his men bound Titus with tight knots of ropes and numerous chains. The Duke remained still- unmoved and unbothered by the manipulation. He stared up at his beloved brother, where he hung with a limp neck in between the two strong Purged- both of whom could confirm that Bartholomew’s injuries had been mostly healed.

Sun’s sandals clicked against the cold, slate tiles as his white robe floated over the dark room, where he came to a halt by the bed to meet the green-eyed glare of Titus.

The Duke’s rusted hair and beard had darkened with the streams of blood staining his face and chest, yet his similarity to Gustav remained striking. The Purged hunched down to study the ornate carvings and the complicated runes cut into his flesh.

“Runic magic... academic. Extremely complicated, I might add. I have only ever heard of a spell such as this one once before.” Ingvard closed his eyes and shook his head. He, too, had heard of the spell- no... he had seen this spell before, on a fateful night thirty years past. He knew what those markings meant- perhaps not in detail, but he knew enough of that school of magic to know that Titus had long since passed.

Ingvard’s boots clicked over the floor as the last of his men finished tying the ropes around Titus’ wrists and ankles. The tight chains and fibers cut into his flesh, yet not a droplet of blood spilled from his pale wounds- not that he had expected any different. Dead men... did not bleed.

“Wrap him up. We will take him back to Capita.” Sun knew that tinge in Ingvard’s voice- that disappointment and self-loathing that would always plague him whenever he experienced failure. Sun braved a glance over towards Ingvard to see him arch his neck forward- shrouding his eyes beyond his impressive, white brow.

“Lord Ingvard.” A man spoke from the door. Ingvard turned over his shoulder to see that one of his Lieutenants had appeared in the crack of the door to salute him with a palm to his left pectoral. Even with the grated visor shrouding his eyes, Ingvard could feel the man’s disappointment.

“It seems the enemy sought to protect someone who escaped into the tunnels beneath the city. We fought our way through the monstrum, but we lost track of the one we chased.” Ingvard closed his hands into fists and nodded his understanding.

“Could he have gotten away?” The ancient warrior spoke.

“No, I do not believe so, my Lord. The tunnels are mostly collapsed... we’ve no idea where he might have gone, but I doubt he could have escaped. The only tunnels still left open led back into the city and with our men protecting the gates, there is no escape.” Ingvard raised his palm to his face and nodded into his hand. He had enough troubles as it were if he did not need to scour the surrounding lands for a necromancer. Ingvard hesitated to sound the next order but knew- better than any- that it needed to be done.

“What happened here cannot be known to the rest of the Empire.” All the men let the words hang in the silence of the fine chamber- tasting the bitter truth of the words. Sun nodded approvingly and folded his hands atop his stomach, but the Lieutenant seemed to hesitate.

“We can station some squadrons to reinforce the gates and establish a quarantine. I will send for-” The Lieutenant did not stammer, yet all could hear the slight hesitation in his voice. Ingvard had expected it- any good man would have a tremor in his voice as he conveyed such an unspoken protest.

“The High Inquisitor has given me his Fullest Authority. Take some of your men and interrogate the nearby villagers. If anyone speaks a word of knowledge on what happened here, you know what must be done. As for Pilta...” Ingvard straightened his back and frowned before sounding: “Purge the city. Leave no man, woman, or child to speak of this.” No man or woman of the Inquisition would ever dare disobey an order given by the Man himself, but he could understand their hesitance.

“The crisis in Capita necessitates a unified Empire. There can be no doubt that the High Inquisitor and the Emperor are the men to lead us through these trying times.” Sun eyed the silent men in turn from beyond his white robe, before nodding towards the Lieutenant by the door. “You have your orders. Relay them to the Purged and they will assist you.”

The visored helmed bobbed up and down. He signaled his acknowledgment with a tap to his left pectoral plate and spoke: “Yes, Lord Ingvard. It will be done.” The suit of armor lingered for the blink of an eye- glancing towards the bare-chested Bartholomew still supported between the two fleshmenders.

As Ingvard approached Titus’ still, naked, smiling form, the old man motioned for his soldiers to depart- an order they were all too happy to obey, in the face of the mysterious runes.

When the door finally closed, Ingvard, Titus, Bart, and the three Purged were left in the dim illumination of the candles about the room. On any other occasion, Ingvard might’ve found the atmosphere pleasant- one his wife might’ve found to her liking when she was still alive. But the soft, fluid-soaked silken bedsheets did not add to the chamber’s comfort. The lazy curtains did not add to a sense of calm. The silence was, in this place, a sign of disease rather than peace.

“I-Ingvard...” Bartholomew grunted. The Purged on either side of him felt a measure of strength return to his legs. With great strain, he stood on his own feet but was powerless to resist the strong clutches of the Purged supporting him from the sides. The old man looked to the Purged down the shaft of his lengthy nose before approaching to question Bartholomew:

“What happened here? Who did this?” Bartholomew raised his hands to support himself on Ingvard’s shoulder. The Sargerrei’s wide, crazed eyes fluttered about in a panic- glancing between the corners of the room as he fought his disorientation. “A-Asrael... He-”

Very rarely did Sun ever get surprised by Ingvard’s behavior, but the lack of any visible shock on his expression did catch him unaware. The old warrior signaled for the Purged to let go of Bartholomew, but the stalwart man was now conscious enough to remain upright. Ingvard’s brow was low, but rather than infuriated, he seemed almost relieved.

“Hush, child. We will discuss this later. For now, we must leave.” Bartholomew steadied his grip on the wide plates of silver armor and shook his head.

“No, no... that bastard stabbed me...” The Sargerrei mumbled. The ancient warrior looked to the neatly healing wound with a fleeting- almost unseen smile.

“Yes, that he did. You will tell me all of it, but for now, we must get you and your brother back to Capita.” Bartholomew strained his eyes to focus on the wrinkled face of his master.

“C-Capita? N-no, no. We’ve got to make things right in Pilta, Ingvard. My brother and As-” Ingvard raised an eyebrow as Bartholomew’s eyes widened at the sight of something by the door. Sun perked up at the sight of an arriving, white robe.

“Lita- you are all right...” Bartholomew grunted. The white robe by the door floated across the slate to quickly make her way to the exhausted, pale Sargerrei. In his eyes, Lita seemed to radiate life from her bright-white skin- a calm center to the new, chaotic world into which he had taken a nose-dive plunge. She stepped up next to Ingvard and calmly and lovingly stroked Bartholomew’s cheek while welcoming him into the depths of her deep, blue eyes.

“I am better than all right, Bartholomew. Please, rest. We are safe now.” Her soft voice calmed his frenzied nerves like lavender balm to profound burns. His shoulders lowered as his eyes grew distant and ptotic. His legs ceased quivering- his arms grew stronger until they finally loosened from Ingvard’s plates.

________________________________________________________________________________

The two Purged carried Bartholomew between them as Lita, Ingvard, and Sun stepped back into the courtyard. Though the blood and dismemberment still tainted every inch of the once-lively plaza, Sun noticed a smile contorting Lita’s lips.

Whereas Ingvard and Sun saw the gore and the aftermath of an unholy, still-obscure battle, Lita saw something quite different, by the looks of her luscious, red lips.

The high sun flickered in between the dancing columns of smoke rising from the ruins of the city- drying the cracked pools of sanguine red on the cobbled stones, but the trio’s pace never slowed- even as they stepped over bodies and members. Lita, however, stopped as she reached the midway point of the bridge and looked out across the city.

She watched as one of the Purged arrived by a red, bricked house- joined on each side by purple-tabarded, heavily armored Inquisitors. Her thin-lipped smile grew wider as the Purged clapped his hands together and summoned a ball of wild, swirling purple in between his palms. Even from across the river, she could feel the crackling energy toy with her hair- the same way the magic in Asrael’s fingertips had lovingly caressed her.

As the Purged threw the ball into the brick house’s window, a flash of bright purple exploded inside the barred-up home with such radiance she could see four shapes cowering inside, through the thick bricks. Though the inhabitants of the house did not scream, nor did they yelp or roar, Lita knew that come nightfall, the family’s screams would be all the guards could hear. Satisfied that the lethal dose of radiation had been delivered, the Purged and his two guards continued onwards to the next house.

A single, passing thought of the family had Lita smile warmly and rub her lower abdomen. She promised herself she would remember this day- when her stomach was flat and how easily she could reach her navel. It was not lost on Sun that something had changed since last he saw Lita- years ago. As a Purged, smiling was a rare thing- forbidden, in some ranks. But he, a warrior-veteran, could scarcely argue when one of his own found an occasion to be joyous- especially in the dreadful reality of the hundreds of Purged unleashing their hellish magic upon the last, remaining citizens of the city.

As Lita resumed walking after Ingvard and Bartholomew- towards the opened gate, Sun could no longer contain himself and approached from behind to question:

“Smiling, sister?” Lita raised her hand to her mouth and giggled with a nod.

“Yes, Master Sun... How could I help but?” Sun looked across the many pyres, explosions, and swinging blades all across the city, but spoke nothing.

Lita rubbed her flat stomach and continued: “We’ve stomached the long dark. Now comes His Light and soon, you will feel his salvation as I have.” Sun imagined that the girl had been through much, but found himself hoping the confusion would pass before their return to Capita, lest Father be involved in her treatment.

“Yes, I would very much like to meet Father... I’ve lessons for him.” Sun stopped to stare at her backside as she passed by him. He knew of her capabilities well- he had worked alongside her before. She was a psychomancer- a weakly one whose Curse traversed stares. He was certain he hadn’t spoken of Father, but then... how...

As she turned around to smile at him again, he caught a glimpse of a green eye beneath her hood as she spoke:

“All will be clear soon, Master Sun- as it will be made clear to all the Purged. He will make certain of it.”