Gloom settled on High-Crag Hold. Most mercenaries had already retreated to their hovels. Even without the precise knowledge of the one who crossed our path, a pallid dreariness submerged the Hold, almost akin to the uncanny danger sense of wild animals when an apex predator enters their abode. Any hint of joy in the common folk's countenance vanished upon glancing at our return party. The few smiles plastered on the faces of Finn, Eddyrn Rubyforged and Zaehran were shallow and forced.

Many dreaded the oncoming dawn and the following day, even more. For every passing day, meant the slipping of winter and the passage of spring and with it the arrival of the grisly Cambion Warlord leading his horde. Every sliver of morale gathered from the tiny morsels of victory from the past days, the One-Horned Warlord obliterated them in a single evening.

Perhaps, the primal beast nature of the werewolves was the cause, something about the agony of their pack leader sensed through mysterious means of pack or the scent of pain and terror from their Rodo saturated the pass, for it was his pack that cowered the most. Then, the inevitable mood that something went amiss, infected from them to the rest of the defenders.

All the nights, they fought together. The patrols led. Together. Never alone. When he summoned, they rushed. Through the bogs, against a thousand. Through guarding the caravans. Through the bone chilling winds of High-Crag Pass winter. Such a bond carried farther than any distance. Each one of his pack, wrestled with their own darkness as Rodo clung to life.

The druidess, the one with a face that forgot to smile, examined Rodo and turned to me, baleful eyes casting a burning glare as if I failed. She was right.

"He would recuperate, no silver poisoning," she said, tone still neutral, a voice devoid of assurance. "But won't be howling the nights for a while... for a long while."

"How long?" A mistake. The question spilled.

"Not before the Hold falls," she answered with apathy, cruelly choosing her words.

"You are better off sending this one to the Viridian Dawn Rangers," said another druid healer over the sound of Merowyn's agonising scream.

"We cannot treat him here," chimed in another druid. "Spine broken. He would be an invalid for the rest of his life, and that would be a miracle."

Finn seemed aghast with the news. The very brutal reality of war marred his heroic notions, the resulting despair marred his face. Only Captain Jorrell had the presence of mind to slowly walk the young noble away with subtle coaxing.

"Perhaps, the healers of the Viridian Dawn Rangers could get help him survive," continued the first druid, "but even given his natural vitality and strong force, certain injuries are beyond the reach of medicine. Wood elves or druidic, even magic restorations."

Silence filled the space. None dared to make any remarks, further. The silence lingered painfully longer than usual. Then, Baernis spoke.

"But Arlene will survive, right? Only broken arms and limbs."

"Curse, not a survival," lashed back Arlene from the nearby bed. Even the strong sedative of the druids failed before her wilderness hardened constitution. "Ever seen a crippled ranger, a woodsman with a crutch. A one-handed archer?"

Baernis knew not to argue with her. Again, the shieldwarden of the shieldmaidens took the insults. The dwarf stood tall, taller than any, by offering herself as an outlet for the ranger's anger.

"He might have killed me. A cruel mockery is what he wanted me to be made. A living proof of his wrath. A living warning to those who would dare to oppose him." The venomous look Arlene directed at me vanished into sadness. Pain.

Arlene drew me with an iron grip of her other hand, the sort tempered by her pain and anguish, enough pressure to mould solid steel like putty. She pulled me closer. Close enough to feel the violent beating of her heart. To feel the tiny crease on her skin magnified through the tear drops and sweat on her face. Enough to sense her desperation reaving through her like a searing hot blade.

"So many lives her would ruin," she whispered, almost barely audible. "All of them, this Hold, everything from here till Valteburg and even beyond."

Arlene let her heavy head settle in my palms. Her warm tears pooled in the cup of my hands. There was no hope in her eyes. Not even a flicker. Just unending torment.

"You should say something." Baernis nudged.

_What could I say? I was never there to console Delyn. Never learned the skill._

"Can you promise?" asked Arlene. "We cannot let him proceed unchecked."

The heavy, hot lump in my throat stifled my every attempt to console her. To promise her what she asked.

"Please," pleaded Arlene, "Our forces are paltry. Ask her. She will come if you request her aid."

"Who?"

"The High Queen of the Dark elves, Your daughter, Dellynthelaara," said Arlene, unfiltered fear in her expressions. "She commands an impressive force and could muster a far greater number to counter the warlord."

"Would you perform the same for me with High-Marshall Raelian, hero of the wood-elves and your grandfather?"

"No." Her reply was sharp and curt.

"Then you know my answer." Turning my attention to one of the Viridian Dawn Rangers, my back stiff and steel in my voice, I instructed. "Send a forerunner to Elphene and prepare to take him to your healers at your enclave... and Arlene too."

"No." Her protest tore through the silence.

"You are safe anywhere except here."

Her shouting grew to rebellious levels, insisting on her presence, even going as far as to offering her skills as a ranger to man the ballistae and artillery team even when crippled.

I had to agree, stubborn and reckless as she might be, Arlene did indeed possess courage, in abundance and in dangerous measure. _How much courage does one have to offer to be willing to die fighting instead of running away?_ This one wouldn't run away. Ever. Not even after she died.

"Can I offer my own wisdom," Zaehran intervened. "Your decision, though guided by a commendable desire for her safety, by insisting she leave, you would be denying her agency as an adult to exercise her own decisions."

"A delicate balance is required," I stated. "Every decision must be made for the greater good, even if it infringes on individual freedom."

"Will you deny someone the even the right to die on their own terms?"

"I am denying her death." I spat my words.

"By denying her terms to die, you are denying her her choice to live. This is how tyrants evolve. Control their death and then control the way of life, all born under the cause of a well intention."

Zaehran's words, though idealistic and more importantly, isolated from a practical situation, did stagger me. Though I abhorred tyranny, the whole idea of being able to prevent death, save lives at the cost of personal freedom, was indoctrinated into me from an early age. From a time when I was trained to take the reins.

A momentary glare from Zaehran, the only emotion, a barely faint twitch of nerves, the tiny minuscule measure that the ascetic monk allowed himself, warned me.

"Fine," I conceded, "but at the first signal of evacuation, she leaves."

"I bear personal responsibility for that," assured Zaehran, but his voice was drowned by my incessant searching for Theko.

"Where is Theko?" I shouted, and almost as an afterthought asked, "and Talus?"

"He took him to your wife," said Maapu, a coil of hesitation choking his words. "She would not allow us inside, but sent a message to you. You are to meet her alone."

Lyria glared at Talus, motioning him to leave. The mechanical warrior extracted himself in a heartbeat. No footsteps or a single clink of metal. Surreal was the manner of his withdrawal, even for his combat prone abilities, almost as if Lyria's wordless command compelled him in unimaginable ways.

Gone was the scent of sweat and smoke from her smithy. Nor was her forge warm. To witness her without the clamour of her work, the din of hammer striking hot metal, the rhythmic strike of her strokes, made the palpable apprehension in the air around her unnervingly noticeable. All her warmth and glow had left her, pallid gloom and ashen cloud of unease resided instead.

"Lyria..." I stammered.

"Rils, stop." Lyria raised a single finger, frigid determination and bleak isolation filled the space. Yet, her lone raised finger trembled. "You have been through a lot."

At the same moment, my skin began to tingle with an unwelcome sensation, the distinct feeling of an unseen hand raising the lid of a hot cauldron. Ethereal shivers enshrouded me. Nothing tangible touched and yet, I felt myself dragged on space distorted into viscous fluid, wading through, propelled by currents, unseen and without cognate.

"So you perceive it too." Lyria managed a whisper. That disturbing feeling of being watched, by multiple pairs of eyes, pierced the cold gloom surrounding us. Almost immediately, a faint twilight enveloped the smithy, outlining a form encaging Lyria, an eerie haze of magic.

That form, gleaming with a sharper sheen, twisted around her and faded away as soon as they touched the outline of Lyria's form, yet left its signature deep inside my memory. Rich purple hue, lambent leathery wings speckled with silvery scales, massive muscles tensed with ready power and speed, massive claws raking through reinforced metal, lethal in form and razor sharp in edge, horns piercing through the veil of reality, with unimaginable brilliance and energy.

Not real. Just a hallucination. A failing grasp of my mind to not let go of my consciousness. A terror of incomprehensible depth and breadth threatened to drag me under. Every nuance of its arrival etched permanently into my memory, tenaciously clinging to its spot.

Something like a dread eroded my bones, but it didn't matter. I knew now perceived the draconic form. No. Not draconic.

"Rils," said Lyria, a soft plea lingering in her tone. Her hand reached for mine with care, taking and squeezing it, genuine concern stirring. "Will it. Will it to disperse. Do not give in. Command it to submission."

"No longer can I distinguish between reality and ethereality."

"Fear not, Rils. You have witnessed something you were not ready for. Should have been kept away from mortal eyes. Bastard, Lyvonomirgon loosened the knots of reality around you."

"Lyvonomirgon?"

"The Circle Prince who spirited you to the walled City."

"You were aware..." The shock registered on my face might have been alarming, for Lyria's arms wrapped around my waist, drawing in an every deepening embrace.

"Yes, and also of the one you met there." She paused, her forehead resting against the curve of my neck, hot breath engulfing my cold senses. "Do not beat yourself over her, or on what you felt for her."

A chill ran up my spine. Her words defied all notion of the love I held for her.

"What did she call herself?" asked Lyria.

"Rhea."

"Lyriendria," uttered Lyria, correcting me. "Demons are a vile and tenacious lot, but the denizens of the walled city would make demons pale in comparison."

Violent and nervous trembles passed through her limbs. Even her gentle touch became unbearable. My soul crawled, terrified. Something went wrong, something catastrophic.

"People perceive hell as a place of boiling cauldrons, disease and decay, slavery and submission, but the truth is far from it." Lyria blinked a lone teardrop away. "Actually, that place gnaws your soul, twists it into a cruel mockery of all that is good in you. In away, hell is no different from heaven."

"But... she is a child."

"Your love for me, hell picked the strand and bound it to her form, making you feel powerless and disgusted."

"Lyria, my own emotions betrayed me."

"Rils, there is a strong attraction between us... for a very good reason." Her pleading hands closed around me, palms seeks my cheeks, eyes imploring into mine. "And they would use this love to break you."

"What is she? The child demoness seemed a prisoner there." Questions and frustrations fed the desperation building within me. The more Lyria spoke, the more repugnant, the walled city and the Circle Princes felt to me.

"Erase the memory, Rils." Lyria's voice, a command, but her lips pressed against my forehead, placing the tenderest of all kisses.

"You once told me that you were incomplete. What does it make her?"

Lyria pulled her head back, bright silvery grey eyes peering into mine, reflecting an unfamiliar void, raw, maelstrom of terrifying intensity swirling within.

"You have seen me clash against Zor'Amoth of the scourge warren. A prime of the scourge warren, and you witnessed the effect his lingering presence had on the realm." For the first time, I noticed a calm and methodical mien to Lyria. "The gap in power between a prime demon and a demon monarch is a wide chasm, the comparison more akin to grain to a full barn. That is why, demon monarch do not physically manifest themselves."

For an eerie fleeting instance, I caught an expression of grief and longing pass through her face, then, her guardedness returned.

"That is why Vana'roth does not enter the physical world. A demon Monarch is the realm and a realm is the monarch. The Monarch does not step in, they drag their realm with them, more akin to two landmasses colliding with each other, the demon plane and the living realm."

My fingers sought the exposed skin of Lyria, holding on to the fading myriad of information, unwilling to part with Lyria. A final desperate measure to seek an anchor.

"The presence you just felt, moments ago, was the essence of a Monarch. Even the fragmented essence of a shattered demon Monarch is not without its potency."

A demon Monarch shattered! A demonic realm without a Monarch!

"The Knight of Ash and Smoke's realm. An usurped demonic realm, ruled by a Dame of the Demesne."

Lyria's lips hooked up with curiosity in the faintest and barely perceptible trail. "A Dame cannot usurp the Monarch." A confidence of steel supported her statement.

"The realm is without a monarch. A Dame of the Demesne rules, and now I see the Monarch haunting you." My thoughts dance to and fro. Anxiousness, frustration, and a surging sense of futility, razed through my rationale. "How are you connected to all Lyria? I need answers."

"I shattered the Monarch," said Lyria. "And that is all I can answer."