Adarin manifested a rootwhip, but he knew the attack would be too slow—and he was too far away.

  The arrow fell like a falcon diving for its prey.

  Then it struck.

  Blood splattered across Liora’s robes.

  A groan echoed across the stunned silence.

  Crusaders and Sunbanner knights surged forward, rallying for battle. Purple and green spells flared to life in the hands of necromancers, while the undead aligned in a battle stance, ready to intercept.

  They faced the elves now revealed above them—lined row by row along the rooftops. Nearly a hundred in total. Each held a loose bow grip, fists clutching handfuls of arrows, ready to unleash a deadly hail that could turn the entire street into a grave within seconds.

  Adarin’s gaze snapped back to Liora.

  She was fine.

  The elf she’d been trying to stabilize lay still—an arrow embedded clean through his eye. Blood had splattered across Liora’s clothes.

  Later, Adarin would note the green’s practicality—it didn’t stain too badly. But for now, his focus locked on the elf’s ruined skull.

  Then Adarin’s mind sprang into overdrive. This is about to escalate.

  He saw it in their eyes—the hesitation. Even in flamboyant, self-assured Rüdiger, whose gaze now darted between the crusader knights below and the elves overhead.

  Adarin cranked his internal volume to maximum and let loose. “STAND DOWN! EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

  The sound cracked through the air like thunder. Dust stirred across the ground. His body vibrated from the output, making him wince, but the effect was immediate.

  Retinues on both sides recoiled, hands clamped to ears. Even the leaders flinched back.

  Keep them reactive. Adarin screamed again:

  “ELVEN COMMANDER—STEP FORWARD AND IDENTIFY YOURSELF!”

  One of the elves—the one who’d fired the arrow—opened her mouth in surprise, showing sharp, predatory teeth. Then she smiled.

  She crossed her arms across her chest and bowed with precise formality.

  She was tall and muscular, visibly distinct from the sleeker profiles of her soldiers.

  “Honored Margrave vom Erlenwald,” she called, her voice like steel over stone. “Irelia. Seishin of Fionnel.”

  She raised her head. “In this council, you shall have my bow.”

  Horatio d’Estella erupted. “How dare you! Filthy Ab-human! You attacked us!”

  Irelia tilted her head, almost lazily. “I culled weakness from my ranks. Is that not within the purview of an officer?”

  Adarin turned around and spotted Johan.

  While the leaders locked into a tense, silent standoff, he scurried over and tapped Johan’s leg. His gaze found Liora.

  Johan followed it—and shuddered.

  Liora was crouched over the dead elf, shivering, her hands trembling as she tried to wipe the blood from his face. Her soft crying carried, faint but raw, through the street.

  First time someone executed her patient. Yeah. That must suck.

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  Count Horatio d’Estella looked ready to launch into another screaming fit.

  But before he could, the Archbishop exchanged a long look with Rüdiger—then moved. He grabbed the Count’s arm, holding him in place.

  “Seishin Irelia,” the Archbishop said, voice calm and formal. “I demand an explanation.”

  She raised a brow. “Is this where I tremble before your righteousness?”

  Around the Archbishop, several knights raised their crossbows in response. The elves, almost as one, crouched behind the rooftops’ edge—tense, ready.

  Rüdiger raised his voice, crisp and clear.

  “I am sure this is a misunderstanding. Certainly, no one here would be so foolish as to attack their allies.”

  He let the words echo.

  “Certainly,” he repeated. “No one here would be willing to attack their allies.”

  “No one human,” Horatio hissed.

  Rüdiger turned toward the Archbishop. “Honored servant of the One, matters of command must be clear. I outrank you—in level, in experience, in scars. And my kind bought your victories in blood.”

  His voice rose with every word, cutting like a whip. “Who held the line while your knights ran? Who died buying time at Sayaka Crossing? The Order of the Invisible Hand has been nothing but loyal. Dutiful. Essential.”

  He took a step forward. “You would do well to remember that.”

  Adarin rolled his eyes internally. Gods above. A battlefield, and they’re playing politics with their dicks out.

  He raised his voice, sharp and clear. “What is the official policy on who commands units in the field?”

  A pause.

  Silence settled over the circle of leaders.

  Then the Archbishop cleared his throat. “This crusade stands beneath the One. That makes divine will—my will—the only command that can lead us to victory.”

  Only Adarin heard Rüdiger mutter into his beard: “How about sound tactics and proper leadership management?”

  Idiots. But at the same time he was fighting back a grin.

  He glanced back.

  Johan was crouched beside Liora, speaking softly, awkwardly patting her shoulder. But the effort was working—she was calming down.

  Adarin gave a tight, satisfied smile.

  The elf interjected herself again.

  “My bow answers to the Order. Not to crusaders drunk on titles.”

  She turned to Rüdiger and dipped her head slightly. “My scouts report that more allies are on their way. I suggest we wait for everyone to arrive—and then we take things to a vote. As you humans enjoy doing so much in your petty city-states.”

  Rüdiger inclined his head with amused elegance. “A most rational suggestion. You have my thanks.”

  Politics. Adarin murmured to himself. Politics again.

  The Archbishop’s eyes narrowed—measured, cold. But he didn’t look away from her towering stance.

  “Very well. We shall wait for the other allies to join us. Until then...” He looked around slowly. “We must resolve this affair.”

  He turned to Irelia, his voice clipped. “Why did you shoot that man?”

  “He was suffering. I ended it.”

  A ripple of sneers and curses ran through the knights.

  “And how do you explain what happened here?” Count d’Estella demanded, waving his sword wildly.

  Adarin shook his head slowly. If that idiot had a gun, we’d all be dead by accident already. But alas, I’m not in that position... yet.

  The elf tilted her head—indifferent, almost bored.

  “The dead care nothing for blame. What matters is who still draws breath—and what enemy still walks.”

  She gestured broadly, arm sweeping toward the distant horizon where the green pillars still loomed.

  “There is an enemy to be defeated. One who has awakened the World Tree. The ancient enemy of your kind.”

  The Archbishop’s reply came without a raised voice—but every syllable was carved from iron.

  “Justice is a holy affair. And if justice is not served, resentment will grow.”

  His eyes bore into hers.

  “This must be resolved. Now.”

  Adarin’s sensors twitched. A disturbance—movement at the end of the street. Raised voices. Weapons being readied. Insults hurled at someone still unseen.

  Irelia grinned.

  “It seems more allies have arrived.”

  Out of the shadowed street emerged a new group—dozens of warriors clad in armor adorned with orange fabric and silk-threaded trim.

  At their center walked a man in a plain, worn orange robe, the sort worn by a monk—or someone who wanted to be mistaken for one.

  He stretched out his arms, smiling as if welcoming old friends to a festival.

  “My dearest elder brother Leman,” he called, voice honeyed venom, “what joy to find you here—standing in the ruin you’ve made.”

  His smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was the kind that came just before a knife.

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