With trembling hands, Tristian pressed the padlock closed on the door of Tuskdale's brand-new shrine of Sarenrae. He hung the usual Away on Mission sign on the doorknob, stroking the smooth, polished wood with love, and broke into a jog towards the recently expanded temple of Erastil. It was a spacious building with a thatched roof held by wooden columns, with a courtyard large enough to accommodate all the believers in the capital and then some. Tristian halted at the back, shifting his weight as he waited for the High Priest to finish the morning prayer.

  Finally, as the believers began to disperse, he wove his way between the departing flock to get to Jhod. As usual, he had to get through Acolyte Genner first, who did an amazing job of keeping the High Priest safe from unexpected encounters. He greeted Tristian with a respectful nod and let him through, but remained within earshot, just in case.

  "What is it, Father Tristian?" asked Jhod, turning towards him.

  Tristian blushed to deep red, and almost started giggling in embarrassment. Father? Seriously? He barely looked twenty. Then again, now he had his own shrine and flock to take care of. He'd better get used to the honorific.

  On the other hand, why bother for that little time?

  "Listen, Jhod. I have to leave town, and I can't tell when I'll be back. Here. The keys to the shrine of the Dawnflower and my office. I hereby authorise you to tackle my duties with regard to the school system and anything else that might come up while I'm away. You'll find all the documents on my desk, along with a written authorisation for you to act on my behalf, and my signet ring."

  "Man, you sound as though making your last will. Is something wrong?"

  Tristian forced himself to meet Jhod's worried eyes. Why did every single lie he told still burn him like a hot branding iron? One would think he'd had enough time and practice to get used to it.

  "I got a Sending from Harrim. It's an emergency. Guelder needs me, as soon as possible."

  He flinched as he felt someone grab his arm. But no, it wasn't the town guard or Jaethal's cronies. It was just Acolyte Genner, with a desperate look on his face.

  "Any news about Varnhold? Please. I have... cousins there, you know."

  "I'm sorry, Genner. Harrim didn't share any details with me. In 25 words, you can only tell so much. But rest assured, as long as there is a flicker of hope, Her Grace won't give up."

  "True," said Jhod with a fond smile. "You know how tenacious she is. Like a hound on a blood trail."

  Tristian blinked in surprise. Anyway, there was no time to ruminate over Jhod's peculiar word choice. Luckily, the High Priest noticed how eager he was to set out.

  "Don't let me detain you, Tristian. Go with Erastil's blessing and do your duty. If I were you, I would borrow a horse from the couriers."

  "Alas, I don't know how to ride, so I'll have to make do with my own two legs. Thank you, Father Kavken. For everything. Dawnflower bless you."

  Before the farewell would turn suspiciously sentimental, Tristian departed in a hurry and left town through the eastern gate. Turning back one more time, he cast a last glance at the wooden palisade serving as a makeshift wall, and the seedlings of wild rose and brambles planted between the spikes, soon to be speedgrown into a living hedge – the druidic version of fortifications. It was a shame he would never see Guelder's great endeavour accomplished.

  He proceeded at a brisk pace until he reached a spot hidden from prying Tuskdale eyes. He had not been allowed to travel by portals ever since the last touch on the Flower, but for this last mission, his one and only chance to make up for his previous micro-rebellions, he'd received full access to this ability.

  Alas, he was a bit rusty in this regard. Travelling to Varnhold Town by portal should have been simple and straightforward, considering that he knew the place firsthand. However, he found that his aim had been a little off.

  He stepped out of the portal at the crumbling entrance of an ancient cyclopean tomb. Was this a mistake, or rather guidance? Could it be that Guelder was in there right now? Or had she departed already? Had she had any business to visit the place at all? Tristian silently cursed his mistress for tossing him into the deep water once again, with hands and feet tied up.

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  His mission might have sounded simple at the briefing, but it felt quite the opposite. Once he found Guelder in these ghostlands, like a needle in a haystack, she would have questions, and despite what now amounted to years of practice, Tristian was still a terrible liar. Why would he appear out of the blue and ask to join Guelder, having dumped his government tasks upon the High Priest? He needed to come up with a credible cover story – but alas, creativity was not one of his virtues.

  The sound of trotting hooves startled him out of his musings. Horse travel was not really a thing in the Stolen Lands, except for merchants and messengers, and considering Guelder's stance on exploiting animals, that would probably not change in the next few centuries. Of course, it was easy for her. She could have four legs of her own whenever she wanted to.

  It was a horse all right. A simple brown horse, with black mane and tail, and (as even Tristian could tell) eyes full of sorrow. It halted at a few yards' distance from Tristian, snorted, and shook its head.

  "I don't speak your language," said Tristian softly. "Have you lost your rider?"

  The horse turned and walked away towards a little copse of trees, occasionally looking back at Tristian to check whether he was following. He finally took the hint and set out after the horse.

  He heard the buzzing of flies, and the stench hit his nose. It came from a heap of leafy branches, a bit wilted but not yet dry, piled up in a ditch that marked the perimeter of an abandoned campsite.

  Tristian forced himself to venture closer, pressing a handkerchief on his nose and mouth, and dragged the branches off the pile, one by one, silently berating himself for doing so. Whatever was underneath, it had nothing to do with him. He had his task cut out for him, and it didn't include digging up rotten meat left behind by negligent bivouackers.

  He was petrified by what he found.

  During the time he'd spent adventuring with Guelder, he'd got used to corpses of all shapes, sizes, ages and degrees of decay. An accomplished healer like him was not easy to surprise anymore. Still, he hadn't expected to find a corpse with a familiar head of red curls, lying face down in what had once been a pool of blood, now just a dark stain on the dry ground.

  Remorse squeezed his innards. Once again, his exactly circumscribed role was just a sliver of something bigger, something that claimed more lives than he felt comfortable imagining. This time, it had claimed the life of a person who could nearly see him for what he once had been, for what he should be, due to their shared heritage, however distant. The angelic trait had been strong in her, just a few human generations away from its source. She'd even reminded him of someone he used to know, back when everything had been as it ought to be. Back when he'd still had his wings. In another life.

  He'd been observing her during their time in the First World. She'd fallen from grace not long before. Iomedae was a harsh mistress, but somehow Darlac could carry her penance with dignity. He'd never seen her waver, panic or bear a grudge. She'd remained faithful to her code, and by the end of their mission, she'd become a full-fledged paladin once again. And what was he doing? Getting more and more enwebbed in lies and treachery, taking turns betraying the powers he was supposed to serve – Sarenrae being the only one he betrayed consistently. Still, he was alive, not even allowed to die until his recent mistress got bored with him, and Darlac was dead.

  Tristian steeled himself and hauled the corpse out of the ditch, laying it out on its back. By the time he finished, his garb was stained with decomposing blood and other fluids. He paid no heed to that. He wanted to remember the clouded eyes, never before seen without a heavenly glow, the face darkened with livor, the golden lips distorted into a rictus, the terrible wound below the throat. He deserved a new nightmare for the nights his mistress didn't pay a visit or call him to service.

  He gently stroked her eyes shut, placing a copper coin on each, then laid a hand on her chest in a gesture of farewell, preparing to recite a prayer, too late to accompany the departing soul. There was something small and hard pressing against the palm of his hand, right on top of the sternum, inside the fabric soaked in rotting blood. Curious, he sliced the shirt open with a scalpel, scolding himself once again. Looting a friend's corpse? Could he stoop any lower? What did he expect to find, anyway?

  A diamond popped out of a pouch sewn into the inside of the shirt. Tristian took it, turning it round and round incredulously, and finally laid it onto the palm of his hand. It was an uncut gem of irregular shape, an emergency spellcasting component that, apparently, couldn't save its owner's life. He immediately knew what to do with it. Once again, after being the cause of so much evil, he would do a little good. Something that could tip the scales, for one person certainly, and perhaps even in the larger context of things.

  He placed the diamond back where he'd found it, above the heart, and laid his right hand on top. His left hand's fingers interlaced with Darlac's. The dead hand felt limp and waxy to the touch, making him shudder in aversion.

  Blessed Dawnflower, it's Your wayward servant calling to You again. People die because of me and what I am part of. If it is Your will for this person to return to life, please grant her Your blessing, and allow me to take Your holy name to call her back from the dead.

  Holy power flooded him in a surge he could barely contain, ripping through the fabric of realms. His grip tightened on the corpse's hand, anchoring him in the mortal world. His lips formed the words as he unleashed the power. Felicia Darlac, I, Tristian, am calling to you in the holy name of Sarenrae. The course of your life is not finished yet. Return into your body, if you wish, and rise from the dead!

  The corpse's fingers twitched in Tristian's hand, ever so slightly. But instead of the warm tonality he expected, he felt a chill and stiffness. There was no pulse or breathing beneath his right palm, either, as the diamond crumbled to ash, used up by his spell. The eyelids popped open, sending the copper coins rolling to the ground, and the warm glow of the eyes returned for a fleeting moment, only to be extinguished immediately.

  Tristian realised with horror that he was not the only one laying claim to the late Felicia Darlac's body and soul.

  Holding onto the power, he closed his eyes and opened his mind instead. He sensed an evil presence, a dark hunger for power and domination, a will to torture and humiliate. And also, the presence of another mind, small, exposed, frightened, but also brave and defiant. He squeezed her hand, pushing holy warmth into her body, not leaving space for anything else. The evil force pushed back against him, like an unholy shield in a cyclops's hand, threatening to sweep him away.

  He didn't relent. He might be useless with melee weapons and just as lame with a crossbow, but this time he was on familiar terrain. Fighting evil for a soul, powered by his goddess – this was what he was meant to be.

  This was what he'd lost forever and did not deserve anymore.

  The nasty little thought reared up its ugly head amidst the final exertion and snapped his link to the soul like an overstretched string, making the loose ends whip back into his face. The power gushed out of him, like blood from a wound, and dissipated into thin air. Tristian fell back on the ground, shaking with silent sobs.

  He failed. There was no return from the dead, not for Darlac and not for him.

  Tristian collected his strength to create another portal. He wouldn't visit Varnhold Town for supplies, as instructed. Instead, he would head straight to the south to accomplish his mission or die trying. Even if he couldn't bring Darlac back, at least he'd seen what he (and more importantly, Guelder) was up against. Together, they would stand a chance against it.

  As to the betrayal that was to follow, he put it out of his mind for the time being.

  The yellow-blue hole bloomed in the air in front of him. A giant wall blocking a valley's entrance awaited on the other side. Tristian stepped through, ashamed to look back at his failure.