"So..." Tuera said, as the trio passed a stonebrick gate and a pair of stern-faced warriors. "You said you were last here several years ago, correct?"

"Yes," Shevatas practically grunted.

"I'm guessing all this is new, then?" Tuera asked, gesturing at the buildings around them; Shevatas nodded.

"Yes," he repeated, before adding: "...mostly. Some of it's new." He paused again. "There's more people, now."

"Okay," Tuera said with a nod. "Good to know."

It was barely midday when Tuera and company arrived in Sepermeru, but already the city was a bustle of activity. When she had first heard of this place from Arcos, days ago – and, indeed, when Shevatas had shared descriptions of the place on the trip here – Tuera had expected the "city" moniker to be an ironic joke describing a tiny settlement with a few dozen or so huts and tents, housing a scant handful of miserable cast-offs and refugees who had banded together in shared exile.

But no.

Sepermeru was a genuine city, with buildings clustered so densely together, they appeared as if they had simply been built on top of one another in places. Squat, square structures of cut sandstone surrounded them on all sides, each one plastered with clay marl and decorated with vivid murals and vibrant paints. Banners and awnings, woven with dyed threads in every color visible in the rainbow, were hanging from nearly every surface; many of the larger ones stretched across the broad, sandy, cobblestone street, to provide welcome shade from the baking desert sun. Merchants and craftsmen hawked their wares and barked at the crowd from stalls and shop windows filling every available corner and crevice. The street was thick with people of all shapes, sizes, and colors; Shevatas identified many of them to Ioanna and Tuera as exiles from Shem, and just as many exiles from Stygia... but it was obvious from a glance, that there were people here from all corners of the Hyborian world.

And every single one of them, Tuera noted, was wearing a serpent bracelet.

"So, here's a question..." Tuera began, as the three of them made their way through the crowds. "Why build the city right next to one of those?"

Tuera pointed at a spot directly in front of them: perched on a cliff, high above a dense cluster of buildings, was a boundary marker for the Cursewall. The silhouette of the 40-foot tall stelae was unmistakable, as was the nighted stone indicative of Giant-King architecture. It loomed ominously over them, casting a shadow of almost palpable tension and unease by its very presence.

"Couldn't say for certain," Shevatas said with a shrug. "Sepermeru has been here as long as there have been exiles, as far as I know. There's a rumor the founders set down roots here, in the hope that the Cursewall might fall, one day. No better place to know if it does than right next to it, I suppose... but that clearly hasn't happened." He paused, shaking his head and letting out a grunt of frustration. "I don't like it."

"No?" Ioanna asked, chiming in. Shevatas shook his head, looking up to glare at the boundary marker.

"All that obelisk does is remind me of the freedom I lost when I was dumped here," he snorted derisively. "Reminds me what I'll never get back. It's why I don't like coming back to Sepermeru unless I have to..."

"Is that the only reason?" Tuera asked with a sly smirk. She had a hunch, and Shevatas' silence spoke volumes. "Well, look on the bright side: as soon as we recruit some help, we'll be well on our way to getting out of this city. And hey! If our overall mission is a success, then we'll be ditching these slave bracelets much sooner, rather than later!"

"Hhnm," Shevatas grumbled from the back of his throat; he seemed lost in thought. They had left the crowd behind them by now. The sounds of the marketplace slowly began to fade as they continued down a much more narrow street, venturing deeper into the city.

"We're burning daylight here, people," Monty spoke up suddenly from his spot on Tuera's back. "Are we going to enlist some help, or what?"

"The staff... er... well, he makes a fair point," Ioanna added, briefly uncertain of how to properly address the snake staff. "Where will we find those willing to aid us here?"

"The Waterside Tavern," Shevatas said tersely. "If memory serves, that should be a good place to start. Last I was here, it was a collection point for all manner of scoundrels, sellswords and ne'er-do-wells, willing to work for even the promise of riches, rather than payment up front..."

"That seems... convenient," Ioanna said, furrowing her brow. "Almost suspiciously so. What's the -"

Ioanna was suddenly cut off by Tuera's hand appearing suddenly to clasp her firmly by the shoulder. Tuera had also grabbed Shevatas, and the two of them paused to look. Tuera's expression was suddenly serious; her eyes were focused, and her jaw set. Something was wrong.

"Shev," she said softly, barely loud enough to be heard. "I need you and Ioanna to keep walking when I stop, and be ready to run as soon as you're out of sight." Shevatas opened his mouth, either in query or protest, but Tuera quickly continued before he could speak. "We're being followed. I can't tell how many from the sound of footsteps alone, but they're almost on us. I can deal with this, and I'll find you later. Go."

She gave the two of them a gentle shove, and Tuera came to a halt, firmly planting her feet on the sandy paving stones. The two of them continued forward, disappearing behind a corner out of sight, and Tuera glanced over her shoulder to get a look at their pursuers. Several burly figures cloaked in shadow were starting to emerge from darkened corners and alleyways on the edges of her peripheral vision, converging on her quickly now that she was the only one left.

"That was gracious of you, looking out for their safety like that," Monty said with a chuckle. "Seems almost out of character for you to be that nice." Tuera screwed up her face in frustration.

"It'll be easier to fight without having to worry about them getting in the way," Tuera hissed. "Why does everyone think my pragmatism is out of character?" Monty started to answer, but: "That was a rhetorical question. Hush." She spun on the ball of her right foot, turning to face her pursuers; the toes of her left foot brushed against the flat stones of the street as she spun, kicking up a cloud of dust and drawing a curved line in the sand.

There were at least six of them that Tuera could see. Burly, scarred thugs to a man, and the one in front – clearly the leader of this gang – looked particularly unpleasant. He was easily a head taller than Tuera and twice as broad, with an unseemly square head sitting atop a heavily muscled neck exactly as wide as his skull. They all seemed to posses that peculiar slack-jawed, dim-witted expression unique to the willfully ignorant who insist on violently shoving square pegs in round holes until both break. But the one in front also contained a hint of animalistic cunning and malice in those beady little eyes. His hand rested on the hilt of a scimitar sheathed at his waist, and he grinned hungrily as he advanced on her.

Tuera did her best to hide a smile. This was going to be fun, wasn't it?

"That's a nice lookin' sword ye've got hangin' off yer hip, little girl," the one in front bellowed with a voice that sounded like he regularly gargled broken glass. He stopped a foot or two away from Tuera, and she had to crane her neck to look up at him.

"It does the job," she calmly replied, looking up at him, but keeping herself aware of the others. They started to encircle her slowly, presumably thinking that surrounding her would intimidate her into surrender.

"It's far too nice a blade for those dainty little hands of yours..." he sneered, twisting the scar on his face into a truly unpleasant shape. "That staff looks worth a pretty penny, too. I think we'll take them both... and then help ourselves to whatever else you have..." It was abundantly clear from his tone of voice (and the lecherous guffaws of the other thugs) what he meant.

"You're welcome to try." Tuera replied, unable to hide her smile any longer. "But you'll fail. You haven't brought nearly enough men for something like that to work." The lead thug snorted with disdain, but Tuera continued. "Tell you what: if you dim-witted buffoons even manage to touch this sword, I'll let you keep it." The thug leaned back and scoffed.

"Mouthy little harlot, ain't ya?" he spat, continuing to loom over her. He turned to the thugs to his right briefly. "What do you think, lads? I think we oughta teach her some manners..." He suddenly wheeled around with a closed fist, aiming a punch square at her face.

The fist unexpectedly came to a dead stop.

"What the-" he uttered in bewilderment. Tuera had caught his fist mid-swing, and she smirked at him, refusing to let go. He tried to yank his fist free, but it was like his arm was caught in a vice. Without really thinking, he pulled back with his other fist, and tried punching her again.

That fist came to a dead stop as well.

"I – you –" he stammered, his beady eyes widened, darting back and forth between his two fists, trapped beneath Tuera's grip. The veins on his neck bulged, and with a frustrated grunt, he made one last gamble: he pulled his head back as far as it could go (with his fists still trapped as they were), and then surged forward, trying to smash his forehead against hers.

There was a crack of bone, a spurt of blood, and Tuera finally let go of his fists. He careered backwards through the air like a discarded sack of potatoes, blood spraying out of his broken nose. It looked like he had tried to headbutt a brick wall, with all the self-inflicted damage that entails. Tuera, meanwhile, had not budged a single inch, and her face was completely unmarred from the strike.

For a brief moment, the thugs surrounding her seemed more than a bit stunned by this unexpected turn. And then, one of the burly men behind her yelled:

"Kill the bitch!"

The goons all started shouting and jeering, each rushing forward and seeking to surround her completely, but Tuera kicked off the ground and launched herself at the closest one. The lummox swung at her wildly but Tuera flowed over him like she was made of water, grabbed him by the top of his head, and shoved him down hard into the street. She flipped over the flailing pile of limbs as he crashed face-first, and then landed gracefully several feet away from the rest of the thugs to face them.

It was then, in that moment, Tuera decided to have a bit of fun.

"And in this corner!" she shouted, putting on her best Jim Ross voice and bringing her fists to bear. "Defending her title against six men in a no-rules, no-holds-barred steel cage match!" As she kept up the commentary, she ducked punch after punch, weaving in and out of the mob of far-too-slow-to-catch-her thugs. "Coming in at five-foot-ten and weighing 769 pounds, you know her as the Warlock Wrecker! The Raven Ruiner! The Amazon from Azeroth! Ladies and gents, it is the Dark Mistress of Dark Matter herself, the Intergalactic Super Heavyweight Champion of the Universe, TUERA!"

"Shut up!" one of them shouted. The man swung at her again, but she dodged out of the way and just kept talking.

"And he swings to the left! He swings to the right! But it's just not good enough!" He tried punching her a third time, and Tuera leaned back, wrapping her hands around his forearm. "...because he didn't count on those legs!" She kicked off the ground while holding onto his arm, scissored her calves around his face, and twisted her weight to spin herself around him and throw him to the street with a heavy crashing thud. "And he's down for the count, folks! He'll be feeling that one in the morning!"

She disentangled herself from the prone man bleeding on the ground and hopped away, keeping herself out of reach as the few remaining thugs desperately tried to keep up. It was clear that she was starting to piss them off – which is exactly what she wanted.

"Stop moving!" one of them yelled, before immediately shouting: "What the-!" as Tuera bodychecked him, burying her shoulder in his gut, grabbing him by one of his legs with one hand, one of his arms by the other, and lifting him up over her shoulders. He floundered and spluttered, utterly confused, as she spun him around and around before throwing him like the dead weight he was, right through a pile of nearby crates. The wood splintered and flew everywhere, as he smashed into the brick wall.

She didn't have time to rest. Two of them were coming straight at her, and it almost looked like they were going to try to grappling with her, rather than simply punching her like the others had done. Tuera ducked out of the way, but then immediately shot back up, grabbing hold of the two of them by their necks. They were swept off their feet by her momentum, and slammed back-first against the street.

"Oh, and it's the dreaded double-choke-slam! I just can't believe what I'm seeing!" she yelled with excitement, diving into a roll away from the two prone men, bleeding from the back of their skulls. Another one was coming at her, and she found it almost comical: not only did these clumsy oafs all look practically the same, they were all trying to attack her the exact same way every time. The thought (assuming there was one) must have been that one of them would probably get her, eventually...

"And she's slithering up the side of the ring..." she said, dropping down and sliding through his legs before leaping up, kicking off the edge of a nearby pillar, and aimed her feet straight at a nearby wall. "Oh, watch out! Watch out!" She kicked off the wall and practically flew through the air at the bewildered thug, who clearly had no idea what was going on. She twisted in midair, wrapped her right arm under his chin, her left arm around the back of his head, and just let gravity take care of the rest. There was a heavy thud and a snap of bone as she slammed him into the street, and he immediately stopped moving. Tuera, meanwhile, got right back on her feet with a kip-up, pointing at the sky and flexing in triumph.

"BOOM! It's an RKO from outta nowhere, folks!" she yelled, unable to fully contain her laughter any longer. She turned, barely getting a few feet away before suddenly: there was a flash of steel! A sharp sting slashed through the air, right across her face.

"AUGH!" she yelled, recoiling backward from the unexpected impact and began to stagger slightly. A sword had cut a massive diagonal gash across her face, and the sudden shock managed to break her out of the wrestling commentary. The leader – the one who had tried and failed to headbutt her when all this started – was back on his feet with a bloody face and his scimitar drawn. Tuera held a hand against her face in a futile attempt to get the blood to stop flowing.

"Okay, you had your fun..." the man growled, adjusting the grip on his sword. "But it's over. Give it up, bitch." Tuera was still doubled over, facing away from him, clutching at the bloody wound, and was seemingly unable to say anything at first.

But then... she started laughing.

"Something funny?" the lead thug asked with annoyance, rubbing a fist under his nose to try and wipe away the blood. Tuera stood back up to her full height, still facing away from him, and slowly removed her hand from her face, flicking away some of the spilled blood; the droplets landed on the stone street some distance away, popping and sizzling upon impact.

"Ahhh..." Tuera sighed contentedly, almost moaning, still unable to contain her laughter. "That was a good hit..." She turned, and the thug faltered at the sight. It wasn't the deep gash dividing her face diagonally (from her temple, across her nose, and down to the bottom of her jaw), or the rivulets of blood pouring from the open wound down her dark face that gave him pause. It was her eyes. For the first time, he realized that her eyes were just as vibrant a red as the blood on her face. More disquieting was how they seemed to be bulging out of their sockets, with irises contracted to almost imperceptible pinpricks. Her mouth was pulled back into an entirely too wide rictus grin, showing off far too many teeth – and too many sharp ones, at that.

"But... I really have to ask..." She started advancing on him slowly, and he backed up in response. Droplets of blood fell off her chin, spilling onto the stones beneath her feet. They sizzled and sparked on impact, belching out tiny curls of smoke. "...what are you going to do with a melting sword?"

"A... what?" He asked, looking down at his scimitar with horror... because it wasn't a sword anymore. Every part of the steel blade that Tuera's blood had touched was being eaten away, spewing out sheets of green gas as it disintegrated. The metal was breaking apart, turning into a runny liquid and sloughing away in heavy droplets.

"AAHHH!" he screamed, dropping what was left of the rapidly dissolving sword in a panic. He turned tail and ran as fast as he could in the other direction, refusing to look back. Tuera relaxed her face, and licked off some of the blood dripping past her lips.

"That's right. Run away, little boy," she said with a soft chuckle to herself, walking away from the motionless bodies behind her. She dragged one of her hands slowly across her face, trying to wipe off some of the blood, and Monty took this time to finally speak up.

"Sooooooo... you've got acid for blood, huh?" he asked. "That's... different."

"It's more handy than you might think," she said, licking some of the blood off her palm. "Don't worry. In a minute or two, it'll oxidize in the air and render itself inert."

"Is that right..." Monty mused aloud. "So, how are we going to explain that huge gash on your face to your friends?"

"Oh, we won't," Tuera said simply; she winced, and started walking to a nearby building with a glass window. "It will start healing up on its own, soon enough."

"Wait, you what?" Monty asked. Tuera didn't answer at first. She leaned over, to look at her dim reflection in the uneven, bubble-laden glass. She had managed to wipe away most of the congealed blood, and the wound was significantly smaller than it had been a minute ago. Not only that, but the flow of blood had clearly stopped.

"Ah, there, you see? Almost healed already." She brushed away the last of the quickly drying blood, and walked away from the window. She winced again, feeling the sting as the wound finished closing completely, and then let out a contented sigh. "I'm hungry. We should find some food."

"... you are certainly full of surprises, aren't you?" Monty said, after an extended pause.

"Oh, Monty," Tuera shook her head with a smug grin. "Monty, Monty, Monty. You don't know the half of it. Now, let's see if we can catch up to Shev and Ioanna..."

Before Tuera got the chance to do that, however, the sounds of footsteps could be heard once again. These were not the careful, quiet footfalls of thugs trying to disguise their approach, like Tuera had heard before. No, these were the heavy, solid, and completely un-subtle stomps of several armor-clad men all marching in unison, who had clearly left any pretense of stealth and tact behind. And that could mean only one thing: soldiers. Possibly city guards, but... at the end of the day, the distinction was functionally meaningless.

Sure enough, several armed men appeared from around the corner. There were around 10 of them in total, and they were definitely some manner of professional fighting men: not only were they all wearing armor, but it seemed to be uniform. Each wore a metal cuirass that was a strange combination of scale mail and lamellar plate to create something entirely unlike both; studded leather faulds creating an armored skirt beneath the chest piece; and metal greaves attached to the straps of their sandalled feet. They carried round metal shields, and were armed with a combination of pikes and halberds.

"That was quick," Tuera said, clearly unfazed by the men with polearms advancing on her. "What, are we next to a garrison or something?"

One of the soldiers stepped forward, away from the line blocking her exit from the street. He was the only one wearing a helmet: a metal nasal helmet with a slight conical point to the top. He was also the only one of their number not carrying a spear, with a curved sabre dangling from his hip instead.

"There were sounds of a great disturbance coming from this alley, Exile," the man said in a commanding tone, clearly used to barking orders. He peered around Tuera to better look at the carnage and the pile of bodies behind her, and raised an eyebrow at the sight. "Are you responsible for this?" He seemed skeptical.

"And what if I am?" she asked, slowly bringing her hand to rest on the pommel of her sword. Several of the soldiers tightened their grips around their weapons in response.

"Captain!" one of the soldiers suddenly spoke up. "Look: the staff."

The stern-faced man in the helmet looked up, focusing on the snake staff strapped to Tuera's back. His eyes narrowed, and then he turned his attention back to her.

"You need to come with us," he said bluntly. "Our Chieftain, Chamiel, will want to see that artefact of yours."

The air was silent and tense for several moments as Tuera stood before them, still as a statue, and internally weighed her options as she stared them down. On the one hand, it would be almost comically easy to deal with these soldiers... but if the small scuffle with the thugs had brought out this many men so quickly, then another fight so soon was only sure to bring more, and there was only so many corpses she could create out in the open in a city like this before it might start causing serious problems. It just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. On the other hand, if she played along, she would find out who this 'Chieftain' they spoke of was. Clearly, he was in a position of some authority, but beyond that... she really couldn't say. If she met who was in charge, she might be able to find some leverage against him for her own ends. Maybe even enlist some aid in her quest. It was very long odds, to be sure, but certainly better prospects than the dead end more pointless fighting was sure to create. At least... more fighting at this particular moment. She wasn't removing the option of violence entirely, she was just shelving it. For now.

"Okay, I'll follow. But only if you ask nicely," she said eventually. "I'm sure that at least one of you can manage a 'please,' right?"

Tuera was being guided through the city, flanked on either side by the armed soldiers and led by the captain in the helmet. Wherever they went, the crowds quickly dispersed. They were heading to the west, in the general direction of the Cursewall boundary marker sitting on a cliff she'd seen before. It soon became clear, however, that they weren't heading to that: they were heading to a large palatial structure built from dark brown stone bricks directly in front of the cliffs below the obelisk. The stone edifice was far more ornately decorated than any of the other buildings in the city, complete with grand looking banners hanging from the windows, fluttering in the breeze.

As they got closer to the palace, they passed by another large building, which was surrounded by guards and... spikes on the roof? Tuera couldn't help but try and get a better look. It soon became obvious that this was a prison. She peered through a gap in the wall, blocked off by metal bars, and saw an imposing structure in the middle of a courtyard: it vaguely resembled a giant capstan, like the sort used to raise an anchor on sailing ships. Men and women were chained to the tree-trunk sized poles they were pushing, rotating the vertical axle, which in turn moved a stone grinding wheel right in the center. Was this a gristmill, turning grain into flour? Or did it exist purely for its own sake, as a means of punishing prisoners? A guard wearing an executioners hood stood on a platform above the central spar, keeping watch; as Tuera and her escorts passed the gap in the wall, one of the slaves stumbled, and the guard cracked the whip in his hands.

The captain pulled open a set of massive double doors, and they all entered the palace. Tuera took stock of her surroundings, and realized they were in some combination of entrance hall and throne room. The cut stones of the floor were practically polished, and the vaulted ceiling had been constructed to draw the eye to the far end of the room, where a throne situated atop a raised platform dominated everything. A portly man dressed in ornate robes and shiny jewelry – including a silver crown – slouched in the throne. He looked like he should've been in his 30's or 40's, but his pale face was already marred by a few liver spots, and the gray hairs at his temple did the opposite of making him look distinguished. A jewel encrusted goblet was in his hand, and he looked bored (but not as bored as the several half-naked women sitting on the stairs leading up to the throne). The guards escorting Tuera began to disperse, moving to defensive positions around the room, but still surrounding her. The message was clear: don't try anything funny.

"Chieftain," the captain said, kneeling before the throne. "We've found another Exile in possession of an artefact. A staff of Set, it seems." He got up and stepped aside, and the man shifted in his throne to get a better look at Tuera as she stood in the middle of the room.

"Oh, is that right?" the Chieftain said, taking a long drink from his goblet; droplets of red wine spilled off the side and down his face. He set down his drink, let out a loud belch, and made a 'come here' gesture with his free hand. "Alright, you know the rules, slave. Hand it over."

"Excuse me?" Tuera was unable to disguise her contempt. Several of the guards adjusted the grip on their weapons, and the captain put a hand on his sword.

"You will address our Chieftain with respect, Exile, or face the consequences," he said with force. The Chieftain, however, waved him off and started laughing with a dark and ugly guffaw.

"You must be new to the Exiled Lands," he snorted dismissively. "I should've guessed. Those filthy rags betray the ignorance of your station, so let me illuminate you. I am High Chief Chamiel, son of the late Chief Simoel, appointed by King Akhirom of Shem. Here is how things work in my domain: Exiles like you find artefacts buried in the wastes, you bring them to me, and then I give them to the King. Understand?"

"Why should I agree to this?" Tuera asked with disdain, and all the guards stiffened again. "Hell, why should you? I mean, if you're here, you must be in the same boat as the rest of us, trapped in this place, with... one of..." she trailed off, her gaze falling to his wrists. He was wearing a lot of jewelry, but there was one notable absence.

Unlike all the guards around her, the half-naked slave girls at his feet, and everyone else Tuera had met in the Exiled Lands, this man was very clearly not wearing a slave bracelet.

"I am not like you, peasant," the Chieftain's words oozed out of his mouth like bile. He realized that she was looking for a slave bracelet, so he smugly held up his thin, pale arms and showed off his bare wrists. "I am free to come and go from this wretched piss-hole as I please. Which makes me a free man... and you, a slave. And like any good slave, you will follow the commands of your betters." He held out his hand once more. "Now... hand over the staff."

"Don't I get any say in this?" Monty squeaked weakly from his sling on Tuera's back.

"And if I refuse?" Tuera stated firmly, ignoring the staff and unwilling to be cowed. The Chieftain leaned back, laughing raucously.

"Oh-hoh, this one has some fire, doesn't she?" the Chieftain smarmed. "I'm sure you saw those wretched mongrels packed into Westwall Prison upon your arrival, yes? That is the fate of any and all who disobey me... as well as all those who displease me. I will get what I want, because I always get what I want. It's entirely up to you how much agony you suffer before that happens..." He motioned with his head at the captain, and pointed off to his left. "Send her to the Wheel of Pain." He looked back at Tuera and grinned wickedly. "I look forward to watching your torment, slave. It will be entertaining to see what breaks first: your spirit... or your body."

All the guards surrounding her leveled their polearms, pointing the sharp ends directly at her, as the captain drew his sword and slowly advanced. Tuera, meanwhile, let out a heavy sigh and shrugged.

"Well, this is what I get for playing nice, I suppose."

Tuera became a sudden a blur of movement. In an instant, her sword was free of the leather strap on her hip, glinting as it sliced through the air. The captain looked momentarily surprised, as his severed hand – still clutching the sabre – drifted past his face. The slave girls screamed and scattered, running out of the chamber, while the rest of the guards let out war cries and charged. The Chieftain watched the ensuing bloodshed with a grin at first, clearly thinking that she had no chance, outnumbered and surrounded as she was...

And then, his expression began to slowly fall, as gleeful sadism was replaced with a creeping worry. One by one, his guards were cut down with ruthless efficiency. The polished stone floor became splattered with blood, dismembered body parts, and fallen weapons. A sudden terror began to take hold of his heart, and it became abundantly clear to him with every slash of her sword that this woman was not going to fall. He hurriedly and quietly got up out of his throne, silently hoping that he would go unnoticed during the mêlée, and tried to escape out one of the open doors at the side of the chamber.

There was a rush of wind as a halberd flew through the air, missing the Chieftain's head by inches. He shrieked, watching as the blade of the polearm embedded itself in the wooden door ahead of him, slamming it closed from the impact. The spike then lodged itself in the door-frame, sealing it shut and cutting off his intended escape.

He turned, backing up against the wall in terror and knocking his silver crown slightly askew. The chamber was now empty of life, save for Tuera and the High Chief. The sword in her left hand was bloody, and she was very carefully stepping over the dead guards, slowly advancing on him with a calm and deliberate menace.

"You know..." Tuera spoke up, her voice echoing through every crevice in the chamber. "Even in the old days, I always hated men like you. Selfish, small-minded little parasites, with a greedy avarice that knows no end. Kings – even lesser ones who are merely pretending, like you – demand that we kneel before your heirlooms of unearned titles. You sit atop a throne of stolen wealth that you hoard for your own benefit, leaving nothing for others. You bully and oppress those you've left with less than nothing, wielding power built off the backs of exploited labor..." She was close to him now. So close, that she lifted up her sword, and the point was a hairs width away from his gulping throat and bulging Adam's apple. "... but you don't know what real power is. You're just a big fish in a small pond, like a piranha swimming among minnows. And what you failed to realize – what they all failed to realize, until it was far too late – is that I am no fish." She grinned broadly, and her sharp teeth glinted in the light. "I'm a shark."

"Wh-what do you want?" he blubbered, desperately trying to flatten himself against the wall. "I – I'll give you anything!" Tuera smirked, lowering the sword.

"I'll tell you what I want..." she almost whispered, leaning in and staring him down. "An end to the rule of kings."

Her sword was in motion before he could protest. In a whistling arc, the blade slashed horizontally, carving a deep furrow in the wall behind him. The Chieftain's severed head tumbled to the ground, and the silver crown clattered noisily against the stone floor. The lifeless, headless body collapsed at her feet, blood weakly spurting out from the stump.

"Are we going to kill everyone in this city?" Monty spoke up suddenly, as Tuera started wiping the blood off her sword using the dead Chieftain's robe. "I mean, I'm fine with that if we are, it's really no big deal to me. I just want to know what the game plan is."

"That shouldn't be necessary," Tuera said as she wiped up the last of the blood, sliding her sword back in the sling. "But, thanks to this little diversion, I know how we can get some help for our little field trip to the Capital."

"You... do?" Monty asked, clearly confused. Tuera smiled to herself, yanking the halberd out of the wall, breaking a large chunk of wood off the door in the process.

"I think it's time for a prison break."

The guard standing watch on the platform atop the Wheel of Pain yawned. The slaves pushing the wheel below him weren't causing any more trouble for the moment, and he adjusted his hold on the whip coiled in his hands. He was looking forward to a nice, quiet, peaceful shift of watching the prisoners.

That was the moment some worrying noises reached his ears. It was the sounds of a struggle and raised voices, coming from... the barracks? The clangor of steel and the cries of the dead became louder and louder. Suddenly, bells began to ring, and that just raised more questions: weren't those bells only rung during a riot in the yard? But all the prisoners in the yard were still chained...

"We're under attack!" someone from below yelled. Several of the guards drew their weapons, rushing to the open door that led to the barracks. About half of them managed to enter, before the rest of them stopped in their tracks... and then, one of those same guards came flying out of the open door, backwards.

"What the..." the guard atop the Wheel of Pain said aloud. He was about to leave his post to join the rest of the guards and help them fight off the attack... but then he looked down. The slaves pushing the wheel had stopped, all of them trying to get a better look at the commotion. Almost reflexively, and without really thinking, the guard uncoiled his whip and raised his arm to crack it to get them moving again.

A spear burst out of the open door like a missile, flying straight and true, impaling the guard square in the middle of his chest. He had just enough time to look shocked before his eyes rolled back in his head, he lost his balance, and tumbled like a ragdoll off the platform.

Tuera emerged from the open door in a run, covered in both splattered blood and weapons she'd stolen from the armory. Several of the guards tried rushing her, but she was already well into the groove, now. Severed limbs and decapitated heads began to fly as she cut a bloody swath through the prison yard. One of the sentries on top of the wall nocked an arrow and fired as soon as he thought he had a clear shot; Tuera didn't even bother looking as she angled her sword to deflect the arrow. As the arrow spun wildly through the air, she pulled another one of the spears off her back, and threw it at the archer. The impact sent him plummeting off the wall, and he disappeared out of sight just as the arrow clattered to the ground.

There were only a handful of guards left now, and after she kicked one of the closest ones right in the middle of his chest – sending him flying like he'd been hit with a wrecking ball – one of the last guards hanging back suddenly dropped his sword on the ground and held his hands in the air.

"Hey, look, I don't even like these guys!" he said hastily, before running away in a panic. The other two guards looked at each other warily... before following suit, dropping their weapons and scampering off.

With all the guards either dead or having run off, Westwall Prison fell silent. Tuera smiled to herself, looking around at the prison yard. Even though the Wheel of Pain was the focal point, the walls surrounding the yard were covered in cells... and it was clear that each and every one of them was filled. Dozens of sullen, silent faces gazed at her from the darkness behind the iron bars, complete with arms and hands reaching out as far as they could physically reach. The slaves chained to the Wheel stared at Tuera, unable to run away and seemingly paralyzed with fear.

Carefully, Tuera made her way to the Wheel, and several of the closer prisoners backed up as much as they physically could, still chained to the wooden poles like they were. So she decided to change that. She grabbed one of the chains in one hand, pulled a stolen blacksmith's hammer off her belt with the other, and smashed several of the links with a single strike.

"Congratulations!" Tuera shouted, loud enough for everyone in the prison to hear. "It's your lucky day! You're being rescued." She flipped the hammer around and passed it handle-first to the prisoner she'd just freed. He took it with trepidation, seemingly unsure of what to do with it. It was all so sudden. Tuera pulled another stolen hammer off her belt, and continued: "In fact, you're all being rescued!"

"In more ways than one, if you join up with us!" Monty spoke up suddenly. "We're on a quest to break the curse of the Slave Bracelets you humans are all wearing!" Several of the prisoners, when they realized precisely what was speaking, recoiled in fear again, muttering 'witchcraft!' under their breath. Tuera turned to Monty and scowled.

"Now look what you've done, you're scaring the locals!" She turned back to the prisoners in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture, waving him off. "Don't mind him, he's harmless. But... also, yes, that is the plan. And you're all welcome to join. If you like." As she spoke, she held out a hand to the nearest of the prisoners – a scared looking woman with brown hair, clad in rags – offering to help her up.

Cautiously, the woman took Tuera's hand and was lifted back on her feet.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun!" Tuera said with a broad grin, giving the woman a pat on the shoulder before grabbing the chain, and smashing the links with the hammer. "And I'm just getting started..."

Several hours later, the sun was beginning to set.

Shevatas and Ioanna had been keeping a low profile all day as they traversed the city. Shevatas was actually impressed with how stealthy Ioanna could be, and the two of them together managed to stay out of sight and safe from harm... but the longer the day wore on, the more worried they both became. They had no idea how they could possibly find Tuera to even catch up to her. They had no idea if she was even coming back.

As the hours passed, they started overhearing bits of conversations and picking up on scattered rumors. Violence and murder in the streets, a riot and escape at Westwall Prison, a trail of bloody bodies... but the first time someone mentioned 'a red-eyed demoness,' it became obvious to both of them what was going on. Shevatas and Ioanna managed to piece everything together just as the whole city started to congregate around a commotion at the Palace of the Chieftain: the 'King-In-All-But-Name' of Sepermeru.

By the time they got there, muscling their way to the front of the crowd, the Palace was on fire. Flames were spilling out of the windows, and the banners which had fluttered so majestically during the day were now little more than ash and cinders swirling in the air. The mood of the crowd, as they all watched the crumbling edifice be consumed in flames, seemed... strangely indifferent to Shevatas' estimation. Then again, if the scattered murmurs all around them were any indication, a sizable chunk of the crowd were former inmates of Westwall Prison, so...

"This seems bad," Ioanna whispered to Shevatas, in an effort not to be heard by anyone around them. "Although, it sure seems like Tuera's handiwork..." Shevatas nodded.

"Oh, almost certainly," he whispered back. "But I doubt she'd still be here. Not after this kind of carnage. Which means we're back to square one, and we still have to find her..."

BANG!

The heavy double doors at the front of the palace swung open with a loud crash. A gout of fire and a flurry of flickering embers burst from the open door, but despite the heavy curtain of flame that could be seen within the building, it was obviously not the result of a backdraft. A shadowy figure stood silhouetted in the doorframe, with her arms splayed to either side, fingers trailing along the charred doors as she moved. Her red eyes reflected the flames surrounding her, and gave off the illusion of burning from within, radiating an unnatural fire all their own. Tuera strode confidently out the door, unconcerned with the flames on either side, and trailing a thick cloud of ash behind her. In fact, as she stepped into the open and was no longer backlit, it became abundantly clear to everyone in the crowd that Tuera, carrying an entire armory's worth of weapons on her back, was covered head-to-toe in charcoal grey ash, flaking off of her and drifting in the air like flurries of snow.

The entire crowd seemed to back up as she emerged, unsure of what to make of this woman. Tuera scanned the crowd, and spotted Shevatas and Ioanna immediately... mostly because they were they only ones who hadn't backed up. Tuera's face broke into a wide grin, displacing another tiny cloud of ash.

"Oh hey, guys! Fancy meeting you here!" she said with a laugh and open arms. "You would not believe the day I've had!"