We were hailed as emissaries of hope, as the beginning of a grand return prayed for over decades of patient waiting. Welcomed, though strangers we may be, heralded with respect and favor as if we were returning heroes. And all because of a lie.

In the far southeastern edge of the wilds known as Merkenia, we were guests of the self-titled voivode of Novakrayu, an enclave of Vasian culture amidst a region that had long since been abandoned by the imperial tsardom. The lie had been Demetria's idea, though it was borne from Emalia's knowledgeable mind. The two of them did more for us than I ever could on my own.

The palace we were guests at was small—far smaller than that in Nova for the tsar—and was more of a fortification than anything. The modern obsession with fortifications still somewhat eluded me, for if the city was threatened, the outer walls and barbicans ought to protect it, hardly some inner castle. Nevertheless, it had only a handful of rooms besides the main hall, and ours was not much larger than a tavern's rentable rooms, of which we'd seen many on our journey here. I was in such a room, leaning over a table to squint at an old tome Emalia had brought to show me. We'd only been here a mere day, and already she had found her way to the city's archives.

The pages were faintly yellowed and wrinkled vellum of fine calfskin, scribbled with barely legible penmanship from at least two decades ago. The language was High Vasian, a variant I'd learned more thoroughly over the last half year of our travels under Emalia's tutelage. I looked up to her, sitting across from me, intent brown eyes on mine, waiting for my response. "The sea people theory again," I said, finally. "I suppose it fits our heritage."

"More than that," she corrected excitedly, brushing her dark hair back, eyes bright with excitement from the discovery. "It confirms they've a language that's not Vasian, which supports the notion of a diverging cultural evolution. Likely of Pethyan origin. It could be them, Daecinus."

I looked from her to Sovina, leaning up against the stone wall with her arms crossed over her new riveted mail shirt, bought with our chestful of riches from Drazivaska. Her hair was braided back, sharpening her already strong, hawkish features. Emalia's guardian, or rather, mainly her lover and partner, shrugged. "They were reluctant to let the book go. Said it was the only firsthand account from someone who'd spoken one of these sea people and lived, though I've no idea why they simply haven't copied it…"

My brow rose. "And this is all they wrote? A single passage?"

Emalia spread her hands. "His account was brief due to his pain. He died from infection shortly after the testimony. Perhaps they should have healed him instead."

"An exceptionally pale people with a foreign tongue," I muttered, rubbing my face. "It's something, at least. Though why common soldiers would have the blood of High Pethyans is curious."

"Class homogenization over time?"

"Maybe. But it may be a matter of Sorcery's oddities expressing themselves… I don't know."

"We will find them." Emalia reached over and squeezed my arm in comfort. "We are close."

Almost a year of fruitless searching, leading us across this barbaric land with little to show for it, I thought, grimacing. Each day was one lost to the priest raised from the Crown of the Column. Even now, I remember his condescending certainty, his prideful conceit. How he stole away my Soulborne as if they were mere puppets. He would come for me, for Demetria, for our people. We didn't have the luxury of slow, incremental progress. We had to act fast.

I stood. "Thank you. This is reassuring, certainly."

Emalia seemed mollified enough, smiling up with satisfied contentment. I met Sovina's gaze; she was not so easily placated as she said, "We've scoured enough of these lands, interviewed many. All clues point to the isle."

I nodded, though I didn't have her certainty. "It's just a means of crossing." And that, in itself, was no small problem. How does one enter a land hostile to all, where the seas are patrolled and any ships attacked and sunk? It was a conundrum of the cruelest sort. We had some manpower for a forced engagement—I hired men across Merkenia to form a small company of capable, mostly trustworthy warriors under my command. But none were sailors. And we lacked a warship capable of withstanding a determined assault. It was one of the reasons we'd come here, to Novakrayu, risky as it was.

I sent out a Sorcerous pulse, searching for my creation amidst the confines of the fortification. Smothered by the thick walls, reaching far was difficult, but Protis was near enough. Its steady, burning Soul presence was like a fire in the night. Protis was nearing us, and that meant Demetria was as well.

My heart swelled. Every time I thought of her, alive and well once again, I was struck with almost unmanageable emotions. My grief had been immense, and I still struggled with its remnants, even as she lived. I stood, smoothing out my dark violet dyed robes—a copy of a Column priest's. One arm, ending at the elbow, hung useless at my side, the excess fabric of the sleeve rolled up and tied off, the phantom pain like a stinging pressure. Upon my brow, I wore my diadem from Drazivaska, and hidden under the robe, the Corrupted Eye Artifact. Essential tools for the future. I only wish I still had my gambeson, but it was stowed away with our things. Demetria would prefer I keep up the appearance of a priest, regardless.

I looked at the door to our shared chamber. A moment later, it opened, and Protis entered, its iron armor glinting in the candlelight and faint evening sun. Underneath, the modified Sorcerous gambeson, stitched and patched as best it was. At its side, upon a thick leather belt, was a massive axe fit for a large warrior that Protis could bear single-handed. The Soulborne's skull-like head was encased in a helm fit with a strong nosepiece, revealing most of its face. Black eyes met mine, and where some might see emptiness, I found something near humanity.

But behind, standing tall with almost imperial honor, was my love, Demetria. Like me, she wore Column robes of purple in pleasant contrast with her almost platinum-colored skin; her hair, grey as dark ash, pooled around her shoulders in carefully crafted swirls. Her facial features were bold, almost handsome in their proud beauty. Eyes like gemstones, the same color as her robes.

"The voivode has issued a summons," she said in fluent Vasian—brought about from a combination of Sorcery and training over the last months—as Protis closed the door behind her, our ever-vigilant guard. "Less formal than our initial greeting, and so I would expect it is time for substantive answers on our part. Our story must be ready for all skepticism."

Emalia stood with a sigh, closing the account-filled tome. "In the Column, we received many pleas from Novakrayu, but never were we in the position to offer anything more than empty assurances. More often than not, we simply didn't reply. I remember studying the historical collection of letters—there were a dozen over the last century alone. Only a handful were ever deigned a response."

"And yet they still believe Vasia will return," Sovina said with a snort. "How naïve can they be? It's been nearly two centuries."

Demetria glided over, poised and graceful, even in a casual environment as the privacy of our chamber. "If they give up hope of a Vasian return, they admit a future so uncertain it may crack their very identity. At least, the identity of the thoroughly Vasian ruling class." South of Novakrayu was a massive stretch of steppe lands inhabited by the powerful Targul people, their new settlement across the Nadya river—a direct threat to Novakrayu's independence. To their east, the sea, and otherwise, thick forest and plains full of roaming banditry and Dead. The city was truly isolated. "They believe it because they feel they must, solitary as they are. The belief is almost hereditary, passed down like religious belief."

Emalia's face grew tight. "Hardly an apt comparison."

"My point is merely that faith should be learned on one's own, but when inherited as a cultural belief, the truth—or lack of it—becomes irrelevant to the believer," Demetria continued, standing by my side, arm snaking through mine. "As such, these are the same."

Before the discussion could continue in any protracted, unnecessary form, I nodded to the door. "Does he expect us now?"

"Yes."

"Then we've little time to prepare. Emalia, I trust you're ready?"

She nodded, jaw set, and shoulders squared like a soldier ready for battle. "Remember: the Column bends for no sovereign—not even the imperial tsar. Treat them as would-be subjects under a surface of good manners."

Sovina smirked my way. "Instructing Daecinus on arrogance?"

I grinned in return. "You two can give anyone pointers on that, I believe." We laughed, and some of the tension in the room was dispelled. As we left the chamber, I reflected on these last months. Sovina and I usually saw eye-to-eye on matters, and so regaining a sort of familiarity was not difficult; in fact, we'd grown closer as friends more recently. Emalia, however, held more of a grudge for the events in Nova. For this, I could hardly blame her. But she was still quite empathetic to my plight and the reasons behind my rage—I hoped we could move past the resentment, eventually, though I know I killed people close to her with my attack. Demetria, ever the diplomat, could get along with anyone, but it seemed she held more bitterness for the Column than even I did, and for that, there was always some lingering tension.

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It was not perfect, but the dynamic worked well enough for now. I wondered how long it might be before the next dilemma, or worse, the next cruel, necessary step, broke our party asunder.

…

Emalia led the way to the main hall, where the voivode of the city would be. He, of course, was no true voivode—they could only be confirmed by the High Priest or tsar—but it was the best these impoverished, isolated people could do. The palace, if one could call it that, was like their city: overcrowded, gilded with faded prestige, and crumbling. Boyars, ill-equipped druzhina, clerks, and priests filled the main hall, coming and going. Only a small circle near the head of the chamber was still with silence and meager authority. There, with his back to the old stone wall, warming himself by a fire pit, was the so-called Voiovde Krayusky. He was a middle-aged man with an oblong, honest face. Brow raised in a sort of perpetual surprise, he looked upon Emalia and the others with a wide smile. Not one easily faked, if she was forced to guess.

"Ah, my honored guests of the grand Column of holy Nova, it is past due time," he said, arms extended in a welcome greeting. There were others with him: a few robed men and women playing priests of their unofficial temples and a tall man in a fine tunic with hands stiffly clasped before him. She didn't remember his name but knew him to be an important boyar from Demetria's initial ascertainments of the political landscape… however she figured all that out.

"I must apologize for the delay," the voivode continued, hands returning to the flame. "I was required in the south, you see. A matter of some import across the river with those damn barbarians. Did you know they have a veritable city on our borders? A city! Never would I have thought the day might come when the Targul would have crossed the Tulir Steppes. A desert, it is. Entirely inhospitable. But now they're here with enough huts and hovels to cover the ground for miles." He let out a final huff, anger dissipating quickly. "Well, that's done with for now. Please, please, we've been held in suspense for too long. Priestess Emalia, is it? I am told you are the Column's foremost representative. I assume you can speak for the wishes of the tsar?"

You can do this. You are the Column. Emalia bowed, straightening with all the authority she could muster. She leveled an appraising look across the others there, letting her gaze linger on the boyar before returning to the voivode. "Vasia is considering an eastern campaign." She paused, letting the news sink in. The priests blanched and exchanged whispers, and the boyar revealed nothing except a slight narrowing of the eyes while the voivode smiled broadly.

"I thought so! The Silver Peaks, I presume?"

"They are true Vasian holdings by right, and once the quarrelsome city-states in the western shadow of the range are secured, we can move toward a true reclaiming of our eastern assets," she replied, trying to keep her voice even. She imagined Demetria's natural ability with words and tried to mimic her smooth confidence. "We come as appraisers of Novakrayu's potential. Word has reached us of your plights, after all."

"After long enough," the boyar interjected with a tight-lipped frown.

Voivode Krayusky scowled over his shoulder. "Come now, Elizar, they're our guests! And Nova's very messengers!" He turned back with an apologetic smile. "Things have not been easy anywhere, I can imagine. Such is the way of the world these days. Well, now, why don't we discuss what this appraisal is made up of? Is Vasia now ready for unification as we've long awaited?"

"That remains to be seen," Emalia replied evenly. She licked her lips and gestured toward Demetria as if allowing her to speak. If anyone is the leader of this, it is hardly me.

The woman from the ancient past gave an exact copy of Emalia's bow and straightened with an easy, practiced smile. As she did, and everyone turned their gazes toward her, Emalia had a chance to scan their expressions more thoroughly. With the group of priests, she saw a set of mixed reactions, though one stood out to her: intrigue, possibly concern. "We've not come to inspect Novakrayu," Demetria said, "nor are we intent on auditing your treasury and army. Rather, we've one simple desire, and I imagine it is one you may find some agreement with: we want to see the Targul crushed." Through their appraising nods and mutterings, she gave a faint smile. "They hold our lands as if they were theirs, stealing silver and gold from our mines, farming our soil. The tsar is weighing a full campaign after securing the free cities, and we are responsible for determining the probability of such a campaign."

The voivode clapped his hands, stepping from the fire up to their group. "Hah! War against the Targul?" He grinned like a child receiving a present and grasped Demetria's hands. "Of course, we should assist! What else must you know?"

She carefully extracted her hands, face not betraying even a sliver of negative emotions, though Emalia couldn't help glancing at Daecinus. He stared at the voivode patiently, seeming equally unperturbed by his sudden physical touch. "It's not so simple, I am afraid," Demetria said. "The Column requires more. Your forces, while certainly capable, are not sufficient to guarantee a strong position at the onset of war."

The voivode's face fell. "We have a semi-professional core around which our city militia and levies fight. As much as any Vasian voivode!"

Demetria's patient smile wavered, and Emalia was uncertain whether it was purposeful, though certainly effective. "Do you truly believe so?"

"I… Well… We meant no offense, of course, but—"

The man named Elizar interjected, "What are your roles in the Column?"

"Excuse me?" Demetria replied.

"Your roles. I understand there is some stratification and specialization. What are your roles? We've hardly made proper introductions beyond your names and vague purpose upon your arrival to our city."

"The Column has no such… ranks as you understand it," Emalia said. "We all operate under the High Priest. Some working closer to him than others."

"And do you have no specialties? To make such quick military judgments seems to require the need for at least some experience in war."

"I can speak to that," Daecinus answered.

"Ah, of course, Astartes, was it?"

He nodded. He had been concerned about using his real name and so went with a variant of his surname. "You speak for your master much, I see."

The boyar bristled, and that was when the voivode seemed to regain control of himself and speak once more. "Well, if not our armies, what do you require?"

Daecinus spoke in a flat, almost impatient tone, "Assurances of strength. We require a grand alliance threatening their flank, forcing a two-front war, inducing quick surrender."

"A grand alliance? Well, we can certainly attempt to reach out to the barbarian cities to our north…"

"Not them. The Sea People who call the isle home."

The room went silent. The voivode gawked, Elizar harrumphed and shook his head, and the priests all blanched with obnoxiously disagreeable surprise.

Daecinus continued, hardly dissuaded, "They are the only faction in this region that possesses a clear strategic advantage. They control the sea. It opens up opportunities for deep raids into Targul lands by river and coastline. By our reports, they have numbers and training that surpass most. You would be well-positioned to make an ally out of them."

"Your reports clearly do not mention their universal hostility and obsessive isolationism," Elizar replied, face steeling.

"Labels easily applicable to Novakrayu from an outsider's perspective."

"A flimsy comparison. We do not raid civilian vessels and attack villages."

"No? I must have heard a different tale of your presence in this region."

"Clearly, we have much to learn on this topic," Demetria quickly added with an easy smile. "There are many means to procure a peaceful meeting. One we believe will bring much fruit, even if it seems difficult to you now."

Voivode Krayusky wrung his hands and attempted a casual tone, "Right. Of course. Ah… This is all hard to grasp… But if the Column has ideas, then we are hardly opposed to listening, are we?" The priests were hesitant yet nodded agreeably, while Elizar remained silent. That seemed to be enough for the voivode, who gave a watery smile. "So, ah, what does the Column deem a good strategy to interact with these, ah, Sea People? You are aware of the struggle of a non-violent interaction, I presume?"

"They prey on isolated ships and weak, undefended coastal towns. But have you ever engaged them with a fleet?"

"Hardly. We have one, of course, but nothing to make certain any naval victory against such a force. Well, at least not as of yet, though if the Column deemed it so, we could attempt an expansion…"

Demetria waved the thought aside. "Nothing so drastic, Voivode. We believe even the threat of a naval action may draw a more formal response. One possibly precipitated by discussion. And, if not, Priest Aspartes is the most powerful Sorcerer of the Column. You've met Protis, for instance," she said offhandedly, gesturing to the looming Soulborne standing in the back of the group. Wary gazes lingered on the Soulborne, hulking and silent—a most intimidating sight to those unaccustomed to the strangely human Dead spawn. "Aspartes can defend the fleet if it comes to it, but a demonstration of Sorcery should make it decidedly unnecessary. From there, we can begin discussions in full."

Daecinus earned a number of stares for Demetria's words, most of them vaguely reconsidering as if deciding to evaluate the newcomers in a new light. Voivode Krayusky made some agreements and promised to continue discussions further, to which Demetria accepted. And I was intending on leading this, Emalia thought with a mix of wry amusement and bitter shame. She was a priestess of the Column, and yet it was someone entirely foreign to it who most handily led negotiations representing that very Column. The irony was sharp.

With that, formalities were quickly concluded, and talk moved from business to that of recreation, for it seemed the voivode was intent on celebration. Their group was ushered away, told to prepare for tonight, for a feast was to be held, and they were expected as people of honor.

People of honor, Emalia thought, walking away, trying not to show her shame. If only they knew it was all a lie. These innocent people, holding out hope on the frontier of civilization, desperate for a Vasian return… She felt terrible about leading them astray, but her group could think of no alternative besides Demetria's plan for using their navy as a sort of protection to force a meeting. Sneaking ashore was too dangerous, with the probability of death before even reaching the isle.

No, listening to Demetria and Daecinus speak about the conundrum, Emalia agreed to the necessity of their plan. She wanted to see them reunited, prepared against the summoned priest's eventual attack. Even if she didn't approve of war, they deserved to fight for their people's future. That much she could say with certainty.

Whatever happened, that collection of Souls made physical had to be stopped. If anything, her duty lay there.

But how they stopped him mattered, too, didn't it?

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