Argrave stepped into Orion’s camp in the ruined fortress, walking past the vast tents and buildings full of refugees. His stride was confident, but the Brumesingers walking at his feet were somewhat frenzied, betraying his true nervousness. Everyone watched him walk—this time, not because of his imposing height, but because of the two following behind: Silvic and Drezki.

His entry into the camp was like a great ripple that intensified rather than weakened. Though the sick could not be bothered to stir, those tending to them did, and soon enough, near half the camp was bustling with activity. Nothing would ever abate the nervousness of being the center of attention, Argrave thought.

Two golden armored knights rushed up before Argrave, drawing their glimmering swords from their scabbards. Argrave stepped out to meet them, holding his arms wide as he yelled, “You will stop!” His authoritative words did slow them, but they kept proceeding, forcing Argrave to add, “I am Orion’s brother!”

With their Holiness being invoked, the Waxknights did indeed draw to a sliding stop not two feet away from Argrave. Already, mist from his Brumesingers danced in the air, ready to attack if anything threatened him.

“Orion sought proof,” Argrave began, gaze alternating between the two Waxknights. “I have brought it.”

#####

The camp remained bustling in the time that passed since Argrave had brought Silvic to Orion’s camp. A retinue of twelve Waxknights guarded them. Everyone able enough to walk in the refugee camp gawked at the humanoid wetland spirit. Silvic remained largely silent and still, but the sight of her wooden body flowing with radiant liquid light was awe-inspiring even when she did nothing. Fewer stared at the short and squat swampland woman Drezki with her greenish skin and yellow eyes, but her presence only intensified the scrutiny placed upon them.

Anneliese looked greatly discomforted by the attention—she had once confided to him large crowds were difficult for her—and so Argrave did his best to keep her at ease while they waited for Orion. Regarding his other two companions, Galamon was ever unflappable while Durran somewhat enjoyed the scrutiny of the crowd, all but striking a pose for those watching.

It was easy to notice Prince Orion coming. He himself stood a foot and a half above the taller people in the crowd, and the people parted for his coming like the Red Sea had for another prophet of myth. Argrave kept his gaze on him as he walked closer, Argrave’s dark golden eyes meeting Orion’s gray the whole way through. Eventually, Orion strode past the Waxknights, ordering them to put their swords away with a simple gesture. They obeyed without question and kneeled before him.

Prince Orion stood before Argrave. His eyes were markedly colder than their first meeting had been. Argrave was glad to be spared of a back-breaking embrace, but that was about the only good feeling swirling around in his chest at that moment. Orion stood above him, above even Galamon, and seeing the anger writ in his face was like having the roaring jaw of a Kodiak bear near your throat.

“What profane thing have you brought into this camp of followers of the faith, Argrave?” Orion questioned, his voice cold and unsympathetic. The affectionate calls of ‘brother’ were gone.

Argrave kept his composure despite his fear—he was growing quite adept at that. “You asked for proof, brother. I brought it before you.”

Orion looked past Argrave, staring at Silvic. He stepped around him, looking down and locking gazes with Galamon briefly. After, he took heavy steps that seemed to shake the earth. Drezki stood between Silvic and Orion, posturing like a child trapped between two adults. She was only barely to Orion’s stomach, but she stood strong nonetheless.

“Rest assured,” Argrave called out. “I would not have brought Silvic here were she a danger to everyone.”

Orion turned his back to Silvic, his white robe brushing against the muddy ground below as his gaze fixed upon Argrave. “What is it?”

“I am Silvic, one of many spirits of the wetlands, and a god to the swamp folk,” Silvic answered, her voice without an obvious source emanating from all directions causing a great stir in all of the people present.

Orion turned his head back to the wetland spirit ever so slowly. His fists were clenched tightly enough to trigger the protective enchantments on his gauntlet, and they shone brightly, barely preventing the metal from folding in on itself.

Argrave stepped forward. “She’s here for the same reason you are, Orion. She wants to stop the plague. If you care about the followers of the faith, I hope you will hear her out. If you listen, you will learn,” he implored Orion boldly.

Orion’s head remained fixed on Silvic’s form. Slowly, his gaze turned back to Argrave. The insane frigidity in his eyes had faded somewhat, making his expression seem less threatening… but Argrave still noted his fist was clenched tightly.

Prince Orion gave the smallest of nods, and Argrave let out a sigh of relief just as slight.

“Then, should we go discuss this?” Argrave gestured towards the keep where Orion had taken him, Anneliese, and Magnus. Orion put one hand on his hip and shifted his feet, considering what Argrave said.

“That which is to be shared—is it something that needs to be kept secret from the people?” Magnus chimed in, pushing his way past. The crowd did not part for him as it had Orion, evidently, and indeed, it seemed he had little goodwill among the people here. Even though Argrave thought it was a reasonable enough sentiment to garner support, few in the crowd expressed their backing for it.

“That is true,” Orion said, though, very obviously swayed.

Anneliese put her hand on Argrave’s shoulder, drawing his attention. This was another signal they’d devised in private, much the same way she would tap his foot if someone lied—if she had something to note about the emotions of those present, she would grab his shoulder.

She did not have time to say what she needed to say, though. Orion spoke again, asking, “Then tell me, brother, why do you consort with such profane things, such heretics? What can it convey, that should spare it from righteous judgement by the gods?”

Argrave swallowed, trying to discern how best to maintain control of the conversation. With a crowd of zealous followers around and Magnus whispering in Orion’s ear, the odds felt stacked against him… but the fight yesterday had been at a disadvantage before Argrave turned it around. At least, that was what he clung onto to bolster his confidence.

“You’re right,” Argrave agreed with Magnus, seeking to mitigate his influence. “The people have every right to know why they are wrought with this disease. They should understand what Orion and I will fight against!” he said boldly. His words drew in support from the crowd.

As the crowd murmured and cheered, Anneliese whispered in Argrave’s ear, “Magnus is desperately terrified. Of what, I cannot say.”

The words were somewhat difficult for Argrave to process fully—too many possibilities abounded in his head—and so he chose to shelve them away and focus on Orion.

“Silvic has come here to seek Orion’s aid in fighting against a great evil that has taken root in the wetlands,” Argrave preached. “This evil was born of evil—it was born of the extermination of the people of these swamps, when Vasquer conquered this place decades ago.” Argrave turned on his heel. “Silvic. Please, tell all of how this plague came to be.”

Magnus stared down Argrave like he was a fool, while Silvic placed her wooden, rooted hand behind her back in an almost polite, human fashion.

“Some years ago, the many spirits of the wetland took in those people of the swamp that survived the invasion by Vasquer,” Silvic explained. “Many of the spirits had died in the invasion… and of those that persisted, one sought revenge against Vasquer for the deaths of many: Rastzintin, the strongest of us wetland spirits. He collaborated with one of the last great shamans of the swamp folk. She had been taken in as an amusement by humans—a jester, they are called.

“At first, they struck at the stone fortresses the men of Vasquer constructed,” Silvic continued, none daring to interrupt. “One after another they fell, each House established succumbing in a multitude of ways. If you seek proof of the truth of my tales, I will show you the magic they weaved to turn this fortress we stand upon to ruins,” Silvic declared.

Argrave listened patiently, watching the crowd. They were growing a bit incensed, he noted, but they did not seem at risk of exploding anytime soon. Magnus twitched and rubbed his hands together as Silvic spoke, glancing about paranoidly. His distress perplexed Argrave.

“Yet once all of the fortresses collapsed, Rastzintin was content. The jester did not agree with this sentiment. She betrayed him and used his power to conjure this plague. I, and many other spirits of the wetlands, attempted to stop this folly. Yet Rastzintin was always the strongest of us all, and in my endeavors, the Plague Jester struck me and others with her fell disease, leaving me as I am now,” she noted, rooted finger tracing the waxpox marring her body.

The crowd took in her words well. There was an element of sympathy to things—seeing even a so-called god marred as they were by the waxpox surely stirred some emotion in them.

Orion stalked up to her, arms crossed. “You can prove this fortress fell to this Rastzintin’s magic?”

“I can,” Silvic confirmed.

“And you swear before all you hold dear… that you speak only truth?”

“I swear before the wetlands themselves I speak the truth. If I do not, may the world itself burn me and all I hold dear,” Silvic vowed.

Orion looked back to Argrave. His gaze was complicated.

Magnus strode up beside Orion. Argrave watched him carefully, ready to interject at anything the prince might try.

“It seems there is no room for argument,” Magnus conceded, spreading his arms out.

Argrave furrowed his brows, taken aback by the support. Magnus leaned in and whispered something to Orion’s ears, and Argrave shifted uneasily.

“Argrave,” Orion said, lifting his head from Magnus’ whispers. “What has Silvic informed you of regarding this… heretical god, Rastzintin, and the jester?”

Argrave stepped a little closer. “Much and more. I can tell you everything you need to know, brother,” he said confidently.

“Then that settles things.” He turned his head to Silvic and Drezki. “Will the two of you accept the gods of Vasquer as your own?”

Drezki shook her head fervently. “No.”

“I am of the wetlands,” Silvic responded.

Orion turned the rest of his body and lunged out at Silvic with inhuman speed. Drezki, ever alert, moved to guard her Lady and Light, drawing the twin sticks at her side. She swung them at the approaching Orion. He raised his forearm to block. When they cracked against the metal, blisteringly blinding light and force enough to conjure winds split across the air.

When things had settled, Argrave ran forward without hesitation, adrenaline already pumping. Orion seemed undamaged—he flicked his arm out and Drezki staggered away. He lunged forth again, Drezki his target this time. He grabbed her face, obscuring it completely, and slammed her into the ground. The earth split, and her body left a crater her shape in the muddy earth.

After, he squeezed. Her head seemed to offer as little resistance as a ball of hollow paper.

The Prince lifted his hand slowly. Blood that glowed gold dripped from his forearm—not from Drezki, but from the wound she’d caused with her weapons. As Silvic stepped back apprehensively, Argrave finally managed to place himself between Orion and the wetland spirit.

“What are you doing?!” Argrave shouted.

“Doing as the gods demand—ending the heretics that refuse to accept Vasquer,” he said calmly. Blood dripped from the spot where Drezki had attacked him. His blood suspended midair… and then retracted back within his body. Almost as though shutting the door behind it, the wound closed just after the last bit of blood retracted back within. The enchanted gauntlets he wore had been completely blasted apart by Drezki’s fierce attack, but already the wound disappeared.

“Were you not listening? She has much to offer to help!”

“Knowledge you claim you have,” Orion tilted his head, confused.

“Silvic has yet to prove the magic Rastzintin cast!” Argrave shouted. “And she can help us through the wetlands with her power, that we might strike at the Plague Jester all the easier, without a great loss of life!”

Orion’s face brightened. “That… is a fair point, brother,” he conceded at once. He lifted up his hand, covered in blood and gore. The redness bubbled and steamed as though boiling. “I was overeager, it seems.” He moved his hand forward, resting it against Argrave’s cheek. “Fortunately, you reminded me before something important could be lost. I am glad of it.”

The Holy Fool stepped away from the scene of carnage casually, shaking his hand free of the viscera. “I am glad you brought this to me. To wallow in ignorance as I have, for so long…” he sighed and shook his head. “Such a tragedy. Argrave,” he called out, stopping.

Argrave faced him tensed, saying nothing.

“Have a rest. You seem to have endured much to bring this to me,” he said, genuinely compassionately. “Though… ensure the heretical thing causes no trouble.”

As Orion walked away, Argrave felt like he was going to collapse to the ground. He kept his legs firm, thankfully enough. Eventually, his gaze locked on someone skulking away from the still-staring crowd: Prince Magnus. That man had been the cause of all of this. Whatever he’d whispered to Orion had set him off like that.

He looked to Anneliese. “Let’s go back. But… it seems we can’t rest.”

They started to walk away. Argrave turned his head back to where Drezki lay dead. As he stared at the corpse, something unpleasant welled up within him. He quickly turned away, blinking rapidly. Durran put a hand on his shoulder, staring at the corpse alongside him.

With silent grief for their brief companion, Argrave’s companions and Silvic headed for the keep.