“Kill for the primus!” They repeated. Each man was a wolf in the trappings of a man, seeing their young wolf and scion reaving alongside them. Tyr. Their hope. Kin, the first to have ascended from Ebonfist blood. All men of Astal were Ebonfist, for such was their way. Brothers and cousins and nephews. And Tyr was no different.

“Men of Oresund!” Tyr called – never ceasing in his motion, tossing Alex's limp body to the waiting hands of Sigi. “Mine kin, kin of my mother! Loved by the gods! Aid me in vengeance! Aid me in war! Frostborn! To paint the moon red, to shatter them beneath us and push their foulness to the depths from whence they came! Frostborn!"

If Astal had roared, Tyr's had been a crazed howl, and they answered in kind. Mouths wide beneath their nasal helms, fur laden chainmail twinkling in the moonlight. Pushing their shields forward and throwing the creatures backward, smashing them under foot and axe. Spears and swords all burned with Tyr's flame, leaping to their edges and making every stroke a death blow. White as the frost that had forged hard the men of the north.

“Who!?”

Astal felt a heat in him. The beating hearts of his people roared. To know that his beloved sister had raised such a man, such a warrior to walk forth into the mess of things wearing her very same armor. He loved him, Astal did. And his men... They were all family today, even the black one and the companions of their little wolf. All brothers under the red moon rising.

“My brothers!” Astal cried. The red was on him and he could feel the incredible energy swarming in the air around Tyr, following it, needing to feel more of it. To do His work, that of the chosen.

“Who!?”

“You of the ice and the snow!”

“Who!?”

“You of the howling of wolves!”

“Who!?”

“You of the fist! Storm born, frost born!”

They were frothing at the lips now. A repetition of thrusting shields not unlike the rowing of the oars on their long ships, to give purchase for their axes to bite in so dense a melee.

“Who!?”

“The gods see us! Our son fights with us! Death!”

“Death!!!” They repeated, shaking the souls of every southern man with ears to hear it. Throughout the city their wroth was no softer than the blowing of the horn of war, and there were those too. Men of Oresund loved their music, and they loved to slay along to a nice beat.

“Death!”

“Death!!!” Shaking the ground with their fervor, something that went beyond the physical. The blood of warriors who feared no evil boiling beneath their skin.

“Death!!!” Tyr repeated, feeling the song of his mothers people take his heart and paint every part of his being red. Sword song. Axe song. Bow song. Blood song. To kill and survive. To struggle against the doom that the world had laden them with, casting it aside and breaking it beneath their boots. To look fate in the eye and spit on it.

It took control of him. He'd been staring at it from the outside looking in, a clumsy attempt at reproducing it, but this was the real thing. To see and feel and live. Allowing the reins to slip free from his hands and howl alongside him. To the moon, to the brothers at his back, to all the corners of the world until they remembered his name. Waves of molten emotion beat within him, fires so hot all filth was scoured from his body and leaving nothing behind. His white hair a standard for all to follow, and no matter how many claws they sunk in his flesh he didn't falter. Charging onwards, breaking ranks and leaping onto the enemy with no concern for themselves.

“Death!!!”

For the bright one. For the wolf. For the one eyed raven and the axe. For the ashen fields of a homeland he'd never seen, and for the forests of conifer and pine. For the rivers and for the glaciers. For himself. There was a thing about it. Tyr had never seen war. Not truly. Not war. He'd seen killing and vengeance, but nothing like this.

If not for the red film over his eyes, the sword become glaive again, he'd have been astonished at the violence of it. Of men and grotesques alike slavering, smashing against one another until both were red and bleeding. Beating, slashing, rendering one another down until naught was left but broken corpses and bloody stains on the stone. Samson, Mikhail, Fennic, and Ajax watched his back. Reaping their own tally. Fennic and Mikhail with their bows, Samson with his beloved halberd, and Ajax with his bare hands.

He'd been given weapons, as they all had, but the heat was on him. Ajax bellowed and crushed with gleeful abandon. He'd grown bored waiting for a fight, only for the fight to come to him. Their own claws were like paper against his skin, and their bodies far too soft to stand before him, rendering them down into chunks easily burned by those following with torches or magic.

“Death!!!” Tyr repeated. Again and again. Every time, they answered. Breaking the shield wall and charging through the streets of Amistad. Their cries shook earth and heaven alike. Pleasing their violent gods with their offering a river of blood. Tyr didn't care for the divines, but he'd offer to them, and that something was himself. His body, his effort, his soul if they'd asked for it. They'd do that too.

Brenn charged with them, and Tythas' army of grim poultry besides crowing into the twilight. Astrid and her wards, men with their swords. Servants or warriors, it didn't matter. Men of the north or men of Amistad. All were caught in the grip of the sword song. The red song. That which Tyr had given them though they'd know not their benefactor.

Tyr was caught in it something fearsome. Relished it. Loved it. This was him, who he truly was. Intoxicated beneath the red reality of it all, feeling the fire inside threatening to burst forth and consume him at any moment. Every step he could feel a hammer pounding into him, constant agony. Stripping him down to his barest parts. His body begged him to stop, he could feel it, and he refused. Leaping from Okami's back and diving into the press with abandon. Glaive became two wide bladed hatchets, set alight with flame to smash and burn anything that dare approach their lines. A crimson whirling of steel clad limbs, a burning reaper.

He formed them into a wedge, cleaving through the streets as their number swelled. Adventures, warriors, mages, forged together into one cohesive force in the heat of battle. They followed their primus. A unification of spirit, between man and one born to shepherd them. The dwarves felt it, hoisting all manner of tools and charging aloft. Even Valkan felt it, near the point of madness all the way afield in his workshop when the attack had begun. Everyone felt it, so raw and real that the beastkin had all begun dropping their weapons and diving headfirst into anything that came within vision.

“Kill!” Tyr howled Remembering the boy that he'd failed to save, the shame of yet another failure stinging at his throat like smoke. And they, somehow, felt it too. Saw it, knew him like he was family all along. “Kill me for me! Kill for him!”

“Kill for the primus! Kill for the child!” They responded, voices hoarse and heavy with emotion. Some violent compulsion. Men, women, but not children. Tyr would have them removed from the press by force if necessary. He didn't understand this power, this emotion that bled into the minds of others, but he had enough presence of mind to do that. It was a language spoken by all living things, even Okami and the loose hounds of the city were swept up into it. Demanding blood, sacrificing themselves and committing their bodies to the holiest cause. None remained silent to his call, even those too far to answer it. They gnashed their teeth and beat at their doors. To free them from their cages and serve that force gripping them.

Brennwulf joined them. Swept up in the violence, feeling the warm embrace of Vestia upon him. He called Her name.

“Vestia!!!” She who was whole. She who was love. She who embodied the warmth and light of the hearth to protect those huddled around it. And they joined him, those Oresundians who formed the tip of their violent charge into the streets of the city. For Vestia for a northern god too. She who lights the way. A strange goddess to call on in times of war, but one worth revering, one who no man could deny.

“Vestia!” Everywhere was madness. Every street was shoulder to shoulder with abomination, near eclipsing the population of Amistad. Some became one, but others would become many. Splitting away to spill lesser forms from those larger.

"DEATH!"

"KILL FOR THE PRIMUS!"

There was no rhyme nor reason to it, but Tyr's senses were lost under the red moon. Something that named it evil, a thing that should not be. It said, and so it was. Demanding blood, and he offered it in spades. Everything was a feast for his spira, these things were rich with the energy and couldn't last long unless they followed their own fel compulsion to kill and feed on others. Just as he did, such an irony that they'd be serving him such a hearty meal, and he almost loved them for it.

Every kill, he felt stronger. Energized. He had to kill more. To rid the world of these things and benefit from their departure by the same hand. His sword held aloft with a hand free, he bathed the streets in as much flame as he could muster. When his tank ran dry, he asked for more, and it was given. Pushing beyond his limits with wild abandon and weeping throughout it all. Weeping because much had been given, but someone would forever remain lost. He felt the men at his back, but he felt these things all the same. The pain, the way the flame took him, scouring him dry, sacrificing himself for what pitiful power he could obtain. Taboo.

Riding the great wolf, Tyr reaved. Rider and mount alike they cut a red river through the city, tireless in their pursuit of the enemy. Screaming, howling, and everyone behind them did the same.

Only when the bulk of council mages, professors from the academies, and what external assistance had arrived – the city was relatively quiet. All those who had changed... Even those who had yet to experience it, had died. Killed. In a wash of blood and terror and death. Tyr found them before they could, and while it made him sick, he knew what was necessary.

“...That was... Woah there!” Brenn caught Tyr in his thick arms as the man collapsed from the back of Okami. The wolf turned with a snarl but relaxed at the sight of a friend. Something was wrong with the prince, Brenn had no doubt any longer as to who he was. Only a primus was capable of that incredible power. Inspiring such passion. He had felt it too, but something was wrong now. Tyr was feverish and red, groaning and breathing thready.

If not for the heat of his body, Brenn would've considered Tyr dead. Expending so much energy had a cost, it always did.

“What a scrap!” Astal screamed, falling face first to the ground, his body losing all strength as soon as Tyr had collapsed. “Oi lads! What a fight! Did you feel that!?”

“It was something..." Someone moaned. "Ah, it hurts so bad."

Is this a primus? Brenn asked himself, cradling Tyr's limp body like a child. To ride upon the great wolf and reap death was one thing, but the inspire such devotion... Where was Iscari...?

–

“How is he?” Iscari peeked his head around the door nervously.

“Prince, we understand your--”

“You'll never understand.” Iscari growled. “Let me through. Now.”

A force of words, a force of will. Few were foolish enough to disobey him when he took that tone of voice.

“Professor Urden? What are you doing here?”

“Those who understand death... Understand life. I was a great healer in my youth, only later did my interest turn toward necromancy. It's a lot more fun, my prince...” She smiled softly. “Don't worry, he is fine. Just exhausted. Though his mana reservoir is dangerously low, I fear only a spell or two more and he'd have been a corpse. Worth mentioning to him when he wakes up, I know he looks up to you.”

“...Mana?” Iscari asked. Tyr has possessed a great deal of it, but his capacity to project it was like that of a child, though he did not know why. All he saw was a withered figure in a hospital bed that had expended far too much life force. His heart bled, taking care that he did not reflect this on a blameless professor. “Please ensure he wakes up. I don't ask you as your student or your junior, but your future primus. Please. I--...”

I... There were things he could not say. Things that could not be.

“It's not over.” Alex sighed. The clamor of fighting still resounded through the city streets. People were screaming and pillars of smoke sat in contrast to what otherwise would have been a beautiful morning. “We've cleansed much of the city but more people keep turning into... These things.”

At the urging of the doctors present in the field hospital, Alex left with a huff to rejoin the effort, leaving Iscari behind. Nothing could be done but to wait, and there were few better uses of their time than seeking out the conflict. The professors from the various academies had arrived with the bulk of the reorganized council, finding the process of cleansing far easier than before. Within hours, they were certain it would be over.

“Rank C student, huh...?” Kael snorted in amusement, taking a last pass with his eyes over the field hospital. Every man and woman that had fought directly beside Tyr was unconscious. Not one of them were able to handle the energies that had taken control of them. Kael had felt it himself, even so far away. While it had benefited those in the city at the moment, it had done the opposite to the officials unable to gain control of the situation. Some of which had seriously harmed themselves with no enemy to sate their lust. It was forbidden to use that kind of magic. “Not many C's that could cast a level five enchantment. Almost killed them, and himself... The idiot.”

“It was necessary. What do you think would've happened if he hadn't?” Iscari gave him a dirty look, protesting the professors insult. “And that wasn't magic as you understand it. That was an aspect summoning.” A complicated one, at that. Something only an awakened primus should be able to do, but Iscari had felt no awakening. It was a ritual that could only be performed in the ark, a trial that he was not yet old enough to take part in. Shrouded in secrecy, but he knew that much. Primus' didn't fully evolve by themselves.

Too much to reveal to lesser humans. He felt hurt at the idea that Tyr had hidden such information from him. And as far as he knew it, hadn't told Jartor either.

“...Aspect?” Lernin arrived, looking near to the point of exhaustion as the others. He could see no such thing, he was well aware of the phenomena. Aspects were public information. All he saw was a wildly imbalanced enchantment that had taken too much energy from the people who had followed him. The only rule broken was that it wasn't voluntary. Each and every one, man beast or otherwise, had been forced into it. “Are you certain?”

He knew a great deal. Lernin was an archmage after all, but Iscari possessed wisdom that he did not, all primus' did.

“Beyond doubt. And I know this because I didn't feel it. An aspect of one primus cannot influence another. I was asleep when the attack came, and only rose when it was nearly over. My estate was not attacked for some reason...” Iscari lied. He had felt it, but he'd tell nobody of this. Not even his father, fearful of what he'd do. Both when he learned that Iscari had fled, and that Tyr was capable of compelling him like that.

Notably, and equally concerning, a primus' aspect was only supposed to work on humans in general. Tyr had influenced everything in the city, sans the enemy. Something that should not be possible.

Some primus' had very literal capabilities. The ability to give and take from other men was near universal. For that reason, the bulk of Varia's military were male. Women could not feel it, or were resistant to it, nobody knew and fewer cared. Haran was more progressive, and Oresund even more so, but it didn't change the facts. The root of all sexism and gender role lay in the assumption of the church that women were not as well connected to the gods due to this. Naturally, that was hogwash and ignorant dogma. Nobody with a brain would believe that one bit, but it was a reason for how the legions were regimented in both empires.

Jartor could make them stronger, Octavian could make a mans skin harder than stone, Ragnar... Nobody knew for sure. His was not quite so mundane, much alike to Iscari's own aspect of 'hope' – which he possessed but had yet to truly awaken to. None could effect the other. That was an unwritten law. They'd tried, to no success.

“So...?” Shocking them all, Tyr was awake. Dark ringed, deep blue eyes glaring at them from a setting of the dark rings brought on by exhaustion. He'd lost a lot of weight, his strength siphoned off to parts unknown. Magic had a price, and he was only in the beginning of his process of paying for it. “Are you just going to stand there talking about nothing at all – or are you going to fuck off and let me sleep? I did what I could, and in exchange I'd ask for some peace and quiet.”

Not even an experience like that could cure him of his nature.