The magus known as Carthei squatted in the grass behind a tree, bracing herself with her thrysteen. Her cloak fluttered so delicately in the breeze that it looked like it was submerged in water.

Every Mnem’non foraging party was composed of magi chosen to fulfil specific roles. Carthei was the leader of her party, Narsei the healer and apothecary, Konth the scout, and Vontross the hunter. It was then that Carthei began to miss Konth’s seemingly supernatural ability to sense the presence of others. Somewhere down that road was a Clthic encampment, and she wanted to make sure that a random patrol wouldn’t happen across them while they were canvassing the area.

Not only would Konth be much more qualified to provide overwatch, if he were here, we would not have lost that damned vampire…

“What doth thou behold?”

Alric’s voice was smooth, not at all the gravelly and husky growl that she had expected from someone of his background…a murderous zealot.

Carthei rested her arms on her crunched legs and exhaled. As she peered over her shoulder, she saw two dozen Godslaves scattered in hiding places among the wood patiently awaiting her word. Carthei spied one of them prying his axe from the skull of a revenant as it lay dead on the grass. The Godslaves were each weathered steel bricks in a mighty, impenetrable wall. Their discipline and devotion was clear to her, especially given recent events. Some showed clear indications of pain, fatigue, and sickness, but none stunk of fear. One or two had fallen to the revenants since their liberation from the vampire, but they all fought with terrifying skill and fervour.

How easily their faith bends to allow things that bring them good fortune. It is…intriguing. The fact that I stand among them is perhaps an indication that mine is just as pliable.

The Godslaves were demons in the eyes of the magi tribes. They came, forced their God onto the ‘savage’ and cut down any who resisted. Those they believed to be witches were burned alive or beheaded. Some of the more aggressive magi tribes, namely the Grue Ko’an, actively hunted Godslaves, perhaps adding to their preconceived idea of unholy witches primed against the Church.

“Carthei?” pressed Alric.

Shaking her head in defeat, she finally responded, “Dirt. I behold dirt.”

She pushed to her feet, withdrew completely behind her cover, and threw one side of her cloak over her shoulder as she snatched her waterskin from her belt. As Carthei took a moment to drink, Alric huffed to himself. She couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or annoyance.

While she stowed the vessel, Carthei could tell from Alric’s body language that he didn’t really know how to respond. His forehead was wrinkled and his lips thinned.

“Must we take this camp?” she said to him. “It would be safer if we simply trailed around it.”

There quickly came a rebuttal. Baldwyn emerged from the bush. “Forgive my interjection, pagan,” his voice seethed with disdain when that particular word left his mouth, “but I believe I spied prisoners when observing the camp from the mountain. Thy kin, as well as ours, may be rotting away within.”

Carthei replied, “When have the Clthics ever taken prisoners?”

A Thestor named Lorenz nodded begrudgingly. “I must stand with the sorceress. We number only fifteen strong and there is no indication of how many demonists are garrisoned at the site. We must be steady, lest we charge to our deaths.”

Sorceress? That is a new one.

Sigmund, a Correntis, laughed. “What manner of Thestor are you, to err on the side of caution?”

Lorenz slowly turned to face Sigmund, a weak smirk of disbelief plastered on his face. “Our presence in the region has been all but swept away. We have no means of calling for reinforcements."

Carthei admired his restraint. She felt that if someone said that to Alric, he would have rammed his hand down their throat and torn out their heart.

"Pathetic," Sigmund hissed. "You are not worthy of that standard."

Silence swallowed the party. Carthei had to gaze downward and bite her lip to stop herself from grinning. She was sure that someone was going to get stabbed sooner rather than later.

“Enough of this!” Baldwyn turned to face Alric, his back as straight as the trees surrounding them. “Alric shall guide us through these dark times, for he and he alone has been elected by the Lord to deliver the realm from the demonists. What say thee, Alric? What be our course of action?”

Every Godslave had his eyes on Alric, who peered out at them in confusion. Carthei crossed her arms and eagerly awaited his response. So far, he had not disclosed the secret of the arcane. So far. The magus waited with bated breath to see if he would continue to keep his lips sealed.

Alric braced himself on his thrysteen with both hands, weighing his words in his mind before finally answering. “My brothers, there is but one course of action. Of all manner of heretics, apostates, infidels, and heathens, there is none fouler than those who would dare lay with the Devil. If we were to ignore their presence, they would be spared the retribution they so deserve.”

Carthei felt personally threatened by these words, for what was she in the eyes of the Godslaves but a heathen? Her fingers tightened around the stem of her staff.

“To condone the longevity of demonists, no matter how insignificant their number, is in itself heresy of the highest order. Who among thee would choose to allow life to these depraved, hedonistic pawns of Hell? Show thyselves so that I may smite thee where thou stand.”

No one said a thing. Carthei almost shook her head in disbelief, but checked the motion.

“We shall continue to stride the blessed path. Let the hordes come and be rendered into ribbons of flesh, gravelled bone, and puddles of blood…all for the grace of God.”

“For the grace of God!” The Godslaves tapped their chests then their foreheads in unison, leaving Carthei to grimace at them. It was…quite horrifying to hear someone speak of genocide as if it were some glorious mission. The Menm’non never fooled themselves when it came to matters of life and death. They looked at it for what it was; dirty, messy, despicable business, but often necessary. Even to kill one person was a burden to be shouldered. The Clthics may have doomed themselves by meddling with things beyond their understanding, but Carthei would take no pleasure in seeing the deed done. Alric, however, coated it with heavenly brushstrokes of light until it was made beautiful. It became something to be yearned for.

As the Godslaves moved deeper into the forest, Carthei remained by Alric’s side. His armour was coated with layers of dirt-clouded water, dried blood, and tufts of grass. With his visor raised, she could see the smooth, maroon surface of his skin as well as his sky blue eyes.

Carthei picked some of the grass from her cloak as she said, “Your commitment to the secret has not gone unnoticed. I did not wish to make a Saint out of you…I simply saw no other way to explain it to your comrades.”

“Worry not, I see now that it was the only choice thou hadst the luxury of making.”

Tipping her head, Carthei said, "I suppose that is the closest thing to an apology I will ever get from you."

Alric relaxed his posture. “You have taught me many things about magic, Carthei. Allow me to show you the light."

With a frown of disbelief, Carthei took a step away from him.

“I wish not for thy soul to be damned. If thou repent and embrace the true faith, thou can find redemption.”

He is acting as if replacing my beliefs with his own is some kind of charitable service. These people…they are despicable.

Carthei flexed her jaw angrily. “I will…consider it,” she lied.

The Thestor sighed in relief. A tremendous weight was pulled from his shoulders. His face also regained its usual glow.

Alric could turn on her at any moment. No. It was not a question of ‘if’ it will happen, it was a question of ‘when’. The Godslaves have their list of enemies. Once the demonists have been crossed from it, the heathens and pagans will follow. It would be safer for her if she kept him close, told him what he wanted to hear. When the time came when she smelt even the faintest sign of treachery, she could exploit his trust and kill him when he least expected it.

–

It took hours for Carthei to reach and assess the encampment with the help of a small number of Godslaves; mainly those of the Correntis Order. The Thestors were slave to their rule of vigilance, unable to remove any armour they donned until nightfall. Carthei once complimented it…but now, seeing as it affected her scouting plans, she began to regret her words. They would have been terrible scouts with all of that clanking about, so only those who had chosen not to arm themselves fully that morning took part. The Correnti were not bound by this rule, so were free to discard anything that could cause too much noise.

The Clthic position was not fully-manned; the pretentious Baldwyn suggested that it may have been the base camp for a large army that was in battle somewhere nearby. Despite Carthei’s previous objections, that made it the opportune time to attack. However, it was a sure bet that they still had more than fourteen men garrisoned there. They would be outnumbered regardless.

The problem was that it was a fair distance away from the cover of the trees. A wooden watchtower had been erected, so anybody foolish enough to attempt rushing from the forest could easily be spotted. A perimeter wall had also been created with logs and planks, further narrowing the points of entry.

Barrels upon barrels of provisions were spotted packed in a legion of wooden wagons. It was food enough for thousands of men as well as thousands of animals needed to pull said wagons. Carthei and the Godslaves desperatelg needed provisions. They had been making do with scraps for the last week.

Among the conventional weapons, armour, and various supplies stored in the camp, Carthei noticed barrels marked with a very specific runic combination. Although the magi tribes had been separate entities since ancient times, they shared a root language. Written on the barrels were the symbols for unzym, a potion brewed from oils found only in the Under. When lathered onto a surface, usually metal, it can greatly defend against arcane bolts. Spreading the mixture onto plate armour could greatly improve the Godslaves’ chances of survival when facing witches.

After all that studying of the enemy position, night had fallen. The moon was yet to be at its apex, but the time for action had come.

Carthei had her eyes pinned on the watchtower. Instead of seeing a human head peek out from atop it, she instead saw the skull of a horse. Of course. A witch.

It was time. Carthei pressed her left hand to her lips and produced a rather beautiful bit of birdsong.

Momentarily, a loud snapping sound disturbed the silent night and echoed against the mountains. Carthei watched as the horse skull snapped quietly to the left. The witch raised her thrysteen, fitted with an octhum. The moment the witch pressed her mask against the eyepiece of the octhum, Carthei burst into action.

She made a mad dash for the wall of the Clthic camp. As Carthei’s field of view shook with each rapid step she made, she could decipher the wobbling line of the witch’s thrysteen pointed out the side of the watchtower, focused on the Godslaves’ distraction. With her own staff stored upon her back with an enchanted gripping plate, Carthei leapt up and onto the side of the tower, her fingers and feet finding purchase on the logs used in its construction.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. This is no time for rushing thoughts. I shall be as steady as the breeze. As unmoving as the mountains.

When her eyes peeled back open, the witch shouted commands at some unseen guards. The exact dialect was not entirely familiar to Carthei, but it certainly was a magus language. It was worded strangely, poetically abstract. Translated literally, it would be ‘read the sound’. Given the context, it was most likely a demand to investigate the source of the noise.

Carthei inched herself upward, moving so slowly that not a sound was made by her climb. She managed to push herself up and peer into the watchtower’s nest.

The witch was there, thrysteen shouldered. An array of finger bones were tied to the back of her horse skull mask with lengths of string. They dangled from it like ghastly strands of hair and danced in the wind like chimes.

In the distance, Carthei could see a handful of Clthic footmen trail out of the camp and towards the forest. She threw herself up and into the watchtower, landing in the nest like a stray leaf blown in by the wind.

Despite her best efforts, Carthei was not safe from sheer chance.

The witch glanced over her shoulder. It happened so slowly. There was no reason for it…she just happened to look Carthei’s way at that precise moment. The magus cursed under her breath.

Both women snapped forward, the witch dropping her thrysteen and pulling a dagger from her boot. Carthei snatched the rim of her cloak and wrapped it around her foe’s weapon. She felt the blade painfully press into her chest, but thanks to the Ethereal-woven fibres of the cloak, it was nothing but a blunt impact.

The witch’s momentum was enough to ram Carthei into the corner of the watchtower despite the ineffectiveness of her strike. A sharp growl escaped Carthei’s mouth as she snatched the witch’s throat with one hand and the knife with the other.

Tumbling to the floor and struggling for the knife with the Clthic, Carthei made sure to apply all the force she could to her enemy’s neck to prevent her from screaming for assistance. The Mnem’non brought her knee up and propelled it into the witch’s gut. Blood was spat from the mouth of the horse skull, black and bitter as it splattered onto Carthei’s face.

The attack gave Carthei the opening she needed. The witch’s grip on the knife faltered. “Die, insect,” Carthei whispered. She seized the knife and punched it into the witch’s body sixteen times. Carthei could feel the witch watching the knife plunge into her bare chest over and over, helpless.

However, Carthei was to find out that ‘helpless’ was a gross exaggeration on her part. The witch whipped her head forward. The hard bone of the horse skull impacted squarely on Carthei’s nose. It startled her more than it hurt her.

The witch dribbled like a feral animal, urging her body into motion and flinging herself onto Carthei.

She was tackled to the floor as the witch tore her nails down her face. The most frightening part for Carthei was that she didn't feel any pain, but she could feel the witch's talons carving the flesh on her face.

Blood seeped into her left eye and her vision clouded.

Carthei desperately pulled the dagger out of the witch's chest and plunged it straight into her throat. She felt the hard impact of spine against blade. The Clthic gurgled, her body loosening and going slack. Her weight was dumped onto Carthei, who bared her teeth as she tossed the corpse to the side.

The witch lay in a growing puddle of her own blood, the stuff oozing out of the plethora of wounds she had sustained and coating her naked body.

The magus pressed a hand to the left side of her face. A series of deep gouges had been left by the crazed witch… However, she didn't have time to dress the wounds. Her ears twitched as she heard a voice.

“I ‘eard somethin'. I’m gonna check on tha Nun.”

Nun? They call them Nuns?

Quickly, before the guard climbed the tower, Carthei looked out at the forest. It was difficult to make out in the dark of night, but she could only just see the Godslaves approaching. They had taken care of the guards that were headed their way. She could make some noise now.

Carthei pulled the octhum from the so-called Clthic Nun’s staff. A simple tug was enough for her to retrieve her own thrysteen from the gripping plate that held it to her back, then she slid the octhum onto the magical artefact’s length.

The watchtower shook slightly. Again, and again. Someone was climbing the ladder. The magus held her thrysteen at the ready, pointed precisely at the top of the ladder leading to the ground. A head popped up. Carthei waited until the man’s face was visible. It warped in fear upon spying her. With a click, she sent an arcane bolt out of the staff.

At this range, and with the guard wearing an open-faced helmet, nothing was to be left of his head. It exploded in a flash of blue magic, black blood, and grey bone. The body fell onto the grass with a muted ‘thud’.

Screaming responded. “Intruders!”

Carthei scurried over to the opposite side of the tower and peeked out with her thrysteen primed. The skeleton crew left to defend the site was worked into a frenzy, dashing here and there as they secured weapons. There were at least a hundred of them, and more dripping out of the tents.

“For the grace of God!” cried the all too familiar voice of Alric. Fourteen Godslaves poured into the camp, breaking against the unprepared Clthics like a mighty wave. Carthei provided assistance in the form of arcane volleys, instantly killing each and every target she hit with a single discharge. Seeing as the Clthics were caught unawares, none of them were wearing armour. The Godslaves tore through them as if they were made of paper.

Some movement snatched her attention. A tent fluttered open and from it stepped several witches…three women and two men. One of the men pointed at the approaching Godslaves as his fellow witches and more soldiers rushed by him. In his hand was a kerst, a very large magical staff that was capable of immense damage. The Mnem’non had used a pair of them against the ogre at Kristantin… A single well-placed shot could easily destroy the entire force of Godslaves.

With her heart pounding, Carthei swung her thrysteen about and fired at this witch. She missed. A collection of sparks splashed fire onto the tent behind the witch, shaking him out of his stupor. His eyes, yellow and glowing from behind his mask made of a human ribcage, locked onto Carthei. The kerst, resting on top of his shoulder, swivelled to meet the subject of his gaze. The opening of the kerst suddenly flushed with light.

By the Ethereals…

Carthei pushed up and threw herself from the tower. The kerst, unlike thrysteens, cast out a solid projectile instead of a bolt of pure arcane energy. Kerst seeds were ancient and dangerous containers the size of two adjoined human fists filled with mystical energies that exploded with such incredible force that they could blast apart solid stone. However, they were extremely rare. No magus, no matter how wise, knew how to make more. The seeds were left behind by the Ethereals like many things, and had to be found and harvested from the Under. They did not grow back. Because of this, the thrysteen with its renewable power source in the form of hearts was preferred as a primary weapon among the magi.

As Carthei hurtled through the air, she saw the kerst seed mid-flight for a fraction of a second. It zipped into where she was only a moment ago and detonated with the infinite brightness of the sun.

The shockwave of the blast rippled through her body, twisting and compressing her organs. It sent her into a death spiral. The stars twirled about, there for one second, gone in the next, only to return again. Carthei landed on her shoulder, a terrifying ‘snap’ pulling her from the dizzying trance caused by her freefall.

Wooden shrapnel rained from the sky, accompanied by smouldering embers. The infernal rain continued as Carthei gritted her teeth and stood. Her right arm wasn’t responding to her thoughts. She stumbled towards the wooden perimeter wall, curled her lips inward, then slammed it against the barricade as hard as she could.

Very much like the damage she had sustained to her face, she barely felt a thing. Only after popping her shoulder back into place did the discomfort surface.

The witch had already thought her dead, turning his kerst toward the Godslaves. That was his final mistake. Her arm still inflamed, Carthei fought the pain and brought up her thrysteen, peering through its octhum. She zeroed in on the box-shaped object sticking out of the top of the arcane weapon; the housing of the kerst seeds.

There must have been more than one seed left in the housing, because the reaction caused by Carthei’s shot was unlike anything she had ever seen before. Her eyes were consumed by intense white light. She felt the heat upon her face, even though she stood on the other side of the camp. Footmen were shredded into ribbons, limbs torn from their bodies, their insides dumped onto the grass.

The little that were left were so horrified by the detonation that they were routed. The Godslaves erupted in some of their holy chanting as they cut down the fleeing Clthics. Periodically, a spear of light would be thrown from the group of Godslaves; Alric with his thrysteen picking off any who were wise enough to run.

Carthei ejected her staff’s spent heart and slammed a fresh one in, grimacing all the while at the pain that plagued her right shoulder. She sprinted for the main body of the skirmish, closing in on the site of the detonated kerst. The witch who was holding the kerst was nothing but a series of smears on the blackened, smouldering ground. The tent beyond was pocked with holes and had been set aflame. Dozens of corpses littered the area, all in varying states of dismemberment. One of them moved.

The other male witch, reduced to an upper torso that pathetically tried to crawl away, waved its hand through a series of glowing Glyphs that hung in the air.

“The dead will not walk this day. You will instead join them, defiler,” Carthei snapped as she approached. She plunged the tip of her spear, tied to her thrysteen, into the necromancer’s head. His skull was dashed into splinters and its contents spilled out.

Carthei was just about to move on until something about the tent struck her. The fire that raged on inside it…she swore that she saw something move within it. Thudding footsteps held her where she stood. A black figure batted through the front of the tent, unflinching in the face of the inferno.

When it emerged, Carthei’s brow tensed and her mouth widened.

An obsidian being at least a head taller than any man she had ever seen stood motionless before the carnage. Its face…well, it didn't have a face. It had one large eye on the right side of where its face should’ve been, and two smaller ones on the left side. It gazed down at the death and destruction, almost as if it were studying the scene. It was impossibly thin, almost a skeleton save for some lengths of tendon and veins.

A headhunter of the Ebon Cult…awake from his eternal slumber? It was he that the witch was rousing, not the dead!

The Cultist suddenly jerked its head upward to stare at Carthei herself. The motion was clear; it saw the bodies of its masters, then Carthei standing above them with a staff in her hand. She had been marked for death.

With steady, graceful, and earth-shaking steps, the Cultist walked towards Carthei. She discharged her thrysteen. The first shot went wide, but the second washed harmlessly across the creature’s chest like water. As did the third, forth, and fifth.

Not even unzym should dispel sorcery that effectively…

Onward marched the Ebon Cultist. It reached for Carthei’s neck with startling speed, but the magus managed to sidestep and duck out of the way. Now at its exposed side, Carthei jabbed her spear into the thing’s narrow chest. The hardened steel spearhead blunted against the black bones of the Cultist, doing absolutely nothing to the beast.

Another thrust followed, this time managing to find a soft spot. A sheath of tendon coating the Cultist’s spine was pierced by Carthei’s spear, but nothing happened. There was no blood, no fluid, no reaction. Well, apart from a prompt defensive swipe.

Carthei was pummelled by a strike that felt like three stallions kicking in unison. The fist was searing hot from the inferno that had basked the Ebon Cultist only moments ago. She was propelled off her feet. More blows followed, but this time they were given by the dry ground as she skimmed across it like a stone on water.

When the magus finally slid to a halt, her entire body was overcome. She was forced to acknowledge the poisonous discomfort in her spine, inhale sharply, and set it aside. By the time she scampered to her feet, she was petrified by what her eyes beheld.

The Ebon Cultist had snatched her thrysteen during the commotion. It was in the process of twirling it around in order to fire upon her.

Before Carthei had a chance to react, her salvation was instead forced onto her. The Godslaves came charging in from the side, having dealt with the surviving Clthic footmen. The fourteen heavily armed knights crashed into the Ebon Cultist, some resorting to tackling it while the others hacked at it with their pollaxes, hammers, and maces. Each blow left visible scrapes on its bones. A few of the knights threw themselves onto the thrysteen, trying to pry it from the Cultist’s hands.

Carthei pushed herself into a sprint, pulling her steel mace from her belt as she drew closer and closer to the dogpile of knights. The humanoid beast wrenched the thrysteen sideways and fired. The resulting bolt tore straight through the head of a Thestor, teetering his limp body backwards and onto one of his brothers.

The thrysteen discharged another two times, felling two Correnti.

Only then did Carthei reach the melee. She climbed over the struggling Godslaves, slipping on the plates of their armour, but ultimately reaching their unstoppable foe. Mace in hand, she gave it a fierce swing aimed precisely at its head.

‘Crunch’. The Cultist’s head crumpled from this first blow. The whirring sound that came from inside it grew in volume and intensity. Carthei screamed as she repeated her attack. The rounded, glass-like coating over its large eye shattered and sprinkled its shards down onto the Godslaves. With the third strike, its smaller eyes had been crushed and spat yellow sparks out into the night air.

Some of the Godslaves followed Carthei’s example, aiming now for its head instead of its joints and torso. She was not keeping count, but she must have thrown twenty swipes at it before the Cultist’s head was flattened and shrivelled. A Godslave jammed the tip of his pollaxe into the Cultist’s neck and wrenched it downward with a furious cry. The bones strained, the tendons snapped.

Violently, the Cultist’s head snapped clear of its body, arcing through the air and landing pathetically in the grass.

Carthei was speechless as she clutched on for dear life. It still thrashed with insane desperation. Many Godslaves were caught by the flailing arms, bludgeoned by the creature’s superhuman strength.

“Staff!” Carthei shouted as she tried to keep herself from tumbling off the backs and shoulders of the knights she climbed upon. “Now!”

Her thrysteen was still seized by the Ebon Cultist. Instead, Alric’s thrysteen promptly reached her; it was passed through the crowd, floating atop them like a branch would a river. Snatching it, Carthei leapt onto the Cultist’s shoulders, thrusted the tip of the thrysteen into the gaping hole left by its head, and squeezed.

Just like that, it came to an end. With an ear-piercing pop and a blinding flood of cobalt light, the Cultist fell limp and started to tumble over. Carthei wobbled and tried to retain her balance long enough to hop off unharmed, but she hadn’t the agility. She fell over like a fool, first landing on her back atop one of the knights, then sliding off and onto the ground.

From the comfort of the dirt, she saw some of the other Godslaves crash to the ground following the Cultist’s sudden collapse.

Growling, Carthei once again crawled to her feet. The knights all scurried away from the headless wreck, their weapons still trained upon it. Several of the Godslaves remained where they fell; several were completely motionless, but most of them writhed about in pain.

The surviving Church knights encircled the fallen Cultist like wolves. With their visors lowered, Carthei couldn’t tell one from the other. Alric could be standing right next to her for all she knew. One Thestor, with a spear in-hand, cautiously danced closer to the corpse and poked it. It didn't move.

"The creature is dead!" cried one of the Godslaves.

Carthei panted. Every muscle in her body had been tensed. It was only then that they thought it time to relax. Her shoulders lowered, her abdomen deflated, and her legs loosened. She was about to say something clever, but when she turned her head to the left, her mind slammed into a wall.

The Thestor beside her had a one-handed war pick jutting out of the side of his head. It hung there, its tip obviously piercing through the plate of his helmet. He didn’t seem to have realised what had happened...

His visor met Carthei’s eyes. “What is it, pagan?” It was Baldwyn’s frustrated voice.

Some of the other Godslaves, the ones who weren't seeing to the fallen or securing the rest of the camp, began to turn their attention towards Baldwyn.

Carthei slowly approached and gently laid her hand onto the haft of the pick. Baldwyn's eyes, only barely visible through the sights of his visor, widened as he felt the vibration.

He hadn't the time to say anything before Carthei tugged on the stuck weapon as hard as she could.

It snapped free with a mind-numbing scrape…but there was not a single drop of blood on its beak. A few sighs of relief permeated the small group of onlookers.

Small clumps of cotton fell from the breach, perhaps torn from the padding that lined the interior of the helmet. Baldwyn slowly brought a hand up and stuck a finger into the hole in his helm. He pulled it out, then glanced at it. Again, no blood.

Carthei exhaled a whirlwind. “Perhaps I should start wearing one of those,” she mused, tenderly touching the fresh scars on her face.

Baldwyn shook his head with a faint chuckle. “I believe we are in need of a Correntis over here,” he called to his brothers.