I became aware of my breathing, and the pain soon joined it—dancing to its rhythm. I was alive.
Where am I? The thought flared and vanished as agony tore through my left side, leaving only silence in its wake. More questions rose, but no answers came.
I tried to move my head. Only my eyes obeyed. I was bound.
The sharp scent of herbal salves clung to me. The Sisters must have reclaimed the skies, for the Lifegiver's warmth was absent and no relief reached me.
I strained to lift my right hand and trace my chest. No bonds—only heavy bandages. Cloth soaked with scented oils met my fingertips, confirming the guess. My armor was gone. My weapons with it. And the Ring had left my hand. Had I been carried from the field?
Felix, I thought.
My eyes turned to the tent's opening flaps. A feverish orange glow bled through the seams, staining the canvas with frantic light.
I tried to force my arm to lift me upright. Agony answered at once, making me reconsider. It wasn't a matter of choice—my body's pain was its own warning, and I obeyed.
"Welcome back to us… sweet paladin." The voice sang, eerily familiar.
"What?" The word left me before I could think. I stared into the shifting blur of my tent, searching for the speaker beneath the hectic light.
A feverish chill swept over me, tightening my muscles as it passed. When it was gone, it left only the reminder of how broken my body truly was. Pain followed in a second wave. Then came the corrosive touch of fear. I could feel eyes on me. The primal sense of being preyed upon closed around my heart.
"What a beautiful performance you gave us today," came the voice—from nowhere I could place.
"Come now, do not be afraid."
Two swirling eyes met mine from beside the stretcher.
"Who's there?" I asked, the words catching in my throat. The light from outside glinted off pure white cloth.
Her lips peeled back, revealing a wet, predatory grin.
"Tch, tch, tch… it hasn't been so long for you to forget me, my sweet paladin."
Her eyes narrowed—almost playfully.
"Your Radiance?" I asked the half-lit figure, certain now of who she was yet unable to fathom why she stood in my tent. Why had she come? What could have happened?
I tried to lift myself upright, to bring my eyes level with hers, but the effort was futile. It felt as though a great palm pressed me into the stretcher, making my body weigh ten times its size—or perhaps my exhaustion alone chained me there. Either way, I was pinned, able only to turn my head toward her.
She was immaculate. Not a hair out of place. It was as if she had been frozen between then and now.
"Ah, so you do remember me after all," she replied to my desperate call of recognition, a small chuckle slipping from her lips. I felt suddenly like a child again—one who believed he had discovered something profound, while his mother looked on, amused and proud, holding back her laughter.
"It seems your mind is finally heating back up from its slumber," she continued.
I only blinked in reply, still caught on the question of why she had come.
"Holy Keeper, I—" I began, but she interrupted—no, not interrupted. She hijacked the thought itself.
"You are exhausted. Your body and mind ache. You don't know how the siege of Lapurum ended, and that uncertainty grips every part of you." Her gaze fixed on me, sharp and knowing. "You, my sweet paladin, are afraid. Perfect conditions for a little chat, don't you think?"
My reply was again the sound of silence.
"Tell me now, my dear Praefectus," she said. Her hand rose from her side—slow, perfectly straight—the candlelight sliding along skin that drank the light itself. She pointed toward the glow that intruded from outside with her long, midnight finger.
"Do you recognize the source of this beautiful gift of light?" Her head tilted in quiet question, lips curved in a smile. Unnervingly, her eyes remained untouched by it.
I hadn't questioned it until that moment, but the truth struck me like a hammer on the anvil.
"Lapurum," I said at last, dread and desperation threading through my voice and thoughts.
"Lapurum's bones and ashes, to be exact," she replied, teasingly.
"How did this—" I tried to piece together what I knew, to find the path that could have led to this ruin. "Did Felix…" The words faltered.
"Did Legatus Varian call for a charge?" I asked, realizing how far I'd let my tongue wander from the form it should keep before her.
"Remind me, Praefectus—what was your purpose here?" she asked, her voice stealing my military tone in a mocking imitation.
She straightened to her full height, movements fluid, deliberate. One hand rested at her side, but her unsettling smile did not falter.
"The oversight and recapture of the city of Lapurum," I replied, my tone instinctively formal—as if reporting to my Dux Exercitus.
"I suppose," she said, tilting her head ever so slightly, "that your orders did not specify the condition in which the city was to be recaptured. Is that correct?"
The sting of her mockery bit deep. Each phrase that left her sharp mouth pumped another dose of venom into me.
"The city was to be recaptured in the least damaged state possible," I said, my voice catching in my throat—guilt holding it there. As the words left my mouth, I knew the litany of my failures had only begun. I had to accept my decisions and bear the weight of them; every choice I'd made had led here. Would any alternative have been better?
Before I could spiral further, her voice drew me back.
"And of course you wanted it that way, didn't you, my sweet paladin?" Her tone softened—maternal again, almost understanding. Almost.
"I wanted to save as many innocent lives as possible," I began, but she cut me off.
"Like the innocent Hierophant you Severed?" she asked, her tone almost playful.
"Like the hundreds of your own men who perished before the siege even began?" she went on, each word turning deeper, sharper.
"Or perhaps you mean the traitorous scum hiding behind those walls? Were they innocent too?" Her voice hardened, venom creeping into every syllable. "Because from where I stand, it seems your strength fell upon your own people far more than your enemies."
"There…" I began, knowing no excuse could truly be made — but I had to explain myself.
"There were children in the walls, Honored One," I said.
"Ah, I see." She raised a finger to her lips, as if considering the thought.
"So that's your sense of innocence, then," she concluded softly. "Tell me — your soldiers, were they not children too? Did they not have mothers? Or fathers? Did having more siblings make them less innocent? Or do you simply not count them that way?"
Each word struck clean, deliberate — straight for my throat.
"Children, you say," she went on. "And how sure were you about those poor children, you sweet little paladin? Did you see them? Speak to them? Hear their pleas? Were they forced upon the walls? What did you really know?"
She was right, of course. I didn't know anything. Or perhaps I didn't know enough. But I had seen them — small figures moving along the battlements. Wasn't that enough? Enough to act?
Or maybe it didn't matter that they were children at all. Perhaps innocence was decided by which side of the wall we stood on — not by the choices that brought us there.
"Why didn't you call for the battlements' destruction when you saw what your precious children could unleash on your people?" Her voice folded into sadness now, as if pity were the point. I felt accused and diminished by the gentleness of the question.
"Do you hate our priests?" she asked next, and the question left me speechless. How could one hate a sliver of the Divine? How could she even suggest it?
"Of course not, Your Radiance. I would never harbor an impure thought such as that." My voice shook; I was half offended by the implication.
"Then why did you Sever him?" she pressed. "You could have killed him. You could have ended him quietly. Why remove him from the grace of the Gods? What crime had that Hierophant committed to deserve such exile?"
"If I hadn't—" I began. "He couldn't be contained. He'd gone too far after the first explosions. His priests were gone. He would have destroyed everything if I did nothing." My words felt blunt and petty in my own ears; the decision had been made, and I could not unmake it.
She did not soften. She only nodded, as if hearing the exact answer she expected. "Yes, of course. Everything looks saved and secure now." She turned, slowly, to the light pouring in from outside.
I made an effort to pry some truth from her, to learn what had unfolded while I was unconscious.
"How many men did we lose after… after I was gone?" I asked, knowing full well she would only answer if it suited her cruel game.
"A second volley came your way, though it wasn't nearly as successful as the first," she said. "They were precise at the start—surgical, even. The second strike was little more than a deterrent. Fortunately, the last standing Amplifier was too far for their weapons to reach, and you made sure the Hierophant and the rest of the clergy manning it were furious enough to leave nothing behind.
"Your little friend took the initiative and charged. Maybe he thought you dead. Maybe he wanted glory. Maybe he wanted to save you. Whatever the reason, it hardly mattered. The charge became a raid, and the raid a ransack. You do inspire your men, Praefectus—an unusual method, but most effective if what you want is an army of enraged soldiers."
At last, she had given me the truth, brief and bitter as it was.
Then she stood and leaned over my side. Her breath was sweet against my cheek; the hairs on my neck stood at attention.
"We managed to capture one of the little rascals you were so worried about," she whispered. "You'll finally get to speak with them—up close."
I could feel her smile widening, but I couldn't bring myself to turn and face her.
"I must caution you, though," she added softly. "They may be children, but not of your Father."
I wanted to ask her what she meant, but she had already drawn herself upright again, perfect and still.
"Sleep now, my sweet paladin," she said. "The Lifegiver will ask much of you soon."
And my mind was dragged back into nothingness..