The Homunculus Knight

Chapter 24: Justification

“All twelve puppets are in position; none know of the threads binding them and won’t even be cognisant of their actions when we pull the strings. We’ve managed to add some interesting twists to their perception. Once the signal is given, they’ll follow our instructions and have firm belief they failed to stop someone else from committing the sabotage. This twist won’t hold up to proper scrutiny, but depending on our puppeteering and a little luck, some puppets should go undetected for a window of crucial time. Still, I need to stress the inevitably disposable nature of these assets and the major consequences of their use. Once these strings are pulled, hiding our other sleeping puppets will become close to impossible.” - Excerpt from a report written by Lord Yezhov Arici, Spymaster of Roloyo.

Pankrator Marcus Gildmen hated retreating, not out of some misplaced pride but because people got left behind in retreats. No matter how well a retreat was planned or how fiercely the rearguard struggled, some poor bastard always fell through the cracks. But that didn't mean Marcus wouldn't struggle against that grim inevitability with all he could. From nearly the moment he landed his Griffin Sarmat, Marcus fought to buy the evacuation time. The aid fleet’s preparations proved double-edged; the scattered scouts and watch points surrounding Harmas were perfect for identifying and intercepting incoming threats. But with the corpse-tide oozing out of the city like some volcano’s innards, the scouts were isolated and exposed. Marcus hadn’t even attempted a second strike on the ice bridge; he and his fellow warrior priests instead worked desperately to rescue their stranded comrades.

On horse, hippogriff, and griffinback, the servants of War engaged in a desperate delaying action, trying to buy the soldiers and few civilians in the area enough time to reach the aid fleet. Throughout the rest of the night and most of the next day, Marcus and his subordinates fought the tide—a monotonous horror distilled from the worst of war. The old aphorism ‘war is chronic boredom interrupted up by unimaginable terror’ proved its accuracy as the soldiers tried to escape a slow but inexorable enemy. With their shuffling gait and crude animus, the Ghouls were individually no threat to any warrior worth their steel. But their sheer number and unending pursuit could not be ignored, nor could the Grinners and worse, skulking among the lesser Undead. Things born of cruel death and unholy malice slipped among their dull kindred, ready to pounce on the unwary with supernatural viciousness.

By midday, the western bank of the Alidon was a teeming mass of corpses. Thousands of blank eyes stared out at the retreating aid fleet, each Ghoul hungering for the living but unwilling to enter the flowing river. The living ceded control of solid ground, evacuating everyone they could and trusting the Alidon to protect them. Hippogryph scouts circled overhead, reporting great streams of the undead breaking off the main horde, directed by unknown wills in worrying directions. It was too early to tell, but the trajectory of these corpse-currents seemed to be the nearest settlements. Griffins were dispatched to send warnings, but there weren't enough to alert an entire region.

So, with hearts leaden with worry and guts roiling with fear, the aid fleet cast off, sailing north towards Crowbend Castle. They’d waited as long as possible and gotten as many people as they could, in one case, even waiting until Ghouls were shuffling onto the gangplank before leaving. Overburdened and fighting the current, the barges struggled to make any serious headway. The Dire Otters were skittish and uncooperative, upset by the stink of decay coming from the shores and the palpable worry emanating from their passengers. The fact the barges managed to outpace the corpse-tide spoke more of the Ghoul’s sluggishness than anything else.

As the day passed into night, the barges continued upriver, leaving the corpse-tide behind them. Soldiers and sailors equipped with long polearms were taking shifts watching the sides of the barges for any surprises. Most Ghouls didn’t like flowing water, with emphasis on most. It wasn’t unheard of for vessels passing through undead-infested waters to pick up highly aggressive ‘barnacles.’ Still, even with the concern of aquatic Ghouls in the night, the aid fleet was certainly feeling safer than when they’d been near Harmas. Moments of sleep were stolen by eager soldiers, resting only how experienced warriors can in lulls of battle.

From one of these brief naps, Marcus was awoken by voices calling his name. Eyes shooting open, the old soldier pulled himself up from the chair he’d been sleeping in. Muscles protesting the cruelty of sleeping in armor, Marcus reached for his sword before he was even awake.

“Pankrator! Pankrator Marcus!” called someone, their voice tight with worry. Squinting against the dim cabin light, Marcus identified the speaker, Acolyte Lyander. The son of a soldiering family, Lyander was a tough kid, having been around violence and its masters his entire life. The look of abject terror flavored with despair on the boy’s face brought Marcus to full awareness instantly.

Picking up his sword and shield, Marcus growled. “What is it, Lyander?”

A pained expression passed over the boy’s face. “I…I think you should just see for yourself.”

With the scrape and clatter of plate mail, Marcus pushed past the Acolyte and left his cabin, heading for the barge’s deck. Once the hatch opened, Marcus heard screams, smelled smoke, and tasted war around him. To his surprise, the barge’s deck wasn’t a scene of pitched battle or carnage; instead, dozens of people were standing watching something off the prow. Shoving past the stunned onlookers, Marcus reached the front of the barge and felt a curse slip free from his lips. “Fire-and-iron!”

They’d reached Crowbend Castle and the battle raging around it. Situated high up on a bluff, where the Alidon River bent nearly ninety degrees, the stalwart fortress was carved from living rock and surrounded by layers of defenses. To take the Castle, one needed to cross the Alidon and climb steep cliffs just to face the citadel’s walls. Or try to take the fortified bridge to the south, circle around behind Crowtown, the settlement covering the backside of the bluff, and fight through the layers of defenses. The armies of Duke Mika Gens Umbria were doing both.

The aid fleet stopped just short of the fortified bridge, or at least what was left of it. Something had smashed through the bridge’s central span, and wheeled siege bridges now crossed the gap, feeding a constant flow of armored skeletons into the battle. Defenders still held some of the bridge’s towers, judging by the rain of fire, both magical and mundane, striking the army of Rattlers.

Past the bridge, the waterway was a scene of splintered hulks and bobbing corpses. A ramshackle fleet of barges, riverboats, and anything else the Vampires could seize or make, ferried swarms of Grinners and other vicious Undead across the river. Balista bolts, trebuchet shot, and magical explosions ripped apart boats and spilled their rotting cargo into the river. Few of the ‘landing craft’ managed to disgorge their passengers at the base of Crowbend, but that mattered little to the Leechs puppeteering this whole grotesque display. The attack bogged down the defenders, forcing them to expend steel and magic.

Comets of green fire suddenly filled the night, trailing across the sky and smashing into Crowbend and Crowtown. Magical shields screamed high musical notes as they repulsed the bombardment. As another volley of the witchfire-coated rock hit the walls, Marcus traced their arc to the enemy-controlled shore and tried to understand what he was witnessing. Boulders covered in witchfire were lifted by some invisible force and hurled through the air. Forcing his eyes and mind to understand what he saw, Marcus noticed the glowing eye sockets of maybe two dozen giant skulls floating meters above the ground.

As the Pankrator watched, six of the huge skulls started advancing towards the river, their jaws clacking shut in time with their thunderous footfalls. Marcus could feel the baleful hunger of these new monsters upon him; they saw his fleet, and whoever held their leash decided the giant Rattlers were due for a meal.

Nodding to himself, Marcus turned to the stunned crowd surrounding him. “We need to retreat! We need to go downriver now!”

Through force of will and a lifetime of experience, Marcus pushed the fleet into action. They couldn’t turn the tide of this battle; on some horrible level, Marcus knew it was already lost. As one of the few Pankrators in the region, he’d visited Crowbend on numerous occasions, gaining an understanding of its defenders and defenses. Many of the strongest magical protections layered on the fortress were not active. The river didn’t drag the enemy barges beneath the waves, the bridge’s glowstones didn’t shine with holy light, bolts of lightning didn’t cut across the sky, vaporizing any Vampire caught in the open, and there weren’t knights led by Paragons sallying out to smash weak points in the undead horde. Someone within the Crowbend Castle sabotaged the fortress.

Argentari’s concern over spies seemed not only justified but inadequate. Marcus’s mind raced through the strategic implications of events while his body pushed the stunned fleet into action. The corpse-tide of Harmas was unleashed, the Prince of Vindabon’s army couldn’t act, and now Crowbend Castle faced death by betrayal. War, true war, was here, and with it came bleak revelations. If the Leechs had agents inside Crowbend, then the question was, where else did their feelers extend? How many people of power inside the Holy League were willing or unwilling traitors? Was all this the work of Daywalkers twisting unwary minds? Did the promise of safety from the plague or other more base bribes motivate this betrayal? Then, leading from those questions came the deeper, uglier thought. Why were the Blood Duchies willing to send the continent into total war?

The first of the giant Rattlers entered the river, its invisible body wading through the dark water. Slowly, ponderously, the Rattler moved closer to the fleet, its floating skull sinking down as the river deepened. Already, some panicked soldiers were spanning crossbows and shooting bolts ineffectually at the approaching monster. Marcus’s barge was third from the convoy’s rear, with two other vessels closer to the Rattler. The crews and defenders of the aid fleet were working quickly, having been snapped from their shock by Marcus and given a clear direction. Now, the Pankrator wasn’t needed as a commanding officer but as a champion.

Glancing around the busy barge deck, Marcus found Lyander and said. “I’m going to try and buy us some time. Find Priestess Molli and tell her she’s in command if I fall.”

Before the acolyte could answer, Marcus ran towards the barge’s middle and sucked in deep breaths. With the practice of long years, Marcus flooded his body with magic, infusing his Paragon flesh with Misbegotten War’s power. A slight nimbus of brownish light emanated from Marcus, covering his skin and armor in a bronze sheen. Buckling his shield to his back and checking the straps of his sword belt, Marcus bent down in a runner’s starting posture. Any complaints his old bones might have were silenced by the magic coursing through him.

Pushing off the deck so hard he made the wooden planks groan, Marcus exploded forward, running towards the ship's prow, streams of bronze phosphorescence trailing after him. Reaching the front of the barge, Marcus leaped through the air, cracking the deck beneath him as he exploded upwards and forwards. Sailing through the air, his body glowing brighter and brighter, Marcus landed on the next barge, rolling to disperse the momentum and not smash right through its deck. Ignoring the startled shouts and stunned looks of the crew members scrambling to get out of his way, Marcus kept moving, reaching the other end of this barge, and repeated his feat.

Now, at the tail end of the convoy, Marcus landed just as the barge shook and groaned. Marcus was once on a ship when it struck a reef, and that was the only comparison he could make to when the giant Rattler grabbed the barge. Looming out the water, the huge skull stared at the deck with glowing eyes. Invisible arms gripped the vessel’s sides, sinking phantom fingers into its hull, thankfully above the waterline. Standing on the river bottom, the Rattler’s skull only hung maybe a meter above the barge’s railings, and already a pair of brave soldiers were jabbing at it with pikes.

With speed belying its huge size, the Rattler lunged its head forward and bit one of the soldiers in half, sending a spray of blood across the already slick deck. Growling with fury, Marcus held out his hands and made complicated gestures. “Thirteen iron lances forged to banish the impure!”

The bronze nimbus around him started to congeal into thirteen spears of solidified magic, forming a halo of blades. With a thought, Marcus commanded the spears to strike, and they flew forward, smashing into the Rattler’s skull as bolts of might. Cursed bone exploded in a shower of sparks, and the barge shifted as the invisible grip on it faded. Drawing his sword, Marcus went to the vessel’s side and prepared to face the other Rattlers approaching. To the Pankrator’s surprise, the monsters stopped their advance, unwilling to suffer more casualties. Or at least that’s what Marcus assumed before the wave of solid terror smashed into him.

Stumbling forward, holding himself up using the damaged ship railing, Marcus turned around to see the rest of the barge’s crew collapsing. Professional soldiers lost control of their bowels and flopped onto the deck, sobbing. One sailor screamed and jumped off the side of the boat, diving into the black water and not surfacing. A great shadow passed over the barge, and Marcus looked up to see what new horror awaited him.

A colossal golden eagle descended from the sky and hovered over the barge, its wings stirring up a gale as it hung in the air. Other creatures danced in the air around the monster, horse-sized bats flitting through the air, knights barely visible on their backs. An armored figure leaped from the eagle, descending to the ground on a faint cloud of red fog. Four other knights dismounted from the giant bats and joined the eagle’s rider on banks of bloody mist.

The first of these warriors, the eagle’s master, landed lightly, maybe five meters from the Pankrator. Marcus didn’t even notice the other four knights' land; his eyes couldn’t leave the monolith of dark power standing before him. The wave of debilitating fear had a source, pouring off the Vampire Lord before him like a corpse’s stink. Clad in heavy black armor with gold trim, the Vampire called out in a deep baritone.

“Impressive work against the Gashadokuro. Tell me, are you the Paladin of Master Time?”

Marcus wanted to laugh; in all the madness of the last two days, he’d almost forgotten the third purpose of the aid fleet. They weren’t just sent to deliver the cure, and guard Harmas; they were also a distraction to mislead spies. Well, the difference between being a distraction and bait is really a matter of how much danger you are in. Judging by events, the fleet played the role of bait well, catching a true leviathan. Except, there was no waiting hero with an enchanted harpoon eager to slay this monster, just an old man who’d never backed down from anything.

Shaking his head, the Pankrator said. “I am not; my name is Pankrator Marcus, servant of Misbegotten War.”

The Vampire Lord smiled, or rather, he contorted his face in a rictus of hunger. “A child of war? Then we are long lost kindred, you and I. My name is Duke Mika Gens Umbria, ruler of all Roloyo.”

Marcus didn’t even feel any surprise at finding out one of the strongest Vampires in the world was facing him now; he just felt dull acceptance. “I fight for what’s right. Can you say the same, Duke Umbria? If not, then you aren’t any kin of mine.”

Slowly, the Duke drew his sword, a short battle-tested gladius. “You are very young, aren’t you, Priest? To still think there is anything like morality or righteousness when it comes to violence. Only those too weak to embrace the truth of things dress up their actions with petty justifications. I’ve long learned there is no ‘right’ when it comes to violence, only who is left.”

Moving his sword and shield into a defensive guard, Marcus let power flow through him. Bronze light billowed off the Pankrator, forming spears, swords, axes, maces, and shields. As a floating armory swirled around the Pankrator Marcus Gildmen, he said. “There is an irony to it, isn’t there? People, or more accurately creatures like you, always try to justify their actions by claiming there is no justification for anybody; An argument fit only for spoiled children by my reckoning.”

Weapons of glowing bronze whirled about Marcus, forming a storm of magical wroth. “Now come then, boy! Show me what passes for valor among those craven enough to fear death!”

Pankrator Marcus Gildman of Vindabon did not see or feel the strike that killed him. But Duke Mika Gens Umbria felt the Warrior-Priests final words, even if Marcus’s blades never touched him.

It was the day after Cole received the second fell omen when the group encountered the first refugees. Perhaps two dozen people and a single ill-maintained wagon pulled by weary oxen came down the road towards them. As both groups of travelers moved closer to each other, the refugees clustered around their cart, clearly fearing the worst from Cole’s band. Mina helped alleviate this by jumping out of the wagon and summoning a ten-pointed star made of silver light, the universal sign of the Pantheon.

Still cautious but tempted by a Priestess’s presence, the refugees reached the group. On closer inspection, Natalie identified the newcomers as mainly farmers and their families. Many were carrying all they had left in the world, clutching makeshift knapsacks and improvised weapons. A woman in her thirties with wild eyes broke from the refugees and ran towards Mina, a limp child clutched in her arms. After quickly examining the child, the Priestess turned to the wagon and called. “Natalie! Grab the special brew.”

Trying to move fast but not unnaturally so, Natalie grabbed the specified bottle of wine from the wagon and ran to Mina. Cole accompanied Natalie, his grim presence a comfort to her and a source of nervousness to the refugees. Pulling the cork from the bottle, Natalie handed it to Mina, who carefully poured some of its contents into the child’s mouth. This close, Natalie could see the child’s feverish face and the crude bandage wrapped around one arm.

Mina’s eyes started to glow silver as she placed a hand on the bandage, earning a pained moan from the half-conscious child. The air around the Priestess noticeably cooled as she whispered words to a prayer and a spell. Pulling her hand away, Mina said. “The wine will treat the plague, and my working will trammel any infections brought on by the bite. Ensure your son has plenty of clean water, rest, and change the bandages regularly.”

The near-hysterical mother broke down sobbing, clutching her child with the frantic relief only a parent could feel. Holding up the bottle of wine, Mina spoke to the crowd. “I need everyone to drink a few drops of this; it will treat the infected and protect those who aren’t.

A weary-looking farmer, using a pitchfork like a walking stick, pulled a small metal cup from his belt and poured some of the wine into it, taking a few drops for himself before passing it on. Natalie could almost feel Mina wince at the unhygienic practice, but thankfully, the transubstantiated cure would be unbothered by this less-than-optimal mode of delivery.

Mina, Alia, and Cole got to work looking over the refugees and getting their stories. Natalie stayed back; fear over discovery and the presence of badly bandaged wounds discouraged her from getting close. By the time the last of the displaced farm folk sampled the cure, they’d explained what drove them to this fate. Crowbend Castle was under siege, and bands of Undead reaved the countryside. Entire villages were being put to the fang by the Vampires, and no one knew if anywhere in the Marches was safe.

This unfortunate group of farmers fled their petty hamlet when the first Ghouls attacked. They’d been heading west, hoping to find refuge at Fort Carnun. As the largest fortress between Crowbend and Vindabon, it was a good bet, but there wasn’t any guarantee the old castrum hadn’t yet fallen. Information was scarce, but fear was rampant. The only reason the refugees managed to evacuate was the presence of a half-dead army Scout who rode into their village last night. He’d been sent from Crowbend to get help but was ambushed on the road, only surviving long enough to escape and pass word of events to the refugees. It seemed couriers, be they hoofed or winged, were being picked off by predators bound to the Leechs.

As if the refugee’s lot wasn’t bad enough, Natalie’s consultation of the map told them the villagers were headed in the wrong direction. They’d gotten lost during their rushed exodus and were taking the road south, right into the Worc hunting grounds. By sheer luck or perhaps divine providence, the displaced farmers ran into Natalie’s group instead of world-hopping cannibals. When told they were headed in the wrong direction and of the threat facing them in the south, the refugees were stunned and horrified.

Once the last of the villagers was looked over by Mina, ensuring there was no plague or other immediate danger, the two groups adjourned their meeting to discuss options. Once Natalie and the rest of her odd coterie found privacy near their own wagon, Mina spoke her piece. “We need to help these people.”

Cole and Natalie nodded their agreement, but Kit and Alia seemed unconvinced; while Yara didn’t want anything to do with the conversation. Scratching her nose, Alia winced. “Not to be an utter bastard, but don’t we have… bigger priorities? If Crowbend is under siege and something’s happening in Harmas, reaching the Prince’s army is kinda beyond important.”

Kit looked toward the refugees, a neutral expression on his face. “We can waste valuable time with these poor souls or prevent tens of thousands more from experiencing their tragedy. Let’s get them on the right path and continue on our way.”

Shaking her head, Natalie hissed. “If we don’t help them get to safety, then their deaths will be on our heads! Besides, things have already gotten so jagged up trying to follow the original plan is pointless. Let's escort them to Fort Carnum, contact Vindabon, and figure out what to do next.”

Cole tapped the map they’d been looking at and said. “This isn’t an all-or-nothing choice. Barlstine is a reasonably sized town on our way north. We can head there and bring the refugees with us. It's not much of a detour, and ensuring word of events has spread is important. By visiting Barlstine, we can also raise the alarm about the Worcs. Once there, multiple routes will be open to us, be it the way to Harmas, Crowbend, or Vindabon.”

After a little more discussion, the group agreed to Cole’s plan and spoke to the refugees. The displaced villagers had apparently been working up the courage to ask for an escort, so upon hearing the offer, they took it eagerly. They also accepted the cover story of the Stone carriers being another batch of warrior pilgrims heading south, further proving the best lies are simply a slightly altered truth.

Natalie kept her distance from the refugees, being polite and helpful but still standoffish. Returning to the nervous paranoia of fearing exposure, Natalie found herself nostalgic for the tense acceptance Vindabon offered her. Sure, the Vindabonites kept her at sword length, but she didn’t need to hide what she was from them. Still, Natalie was happy to help these poor folk, using her power to repair the world in small but noticeable ways felt right.

As they traveled north and west, heading towards Barlstine, Natalie found herself and Cole walking at the front of the tiny caravan, acting as the vanguard. Cole was unusually silent, well, except for the clink of his armor. He’d taken the time to fully equip his panoply before they set out for Barlstine, and Natalie had a gut feeling Cole wouldn’t be taking the armor off until they reached the town. Two nights of worrying portents from Master Time was more than enough to push Cole’s paranoia to extremes. Though, as Natalie thought about the Worcs and Undead, she hated to admit Cole’s behavior was entirely justified.

Watching the Spring sunlight fall across the surrounding fields and trees, Natalie finally asked. “What are you thinking about?”

Glancing at her, Cole replied. “I’m trying to understand why Master Time pulls me towards Crowbend and Harmas. Perhaps if we arrived right this moment, my presence and yours might be able to tip things at the siege, but that’s… that’s painfully optimistic. A Blood Duke wouldn’t commit anything less than multiple armies to such a fight; even with our skills, we’d just be a rounding error on the margin of victory. That is, even if there were a victory, defeat would leave us both in a very, very bad situation.”

Natalie frowned and asked. “Could he just want to, y’know, keep you informed?”

Even as the words left Natalie’s mouth, she realized how silly they sounded. Cole shook his head. “Why not send me, you, or Mina a message? Instead of yanking on my soul in such a violent way.”

One of Cole’s hands went to his chest. “It’s still there, not nearly as painful but a dull ache. I feel like half my heart is being pulled in one direction, the other half in another. When I fought in the Alukah’s tomb, the pull was powerful but never painful; something isn’t right.”

Watching as a flight of ducks crossed the sky in their spring migration, Natalie tapped her fingers in thought. “Divine messages can be intercepted, right? Something powerful can interfere, like what happened at the solstice ball? But as a Paladin, you have a tiny piece of Master Time inside your soul. The Gods can use that fragment inside of you to bypass normal restrictions. Remember what Sister Sun did during the riot? Maybe ‘normal’ portents can’t get through or might be altered.”

Cole just stared at Natalie for a long moment before saying. “You are profoundly clever; you know that, right?”

Smiling despite herself, Natalie shrugged. “Tell that to Isabelle next time you speak to her.”

Shaking his head in mild annoyance, Cole said. “She tends to look down upon people without significant education.”

A bitter laugh escaped Natalie. “No shit! I care for her, but hells, does she have an ego.”

Cole’s face cracked in the tiniest smile. “Honestly… she’s become much more humble than she used to be.”

Natalie scoffed. “I don’t believe you. This is the woman who bosses around Hierophants and argues with Gods. I can’t imagine her being more megalomaniacal than she already is!”

Giving her a sidelong glance, Cole whispered. “She made me. I think the fact she argued with cosmic laws and won is proof enough.”

A little sobered by that thought, Natalie said. “Point taken.”

Glancing behind her towards the wagons, maybe ten meters back, Natalie said, “I spoke with her recently, and I’ve not had the opportunity to share that with you.”

Cole frowned at the nervous look on Natalie's face but gestured for her to continue. “She wants my help in stealing the body of a Vampire.”

Natalie expected shock, concern, or even joy at this news; she didn’t imagine Cole would become angry. Jaw tightening, he kept his eyes on the road, refusing to look at Natalie. “No.”

There was cold iron of the Paladin in his voice, and Natalie felt like she’d been slapped. “She’s worried about being stuck in the skull! If we can capture a nasty Leech, why not use their body to help Isabelle instead of just killing them?”

Shaking his head, Cole growled. “Death can be a mercy; in fact, it often is. Having your body stolen from you is perhaps one of the worst fates imaginable. I cannot allow you to inflict that on someone!”

Uncertainty bubbled up in Natalie. “Why is it so bad?”

Exhaling a cloud of icy vapor despite the warm spring afternoon, Cole explained. “Have you ever seen an elder suffer from dementia? Where a person's memory and mind slowly rot away while they still live?”

Feeling a little sick, Natalie remembered an old woman in Glockmire who acted like her youngest great-grandchild in the year before her death. “I have. Does permanently possessing a body do that?”

Cole shook his head. “It’s worse. The mind is the seat of the soul, where consciousness dwells. To take over a person, not just inhabit their body for a time, but truly claim their existence for yourself, is to condemn them to slow erasure. The body isn’t just stolen, but the original mind is forced to watch as its consciousness rots into nothingness. An unwilling passenger to their own senses, slowly stripped of everything until their very soul is subsumed by the body-thief.”

Crossing her arms, Natalie asked, “How do you know this?”

Still unwilling to meet her gaze, Cole said. “I considered acquiring a body for Isabelle just as you are, but my investigations led me to some terrible truths. I love Isabelle, I truly do, but I can't violate a person's mind and soul for her.”

Eyes narrowing, Natalie remembered the cruel smiles of Glockmire’s court, the eager malice of them. “It seems to me having their body and mind stolen from them would be a just punishment for some of the Vampires. They use people as resources, so why not return the favor?”

A look of genuine disgust crossed Cole’s face. “That’s not justice, that's vengeance, and revenge easily leads to horrible places.”

Natalie scoffed. “Didn’t you return to the Blood Duchies seeking revenge? To kill the Voivode for what he did to you and Isabelle?”

Now it was Cole’s turn to look stunned, recovering quickly he said “That was different; I would be acting under the mantle of Paladin and not destroying a soul. Any Vampire I kill is forced to face true justice in Master Time’s halls. My hand ends the threat; it doesn’t decide what punishment they must face.”

There was some sense to Cole’s words, but Natalie felt a surge of anger inside of her. “I’d do anything to rescue you, Cole. Anything. If you were trapped or bound like Isabelle is, then I wouldn’t care what was required. I love you, and I’ll kill or crush anyone who’d try to take you from me!”

Glaring at him, Natalie continued. “I’m going to help Isabelle because I care for her too. I’ll help her get a body whether you like it or not. Cole, I would do the same for you without hesitation, and…. It hurts to know you wouldn’t do the same.”

The words came from Natalie in a heated hiss, and silence reigned once they left. Her eyes fixed on Cole; even as he refused to meet her gaze, Natalie felt a surge of possessiveness. Cole was hers, and so was Isabelle; she wanted them both, no, she needed them both. It didn’t matter if Cole was going to be stupid about this; she’d do what he was unwilling to and save Isabelle.

With surprising speed, Cole grabbed Natalie’s chin and pulled her towards him so their eyes were locked. Red met blue as Cole asked in a steely voice. “If I thought there was no other option, then I’d consider what Isabelle is suggesting, but not till then. I carried her for seven years and searched for a way to restore her all that time. I’m closer now than ever before and won’t compromise who I am unless it's the only way.”

Staring into his face, Natalie said. “What if by then it's too late? You’d chase after vague hopes while time winnows Isabelle’s sanity? We almost certainly will face monstrous Vampires, those who spend lives and souls like copper coins! Why not save someone who wants redemption at the cost of punishing some bastard who’s earned their fate a hundredfold!”

Cole’s expression softened, and he softly said. “No one deserves to have their soul destroyed, and I’m not chasing after vague hopes; I’m believing in you. In six months, you’ve become stronger and more in control than most decades-old Vampires. You also managed to make contact and help Isabelle in ways I’ve never been able to. Natalie, you are amazing, and I believe you can do so much with your power without letting it distort you.”

Natalie felt herself melt a little at his words. Damn, the stupidly wonderful man, he could still quell her maelstrom with a few sentences. “...okay, I’ll talk with Isabelle; maybe we can find some interim options.”

Letting go of her face but touching her shoulder, Cole said. “Thank you for listening to me.”

As the last embers of Natalie’s anger dimmed, she said. “You make it annoyingly easy.”