Hello internet! Hope you're all having a wonderful day!

This took a long time to publish. I feel like the ending is really loose but I was trying not to drag it on for too long. Any thoughts on how that worked out are welcome.
I wanted to briefly mention that I have noticed a number of people in this archive bring SOPA up again. I want to assure you that it's a vain effort to sign any petition, because it's not going to pass, I am certain. What with the recent NSA scandal and the Snowden leaks, outrage against government snoops and monitoring programs has exploded, and sponsorship for SOPA has long since died out, leaving it with little chance of passing through either the Senate
or the House of Representatives, much less pass through Congress. There is very little to worry about; attend your energies elsewhere. With that said, enjoy this next chapter!

VVVVV

As far back as Kleiner could remember, Milltown had been a prosperous, bustling trading city of 50,000 people, centered in the breadbasket of the province. On both sides of the river, farmers with millet, rye, wheat and flax would take their harvests in by wagon, carriage or, if they were rich enough, by barge all the way to the docks. Here, on the wide, deep Delphos River, hundreds upon hundreds of millers transformed raw crops into bread or grain or edible food, which was then shipped all across the territory to feed millions. While it wasn't the only producer of food, it was the primary source of the most basic forms of nutrition, and now that source was falling apart.

Leading his 150-odd motley crew of soldiers into the city, Kleiner could see the disrepair it had fallen into. It was crumbling; the streets were nearly empty, populated by only a few passersby and even fewer guardsmen standing at their posts. Several buildings had fallen into disrepair, their boards rotting and windows broken and a number of them completely abandoned, with a few roofs collapsed and fire damage visible in at least four that were sitting next to each other. Trash and debris littered the streets, broken carts left unremoved, dust and ash gathering in corners where nobody bothered to sweep. There was even a dead horse, discarded in one of the alleyways running between the buildings, the corpse rotting and swarmed with flies.

The column of men dressed in rags, robes, armor and leather must've looked like some sort of carnival parade. They marched down the main boulevard heading south towards the city center, stopping for nobody. Those few who were walking out on the streets stopped and stared, if only for a few moments, as the ragged band of worn soldiers marched in file, led by the "Lord of Brown", as the men had taken to calling him. Kleiner wanted to think it was because of the way he dressed, in brown rags with rusty chainmail underneath, which had been a courteous gift from one of the outriders who had joined him a while back.

The other side of the river was very nearly abandoned, now under the control of the undead army that was gathering strength somewhere in the darkness of caves and tombs and other forsaken places. There were small villages and farmhouses visible on the other side, clustered close to the city, but they were clearly abandoned. Looking out over the ash-dusted fields to the east, Kleiner felt a deep sense of dread, as if he was staring into a gloomy void in which his enemy was hiding, waiting for a chance to strike. That was complete nonsense, but he averted his eyes from the barren eastern side of the river, forcing himself to look ahead as he led the column onward.

Most of the mills that they passed by were empty, bereft of their workers, and those that were staffed were completely idle. No food was being made because the harvests had been destroyed; Kleiner felt an even deeper dread when he passed by those dead mills, knowing that famine could very well destroy the city long before the undead attacked.

He remembered the central square of the city from his previous visit, years ago. It had been packed with traders and merchants hawking simple wares from simple carts, pursuing simple lives. Couples had strolled hand in hand in the summer sunlight, enjoying the warm air, and people young and old talked and laughed together. And now, except for maybe a dozen cloth-clad spearmen, it was completely empty. The carts remained, lining the square, but they were unoccupied, their owners hiding or fled.

Kleiner could see how fear and mistrust had wormed its way into the heart of this once proud breadbasket city. The road leading to Milltown had been awash with refugees, aimlessly shambling from one place to another, desperately searching for food and shelter. Massive refugee cities of thousands of canvas pup tents had erupted outside of the city walls, teeming with unwashed, diseased, starving civilians fleeing the war and natural disaster that had destroyed their livelihoods. The residents of the city feared the desperate masses that had gathered in front of their walls. The gates had been opened, though; Kleiner's column had walked right in, watched by bowmen atop the wooden palisade but otherwise unmolested. Why wasn't Milltown choked with these refugees? There had to be a reason.

As the column flooded into the square the guard force descended upon it, weary men in grey quilted cloth and brown cloaks carrying rusty spears and chipped battleforks slowly approaching the only mounted man in the group, Kleiner himself. Out of respect, he dismounted, holding his horse tightly by its reins.

"Are you taking the city?" one of the men asked wearily. He leaned on his spear, expectant.

"Taking it?"

"Are you a conqueror?" the man reiterated. "Here to take our city? I'm just curious, I'd rather not be surprised. I do hate surprises."

"Not at all," Kleiner answered, furrowing his brow.

"Oh. Well...I was misled, I suppose. Are you here to help us, then? You must be here for something," the man said, as thoroughly confused as Kleiner was. The latter felt like this was part of one giant practical joke; it was almost surreal, the scene with which he was faced. He wasn't even sure what to ask for, why he had come here, except that he had to go south. That much he knew, and that was what had brought him here.

"I must speak with Lord Willum," he decided after a momentary silence.

"Lord Willum? Why, I'll bring him right now. Fix up the teleporter and I'll bring him back lickety-split!" the soldier declared.

"Pardon-"

"Lord Willum's gone," another voice spoke from the crowd, and stepped forward. "He went west. Hasn't been back in weeks. Maybe a month now. Who really knows?"

"Ah, not us. We're just poor, poor sergeants," the first man said, hanging his head and shaking it as if making a mocking display of shame.

"You are Lord Kleiner, are you not? Forgive me, my lord, for our indecency in your presence." The second sergeant made a move to bow but it was halfhearted, and hardly apologetic, not that it mattered.

"There is no need to bow," Kleiner told him. "But I must speak with whoever is in charge of the city."

"Ten old men, and one of them's shitting water. You'd have better luck speaking with a scullery maid, for all the help they can give you," the first man said, twisting his upper lip in a cruel smile to reveal brown, rotting teeth.

"I will show you to the council. If your men will remain here," the second sergeant said, pushing the first man away with the butt of his spear. Kleiner picked out two of his own sergeants, Shen and an outrider he had met on the road, and they followed their host up the dirty stone steps to the town hall, a rickety old wooden building lightly dusted with gray ash. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

"I would forgive him, he's a humorist. Everyone tries to cope in different ways," the sergeant grumbled as he led the three of them indoors. "Milltown is in shambles. You saw the refugees gathered outside?" he asked.

"Why don't they-"

"Cholera," the sergeant said coldly. "They fear it, we all do. It has the city in its grip. When the war began sanitary conditions took a plunge and when Lord Willum left to Thellden everything else followed it. I do not know how many we've lost to the disease already."

"I shouldn't drink the water?" Kleiner asked wearily.

"Drink beer, or what we have left of it. Water is death now," the sergeant said. That was all Kleiner needed to hear.

The council was a collection of old, rich men who had no idea how to handle the politics of war. They sat in their chamber, huddled together most of the day attempting to discern the best solution to their situation, with little mind for the crumbling world outside. They were shocked to see a nobleman that they recognized, and one nearly fainted when Kleiner entered the room, overcome by a familiar face or sudden surprise or fear. Kleiner did not know what had taken him.

"You...are the first familiar face...of a noble person," one of them managed, looking upon Kleiner with glossy eyes. One of them was stuttering incoherently, and another echoed the same sentiment.

"My lords of Milltown-"

"You are the first nobleman of note to come here...s-since the...war," he continued, bewildered.

"But the angel said to them, 'Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people," the incoherent man rambled.

"Lord Kleiner has brought soldiers, veterans too," the sergeant reported.

"S-soldiers, you say? Trained men?" the only one of the old bastards who was able to speak coherently licked his lips in interest.

"I brought 150 men with me. I intend to march sou-"

"You c-cannot!" the councillor jumped. "You...leave us?"

"It was not my intention to stay here," Kleiner informed him, beginning to feel trapped. "I picked up these soldiers on the road. One by one, group by group, they adhered to me. I did not come as a defender of the city."

"Stopping by to bedazzle us with the promise of salvation then, are we? And then snap that promise away like bait?" the sergeant began to nag them.

"We...cannot d-defend ourselves," the old man continued, while his other coherent compatriot echoed his words and the biblical verses fell silent. The convention of withered elders, sitting around their conference table, half of them asleep, the other half barely attending him, looked almost pitiful in their bedraggled state, covered in dust, dirty and unshaven. This was the ruling body of Milltown at the moment. How could anyone justify these men leading tens of thousands?

"I'm afraid they do have a predicament, Lord Kleiner," Shen, his newfound first sergeant, spoke when the silence did not break. "They need us."

"Lord Willum...has departed," the first elder spoke, and his bible-loving peer began reciting verses from Judges. "He...he may...n-not be back."

"The soldiers like to make songs about him. Something about a plump pig getting too greedy and sticking its nose too far into the trough, and drowning in its own gruel," the attendant Milltown sergeant said idly, and this caused one of the councillors to burst into laughter, putting him in stitches so violent that within a few moments he had shit himself and collapsed from his chair. Nobody rushed to his side. The oatmeal-like liquid that poured from beneath his robes was gray and foggy, cholera's filthy work.

"...he lived in Milltown, in the hill country of...the hill country of...and he led Milltown twenty-three years; then he died, and was buried in Thellden," came another biblical verse. Kleiner could make sense of none of this. It sounded, and smelled, like the collapsed man was passing away.

"Oh, he didn't rule twenty...twenty-three ye-years," one of the old men spat. "Dumb, senile fool. Suck my withered c...cock," he coughed, and continued to cough violently.

"I never intended to stay here," Kleiner reiterated, watching them all wearily.

"We need help, my Lord Kleiner. We are in no fit state to hold our own ground. The enemy's without, the enemy's within. The enemy's everywhere for all we know," the sergeant said. "We're all damn insane fools, but that doesn't mean we can't put up a fight."

"Our...n-need is great. We can h-hardly lead the city," the foremost of the councillors began to beg. "We need someone. We need a n-nobleman, an…experienced nobleman at that." On the floor, the man had died, and bible-thumper had begun reciting an eulogy for him to the tune of a drinking song.

"You need me?"

"More than ever," the sergeant answered for the elder, who had lost his words. "Lord Kleiner...we do. We truly do."

He hadn't planned for this, not at all. He wanted to keep going south, that was the original plan. Sure, he hadn't planned to acquire so many soldiers, either, but he could keep marching with them. But was he really just going to leave 40,000 people to their fate, leave them to die at the blood-soaked, skeletal hands of starvation, disease and the undead?

"I will take command of the city until Lord Willum returns," Kleiner announced, facing down each and every one of the councillors. The eulogy had ended. "Until he assumes his seat once more, I will hold power here and will defend Milltown."

Nobody applauded him, nobody thanked him or gave him words of encouragement. It was silence, a bleak and unnerving silence. The one councillor began coughing again, now retching up blood as his forehead slammed into the table repeatedly. The sergeant began to sing some pointless song as he escorted Kleiner, now impromptu lord of Milltown, back out into the plaza to set his new city straight.

VVVVV

Simeon hardly made sense of his younger brother's...well, lack of sense. It struck him as strange that Aeric was so intelligent, and yet managed to do so many stupid things.

"You're hiding a fugitive?" Simeon asked.

"Technically-"

"You're hiding a fugitive from my mother at that," Simeon added, turning his back on his brother and heading back to his desk. "And technically me, although I'm not one to abuse the law as such. Or murder a hundred guests at my own dinner."

"He's just a boy...well, not a boy, he's about twenty, but he's young, Sim! My age!"

"What has that got to do with anything?" Simeon challenged, sitting down.

"He's got his whole life ahead of him! If mother knows about him, she'll kill him without question, just...just to save herself potential trouble!" Aeric flailed his hands around wildly, clearly flustered. Simeon narrowed his eyes and that gesture was enough to calm him.

"Mother will not know. You know I won't tell her. But this has nothing to do with me," Simeon said.

"I just want him safe," Aeric pleaded. "Please…"

"Why? Why do you care about him? Send him into the tunnels, let him get out of here. Odds are most of his friends are dead, anyway."

"He doesn't have any. He's foreign. Some place...far east, I don't remember!" Aeric said, struggling to conjure words. "I need your help in keeping him safe. Hidden."

"What's it to you?" Simeon reiterated, thoroughly irritated. "I can have someone sneak him out of the city, if you'd like. Why do you want to hide him?"

"I just...I want to make sure he's safe-"

"Don't lie," Simeon snapped. "Aeric, I'm your brother. I'm not going to tell Shandra about any of this, she's already turned against me anyway. Whatever this is, I want you to be honest."

"Promise me something, then," Aeric said, his cheeks turned pale. "You won't judge me for this?"

Simeon did not promise anything. He simply commanded Aeric to continue.

"I think...that I like him," Aeric managed, wincing as the words came out. He had clasped his hands together in front of his stomach, standing as stiff and rigid as a wooden board. Simeon sat for a moment, in silence.

"You like him?"

"Like...I have...feeeeelings...for him?" Aeric said, now unable to plaster a sentence together. He cleared his throat loudly and Simeon saw that his cheeks had turned a dark crimson red.

"Is that a question?" Simeon asked, his voice dead monotone.

"Sim, please…"

"So you're telling me that you love this boy? You feel that way, or am I incorrect?" Simeon inquired.

"You...are correct," Aeric answered, bowing his head. Simeon wasn't sure how to react to this.

"This is not my problem, Aeric," he answered sternly, hoping that his brother wouldn't take that the wrong way.

"But...you're my br-"

"I've got an entire city to look after, and my own mother is almost certainly out to get me now," Simeon said. "I cannot be babysitting you. I'm sorry." Don't say anything about the boy. That was a subject best left untouched, especially since they were...well. Interested in each other. Simeon was not homophobic, no...he would detest being described as such. But this turn of events was too much for him to fully comprehend. He would need to become adjusted to the fact that his younger brother was in love with a younger boy, a fugitive no less.

"What am I supposed to do then?" Aeric asked, more bewildered now.

"Keep hiding him. I'm not going to call you out on it," Simeon said, shrugging.

"You won't tell?"

"Not a soul," Simeon promised. "I'm not going to intervene. Just keep him out of the way and make sure nobody finds him. I don't want this to become more trouble than it's worth," Simeon warned.

Aeric was at a loss for words suddenly. He clasped his hands together, wringing them as if trying to find something to say.

"Do you...object?"

"I do not particularly care. What you do is your own business," Simeon told him, firmly but politely. "So long as it doesn't interfere with mine. Or mother's for that matter."

"Please don't tell her-"

"I promise," Simeon reiterated. That was all that he could say about it. Not his business, not his concern.

"T-thank...you," Aeric murmured, still blushing a very deep red. He bowed his head ever so slightly and rushed back out of Simeon's office, heading back to the tunnels to return to the keep. Simeon shook his head and muttered to himself, wondering where this entire situation might be headed.

"A boy, and a fugitive of all people...god," he swore, deciding to file it away for another day. For now, he had the issue of his forced resignation to deal with. So far, nobody had come to remove him from his office; he wasn't expecting them to, either. That would happen one late night, he was sure, a time when very few were awake and alert. Simeon made a note to himself to install trusted bodyguards on his bedroom door and then crumpled up the official document and threw it away.

VVVVV

"Gooseberries. Not the most satisfying of fruits, but it will serve." Erich plucked what berries he could from the withered bush and continued.

With Walid and Sora back at camp watching over the pendant, their horses and their supplies, Erich and Matt had gone scavenging in the nearby woods, hoping to find edibles. So far they had found a substantial number of edible mushrooms, some redberries, a few wild blueberries and a handful of gooseberries. It was not much, but it would supplement their usual diet of salt pork, old cheese and hard bread.

Matt had not been pleased to leave Sora alone with the other officer, not at all. She was even more upset, scurrying into her tent and closing the door as they left. Erich had tried to console Matt as they traveled into the woods, assuring him that Walid was trustworthy, but he was a difficult person to persuade. Erich had given up and decided to focus on the task at hand.

"What else are we looking for?" Matt asked, trying to forget about Sora, left behind at camp. It was bothering him more than it should have; Walid was trustworthy, right? He had...proven himself, right?

"Anything we can find," Erich answered, glancing over rather suspiciously. "Why'd you ask?"

"Just curious, is all," Matt answered absentmindedly, snapping off a twig from a nearby tree.

"She's going to be fine," Erich sighed, shaking his head. "You worry too much. Walid is trustworthy."

"I don't like leaving her with other guys," Matt admitted, angrily snapping his twig in twain.

"That's clingy," Erich said.

"Not with strange guys, anyway," Matt corrected himself.

"Walid's not a stranger," Erich argued.
"I've known him for, like, five days," Matt said. "He's still strange. So are you. She doesn't feel comfortable around you two, and neither do-"

"Hush," Erich snapped suddenly. He came to a stop, hand flashing to his sword.

"You don't und-"

"Hush," he reiterated, and Matt fell silent. They both came to a stop and it was only then that Matt could hear rustling in the bushes ahead of them. Something big, not a small animal at all. Erich drew his sword, and then the rustling stopped briefly.

"Human?" a weak, raspy voice croaked from the greenery. It was not a man's voice at all; something foreign, yet familiar.

"Y-yes," Erich responded, stammering briefly. He gripped his sword with both hands, assuming a battle stance now.

"I am coming out of the bushes. Do not shoot," the raspy voice weakly asked. The greenery cleared and out stepped a tall Enderman, skin black as soot, with an obvious projectile wound in his upper chest. He wore an extremely small leather doublet and extremely large leather chaps, obviously stolen human clothes that he had appropriated for his own use. The wound area was not covered by the clothing, and it had become clearly infected due to exposure, leaking greyish goop and yellow pus.

"Don't attack!" Matt shouted as soon as Erich raised his sword. "He's not human, but he's-"

"Enderman. Not hostile. Don't attack, yes," the Enderman spoke, raising its arms in the air. "I'm wounded. Need treatment. I will not harm you. I am not armed, nor have the strength to fight." The creature's grasp of English, while not perfect, was impressive.

"He's not going to hurt us," Matt implored Erich. "He's wounded."

"That I can see," Erich said, monotonically. He was still watching the creature with deadly intent.

"Need help, I'm wounded. Need treatment. I will not harm you," the Enderman reiterated. His purple eyes looked tired, sapped of energy. His arms were wobbling as they were, suspended in the air.

"The least we can do is help him!" Matt implored Erich more. "We can help him!"

Erich seemed to be on the verge of charging at the Enderman, when he grumbled and lowered his sword.

"We need our own medical supplies," he argued.

"We can get more," Matt said. "He's going to die without us!"

"Just need...help," the Enderman reiterated again, struggling to stand. Erich was hesitant, but finally he lowered his sword, grumbling something under his breath, obviously regretting his final choice.

"Help me lift him," he ordered Matt, and the two hoisted the wounded creature onto their shoulders and staggered back to camp, weighted down with foraged founded and their newfound patient.

Walid was tending the fire when he saw the two staggering back. Sora must've seen the odd silhouette in her tent, because even she popped her head out to take a look. Both of them were astonished to see the massive creature borne into camp, its arms hanging at its sides like loose spaghetti. They set it down on the crumpled furs where Walid had been sitting, placing its back on there.

"That's a nasty wound," he commented when he stooped over to see it.

"Medical supplies," Erich snapped. "Quick. This needs to be taken care of."

"An Enderman?" Sora asked Matt, apprehensive.

"I convinced him to bring it back," Matt shrugged.

"Why? He could be dangerous," said Sora.

"He's injured, he's not going to do anything. He surrendered to us, anyway," Matt argued.

"That doesn't make me feel better…"

"Were you okay being left here alone?" Matt asked as Walid stooped over to the Enderman to examine the wound.

"Not, not at all," Sora said, biting her lip in obvious discomfort.

"Nothing happened, right?"

"No, nothing happened, but...still, I wasn't comfortable with him here. I just don't...feel like I am, you know?" She looked up at him but he said nothing in return. Her discomfort was unnerving him. He didn't want to even think of the possibility of her relapsing into some sort of demi-trauma, even though that was a dumb idea. Why overthink such things? They would all be fine, it was safe with the officers…

"How'd you get here?" Walid asked, interrogating the enderman as Erich began boiling alcohol over the fire.

"I served with the enemy."

"The enemy?"

"The one who stalks your lands. We call him Enderborn. Your name for him, in your tongue, do not know," the hostage said, wincing in pain as Walid examined the infected wound. Matt and Sora watched from afar, both fascinated and disgusted.

"You fought alongside the undead, then?" Walid asked.

"If you call them that. I fought with...yes."

"What happened?" Erich joined in, wrapping leather around his hands and gingerly grasping the handles of the pot of boiling alcohol.

"Wounded in battle. We've been skirmishing, various groups of humans. Some wear chain, some wear quilt, yet others wear the burnished metal. I fought the men in chain and was injured. I fled then," the Enderman recounted. "Why is this important?"

"The more I know, the more inclined I am to help you," Walid said.

"Is this blackmail?" the enderman asked, confused. "Is this torture?"

"We're cleaning the wound. This will hurt," Erich warned, almost humorously. The shrieks of the creature were perhaps the most inhuman thing Matt had ever heard, like nails on a blackboard twisted and remixed into some awful cacophony. It was not particularly deafening, rather grating and harsh, and for twenty minutes Matt clutched Sora, who was becoming upset by the screeching, and stood by the fire watching in horror as the officers went about their grim business.

The boiling alcohol cleared the wound out and, using rudimentary tools, the officers did their best to remove the infected flesh, tearing and cutting as quickly as they could. They were not trained surgeons, for sure, but they were trying.

"I'm sorry that we can't help with the pain," Matt managed to blurt out, trying to be comforting.

"I will deal," the Enderman said stoicly, continuing to grit his teeth. In a matter of a few more minutes, the officers stepped away, wet with sweat and hands and forearms stained with black blood. A lurid mixture of purple and black blood oozed from the cleared wound, and in his hand Walid held a bloody fragment of steel.

"A piece of spear. This was stuck in your flesh," he told the Enderman.

"I was not aware."

"Not surprising. You wouldn't have known, it was tiny," Erich said as he handled the fragment himself. "We're not done, though."

"Not done?" the Enderman asked politely.

"You're weak, you need to rest. And there is more you have to tell us, I'm sure," Walid said, sounding only as threatening as he needed to be. The hostage had not resisted any questions so far.

"I am not withholding from you, I swear," the Enderman said, rather calm. His eyes were closed and his arms lay at his sides, unmoving. He was weak, and needed sustenance and care.

"There is more I want to know. What was your goal?"

"Skirmish. Scout. He intends to cross the river by winter. Spread the influence," the Enderman answered. His voice sounded flat, tired, but he answered without hesitation.

"The influence?"

"Launch his war. He crosses at bridges, we cannot swim," the Enderman continued.

"Which bridges?" Walid asked, pressing further.

"All of them. If there is a crossing, it will be taken. That is plan. I am thirsty and tired. Are you going to kill me?" the Enderman asked honestly. Walid looked rather intrigued by the idea, but he declined.

"No. I will keep you in chains, but I will not kill you. Nor abandon you."

"You will let me live?" the Enderman asked, almost surprised.

Walid did not answer, but it was clear he was not going to slay the creature. Either he had other questions for later, or he couldn't bring himself to execute a helpless and wounded prisoner. He took some rope from the tent and refurbished it into bonds for the Enderman's feet and hands. The knots were poorly constructed but they would hold, at least for the night. The creature didn't appear to be interested in escaping, either; its eyes remained shut and its body was already relaxing, laid out on the bare grass in front of the fire. It would not move for the rest of the night, even though Walid kept his eye on it, sharpening his sword the entire night as he watched his prisoner sleep.

VVVVV

The torture had started brutal, inefficient, rushed and quick. Lashes and whips, beatings and assault had all left Leon injured and pained, but they were inefficient techniques. Physical pain was not long lasting, it would take weeks for his hardened body to break under the strain of physical torment. But someone had noticed this; perhaps Shandra Thell had been extra observant, or the gaoler had decided this was a waste of his time. Either way, the methods had changed now.

Sleep deprivation was perhaps the worst. His cell was lit by about a dozen candles, all well maintained by two gaolers; one would come in and investigate them all and ensure that they were properly lit, and replaced those that were dying down, while the other would keep Leon under guard. The gaolers would change shifts so that they were able to get rest, but he wouldn't, as the lights were constantly kept under maintenance. And if he dared to even shut his eyes, he would be brutally woken by whichever guards were on duty, as they were under strict orders to keep him awake. Two days in and it was beginning to take a toll on him, especially with the interrogation sessions.

Leon sat beside two of the candles, his hands chained to the walls, awake but feeling the pressure of sleep hanging over him. He knew the moment that he opened his eyes the door would fly open and he would be fallen upon, rough hands shaking him and punching him in the gut to force him awake. He couldn't sleep, nor even close his eyes. He'd have to stay strong, but for how long? Eventually, eventually...he would end up breaking. He knew it.

He knew her smell, too. She'd always wear exotic perfumes, even when touring the dank, murky confines of the subterranean prison. The sweet scents of lavender, bluebells and fresh linen would permeate the musk of the damp cellars and that's when he knew she was coming. When he caught that scent, he knew she had come once more with a proposition, a proposition to give up his lands.

That was the plan, to force Leon to abdicate control of his alliance. He still had the power, technically; of course, she could take it by force, utilizing her "mighty warrior" of a sun and the city's armed forces to seize each village, castle and township. But that would spill needless blood and cost money that could be spent on far better sectors, and it would take months to subdue the entire western area of the territory. It would be much easier to force the top dog to capitulate, and give up that territory.

"Unlock the door. I will go in alone," Shandra's voice came from the other side. There was the clank of keys, and the cell door opened, squeaky hinges protesting against the injustice they were made to suffer. Shandra Thell stepped in gingerly, and closed the door behind her while her escorts waited outside. She turned to Leon and smiled genially in his general direction, wincing ever so slightly at the smell of urine.

"The answer remains no," Leon preempted her.

"I don't think we'll finish that quickly," Shandra said, approaching him. "I might be able to change your mind. Have you been sleeping well?"

"You're so clever," Leon sneered, meeting her eyes with his. "Are we going through the same motions again?"

"Maybe. That depends. I'll ask you again, dear," Shandra said, standing not two feet from him. "Will you bequeath your lands and titles onto me?"

"Go to hell," Leon spat, struggling to hold his head up to see eye to eye with her.

"And I thought you were more polite than that," Shandra said, shaking her head. "Pitiful. What if your life depended on it?"

"You're going to kill me, finally?"

"I am certainly considering it," Shandra hissed, growing impatient.

"Go ahead, do take your time," Leon continued, knowing that he would be driving her closer to the brink of impotent rage.

"You think this is a game?"

"You give me the impression that it's one big one, yes," Leon spoke. Honestly, actually. He felt like he was just another piece of the giant chess match that this war was becoming.

"Well, you must be a pawn, if this is a game," Shandra began taunting him again. "You really think that your alliance will be able to stand its ground from here on out? Do you really have any more hope?"

"I still do. You think I don't?"

"I think you're a wretched fool," Shandra sneered. "You think I don't intend to carry out my threats, do you?" Her voice dropped suddenly, deathly quiet in an instant. This was followed by the rasp of steel against cloth, and Leon could see the glint of the dagger blade as she withdrew it.

"Getting blood on your own hands?"

"You're in no position to taunt me," Shandra hissed at him, drawing in quickly. She raised the blade in a threatening manner, holding the weapon in front of him to accentuate her point. "You know what I want. Say the words and I will produce the document. Sign it."

"No."

"Sign it," Shandra fumed, raising the knife to his throat. "You don't think I'll do it?"

"I don't doubt you will. But I know you'd regret it if you do," Leon derided her, trying to gauge her next move. She brought the knife even closer, though, forcing the sharpest stretch of the dagger to the thin, soft flesh of his throat. He now realized he was sweating.

"Try me," she demanded, her voice deadly.

Leon hesitated for a moment. Her presence was stifling, and sweat was rolling lazily down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked to clear the perspiration away, and perhaps to clear her away, but when his eyelids fluttered open again she was still there. This was not a dream. He was even closer to death than he had been before, at the feast. It stood right before him, dressed in violet silk, teeth bared and eyes alive with malice. She would not hesitate to slit his throat, he knew.

"I…"

"Go on," she hissed, pressing the dagger even further into his throat. He felt a tiny hint of steel cutting through his skin. "Make your choice."
"I yield." It took so much effort to say those words but he did not hesitate any further. He felt any remaining resistance leave his body as soon as the knife was drawn away, and he collapsed, head falling and shoulders giving way.

"You will sign?" she asked, reaffirming.

"I...will...sign," he stammered, held up only by the chains that bound him to the damp stones. He heard her mutter something, but it was inaudible. The door opened, and he knew that the escort was bringing the papers in. They had been prepared for this moment, prepared for when he would break.

He felt so weak all of a sudden. He had just...given in? Even under threat of death, he had promised to himself that he would not give in to her demands...had the sleep deprivation truly worked?

It was all signed and done in a matter of minutes; in such a short span, he had signed his entire alliance away, destroyed it. He prayed that some would have the resolve to stand up to Thellden when the city's army came knocking to seize their lawfully-owned territory. But he had done it, no matter what happened to the rest of his land; he had signed it away, given it up. Weak.

The door closed again and once more Leon was left alone to silence. When his eyes closed for sleep, nobody tried to wake him.