August 16, 9 ATC

Fort Bombus, Province of Hiven, Oligarchy of Bumblebee

Jannis watched the fleeing League forces stream away from the battlefield, through the plains and toward the mountains. His men gave chase, but he knew they would not catch up. They had their victory, and that was enough for now.

He climbed up through the breach, observing the damage done to the fort. The armory was completely demolished, along with everything and everyone in it. The buildings next to it were also leveled, but notwithstanding this and the hole in the wall, the fort was otherwise undamaged.

"Jannis!" Anti cried out. She was limping badly, and clearly bloodied. Nevertheless, she was alive, more than Jannis could say for many of his men. He hurried over to her and steadied her.

"Anti," he said. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said. Jannis lowered her down so she could sit on the ground.

"What happened in there?" he asked. Anti did not look up to meet his eyes.

"Nitesco and Austin… they left me," she whispered. "But Zissman…"

Jannis's eyes widened. Zissman, dead? It did not seem possible. He had spent so many years laboring for Zissman's plan, and Zissman never got to see it to its end. Worse, the Church and the Subreddit would be headless.

"Are you sure he is dead?" Jannis asked. Anti paused for a moment.

"He was lying there," she said, "with a knife in his chest. But I suppose I didn't check…"

"Jannis!" A voice cried out. Jannis turned around and saw Strike walking toward him. He clambered up through the breach, his uniform tattered and bloody. Nevertheless, was alive.

"Strike," Jannis said, and he smiled. "I thought I may have lost you too."

"Nonsense!" Strike said, feigning bravado. "I would never die to these brutes! But I must apologize. It seems the League was able to slip through our fingers."

"It matters little now," Jannis said. He turned his head again to the hills. The League had finally trickled out of sight. "They are defeated. Your reinforcements were what won us this battle. Don't undervalue that."

"I heard you killed Gwydion," Strike said, changing the subject. "Is this true?"

Jannis gestured toward the ditch where Gwydion's body lay, still warm. "It seems so," Jannis said with a twang of sadness. "But this day has exacted a toll from us as well."

Strike furrowed his brow and looked to Anti. When he saw how she failed to meet his eyes, he understood.

"Zissman is dead?" he asked. Jannis raised a finger to his lips to try and quiet him, but it was too late. He had already attracted the attention of a nearby soldier, who looked to Strike and Jannis with an almost childlike expression of sadness.

"Zissman is dead?" the soldier asked. The soldiers next to him heard and also turned to Jannis. The word spread through the men like wildfire, and within minutes, the weary, bloodied army was entirely alight with fear. The whole force began chattering away, turning to whoever was nearest and asking if what they had just heard could really be true.

Anti finally got up from the ground to cast a rueful glare at Strike, who merely stood agape at what he unwittingly caused. Jannis, though, did not scold him. Watching his proud army devolve into senselessness stirred something in him. He realized what they were: puppets, lost without a leader to guide them, or a cause to fight for. With Zissman gone, their empire would disintegrate, their work would be undone, and all his brothers and sisters-in-arms would be purposeless.

But they didn't have to be.

Jannis walked into their midst, stood atop a small pile of rubble, and raised his arms into the sky like the prophets of old. Eventually, the soldiers stopped chattering and turned their attention to Jannis, who stood so regally on his pile of rocks. A silence fell over them, and Jannis spoke.

"Brothers and sisters!" Jannis spoke in a deep, authoritative voice. This was not the voice he used to bark orders at his men; this was an inspiring voice. He watched the soldiers hang on his words, and he couldn't help but feel proud.

"Today we have defeated the League!" he announced. "Today, we have spurned our enemies. We have ground them into the dust, and soon, the whole country will know that we reign supreme!" His voice lowered into a softer, more emphatic tone. "But they have taken something from us: they have taken the life of Scion Zissman."

The soldiers, though they had all already heard, gasped. To hear Jannis, who was second only to Zissman, utter these words cemented them as fact instead of hearsay. But something compelled them to listen further.

"I know that is frightening," Jannis said, "and I know that is disheartening. He has prepared us for years for this moment. I know the pain of this loss better than any other: he was like a brother to me. A father. But we cannot let that stop us.

"I know it will be difficult to continue, but continue we must. We cannot let this stop the Goddess' will from being completed. We must press on! Zissman will be a martyr for the ages, watching us complete his work from Paradise. But we cannot let his sacrifice be in vain. If anyone among you wishes to set down their sword and return home, so be it. But if you wish to stay, to avenge this cruel injustice, to complete our holy mission, then stand with me now!"

At first, the crowd was silent, watching Jannis with curiosity. He felt a pang of self-consciousness, and for a moment, wondered if he had failed. But then, like a torrent of thunder, a cheer exploded from the ranks. Each man raised his weapon in the air, possessed by a fervent rage. From the crowd came the cheer of the old crusaders:

"Victory, or paradise! Victory, or paradise! Victory, or paradise!"

Jannis could not help but smile as he stepped down from his makeshift pulpit. The soldiers nearest to him approached him eagerly, ready and willing to take on any task.

"Sir!" the first among them said. "What are your orders?"

Jannis pointed out towards the trampled field, toward the bodies. "Retrieve the bodies," he said. "Give our men a proper burial. Dig a mass grave for the rest."

"What about that one?" a second man asked. He pointed toward a body in a deep ditch, bloodied and with an arm missing, and Jannis realized it was Gwydion.

He hesitated. "Bring that one inside," he said. "Sew up his arm, and embalm him."

"Sir?" the man asked. Embalming was an honor few received, usually reserved for great priests, statesmen, or warriors.

"He is a better man than most," Jannis said, his voice low. "Embalm him. We will put him in the crypt at Guns N' Roses. We owe such a fierce warrior that."

The soldiers obeyed, rushing off to the battlefield to retrieve Gwydion. Jannis turned back to Anti and Strike, who watched silently.

"I never figured you for the sentimental type," Anti said. Strike looked unsure.

"A fine speech," Strike said. "But now what do we do?"

"Take as many men as you can," Jannis said. "Go to our insecure holdings. Secure them. We must minimize our losses." He turned to Anti. "And you must contact our allies and puppets. Inform them that Zissman is dead, but make sure they won't abandon us."

"It will be done," Anti said, giving a small bow, "but I must ask, what will you do?"

"Oh, don't worry about me," Jannis said. He turned his eyes toward the citadel, and he wondered if Zissman had yet begun to rot.

"I have a Church to run."

August 20, 9 ATC

The Mask's Fortress, Lockian Mountains

Four days later, Austin could still feel the sting of her defeat, both metaphorical and literal. For three days their army had torn across the countryside, desperately avoiding any chance of an encirclement. They had lost thousands to the battle, and hundreds more vanished in the night to desertion. They were in no position to prevent it. When the League reached Enabler, they sent the bulk of their force to defend the Enablerish frontier. The rest of them, their officers and aides, went with the commanders to the Mask's mountain fortress to shelter.

Austin spent the night in a cold chamber. The Mask was not inhospitable; he had a great collection of food, wine, and literature. But that didn't stop the drafty mountain cold from getting in. The cold didn't stop Austin from sleeping the whole day, nor did the persistent pain in the wound where her right eye used to be; she spent most of the day drifting in and out of an exhausted slumber.

It was around six in the evening when she heard a knock on her door. Austin had been keeping busy with the copy of ANGQ's biography she had snatched from McDouggal back in Milk and Cereal, wondering what her father would've said about her current predicament. She sighed and tossed the book on her bed.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Kazehh." Austin got up and opened the door.

Kazehh wore a plain white tunic with pants to match, but they did little to conceal the bruises and cuts he had accrued during his escape. His face was uncharacteristically blank, and he winced as he shifted his weight.

"What's up?" Austin asked. Kazehh leaned against the doorway.

"They're having a service for Gwydion in the chapel," Kazehh said. "Vulpix was wondering if you were going to come."

"Will Nitesco be there?" Austin asked.

"He should be," Kazehh said. "But he's still pretty shook up. I think it'd be good for him if you were there too."

"Okay," Austin said. She closed the door behind her and followed Kazehh through the halls of the fortress to the chapel.

The chapel was impressive, having been carved with great detail out of the mountainside. One side was fitted with five stained glass windows, each one depicting a different religion's version of God. The light shining through the stained glass illuminated the other side of the cathedral, which had no windows. Instead, five statues, depicting a prophet of each religion, sat in the light of their gods.

The pews were filled with more people than Austin had expected: her officers and the Mask's men alike gathered to honor the fallen. She spotted Coronam in a middle row, sitting on the edge next to Opifexa. The ride to the fortress was particularly hard on her, and with the injuries she had sustained, there was doubt she would ever walk again. A few rows behind them sat Contramundi, flanked by his aides and guards, hands folded in his lap. At the altar was the Mask, who watched Austin and Kazehh enter, looking priestly in his cloak and mask. And in the front row was Nitesco, with Vulpix at his side, looking ahead in a trance.

Austin and Kazehh slid into the row behind them. Nitesco turned around to face Austin, and she could see his eyes were stained with tears. Nitesco managed a smile.

"Thanks for coming," he said. Austin nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. Nitesco put his hand on top of hers and turned back toward the Mask.

The Mask walked up to Nitesco and nodded sadly. "My condolences," he said. "Gwydion was a good man."

"Thank you," Nitesco whispered.

"Do you know what religion he followed?" the Mask asked. "I can change the rites, if you wish."

"He wasn't religious," Nitesco said. "Do what you think is best." The Mask nodded and took his place at the altar facing away from the congregation and toward the ceiling.

"O, God," he said, his voice swelling with conviction. "Your blessed one, Gwydion, has passed from this life. From birth until death he has lived a holy life, done his good deeds, and fought his just battles. In your mercy and your wisdom, we implore you, grant him peace and paradise."

"Grant him peace and paradise," the congregation echoed. Austin recognized the verse: it was a Cargoan rite, one she had seen her father perform as a child. Nitesco recognized it too, and he struggled to contain his tears.

"We fear the darkness," the Mask continued. "We fear the pain. Take Gwydion into your peace, O God, where there is no darkness and there is no pain. Take his soul into your grace, O God, and let him shed this earthly tether; for from dirt this body comes and to dirt it shall return. But his soul has come from you; let it return to you once more."

"Let it return to you once more," they all echoed.

"What is done is done, and he has returned from where he came." The Mask turned to the congregation. "As you have taken from Gwydion his grief and pain, take too our grief and pain from us. For while the dead are with you, the living stand alone. Come and walk with us, O God, as he now walks with you."

"As he now walks with you," was the solemn reply.

"I now invite all of you to pay your respects," the Mask said. "You may come up to the altar and pray or give offerings, if you wish." The Mask gave a final bow of reverence to the altar before calmly walking out of the chapel.

Coronam and Kazehh, along with a few others, went up to the altar to pay their respects. Nitesco, though, stayed seated, relaxing his grip on Austin's hand and folding his hands in his lap.

"I'm all alone now," he said to Vulpix. "Quixotic, Austin… now Gwydion. To think, after all these years fighting side-by-side, I'd ever see him gone…" He choked on a sob and tried to avert his eyes. "And I'm the last one…"

"I know," Vulpix said. He put his hand on Nitesco's shoulder, and Austin saw his eyes were wet as well. "Believe me, I know."

Austin's eye was hot with tears, and the pain in her right eye socket became sharp. She stood up to leave. No one saw her go or tried to stop her. At least, she hoped nobody saw her. She just needed a moment.

She found the Mask waiting outside, drenching a torch in oil to set it alight. He turned to her, and Austin could tell he was surprised.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, curious. She sighed.

"I couldn't be in there," she confessed. "It's my fault. My plan didn't work. If I had been quicker, I could've—" She stopped herself and blinked away the tears. "You made a mistake."

"A mistake?" the Mask asked. "What mistake?"

"You nominated me to be a commander," Austin said. "Back at the manor. It could've just been Nitesco, or Coronam. But you chose me. And I think that you made a mistake."

The Mask tisked quietly, and stood still for a few seconds. "Why don't we take a walk?" he said, and he guided her by the arm down a hall.

They walked in silence until the Mask spoke again. "I don't think I made a mistake," he said. "I see in you a drive I haven't seen in some time. A conviction. And guile too. No, nominating you was not a mistake at all."

"But I failed," Austin protested. "My plan failed. I killed McDouggal. I screwed up the battle. I only defeated Zissman because Nitesco came to save me. And I know you'll give me some line about teamwork, or togetherness, or whatever. But the fact is, they had me dead to rights. I wasn't strong enough to stop them. I didn't have it in me to win."

They turned a corner and came into a spacious outdoor pavilion, carved out of the mountainside. A small fountain bubbled away in the middle, surrounded by flowers of all shapes and sizes, and off the edge of the mountain they had a spectacular view of the sunset. The Mask sat her down on a bench near the fountain.

"Defeat is a part of war," the Mask said. "A pity as it may be, it is fact. But one defeat does not end a war. When your father lost the battle of Pollination during Celtic's Revolt, did he give in?"

Austin turned to him, surprised. "You know?"

"I'm a spymaster," he said. "Of course I know."

"Is that why you chose me, then?" Austin asked. "Because of my bloodline?"

"Not at all," the Mask said, and Austin sensed a mischief in him. "Well, partially. When I heard you speak at the meeting, I saw a fire in you that I only saw once before: in your father."

"You met my father?" Austin asked. The Mask snickered.

"You know," he said, reaching around the back of his head. "They say Villainians, for all their faults, have a long memory." He unbuckled the leather strap and let down his hood, clutching the mask in one hand. "And of all the things to forget, I will never forget the face of the man who dropped me through a building."

His hair was a darkened blond, but more important was his face: it was deeply, grievously scarred. But these were not battle scars. Strange runes crisscrossed his face, and Austin leaned back in surprise. She had read stories of her father's victories during Celtic's Revolt, and she knew only one man who matched his description.

"Yukon?" she said. He smiled devilishly.

"In the flesh," he said. Austin grabbed him by the collar. A sea of emotions burned like magma under her skin, but she kept her composure.

"How?" she asked. Yukon shrugged.

"On accident. I shattered my shoulder, but I had just enough strength to escape the inferno before I passed out."

"But why join us?" Austin asked. "Why help us? Nitesco! He was there when you—"

"Died?" Yukon interrupted. "Not quite. But I understand your doubts. I woke up in a very different world than I left. I expected to see my people fighting the Angelic League's forces to their dying breaths. But when I wandered through the broken streets, they were greeted as liberators. Saviors. I was the villain.

"I spent my life trying to end injustice. Foolishness. Corruption. I thought Emberald a paradise. But when I saw my people dancing in their ruined homes, I realized that I could not simply bludgeon the world into perfection. That mindset was the ultimate folly. So when I heard that there was a Church, an army of fools who sought to do the same as I had tried to do, of course I sought to stop it."

Austin sighed and released him. "Then we are still allies." She paused. "I will keep your secret, but I will tolerate no schemes here. No plots or plans."

"I would never dream of such petty things," Yukon said. He pulled up his hood and donned his mask again. "But remember why I chose you, Austin. We cannot afford to back down now."

Yukon left in a hurry, leaving Austin alone. So much swirled in her head: Gwydion, Zissman, Nitesco, Jannis, Yukon, Anti. It was all so much. But Yukon, whatever he was, was right. She had to stay strong.

Austin set her sword on the bench and sat down to watch the setting sun. After a few minutes, she heard footsteps approaching from behind her. She looked back over her right shoulder, then, having difficulty, turned and looked over her left. Nitesco made his way over and took a seat next to her.

"You left without saying anything," he said.

Austin swallowed. "I had to get out of there. I felt…I don't know. Wrong, being in that place."

"Sometimes you just need space," Nitesco wiped his eyes, which were still reddened. "I understand."

They looked out at the sunset together.

"I don't blame you," Nitesco said.

Austin hugged her stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I know you aren't going to believe me if I tell you it wasn't your fault. I've been in your position. I know that it will weigh on you for a long time. You'll spend many a night thinking of all the things you could have done differently. How you could have saved someone you lost. You'll blame yourself." He turned and faced her. "But I want you to know that I don't blame you. Not for a second."

Austin looked down at her lap. "It was my plan, though. My decisions led us here. I'm responsible for everyone we lost. You must be lying. How could you not blame me?"

"If it wasn't your plan, it would have been mine, and mine would have gone worse. You can't always win."

Austin said nothing.

"What matters is that we don't lose ourselves," Nitesco said. "I'm going to remember these past few days for the rest of my life. Losing Gwydion... I don't think this will ever really go away. But I won't let that pain stop me from pressing on. I've still got a fight to finish."

Austin took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and looked Nitesco in the eye. "I'm with you all the way. I'll get better, get smarter, and do whatever I can to make things right. I'm sorry that I haven't been good enough so far. I'm sorry I let you down."

"Listen to me," Nitesco said. "You didn't let me down. Thank you. Thank you for everything you've done."

Austin shut her eyes. "Everything?"

"Everything."

Nitesco took Austin's hand in his, and they fell back into silence. The sun sank below the horizon, soon to rise again.