Darlac and Tristian found several more soul eater corpses scattered along their way, which made Darlac think the baroness and her squad had to be close. She even spotted a passageway leading deeper into the complex, and was ready to take the dive. Unlike Tristian, who seemed to be dragging his heels. This time he found a dark gap in the wall, just wide enough for him to fit through comfortably, which fascinated him for some reason. By the time Darlac could speak up to dissuade him, he slipped in.

  To think he'd berated her for seeking out danger for its own sake – the pot calling the kettle black.

  Cursing under her breath, Darlac squeezed herself through the gap and followed the cleric. Tristian walked forward, as if in a trance, drawn by a force only he felt, and Darlac quietly walked behind him until they reached a large, circular room, with an eye-shaped, empty reliquary in the middle.

  "I recognise this place," muttered the cleric to no one in particular. "This was the resting place of the artifact she covets. Even the residue of its energy feels just as evil as any denizen of Abaddon."

  "The artifact she covets?" repeated Darlac, savouring the words, turning them round and round on her tongue and in her mind.

  Up until this moment, she'd been certain that Guelder had come here to bring succour to her allies as per the treaty, defeat the threat before it would strike at her barony next, and rescue her friends from its power. And now Darlac had to find out from a slip of Tristian's tongue that all her assumptions had been false. Guelder was here to get her claws on the Oculus of Abaddon. Everything else was of secondary importance, if at all.

  Darlac's naive, trusting heart protested in tears against what must have been the truth. Guelder, her kind, selfless, vulnerable ally or comrade or even friend, craving for a dark source of immense power that could help her expand her territory and influence beyond her wildest dreams? It just didn't add up. Still, with the fey threat constantly looming on Nightvale's horizon, it did make some twisted kind of sense for Guelder to claim the Oculus and perhaps even forge a pact with the leading powers of Abaddon. Now Darlac couldn't unsee the disturbing mental image of the baroness sinking her claws into her eye, ripping it out, tossing it at Pangur as a treat, revelling in her own agony, then rising again like a dark phoenix, bloodied and glorious, the glow of the object inserted in her mangled eye socket pulsating with unspeakable power – an evil druid of death and decay, protecting her land at the cost of her mind, body and soul.

  Darlac bit the inside of her mouth. There had been a time she would have laughed triumphantly at such a revelation and sworn an oath to crush the snake lurking just across Varnhold's western borders under the heel of her righteous boot. Not anymore. If even someone like Guelder gave up her core values in exchange for power, what hope remained for humanity?

  There had to be an explanation, and it had better be a convincing one.

  "So you say Guelder wants the Oculus of Abaddon," she said. "How do you know? Did she say so herself?"

  "What?" mumbled Tristian, as though waking from a dream.

  Darlac repeated her question, slowly and patiently, all the while nearly exploding with the tension inside.

  "I never said that!" protested the cleric. "She probably doesn't even know it exists! That's the problem! That's why I need to be by her side to help her defeat the lich!"

  "Then who is she who covets the artifact? I'm quoting your own words, Tristian. Who were you talking about?"

  "I was probably just spouting nonsense," he muttered. By the light of her halo, Darlac could see him blush to dark red. "There's too much evil here. It's already crushing my mind, and we are not even close to our destination. We are trudging ever deeper into the darkness, like the obedient little slaves we are, until we succumb..."

  This would not do.

  Darlac turned to face him and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to look into her eyes.

  "We shall not succumb," she said. "We shall push forward, no matter how badly this place is grating on our Heaven-touched souls. I will not relent until I have Maegar back, if nothing else, for a farewell kiss to send him on his way to Pharasma. And you will not relent until you purge this place from the evil at its core. Do you hear me? This is no time to falter. If you can't see the light around you, you must find it in yourself. Hold onto it, even if it burns your hands."

  "How?" said Tristian, talking through a lump in his throat. "I don't think there is any left of it. When I asked Guelder to take me with her... I think I put her to the test. I wanted to know what I meant to her. I wanted to know if she sees me for what I am, or for what I should be, or if she just ignores me... And then she sent me away."

  Darlac creased her brow, working hard to figure out what Tristian was trying to say. In the light of that remark he'd let slip and then immediately denied, Guelder's rejection of the cleric's company seemed a lot more alarming. If she intended to claim the artifact for herself, the presence of a devout servant of Sarenrae would be an uncomfortable rub in her plans indeed. Tristian, Valerie and Linzi together would be able to sway her. Darlac didn't know much about Harrim and Amiri, but she was pretty sure that Hazel would blindly follow Guelder into any reckless endeavour.

  "You know," continued Tristian, "defeating Vordakai is not as simple as it might sound. I'm putting my life on the line to accomplish that feat. But if I don't even matter to her... Why bother, then? What hope do I have, if even she, the kindest person I know, second only to my goddess... if even she doesn't regard me as worthy of being saved?"

  Oh. If the temptation of power was not bad enough in and of itself, there were also matters of the heart to make it all more complicated.

  "Are you in love with her?"

  The faint light from Darlac's halo twinkled on a teardrop rolling down Tristian's face. He lowered his head, staring at his feet.

  "I don't know. I really don't know. I only know that I'm not supposed to. She has quite enough curses to juggle without me adding to the pile. And there is Hazel. The two of them go way, way back. They would kill for her. Die for her. They're always by her side, protecting her with their life. They deserve her. I do not. And still..."

  For a moment, Darlac thought of old times of innocence: Guelder at the Pool of Tears, emerging from the water dressed only in her wet hair, completely oblivious of the effect she might have on others. As if it were their problem and theirs only. Which, in fact, it was.

  She found herself feeling sorry for the baroness. The more unavailable, the more coveted, like a rare gemstone cursed with a sentient mind. And so many people out there were having a Guelder problem. Hazel. Tristian. Even Darlac herself had tasted it, if only briefly, at the end of her lonely and touch-starved exile in the First World. On the other hand, though, there was Maegar, so fond of his western neighbour and still keeping their relationship respectful and appropriate. To think how jealous Darlac had been, for no reason whatsoever...

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  What direction would all that take once the baroness seized the Oculus?

  Tristian sniffed and rummaged for a handkerchief, which brought Darlac back to the present. She searched through her heart for compassion for a rejected lover, now struggling to do his duty... but she found none. What Tristian needed was a sobering slap.

  "And all this matters because?" she asked sharply.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You love her. She doesn't return your feelings, which is, honestly, something to be expected. So what?" Her voice reverberated from the ancient walls of stone. "You have the means and method to defeat Vordakai. What does your private life have to do with all that? You're fighting a battle, damn you! If she doesn't pass your test, you refuse to perform your duty, like a spiteful toddler? Will you let your unrequited love guide you?"

  "What else is there to guide me?" exclaimed Tristian with a passion that seemed to surprise even himself. "I am stumbling blindly in the dark, forsaken by my goddess, drawing upon borrowed power, at the mercy of... Damn it all! Guelder was my only chance for salvation, and she rejected me!"

  Tristian fell silent, frightened by his own outburst.

  "None of that matters," snapped Darlac. "You have a task to complete. You have the weapon in your hand. People count on you. You can save lives, maybe even souls. If you get to the Oculus before she does, you can save Guelder herself from making a decision she'd regret later. Stop whining and do your fucking duty! Whatever the cost! You hear me?" She shook Tristian's shoulders, in order to ensure that the message sank in. Then she continued in a more quiet tone. "And then, once you've played your part, reflect on yourself and let go of that thing you call love. You don't need an infatuation that only drags you down. True love makes you spread your wings, not wallow in the mud."

  Darlac didn't remember ever seeing this expression of offended fury on Tristian's meek face. She half expected him to try and deck her. Still, at the last moment, his reason prevailed, dissuading him from punching someone bigger and stronger (and, apparently, wiser) than he was. Instead, he settled for a big, shaky sigh and a nod.

  The paladin took him by the arm and dragged him out of the circular hall, racking her brain all the time. She had to keep Tristian going and make sure he didn't stray from the right path. Also, she had to stop Guelder from giving in to the corruption and claiming the Oculus. If Tristian could thwart Guelder's efforts to obtain the artifact... That would be such a good way for him to assert his independence and shake off the chains of unrequited love, and at the same time, it would prevent the baroness from going down the path of destruction and making a pact with Charon, like some stupid Old Stump cultist. Win-win.

  Catching up with Guelder before the final clash felt more important than ever.

  For the time being, they marched on in silence, crossing another, partly flooded region. The flagstones gave way to puddles of ice-cold, stagnant groundwater, breaking and reflecting the light of Tristian's orb. It would have been eerily beautiful but for the stench and the corpses.

  Darlac could recognise a battlefield when she saw one. Some of the bodies, fallen in melee combat, lay in groups, close to each other. A few outliers were scattered along the perimeter, their dead fingers still clutching their bows, their rotting bodies transfixed by arrows corroding their battered armour, their wounds leaking zombie juice. And in the middle of all the mess, a lonely figure with short-cropped white hair, lying face down in the water.

  Darlac knew all the names, as befitted a General. Proceeding through the underground battlefield, ankle-deep in water, she whispered each and every one of them. Adamin. Lysander. Bertel. Horka. Velainah. Merse. Gekkor. Zanoth. Shamu. Tehara. And so on, and so forth. Twenty good men and women, not counting Lord Regent Cephal Lorentus himself. All of them elite soldiers of the Host, killed not once but twice, and if the gnawing unease in the pit of Darlac's stomach was anything to go by, just waiting for their next deployment.

  It was hard to resist the urge to lay out each one in a long row, stroke their eyes shut, say a few words of farewell, whisper a prayer to see them on their way. But Darlac's mercenary gut was screaming danger, and when she looked at Tristian, she found he agreed, too. So they ran, as fast as they could and dared in the water, to get the hell out of there before the Oculus would pierce Tristian's shrouding spell, pinpoint their location and throw them to the Zombie Host.

  Once she felt safe enough, as safe as she possibly could in the lair of a lich, Darlac dropped herself down on the ground, leant her back against the wall, shut out the world, and let her tears flow. Had she already lost? Was there any way at all to turn this around? Where were their souls gone? Waiting for judgement in the Boneyard? Devoured by some hungry daemon or Vordakai himself? Used as fuel for some unimaginable horror? If she ever made it out of here alive, how would she haul these corpses back to Varnhold and dig a mass grave for them, all by herself?

  What would she do as the sole survivor of the fallen barony of Varnhold?

  Shaking with sobs, Darlac realised she had to get used to the idea of taking the helm of the barony in her own hands. Cephal was gone, captured, subjugated and used by Vordakai, and most probably Maegar had met a similar fate, if not worse. Darlac was the third in line for the throne. She could call back at least part of the troops hired out abroad, kick out the barbarians still loitering in the land, and build something on the ruins... after paying out the penalty for default to the customers abandoned halfway through their endeavours. She had no clue what had happened to the state treasury, but she would be surprised if it hadn't been robbed empty. Regardless, she would have to pick up the banner dropped by the baron and raise it up high. She felt weak and helpless in the face of the task, but she would have to grow into it. She owed as much to Maegar's memory.

  Unless the Baroness of Nightvale would consider Varnhold a wounded deer and rip out its throat with a quick move, exploiting its lethal weakness. The old Guelder, the one who had her heart in the right place and wasn't attracted to dark power like a moth to candlelight, would never have done that. But what if the predator instinct was to take over, made a thousand times worse by wielding the Oculus? What would Darlac do then? Could she count on anyone else? Would Lady Jamandi move a finger for a barony already lost? And if not, if Darlac was to stand against Nightvale alone, with a decimated army defending a desolate land, what was the right thing to do? Die for Varnhold and fertilise the soil with the blood of its sons and daughters? Or squelch her pride and bend her knee to save her remaining soldiers' lives, and let Guelder deal with the aftermath and rebuild the land? Then leave for Mendev, her forbidden country of origin and destination, and burn all the bridges behind her? The crusade, like an elaborate and convoluted act of suicide, was always there, beckoning, calling to her, as the ultimate way out.

  Guelder. Please don't do it. Stay the amazing person I came to know in the First World. I've lost so many friends overnight. I don't want to lose you, too.

  An arm wiggled between her back and the wall, embracing her in an awkward but heartful way. She indulged, burying her damp face into Tristian's shoulder. She had to use every drop of support she could get. Letting her physical and mental strength leak out through her eyes was a luxury she couldn't afford. Not when she had a lich to fight, a baroness to rein in, a state to rebuild. Real, unfettered mourning had to wait.

  "I know it's hard," said Tristian softly. "I see so much death while adventuring with Guelder. But when it's someone you know... and many of them..."

  "The Bloom in Tuskdale," whispered Darlac. "People who came to you for advice or consolation, listened to the teachings of Sarenrae, joined you in prayer, brought offerings... You've been through this, or worse. How did you cope?"

  "I didn't. They are still with me. All of them."

  "As long as we carry them in our hearts, they are not truly dead. Perhaps their memory will help us do better."

  Tristian squeezed her arm so hard that it hurt.

  "Yes. Do better. I will take that to heart."