Part One: In Which Olivia Makes an Invitation and Thalia Promptly Forgets


In the steep pitch of battle, Thalia couldn't spare the attention to watch the wrongness in the sky twist and squeeze and slide up and away into the moon.

Its absence was felt though, immediately and with great effect. Between breaths, between heartbeats, as her sword reached the end of its path and she turned to swing again – the relentless madness that had pushed against her head, her mind, from every angle, had been trying to squeeze into her by stabbing into her ears, shoving up her nostrils to drip thickly down her throat, squirming along her eyes into the backs of her eye sockets, held at bay only by the grace of Traft – it was gone.

At once, the momentum of the battle pivoted. What humans, werewolves, and vampires remained were now pushing the horrors back. Sluggish tentacles were cut down by swift silver-edged steel. Step by step, Thalia advanced and so too did her cathars. Sword in one hand and spear of Avacyn in the other, geist in her heart and angel above her, Thalia took back Thraben.

Quite inspirational, really.

Across the battlefield, Olivia Voldaren, newly minted Lord of Innistrad, was impressed. Hovering some distance above the melee, she let her ichor-slicked sword rest on an armor plated shoulder. The sword was well-made, powerful, evil, black like Olivia's heart. She made a mental note to thank Sorin for it if she ever saw him again.

Down below, Thalia was engaged in shouting eloquently at her survivors.

At some point, the woman had sprouted wings.

If that was the quality of cathars these days, perhaps, just perhaps, Olivia should venture out more often.

Something to ruminate on at a later date.

For the time being though, she had a few loose ends to tie up.

With a thought, Olivia descended towards the ruined courtyard where the humans were massed. Her vampires, who had fared far better in the apocalypse than their mortal snacks, were crowded at the edge of the yard. They'd worked very hard and they were very hungry. But Olivia had made a deal and even though everyone knew the terms of the deal, the Voldaren knew better than to move without her say-so.

And she did not give the say-so.

As Olivia drifted down, Thalia noticed the movement and looked up. She'd been speaking to her remaining cathars, but the words stilled in her throat.

Olivia was smiling and showing far too many teeth for it to be anything but intentionally disturbing. Thalia tightened her grip on her weapons but didn't raise them. What had been a purely theoretical problem some hours ago was perhaps about to become a very real disaster. Even with the geists infusing them with strength, her cathars didn't stand a chance against the vampires ringing the yard, whose numbers seemed to grow with every passing moment as more and more converged from the distant edges of the city-turned-battlefield. If it came to a fight, the humans would fight well and then die. Hopefully in battle.

Olivia lifted her sword.

Thalia tensed.

But instead of using her blade to order a charge, Olivia merely held it out in front of her, as if she were examining it for the first time. She reached out with a gauntleted finger, running it along the length of the blade, coating it in purple-grey ichor. Then she raised her finger, dripping with gore, up to her lips and stuck it in her mouth.

Under different circumstances, Thalia might have puked.

Under the current circumstances, she wanted to puke but didn't.

She'd seen quite a few vampires feeding on the monstrous abominations they fought over the course of the battle. Seeing it again, in sickening slow motion, was unpleasant but not as horrific as it might have been just a few short days ago.

Olivia made a face that looked something like puzzlement.

Had the ichor tasted good? Bad? Would the vampire die of food poisoning?

Thalia didn't actually want to know.

Olivia shouldered her sword once more and floated slightly closer. "Well met, Heir of Saint Traft," the vampire said. They were close enough that she could be heard quite clearly, but not so close as to provoke anything.

Thalia's throat was dry from a day spent fighting for her life and shouting for her cathars to continue on as well. The air around her was thick with the stone dust of a recently ruined city. When she swallowed to wet her throat, it hardly helped at all. Her voice came out far weaker than she would have liked. "Lady Voldaren," she said.

"It has been a pleasure," Olivia announced.

Tightly wound already, Thalia tensed further. Around her, her fellows did the same. In the back of her head, the cold fire that was Saint Traft began to spread again throughout her body. Surely this was where Olivia would announce the truce was at an end and the vampires would descend upon them.

"I do hope you'll come calling," she continued. "Lurenbraum can get so positively boring sometimes." Hovering in the air, Olivia pivoted, her flamboyant red and crimson skirt swishing about her. Floating off, she called out, "Come along, children. We're going home now."

Thalia watched in weary astonishment as her potential very real disaster evaporated, Voldaren vampires clanking off to dutifully follow their progenitor back whence they'd come.

A scant five minutes later she'd already forgotten Olivia's request, letting it drift out of her mind as having been nothing more than a passing remark, a politeness.

There were far more important things demanding her attention. The apocalypse had come and gone and it was time to pick up the pieces.

Of course, Thalia would later come to understand her lapse to have been truly unfortunate.