Faye and the militia members still with her were crouched between wooden thorny vines that had branched over a balcony space in one of the houses near the perimeter of the Primalist’s forces that had taken the eastern gate of Lóthaven. Getting here had taken less time than she had expected from the Primalist guard post on the main road. What Faye had not been surprised about was how some Primalists had rushed toward the barrier and defences she and the militia had decimated.

Taking those Primalists out was child’s play.

They had rushed past in a disorganised rush. Three of them in total.

The fight had barely been worthy of being called one.

For whatever reason, the Scout’s ability to perceive their group had been curtailed because the Primalists were not ready for Faye and her group in any way.

Congratulations! You have defeated a level 12 [Primalist Scout].

Experience awarded.

Congratulations! Your group has defeated a level 13 [Primalist Warrior].

Congratulations! Your group has defeated a level 12 [Primalist Warrior].

Experience shared.

Congratulations! You have earned enough experience to level up. You are now level 11.

The level up had been welcome. Contemplating assaulting the forces arrayed across the dirt before the eastern gate with little mana had been worrying before Faye had seen them.

Now, as they watched with frozen expressions as the, at least, dozen Primalists gathered around a stone plinth and began a chant, Faye realised that even with a full mana reservoir she would struggle.

Pulling back from the edge of the balcony on the house’s roof, Faye entered the house again and waited for the others to join her. Keeping her voice low, she told them what she thought.

“…In short, there are too many. We can’t do anything. I would need at least my adventurer friends, too. Even then, I would be worried.”

“The Administrator only asked us to see what was happening at the gate,” one of the men said. “We don’t have to get ourselves killed trying to prove anything.”

“Not trying to prove anything,” Faye replied, “but the fact that these bastards don’t belong here.”

The militia nodded, even the one who had made the comment.

“Aye, true enough.”

“So, what is the plan?”

Faye thought about it a few moments more. The house they were stashed in at the moment was well within the Primalist lines, but it actually formed a corner of two bramble barriers. They had needed to squeeze into the house, carefully avoiding the thorns, just to spy on the gate at all.

It was unlikely the Primalists would enter the house, unless they sensed their group.

“We can stay here for now, rest a little. I doubt they will enter the house unprompted. That means no sound, no light, heat, anything. Try not to sit on a vine or a leaf.”

They all cracked a smile at that, which had been her intention. The floor on the ground floor of this house was covered in leaves and a few vines had broken into the space through gaps in the shutters, but nothing that suggested the place had been trapped.

“I’m going to keep an eye on our friends,” she said. “I want to be able to report back something more than ‘we saw them at the gate’.”

Leaving the militia to rest, despite the tension in each of them for being so close, Faye took the stairs back up to the opening to the roof.

The balcony, or converted roof space, she was not sure what to call it, had been subsumed under the bramble’s thorny barrier as the magics had reached this point. It meant that instead of being open to the winter sky, the bramble had roofed over and created a cosy space that from the outside should look no different than any other section of the walls.

Information from this part of town had effectively been cut off from the Guild hall, and therefore the Administrator. It made planning offensives or defences difficult. Faye had taken her role to be one of problem solver, not just as scout.

She figured that trying to understand a little more about their uninvited guests and their reasons for being in Lóthaven, might give her something substantial to take back to the Administrator.

Settling down in as comfortable a position as she could find in the somewhat cramped space, Faye watched the enemy.

Half an hour later, Faye had decided that she regretted telling the militia that they were not able to do anything. Simmering with rage, Faye had to watch — sit and watch — the Primalists regularly drag various townsfolk from out of sight to the base of the stone plinth.

She could not hear, nor accurately see, what the Primalists were doing as they brought the men and women to that plinth. But she could use [Mana Sense] to see the flows of magic as they flowed around the space.

The glowing motes of mana, languidly moved in a gentle wave toward the plinth as each townsfolk was brought before it.

With each person, the Primalist standing next to the plinth would say something and the towns person would be dragged away again.

Each time they dragged someone across the dirt, Faye’s hands would clench. She had to tell herself over and over again that it was suicide to rush in. They needed to be calm, watch and wait. Get the Primalists later when they were able to ensure their defeat.

Then they brought out a boy.

Faye pushed herself forward, trying to get closer to see better despite the thorns of the bramble sticking her with every movement.

“Shit,” she whispered.

The boy was struggling against his captors. The adults had all struggled to move with the Primalists. The boy had too much spirit, though. He was trying to get away from them. He kicked and flailed, all to no avail.

Forcing him to his knees before the plinth, the Primalists performed the same action on the boy they had with all the others.

The motes pushed outward in a wave, momentarily, which got a reaction from the Primalist performing the ritual. They, because all Faye could see was the elaborate headdress from this distance, looked up and around before shaking their head, once more.

Another boy was dragged out. The first was not returned, only moved aside. The new boy was older, he looked to be in his teens. He, too, struggled against his captors. Especially when he saw the first boy, who shouted something inaudible to Faye.

The older boy said something back, earning him a fist to the belly.

That helped get him onto his knees. Faye’s grip tightened on the vine.

Once more, the Primalist performed the same action, the strange rite or ritual that was doing what seemed like nothing at all.

Suddenly, Faye’s [Mana Sense] exploded into action.

The once-languid motes of mana tumbled around in a violent crashing wave, drawing more and more mana with it as it went. As it came around, moving toward the plinth, the motes of mana spiralled and rose up into the air. This was not just a spiral of mana, but a vortex. Some kind of violent funnel of mana that was growing larger with each second.

Faye spat out a curse. The mana was growing too dense, too bright to see anything. She cut off the [Mana Sense] skill.

She was just in time to watch.

The wavy kris blade sliced deeply into the teen’s neck. Blood poured out in a gushing torrent.

Faye went still.

God, not again. Please, no.

She had already decided they could do nothing. The teen was already gone. No one could survive losing that much blood that quickly.

A part of her was gibbering madly.

She had almost quietened that portion of her mind when the younger boy seemed to break free of some kind of reverie, because he let out an unearthly shriek of rage, grief, and pain.

The raw scream juddered as the boy tried in vain to pull his arms free of the Primalists’ grip.

It rose so high pitched at the end that his voice gave out, just became a noiseless scream.

Then one of the Primalists slapped the boy, rocking his head to the side.

The cold fury that had settled over Faye ignited. Clattering on the steps behind her told her that the others were coming to investigate the awful, soul-breaking scream.

Good, she thought. She would not need to waste time telling them, then.

Putting her hands into the masses of briar that formed the barrier that was mostly obscuring the balcony from view, Faye gathered her mana and gave it a command.

Burn.

And so, it did.

As the balcony’s thorny roof collapsed into embers and ashes, Faye stepped over the low wall and jumped to the ground below. She landed in a crouch and immediately darted forward, drawing her sword.

The Primalists had claimed a space around the gate as their staging area. With the gate itself making up one edge of the space, the other sides formed a somewhat lumpy half-circle that had been protected with bramble.

It seemed that this main area was not for the monsters they regularly summoned, as the space was devoid of them, a part of Faye noted as she streaked forward.

The nearest Primalists had been drawn by the crackling sound of her flames devouring the barrier.

Two were approaching already, weapons drawn.

Faye did not stop to think about it. She attacked one of them with [Scorching Lance], burning them and causing them to fall back from their charge.

For the second, she ignited her sword and rather than falling back to deal with their charge she leapt forward to attack.

The flaming sword whipped around, diverting the enemy’s weapon, and then darted forward to impale their throat.

Leaving that Primalist to drop to the ground, Faye approached the first who was still writhing in pain. She drew her dagger and delivered the coup de grâce, through the armpit.

Congratulations! You have defeated two [Primalist Warriors].

Experience gained.

Hearing clatters behind her, she chanced a look. The militia had taken Faye’s exit from the house, too. All five of them. They raced toward her now.

The other Primalists were paying greater attention, now. It was the one near the plinth that drew Faye’s attention, however.

They lifted their hands, and though Faye had deactivated [Mana Sense] she could imagine what she would see were it still active.

Mana, streams and streams of it, racing down to be accepted by this Primalist mage.

But, between Faye and that Primalist gathering power were the various figures of nine others.

Faye took her flaming sword in two hands, bringing it up into a side guard, angled high but with her elbows down below her chin rather than raised above her head. It was a clear challenge.

The Primalists laughed as they walked forward to accept.

She waited, patiently. This was not a time to rush. Whispered conversation behind her reminded her that the militia had willingly joined her. She spared a moment to consider.

“There are prisoners nearby. Get them loose.”

“What about you?”

“Spears with me.”

The response was non-verbal, and moments later she heard three sets of feet storming away and the spears of the remaining two militia edged out beside her.

“They might try to surround us,” she said, “if that happens, we’re toast.”

“I like toast,” one of them said.

“Oh, gods, I knew he’d say that,” the other muttered.

“Great start to the day, freshly baked bread, lightly toasted on the hearth.”

Faye cracked a smile.

“Ah, good, I was worried.”

Faye did not take her eyes off the advancing Primalists, but she cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“We all heard him,” the militiaman said, quietly. “But it hit you hard.”

“No time for psychoanalysis, get your head in the fight.”

“I have no idea what that is,” he replied, “but it seems to be the perfect time to check you’re doing fine. We rely on you, you see.”

Faye tried not to cringe. He was, of course, correct. These men and women were relying on Faye’s combat experience just as much as, if not more than, she relied on their support.

“Touché,” she said.

“Again, no idea what that means.”

This time she chuckled. “Just be sure that they don’t surround us.”

And then the Primalists were on them.

The first broke into a sudden rush, her mouth wide in a teeth-baring snarl as she brought two kris’s out to threaten Faye with. Stepping back a step and simply cutting diagonally down, Faye smashed one of the daggers to the ground. The Primalist shouted in pain, and Faye pressed the advantage.

Before she could truly take the woman down, another came in from Faye’s right, this one jabbing with a spear. Faye danced backward and watched in satisfaction as the militiawoman on her right thrust her own spear at the Primalist, causing her to back away.

Pointing at the spear user, Faye unleashed three [Fire Darts] in quick succession. They impacted in a rapid burst, throwing the spear out of the Primalist’s hands. She could not capitalise on the attack, however, as two others came in, axes swinging for her face.

Sliding back out of reach, Faye commanded the militia to step back, too.

To her surprise, the Primalists did not pursue.

Their grins and earlier laughter returned as they backed away, the dagger wielding Primalist particularly chilling as she still bared her teeth. She had picked up the dropped kris, its blade held once again almost casually in the injured hand — which looked barely worse for wear.

Behind the Primalists, at the plinth, the headdress of their leader, she assumed, disappeared momentarily as the Primalist threw their head back and screamed something into the sky.

A booming crack erupted from the skies above. Suddenly roiling clouds formed directly above them, and a plume of lightning reached down, almost lazily, and touched the ground before the retreating Primalists.

When the reaching tendril of violet-blue energy touched the ground, for a frozen moment in time Faye thought that nothing was happening. But instead, it was as if her mind had stuttered and was buffering input to understand what was happening.

The lightning tendril caressed the earth and, in an ear-shattering explosion of dirt, called into being a monstrosity of earth and crackling energy. It tore itself from the ground and extended to its full height of how-fucking-tall?!

“Gods above and below.”

“God almighty,” Faye agreed.

The monstrous golem roared its own witty comeback, showering them with pebbles and the burning coppery tang of ozone.

Faye turned to the stunned militia and shoved them both.

“Run!”