In the Ontullian lands, ravaged by the Razsinate’s followers, were many a fortress. Much like the divisions within the Legus’ army, each fort had its role in the larger conflict to play. Castle Darvach did its job by holding off any invading parties that dared to assault the capital. With massive spiked walls that threatened even the cruelest raider. The watchful eye of Archon Sulvadan, alongside his pack, placed Darvach as a horrendous challenge for their enemies. If they ever reached that part of the Legus to begin with.

  Or, take another, as an example. Efullio Stone. Part fortification, part mining ground. The natural deposits of minerals and ores surrounding Efullio Stone made it perfect for the Legus’ war effort. Various resources to unearth, with a fortress protecting them to ensure they do not fall into the enemy’s hands so easily. Indeed, both of them serve their purpose well. The Emperor remained proud of them. Or at least, he was proud of the function they served. Every citizen, as he droned, needed a function to serve to truly be apart of their enlightened society.

  If Fort Blavim was a person, they would fail the Emperor’s doctrine immediately. It was not exactly threatening, nor well-fortified. It was more of a relic of the past. Built by a nation long-gone and only kept as an unspoken respect to them. Mainly, before the war, it hosted feasts and parties for Legus officials that were high enough to be named but not high enough to be respected. Fort Blavim was a sad middle ground for nobility ascension. It gained some purpose when the war began, but not for anything concrete like its brothers.

  Commander Dreyadus felt trapped in this stone ghost of the bygone. It was not his intention to stay there, as he was only pushed back into it after his defeat at Jama Bog. And considering the bog was previously Legus territory, that shamed him even more. Losing on mother’s land. Pitiful. All these feelings of shame and regret floated around in his head as he tried to forget. He tried to forget through his mistress. A human woman named Margaux Osva.

  In the second spire of Fort Blavim’s trio of towers, Margaux and Dreyadus were enjoying each other’s company. Soldiers of lower station knew not to disturb the Commander during the day, which meant it was perfect for a tranquil time away. They believed he was studying. Either tactics, literature, or some physical artform. And they would be right if they guessed the third.

  “Yes. Ohhhh yes.” Margaux purred. “Harder, darling. Harder!”

  He felt so lost in the pleasure. Panting, feeling her soft skin as he nuzzled his fawn-colored nose in it. He adored every aspect of her; The way she smiled, the guttural breaths she let loose when in ecstasy. Her pinkish taupe skin and the sensation it gave him when kissed. Her very being was like a drug, inducing him into a coma of pure euphoria.

  “Ah. Ah! Shit. AHH!” Dreyadus froze, his body tensing. Margaux kissed him in response. Moaning with him. A wave of joy and tranquility engulfed him, as she made a final few motions. She arrived at his level, crawling down from atop him. Brushing his long golden hair. Taking a deep whiff of his neck. She licked it, aching to never stop tasting him.

  She cuddled up, an arm on his chest. They both rested in harmony, as they very much needed it. Dreyadus forgot his worries. They were slow to return after sessions like these. But eventually, the thoughts would come back.

  “I always wonder what races in your head more.” Margaux whispered. “The fear of being caught with me or the delight in lust as our privacy is imperilled?”

  “I should ask you the same question. You have more to lose.”

  She laid her chin on his bare shoulder. “Maybe. But trading and business can be built anywhere. My reputation would falter, but I’d build something new. Somewhere else. No other country would want an exiled elven lord to join their ranks.”

  He didn’t like it, but she had a point. It was a cultural touchstone of Ontullia that they keep their country pureblooded. Doctrine had been passed down from the ages, instilling the idea in the very core of their ideals. It told them that elves should only have elven children and their children should do the same. Dreyadus thought of it as vehemently backwards, as his true love was human. But if he ever expressed that fact, he would face dire consequences. Especially as a leader in the Emperor’s army.

  Dreyadus scrunched his lip. “I hate it when you’re right.”

  “Then it’s shocking you love me at all, considering.”

  Oh, her sharp tongue. Sassing him like that. He… loved it. It awakened another fire in him, as he leapt over Margaux, pinning her down. She giggled, as she was ready for more. They nestled and kissed and accepted every facet of each other. A rare love indeed.

  Until rapping was heard at their door. They flinched like deer hearing the snap of a twig. A voice, muffled behind it, called out. “Commander! There’s a lone rider at our gates.”

  Like routine machinery, the pair of lovers hopped out of their trance and to respective positions. Although they dreamed of a world where they could share their affection publicly, the Legus had much progress to make in its culture for that to happen. Instead, Margaux hid behind a pair of draping curtains. She vanished behind fabric. Dreyadus spread out books and papers on a nearby desk. Presenting the illusion of study. As he went for the door, he slipped on a neat tunic and pants. A commander would not plausibly study naked.

  He answered. Seeing a spiffily groomed scout salute him. “No one was expected.” Dreyadus said. “What did they look like?”

  “Well, Commander.” The scout itched his chin. He searched for the right words. “It’s a mine-monkey. And he’s unarmed.”

  ?

  Arnzos had his letter primed, but wasn’t eager to start reading. The day had been bad enough, with his near fortune thieved as quickly as it was proposed. But, bad news is necessary to know, he thought. As much as he’d rather live in ignorance, it never ends well for the ignorant. He readied himself. Starting at the first word.

  “Dear Brother,

  I hope my letter does not find in you in terrible circumstance. As I write this one, circumstances for me have become questionable. By that I mean, the kingdom of Hylverea is transforming into a place that I am not sure I will be welcome in, with enough time. From what I have ascertained from town criers, the new Lightmaster of the Diamond Faith is inserting himself into the king’s court, worming his ideas into the ears of all who will listen. Those who would have traveled to the king to air their grievances with Hylverea have now been blamed as recusants. I’ve heard reports of jailings and whippings for acts that were once uncriminal. I am worried, dearly, but not all figures of authority are accepting these new ideas. The Lady Mayoress of Vannid-Brugen has made a public announcement that she and other mayors will discuss such issues with the king. I pray it is fruitful. No one needs this stress while living is hard enough already.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  There may be nothing I can do to ease my worry for our country, but a silver lining presents itself. Guthro is doing well in his reading and his curiosity for the world around him always inspires me. He likes to read to Renzi as she recovers. Speaking of Renzi, she is managing. For now. Her flu finds ways to haunt us, again and again. Luckily, she is strong and lives every day like she has no illness. Her resilience pushes me to find strength. I’m so proud of the two of them. They surprise me every day with their optimism and endurance.

  I have also received your last payment. While I will never understand why you risk your life to make money, words can not express my thanks for the help you give us. Assisting as a banner-weaver pays decently, but—”

  Arnzos put down the paper for a bit. For his sister, Frinzel, this was exceedingly polite. To the point of confusion. Arnzos guessed the jab regarding his sellsword work could be considered a bite, but it didn’t read like one. The inflection of words usually disappeared from writing. He considered the possibility… that she met a suitor. That might explain her odd behavior.

  But also, thinking of a suitor pursuing her? Gross. She was quite ugly, Arnzos dwelled. Common thought for brothers’ opinions of their sisters. He pulled up the paper again. Continuing.

  “—it would not be enough on its own. Anyway, if your contract is expiring soon, Olexei tells me that he might have work for you. Whether or not you’d like to work with him again, that is your decision. Good luck in your battles at the front. Also, if you were wondering why I was so cordial in this letter, here is the answer.

  You stink worse than dogshit, which is why you can’t find a woman, and you carry that sword to compensate. For what? I don’t need to say. There, I saved it all for the end. Butthole.

  Best Wishes,

  Frinzel”

  There it was. Funnily enough, that made his day a little better. But he paused. Sniffing his armpit. He recoiled at the stench. When he had time to bathe, he would. Probably not in any body of water around the bog. In the Razsinate mainland, there were plenty of alkaline mineral lakes Arnzos observed on his trek there. They would make for a good stop before journeying home.

  Arnzos returned the letter to its envelope. Walking back to his tent. The messenger dwarf gave his mail to other mercs and soldiers and even some of the Wardens. As they read, they smiled or frowned or had no emotion at all. One younger dwarf was nearly brought to tears. Though he escaped to his tent before the tears started flowing. But Arnzos knew that face scrunch. Poor lad. Must have gotten terrible news. Then, the messenger went into the Ultin’s tent.

  Moments later, the Ultin burst out, a crinkled paper waved high in the air. Well, high in the air for a dwarf.

  “Dwa’sahn! Dwa’sahn!” he shouted in Runaic. Arnzos remembered that meant ‘everyone.’ Had to be a war report with something helpful. “Gather round. We have news from Th-Quala!”

  That was the nearest Ul-Baqshan city. Around twenty or so miles from the border. If Arnzos recalled, a number of Ontullian Antarchons and their battalions attempted to lay siege to it. He could assume it did not end well, as their was no spread message of the city’s conquest. Ul-Baqsha’s offensive attempts may have been spotty, but they weren't stupid when it came to defense.

  A mass of soldiers gathered. Listening intently. “For the son of our exalted Razsin—” Aj-Malik read, grin from ear to ear, “—we reinforce you with the magic might of twenty five pyromancer magicians.”

  His men filled the air with cheers. Aj-Malik had more to say. “They will be led by an honorable mancer picked from the Scriptorian. Zafi the Spark. Her troop is approximately one week away. Take Fort Blavim for the Razsinate! Show the elves no mercy!”

  And their next battle laid in waiting. A chance at glory for those sworn to father’s land. But simply a bag of shinies for the mercenaries in the pack. It would be a rowdy night again. Arnzos was not in a mood to celebrate. Due to the fact that there was no declared victory. Celebration over a simple message felt null, in his eyes.

  Arnzos had seen mancers perform magic of elemental variety, and it was impressive, definitely. But it did not ensure the dwarves would take the fort with no effort. Ontullia had mancers of their own. A more skilled set of them, as some would say, than Ul-Baqsha. Perhaps it was the blatant assumption of the collective that Commander Dreyadus would not employ them. No one in the Ultin’s battalion was certain. Still, with assumptions aplenty, they let their ale dictate the night.

  While others sloshed around and made fools of themselves, Arnzos practiced with Sunslash. Swinging at open air. He felt the hot flickers tickle his hands. He swung again. He thought about warm baths. A meal besides dried bread and jerky. Showing little Guthro a neat toy from the market. Reading to dear Renzi. Or having a cold glass of mead with Olexei. They seemed worlds away, though Hylverea was only a country next door. Arnzos wouldn’t lie, the upcoming siege scared him.

  Through his mercenary work, it was mainly skirmishes with smaller forces or ambushes on unsuspecting patrols. This was bigger. And frightening. He couldn’t see past the fog of war.

  ?

  The new week arrived, after cautious patrols by day and moronic capers by night. The Ul-Baqshans were locked in the swamp. Willfully, one might add, but the stalemate was still killing morale. There was no sight of any Ontullians. No scouts while the moon hung overhead. No party of riders to engage in a skirmish. The Ultin took that as a sign that the Legus feared the upcoming battle. They would fear it even more after Zafi came their way.

  Standard morning routine began, like it did many times before. Hunters. Cooks. Sharpening blades. They practiced on dummies or with each other. They told tales of their kills or their women back home, to warm up their souls and minds. Topped off with some morning ale. It was like coffee, but better, they would say.

  It kept them alert. And, in handy, when the men on the outer perimeter heard rustling in the brush. They rushed to intercept. Weapons out. But, it was no enemy group. Hell, it wasn’t even a band of indifferent passerbys. No, this was reinforcements. Zafi was here. Along with her band of pyromancers, adorned in veils colored red and black. The dwarves happily guided them to the central camp, as Zafi mumbled to herself. What exactly? Only she knew.

  The scouts brought her to the middle, as her presence quickly drew rallied spirits. Under the sun, her umber skin shone with red undertones. A darker shade than most of the other dwarves here. Plenty of them had mahogany or sandy hued complexions, but hers was an entire tone darker. Those from western Ul-Baqsha were known for that, because of the harsher heat. That being said, she didn’t have much skin showing. Most of it laid under thin, flowy fabric. Including half of her face. Only her eyes showed. Detached eyes.

  Aj-Malik greeted her, along with his observant Saf’yar. “Miss Zafi! An honor to have you by our side.” He kissed her hand.

  She seemed distant. Dissociated. Looking at the mud on her boots. “A fort. Hmm. We could burn the gates. Light the inner buildings aflame from a distance. Hail them with fiery death.”

  The Ultin’s ear perked up. “I apologize, Zafi. I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

  Zafi stared at him. For an uncomfortably long time. He looked around with a light chuckle, as his boys were just as puzzled. “Direct me however you please, sir Ultin.” she said. “I am sure you have strategized thoroughly.”

  A stroke of the ego. Excellent. In Aj-Malik’s eyes, suddenly this Zafi woman wasn’t so unusual. She went back to murmuring beneath her breath, as the Ultin snapped at one of the Saf’yar. The metal guardian crouched in the mud, making himself a dwarven stepstool. Aj-Malik’s jubilant leg rose to anchor on the Saf’yar’s back. Once more, making spectacle of nothing. All that mattered was that it felt right, in the moment.

  “Tonight, my keen flock!” he roared. “We take Fort Blavim!!”