Liora scrambled toward the dying elf, her knife already in hand, ready to cut her palm to cast her regeneration spell.

  But Rüdiger raised a hand to stop her, voice clipped. “Wait.”

  He gazed around, scanning the scene.

  Adarin’s thoughts began racing. I don’t understand the politics, but it looks like two of our allies just turned on each other. How do we mitigate this?

  Liora stood frozen—then, with visible effort, forced herself to kneel by the elf. The hesitation was still there, but the choice was hers. Her eyes darted from corpse to corpse, then to the moaning elf.

  Adarin touched her leg. Maybe I can turn this into an opportunity.

  “Hold death over him,” he whispered.

  Liora’s eyes widened. She looked down at him. “What? You want me to—?”

  “This is your chance. We need to know, right?”

  “But how?” She looked around. “Maybe waiting will suffice?”

  “Or you transfer some of your necromantic energy?” Adarin pushed.

  Liora’s eyes grew distant. She hesitated, then shuddered. “But this... this isn’t what healing is for.”

  Rüdiger made a sharp slicing gesture with his hand. “Not here. Not now. You can explain your quests to me later.”

  Adarin looked at him. “You’re considering whether it’s better if the elf lives... or dies.”

  “Yes.”

  Rüdiger turned toward Johan. “Get the herald out of here. Tell him there’s something about logistics—make something up.”

  The apprentice opened his mouth.

  Rüdiger raised his hand in warning and Johan wisely scurried off.

  Rüdiger stroked his goatee in silence for several seconds.

  But Adarin noticed the change first.

  One of the necromancers securing the far end of the street waved, holding up five fingers—then repeated the gesture twice more in rapid succession.

  “Rüdiger,” Adarin said, prodding the man and pointing with his limb.

  “Schei?e,” Rüdiger muttered as several more soldiers in gleaming metal armor and bright heraldry entered the street. They advanced cautiously, then froze as they took in the scene—the bodies, the arrows, the dying elf.

  Rüdiger’s voice cut like a blade. “Keep the elf alive. But do not heal his wounds.”

  Liora opened her mouth to protest, but Rüdiger’s fingers tightened.

  “Do it,” he said. “If this collapses, we lose the alliance—and with it, the floodgates holding the orc tide back. Then it isn’t just about a few lives.” He turned her toward him and locked eyes. “We could lose the battle. The war.”

  Liora swallowed, then nodded. She crouched beside the elf, muttering softly. Her hands began to glow faintly with green light, stabilizing but not mending.

  Adarin followed Rüdiger as the necromancers adjusted formation.

  Two men approached, flanked by a dozen warriors in gleaming ceremonial armor—more theater than threat. Their every movement radiated stiffness, like they were performing their authority rather than using it.

  A third figure stepped forward—young, clad in richly embroidered leather, his posture stiff with protocol. He raised his chin and spoke in an oddly high, boyish voice.

  “I announce the Honored Archbishop Leman Mettig of the Crusade Central Command, as well as the Honored Count Horatio D’Estella of the Knights of the Sun Banner.”

  Rüdiger gestured toward Adarin. Adarin stood still and studied the situation.

  Then Rüdiger leaned in and whispered, “Introduce me.”

  Adarin hesitated. Then nodded once and turned back toward the assembly, while Rüdiger studied the two new arrivals with narrowed eyes.

  Adarin grinned. Let’s have some fun.

  Adarin surged his voice module to near max and bellowed, “ATTENTION!”

  The word rang out like a thunderclap, drawn long and sharp. Everyone flinched. Even the so-called allied delegation scrambled back—some reaching for their swords.

  “I present to you,” Adarin continued in clipped, precise military cadence, “the Great Margrave Rüdiger vom Erlenwald, Archmagister of Necromancy and...”

  He paused just long enough to let it hang.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “...Professor of the sacred art of economics.” Adarin let the absurdity hang a moment longer, covering his tension with mockery. Jokes were armor—easier than showing fear.

  The silence that followed was exquisite.

  Well, Adarin shrugged internally, might as well double down.

  “You may speak swiftly, for the Margrave’s time is valuable.”

  Horatio D’Estella’s face flushed a furious red. His eyes narrowed to slits, staring daggers through the gap in his visor. His gauntleted hand tightened on the hilt of his sword—Adarin noticed every tell, every muscle twitch.

  Yeah, he thought. I might’ve overdone it.

  But one look at Rüdiger’s smug, self-satisfied grin made it clear that at least someone was pleased.

  Rüdiger gave a shallow, almost mocking bow. “I greet the junior commanders. Tell me—what has become of your superiors?”

  The Archbishop cleared his throat and straightened his elaborate robes, clearly preparing for diplomacy.

  But Count Horatio D’Estella beat him to it, his words firing out like a machine gun.

  “Dark magic claimed them. Dark magic of the kind you wield.”

  His sword hissed a handspan out of the sheath.

  “Tell me, Archmagister of the Darkest Arts... why are you still alive?”

  Rüdiger spread his hands and offered a disarming smile.

  Tension thickened until even the air felt brittle. Rüdiger broke it first, spreading his hands in a disarming smile. “When the spell hit,” he said, forming a claw with one hand and slowly closing it into a fist, “I tore out my divination and necromancy cores—let the spell consume them instead of me.”

  He extended his arm. Ink shimmered across his skin, forming words.

  Level 25 [E]

  “I lost a great deal of power,” he continued, eyes dropping to the ground. When he looked up, his voice was softer. “But I did not lose my life. Many of my most esteemed subordinates, however... did.”

  He let the weight of the words hang.

  “So do not accuse me,” he said, gaze sharpening. “For I am your senior.”

  Silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous.

  Then Rüdiger made an imperious gesture.

  “As the highest-ranking official of the Crusade, I await reports on your troop strength and intentions.”

  He extended his hand, expectant.

  Horatio d’Estella took a step forward, but the Archbishop inclined his head first.

  “Of course, Honored Margrave. I praise the name of the One that the Demiurges did not claim all our best.”

  He gave a shallow bow. “Tell me, Margrave—what are your intentions? And what,” he gestured to the mangled corpses behind Rüdiger, “is the meaning of this?”

  Adarin gestured to the steely-haired woman, already calculating lines of retreat and crossfire angles. He stepped aside, but not before shifting their formation a few feet—enough to cut off a flanking approach.

  “Bring me the herald,” he murmured. “We need a witness.”

  Rüdiger gave a near-invisible nod of thanks that only Adarin could see as the old woman vanished into the crowd.

  Rüdiger smoothed his expression into one of grave sorrow.

  “We came across this scene and are currently investigating. It appears that some of our allies... fell into a misunderstanding.”

  The Southlandish count snarled. “What misunderstanding can there be? Honorable knights were slaughtered—by those disgusting elves! Funereal lackeys who should never have been allowed to join this holy war!”

  The Archbishop held out a hand to restrain the Count. “In the name of the Holy Unity, calm your temper, my friend. The One’s wisdom has surely guided us to this encounter, and righteousness will prevail.”

  He turned back to Rüdiger. “I see you have a survivor. May I speak with them?”

  Rüdiger tilted his head, pausing deliberately, as if weighing the request.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “given the injured parties involved in this... incident, it would be best to wait for Elven representatives before allowing any interrogation.”

  That was the spark.

  The leader of the Sunbanner Knights stepped forward and drew his sword with a hiss of metal, pointing the blade straight at Rüdiger.

  At once, spells flared in the hands of necromancers around them. A dozen black-metal skeletons raised their weapons and stepped forward in perfect formation, flanking Rüdiger with chilling precision.

  “He’s siding with the forest cannibals!” the Count spat.

  Rüdiger smiled—charming, infuriating—and slowly lowered his hands in a disarming gesture.

  “I believe they are high elves, not wood elves.”

  The Count snarled. “Dress a dog in silk, and it still bites filth. That is what your ‘allies’ are—beasts dressed in robes. Tell me I am wrong, and I’ll carve the lie out of you.”

  He barked the last words. For a beat, nothing moved—then armor clanked as his retinue surged forward, hands going to hilts and shields.

  The Sunbanner knights advanced. At once, the church soldiers shifted—fanning out, silent and calculating.

  Then, a young voice rang out from the necromancer ranks.

  “Wait! Wait!”

  The leather-clad herald broke through the crowd, stepping into the center of the standoff.

  “I swear on my honor, sire—” He dropped to his knees before Count d’Estella. “We came across this—” He looked around the scene, breath quickening. “—this massacre! Just moments before you arrived!”

  He threw a glance toward Rüdiger and the necromancers. “The dark mages are innocent in this.”

  Adarin caught the twitch—the microexpression of someone choosing strategy over truth. The man turned and whispered something into the Count’s ear. Adarin couldn’t make it out—but whatever it was, it worked.

  The Count lowered his sword.

  He didn’t sheathe it.

  Then he spoke aloud. “Very well. I will follow the Archbishop’s example—for I am a man of faith.”

  His gaze locked onto Rüdiger, burning with barely restrained fury. “Should I uncover even the faintest stain of your sorcery in this affair, I will see your bones broken beneath the Sun.”

  He took a step forward. “This, I swear, by the honor of the D’Estella family name. You understand that?”

  Rüdiger inclined his head. “It is understood. And I swear on my honor—we are not involved in this.”

  “Good,” said the Archbishop, lips curled in a smile too perfect to be honest. “Then I and the Margrave shall speak to the survivor.”

  Rüdiger gave a second nod of assent.

  The Archbishop began walking forward.

  Adarin’s Thousand Eyes caught a flicker of movement on the rooftops. Too many vantage points. Too many shadows in waiting. His gut clenched—too late.

  Arrows—no, an arrow—was loosed.

  The shooter: a tall woman. Elven. Dressed in a flowing battle-tunic that shimmered with arcane embroidery.

  The arrow streaked through the air—aimed straight for Liora.

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