Stella's lonely cell vibrated with tension.
No warmth came with the morning sun, but hollering and arguing woke her.
A swarm of mercenaries gathered by the church annex. Halaima's skeleton town teemed with chaotic movement. Many companies arrived—she didn't recognize their flags.
Ragged or well-to-do sellswords waited outside in the hundreds.
Thugs and scavengers—but they could've overwhelmed the Church with sheer numbers.
Except, Otto Ostfeld moved among them like a grey wolf among jackals.
She knew the man; he was not about to lead them. He was unleashing them—chaos and violence in the name of the Church. Her breath hitched, misting the cold air.
'It's the same as it was back then,' a voice in her head noted.
She didn't want to hear it or see the images flashing through her mind.
Her mansion, burning. Parents screaming, begging for mercy—for her, not for themselves.
'He's desperate—dangerous. Either the tribes burn today, or he will. And you'll burn with him.'
"No. I have nothing to do with this—"
'They'll raze every village between here and the mountains. Salt the earth, starve the resistance out. Eradicate everyone who'd stand against them, even the spirits. Can you sit back knowing?'
This was the clearest she had ever heard those voices.
They used to be messy and quiet—today, they felt like her own thoughts.
Or her future self, warning her about the gathering storm. A call before it was too late.
But that would've been blasphemy. Heresy. She shook her head.
"My life belongs to the Church," she whispered to no one. "I'm a powerless, discarded pawn."
'Your life belongs to you alone. Accept our guidance and find yourself along the way.'
The Inquisitor spent his last reserves on pure, unadulterated terror. She knew that.
Her life crumbled. Ironic how she couldn't restrain the Prodigy.
Now, his adamantite gave Otto a last means of fighting.
Konrad Ostfeld—no, Lord Halstadt—broke so many of their forbidden artifacts.
She felt so sick and weak when the bracelet was on her, but when he transferred his essence—
As the executioner of the Church, she lived in celibacy. She'd fantasize sometimes—about making love, earning love, something she'd never received.
And for a split second, when Konrad's mana flooded her body, that was what she felt.
If these thugs got to him, that feeling would vanish forever.
An impulse, stronger than anything she had felt before, made her run out into the chaos of the streets. Her legs were shaking, and the blonde child she saw earlier was there, too—terrified.
Like she was back then. The next executioner.
How long would she stay innocent? Would the voices haunt her, too?
"My Lord," she screamed, her body, even her lips, moved on their own. As if someone controlled, no—guided her every action. "Your Excellency, please."
She caught up, already panting from the battle raging inside her.
Otto turned with a sneer, causing her almost physical pain.
"What is it, Sister?" he asked, voice sharp like a cold knife. "Don't you see I'm busy?"
"L-let me go with them. The troops—I know where the tribesmen are. I'll prove myself useful again. Please." She was ready to drop to her knees if she had to, and beg.
The Inquisitor's cold face softened for a moment before twisting into an eerie grin.
"Very well. Even failures like you deserve a second chance," he said, nodding. "But have the decency of dying on the battlefield before you'd disappoint again."
A cold knot tightened in her stomach. "Yes, My Lord, I will," she bowed, throat dry.
Her gratitude was genuine—but to the spirits, for guiding her when she would've collapsed.
Did they drive Konrad's defiance, too? Aiding him in his mad plans?
Was he aware of the wave of fire and steel that was coming for him? No. For them.
Because she'd be there with him soon, too, to do something, anything to live up to the Prodigy.
***
"Twenty guards, a walk in the park." Vargas stabbed at the map scratched into the dirt. "The Inquisitor must be short-handed. We'll sneak in and leave with his captives."
Konrad studied the sketch of the salt mine, an ugly scar on the mountainside.
A main gate, a processing yard, and a network of tunnels.
The tribal scouts did a great job when not wasted on frontal assaults.
"So they still had an income." Nimrod glared.
"Not for long," Konrad claimed with confidence. "Does that watchtower have archers?"
"Crossbowmen," a gruff voice said, a scout—and chieftain of whichever tribe. His name was Bor, and Vargas promoted him to captain of 'Company B'. "Accurate motherfuckers."
Five hundred tribesmen could've overwhelmed them, but he wanted zero casualties.
"Alternative paths?"
"Old ventilation shafts," Bor offered. "The Church sealed 'em—air must be mushy as hell—but could reopen one by nightfall."
Konrad nodded. One way in—they also needed one out.
"Vargas? Can you fake an attack on the gate?" he asked. "Bor goes down the shafts, frees the slaves, then, uh, we bust them out."
He was no strategist, but had to solidify his position on the Council.
The guard's captain scratched his stubble before answering, and Nimrod took the opportunity.
"Why not burn it to the ground?"
"Because it's a mine," he shot him down right away. "It'll be there long after the Inquisitor's gone. We need something to rule over after we have won, too."
His twin fell silent, the elders murmuring among themselves.
"A distraction won't be a problem," Vargas still pondered. "But where will you be?"
Nimrod crossed his arms, interested in the answer, too. Konrad shrugged.
"I'll take out the crossbowmen and the remaining guards when Bor reaches the surface. So stay away from the watchtower if you don't like fireballs."
Five hundred against twenty—they didn't need a complex plan. Vargas shook his head.
"No good, they've a hundred-yard range. And it punches through leather like nothing."
"Oh." Even with his adamantite blade, Konrad could only throw a fireball half that distance.
And he had no armor—not even a leather one.
Before he'd reconsider his options, a commotion at the edge of the camp made heads turn.
The shouting was more excited than alarmed, but when he saw red manes emerge from the tree line, his eyes widened. Thirty, no—fifty tribesmen from the Blood Moons—led by Welf.
And they didn't arrive empty-handed.
The blacksmith looked like he hadn't slept in a week, face smudged with soot. But his grin was a brilliant, fierce thing. All his warriors carried glimmering, dark grey adamantite.
Welf stopped before him, and Konrad considered jumping into his arms.
"The ore went a long way," the redhead said, stopping him. He unslung a long, cloth-wrapped bundle from his back, unrolling it on the ground. "Father sends his regards."
A full set of plates—light, flimsy-looking, and dull.
But if Welf Haraldson made it, it must've been better than the bulky, cumbersome steel knights wore. Beside it was a sleek arming sword, its edge drinking the light from the air.
"Is that for me?" Konrad and Vargas asked it in perfect unison.
One reached for the chest plate, the other for the sword, in awe.
Welf's voice was thick with pride and exhaustion.
"Yes, and let me present you the Blood Moons' army, as promised."
Screw crossbows—he might've made their simple plan into an unstoppable one.