Arlette had to support him as Dere hobbled back across the courtyard. The fires were fading, their hunger no longer sustained by the sparse kindling of the garden. Through the embers they strode, one step after another.

Suddenly, Arlette stopped and Dere looked up to see Florian kneeling in front of Sylvian’s body. His blade, dyed red with blood, rested by his side. Eyes fighting back tears, he turned to face them.

“Who?” He asked, a horrible sadness carrying through the word.

Dere gestured to Fasha’s corpse, some twenty yards away.

Understanding dawned on his grief stricken face. “Of course.” His voice was caught between rage and sorrow, but his eyes bore no such divide. They burned with an unquechable fury that he leveled at Fasha's corpse. “Was that your work?”

“And Arlette’s.”

Florian clenched his fists. “Thanks, to both of you.” He grabbed his blade and stood up, intent clear.

“Besson’s already gone.” Said Arlette. “Back to Vicare. You can't catch him."

Florian paused to take a breath and comb a hand through his long black hair. His weapon, a curved sword not dissimilar from Fasha’s blade, shook in his hands, vibrating to the rhythm of his anger. Steadying himself with several shallow breaths, the trembling eventually faded. Then, after sheathing his blade, he looked down at Sylvian’s corpse, an odd calm washing over him. “He was all I had. I’ve built my entire life around him. Served him for over a decade. And, now... I don't know. Even vengeance seems hollow now.”

Dere empathized. It was a situation he was familiar with. Having one’s purpose torn away, left in the darkness, no cause to claim as your own. He’d spent half his immortal life that way. He wondered whether to say something, to provide some words of wisdom. Nothing came to him. He wasn't used to offering comfort. Instead, he got back to business. “Where did you go?”

Florian spoke absentmindedly, thoughts elsewhere. “Sylvian sent me to find Besson. He was getting suspicious. Clearly not suspicious enough, though.” He forced out a hollow chuckle. Dere nodded in response, unsure how to proceed.

Florian's empty eyes scanned the courtyard, looking at everything but seeing nothing. “I ran into Gregor." He eventually murmured. When Dere looked back, confused, he clarified. "One of Besson’s other retainers. He was picking off some of the survivors, but I took care of him." Whatever vulnerability he had revealed earlier vanished was gone. His voice carried steel in every syllable. “Do any other Highlords live?”

“Frederic.” Said Dere with a shrug.

Florian laughed lightly, a sad, hollow thing. “It would be him.” He said, voice layered with sarcasm. “Where is he?”

Arlette rentered the conversation and pointed her finger towards the manor. “Inside. He’s mourning. Dylan’s dead.”

Florian shook his head. “Rotten kid, always was, probably always would be. Shame, though.” Silence held the air in its iron grip. Everybody lost in their own thoughts. Dere stared at the flames, Arlette at the sky, and Florian at Sylvian. After a while, Florian closed his eyes and looked away. “So, what are you going to do?” The question was directed at Dere.

It was one Dere had been dreading. He didn’t know. Everything in him wanted to return to Vicare, to find this Finger and unleash the extent of his rage. Except, he couldn’t. Duval, Besson, and Finger were all out of his reach. Many times in his life he’d felt lost. Even then, even in his worst moments, he always had his strength. He always had the ability to act. Now, he faced a new problem. He had direction but was too powerless to act upon it. “I don’t know.”

Florian chuckled. “That makes two of us, then.” A light smile, much smaller than usual but perhaps more genuine, curled Dere’s lip.

“What about you, Arlette?” Dere looked down at her. She was still supporting him with her shoulder.

“I’ll be heading North to Coln to rendezvous with Marcella.” Dere chuckled. She spoke with such certainty. It wasn’t in her nature to be lost.

“Marcella’s alive?” Stammered a surprised Florian.

“Yes, and if you need a cause to cling to, we’d gladly welcome a Blessed of your reputation.”

Florian closed his eyes and nodded. “I’d be honored.” His voice carried noticeable relief. A man like Florian needed a cause.

Arlette turned from Florian to appraise Dere, who met her questioning eyes. “You need to reach Finger, right?” Dere nodded. “He’s guarded by the most feared Blessed in the realm and is surely powerful in his own right. I don’t know what you’re capable of, but I doubt even you could manage that. You’ll need an army to get to him.”

“Maybe more than that.” Dere mused, thoughts dwelling on the past. Images of the Immortal War, so many years ago, flashed through his mind. The creatures Ona had controlled. The terror and the power Finger might be able to wield. Even if it was a fragment of what Ona could do, Dere was less than a fragment of himself. “No, much more than that.”

Arlette didn’t even look perturbed. “You need our help Roger, or... whatever your name is.” Florian raised his eyebrows but otherwise didn’t comment on Dere’s hazy identity.

Dere thought for a while. What avenues did he have? He was too weak to take matters into his own hands. Finger had the support of at least one god. How else could he have retrieved the body? Besides, he didn’t even know where the man was. Vicare, maybe? If he reached out to the gods for help, none of them would provide it. Even the ones that didn’t hate him were preparing for war. She was right. He needed whatever help he could find.

“Fine. On the condition that Marcella helps me get to this Finger fellow, I will help her retake the throne.”

Arlette gave him a real smile. “I’m glad to have your help.”

“Yes, yes, I’d be glad to have me too.” Arlette rolled her eyes, but her smile grew just a tiny bit wider.

Florian broke in. “Hate to interrupt but...” He nodded in the direction of the manor. All three of them turned to see Frederic hobbling out. The remaining fire parted for him as he walked across the courtyard, flames bowing to his considerable will, even in his injured state. Dere saw the ember's reflected in his deep blue eyes, his rage making them burn hotter. He was a Highlord of Clovin, a chosen of Banto Re, and one of the most powerful Blessed in the realm.

He stopped ten or so feet away and appraised each of them in turn. Arlette met his flaming eyes. “Marcella is alive, Frederic. We intend to help her retake the throne. Will you help?”

The flames grew even hotter. “Any enemy of Duval is my ally. Tell the girl she can count on my aid, when the time comes.” With that he hobbled away, out the manor. The fires faded as he grew more distant, until only a few embers remained.