What came to be known as The Battle of Eugorid ended the moment Redmane took hold of Nova and Umbra.

  Redmane gathered himself together into one body, holding aloft the holy swords, and he swiftly decimated and consumed the remains of the Numantian forces. Witnesses spoke in hushed tones of the crimson-maned god-king, whose twin blades sang a deadly song of starfire as he moved through their ranks, they spoke of the way each stroke of his blades delivered death to two, five, ten, twenty legionaries at a time.

  He moved as though time itself bent to his will.

  When he leapt, he became a crimson streak against the sky, and then landed with a force that sent bodies flying like scattered stones.

  With a single downward strike, he split the earth, a jagged chasm swallowing a dozen men whole.

  His gaze alone seemed to burn, and where it fell, legionaries were petrified or rendered instantly to ash.

  He roared, and the sound was a storm, a force that shattered shields and silenced cries.

  Many would speak of the wrath of Redmane on this day. But they would speak also of the silence that followed. How the screaming and clash of steel gave way to an unsettling quiet, broken only by the whisper of the wind through Flora’s trees.

  Castle Redmane bore little resemblance to the small fort it had once been.

  The hill upon which it sat was now gone, buried beneath concentric walls of increasing height, the castle now a mountain unto itself. Those walls hummed with power, their stone seeming to pulse with a subtle heartbeat. Gardens flourished where there had been bare rock, their fruits heavy with divine essence. The very air felt rich with potential.

  The great hall had been transformed beyond recognition. A massive portrait dominated the far wall - Redmane flanked by Flora and Vos, the family finally reunited.

  Below the portraits, a long table of dark wood stretched the length of the hall. Its surface rippled like water when touched, and in its depths, maps and battle plans shifted and changed. Around it gathered the most unusual war council the world of Volos had ever seen.

  Vos stood at Redmane's right hand, poring over the map of the Venturian Domain with a mix of consternation and wonder. Valtr and Vengarl sat together trading jokes over tankards of ale, while Evelina paced behind them, her quick mind already racing ahead to potential problems and solutions.

  But most striking were the beastmen representatives. Kard, his bestial visage marked with battle scars, sat beside Venridor Ironhorn, his massive ursine form commanding respect even at rest, speaking for the clans of central Volos. Others bore the marks of wolf, serpent, hawk - the fully ascended warrior-nobility of the land, no longer ruled by their bloodlust.

  Flora stood at the head of the table, wearing a fine silver gown and a blue ermine cloak, her fingers trailing over the table’s liquid surface.

  "In force shall the Numantians come," she said, the maps beneath her touch shifting to show troop movements. "They must needs do so, for we have proven ourselves too dangerous to suffer our continued existence."

  Venridor’s feral features caught in the strange light of the living table as he leaned forward. "Mine warriors grow restless. When shall we strike?"

  "Patience, noble Venridor," Flora replied, with a warm smile, and a tone more appropriate for a mother telling her child to finish their vegetables before having dessert. "Though thy warriors' hearts burn hot for battle, we must needs move with careful purpose. For I possess the System's knowledge, and therein lies our path to victory."

  Grimhild of Gull’s Glut, her massive sharklike form casting shadows across the rippling maps, growled low. "The Gill-Men did not pledge their strength to sit idle while the enemy marshals their forces."

  "Peace, good Grimhild," Flora raised a hand, and the maps beneath her fingers bloomed with points of light, each representing a different world in the Venturian Domain. "Think thou our enemy's weakness lies in their armies? Nay, 'tis in their pride, their certainty that none may strike where they least expect."

  Redmane stood at the window with his arms folded, Nova and Umbra sheathed in finely wrought scabbards at either hip. A deep, resonant pulse echoed from the castle, causing the swords’ runes to glow and thrum with a complementary energy.

  He could have consumed them, digested their power. But something about the act didn’t feel right.

  The act of breaking their corruption felt important. Symbolic. He possessed two weapons which, when held in Numantian hands, bore the taint of unspeakable corruption. But in his hands they were pristine. They had returned to their original purpose.

  Redmane took it as an omen of things to come.

  "They shall expect us to fortify, to make ready for siege." Flora's smile was sharp. "Yet they understand not what they face. I am become the System itself. Every weakness in their empire lies bare before mine eyes - every world they think secure, every garrison spread thin across the vastness of space."

  Taelara, representative of the hawk clans, tilted her feathered head. "What path speak you of, Lady Flora?"

  "The Abyss shall be our ally," Flora's hand settled on a point on the map, and the liquid surface churned to show multiple worlds. "While they gather their might here, we shall strike through the dark between worlds. Their stronghold on Laurentum lies vulnerable, their fortress on Tarracina stripped of defenders. We shall flit between shadows, striking where they are weakest, vanishing before they can respond."

  Naja the Silent, her serpentine form coiled in her chair, spoke with careful measure. "My people are already positioned on key worlds. We have watched their movements, marked their patterns."

  "Thy people's vigilance shall bear fruit," Flora assured her. "When we strike through the Abyss, they shall sow chaos from within. The enemy shall find no rest, no sanctuary, for we shall be everywhere and nowhere."

  A scout burst through the doors, breathless with urgency. "The Numantians are mobilizing faster than anticipated. They're stripping garrisons from their southern territories."

  "'Tis as I foresaw," Flora nodded, unsurprised. "The Regent dare not leave this challenge unanswered." Her fingers traced patterns across multiple worlds on the map. She produced a crystal from her robes that pulsed with a sickly light. "With these devices and the paths through the Abyss, our victory is assured."

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  Alaric, his gray fur streaked with battle scars, growled low. "My pack runners can traverse the Abyss paths in two days' time. We shall have our forces in position across the key worlds."

  "What of these devices?" Kard asked, gesturing to the crystal in Flora's hand.

  "These crystals carry within them the power of the System itself," said Flora. "When placed at the nexus points I have identified, they shall disrupt their world-to-world Pharos communications. They shall find themselves blind, each world cut off from its neighbors."

  The assembled leaders exchanged glances. The power Flora wielded unsettled them - this being that spoke with the System's voice, that seemed to see through the very fabric of space itself. Yet none could deny the accuracy of her predictions, nor the strength of her purpose.

  She also happened to be the wife of the strongest being in the world.

  The doors to the great hall opened once more, admitting two figures who drew every eye. Mecia Porsena walked with the bearing of one born to authority, her former position as Governess of Volos evident in every step. Behind her came Lar Tathvaal, the Speaker's traditional robes marking him as clearly as his smirk and piercing gaze.

  "The Numantians believe this to be a mere colonial rebellion," Mecia said, her voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "They do not understand that their own corruption shall be their undoing."

  Venridor Ironhorn's massive form shifted, his eyes narrowing at the newcomers. "Why should we trust those who would turn against their own people?"

  Mecia's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "I’ve seen what Flora can do to a world - how she can transform bare rock into gardens that overflow with Gnosis. The Numantians cling to their old ways of harvesting power. They cannot imagine what she offers. Cannot comprehend the magnitude of what is possible."

  "'Tis a cutthroat universe," Lar Tathvaal added, his Speaker's voice resonating with quiet intensity. "Survival means adaptation. The Numantians refuse to adapt, clinging to their old ways even as the universe changes around them."

  From his place by the window, Redmane's lips curved in a slight smile, satisfaction evident in his eyes at their words.

  Flora nodded, her fingers dancing across the map again. "Lady Mecia knows the minds of the Domain's Governors and Governesses. Many shall listen when she speaks of what we have learned. And thou, Lar Tathvaal, thy voice shall carry our truth to every corner of every world."

  "The Venturian Legions are spread across seventeen worlds," Mecia noted, studying the map. "They cannot defend them all, not against an enemy that can strike from nowhere through the Abyss."

  "We must do more than merely survive their assault," Flora agreed. "We must break them utterly. Ecea must fall. The Regent must be deposed. And for that, we need every world that will stand with us." Her smile grew sharp. "Tell me, Lady Mecia, which Governors might be swayed to our cause?"

  "Septima Valeria on Tarracina has no love for the Regent," Mecia replied. "And Marcus Durius on Laurentum has long been a critic of Numantian policies, especially when he’s had too much wine to care who hears his complaining anymore."

  "The common folk are already restless," Lar Tathvaal added. "They need only to hear the truth, spoken plain."

  Flora's fingers traced a complex pattern on the map, and points of light began to glow across the displayed worlds.

  "Then let us begin. Through the Abyss we shall travel, bearing both blade and truth. Let the Numantians come with their legions - they shall find not mere rebels, but worlds awakened to their lies."

  Aric Morholt waited in one of the castle's many gardens, among blooms that had never existed in the natural world. His hands shook slightly as he watched Redmane approach, though he fought to still them.

  They had changed much. The scrawny demi-human and the cruel noble's son were gone, transformed by time and power and pain into something else entirely.

  "My lord," Aric began, his voice barely a whisper. "I—"

  "Don't." Redmane's voice was quiet but firm. He sat on a stone bench, gesturing for Aric to join him. "We both know what was done. What we did. What was done to us."

  The garden's strange blooms seemed to lean in, as if their maker were covertly listening. For a time the only conversation in the garden took place between the birds.

  "I was weak," Aric said. "And I hated weakness in others because I hated it in myself." He looked down at his hands. "I became what I feared most."

  "And now?"

  "Now I understand strength differently." Aric's smile was bitter. "Ironic that I had to lose everything to learn that lesson."

  Redmane was silent for a long moment. Nova and Umbra hummed softly at his belt, their song barely audible. "There is a difference between justice and vengeance. I learned that lesson recently myself."

  "Is that why I'm still alive?"

  "You're alive because you can change. Because you did change." Redmane's eyes fixed on Aric. "The question you must now answer is what you'll do with another chance."

  Aric stared at the ground for a short while.

  Then he squared his shoulders, meeting Redmane's gaze. "I would serve, if you'll have me. Not out of fear or obligation, but because I believe in what you're building. Something better than what came before."

  The strange flowers swayed in a nonexistent breeze as Redmane considered his request.

  Then his gaze returned to Aric.

  “Take a knee,” he said.

  The young Morholt’s eyes widened. He must have known right away what Redmane was about to do, and he seemed to understand why he was doing it. Because he’d always wanted to be a knight. And he’d been kept from it.

  Aric slid off the bench and knelt. Redmane rose and drew Nova from its sheath, and the red runed sword glittered approvingly.

  “Do you vow to serve House Redmane faithfully,” said Redmane.

  “I vow to serve House Redmane faithfully,” said Aric.

  “Do you vow to protect the innocent.”

  “I vow to protect the innocent.”

  “Do you vow to acquit yourself with valor, and honor.”

  “I vow to acquit myself with valor, and honor.”

  Slowly, Redmae lowered the blade to touch the young Morholt on his left shoulder, then his right.

  “Then I dub thee Ser Aric Morholt, Knight of House Redmane. Rise now. And show me that the boy who tortured a helpless creature can become a man who protects the weak."

  Aric continued to kneel a moment longer, stunned, gazing up at Redmane wide eyed.

  "And if I fail?"

  "The only way to fail is to give up," said Redmane. "Come. Supper awaits."

  Aric rose and joined him. The garden's otherworldly blooms turned to watch them go, their petals gleaming with Flora's power. Nova and Umbra quietly hummed an ancient song of justice and mercy, the sound echoing through the transformed castle like a promise of things to come.

  They had supper in the great hall with the rest of the gathered leaders.

  Then Redmane and Flora retired to their rooms, to enjoy each other for a time.

  In the small hours of the morning, long before the sun had risen, Redmane found himself restless. And so he carefully extricated himself from beneath a pile of dozing blue haired Floras to roam the castle for a while.

  Much had changed in the course of its exhaustive upgrades. But there was one feature Redmane kept exactly as it was.

  A small cell between the kitchen and larder.

  And since it was on his mind, he decided to go and have a look at it again.

  The kitchen was dark and quiet at this hour, the pleasant scents of cooking faintly lingering in the air. The cell door was unlocked and open, and Redmane noticed that the shackle he’d twisted around Aric Morholt’s ankle was still there.

  The shackle he used to wear.

  For a long time he stared at it. Outside the small barred window, he could hear the distant sounds of guards patrolling, of chambermaids having a hushed conversation, of night birds calling to each other as wind whispered through the leaves of the many trees in and around the castle.

  The sounds blinded him to the passage of time. For a while he felt like he existed everywhere, in every place and time. Like no matter how far he had come and how high he had risen, a part of him still crouched in this dank cell, shackled, gazing out the window.

  He reached out and began to carve something into the cell wall with his claw.

  A statement.

  But the scrape of a footstep behind him caught his attention, just as he was finishing.

  It was the crone.

  She stood in the doorway of the cell, regarding him with those luminous green eyes. No words passed between them for a long moment. None were needed. She had guided his path from the beginning, and now that path was his own to walk.

  Her gaze drifted to the twisted shackle on the floor.

  "Freedom," she said softly, "is not a thing won once and kept forever."

  Redmane looked at the carving he'd made, then back to her. "No. It must be seized again and again."

  She smiled then, and for the first time he saw not the mysterious helper who had set him on this road, but simply an old woman who had carried a heavy burden for a very long time. Who could now, at last, set it down.

  "Thy journey continues," she said. "As all journeys must."

  Redmane bowed to her. And as he turned and left, the crone saw what he had carved upon the cell wall with his claw.

  POWER MAKES MONSTERS OF THE WEAK

  MERCY MAKES KINGS OF MONSTERS

  —THE END—