Adarin studied the man’s eyes. First Speaker. Head of a religious militia? More like an organized crime boss, the way he’s been acting.

  The two stood across from each other—one man, one construct—each gauging the other, neither willing to make the first move.

  Liora finished healing the last of the wounded Olivists.

  Without warning, the First Speaker clapped his hands. “Let us leave. Go, go, go!”

  They scurried into the neighboring building in a single flowing motion. As soon as the last person passed through, two burly men with axes stepped forward and hacked apart the remaining floor supports. The wooden planks collapsed in a roar of splinters, blocking the access to the alley behind them with rubble.

  Adarin stuck close to Liora, keeping pace beside her.

  They weaved through side streets and broken structures in a hurry. Alley after alley, corner after corner, until a pattern began to emerge.

  Adarin narrowed his eyes. We’re heading toward the main gate.

  Soon, they stopped in the shadow of the entrance plaza—just outside the main gate.

  Signs of battle were everywhere.

  Piles of corpses lay stacked beside broken wagons, already being looted and hauled out of the city. Smoke curled from debris. Blood marked the stones like black ink.

  The unit took shelter inside one of the half-collapsed buildings. Scorch marks scarred the walls. Blood soaked into the floorboards. The air stank of ozone and rot.

  Adarin scanned the scene.

  The collapsed gatehouse stood like a monument of failure—now just rubble and broken beams. Workers picked at it with tools, clearing a path.

  They blew it straight up, he thought.

  His gaze followed the lines of the battlefield. Five distinct bands where the fighting had raged—each ending in piles of mixed corpses.

  He could see where the second line had broken under a hail of elven arrows. The final line told the rest: desperate last stands, smashed by sheer numbers. At least that battle was executed competently.

  The First Speaker raised his hand, about to gesture the group forward. Adarin’s manipulator snapped out, grabbing his wrist. Tension spiked instantly. Guns leveled. Liora flinched.

  The First Speaker just smiled.

  “Well, City Lord,” he said smoothly, “surely there’s a more opportune time to have this discussion?”

  Adarin smirked. You think you're clever. You're not.

  He released the grip, but waved his manipulator theatrically around the blood-stained room. “Oh no. I quite like it here. I like what our allies did with the decor.”

  A few of the Olivists aimed their weapons. Some pointed them at Liora.

  Adarin felt bile rise in his throat. Fucking bastards. Taking a medic hostage. How dare you use my own tactics against me.

  He spoke slowly, voice sharp and measured. “What are your intentions?”

  The First Speaker sighed. “There’s a fortified post of Olivists and Dwarves ahead, just past the gate. My first objective is to get you out of this situation. And myself. That should be in your interest too, no?”

  “You still haven’t answered.” Aaron paced in the privacy of his mind space. What do I want out of this? I need information. Perspective. Rüdiger’s.

  Adarin stepped forward, tone cool but pressing. “Let’s say we come with you. What guarantees do we have we’ll be treated well? Oh—and can you guarantee that we’ll be able to speak to the Margrave von Erlenwald?”

  The First Speaker grimaced. “That… is a complicated affair.”

  Adarin’s manipulator tapped the ground. “How complicated can it be? Explain it.”

  A flash of irritation crossed the First Speaker’s face, quickly smoothed into forced amiability.

  “There was a… disagreement regarding the mass graves. The Church insisted on proper burial rites. The Margrave insisted he required the… resources… for the continuation of the Crusade.”

  “And?” Adarin prompted.

  “And the necromancers occupied burial sites overnight. They raised thousands.”

  His voice tightened, and disgust flickered across his features.

  “They’re currently contained by the Knights of the Dragon-Blooded Order.”

  Adarin’s brow rose. “The Dragon-Blooded?”

  “Mercenaries,” the First Speaker spat. “They made their fortune in the Western Wars. Came here to build their own empire. Lapdogs of the Church. Opportunist vultures.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Adarin smirked. “I could almost think you dislike them.”

  The First Speaker stared at him, then chuckled darkly. “Tell me, wood-spider… is there anything that could bring you out of balance?”

  Adarin’s return chuckle was hollow. “Why would I tell you if there was?”

  He exhaled. Try being reborn in a puppet’s body, told you were someone else, in a world where your enemy has already won.

  He swallowed his anger, let the mask settle. “I agree to your terms. I will follow. You will arrange for us to speak with the Margrave.”

  The First Speaker nodded once.

  But Adarin didn’t move. “Swear it. Swear it in the name of the One.”

  The First Speaker’s eye twitched. Then he let out a long, slow breath.

  “I…” the First Speaker ground out each word, “…swear on the One—that neither you nor your companion will be harmed, and that you will be able to speak with the Margrave as soon as is reasonably possible.”

  Adarin opened his mouth to prod the man further—but stopped himself. No. Can’t push him any harder. Especially not on faith. He might drop the act entirely.

  They moved out, stepping onto the battlefield.

  No one stopped them as they crossed the plaza and exited the shattered city.

  Just as they passed through the broken line of outer walls, a noise rose behind them—metal clattering, hooves trampling across rooftops, shouted orders.

  The First Speaker broke into a brisk walk. Adarin grabbed Liora’s arm and pulled her along.

  ‘Adarin,’ Liora said through the mental link, ‘we are in the hands of heretics. Are you sure this is wise? They deny that kingly rule is the will of the One.’

  Adarin sighed in the privacy of his own thoughts. Perfect. Ideological debate. Exactly what I need right now.

  ‘So,’ he asked, ‘what do they believe in?’

  Keep her talking, keep her walking.

  ‘They want to govern the Free Cities and Northern Empire without kings. Each man must reach the divine alone, without priests.’

  Adarin paused. Then sighed again. ‘Liora, I’m going to be honest with you. I couldn’t care less about the religious part. I care whether it gets us killed.’

  Liora gasped and froze mid-step. Several Olivists glared at her with urgent, fearful eyes.

  They were halfway across a field now. Ahead, orange-robed soldiers and broad, squat figures in gleaming armor manned cannon emplacements facing the city.

  The hooves echoed again. Knights burst from the inner citadel—mounted, armored, furious. They shouted, pointing at the Olivists.

  The First Speaker grinned. “And now, my esteemed guests… we run.”

  Adarin chuckled and broke into a sprint, dragging Liora behind him. Adarin’s 360-degree vision—courtesy of Thousand Eyes—let him track the whole field.

  Three dozen knights dropped their visors and charged across the plaza.

  Steel hooves thundered. Civilians screamed and scattered. Two unlucky workers didn’t make it and were trampled underfoot. Fucking bastards, Adarin growled.

  The distance closed fast. From a hundred meters down to fifty in seconds—their charge was a thunderstorm, closing too fast for the Olivists to brace.

  Are we gonna make it?

  He shoved Liora forward. “Run. Run!”

  Then fell back toward the rear of the formation. They're on horseback. So…

  Spearmen and musketeers poured out from the forward bastion, forming up. But the knights were almost on top of them. Too close. Not fast enough.

  He toggled his voice settings—pushing them past safe tolerances. A warning flickered in his vision. Then he screamed.

  The very dust on the ground danced in concentric ripples. His tattoos flared red—ERROR messages spiking across his inner vision as his noospheric link stuttered. His hearing cut out in a wash of static, and every root-thread in his body spasmed like torn wires.

  Knights cried out—most of them involuntarily dropping lances and clutching their helmets. Even the Olivists reeled.

  Adarin couldn’t hear anymore—but he could see the chaos.

  Liora sprinted ahead. She pulled her dagger, cast a healing spell on herself mid-run. Clever girl. Don’t hesitate.

  Adarin surged forward despite his limbs lagging a half-second behind commands, his whips twitching erratically like overloaded circuits.

  The closest knights were still advancing.

  He lashed out—targeting the horses' legs. The root whips cracked like whips, entangling and yanking hard.

  Two mounts collapsed in explosive crashes of metal and muscle. One knight hit the stone with a splintering crunch—his neck bent at a grotesque angle.

  Adarin didn't pause to check if he was dead. He skedaddled back behind the lines, sprinting full tilt. The Olivists parted to let him in.

  Workers and fighters from various factions scrambled through smoke-choked streets—dragging corpses, tripping over rubble slick with blood.

  More knights poured out from the inner gates—but it didn’t matter. For now, they were safe.

  The First Speaker appeared beside him—sweat still glistening on his brow, but already wearing his mask of serenity. He pressed his palms together in a bow too graceful to be sincere. “You have my thanks, wooden warrior.”

  Adarin smirked. “Adarin will suffice.”

  Half a dozen men and women fussed over the First Speaker, checking him for wounds. Meanwhile, Liora darted across the lines, splashing drops of blood to heal ruptured eardrums and burst vessels. Adarin caught the grim set of her jaw as she healed ruptured ears. She wasn’t coping—she was hardening.

  For a moment, he considered vanishing into the confusion—just walking away. But his eyes found Liora again. God damn it. This girl’s gonna get me killed.

  Another stir ran through the crowd.

  First came the Archbishop—robes immaculate despite the dust. Then, moments later, Count D’Estella strode into view like a storm barely held in check.

  Opposites in every way—one cold and composed, the other simmering with barely restrained fury. Religious authority and martial wrath.

  They stopped fifty meters from the barricades.

  The dwarves had carted several cannons into position. Olivist musketeers raised their weapons. On the other side, more than two hundred knights had formed ranks.

  A new figure stepped forward—wrapped in deep purple robes, much like the necromancers Adarin had seen under Rüdiger.

  “In the name of the Crusade—and the oaths you have sworn and broken—we demand the heads of the priestess and the First Speaker, and all who were involved in the slaughter.” The Count’s voice was magically amplified, and it cracked through the air like a war drum.

  “And as for the City Lord—”

  His voice rose to a roar.

  “That vile creature shall burn at the stake until nothing remains but ash!”

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