I believe I understand Peleus's endgame. If I'm wrong, the people I care about are going to pay the price—on both sides.

Eliwood kept his face calm as Lowen crested the rise, riding back toward them. Everyone was looking to him to lead, and he wasn't going to let his anxiety bleed over to them. Eliwood had come this far by standing on principles and leaning on friends; that wasn't going to change now.

"Welcome back," he said as the knight pulled up in front of him. "What did you see?"

Lowen pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes, and Eliwood tried not to grimace at the look in them. "It's not good, milord. The garrison gates have been breached. Sanders's men are still putting up a fight, but it's only a matter of time before they're overrun. I didn't see any sign of the lieutenant himself."

Eliwood inclined his head. "What of casualties?"

"Few. But more each minute. The morphs appear to be leaving wounded humans alone." Lowen shook his head. "I'm not sure whether they're being merciful or cruel."

Eliwood wasn't sure either, but that was hardly the biggest problem at the moment. "Thank you, Lowen. Did they see you?"

"I don't believe so, sir—nor have they spotted the company. Hiding in the foothills seems to have paid off."

For the moment, at least. But we'll have to make our approach sooner rather than later.

Eliwood turned to the company that had followed him here—a motley assortment of Lycian knights and Sacaen nomads, mounted on whatever horses were available. They'd ridden as hard as they dared from Ostia the moment they received the news, and had arrived at the garrison within an hour. Their mounts were tired, their equipment haphazardly thrown together, and their chain of command still being straightened out—but they were also some of the most experienced and powerful warriors on the continent. Whatever confusion might arise, Eliwood knew he could count on Kent, Marcus, and even Rath to keep their troops together on the battlefield. It felt a little odd to have a Sacaean chieftain taking orders from him, but then again, it wasn't the first time Rath had followed him into battle.

"I won't lie to you about the situation," Eliwood called. "You all know the enemy, and you all know the stakes. I'll only ask that you remember also our goals. We are not here to route the morphs; we are here to hold them until Mark can enact his plan. Keep them occupied, rescue as many soldiers as possible, and stay alive." He took a breath. "Things are going to get worse before they get better. But they are going to get better. We seek to save lives, not end them."

Shouts of agreement rose from the ranks, and Eliwood nodded to the commanders. "Form up. Light cavalry in front, heavy in the rear. Rath, keep your archers toward the middle where they can be protected."

"Yes, milord," Rath mumbled.

Eliwood paused. "Something troubles you."

Rath pursed his lips, looking up at Eliwood. "Trying to take the morphs alive will not be easy, since they will not extend the same courtesy to us."

"Having second thoughts?" Eliwood said with a smile.

Rath shook his head. "You know we will do as you say."

Eliwood laid a hand on Rath's shoulder. The nomad flinched at his touch, but didn't pull away. "If it comes down to you or them," he said softly, "do what you must. I've no more desire to lose friends here today than you."

Rath looked up at him. "As you say," he replied, matching Eliwood's tone. "But you're right, my lord. We're not here today to kill."

Eliwood's smile broadened. "If you keep that in mind, I'm sure you'll do the right thing."

Rath nodded, and turned to join the other Kutolah riders amongst their ranks. Marcus and Kent continued grouping up their respective companies of knights as well, getting them ready to fight. Eliwood was pleased that nobody questioned whether or not he should be on the front lines. It was an argument he'd heard countless times before, and he had more important things to worry about than proving he wasn't the frail, pampered noble many still viewed him as.

Hector and Lyn are both doing their parts. How could I do any less?

At last, the company was ready. Eliwood turned his horse toward the garrison, still hidden behind the roll of the foothills. "All right," he said. "It's time."

He drew Durandal, the blazing blade glinting in the afternoon sun. He held it in front of his face, gazing into his own reflection in the steel. "You killed the woman I love," he whispered to it. "Today, we fight to save Mark from the same pain."

He lifted the blade aloft, let out a roar, and charged.

The morphs saw them coming, but barely had enough time to raise their defenses; they'd established a foothold against Sanders's men within the fort, but weren't ready for an attack from without. Eliwood took in the enemy line, their rusty armor and scavenged weapons, and felt a pang of guilt. Mark was right; these weren't soldiers, these were refugees being forced to fight.

But that didn't make them any less deadly.

The cavalry slammed into the morph lines, and battle filled Eliwood's senses for the next several minutes—the crash of metal, the flash of blades, the tang of blood. He spared a glance to the mountains whenever he could, but he still missed it when it came; it was Kent's shout and raised finger that brought his attention to the movement among the stones.

Concealed morphs sprang out of the mountainside. A few from one spot, a handful in another—but they added up quickly. Soon, a force at least as large as the one they fought already was swarming down the mountainside toward them. They spilled into the valley, blocking the way from which Eliwood's riders had come—and cutting off their escape. The enemy reinforcements closed in, Eliwood's heavy cavalry taking up positions to defend Rath's archers.

"An ambush." Eliwood allowed himself a small smile. "Just as Mark predicted."

Fiora gritted her teeth as the combatants met below her. Every time she heard clashing blades, she found herself back on Valor, watching her soldiers die. She'd long since given up trying to escape the screams. Now, she braced for them—and promised herself not to let it happen again.

"There he is," Mark growled. She glanced over her shoulder to see him peering at the mountainside. Evidently, he hadn't noticed her brief lapse. "Peleus has concealed his command post behind those rocks." He pointed to a nondescript spot on the mountain, near the river of morphs cascading down the slopes.

Fiora's sisters were riding in a tight formation, Florina once more taking the lead. The two wyvern riders trailed them; Heath was more than willing to accept his wife's orders, and had eventually convinced Vaida to do the same, after a great deal of grumbling. Fiora had caught more than a few longing glances between Florina and Heath, but neither broke formation. A part of her still protested the idea of spouses fighting alongside each other, but in all the time Heath and Florina had served at Caelin, their love seemed only to hone their lances.

Still, she was glad her husband and their three girls were safe back in Ilia.

Each flier carried one passenger. Renault rode with Heath, and Vaida kept casting glares back at Canas. Lyn held tight to Florina, and Farina carried Guy. They were all surprised that he'd been invited along—none more so than Guy himself. Mark had pushed for Matthew to join them, but both the spy and Lyn had said Guy would be a better fit. "Speed will be of the essence," Lyn had said as they set out, "and there are few faster."

Fiora didn't know if Lyn noticed the way her compliment had made the swordsman blush.

Mark waved to Florina, who wordlessly began leading the others toward the spot he'd indicated. As they descended, Fiora felt Mark's hand on her shoulder. "After you drop us off, perhaps you should retreat to the fort."

So he had noticed. "You needn't worry," she called over her shoulder. "I'll stay with the others and provide backup, like we discussed."

Mark looked uncomfortable—something she couldn't recall ever seeing before. "You have family back in Ilia," he said gently.

"I have family here, too."

"Let's hurry this up," Vaida called from behind them, sounding as pleasant as ever. "The sooner I get rid of this dead weight, the better."

Nobody responded to her, but they all knew she was right. They could fight with passengers, but dropping them off would make it much easier to maneuver. Florina lead them in a wide circle to an outcropping, hoping it would conceal them; there was no doubt that Peleus, if he was where Mark estimated him to be, had spotted their approach, but they might yet obfuscate their intent long enough for the team to get down the slope and take him by surprise if he didn't see the drop-off. As soon as they were close enough to the flat rock, the others began hopping off. Lyn and Guy dropped deftly to the ground. Renault slid from Umbriel's back with surprising ease. Canas nearly fell on his face.

"Stay safe," Mark said. "For your family." He hopped to the ground, keeping one hand Fiora's saddle and the other on the dagger he'd insisted on bringing.

She watched him go, only for an instant, then rose into formation once again. "What next?" she called to her sister, already knowing the answer.

Florina twisted in the saddle to face them. "We need to support Rath's unit. Circle around behind the morph reinforcements. Break formation once we get there, and do your best to harry them and take some of the pressure off our lines."

"What if there are archers?" Farina asked.

"There will definitely be archers," Heath replied.

Florina nodded. "Just like always. Signal the others, surround them, and come in low and fast." Besides Vaida, they'd been fighting as a group and dealing with archers together for years. Swift action could end the threat before it began—but there was no denying the damage a well-placed arrow could do to a skyborne mount.

"Whatever we're getting paid for this, it's not enough," Farina grumbled.

Vaida snorted. "Then we'll have to exact the remainder in blood."

"Does that make any sense?" Farina asked with a frown. "Because I don't think that makes any sense."

"There's no time for making sense," Florina called. "We need to go—now."

The youngest of their group, she nevertheless spurred her pegasus to battle, confident the others would follow—which they did without hesitation. Fiora glanced back at her brother-in-law. The look on Heath's face was strained, as though he was barely able to keep himself from breaking formation and flying to his wife's side. But right now, he needed to follow her orders. Loyalty in this moment meant not staying by her side.

Not for the first or last time that day, Fiora yearned for her husband's embrace.

She took a breath, turned back to the battle, and steeled herself. She would return to her family. And that meant she needed to survive this battle.

That meant they needed to win.

"So this is all Ostia was able to mobilize," Peleus mused. He surveyed the scene below from beneath a canopy. The sun was not so strong that he needed the shade, but it seemed fitting, somehow. He was the commander, after all—not by choice, but that was the role he needed to fill for now. He moved to the edge of the rocky outcropping, peering down at the battlefield. Morphs flooded the foothills below, converging on the human cavalry at the garrison's entrance.

"They will doubtless have reinforcements in a matter of hours," Luther said from their position at his side. "Ostia's not that far away."

Peleus nodded. "Indeed. Our only hope is to crush this first wave beyond all hopes of pursuit, and make our escape before they are able to follow." He turned to the other guard he had with him. "What do you think?"

Denning glanced at him. "This is a message from Lord Nergal."

Peleus pursed his lips. "I must admit, pleased as I was to restore your purpose, it is somewhat… outdated, isn't it? Perhaps I should find a new one for you…"

Denning held his gaze, unspeaking, unmoving.

"But that would be hubris," Peleus sighed. "My goal is only to restore Lord Nergal's vision for us. To attempt to expand it, or supplant it…" He looked to the fourth figure under the canopy, tucked away in a corner and shrouded in a cloak. "That would make me no better than Cassandra."

"We serve Lord Nergal's will," Luther said.

"Yes," Peleus sighed. "We do."

He checked the strap on his satchel to make sure it was still secure. He didn't like having the books out in the open like this, but there were few other options. They'd abandoned the fort, taking only what they needed with them—and leaving behind the last vestiges of their "peaceful" lives. Once they took care of the humans, they'd flee north, find a new hiding place, and bide their time until they were ready to strike back.

Or the humans would kill them all, and then it wouldn't matter anymore.

Peleus took a slow breath. "Are they here yet?"

At his side, Luther nodded. "Are you sure you don't want Denning to simply shoot them?"

Peleus's jaw tightened. "No," he said. "I want Mark to see this."

Neither questioned him any further, and moments later, he heard the sound of sliding rocks he'd been waiting for. He turned to look up the slope. It didn't take long for figures to materialize among the rocks. Five of them, if he wasn't mistaken. More than he'd expected, but the four of them should be able to handle five humans, once the fighting broke out.

And fighting would break out.

At last, the humans slid onto their outcropping. Two warriors, carrying swords and wearing the robes of Sacae, were first. Mark was right behind them; the two older-looking humans followed, clutching tomes as they tumbled onto the flat surface.

"You've come," Peleus said.

Mark straightened, eyes fixed on the morph. The two swordsmen—well, one was a woman—stayed in front of him. "You didn't really think you could outsmart me, did you?"

"No," Peleus replied, shaking his head. "Of course not. You've been studying tactics most of your life. As for me, I was created only to heal my fellow morphs. There was no way I'd be able to outsmart you."

Mark flashed a gratifying look of surprise. "Oh."

Peleus smiled. "That's why I had to make sure I was ready for you."

The Sacaeans went for their swords, but Mark quickly held up a hand. Luther and Denning didn't move. "Peleus, please," the tactician said, his voice going soft. "We don't have to fight."

Peleus shook his head. "You still don't get it."

"Don't get what?"

"You should hate us. We were created to kill you, after all." He paused, considering. "Well, rather, we were made to advance Lord Nergal's goals, but that involves a lot of killing you. That's what we do. It's what we're meant to do."

"But it doesn't have to be." Mark took a step forward. "You've seen it yourself. In the fort, under Cassandra's leadership, the morphs left behind the need to fight. They allowed themselves to grow—to become something greater."

"Something we were never supposed to be," Peleus retorted. "Something Nergal would never had allowed."

"Nergal's dead!" Mark stopped, and took a breath. "Nergal's dead. You don't have to carry out his will."

"What else is there?" Peleus motioned to the field below. "Were we simply to live out our days in that fort? Get married, have children? Play at being human?"

"Dragons and humans worked alongside each other in Arcadia," Mark said. "Nergal knew that—and he spent countless years trying to get back to that. It's their differences that make them stronger. We could do the same."

"Arcadia?" Peleus flinched at the word. "Yes… I've read that, in his notes. So long ago, he…" He frowned. "He was…"

Mark took another step forward. Luther and Denning glanced at Peleus, but did not draw their weapons. "Nergal's gone," Mark said.

"But he was our creator," Peleus murmured. "Don't you understand? To deny his will is to deny our very existence."

"But who does that will serve?" Mark asked. "Not you. Look." He pointed to the battlefield. "What's your best hope for this battle? Cripple our cavalry and escape before reinforcements arrive? Then what? Continue to flee across Elibe? How long can you keep that up before you are caught?" He shook his head. "If you wish to carry out Nergal's will, all you'll do is be crushed. But if you lay down your arms here, if you try to make peace—"

Peleus let out a bark of laughter. "You love that word, don't you? A man who makes his living off war strives so hard for peace. I do wish I had your idealism, Mark."

"You could." The tactician was close now, nearly close enough to reach out and touch him. "You don't have to suffer under the burden of Nergal's will any longer. You haven't reverted yourself yet because you need your free will to get through this. Let that be the will you serve. You are free to choose, Peleus."

"I am," the morph murmured. He turned to look once more at the valley below. His people were capable fighters, and they had the human cavalry surrounded—yet already, there were casualties, and there would be many more before the day's end.

"But what you don't seem to understand," he said, looking back at Mark, "is that I've already mademy choice. Nergal's will is a burden, as you say—one I must carry alone." A hand rose to his temples. "But my will… the freedom Cassandra forcedupon me… that is the weight I am unable to carry. That is the shackle I must break. As I have broken it for all those I care about." He lowered the hand, and raised his other high in the air, fingers tensed. "If we do die, then we die fulfilling the purpose for which we were created. That is my choice."

He snapped his fingers, and the cloaked figure in the corner stood up. The humans all started; as he'd hoped, they'd been so focused on the visible threats that they hadn't noticed hidden one. Seems I may have outsmarted you after all, human.

"But we will not die here," he said. "We will escape; we will find a way to open the Dragon's Gate; and we will see Lord Nergal's vision brought to life. I will salvage this." He lowered his fingers. "Just as I salvaged her."

Cassandra threw off her cloak, and Peleus got the indescribable pleasure of watching Mark's heart break in front of him.

"Hold the line!" Kent roared above the din of battle. "Help is on the way, but we need to last long enough for it to get here!"

His words were almost unnecessary. Mark's plan was working as well as any battle plan could be expected to. Knowing the enemy would try to ambush them from behind, they'd concentrated their defenses in the rear, and with a few mounted casters healing their heavy cavalry, the line had managed to hold strong so far. On the other side of the company, the Ostian knights and Sacaean archers were pressing the garrison's defenders. There were far fewer of them than there were of the ambush force—but they were still morphs, literally built for battle. The humans were doing their best to fulfill Mark's wishes, but already, there'd been casualties on both sides.

Sain rode up beside him. "Can you see Mark's group?" he asked.

Kent shook his head. "The fliers dropped off their passengers on that slope," he said, pointing, "but I haven't seen anything since then."

Sain nodded grimly. "Then we must continue to hold."

Again, the statement seemed redundant. What else could they do? Surrender was not an option, not when their opponents were deep in the thrall of a man long-dead, a man who'd wanted nothing more than humanity's destruction for the sake of his own power. The morphs would not take prisoners. It was Mark's hope that he and the others could take Peleus prisoner, force him to order the morphs to stand down, and end the bloodshed quickly.

It was a hope few shared.

Coming back to the moment, Kent noticed Isadora flagging on the garrison line. He signaled to Sain that he was moving up, and rode to relieve her. He arrived just as she delivered a thunderous blow to a morph knight, sending her assailant sprawling and buying herself some breathing room. He clapped her on the shoulder as he pulled up. "Get some rest," he called. "I'll take over."

She nodded, but did not move. "Kent, something strange is happening. They're gathering the wounded."

Kent frowned. "Is that so strange?"

"They're gathering our wounded."

Kent's attention snapped to the garrison gates. Just as she'd said, morphs were taking fallen human soldiers, those on the verge of death, and dragging them away from the front lines. Not many, but they'd already accrued a number of them, piling them onto a cart like cordwood. A woman in an elegant black dress was supervising the process, using a staff to heal those in truly dire straights, but keeping them all on death's door.

"Why the hell would they do that?" Kent said. "Hostages?"

"I don't think so," Isadora replied. "At least, they haven't made any demands."

The armored morph had risen and charged them again. Kent quickly leveled his lance, and the morph took a grievous hit, falling back to be healed. Kent resisted the urge to pursue, standing fast to hold the line. "Was Mark wrong?" he wondered. "He thought the morphs would want to cripple our ability to chase them, then flee. Why would they burden themselves with prisoners?"

A bowstring snapped somewhere behind Kent, and an arrow flew over his shoulder into the chest of an oncoming morph. He turned to see Rath lowering his bow. The Kutolah leader was supposed to be supporting from the middle with the other archers, but Rath's eyes were now on the cart. "Quintessence," he growled.

Kent felt the blood drain from his face. "No."

"Just like Uhai. Take the quintessence at the moment of death, and make new morphs from it. No need for babies; they can rebuild their race the way Nergal built it in the first place."

Isadora turned to Kent, her horrified expression mirroring his own. "Do you think that's why they kept Grace alive? Just to replenish their numbers? And if they can collect quintessence, then the baby—"

"I don't think they can," Kent interrupted. He couldn't let himself consider what she was saying. "If they could, they'd be doing that, not gathering wounded to collect their quintessence later."

"The blue book," Rath interjected.

Kent swore. "The knowledge on harvesting quintessence could very well be in there. Perhaps Peleus is hoping they'll find it, and they can harvest the quintessence of their prisoners later."

"Perhaps…" For the first time since Kent had known him, Rath hesitated. "Perhaps we should end their suffering before it comes to that."

Isadora gaped at him. "How can you say that? Those are your people, and—"

"Isadora."

Kent wasn't sure when Eliwood had appeared behind them, but the entire group fell silent as he rode into their midst. He eyed Rath. "I understand your pragmatism," he said. "But we're not to that point yet."

Rath met Eliwood's gaze for a moment, turned to look at the battle around them, and nodded. "Agreed."

Eliwood looked at the knights. "Isadora, see if you can borrow anyone from the other front. It's time we advanced our line. We should try to secure our wounded before the morphs can gather any more of them, and try to take that cart."

"Yes, milord," Isadora said, already turning her mount.

Eliwood looked at Kent. "Ready to take the front?"

"With you, milord?" It came out before Kent could think better of it.

He praised the gods when Eliwood only smiled at him. "If you'll have me."

"Cassandra?" Mark whispered, stepping forward despite himself. "Cassandra, say something."

She smiled at him—and he knew she was gone. It wasn't the sweet smile she'd developed since their first kiss, nor the teasing smile she'd given him before then, or even the sardonic smile she'd put on during his early attempts to befriend her. This was a cruel smile, the one you gave a bug you were finally going to squash.

The one he'd seen on the morphs they fought five years ago.

"Oh, Mark," Cassandra sighed, shaking her head. "Dear, foolish boy. What do you think you're going to accomplish here? Appeal to my heart? Remind me of who I really am? Or perhaps you simply wanted to whisk me away somewhere so you could finally bed me?" She raised her hands in an exaggerated shrug. "You'll never understand, will you? You've known all along that morphs can't experience emotion, yet you still fooled yourself into thinking I was falling in love with you. And you're fooling yourself now if you think you can do anything to me."

She placed a hand on her heart, and her face hardened, smile vanishing. "This is who I really am, Mark. Who I was always meant to be." She looped one arm over Peleus's shoulders. "Peleus corrected the defect that's plagued me all these years, and now I can protect my people as I'm supposed to."

Cassandra placed her other hand on Peleus's chest, and the healer gave him a leering grin. It was a sight orchestrated to sicken Mark, and damn it all, it was working. He only just managed to retain control of himself. Cassandra had long since risen above thinking of herself as defective, and she knew she'd done more to protect her people than Nergal could have ever impelled her to. She knew that.

And this wasn't her. This was the version of her that Nergal wanted—that Peleus wanted. Loyal and subservient, not to be distracted by ideas of friendship, cooperation—or love. He didn't know if the real Cassandra was inside there somewhere, screaming to get out, or if her will had been wholly overridden by the blue book. Either way, there was no point in trying to explain to this… thing what Cassandra would really want.

It was time to finish the mission. It was time to stop being a lovesick fool, and start being a tactician.

"So?" he said, taking a step forward. Luther and Denning both raised their weapons; behind him, he could hear Guy and Lyn doing the same. Cassandra didn't so much as flinch. "What is your purpose now?"

Cassandra rolled her eyes, sliding her hands off of Peleus. "Weren't you listening? I protect my people. Same as always, only now I can do it right."

"We'll see," Mark said. And he signaled with his hand.

Light and dark flared in front of Luther and Denning respectively, both morphs thrown back by the force of the spells. Cassandra cursed, drawing her blade and lunging forward, past Mark, to attack the two casters. He turned just in time to see her intercepted by Lyn, the two blades grinding against each other as their wielders braced themselves.

He didn't have time to watch. Turning back, he saw a blur of motion as Luther surged toward him. Mark hit the ground, rolling to one side and feeling the ax breeze past above him. The morph turned to strike again, but Guy appeared as though from thin air to parry the blow. Luther drew back, their face stony and impassive, readying another strike, but Guy pre-empted them, lunging with a thrust ill-suited to the curve of his Sacaean blade, but enough to keep Luther off-balance.

Flashes of light drew his attention to Denning, who was ducking and weaving between spell after spell. Renault and Canas were managing to keep him from loosing his arrows—at least, that's what it looked like. After Denning had helped them escape, Mark had no idea whether or not Peleus had discovered his betrayal and subjected him to another round with the blue book. Was he actually trying to fight them now? Or, if the mages stopped blasting him for a moment, would he surrender to them?

Mark longed to order them to stop, but he couldn't take the risk. Denning was far too deadly an opponent, and if Peleus had reverted him completely, keeping him off-balance was the best they could hope for. Still, they needed to get past the guards and get to Peleus. The morph healer was standing back for now, watching the battle. His eyes met Mark's, and he smirked. He doesn't want to engage me, Mark thought. Or, rather, he doesn't care to. He knows I can't put up a fight.

The infiltration plan had been thrown out with the arrival of the messenger, but the crux of the strategy remained the same: use the blue book to take control of Peleus, and make him order the morphs to stand down. By making the first move, though, Peleus had ensured the battle had to happen on his own terms. Mark had been able to anticipate his hiding place, but that was the only thing that had gone right so far.

He eyed the bag slung at Peleus's side; it was fastened shut, but he could imagine he saw the outlines of the two books pressing against the side. He found himself tapping the hilt of the dagger he'd brought. If he could only…

Easy, Mark, he told himself. Holding this dagger doesn't suddenly make you a match for a morph. You just need to wait for the others. Sooner or later, they'll overcome their opponents; then it'll be time for Peleus.

"Smile while you can," he muttered as he stared down the morph. "I'm coming for you."

Even as Guy fiercely battled the ax-wielding morph, his gaze kept getting drawn to Lyn. People had taken to calling Guy the Saint of Swords; but in that moment, it was Lyn who looked divine. She matched Cassandra blow-for-blow, their blades moving in perfect unison. Besides the danger, it was almost like a dance in its grace and beauty, and Lyn swept through it all like a goddess of the blade.

Guy, you're staring, he admonished himself. Also, there's a morph trying to kill you.

He turned just in time to see the morph swing their ax at his head. Guy deftly sidestepped the blow and countered, drawing more blood. The morph had put up a decent fight so far, but they were beginning to tire. Surprising for a being designed only for battle—unless this was one of the morphs designed for a different purpose?

Either way, they were trying to kill him, and Guy didn't intend to let that happen.

"Hey," he said as he dodged another strike. "What was your name? Luther, right?"

The morph swung again.

"I'll take that as a yes." Guy parried, struck, and hit home again. "I don't suppose we can talk this out?"

Still no response.

Guy gritted his teeth. "All right, look." Another block; another strike; another cut. "I don't want to hurt you. Mark made it clear you're doing this against your will. But we're not going to be able to help your people if you're standing in our way. So, either you put down your ax—" He jumped out of reach of another swing, and leveled his blade at the morph. "Or I'll make you put it down."

Luther charged him, silent as the grave.

"Have it your way."

Guy rolled out of the way of the attack, and came up swinging. He landed three cuts on Luther before the morph could draw a breath. Blood seeped out of the morph's numerous wounds, and they were moving more and more sluggishly. Guy set his jaw, leapt forward, and slashed at Luther's hand. The morph made a sound at last, crying out in pain as the ax fell from their fingers.

"Told you," Guy muttered.

Luther lunged for him with their empty hands. Guy easily sidestepped and struck again, delivering two more cuts to the morph's back and side. Luther lost their balance and collapsed to the ground, struggling to rise for a moment before going still.

Guy looked around at the outcropping. The others were still engaged in their own battles; Lyn fought Cassandra, Renault and Canas were tying up the archer, and Mark and Peleus were just sort of glaring at each other. He also looked at all the pools of blood Luther had left—that Guy had spilled. He looked down at the morph's motionless form, and sighed. I'm probably going to regret this, but…

He retrieved a vulnerary from his pack, knelt over the unconscious morph, and carefully applied the medicine to his wounds. "Please stay unconscious," he murmured. "Please stay unconscious." Once he'd used enough that it was unlikely Luther would die of blood loss—but hopefully not so much that they would regain consciousness anytime soon—he rose and stood back, watching the morph carefully. Luther still didn't move, but the pool of blood forming under their body stopped growing.

"Ok," Guy whispered to himself. "I think I successfully avoided killing you. Go, me."

He then turned to join Lyn, raising his blade and rushing at Cassandra while her back was turned. Surely, flanked by two Sacaean swordsmasters, the woman would—

Cassandra turned with preternatural speed and parried Guy's blow before he'd even completed his swing. He yelped and leapt back from her counterattack, just before she spun to face Lyn again. She was just as skilled as they were—but with the unnatural focus of a morph, unafraid for her own life.

He'd managed to take Luther alive. But as Cassandra turned to face him once more, he wasn't sure that was going to be an option this time.

Mark had to stifle both a cry and a cheer when Luther went down. Guy could have easily finished them while they were unconscious—but instead, he made sure they didn't bleed out before moving on. That was one morph, at least, that would survive this ordeal.

Denning cried in pain as a bolt of dark magic caught him mid-dodge. Before Mark knew it, he was running to his friend's side. "Denning!" he shouted, ignoring the warning cries of his comrades. "Are you—"

The morph snatched up his bow, taking aim at Mark. Mark's eyes widened, but he didn't dare stop. He threw himself onto Denning, slamming the morph to the ground. He heard the arrow release, and his cloak tugged sharply at his neck. The shot had pierced the cloth, missing him—but only just.

"Denning!" he hissed, grappling with the morph. Denning had the greater strength, so Mark had to use his leverage against him for as long as possible. Distantly, he heard Canas and Renault houting at him to get out of the way. He ignored them, leaning in close to Denning. "Listen to me! You're still in there, you've got to be!"

Cold golden eyes met his. There was no flicker of recognition there. Had he been reverted, or was this just a very good act?

Would a very good act have shot me?

"Grace is safe," Mark whispered. "She's in Ostia. She and the baby are being given the best care possible."

Now something moved in Denning's eye. Recognition? Fear? Hope?

"She's waiting for you. And I need you."

Denning's lips parted, and he began to whisper. "This is a—"

Pain exploded in Mark's side, like fire and lightning lancing into him at once. He was blown off of Denning by the spell's force, rolling to the ground, clutching his side. He forced his eyes open, looking over to see Peleus approaching, a tome in his hand and a glower on his face.

"Enough of that," Peleus said as Denning slowly rose, bringing a new arrow to his bow. "You've bothered me and mine for too long, tactician. I wanted to give Luther the chance to complete what they started, but now it's clear I should have done this myself." He raised his hand, opening the tome once more.

Through the haze of pain, Mark heard the distant cries of his allies, but there was no way for them to reach him in time. He willed himself to grab the dagger, to leap to his feet and rush the morph before he could attack again, but his body refused to answer. He was only just able to push himself to a sitting position, giving him a full view of his opponent.

So this is how I die.

Peleus cracked a smile as energy crackled about him. "Perish, human."

A sword sprung out of Peleus's chest, the blade streaked with red. His face seized, the smile twisting into a grotesque rictus; the energy gathering in his hand dispersed, leaving the ground around him steaming. He fell to his knees, then to his side, as Cassandra pulled her blade free of his chest.

Everybody, even Luther, fell still. Lyn's blade was raised, but all she could do was stare at Cassandra in shock, just as the rest of them. Mark scrambled over to Peleus, trying in vain to find a pulse. "No," he muttered. "No, no, no…" He looked up at Cassandra. "What did you do?!"

She looked down at him, frowning as though the question confused her. "I protected my people," she said simply. "I protected you."