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Note: English is not my native language, and I lack beta/proofreader, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.

Disclaimer: Tyranny belongs to Obsidian & Paradox

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"The world was war torn, magic was heightened, and there was a long history of the world before the Overlord conquered the area. Above her, the statue of Queen Lycaereus was weeping blood. It was broad daylight but it already felt like shadows were heavy. This was not a happy world."

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The last leg of the journey turned out to be the most difficult one.

It was the by now familiar sensation of her hair standing on its end, a light shiver in her muscles, all the little signals that came mere moments before the ground trembled, nearly knocking her off her feet. It was a final warning that she should run for her life. As she rushed throughout the last leg of the winding mountain passes, the explosion was like a thunder straight out of the Blade Grave, as if the very essence of magic responded to her attempts to get around with her life and body intact. With the magnitude and scale of rocks being forcefully moved around her – like something straight out of an Earthshakers' wet dream – the ground gave one final shudder as she skidded forward and through the opening leading into the valley. It wasn't hard to guess that she was, very likely, the last person to set foot in before Kyros' magic sealed the way behind her.

Skull-shattering ringing persisted in her ears and bitter metallic aftertaste coated her mouth. Seething breath passed between clenched teeth and locks of pale hair hung from under her hood, while stray strands along the hairline, wet from sweat, stuck to her face. Under the sunlight, her golden hair reflected the yellow of bountiful wheat fields of the Azure before Kyros got its hands on it.

Following what had to be the quickest run for her life in the last year (more or less), a lone courier landed just outside at the edge of the ravine. Dust and magic swivelled around her, like some kind of miniature Edict of Storms. It was in her armour – covering it and slipping in between the folds – singeing her eyes and nose, itching its way down her throat, demanding attention as she coughed every last bit of stray earth out. Remnants of that same energy permeated the valley she was in until there was more magic than mundane in the air.

None of this was discomfort was unusual in her line of work, and it was especially common in the past four years of war. One would be surprised to learn of the... lengths and heights a Fatebinder was required to go in order to complete a mission.

With hands still resting on her knees, she tipped her head back, closed her eyes and let out a huff. A bead of sweat trailed down the side of her face, along the neck, then pulled away at her nape. The shaking stopped, and she could only catch the sound of settling rocks, and crumbling dust fell with loose stones. That was good, she thought. Not in the immediate danger of dying by a cave-in, just yet.

Not something she could hope for long – as the moment she had entered the valley, the sound of settling rocks was replaced by the mingling clamour of battle and anguished cries of dying men coming from bellow. Screams and clang of metal filled her ears. Wiping her bleary eyes she looked down, surveyed the location – as well as the cliff she nearly fell off in her hasty run for her life.

Was it the Chorus that was fighting below?

Her eyes quickly darted to the side to confirm that - yes, the Chorus was indeed up to their armpits in Oathbreakers' blood. And if her eyes didn't deceive her after all the dust kicked up in her face, they have brought some of their more elite fighters along. There was some purple thrown in the mix, but red was almost always a more dominant colour whenever the war happened, and their overwhelming numbers were not the only reason for that.

Now, Ponirya wouldn't be a very good Fatebinder if she were to let something as minor as Kyros induced avalanche, sealing her within what had essentially become a battle arena to settle the dominance of the Tiers, influence her composure and thwart her assignment. Just thinking about that, she should probably get going and deliver the Edict. Already, she was starting to feel as if the vellum heavy with destructive magic was going to burn through the leather of her bag.

Dusting herself off, Ponirya rose from her spot on the cliff-side overlooking the valley and for a brief moment, her eyes turned towards the statue, towering over the camp and remembering her first and last time in this spot. But it was only for a moment because next, her eyes narrowed as she turned and started on her way down along the cliff edge. She could reminisce along the way.

She rushed down rounding around a pair engaged in bloody exercise, then forward ducking low under a bronze spear, hiking the woman's leg with her foot, throwing her off balance just long enough to put a dagger through the soft spot between the armour links. If the blood loss doesn't kill her, the poison would. She didn't stop, didn't slow down. This was routine, her mind was elsewhere.

From where she was running down the narrow path, she could see that they had broken through the fort's defences – not that the avalanche did any favours to the structure – and now made their way toward the valley entrance, attempting to flee. But why now? Why were they pissing on the peace accord she had broken her back to facilitate and save their lives? Dignity could wait for a generation or two. It was obvious that getting such answers would require an interrogation of someone well informed. This whole situation irked her, like a persistent itch she had inflicted on herself.

She spotted a boulder up ahead. Without slowing down and before she even got to see who was fighting on the other side, she grabbed a spear from one of many corpses littering the path. There were bound to be people in her way, but she was going to let the rock sort out friend from foe. With a strong push, she dislodged it enough for the downhill to do the rest. Screams were first and feet shuffling out of the way came next. A lot of bodies on all sides, blue, purple and red, dotted the copper-coloured landscape. At least, a thought came to her with a slight smirk, the Disfavored could hold onto their guts long enough to heal.

With quick feet, she made her way down into the valley. And much like the last time she was here, it was either gore or shit under her feet, and occasionally even a crunch of bone. Best not to think which was which.

She was halfway down the trail leading into the camp. Ahead of her, she spotted a deadlock between a Disfavored soldier and the trio of oathbreakers, and sprinted towards them. The Vendrien guard in the middle opened his mouth to warn the others, but before he could utter a word, Ponirya slid under the locked blades, situating herself between the two sides, short sword ready at hand. Flesh parted to metal, and the soldier gagged, blood filling her throat. The sharp tip of the blade had pierced her jugular. With a twist and pull, Ponirya retracted the short sword with ease, leaving a spurting wound and a slowly suffocating soldier collapsed on her knees.

Leaving the other two – utterly startled and staggered long enough for the Disfavored soldier to lodge his blade deep between the bronze plates of one of the other of the Guard. He could easily deal with the leftover. Ponirya rushed past them, bloody footprints behind her marking her passing.

"Try and catch me, worm!"

Ponirya's ears perked up at the familiar voice and she slowed down at the eager shout.

'Don't tell me…'

Nearing the camp she spotted a group of rebels circling a young Chorus member – although to be fair, old Chorus members were practically nonexistent. She weaved around at the Vendrien Guard attackers, avoiding their weapons with fluid grace.

But this… that was an interesting and familiar sight.

Crouching on the top of the stone steps, from the shadows of her hood Ponirya watched with mild interest how bloody the day would get. With head covered in feathers and wearing a patchwork of an armour, young woman's movements were a flurry of motion not unlike a dance.

A Scarlet Fury – and looking down at the bloodbath, she realized that, yes, she did indeed knew the woman (why was she even expecting anyone else in this carnage). Bloody Verse. She hadn't seen her since the Gates of Judgment and the whole Bastard City ordeal, and she let out a sigh.

"Harbinger!" The bloodied woman called out to her as her blade slit the throat of another oathbreaker. Blood sprayed, covering her face like a gruesome badge of honour. "Still standing after three years of war?!"

"And you're still chewing on more than you can swallow."

"I'm about to put these cowards out of their misery! Join me!" She nodded to the three armed soldiers bearing down at her, yet still keeping their distance.

Ponirya arched an eyebrow, though under the hood it was hardly noticeable. "You sure about that? Last time the tally wasn't in your favour."

"Fuck you binder! That was three years ago! If you want to count heads again come and fight!" She slashed wildly, tip of her blade reaching and nicking a surprised woman who backpedalled wildly with a cry and a curse. An equally wild grin splitting her face under all the blood she had earned that day. "Or don't. The offer stands."

A breathless enemy soldier passed a glance to her countryman. "This one's crazy! Too much lead in her water. We should cut our losses and turn back…" yet the others didn't seem willing to listen to her. There was too much on the line here – pride being first among it.

"For the realms of Apex, char-!" The Vendrien Guard levelled her weapon, ready to advance when a blur swift as the wind rushed in and kicked the falxwoman in the face. The soldier stumbled back, stunned. Still in motion, her attacker seized her sword arm by the wrist, hooked her by the elbow, and forced the joint inward. Bone, cartilage and muscle cracked and tore. The falxwoman scream ripped air and curdled blood. Immediately Ponirya pulled the blade back in an arch towards her next target, and she pushed the weapon forward in one fluid motion and the realization that othbreaker's bronze plate failed to protect her came out in a gurgle and a choke. The last bit of air seeped out in a strangled groan, her death rattle.

The last warrior woman on her feet found herself alone and pinned between the two – her eyes trying to not lose the sight of the figure covered in black and gold before her, and yet still struggling to not take her attention away from the patchwork mess of red and bronze whirling blades behind her. A beast in human skin who was covered in her countrymen's blood and with a grin that was all teeth and no mercy. Like a damned distraction, with the high altitude, thread-thin air pulled painfully on her labouring lungs. Sweat and perhaps even tears mixed as they rolled down her face. It was too late when she felt gloved fingers brush like a whisper across her cheek. The sound of bone being broken lost in the clamour to all but those nearest. Her body went limp without another sound, and like a sack of rotten food dropped to the ground.

When it all came to a stop, even as the quake had subsided and the mountain range was once again silent, and they stood still, surrounded by the charred and broken bodies of the Vendrien Guard, the Fatebinder faced her, turning slowly. She had been looking for a runner, but Verse should be informed enough to get her up to speed on the situation now that the Vendrien Guard has attacked.

"I can tell you didn't spend the rest of the conquest in the diplomat's tent," the Fury surveyed the fresh corpses and nodded with satisfaction. "Didn't expect you to hog on all the fun either," she added then with a frown, and maybe a thinly veiled pout though it had more the appearance of a sneer.

Ponirya snorted, sounding almost incredulous, discarding the bronze sword next to the bodies. "You're the one who asked me to join in. And, if you're still feeling needy, there's plenty more below," she pointed at the gang who have just busted down the makeshift gates (why were they trying to force their way inside the camp?) and were busily fighting men in bright bronze armour and sky blue tunic (that dye must have cost a fortune in days before Kyros' conquest, and its cost might yet increase). This was going to be a long mission. Not in the least because she was seeing familiar faces left and right, on both sides. Her eyes were not deceiving her...

"Scarlet Chorus reinforcements! Hurry!" A yell came from bellow.

Tarkis Demos.

Yes, she could see the man himself fighting, dead centre and alongside his men. The red mob of reinforcements was approaching from the south, a Blood Chanter emerged at the head of the rabble, the ornamental crest of her staff pulsing with crimson tones. Signing sigils of magic and wordlessly moving her mouth, the Blood Chanter scribes a series of spells into the air. A red glow surrounds the Vendrien Guard warriors as the Chanter's magic worms its way into their minds, blinding them with rage.

"And what of you? Are you're here for bloody mayhem or is there anything else?" The fatebinder asked turning her eyes back to the Fury.

"The Voices of Nerat told me to intercept you at the Edgering ruins before you busied yourself solving all the camp's problems. Guess I was too late," she smirked as she ducked and wiped the blood of her weapons across the fallen bodies, only smearing it further across the flat side of the blade. "You're due for a meeting with the Archons, but we should handle the small matter of this ambush first. Those Vendrien guard we killed didn't come alone," she gestured to the skirmish unfolding in the pass below, shaking her head.

Ah. So the Voices of Nerat had decided that no less than a Scarlet Fury was to be her escort, and he had chosen the one she was acquainted with – one of the elite killers of Chorus' ignoble gang. She remembered always seeing more than a few around the camp, but they were a rare breed. This meant that the Archons were well aware that an Edict was heading their way. And while the Disfavoured seemed to be in the know as well, Graven Ashe didn't feel the need to send someone to shadow her every step. But Graven Ashe was no Archon of Secrets and the one who was… just had to know every little bit of going on-s in the Tiers.

Ponirya closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose. The taste of iron was thick and overwhelming in the air, almost like three years ago, but her focus didn't waver. She looked down at the bodies falling, bodies being set aflame, bodies being torn apart… The smell of charred flesh assaulted her, and thick smoke from the fire sigils bit at her eyes. Such small, annoying discomforts, her body reminded her.

Now in ruins, the old fortress housed tents of both Disfavoured and Scarlet Chorus colours. Dark trunks and foliage of conifers grew on every available ledge, contrasted from the well-lit landscape and bare dirt paths that weaved along the mountainside into and out of the camp, routes worn by countless thousands marching one after another. Where were the army commanders of this camp? Even among the Disfavoured, it was the small sporadic groups fighting every-which-where.

"Any idea why they're attacking now?"

"My guess? They're testing our strength in battle – learning how we perform before they organize a real offensive. That or they're really, really desperate to get beyond the mountains and couldn't wait until nightfall."

Sure. Defensible. Also suicidal if the siege were to last too long. Except Kyros didn't want that. Kyros wanted all of them dead sometime before yesterday.

The fatebinder closed her mouth, with a furrowed brow, her thoughts turning inwards, "So how is this 'an ambush'?" A whisper, not really intended for anyone to hear or respond to.

Hot air, smoke, and dust kicked them in the face as the two parties clashed before them. There were still other stragglers they had to deal with before the ruins were returned under Kyros' control once more. This camp, however, wasn't her concern.

"What are you babbling on about now?"

"I am babbling about the gates being open and with enough of our forces here to handle the quell the unrest, we should get going and not have the Archons wait for their punishment any long-…"

"For the Voices of Nerat!" With a loud cry, a blaze of red rushed past the fatebinder. Not one to miss out on the bloodbath, or listen to others, Verse jumped in, eager to join her chorus mates in battle.

"You're just doing that on purpose now…" Ponirya watched, dragging her fingers across her scalp, her voice a combination of a flat tone and an exasperated eye-roll, the kind that can only ever be learned in the Court. Obviously, she wasn't going to set a foot outside this camp before the matter is settled. Or everyone died – which was tempting but not a viable solution.

With Verse being busy doing what Verse did best, Ponirya rolled her shoulders and sighed stepping into one man's path.

"Eyes forward, no looking back!" The Vendrian Guard warrior roared with his falx held high, his words largely lost over the din of combat, struggling to recover from the excursion they just extracted themselves out of. "You?" As his attention landed on the woman standing before him, a double-take of recognition, and perhaps even a small amount of guilt, came over the man's face. "The Peacebinder from the war… If you've come again to talk peace, it seems you're too late."

"You don't say." Her voice was a light whisper, pads of her fingers of her right hand brushing against each other.

Well, if this wasn't a wholesome reunion. One more reminder of how very pointless the whole thing was. 'Peacebinder' they called her and what a mocking title that had turned out to be… This didn't feel like peace. Commander of the Vendrien Guard incursion at Edgering Ruins, Tarkis led a desperate attack to allow his forces to break out of the Valley and spill into the Tiers. Spill with 'what' was the question not even the oathbreakers likely had the answer to.

"We knew that violating the surrender meant an end to what little mercy and goodwill Kyros' forces have or ever will show us. Now there's no turning back." He shook his head with a frown, sounding almost remorseful. "I know you tried to do right by us in the past. But now you're between us and the way out… nothing personal."

"This could've gone much differently."

"Binder – you still going on about his? Can we just kill people without you talking at length every. Single. Damn. Time?"

Ponirya's eyes barely slid sideways to where the Fury appeared next to her. Just enough to keep track of her movements, in fact. "Verse... weren't you otherwise occupied with a wholesale slaughter?"

"Sure I am. And if you're not going to take their scalps, I am," she used one of her blades to gesture at the outnumbered oathbreaker force. They had the balls to attack the camp directly and during the daytime. They couldn't hope to survive. And maybe that was enough for Tarkis, fully aware that as of this moment this had become a losing battle. He signalled his men to charge, the sound of chanting rose from the south as the blood chanters turned their attention towards them, drawing his attention.

The targets raised their weapon in defence as Verse, swift as the wind, cleaved across their torso. Bronze clashed as falxes and sword locked. Both side's arms trembled under the strain.

Fatebinder Ponirya pulled the hood deeper over her eyes, now burning with rage and disappointment, and with lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn't spared either. No consideration for the Peacebinder.

That was fine – she would return the favour in kind.

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