Fenris lay upon his back, right hand searching in the blood speckled snow for his fallen sword. The broken shaft of a spear tip protruded out one side of his body, like some demented horn he couldn't remember growing. Blood oozed from the wound in a steady stream, life slowly trickling out of him.

All of it he witnessed through aching, narrow slits. The angry, leering sun beamed down overhead, its light burning him blind. He'd forgotten its brightness, its intensity, its uncaring, unyielding radiance, and it bore the memory into him with painful clarity. Sweat beaded along his neck, running in fat rivulets down his body. With a shuddering, painful clarity, he realized how warm he felt, the bitter chill of winter melting off his bones.

He didn't have time to enjoy the feeling for long. Boots crunched in the wet snow, the heavy breathing of a man laboring to stay upright. A shadow fell upon Fenris, revealing a face full of snarling teeth. The rebel who'd run him through from earlier, broken polearm replaced with a mean looking sword, the curve of the blade like a dark crescent in the sunlight.

"I've got you now, bastard," the rebel said, his voice dry and thirsty for blood. "Now I'll see to justice done right." He tilted the sword down, intending to skewer Fenris with one, final blow.

"Fark yourself," Fenris spat back, blood dribbling down his chin. He squinted into the brightness, wondering if Loken would appear and save him once again, but the man's words had been clear. He wasn't supposed to die here. The thought alone sent an ironic shiver of pain through him. Only at death's door was he finally starting to heed the words of prophecy.

The rebel said nothing as he lifted the blade up, aiming straight for his heart.

Fenris wanted to squirm away, wanted to fight back, but the pain in his stomach mixed with the pain in his head was simply too much. Life could be tough in the frozen North. Sometimes it was simply better to die.

The light above began to shiver and shudder. The rebel paused, breath catching in his throat as he gawked up.

Fenris felt the burning pain in his eyes subside, gradually at first, before it disappeared in an echoing boom. He peered out, blinking away stars as he took everything in. The wound in the sky was gone, sealing the light away. The rebel loomed over him now like a petrified shadow, wide, wet eyes searching for the meaning of it all.

Luckily for Fenris, he knew exactly what had happened. Aurora was gone, and with it any hope the rebels had left. Ignoring the pain in his guts, he snatched the blade out of the rebel's limp hand, fingers digging into the edge, more blood pooling into the snow. He caught the handle with a flourish, aimed the sword true, and rammed it through the rebel's stomach.

The man let out a sharp hoot as he stared down at the wound, his simple mind unable to realize he was dead and he could do nothing to stop it. He slid off the sword, made to run, only to collapse a second later, blood pooling beneath him. He twitched once and then fell still.

Fenris let his arm drop, taking a few precious seconds to gather his thoughts. He needed to get up, needed to find Loken so he could be healed again. Already the pain in his stomach was spreading further up his body, a terrible omen to consider.

Agony became his new enemy as he fought desperately to stand up. In the end he had to roll onto his good side, propping himself into a kneeling position before finally getting back to his feet. Even then, the skin around the wound stretched and pulled, fresh pain lancing into him.

He tried to walk, hissing as every step felt like his last. Past a drooping willow he could see more rebels scattering in the opposite direction, the other Forsworn merrily chasing after. It appeared the rebel's reinforcements had finally been broken, and the capture of Middlefort could begin in earnest.

All Fenris needed to do was live long enough to see it happen. "Loken," he called out, hoping the man would appear soon. More of his blood poured from the wound in his side, leaving an easy trail for anyone to follow.

"Loken, please. I need you."

"Who's Loken?" A familiar voice called back. Fenris flinched, regretting the decision immediately after.

Darendel stepped out from behind a tree, sword still wet with blood, a few new cuts and bruises decorating his body, but looking otherwise unharmed.

Fenris wanted to swear, but even that felt too much for him. Darendel was one of the two worst people to possibly find out about Loken right now. The first being Corvere. "No one. Take me to the cutters. I need stitching."

Darendel eyed the spear tip jutting out of Fenris. "That you do. Must be quite debilitating. I'm surprised you're still standing. I doubt the cutters will be able to do much." There was a new look in his eye now, the look of a predator sizing him up. He turned the sword around in his hand, aiming it straight towards Fenris.

"What do you think your doing?"

"Covering my tracks," Darendel said. "Once this little slaughter in Middlefort is over, I suspect there will be quite a few positions opening up in the Chosen's rank that will need filling. If I'm to ascend, I have to make sure there will be nothing holding me back. You, however, are still a loose end. One that could jeopardize everything for me if Corvere, or anyone else, finds out."

Fenris felt the rage gather in his chest, burning him more brightly than the sun ever could. "I'll farking kill you," he snarled through gritted teeth.

Darendel snorted as he edged closer, a cruel smile creeping up his lips. "I highly doubt that."

*

Regis charged down the hillside, boots thudding in the snow, thoughts racing along with him. To think his own Aulderman could turn into such a monster, spending men's lives as he saw fit in order to reach his goals. He was no better than the Empress, no better than Erik, no better than...

"No better than myself," Regis muttered as he came to a stop at the bottom of the hill. How many lives had he spent in Macedonibus all those years back trying to prove his worth to the Empress? How many had he spent in Austerland? Orienta? How many lives had he spent on his vengeful crusade against his brother?

Regis sucked in a tight breath and blew it out, watching the vapor dissipate back into nothingness. Nido's tits, but he was a hypocrite. Why now, and in all places, was he finally realizing it? He only despised Olaf because the man spoke openly what Regis had tried to hide away. They were both here for their own selfish reasons, and damn anyone who tried to stop them.

A bird twittered softly in the treetops. A gust of wind blew past, making the belt buckles on his armor click and sway. Regis realized with sudden clarity how alone he was. How easily he could have slipped away and gone back south. Away from Middlefort, away from Danic, away from everything. He could become a hermit in the Medial, or an oarsman in Unglen, he could go anywhere, far far away from anyone who might remember him and live a new life, a better one even.

A horde of screams tore through the chill air, snuffing out the birdsong. Shabby looking men dressed in poor quality armor burst out from the tree line, tearing off in all directions. One fell to his knees, tried to stand up, before an arrow clicked between his shoulders and sent him sprawling back into the snow.

Different soldiers appeared next, better armed and better armored, their black glass breastplates glinting in the half-light. One of them spotted Regis, charged towards him with the clear intent to kill.

"Ah farking shit," Regis sighed as he readied his hammer. It seemed like life had other plans for him, and running away was not one of them. Instead of blocking, Regis back-stepped from the Forsworn's swing, forcing the man to overextend. He thrust the hammer out, smashing the man's face with the flat part of the head. The Forsworn fell back mewling, his cries cut short as Regis dropped the hammer down like a meteor, pulverizing his skull. The Forsworn's legs kicked out on instinct and went still.

Regis puffed his cheeks and looked up, wincing at the sight of dark glass flashed past him. He ducked as the head of an axe swiped past, nearly taking his head with it. He rolled, grasped the hammer by the end with both hands, and swung in an uppercut. The head caught his attacker by the chin, sending him flying head over heels, bits of glass spraying out in all directions.

Another lunged at Regis out of nowhere, long scythe-like daggers dancing in each hand. The Forsworn woman was too close for a proper swing, forcing Regis to drop his hammer and wrap her up in a bear hug. She flailed at him, trying to stab his legs, his hips, but he had her tight as a lover in his arms.

Gritting his teeth, Regis lifted up his head and smashed his forehead into her face. The first blow smashed against her nose, the second broke her cheek bone. By the third, she'd gone completely limp.

Regis let her go and the Forsworn slumped to the ground in a heap. He looked round, searching for any more of the bastards, but the valley was quiet once more. He took his hammer back up, wiped the woman's blood off his face, his joints protesting all the while. Damn, but he was getting old. Too old for even this shit, he reckoned.

Too late to run though. Better to fight and die in his homeland then to die out in nowhere. To fight and die where the souls of his family resided.

He snorted. Nido's tits, but he was a coward.

The crash of battle pulled Regis back from his thoughts. There was more fighting up ahead, more rebels in need of help. Gripping his hammer tight, he bounded past the tree line, heading off where the other Forsworn had come from.

It didn't take long to find more of them. At the top of a low mound he watched in horror as Forsworn poured through the valley, tearing into the greater part of the rebel reinforcements. Men were hacked down in droves as they fought and ran for their lives. Spear tips swayed in desperate directions, men screaming for help, for loved ones, for anything that might protect them from the slaughter.

Trying to push back a surprise attack was one thing. Trying to stop a complete rout was another, especially once panic had set in. There was no stopping something like this. Regis would have had a better chance screaming a storm into submission. All he could do now was salvage what he could.

He turned to slink away when something caught his eye. Two Forsworn hidden away along the edges of the battlefield. One was on the ground, the broken shaft of a spear tip jutting from its side. The other stalked towards him, the intent to kill the other as clear as day.

Regis grimaced, remembering the countless scores he'd settled similarly in the past. It seemed holding a grudge was still a popular pastime in Danic. He watched as the wounded Forsworn's face came into view, hair and beard caked with blood and grit, a few golden hairs peeking through. So strange. So familiar.

As if...

Frozen needles prickled Regis along his shoulders and neck. The back of his palms started to itch, guts sinking in a cold, icy pit. A strange feeling came over him, like he'd seen the man somewhere before, long, long ago, and yet his face continued to elude him, hidden beneath the opaque glass of his memories.

***