Joy stood on the bluff overlooking the mass of soldiers as they began their labors. Timber from the horses was unloaded and readied, the lengths of ropes unspooled. Some with axes, some with swords, they began to shorten the logs to appropriate lengths and arrange out the skeletons of these catapults of theirs. Jhossa oversaw it all, his voice, while incessant, carrying itself easily over the wind. He seemed to fit naturally in command, and the men listened to him almost instinctively. Joy surveyed the situation for only a brief moment before nodding.

As he turned to leave, he found himself suddenly tackled at the legs by a blur of motion. He tumbled to the ground from the force of the blow, curling himself into a roll from instinct. A surge of adrenaline swiftly pouring into his blood, he landed on his back and swiftly swiped downwards at whatever it was that still clung to him. Yet his claws found nothing but air, his foes smaller than he had imagined, and he lunged forwards with teeth bared. His eyes snapped open just in time to make out familiar blurred figures, his mind cutting through the haze of instinct and battlelust just in time to dull his strike.

Stone fangs latched lightly around a scaly throat, the energetic pup suddenly going limp by reflex. Joy took the opportunity to pry the demonling’s claws off of him, a task that proved difficult as the pup’s companions were still firmly latched and squirming on his legs. They were small, stout creatures, although these were of the winged variety. Leathery, batlike wings sprouted from their backs, although they were as of yet still too flimsy to lend them flight. As of the moment, they merely gave them a slight glide whenever they tackled something too large to eat. Kha had promised that in perhaps a week longer, these bumbling nuisances would soon be frolicking about the sky belching fire—a thought that made Joy feel no end of frustration. Singed hairs would be the least of his worries when the pups tackled him from the sky.

Getting them off of him took longer than he would have liked to admit, as they wriggled and squirmed in every inconvenient manner. In the end, when he was free of them and they were seated plumply on the grass, they did not even have the grace to look apologetic. Instead, they promptly began to fight with one another, taking off into the distance chasing one another. Whenever one grew particularly incensed, their runes would glow dully and flame would shoot out of their mouth.

“An amusing diversion, m’lord.” drawled a lazy voice from behind him, before Joy ever had the chance to stand up. He started in surprise, something that he hated, yet nevertheless seemed to come to him more frequently these days.

He stood up to find Mors a ways off behind him, leaning casually with a rather pointed smile on his weathered face. The man had snuck there, evidently some time ago while Joy had been distracted, and the demon had never noticed. Joy growled softly at himself; this had never happened in the Outlands. He was growing weak. “Have you a reason for coming?” he asked directly, not bothering to smooth the irritation out of his voice.

“Of course,” the veteran replied swiftly, his voice laced with a borderline amount of insolence. Joy knew what that look in those eyes said—I’m serving, but I don’t like it. The look of a predator forced into fetters, dreaming of escape. Only these fetters were shaped by necessity, and that irritation would prove most difficult for the man to reconcile with. “I’ve stationed some of the returning men to watch the Kingsroad. There shouldn’t be too much trade going through the Heartlands this close to the Capital now that people know we’re here, but we’ll catch them if there are.” he continued, pointing with a nod of the head towards that winding road.

“But the bigger reason I came here, m’lord, is the men. Most of them don’t know what we’re fighting—after we finish up here with House Mace. They aren’t fighting for you, or for some grand purpose of saving the world. They’re fighting just ‘cause their lord knelt to you, and they came along as part of the deal. They’re a mess of young fools, driven more by emotion than logic. They’ve heard what you’ve said about these shadows, but they don’t truly believe it. Not in their hearts.” The legionary drew his short sword, its leather grip worn from use and familiarity. Yet its blade did not match its hilt, for the steel there was new. Runes were carved into its side—Willem’s work. The boy proved most apt at runes, even if his magic was still unstable.

“You’ve given them new toys, but they’ll choke up in the first fight with these fire-swords. I promise you, half of them will forget how to even burn the damn things the first time they see moving shadows on the horizon. If they don’t face what their fighting now, in their hearts, they when they face them on the field, they’ll melt rank like fat in Malifori sun.” the man proclaimed passionately, his face resolute.

Joy felt the corner of his mouth twitch ever slightly in a smile. “And what is your point? They are your men. They are your responsibility. It doesn’t matter to me if they die, as long as they take down some skal’va with them.”

“But they could kill more skal if they were prepared.” Mors insisted, his voice growing louder as his emotions flared. “They need to see you as their leader, at the end of the day. They need to see why they are fighting, who they are fighting for. Even if it’s all fake, even if it’s all just an act on your part, you need to give them that knowledge. It their hearts, m’lord. Men fight with spirit; they aren’t just the tools you think them to be.”

“And what,” Joy snarled, “would you have me do?”

“Talk with them.” Mors replied. “Not one by one, but together, so that the mob spirit will fill their blood. Tell them why they are fighting, what the demons are fighting for. Challenge them, question them. Stir their hearts and their dreams. Don’t make them fight for you, m’lord. Make them want to fight for you. Win their hearts. Win their blades.”

Joy snorted in reflex. Words were words. They could not possibly hope to change minds or hearts, not without action. “And this will stop your men from running in fear when they first see the skal?”

Mors stumbled at that, his expression flickering momentarily before he caught himself. “N-no… but show them first, and they will know. They know not what to expect, right now. Show them what they face. Show them that the shadows can be killed, can be burnt, and they’ll stand and fight the next time.”

“And how do you propose that I show them skal’va?” Joy retorted incredulously. “How am I to find our foe into the midst of our army, like showpieces for them to gawk at?”

“Perhaps… let them stand down during the first fight? Let them see your demons besting the shadows, and they’ll—” Mors started, but Joy cut him off with a scowl and a snort.

“Enough. Your men are here for a reason, and do not forget their purpose. They are fodder. They are shields. If the shield fells a foe before it breaks, then all the better. You ask me to sacrifice my demons so that your men will gather the nerve to fight!” he seethed, incredulity melting into anger at the thought. “That is enough. You have spoken your piece. I will think of it. Now go, Sword. There is work for you yet. See if your words can move the hearts of your men. Then we may not need mine.”

The man was not done, Joy knew, and he wanted to ignore the dismissal, to speak his mind. It was in his stance, his posture, like a pup staring down an alpha. But Mors snuffed it out, slamming a fist over his breast in that strange legion salute before he left to go yell at his men. That left Joy alone—blissfully alone, for the moment—on the bluff overlooking the Capital. Those towering stone walls had sentries at the very tops, although their number had been growing fewer and fewer as of late. He could only guess at the reasons, but he hoped that it was dissent and disorder amongst their ranks. The sooner that this little squabble was over with, the sooner they could turn their attentions to the south.

To Malifor.

His gaze wandered with his thoughts, following the hot sun as it traced its path through the sky. Yet the sun would not fall in Malifor, in land swallowed by shadow. They would need to burn their way through the darkness, these men holding the torches. Break their way through to Faith, and burn him alive alongside his god. That was what Kha had told him, and the lizard-demon had not failed him as of yet.

Joy felt his heart throb with an almost painful excitement at the thought, flexing his claws in anticipation. To fight a god, he mused. To slay a god. How would the blood taste as it trickled down his arms, he wondered. How would a god scream as he died?

And yet it was a final thought that tore him away from the glory and gore. He made his way over to the edge of the forest, his keen eyes picking out something nearly transparent in the evening light. It was a thin flower, almost ankle height as it sprouted out of the grass. Its stem and petals were all clear, its scent painfully familiar. He knelt down gently, plucking from where it grew and lifting it up against the sunlight. Glass lilies, he mused forlornly, recalling a tomb nearby that he still had yet to visit, recalling family too soon gone.

These things killed you, Sister. Their god killed you, and now I’ll see him burnt to ash. Resolution filled his heart at this thought, the glass lily falling to the ground. Vengeance, he promised, like a journey coming to a close.

He would see Sister avenged.