“Have you ever sensed that our soul is immortal and never dies?”

― Plato, The Republic Some of Brecht’s men were eyeing the undead waiting before the gate, and many of them made the symbol of Gesserach or Jaros warding against evil. The wight, Calmund, had his burning gaze fixed on Alyssa and his dried-out skin pulled at the corners of his mouth as if near to smiling.

Calvin shook Alyssa’s shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Not the time to have philosophical discussions. Send the undead outside, perhaps have them hide in the woods again. They were quick enough just now.”

Alyssa frowned, “And if we need them? Brecht has more and more men. See, there are some soldiers defecting, joining his rabble. What if he does something we don’t like?”

“Do it!” Calvin said in a clipped tone before turning and walking toward Brecht.

Somewhat hurt-looking, she turned to her friends and saw Alea rubbing at tears running from her blindfold. “Alea! Are you hurt?” She walked to her friend who flinched at the contact with the dark mists still coiling around her body and with a gesture she dismissed the lingering effects of the spell.

Iseret had been tending to Alea before and the snake-woman's eyes held a mix between appreciation and pity. As if seeing something precious but sad.

Mireille grabbed her left arm leaning against her side. “Puh. That was rough.” With her left hand, she brushed the sweat from her forehead, smearing the blood from a cut on her scalp all over her face.

Distracted from Alea’s plight Alyssa grimaced and grabbed a handkerchief, “Wait! You are bleeding.” Dabbing at the worst of it she cast the waters of life under her breath conjuring a light drizzle of glowing water washing away grime, blood, and the wound itself.

“Ah! Thank you. That feels much better already. What happened to Alea?” Mireille focused on the teary girl and let go of Alyssa’s arm before grabbing Alea by the shoulders looking her up and down.

“It’s just…” Alea tried to speak but her voice was hoarse and she had to cough before continuing, “Undead, monsters, Those that try to kill us, have killed before my eyes. With fighting against those, I have no problem. But killing armsmen, town guards.” She shrank her shoulders, turning to lean against Iseret. “I hate it. I hate it, and it feels wrong. I would rather heal and purify. Make the world a bit better than see my light as it burns and kills.”

Alyssa stopped and tried to formulate an answer but fell silent at last. Was she a bad person? She had had that thought in the beginning, but after a while, it was less and less important. In the last weeks, it had been a certain pride that grew together with her abilities. Even as they were sometimes borrowed from the jewel. There was no reluctance left in her. The raised hand fell to her side, and she swallowed dryly.

Mireille looked at Alea and smiled. “You are such a princess! But a good one! A storybook one! Healing with a touch and suffering with the wounded! And you are blessed by Jaros! That’s perfect!” Then she realized again the smaller girl's sadness and hugged her. Stroking her dark hair, she whispered, “Stay out of it. Healing us when something happens is more than enough. Don’t do things that make you so sad if it is not really, really necessary.”

Iseret slowly shifted Alea into Mireille’s embrace and took a step back before closely inspecting their surroundings. Giving the three girls a last look, she wove sinuously through the throng of men and women and reached Brecht nearly at the same time as Calvin.

“...garrison.” Brecht smiled broadly, and the men and women around him raised whatever weapon they held for another loud cheer.

“We have to hurry! Who knows what they will do to the captives? They are of use to the enemy alive or dead, so we should not leave that to chance!” Calvin called out.

Murmurs spread through the crowd as Brecht raised his hands placatingly. “No one is going to get killed on my watch! We will march to the garrison posthaste, and then we secure the town! The kingdom is at war with the Nordmarks, so we can be sure to receive reinforcements. This town and our loved ones are going to be safe! No longer will they be burned and killed! Some of you care for the wounded and guard the prisoners. Isolde?” He turned, and the woman nodded, “Thank you! The rest...with me!”

The soldiers and town guard they had captured were put beside a large building, probably a warehouse hands bound and disarmed. A group of Brecht’s men was standing beside them crossbows loaded and pointed at their backs. There was no being too cautious with several branded among them.

Alea did not want to be left behind and joined Alyssa and Mireille with Butler One trailing along behind them.

An old man looked out of the tower's window. A back as crooked as an old root, a hunchback, really. The hair scraggly and barely covering the liver-spotted pate. Eyes rheumy, with the left nearly blinded by cataract. A hand, shaking with age, grasped the lid of a small coffer opening it. Inside several scrolls lay under a thin layer of dust. The sun shone dimly through grime-encrusted windows. The floor were planks covered with a threadbare rag. Grinning as he found what he sought, the man broke the waxen seal, and a small discharge of whitish energy briefly lit the room.

“You will not take my chance at immortality. You will not.” Mumbling to himself, he began an incantation. Stopping in between to cough. Soon he finished, and a small whirlwind came into being just before his hands. “Tell the duke, Volstedt has fallen. Rebels are in command.” He hesitated, “Tell the mistress I was faithful.”

Outside, a lone maid was sweeping the floor, and, hearing the mad cackle of the man inside, hurried along the corridor. They had been forbidden to go into the master wizard's room for years now. Melloris knows how it was inside. The old transmuter had been long since retired in his mansion, but the last month there had been visitors at all times of day, and the old workshop had seen much use.

She and the cook were the only ones left. All the others had been taken, and she had the suspicion that the master was where some of the brands they had used on them originated. The master had been a well-known metal-caster in his time. Shivering, she closed the door of the unused salon, furniture buried under protective rugs, like the ghosts of chairs and tables. Dust floated in the air, and she heard distant cheering. Not trusting her ears, she opened one of the windows just a crack and looked outside. A group of armed citizens marched for the gates of the garrison. Several soldiers stood on the wall, and their nervousness was visible to the naked eye.

A crack and then a clinking sound from the master's study woke her up again, and she prayed to whoever wanted to hear her that she would not be forced to enter that room.

“We want to speak with the captain!” Brecht shouted through his cupped hands.

Murmuring from the guardsmen.

“He is…”

A slap to the back of the head silenced the speaker, and another darker-skinned woman leaned over the parapet.

“Not available. That’s what he is. Just disperse and go home. Don’t make it too ‘ard on ya.” The woman tried and failed to get rid of her accent.

“We captured and killed everyone you sent after us. So what do you want to do? Fight? You will only get some of us and all of you injured or killed. If you surrender, I promise you your life. More I can and will not offer before knowing what you did. If you did nothing much, we would gladly let you join us if sincere. Mh. What’s that for an offer?”

Several of the men and women above the gate looked at each other, hesitation written across their features.

“Don’t you dare! Fire crossbows. Disperse that rabble!”

A man in the robes of an army mage frowned heavily and cast a searching gaze across the assembled rebels. With some of the soldiers having joined in and more and more people arriving, there were about two hundred of them. Several branded showcased their magic, and Calvin stood beside Brecht, a flame coiling around his staff.

The mage stepped aside and spoke a short incantation summoning a diffuse golden glow covering his robes. “I recommend we surrender!”

“Coward!” The woman that had been speaking up to now shouted back, her face livid.

“Dumb cow, all you Andrians are good for is farming. Why fight if we lose anyway? Do you think we will be heroes if we resist? At best, we become more fodder for the undead!”

The men around him listened and nodded along.

Brecht called up to them. “Hear, hear, the voice of reason. Why fight if all it gets you is a blade in the guts without hope for success? We will be listening to everyone's reason for being here, and no one will be killed out of hand. You could be in a nice dry cell, eating stale bread and not shivering on the ramparts facing certain death.” He laughed.

One of the men standing at the side of the mage lowered his crossbow and pushed down the weapon of his neighbor, whispering something urgently.

More and more took a step back, and some even laid down their arms completely.

“Dirty traitors!” The woman raised her sword threatening the archer beside her, a middle-aged blonde woman with the tabard of the city watch. “Shoot, or I run you through, so help me Cornac!”

A heavy twang made everyone flinch. And for a second, the rebels and the soldiers looked at each other searchingly. Then the Andrian soldier let go of her sword, the blade clanging against the stones of the wall. Blinking in the sunlight as it tumbled end over end, coming to rest point first in a drift of snow. Grabbing at her back, she turned and glared at a weasely man holding a freshly discharged crossbow who took a stumbling step back. Then she sighed and fell heavily to the ground.

“We surrender!” The weasely man did not wait for the atmosphere to turn ugly and shouted.

The mage wrinkled his mouth in distaste but then shrugged. “I surrender!”

More and more joined in, with a few seemingly torn but not motivated to do something about it.

Brecht grinned broadly. “My favorite kind of fight. The one that didn’t happen.” He guffawed. “Open the gate!”

The evening came, and darkness fell over the land.

The frost elf Ivyander looked at the stars and looked at the tracery of magic he had been following. The soldiers surrounding him looked uneasily at the swaying undead spread throughout the forest. They were technically stopping here for the night, but the no-longer dead were restless. Dry, white eyes gleamed in the darkness, greenish flames lit in bare skulls.

“Prepare camp. We should reach them come tomorrow evening. No use in expending ourselves.” Ivyander commanded. And as the sounds of the camp behind him spread through the silent forest, he folded his arms behind his back in contemplation.

Inside a fortified manor near the border with Hundredstreams.

“WHAT!?” With a snarl, Zygmund gripped the man opposite him. “They have reached the fort? Why am I surrounded by incompetents and laggards.”

“They used several clever shortcuts as if they knew the are very well. Seems they had some locals to guide them!”

“Excuses. Excuses.” Cruelty lit in his glowing eyes as he turned to command the wight at his side.

A whirlwind of ice and mist flowed through the door to the dining hall he was standing in. The hearth cold because the warmth was no longer necessary. With caution, Zygmund observed the ball of turbulent air come to settle before him, and a visage formed within. An androgynous, cold face leaning toward the feminine formed words that were a whisper steadily gaining in strength.

“…Volstedt is lost. Rebels have overrun the town. Remember my faith to our mistress.”

The message was repeated several times, and then the being dispersed with a relieved sigh.

“Margramus. Pretentious old wretch.” He laughed. “No one else would dare. If he thinks he would get the gift.” He muttered and then turned to the still waiting- and sweating- soldier.

“Contact Lars. After losing one, he can regain another. Not that it erases the stain, but it should ease the punishment. And yes, tell him I said that!”