Wolves of Empire [EPIC DARK FANTASY] [Book One Complete]

Thirty-Eight

Endarion

Varanos, Kalduran

1st of Satimus

By the time the outskirts of Varanos lurched into view, the sun blazed overhead, devouring all shadows and bathing the city in an angry glow. Varanos's walls leered monstrously, akin to Empyria's oversized architecture. Even from this removed distance, Endarion couldn't spy the fortified peak, nor catch a glimpse of the city beyond. The Novhar hadn't built this; it was all Kaldurani, and more impressive for it.

Despite the metallic clamour of five armies grinding towards battle, a deathly stillness settled over the march. Everything precluding this moment, every city razed, every innocent slaughtered, every soldier lost, led to this decisive battle.

He didn't know if Estrid would act on his information, but he'd sent word to Ricardus Naevon, just in case. If the Kaldurani ambushed the Imperial forces as he hoped, Ricardus was to peel away and retreat from the battlefield, hopefully to offer a surrender to Estrid afterwards. It was the least he could do, to spare his long-time ally.

"I despise this uncertainty," Palla murmured from her position at his right. For the march, up until the armies mobilised into battle order, his senior staff were arrayed around him. Palla stood closest to him by her own design.

He'd officially promoted her to the rank of first-general, and she'd been accepted with an ease that frightened him. Cato had been forgotten, yet Endarion still hadn't processed the man's death at his hands. The murder remained a moment so shrouded in heavy, grey madness, so polluted by the toxic degeneration of his blood-lusting mind, it wasn't yet a reality. Cato had stood by his side for decades, long enough to be a necessity of his command, yet Endarion felt nothing at his passing. If he made it home, he'd need to arrange a funeral and at least pretend to mourn the officer.

"Uncertainty?"

"Your betrayal will unfurl flawlessly, I wager, but how many Kaldurani are waiting to the west? Their numbers will affect how fast we fall."

When he offered no answer, she moved on. "Is this suicide on your part? If so, it is the most spectacular suicide I have ever witnessed."

"It's sacrifice," he replied, clenching his jaws. "And madness."

She'd read him too well, to know he expected to die today.

"I know you're obligated to protect me, for whatever reason, but I wouldn't bother today," he said.

Palla regarded him with a deep frown but said nothing.

He leaned in towards her, shielding his mouth from the other nearby officers lest they try to read his lips. "Seeing as I am almost certainly about to die in this battle, would you consider telling me why your master sent you to protect me, and what Sudarium gets out of my continued survival?"

This seemed as good a time as any to press the question that had been nagging at him since his near-death at Dujaro, when Palla had saved his life and inadvertently blown her cover as a "Sudarium's Blade". He hadn't been alone with her since then, and here, on the edge of battle, with his officers distracted, his paranoia ebbed.

Palla regarded him with her empty eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards in what might've been a stillborn sneer. "If you do not die and are instead captured, I cannot afford to have information regarding my master pulled from you in torture."

"Will you ever enlighten me?" he asked.

"When Sudarium deems you ready."

A scoff rattled up his throat. "Ah, so I operate on the timeline of an enigmatic figure who thinks they can judge my readiness?" He turned away from Palla. "Maybe I'll get myself killed today just to thwart their plans for me."

Palla firmed her mouth into a thin line. He waved her aside, transferring his focus to the matter at hand.

The five armies began the laborious process of shifting into their battle formations. Over the last few days, Ricardus, Byrria, and Korzha had re-joined him and Dobran in preparation for this final assault on Kalduran's capital. They'd all reported a suspicious lack of hostilities and an absence of enemy forces challenging their progress, though he'd expected this; Estrid would have pulled back most of her soldiers to the city's walls.

He'd placed Dobran to the westernmost end of their arrangement, directly opposite the League Gate he'd informed Estrid he would aim at. When the hidden ambush he was certain Estrid would spring came, it would strike a hammer blow to Dobran and the army of Adhistabor first. His own Denjini were beside Dobran, positioned in what he claimed was support of his cousin's army in its attempt to take the gate. Beside him, cushioned within their armies' centre, opposite the Empire Gate, was Ricardus, who would pull back and wheel around the far rear of their forces as soon as the tide turned against the Imperium.

On the other end of the line waited Korzha and Byrria, both angled eastwards at a forty-five-degree angle from the wall of Varanos in anticipation of an attack that would never come. Neither of the two arch-generals had been diminished by any of the campaign's action, as neither had lost men outside Allodek as he and Dobran had, allowing him to convince his cousin to let the pair face the full brunt of the ambush. In reality, their rears were presented to the west, from where the true ambush would come, making them vulnerable. Perhaps he should've nurtured guilt at condemning Korzha and Byrria alongside Dobran. Though both were political rivals by virtue of their support of the Caetoran's family, neither Endarion nor Valerian had ever risked approaching the two arch-generals to sound them out for insurrection like they had Ricardus. Bull-headed Byrria would have turned them over in a heartbeat, but Korzha might've been persuaded, if Endarion had ever decided to expend the effort on the building of a slow and subtle alliance.

Too late now. They aren't allies, which makes them enemies. And no enemies deserve my guilt.

All five of the Imperial armies had adopted the triple infantry line favoured in pitched battles, the foremost line longer and deeper than the two behind it to better absorb the shock of the initial onslaught, and equipped with spears instead of swords to fend off the opening cavalry charge Endarion expected. Their cavalry was placed at the flanks to turn away enfolding manoeuvres, heavy at the front, light at the back and angled outwards.

In truth, he'd almost exhausted his army's supply of spare weaponry, and his spear line bristled with fewer points than those of the other armies. With Iana's armoury sabotaged by an assassin, he hadn't been able to replenish before embarking on this campaign. By the end of this battle, he doubted he'd have the supplies to fuel further scuffles.

But then, if today went as planned, there would be no further scuffles. At the very least, he would be too dead to concern himself over the army of Denjin any longer.

Sprawled beneath the walls was what Endarion estimated at first glance to be three of the four armies he knew Drasken had fielded into Kalduran. The mass of Kaldurani Prime, almost sixty thousand strong and commanded by Elek Danukos, comprised the bulk of their numbers. Supporting them, but only half their size, were Ilona Redik's Northstorm. The smallest by far at a scant ten thousand, and positioned opposite Endarion's own army, flashed the familiar black and red of Estrid's Dasjurans.

That left the Eskaldans, Laszlo Lakatos's twenty-five thousand strong army, and Kavan's defected Quendinthans noticeably absent. If Estrid had believed his betrayal sincere, they would compose the force coming at them from the west, not the east, as he'd told the rest of the Imperials.

The two sides took their time lining up opposite one another, the calm and quiet a horrid contrast to the death and destruction that would explode as soon as the battle opened. Varanos's wall rose tall and stern right on the heels of its defenders, preventing an unbreakable face against which the Kaldurani could be broken. Had he not already outlined his betrayal with Estrid, he might've assumed she wanted to have her own forces smashed against the city's wall, having denied herself space for escape or retreat except through the two gates she guarded, neither of which were wide enough for a mass rout. Without the Eskaldans and Quendinthans as her gambit, her tactics here would appear foolish and thoughtless. Precisely what Dobran and Khian and Janus thought of her as.

"The Kaldurani have made her lack-witted," Dobran had remarked when Endarion had proposed his tactics for this final clash. "No general worth their rank leaves themselves so deliberately cornered, even as a trap."

Knowing his knowledge of Estrid's plans wouldn't be believed without evidence, he'd furnished his lies, allowing Dobran to interrogate several 'captured Kaldurani scouts' who were actually Endarion's soldiers provided with Dasjuran uniforms, all of whom had parroted the story Endarion had crafted. Endarion had paid those men handsomely for the task, knowing Dobran was likely to beat or even torture them. But his cousin had surprised him by merely questioning the dressed-up rankers and using threats of violence without resorting to a torturer's blades. The 'scouts', when they'd been returned to Endarion's 'custody' were unharmed.

He sat astride his mount now, a beast he only used to survey battlefields, watching as the Kaldurani lines stretched themselves thin to match their opposition. He wasn't a natural rider, but his horse, Brute, was a calm and receptive mount, having once served in the light cavalry.

Despite the laborious process of arranging themselves opposite one another, and the fraught ceasefire that came with doing so, the battle commenced without signal. For a heartbeat, the Imperials and the Kaldurani poised as two combative wolf packs, aquiver with anticipation but anchored in place by the need to wait the enemy out. Endarion had seen it often enough when his stonehounds played; the dogs would freeze, bunched halfway into stalking postures as if trying to reflect each other. As if spurred by some unsounded drumbeat, the hounds would pounce in concert, meeting in the middle in a whirlwind of scything fangs and flashing claws.

And so it was with mortal men, though the Kaldurani pounced a blink before the Imperials.

The Kaldurani, as the defenders, seized the opening salvo and swept their cavalry in a thundering line down the slight gradient dropping away from Varanos's outer wall. Seeing this, Endarion kicked Brute into action, following the line of his rearmost cavalry. Behind him, already at attention, a small contingent of aides and messengers followed. He shifted his shoulders, the dog-head pauldrons clinking against the lorica he now wore.

Though the first clash was some distance ahead, Endarion felt the orchestra of war ripple through the ranks like a shockwave. It was a thunderclap splitting the skies, an earthquake, an apocalypse. He imagined he heard the distinct clash of steel, the cries of horses impaled on his spearmen, the cracking of cavalrymen being flung from the saddle and trampled underfoot. Flashes of colour and the whip-crack of magic announced the movement of Kaldurani combat-mages, most of them belonging to Ilona Redik's army.

It was here, when the lines first joined, that the role of commander became somewhat redundant. Even if his messengers navigated the chaos and delivered his orders, the fighting constantly shifted. Commands he issued in one moment were pointless the next. He focused instead on observing, waiting for the jaws of Estrid's trap to slam shut around him.

The Kaldurani cavalry carved a bloody tear into the Imperial infantry vanguard, weakened by the combat-mages, though the enemy infantry waiting behind had yet to push their advantage and engage en-masse.

When he looked west, he understood why.

There was his gambit, manifested in the approach of Kandras Lakatos's absent Eskaldans. Fanning out behind them, almost five thousand soldiers larger, thundered Kavan's Quendinthans. Their charge followed the curve of Varanos's walls, the dust they kicked up clouding their approach. From a distance they appeared one titanic horde.

It was a tide of death, and he stood in its path, waiting to be washed away like so many pebbles on a beach.

The other three Kaldurani armies had withdrawn, backing themselves up against the city walls after cracking open the Imperial vanguard. Their cavalry retreated faster than their infantry could have, which Endarion supposed was why they hadn't yet committed them. In the meantime, Dobran had concentrated his cavalry, pulling them from the flanks and organising them into a hammer. Endarion watched as he cleaved down into the enemy, splitting Estrid away from Kaldurani Prime. The severance happened at once over a matter of heartbeats and a period of hours, it seemed.

The explosion of hoofbeats and armoured feet heralded the arrival of Kavan Aza and his Kaldurani allies. The soft rise and fall of the land around them blurred them, and it was too late for the Imperials to shift their focus to this new, unprecedented threat. Most were still recovering from the Kaldurani cavalry's initial strike and preparing to meet an onslaught they believed was coming from the east, not the west. At the far end of the line, Korzha and Byrria were still angled outwards, their unprotected rear an irresistible target.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Endarion's hand locked around his sword hilt, his entire body tightened with tension as he directed Brute westwards to meet their doom.

He'd faced death so many times before and cowered defenceless almost every time. Firstly, as a boy when his father's rages had seemed the pinnacle of the world's cruelty. Then, as a young man, when Novissa had ground him down to the cynical core with her dehumanising punishments and cruel displays. And four years ago, when he'd been a captive on a foreign planet and every waking moment was agony. Most recently, when the assassin at Dujaro had almost killed him, and when Dobran and Khian had strung him up between two poles and whipped him to unconsciousness.

Now, though, he sat tall in his saddle, head raised, back straight.

He would cower no longer.

"Warn the infantry," he called to his messengers. "Have First-General Hasund turn half her infantry west. The other half will remain focused on the enemy ahead. If you can find Daria, implore her and Avelyn and Remus to take the doglords and flee."

Seconds stretched into minutes, stretched into what seemed like hours, became eternity. Kavan and Laszlo Lakatos's host drew ever closer, a storm collapsing the horizon.

The oncoming force, whom he'd been certain would trample him and his soldiers, reduce him to nothing but a splatter in the mud, wheeled away and passed harmlessly across his and Dobran's rears. They didn't even scrape the rear-guard infantry brigade, so apparently eager were they to avoid hitting them both. The teasing brush of their near contact cascaded through his lines as soldiers recoiled from expected but undelivered violence.

His jaw slackened and every knot of tension snapped, leaving him slumped in the saddle.

Endarion felt like he'd been plunged beneath the waves and held almost long enough to drown, only to be pulled to the surface and agonisingly revived. What was a condemned man supposed to do when he was so sure he'd die, only to have death dart away unplanned?

Twice now, Kavan had deliberately avoided attacking him. Twice now, he should've died in battle but was robbed of the chance.

The foremost ranks of Kavan and Laszlo's armies veered westwards, ploughing into the unprotected rears of Korzha and Byrria, and dealing Ricardus a glancing blow. His fellow arch-generals were pulled into the riptide, and Endarion watched with a mixture of relief and horror as his countrymen buckled beneath the charge.

He had no time to watch his treachery unfold, for his eyes were drawn back to Varanos, to where Dobran had fully separated Estrid's army and was harrying her away.

Suddenly her ten thousand soldiers stood isolated, bore down by Dobran's thirty-odd thousand.

Like a starved wolf sighting an injured deer, Dobran's army charged at her. Outnumbered three to one, pushed away from her allies, Estrid and the Dasjurans turned and fled, the defence of her scant combat-mages the only thing preventing her flight from becoming a rout.

Palla materialised at his side, her hair ruffled but her demeanour otherwise unchanged. She sat astride a fine mount, a light cavalry beast like his. "It would be unwise," she said, following his line of sight as he watched Estrid.

He gritted his teeth. "Do it anyway," he said. "Order the advance."

"On whose side?"

"My favourite cousin's," he replied with a grimace. "We support him, or at least give off that impression."

"And then?"

"I don't know. I can't let him kill Estrid, but we can't afford to do anything stupid yet."

Palla made a point of swivelling her head around and taking in the carnage around them. "Is it not a bit late for that?" Cold and callous as she always was, she almost sounded sarcastic.

―

Estrid led them on a treacherous flight alongside the flanks of the capital. With the city walls to their right, she pushed away and hastened towards the foothills of a small mountain range that curled around Varanos's north-western face. Endarion recalled from his campaign maps that this range marked part of the official border between Kalduran and Drasken. It was also a small arm of peaks jutting off from the almighty Kantaverdens—the mountains that ran all the way from the far north of Drasken down to collide with the Sidian Mountains along the Tharghest-Kalduran border, a bristling line that spanned hundreds of miles.

Dobran's eagerness to engage in this pursuit before the battle had closed, leaving his allies amid the carnage, suggested he'd been given specific orders concerning Estrid. For that thought alone, Endarion was glad he'd followed, even if he knowingly entrapped himself within a stretch of the continent's largest mountain range.

He'd also realised the rest of the Kaldurani armies had allowed him and Dobran to depart the field, focusing instead on smashing Korzha and Byrria and, if he failed to separate, Ricardus. They'd left Estrid to her fate, and the only reason he could imagine that being plausible was if she'd ordered it.

So, it was a snare. Another one within the snare he'd planned with Estrid.

Finally, after what he judged to be a solid hour of hurried marching, the battle beneath Varanos's walls left so far behind as to now be irrelevant, Endarion saw the rear of Dobran's army halting.

To their left rose a wall of jagged foothills. To their right the gentle slopes of the calmer mountains Varanos had been built up against. Up ahead, Endarion spied the spearing rise of yet more foothills, and realised Estrid was leading them into a dead-end, cornering herself. She would know these foothills. Her self-entrapment was by design.

When it became clear Dobran wouldn't immediately leap upon the Dasjurans, Endarion nudged Brute along the outskirts of his waiting army. He rode alongside his cousin's forces, ignoring the thousands of pairs of eyes weighing him down and marking his progress. How many of these bastards had watched him whipped, he wondered? The mere memory of that ordeal had him squaring his shoulders in an attempt to appear unconcerned.

The Arch-General of Adhistabor stood at the head of his army on a natural stony platform, resplendent in gleaming plate dyed Tyrannus purple.

"So glad you could join me," Dobran said, voice a lazy drawl.

"You doubt my loyalty," Endarion replied tightly. "How better to prove myself than support my noble cousin in his pointless pursuits."

"This isn't a pointless pursuit. In fact, it's quite fortuitous you're here, because what happens next is very much down to you." Dobran angled his head towards Estrid's army. "You misinformed us with your scout reports and organised our defeat beneath Varanos. Don't even try to deny it, cousin, because we both know it's true. Apparently, your whipping wasn't sufficient warning, and a horrific execution in Empyria would be justified." He stroked his chin. "However, I would be willing to leave your betrayal unmentioned should you do something for me."

Deep down, beneath the roiling waves of despair, beneath the chaos of battle, and despite his vain hope otherwise, Endarion had known his path would lead him here. Estrid had cornered him just as completely as she'd cornered herself. Dobran had left the battle in pursuit of Estrid because he'd known Endarion would follow. They'd both known how this would end, even if Endarion didn't, and it rankled to be manipulated by Estrid and Dobran at the same time.

"The Caetoran wants her alive, delivered by your hands," Dobran said, a devilish cast to his regal face. "A bout of torture followed by a public execution. Both of which are to be performed by you. Janus decided it would be amusing to have you inflict all the injuries on Estrid that the Shaeviren Dhamara inflicted on you."

Endarion clenched his fists, almost choking on the potent desire to punch the man's smug, bastard face in.

"How to execute her, though? The Imperium's laws regarding the deaths of nobles no longer apply to Estrid. For a captured enemy, an enemy organiser at that, I believe sawing would be appropriate. Do you think your arms are strong enough for that? I've heard the body resists quite a bit."

Arguably the most painful method of death yet devised. Endarion had never witnessed it, as it had been a forbidden form of execution for some years due to its sheer barbarity. Janus would revive it for Estrid, of course, and make a spectacle of it.

Endarion's already grim expression darkened. He would sooner face such an execution himself than let Estrid perish in such a dehumanising manner.

"This was always about her, wasn't it?" Endarion said. When Dobran offered a cocked eyebrow, he added, "You left your allies in the field knowing I'd sabotaged the battle. They'll be destroyed but you don't care. You separated Estrid almost as soon as the lines met."

His cousin hefted his shoulders in a lazy shrug but voiced no response. He didn't need to, because Endarion already knew what had transpired. Dobran needed Estrid neutralised and secured, just as he and Janus needed Endarion discredited and removed from the field. If Dobran could seize Estrid alive and return her to the Imperium, Kalduran would lose its chief advantage, their morale would be shattered, and their belief in their Baltanos undermined by virtue of his misplaced confidence in Estrid. If both Endarion and Estrid were killed, the Caetoran could return to a diminished and more vulnerable Kalduran and conquer it without fear of Estrid's knowledge of Imperial tactics or the risk of Endarion's betrayal. Any losses Korzha and Byrria suffered could be replenished by their Castrian allies, so long as Dobran's army remained intact.

All this, just to be rid of two troublesome rivals.

"Let me make something clear to you," Dobran said, jabbing a finger into Endarion's armoured chest. "Should you let her escape, should you give her the mercy of a quick death, should you in any way refuse to comply, the Boratorren family will be annihilated, wiped from memory. We'll start with your brother and his whelps." Endarion shifted, moved as if to strike his cousin. The younger man was faster, and gripped Endarion around the throat, applying just enough pressure to hurt. "I know Estrid cornered herself on purpose. I know she lured us both here. I suspect you are planning something together, that you colluded with her outside Varanos." He squeezed harder, pushing Endarion's head forcefully to the side. Endarion tamped down the urge to wrestle the man's hands away, knowing Dobran craved resistance. "My army will move aside for you. If you don't initiate the attack within the next hour, I will be forced to conclude you're treasonous, mad, or unmanned. Likely all three."

"There's me thinking you were just another unwilling accessory in your brother's schemes," Endarion snarled back. "Really, you fucking enjoy all this. You're as bad as your twisted cunt son."

Dobran threw Endarion's head aside, making his jaws clack, then stormed away without another word.

―

With their forces in a stand-off unlikely to resolve itself anytime soon, Endarion had a temporary command pavilion erected. He'd sent Palla worldstriding to Empyria to relay recent events to his brother—and because this afternoon was one of her scheduled 'strides regardless—then ordered Daria and Avelyn to monitor Dobran and Estrid and give off the impression they were organising their forces for an assault in compliance with his cousin's orders.

When Palla returned, striding into his tent without ceremony, he found her frosty presence a strange relief.

"We need to talk," she said, moving with authority. "Now."

"How fortunate I happen to be free," he sniped. He waved vaguely to the chair opposite him, but she remained standing.

His first-general scowled, an odd look on her. Any show of emotion from her was odd, though.

"You recall tasking your niece with uncovering Novissa's assassin?" she asked.

Endarion bared his teeth. "I'm aging, not senile," he said. "Of course, I recall."

"She has come to a rather indisputable conclusion," Palla said, ignoring his anger. "It was Khian Tyrannus who ordered her death. He hired an order of shadowmancer assassins known as the Caesidi. Not just a single assassin, but an entire organisation, and they were who targeted you at Dujaro, who also killed the other victims."

"Caesidi?" he said.

"During the Arisen Theocracies, an elite order of assassins was created to serve the godkings directly. They've been revived, at least in name."

"By whom?"

"Captain-General Mendacium," Palla said. "What Sephara discovered seems to indicate he is an Arisen himself, and that he has the support of Nazhira Tyrannus."

Endarion leaned back, stunned; he'd been struck in the chest by the hooves of a war horse and was mere seconds away from feeling the agony of it. He had, of course, expected the Caetoran's involvement, had even convinced himself Janus was the mastermind. But to suggest the long-absent Arisen were orchestrating events from the shadows, thousands of years after their dominion had been toppled?

And Dexion Mendacium, of all people, an Arisen? He called to mind his brief encounter with the man all those weeks ago, searching his memory for any indications of his immortality. He was suddenly glad he hadn't accepted the man's offer for a duel in Traian's. And, though he'd known Dexion had lied about the Baltanos's envoy confessing, he hadn't imagined anything quite like this.

Not to mention Khian Tyrannus being the orchestrator. He shouldn't have been surprised; the young man had always seemed to know too much.

Still, he felt slightly madder just for entertaining everything Palla said.

As if he needed evidence—he trusted his niece, because he had to trust his family if no one else—Palla produced a thin stack of papers. He scanned them numbly, finding a kill list authored by the Caetoran, another list refined by Khian, proof of Nazhira's involvement, and confirmation from a neat hand Palla claimed was Dexion's. Once done, he handed the papers back to Palla, to be returned to Valerian.

"That doesn't explain why the Caetoran is now destroying Kalduran," he said, his thoughts knotting in his skull. "Nor does it explain why an Arisen wants this war in the first place."

"Nazhira Tyrannus approved of all the targets, and is likely the patron of the Caesidi," Palla pointed out.

Endarion grunted. "She is ambitious. But part of the Caesidi? Don't tell me she's Arisen, too."

"Doubtful," Palla admitted. "It seemed she only acted as an intermediary between Dexion and her son. Whether she works alone, or with the League's support, Sephara didn't discover."

So, the Caetoran, the Warmaster, the Castrian ambassador, and now the Captain-General of the Praevin. With so much power behind them, Endarion wondered why the Caesidi hadn't done more damage, or why they'd felt the need to strike from the shadows.

And immortals. The immortals. Novissa had been referring to the Arisen. A singular Arisen, perhaps, or the regime as a whole, hence the plural. How had she known? What had she done to become a target? What interest did a disgraced Arisen have in fomenting conflict between two neighbouring empires, and why would Dexion want the Boratorrens dismantled?

Why? Why did the hard-won answers sprout more questions?

It was too much at once. It was too much, full stop.

"One more thing," Palla said as she reached into her combat coat and plucked a letter free. "Your brother was most insistent you receive this."

She swept from his pavilion before he could muster a reply, leaving him slack-jawed and idiotic.

He fingered the letter in his hands, grimacing at his brother's beautifully precise handwriting.

Brother,

Given that my industriously wayward daughter has proven your conspiracy theories correct, you no doubt feel the compelling urge to do something monumentally stupid. We have solid, written proof that the Caetoran has allied with an Arisen in order to topple Kalduran and eliminate our family in the meantime. However, we still need time to act upon this information. As such, you must continue to do whatever is asked of you. You must continue to give off the impression of patriotic loyalty.

First-General Hasund informed me of your public punishment. Know that, if you are patient, we shall repay every lash of the whip tenfold.

Remember, Estrid is not one of us, and her sacrifice will be necessary to grant us time to launch a stable and successful insurrection. If Dobran has asked you to destroy her, you must do it.

He crushed the paper into a tight ball and tossed it aside with a grunt.

It would've been better, he decided, to have fought this campaign to completion without knowing the truth. It would've been easier to consider Janus the greatest evil, to focus all his hatred on one mundane, inbred ruler, than to learn that immortal factions supported by the Imperium's royal family wanted him and his kin dead.

With the momentum of Arisen and Caesidi behind them, Janus's threats suddenly seemed far more real.

He was no further forward in his understanding despite having answered the most pressing question: who had killed his aunt? There was, it seemed, no reward for truth.

He limped out into the still mountain air beyond the comfort of his pavilion and cast his gaze along the ranks of Estrid's army, trying to imagine a scenario in which he obeyed orders and annihilated her. His eyes narrowed upon singling out her own command pavilion, and he was overcome with the need to catch a glimpse of her.

She was so close, yet she couldn't have been further away.

Daria, who'd been hovering outside his pavilion, sidled cautiously to his side. "I saw Palla," she said. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's changed, yet it's all still the same."

"You can't kill her," she said, eyes blazing. "I don't give a fuck what Dobran said. You can't kill her."

Endarion shushed her with a raised hand, then set it gently on her shoulder. "I'm not going to kill her." He forced a small smile. "Not that I could had I wanted to. She's better than me. Always has been."

To say the words cemented them. To the Abyss with Dobran. To the Abyss with his brother, too.

"I want you to deliver a message to Estrid. Personally."

"Are you going to do something stupid?" Daria asked.

Endarion smiled, genuine this time. "Monumentally so."