Guilt is like an insect. In coldness, it withers and dies, but give it only a bit of warmth and you'll find yourself infested. Cressida was absolutely crawling with it - guilt, not insects. The smell of smoke and things so much worse invaded her nostrils, not helping the sensation of sick inside her.

They never even had a chance.

Most of the bodies near her were still steaming, charred and black. Those were the ones she preferred. Bits of hair and snatches of flesh, unburnt, were more disturbing. It's better if you think of them as never having been a person.

She heard it over the crunch of her comrades' boots. The hiss of breathing, the wheezing of someone nearly dead but not quite. Unfortunate, though it was the whole point.

Legate Megalos's orders were clear: bring any survivors to heel.

By the look of this one, there wasn't going to be much heeling needed.

It - he - had crawled toward the back, the sole reason for his survival. His back was to her, quivering with the effort it must have taken to simply stay alive. The breath caught in her throat, she reached forward - someone grabbed her arm.

Cressida whirled, feeling caught, but instead of the snarl of the legate, she was met with concerned green eyes.

"Leon," her voice was hoarse.

"Let me," his tug was gentle, gaze unjudging. He stood tall, unfazed and stoic to the carnage around him. "I can take care of this one."

Leon could. He wasn't like her. He knew his place, didn't question it. To him, orders were orders and death was death, and everything went in a separate, neat little box. It was a source of conflict just as it was an enviable trait; Cressida didn't like it, though she sometimes wished she could be like it.

He gave her one last long look, half pity, half exasperation. "Go outside, get some fresh air."

Cressida shot a glance at the Legate, bronze armor winking in the dancing light of a nearby torch; he was surrounded by junior officers, surveying the blackened cavern but not in her direction. It was doubtful he would even notice her exit. She spared another moment to observe Leon, feeling remorseful, feeling annoyed - he was always a witness to some "weakness'' on her part - and left.

The wind hit her face in a blast both cool and salty as she emerged from the cavern the Gifted had foolishly been using as a hideout. Though they were miles off from the coast, the air here smelled like the sea. It was a balm to her shot nerves.

She typically wasn't like this, but the nightmares had been particularly nasty last night. Again and again, her father's face had shone in agony and defeat as the Order cut him down, the gory scene immortalized in her cruel subconscious. The lesson here was to never skimp on the sleeping drought. She'd have Olwen whip her up some stronger, better stuff.

In that vein, she wasn't the only one who bad things happened to while they slept. Her thoughts rounded back sharply to the Gifted they'd just killed. All burnt up while defenseless...it sickened her to dwell on it. The rational part of her knew they would do the same if the roles were reversed, and they eventually would be, but she was past caring about that. Two parties lashing out in cycles, an angry serpent eating its own tail - it would never end. Death, destruction; ad infinitum.

The ride back to Fortress of Light was brutal. Two days and nothing but rain; oh, but it was the wet season. The hide dusters they'd brought for that reason were no match for the torrential out-pouring of the skies. At least it washed away the smell of well-cooked skin.

Cressida all but tumbled off head-first when her stead stumbled on the slick terrain. Beside her, Leon had the audacity to laugh; he and horses got along quite well. She noted the dappled mare he was on hadn't so much as misplaced a step. He sat in his saddle, posture so relaxed he might have been in an armchair.

"Lux take you, Biaggio."

His face straightened a little at that, the religious sort he was, but his eyes still held a twinkle usually only she could tease out. Water dripped down his nose. "That she will, but keep talking like that; the goddess may turn you away."

She lifted a stiff shoulder. "She may do what she pleases, and I'll do what I may."

Behind them, someone broke line, edging the large black animal carrying them up and around until they were close enough to be recognized.

"It's Killian," Leon managed to warn just when the man himself pulled his horse up beside them. Beside her. His leg bumped hers.

"Biaggio," he greeted first, a slight smile in place. One might assume it was friendly and one would be wrong. His too cheery gaze settled on her. "Cress. Fine weather we're having."

Somehow, Killian was dryer than the rest of them, as if the rain itself didn't want to disturb that golden head of hair, though he was arguably a bigger target than she and Leon. She felt sorry for the equine under him; he was surely a heavy burden.

"That's not my name." She was in no mood.

"Where did you run?" He edged in closer, his horse cutting in a bit ahead of hers. "When the rest of us were clearing out that cursed cavern."

On the other side of her, Leon loosed a tired kind of sigh.

"Double-checking the perimeter." She sniffed, blinking water out of dark lashes.

Killian's white teeth shone even in this dim light. "Oh, good. I was concerned you'd deserted. You'll have to forgive me for thinking that, what with your familial history."

He let that hang there in the air between them. If it had been any other day, a snarky comment would satisfy her, but not this day, not when she was down and hurting and, worst of all, wondering what could have been. Cressida was aware of how little space there was, how easy it would be to turn and wipe that grin off his ignorant face. She could see it - he'd fall from his horse, perhaps be trampled by the others, but Legate Megalos would bear witness as well, and his testimony would be damning. Cressida had no desire to stand before the Avatar.

Again.

So she faced the blond and smiled her sweetest, most poisonous smile, and spat.

Leon groaned, groaned how King Achille Reyx probably groaned every time he looked down from the afterlife and saw what his descendants had done with Agria.

Killian, on the other hand, took it incredibly well, save for blinking a few times. Which was terrifying, if Cressida was being honest with herself. His lack of outrage meant something worse: he was filing this offense away for later, for when there were no Legates around.

Reins switched to one hand, he swiped the other across his cheek, then examined his leather glove with disgust. The saliva was indistinguishable from the rainwater, but he still made a big show of cleaning it off on his pants.

"You really do have a lot of savage in you, don't you?" is what he finally settled on, blue eyes more chilling than the icy droplets slipping down her spine.

She opened her mouth to say something she really shouldn't, but Leon placed a hand on her arm, slowly shaking his head. Let it go, his entire expression seemed to say.

With steely resolve and grit teeth, Cressida turned her gaze away, back straight as a rod.

Killian, seeing he would get no other reaction, snorted with contemptuous amusement and dug his heels into the stallion's flanks, spurring the creature on, cutting them off. Up ahead, he took a place at Legate Megalos's side.

Cressida spent the entirety of the journey to the fortress glaring at the back of his blond head, hoping it would be enough to make it explode. For the first time, she longed for the ability of a Gifted.

He didn't know they'd returned, the schematics at his nose all he saw, the thoughts in his head all he heard. But Greer, Lux bless her, was apparently loathe to leave it that way.

"Mathias," She thumped him on the back, his glasses slipping from their rightful position, "Listen." Her forehead wrinkled in concentration, ears no doubt straining to hear the return of her friends.

Mathias knew how worried she got when they put themselves in harm's way. Cressida wasn't exactly the most self-preserving type and Leon...well, he would give his life for the Order at a moment's notice. Gods only knew why, but Greer Sayer took it upon herself to be everyone's protector, which, while admirable, Mathias found a little ridiculous. These adventurer types, honestly.

He, not to sound arrogant or condescending at all, wouldn't even be friends with them, except for the fact they'd grown up together. Mathias was the last to arrive in their quaint group, being the youngest at eighteen - a fact Leon would hardly let him forget. He was a mother hen, that one.

Confident there was nothing to be heard, Mathias settled back down to his work, righted his glasses, and promptly let out a squawk when he tipped over an inkpot - Greer, once again, had brought a heavy hand down on his shoulder.

"They're back!"

It was unmistakable. There was the tale-tell neighing of horses and braying of warriors; a success, so it sounded. Greer bounded out the library doors, leaving them swinging, and Mathias smiled to himself. There was satisfaction in quiet victory - he was the one who designed the recipe for the "Living Fire" the Order had been set to use during this excursion. He allowed himself to assume it would become quite the popular requisition.

Deigning a forlorn look to his ruined schematics, thanking Lux and, well, himself that he always kept replacements, Mathias followed the trail of his friend, but not quite adopting her spring-buck gait. The stone corridors gave away to stairs, which gave way to more stone, and then finally to the colossal armored double-doors that functioned as the main entrance into the fortress itself. They were so large and so heavy there was a special mechanism to crank them open, a man on each side to use it. It was not a quick thing, but pragmatism would have it they were open from dawn to dusk, just to make things a little easier. Unwanted guests and invaders were kept out by the equally as large, equally as impressive walls surrounding the fortress, and failing that, by the types of men and women who'd just returned.

He saw them. They were soggy and smelled faintly of smoke, but they were unharmed and smiling. On closer inspection, not all of them.

Cressida dismounted her horse, face stormier than the actual storm, and Leon bore a look of concern - not an unusual occurrence. Greer was there already, handing the reins of both animals off to a stable girl. He ambled to meet them, only to be blazed past by Cressida.

"Do you ever feel bad about it?" She hissed in passing.

Mathias looked as bewildered as he felt. What had he to feel bad about? He wasn't the one gallivanting across all of Ethrias, risking his life dueling with demented mages and whatever nastiness they conjured up - literally.

Leon shook his head. "She's had a rough few days."

Mathias wanted to say "of course, all of them who set a foot out there probably had it rough because the field is hell," but took a calculated guess and figured it was best to let it go.

"What do you think is going on over there?" Greer mused, her features pulled into a familiar expression: of analysis, of scrutiny. It had Mathias curious enough to pivot on his heel, and there he saw it.

Legate Megalos red in the face, a vein bulging in his forehead, being towered over by the foreigner Olwen Jørmund, who, frighteningly, appeared just as angry. They stood next to a horse-drawn cart with a blanket thrown over it, capturing the attention of everyone in the near vicinity.

"You have no honor, Legate Bronte Megalos." Olwen ground out, and though he was without his dreaded war hammer, officers next to them had reached for their swords. Mathias didn't blame them; he wouldn't want that Testroyvan giant breathing down his neck either.

"Says the magic-wielding shaman." Legate Megalos couldn't have forced any more contempt into that one word, "You're one step up from being a cultist of Mortabela, and one step up only."

Olwen paid no mind to the barbs - Mathias suspected the man cared little and less for following the path of Lux, anyhow. Whatever he was upset about, he was sticking to it.

"You burn children while they sleep, and call it a victory." The giant smiled and it was cruel. "I would keep a vigilant watch, Legate Bronte Megalos - the universe has a way of repaying things in kind."

The Legate did something Mathias would never do - took a daring step closer. (It was bit comical, though, just a bit; he was a whole lot shorter, and it was noticeable.

"Are you threatening me, savage?"

"No. I am speaking truth, though for that you care little." With that said, Olwen stomped by the fuming Legate, taking hold of the halter of the horse pulling the cart. From beneath the blanket, a human leg was bared, half the skin white, the other half black - burnt.

As if for the first time noticing his audience, Legate Megalos's dark eyes widened and he bared his teeth. "Back to your posts, or you'll all be whipped for insolence!"

It was the fastest Mathias had ever seen the courtyard clear, and as he himself made haste back to the library, he couldn't quite get the image of the partially burned leg out of his mind's eye.

A/N:

Characters, in order of appearance:

Cressida Haizea

Leon Biaggio

Killian McFerrin

Mathias Frye

Greer Sayer

Olwen Jørmund

To the creators of the characters above, thank you for submitting them! I'm pleased with my cast and being able to write them. However, if you feel I did a poor job representing your character or if you'd simply like something tweaked, please let me know via PM - and respectfully.

I couldn't have every OC in one chapter - it wouldn't fit in realistically - but if yours wasn't here they will more than likely be in the next one.

Tell me your thoughts!

Do you like having two POVs per chapter? Should I do more? Less?

What do you think of the characters other than your own?

Also, if you couldn't already tell, this story WILL have violence in it - are you okay with bad things (i.e. death, disfigurement, mental scarring, etc.) happening to your OC?

Thanks for reading! Review, if you have the mind, and have a wonderful day. See you next time!