Laczlo's hands shook, knees wobbled, voice tremored as he asked those with him to stay close as he stepped from the narrow corridors into the grand hall. They had faced no resistance upon their approach, though druzhina had seen more Dead—but they kept their distance. They shouldn't be this smart, he thought, eyes wide to the threats certainly lurking in the tsar's hall. They should be mindless. Deus, we've been so arrogant.

Vida came close, ready to enter alongside him.

"I won't have you in there," he said.

"I can help."

"It may become violent. I would prefer if you were not there for that."

She gave him a sharp look. "I'm no stranger to that."

"Still." He shivered, glancing at the great hall's entrance, so close. "Stay with the family. They seem to trust you. Keep them calm."

"Laczlo, I can fight."

"If it comes to that, I'd prefer you run. The less inside, the better."

Vida sighed, then nodded. "Fine." She went to hold his hand, but he took a step away. Her face fell, though she masked it well enough, offering a supportive smile. "Be safe."

Call him a coward, but Laczlo turned from her without another word. Too many people were around, and he feared what he might say. I might die. She might die. Can I only run? His feet took him ahead to where the others stood, waiting, readying themselves. The tsar was pale and trembling—the sight filled Laczlo with spite. I should have done more. I should have been a better voivode.

"If I even suspect this to fail," Iarek whispered from beside him, "the druzhina will hear our call for a final battle. For the Death Slaying."

Before Laczlo could utter a reply, the tsar began his entrance, forcing them to press forward with haste into the hall. While the bulk of the druzhina would stay back and out of sight, Laczlo's men and a few select of the tsar's would follow into the grand hall. It was the best balance he could achieve between Iarek's demands for safety and his desire for diplomacy. But in truth, when he was there, walking in Vasia's grandest hall, empty except for a handful of those godless Greyskin monstrosities and the two individuals upon the imperial thrones, he wished for an entire army at his back. Or in front, preferably. There were bodies scattered around. Warriors, mainly. But one stood out amongst the rest: that of Karnys Vestile, ripped open and nearly in half; nearby were all the traitorous tsar's guards, equally desecrated. There goes any hope for lasting peace with Rodezia.

Sitting on the tsaritsa's throne, to the side and slightly behind, was a strange woman. She a Vasian, most likely, but on the eastern edges of the empire from beyond the mountains by her complexion; she wore the rough clothes of a perpetual traveler, with beads and almost tribal jewelry of bone and ancient-looking bronze adorning her wrists, fingers, and neck as if she were some witch the cityfolk feared. Her eyes were narrowed into scrutinizing, demeaning points above sharp, hawk-like features. The man, however, was even odder. He was grey as stone, like a man covered in powdered dust from a silver mine, like that Armagnian statue, holding a spear toward the sky. His eyes were a strange hue of red, with a head and face that were perfectly clean-shaven, or, perhaps, naturally hairless except for eyebrows. Further, he was tall, even while sitting, and thin, with gaunt, imperial features that demanded attention and subservience. He looked like the visage of some dead king, even while wearing rather simple garb, except for strange ivory and bronze arm rings and a diadem. They both had on gambesons, old and moth-eaten but recently patched.

Laczlo didn't know what to make of the pair. He knew Daecinus was the man's name, and could be swayed by reason, though his goal was vengeance, but Emalia had not spoken freely on the matter, and Oskar even less so. There aren't many of those Greyskins here. Could we win a direct confrontation? He glanced at Iarek, who looked as anxious and jumpy as Laczlo felt.

But it was the tsar who spoke first, "You face the tsar of all of Vasia, inheritor of the Will of Rotaal, Keeper of Humanity, Protector against the Dead and Rogue Sorcerers, Architect of Wonders. I am told you are called Daecinus, though I was not aware there was a second arrogant enough to seat themselves upon my throne. What is your name?"

Daecinus sat still; his only movement was the slight narrowing of his eyes, but he appeared restrained, observant. The woman, on the other hand, leaned forward with a venomous hatred twisting her features even sharper. "Arrogant? Such an accusation implies we've not seized your toy chairs and brought your feeble city to its shaking knees, Tsar. You've come to beg, not negotiate."

"You speak to the tsar of Vasia," Iarek spat. "You will show him due respect."

"He is due the respect I give to a bitch in heat, whining for a mutt to rut."

Laczlo swallowed, watching Iarek fume and the tsar blanch, taken aback and startled. They don't know how to handle rebelliousness, do they?

"You dare show such insolence? Do not overestimate your position, witch!" Iarek shouted.

The woman cackled and thrust a finger at the hall where the other druzhina hid. "We hold your feeble lives in our hands. Your leashes. Will you heel and obey, or must we choke you one by one until you do? The lives of you and your kin hang upon the balance we judge."

"Your Imperial Majesty," Laczlo said in a hushed voice, "I said before I could speak to them. Would you trust me to do so?"

The tsar waved his consent, grimacing at the floor, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Already defeated, it seemed. Laczlo nodded and stepped forward. He needed to hold their attention and keep Iarek out of this. But first, he had to take control of the situation. "Please, a moment," he said to the woman, then turned to the druzhina. "Isak, you may stay alongside the tsar and the voivode. All else, please go to the others and pull further back. Drawn blades do us no good here."

"Vilsky, this is a blunder of the most dangerous sort," Iarek urged.

"And so is antagonizing these people. We do not hold the advantage here." He cast a commanding look at the druzhina. They would hardly help in this fight anyways. "Now, if you would!"

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Though some still looked to the tsar, he was quiet and submissive, so they followed Laczlo's lead and departed. Is he so weak that the slightest opposition sees him crumble? He shook his head, casting such cynical thoughts from his mind.

He turned back to the two strange people, trying not to look at the Greyskins standing just behind. "I recognize that warriors make these talks difficult, though I will bear the threat of your, ah, Dead for the sake of this conversation. Please, may we ask for your name once more?"

"You may," she said, sneering at the others as they finally departed, leaving Laczlo feeling very much vulnerable without the retinue's presence. At least he had Isak. The woman straightened, peering down at them past her nose. "My name is one shared by the victims of war and savagery. By the villagers made homeless, women widowed, mothers bereaved. I am Feia of the foothills of Vetera, from a place with no name, destroyed by your wars, by your so-called warriors."

Laczlo frowned, recalling stories of the rebels who'd fled east, turning to banditry and worse. Of the men he sent after them, brutal in their own way. Did they cause such damage? He did not know. I was hiding in my estate, fearful of the next attack. Always so fearful. Laczlo bit his cheek and forced himself not to look away at his feet in shame.

Isak cleared his throat. Laczlo glanced back and saw a questioning look in his eyes, so he bid the man to speak. "I come from a hamlet west of Vetera in the mountains. I knew of bands of ex-druzhina causing havoc. We hunted a few, some of the militia and I, but there were many."

"Deus," Laczlo muttered. There was always more horror in failure, wasn't there? Even in victory, such damage was still done. "For what it is worth, you have my condolences and my apologies. They were rebels against me, defeated and escaped. I am a Voivode of Vasia, Laczlo Vilsky, and I have come—" he faltered, for Feia's scowl was vitriolic, though she didn't damn him with Spells and Curses as he feared. "I have come to try to… To make things right."

Daecinus reached over and held her hand, squeezing it, before interlocking his fingers in his lap. For the first time, he spoke, voice sharp and proud as fine ink upon an old tome, "You wish to right wrongs you could not possibly hope to balance. You beg for equal consideration in negotiation, but you lack leverage. Your men are insufficient to kill even my present Soulborne. As of now, I have a dozen ready for any blunder you may make—" he raised a brow at Iarek "—and they will be more than sufficient for your warriors. I, myself, could pry the Souls from your bones with the same effort. Tell me, what threat do you pose that should demand consideration? This is not a negotiation. I shall lay out my demands, and you shall obey, or else I will see to it that Nova burns. From there, I would march on your cities and render the same punishment you saw fit to apply to my people, and all your innocents will be put upon stakes, tortured, starved, and broken as was done to us. When Vasia is a mangled corpse, and only the despondent remain, I will leave, and your enemies will leap forth to defile the remains, partitioning them for their own uses. And all will celebrate the day I came, and you had the arrogance to defy me!" He took a deep breath as if regaining some control and leaned back, sitting tall. "Now, are you ready to obey?"

Laczlo knew fear. He'd faced it many times, and occasionally he stood strong and faced it directly, but now… this was something else. In this man, he saw something which terrified him. Something ancient, something unavoidable. "I know Emalia, Oskar, Sovina, the others," he said quite suddenly, lest he turn and leave the palace to save himself. "They were your friends, no? Well, they are here in the city. In the Column you attack."

His face changed, and the mask—if he dared call it that—broke, revealing concern, even if only momentarily. Feia's, oddly enough, did as well. "Don't you dare spit lies," she growled.

"I do not. I swear this on my ancestors, my family."

Daecinus turned to one of his Soulborne and issued a hushed command. It sprinted off like a stallion breaking from a groom's grip, disappearing through the large doors leading outside. Daecinus turned back to him. "What are they doing here?"

"They believe they will find something there that will persuade you."

He scoffed and looked away, anger, frustration, and concern all vying for control of his grey features.

Laczlo risked a step forward, his hands up, beseeching. "Whatever it is you want from us, from me, we can speak of it. But your friends—these people I trust as well—they don't wish you to pursue this. Let them find what they are searching for and speak to you. Perhaps a resolution can be reached? Is there really harm in denying this possibility? As you said, you hold all the leverage."

Daecinus sighed and closed his eyes in thought. Feia leaned closer to him, hissing, "Daecinus, don't fall for his tricks."

"It deserves consideration," he replied after a moment's pause, opening his eyes. "We know records were taken from Drazivaska. What if they are here?"

"It does not change the fundamental truths! Vasia is a wolf set upon devouring her own cubs whenever it suits her purposes! We have no choice but to take a blade to its throat."

Laczlo glanced back. Iarek was shifting, bending his knees slightly, eying the creatures named Soulborne, the door to the corridors where the druzhina waited, out of earshot. Would he try and alert them? Does he think one less Soulborne would make a fight winnable? That Daecinus is bluffing? Laczlo swallowed, looking to the tsar, but the man was still despairing and staring off as if he'd already lost Vasia. He'd be no help.

"Iarek," Laczlo whispered, "don't."

The voivode shook his head. "They plan on killing us. Have you heard that woman? There is no choice here."

"Once we take this step, there will be no turning back," Daecinus said to Feia. "But if Emalia is here—"

"Then they have come in error. Take up the knife. Do not let their weakness dilute you!"

Iarek snuck a step forward, preparing. "If you don't join me, then you will die here."

"Don't do this."

"Feia, we will succeed. But—"

"Liars!" she shouted, casting a finger down upon Iarek, who was turning to run. "We must kill them!"

Iarek began to sprint away.

Laczlo moved, tackling the voivode to the ground. Smashing his recently sewn arms into the hard floor, Laczlo brought the other man down, grunting with the impact. Iarek tried to pry free, then went to shout out. Laczlo slapped a hand over his mouth, wrestling him back. It was a mess of struggling limbs, and in the brief fight, he knocked the wind from Iarek with a knee to the gut. Everything burned with the struggle, Laczo's deep bruises aching fiercely, but still, he fought, trying to pin the other man. He all but screamed in fury and frustration, scratching into Iarek's face as he held his jaw closed. Why can't you just see reason?! Gnashing teeth on his fingers, barely too far.

He wrapped a forearm around the man's neck, rolling over, squeezing with all his might. Once Iarek was unconscious, he'd stop. He would. Sharp pain shot up his arm, screwing his shoulder tight, making his neck spasm. Laczlo gasped and jerked away from the prying fingers digging into his arm wounds. The voivode tried to tear at his stitches, to rip open the bloody cut, but Laczlo slapped his scratchings away and punched him in the face. Nose crunching under knuckles like glass. Still, Iarek shoved off, scratching, clawing. He pried Laczlo's muffling hand free and took a deep breath to shout. Laczlo's eyes went wide, and he did the only thing he could do and thrust his hidden dagger into Iarek's throat.

The voivode stumbled, righted himself, and then collapsed, bloody hands clawing at the tsar's robes as if he were drowning, and the other man could pull him from the depths. He gurgled something out, though it was nothing more than a whisper, really. Wet, popping, and lost in the small whine escaping his lips. The stench of urine in the air. The last tremors of death. Imperial Tsar, Radokh Vadoyeski II, stared down at him, pale, mouth open, and shaking.

"Damn you!" Laczlo growled at the dying voivode. He dropped the knife and tried to wipe his hands clean of blood. He wiped and wiped, but they were still red. He looked up and saw Isak staring at him, his sword half-out of its scabbard, frozen, for a Soulborne was only a few steps away, its axe raised and ready to strike. A statue carved in the act of murder.

Laczlo looked from Iarek's writhing, bleeding body to Daecinus. "Wait for Emalia."

The Sorcerer lowered his hand, and the Soulborne moved away. Isak rushed forward and helped Laczlo to his feet. Then turned to stand between him and the Dead nearby.

Daecinus nodded in satisfaction, then turned to Feia. "We wait."

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