It was chaos in Kel Dracon. Rebels poured into the castle in their hundreds, pressing against a hastily drawn shield wall that was quickly crumbling apart. Men fought, swinging with axes, killing with bows, stabbing with their spears. Men screamed, roaring out their curses, their senseless words, their bloody war cries. Men died, hacked to pieces, sliced to ribbons, crushed under foot by a trampling mob.

It was chaos in Kel Dracon, and Libro reveled in it. He didn't know when he'd become a killer, much in the same way a boy never realizes when he becomes a man. He simply looks around and finds himself there one day.

He drove his sword through the guts of a Chosen, bloody red ash spilling out and quickly chased off by the howling wind. The creature roared, tried to fight back, but he was faster than its cold, lumbering hands. He ducked under a desperate swing, retaliated, flicking his sword out in a tight arc.

The Chosen's head flew off its shoulders and fell away, crumpling to a heap on the ground. Libro trampled over it and kept moving. A thick gust of wind blew snow into his eyes. He turned away , dark curls whipping past vision, and caught a glimpse at the battle below.

The shield wall was gone now, rebels pouring in through the gap and quickly swallowing up the survivors. High up on the towering battlements, the surging mass of people reminded Libro of the little blocks Captain Dux used to use when planning his stratagems. Every battle, he'd said, was nothing more than moving the right people in the right place and letting the outcome sort itself out. And with one hand he would push the blocks forwards. A hundred. A thousand. Ten thousand. It made no difference. All they had to do was simply be there when it mattered.

And in his mind's eye, Libro could see them too. The rebels were moving at a rapid pace along the courtyard towards the inner walls. The Chosen were swiftly pulling back, more outnumbered then anything else, desperate for control of the battlefield. If they were smart, they would try and seal off the rebels from advancing further, forcing them into an attrition where numbers no longer mattered.

Sadly, the Chosen were at least partially clever, and so Libro had to respond in kind, making sure to send Moss and Cent ahead to secure the second gatehouse, while he caused a distraction on the battlements.

The plan had worked out perfectly.

Off in the distance, the surviving Chosen ran past the open gate, calling for the doors to shut, but nothing happened. A face leered out of the gatehouse window, Moss by the looks of it, smiling as he dumped a headless corpse onto the unsuspecting enemy.

The body dropped like a stone, pulverizing an unsuspecting Chosen as they both hit the dirt with an audible crunch. The rebels cheered as they charged past, their way clear, the enemy scattered once more.

Libro breathed a sigh of relief as he scanned the horizon. There was no one left on the outer battlement now. Those he hadn't killed in the confusion had likely fled the moment their position had been compromised. Strange, how cowardly even the immortal can become when faced with certain death.

He stalked along the edges of the parapet, trailing his gaze over the many walls and gates the castle possessed. The place was a damned fortress, its intentional design of weathering down sieges apparent to the last flagstone. If he'd remained a mason in his old life, he would have found the place breathtaking. As a soldier, however, he hated the damn place.

Something caught his eye off in the distance. A flicker of fire, the soft tinkle of broken glass. Libro looked up. In the center of the castle stood a massive tower. One of its windows had shattered, a flaming star shooting down from it. No, not a flaming star. A man on fire.

His heart skipped a beat. Somewhere, deep down inside, something told him Elba was there. An omen. A sign. A chance. He ground his boots into the stones as he took off running, cold air burning in his lungs as he raced towards the tower.

He passed Moss and Cent along the way, the two of them nearly falling back into each other as he raced past.

"Captain?" Cent called after. "What's the rush?"

"I found Elba!"

"You what?"

Libro didn't have time to explain. Didn't need to. Moss was already running after him, Cent nipping at his heels. Ahead, the rebels were devouring the inner courtyard like a cancer, throwing torches on anything flammable, swarming over the remaining Chosen in a hungry tide, pockets of resistance forming as each fought to the last man.

He wondered where Olaf and Freyah were in all this chaos. He had a sense the Jarla was somewhere in the back, driving her men forward with sword and banner. But Olaf? Something told Libro the man was further still, watching it all play out like a player in a game of Siege, relaying orders as he moved his pieces on the board.

Smart, but Libro wasn't surprised. Ever since he'd first laid eyes on Olaf, all he'd seen was the Emperor, or the Empress, or Elena staring back at him. Weighing him like a piece of meat and discerning his value.

Libro reached the top of a patrol tower and stopped. Outside, a large pocket of resistance had formed against the rebels. Chosen dressed head to toe in Black Glass plate moved in blurs of twinkling black, cutting down men with disgusting ease, forcing the cowardly and sane to pull back.

A figure stood in the midst of it all, a large looming monstrosity with a face as pale and still as death itself. It watched the proceeding slaughter with silent amusement as the Chosen continued their wanton slaughter, slowly widening the gap.

Cent stepped lightly beside Libro, fingers squeezing the window sill tight as he noticed the creature below. "There he is. The Right Hand," he practically growled.

"Looks like the tide's turning," Libro said. He grit his teeth as a pulse of pain shot up his arm. The scars were still glowing, the magick contained within desperate for release. He'd never gone this far before, never held in this much. It made his teeth buzz just thinking about it.

"Not for farking long." Cent turned, made for the exit.

Moss appeared, stepping in front of him "Don't think one more soldier will change the outcome, I reckon."

"I'm worth a thousand of those useless bastards down there."

"Your also worth more alive than dead." Moss clapped him on the shoulder as he pushed his way inside, shutting the heavy door behind him. "Let's see what the Captain has to say."

Libro put a hand to his mouth in feigned concentration. Truth was, he didn't know what to say. It was an absolute disaster outside. The Right Hand and his men were swiftly taking back ground, more of the Chosen joining in to reinforce the line. A new shield wall was starting to form, and a stronger one this time. If they completed the ring, the rebels would eventually be forced to retreat.

Throwing bodies at a problem only works in the short term. The element of surprise was over and the enemy was starting to get their bearings. If the rebels hoped to win this, they would need to cut the enemy's throat, and fast, before the chance of even a pyrrhic victory slipped from their grasp.

What to say. Libro tapped an impatient finger against his lips, his mind racing for answers. If he was Captain Dux he would have snapped off an answer in an instant, but he wasn't Captain Dux. He was Libro, a conscripted, orphaned stonemason forced into a life he knew nothing about, even after all these years.

"Captain?" Cent pressed, the doubt in his voice ringing clear.

Libro bit his lip, thinking of a plan, thinking of Elba, thinking of his son, and in the span of a breath it all fell into place. "The Right Hand has to be severed. The longer we stand here doing nothing, the quicker the rebels get pushed out of Kel Dracon.

"What are your orders then?" Cent asked, curiosity overtaking uncertainty.

Libro gazed out over the battlefield. The rebels were falling back now, surging past the inner gate he'd painstakingly worked hard on to keep open. Fighting alone on the battlements had been a grueling endeavor, and he hated to see the effort wasted.

It dawned on him then. An idea, an incredibly stupid plan that would likely get him killed, one that even Captain Dux would have been proud of.

"It's simple if you think about it, really," Libro said. "If the Right Hand carries the sword, then we'll simply cut it off. Follow me, I'll give you both the details along the way." He made a mad dash for the door and flung it open. "Hurry now! There is a war going on, after all!"

*

Everything was ready. Libro stood at attention on the battlement, Moss and Cent eagerly awaiting his next order. Whether by incredible luck or good planning, the rebel army was falling back at an extraordinary pace towards the outer gate, the Chosen's shield wall breaking apart to chase after.

The Right Hand, blessed by his own hubris, had taken to the front lines, stalking after the rebels like a predator, its faithful pack of hounds keeping respectfully back.

Libro watched on with bated breath, heart pounding, throat raw from the icy wind, fingertips digging into the stone battlements. The Right Hand pushed its way past the inner gate, stepping into the circular courtyard leading to the west gate.

Only when the creature had passed some distance through, did Libro finally speak.

"Right Hand! He roared at the top of his lungs. His voice boomed out like thunder, much to his own surprise, his arm strangely burning with the effort.

The creature paused, as did the other Chosen, and the rebels too. All of them stopped to look up at Libro, as if he were a God descending upon the battlefield.

It was too late. There was no turning back now. He leaned over the parapet, hatred burning in his heart as he stared down the Right Hand.

"Where is my wife?" Again his voice carried out like the crack of a catapult, like the great earth shattering tumble of stones down a mountain, the air humming and reverberating with aftershocks.

It frightened Libro to hear his own voice reach out so unnaturally, as if Nido herself were speaking through him, his voice a mere conduit for her power.

There was a long pause as his echoing words faded away into the nothingness. Then the Right Hand laughed. A cold, sharp bark that tore away at him.

"I remember you," It said amusingly. "You're that little rat I found in Middlefort. The Empire's lap dog. I'm surprised you're still alive. Quite the pair of lungs you have there. I'd love to cut you open and see what makes them tick."

"I'll only ask you one more time," Libro shouted back, annunciating every word carefully. "Where is my wife?"

"Come down here and I'll tell you? If you're lucky there might be something left of her for you to keep!"

A bluff. Libro smiled. He'd hoped for such a request. "Fine. I'll meet you down there."

He ran towards the edge and jumped, but not before tearing a handful of stone off the parapet, and chucking it straight at the Right Hand.

The lump of stone shot out with a cracking boom louder than even Ohban's mighty cannons. The Right Hand barely had time to react before it was struck directly into the face, head snapping back painfully, hard enough to make the bones in its neck crack.

Libro caught hold of the pulley he'd spotted earlier during the set up, fingers wrapping around sturdy rope. It hissed and snapped in his grasp as the momentum of his jump curved his trajectory, sending him straight on a collision course with the Right Hand. Cold wind nipped at his eyes and mouth as he kicked his feet out, the monstrous creature looking up just in the nick of time.

Libro booted the Right Hand sharply across the mouth, hard enough to make the bones in his knees click, hard enough to send them both crumpling to the ground, his grip lost on the rope.

Libro hit the earth and kept rolling. He flopped, flailed, fingers scrambling for purchase and finding none. He was miraculously caught by a pile of dead rebels, the tip of a spear point nearly impaling him as he came to a shuddering stop. It glinted a few inches from his thigh, right near a major artery.

"Now that was a stupid farking plan," Libro muttered as he turned himself over, the stench of death nipping harshly at his nose.

The Right Hand shambled slowly up to its feet, one hand clutching its face, gray ash spilling out of its mouth.

"You bastard," It drooled, leering at him over one bulky shoulder. The left side of its death mask had been completely shattered, and Libro realized with sickening horror that it wasn't a mask at all. It was the monster's face.

Beneath the porcelain like bone, muscle and flesh twitched and writhed over a canopy of purple and black veins. One of the eyes had been completely pulped to jelly, the other a black pit with only a pinprick of ice in its center.

"You'll pay for this," The Right Hand wheezed. " I'll use your corpse for my next experiment, and I'll find out how many times a man can die before he goes completely insane. I'll skin you alive, pack salt in your wounds, and leave you to desiccate in the sun. And at the final moment when your pathetic life extinguishes, I'll bring you back from the brink and find a new way to kill you. Over and over and over again."

Libro rose shakily to his feet, turning his head slowly from side to side, feeling the bones in his neck and shoulders click and pop. A light flashed in one of the gatehouses and he gave a single nod. The sound of grinding gears filled the air as Moss and Cent moved forward with the next step of the plan.

Shutting the inner and outer gates.

The heavy doors shuddered and groaned, both Chosen and rebel scrambling back as they realized Libro's true intentions. The Right Hand looked about, one side of its jaw hanging slack, one black eye staring wildly. With a tremendous crash, both gates clapped shut, sealing them both within.

"We'll see," Libro said, as he slowly drew out his sword. 

***