The Archbishop turned, his face a stony mask. There was no trace of warmth—no hat-tipping, no politeness. “I greet the Commander of the Olivists. I see you received my summons to the Council.”

  Horatio d’Estella snorted. “Heretic,” he muttered loudly enough for all to hear.

  The orange-robed man’s grin spread wide, theatrical and unshaken. “It is a pleasure to be here. My men and I are ready to serve the cause of the Crusade. Who is in overall command?”

  From her perch on the rooftop, Irelia let out a soft laugh. She twirled an arrow between her fingers. “We were just figuring that out,” she said. “But I’ll only take orders from either you or the Necromancers.”

  The Olivist turned toward Rüdiger. “Margrave vom Erlenwald, may I ask how you survived? What happened to you?”

  Rüdiger rolled his eyes. “I sacrificed two cores, as I already said. I’ve been reduced to level twenty-five. Can we move on to more important matters now?”

  The Olivist studied the gathering for a moment, then dipped his chin in a slow, deliberate nod. “It seems the Margrave is the most experienced commander present. I think my men would do well under your command, Margrave von Erlenwald.”

  Horatio d’Estella exploded. “You dare give that heretic—that dark wizard—authority over the Church?!”

  The Olivist only smiled. “Whether the sins of a dark wizard outweigh the sins of a Church corrupted by the Demiurges… that is a debate for another time.”

  Duke Horatio d’Estella’s face darkened, his hand tightening on the hilt before he finally ripped the blade halfway free, pointing it with barely checked fury.

  “First Speaker John Mettig. For the evil you spout, I shall challenge—”

  The Archbishop caught him by the sleeve, hissing urgently in his ear. The Duke trembled with rage, but after several failed attempts, he finally managed to shove his sword back into its sheath.

  Adarin shook his head privately. If these were the junior officers left in charge, then their seniors must’ve chosen successors by drawing lots—or as a cruel joke.

  First Speaker John Mettig inclined his head toward the Archbishop with a serene smile. “Thank you, brother.”

  Horatio d’Estella tensed again. Rüdiger’s lips curled in a sly half-smile, acknowledgment flickering in his eyes.

  Then the First Speaker continued, “Furthermore, I have encountered the Disinherited. The dwarves are already preparing for an assault, together with my cannoneers—at the gate.”

  He turned to Rüdiger. “If the Margrave permits, we will begin initiating bombardment there.”

  Rüdiger’s lips curled in a sly half-smile, acknowledgment flickering in his eyes.

  “Ja, ja. That sounds like a solid plan.”

  Adarin frowned, then leaned in and whispered, “What the hell is a cannoneer?”

  Rüdiger tilted his head. “That you should be familiar with. It’s an artillerist.”

  Adarin exhaled in relief. Finally. We’re doing something serious. Artillery. Good. He smiled, anticipation tingling in his gut.

  The Archbishop inclined his head. “So, this only leaves us with two matters to discuss, doesn’t it? The order of battle… and—” he gestured down the road “—what blood price the elves will pay for our dead men.”

  His face hardened as the orange robed man loudly cleared his throat. “First Speaker?”

  The First Speaker smiled calmly. “How do we know the elves weren’t simply defending themselves?”

  The Archbishop and Horatio d’Estella bristled. But before either could respond, melodic laughter drifted from above.

  “A valuable question, indeed,” the elven Seishin said from her rooftop perch. “After all, it’s not my people who’ve been spouting hatred this entire time.”

  A staring contest followed—neither side willing to blink first.

  If this turns ugly, everyone’s mixed in with everyone else. Fuck.

  Adarin’s attention snapped toward movement—Liora was approaching the gathered leaders. First hesitant, then more resolute with each step. She came to a halt near Rüdiger, standing close but with visible distance.

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  “Honored commanders,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “I’ve examined the corpses. I believe the enemy’s magic is at fault here.”

  Rüdiger stroked his beard and gave a slow nod.

  Adarin’s thoughts spun. Has she actually found something? Or is she just trying to offer a solution everyone can agree on? Blame the enemy?

  Horatio d’Estella snapped, “Silence, warlock!”

  Liora glared at him. “I am a priestess of the Holy Mother. A healer, trained from early childhood. Would you doubt my ability to see what is behind an injury?”

  The Duke looked her over, then scoffed. “Then why are you wearing the robes of the dark mages?”

  Liora froze.

  He sneered. “A lackey acting as a priest. Margrave, how do you explain this?”

  But Liora spoke quickly now, her voice tight with rising anger. “My sisters and I were captured by greenskins. I am the last survivor. The Margrave rescued me. I owe the necromancers my life.”

  She raised her chin. “Let the Archbishop test me, if you doubt I’m a priestess.”

  But the Archbishop smiled and nodded. “That won’t be necessary. I believe this is a holy sign. Isn’t it, Duke? A servant of the Mother in the robes of the dark mages… Maybe the One demands we look more closely—and examine ourselves.”

  Adarin let the worthless platitudes wash over him, eyes scanning the group, waiting for the next disaster.

  “Very well,” said the First Speaker. “Let us discuss the battle plan.”

  All the leaders retreated to their respective factions as the steely-haired necromancer and her apprentices stepped forward. A section of the street was flattened, and through magic, a glowing map of the region materialized in the air.

  Adarin joined Rüdiger as the leaders reconvened. The divisions were obvious—Elves, Order, and Olivists stood on one side, though not close. The Crusaders and the Sunbanner Knights clustered together, casting uneasy glances at their supposed allies.

  Rüdiger cleared his throat. “The gate will fall after some bombardment. I propose—” he pointed toward the Elves “—we use magic to slip infiltrators behind their lines. The goal must be to claim the city’s crystal.”

  He paused a beat. “For the Crusade,” Rüdiger added quickly, spotting the Archbishop about to interrupt.

  “I propose that you, Lady Irelia, lead that effort, along with a few of my chosen elites.”

  Adarin already knew what was coming before Rüdiger turned toward him.

  “Adarin—you, Liora, and let’s take Johan for sport as well. Join the Elves in infiltrating the city, ja?”

  The First Speaker tilted his chin and nodded. “Is it wise to let the Elves enter the city first? What if the Elven Council claims the crystal?”

  Irelia smirked. “We High Elves have no interest in this filthy Bastion city.”

  The Archbishop stiffened. “Filthy? This is a sacred Bastion city of the Holy Land.”

  “It is,” Rüdiger said, waving a hand. “Ja, ja, it’s holy and all that. Very important.”

  He clapped his hands once. “Now—on to our battle plan.”

  The discussion dragged on for a while. In the end, the plan was clear: after the bombardment, undead forces would advance through the gates, supported by knights and the Olivists’ shock troops. Irelia agreed to prepare a distraction while the council settled on final details.

  Rüdiger stepped aside with Johan, Liora, and Adarin.

  “You’ll take a small detachment. Head for the city, make noise, raise undead. Avoid the city core. If the Elves want to claim it, let them—we don’t need that issue. Our position is…” He glanced around. “...tenuous as it is.”

  Adarin nodded.

  The three mages, joined by three of the black skeletons Rüdiger had seconded to them, crossed the courtyard to where the Elves stood.

  Seishin Irelia bared her canines with a wide smile. “What a fascinating group the Margrave has sent me. A dryadic creature,” she studied Adarin, “a priestess in necromancer robes, and a boy-wizard. Tell me—why should I consider you more than dead weight?”

  Adarin chuckled. “Who am I to question the Margrave’s wisdom? And don’t worry—just show us a mass grave and we’ll turn into our own little combat force. As long as you can get us into the city.”

  The elf sneered. “Tell me—can you even climb, wooden spider? And how about you, priestess?”

  She didn’t even bother to address Johan, simply curling her lip at him.

  Before Adarin could retort, Liora cut in with another sharp jab—just like she had back in the liminal space. “I believe your climbing skill is beyond question, as no thriving cannibal would let their child grow up without basic skill at evading justice.”

  Adarin rolled his eyes. Why am I caught in this primitive kindergarten?

  Luckily, the steely-haired necromancer approached, offering a small cloth bag to Liora. “These are distraction enchantments. Use them to get across the wall.”

  Liora took them without a word.

  All around them, the various factions began readying themselves for their assigned roles. Adarin followed the elves, unease coiling in his gut.

  Then the ground shook.

  A deafening explosion thundered across the city. The ground trembled and a boiling column of smoke twisted skyward—mushrooming over the gates where the bombardment had begun.

  Adarin’s combat instincts snapped into place—he lunged forward, grabbing Johan by the collar and shoving both him and Liora behind the nearest house wall before the shockwave hit.

  “Don’t gawk at fucking explosions!” he snapped. “If you can see the explosion, the explosion can see you!”

  Pebbles and chunks of debris—some the size of fists—rained down even this far from the blast zone.

  “What the hell was that?!” someone screamed.

  From the far side of the square, the First Speaker’s voice rose, riding on manic laughter that cut through the chaos like a blade—half sermon, half battle cry. “Seems my sappers and the dwarves got a little too enthusiastic!”

  Rüdiger looked around, then amplified his voice with magic.

  He thundered, “That is our chance! Initiate the assault! Go, go, go!”

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