The three 6th Sigiled Nahullo speak to the Angel clad in steel armor beside them, reverence evident in their tone even if I cannot decipher their words from their language. Their heads dip with every word, unwilling to look the being in the eyes. Blake might know the language of the Northerners, but I certainly don't.

 

Skychaser and I pause as we wait to see what the four pale giants before us will do; they hold the cards, after all, and our allies are behind us. And as the Angel steps forward, harsh but coherent sentences of Chero come from his helmet.

 

"What are you humans doing here? I thought there was an accord—the Bado and Howard Strafe for our aid against Leviathan. Have you gone back on your words? Where is your Pillar? Let me speak to him. Then, maybe with some compensation, I can ignore those of my kind you just butchered. I hear the Tree has made some beautiful contraptions lately."

 

I try to think of a response as my mind goes overclock. Accord? We had a deal to trade the Bado for help.? Who made this deal?! What kind of help is worth sacrificing a Pillar?

 

My inability to respond gives Sacate enough time to catch up to the two of Skychaser and me, the others right behind him. And as I glance backward at him, I fail to see Johnny in the distance, only a dust cloud without more gunshots. If this Councilman knew what we did to the other one here, he'd probably be livid. And we'd probably be dead.

 

With a grimace, I rip out the arrow in my shoulder as I watch Sacate step up to speak, the native of the Wilds bowing slightly to the Nahullo. His bladed arm, however, is full of the blood of northerners even as he is respectful.

 

"It is nice to meet you, sir..."

 

The Councilman pushes his chest up as he introduces himself.

 

"I am Sir Malew, Councilman of the High Table. Now, where is your Pillar? I doubt you'd come here so recklessly without a safeguard as sometimes... tragedy strikes."

 

The thinly veiled threat briefly makes even Sacate stop, but the man recovers and tries to escape this somehow. As he does so, a whisper comes from behind me, so low in volume that I have to Listen to even hear it.

 

"Make a distraction. I will get Blightraven. We should be able to handle this man from the High Table with him. Just... hold on, okay?"

 

Virgil's voice evaporates as the man disappears, a weight appearing in my shadow. I can see the Councilman's eyes narrow toward me just as Sacate speaks once more.

 

"Well, you see, Sir Malew, we are pretty lost, and your men attacked us first, so we had no choice but to retaliate. We work for the Underground Tree and act as his Roots. I'm sure you understand, right?"

 

I don't quite understand what Sacate means by we work as the man's Roots, but I assume it must be similar to Darkstep and the Damned she raised for the Estates. Initially, the ploy seems brilliant to me, but the Councilman immediately steps forward, raising a meaty arm clad in metal.

 

"I have already met his Roots, and they are the ones who negotiated this Accord. None of you act like his mindless drones."

 

Fuck. It's about to go wrong. Okay. Do as Virgil said. Distraction. The first to strike always has an advantage.

 

My lungs are about to explode; the minute or so since I took in the gasp of Ether has eaten at my endurance. I need to let it out. Now.

 

And so, as the Nahullo Councilman opens his mouth and begins to motion his arm, I unleash a storm of Ether throughout my body and into the Claymore, bringing myself right on the edge of saturation in exchange for a transient eruption of strength. Regardless of whether he is about to strike, a battle will happen; I might as well take the initiative.

 

Daydream, focused on my arm, gives my arm durability and strength as I pull the heavy blade. Strugglers Defiance loosens my chains even further, a torrent of Ether swelling through me. Then Release, focused entirely on my left arm, removes the chains on the arm, the limits of the limb dissipating into the air. Finally, I stop Breakneck and divert all of the gaseous Ether in my body into my arm, funneling it all into the Released limb.

 

So much power rests on my arm as I use my Madness-infused legs to plant a bold step forward as I rotate my whole body, bringing the hunk of steel along. I barely even register the Councilman's eyes widening as I throw the blade, Explosion detonating upon my palm as the Claymore leaves my hand.

 

I am pushed several steps backward to regain my posture as I feel a pounding through my whole arm, the Bloody Palm frantically struggling to keep itself together. But in trade for that injury, I see the sword longer than I am tall fly ahead at a brutal speed right for the Angel.

 

My heart beats thunderously for a second, hoping the blade will kill the Councilman. But I know better, and as the man turns into a kind of amorphous blob of liquid metal, the sword flying straight through him, I curse aloud.

 

"Fuck."

 

But not all is for naught, as a yell of pain still resounds, one of the men behind the Councilman being skewered straight through with my projectile. Sir Malew looks back momentarily before scoffing and moving directly for me.

 

"Seems we have a child with some potential. Best I remove this while I have the chance. Jinu and Djen, ignore Ysen and kill the others. The fool will die for thinking himself safe."

 

The Councilman reassembles his body into the armor of steel from the blob of liquid metal as he charges toward me, each step of his propelling him a dozen feet.

 

I struggle to stand as my vision shakes, the Ether I just set loose through my body leaving remnants of saturation. All I still have going is Release and my uses of Madness, both not requiring any upkeep once started. It's just that the former has a time limit and the latter a usage limit.

 

But as the magenta chains of Sir Malew grow in my vision, I force myself into stability, raising my damaged but healing arm to meet him. Having the Bloody Palm take any wounds for me is always best.

 

However, a shadow emerges from my back the moment before the Councilman's arm turns into a massive sledgehammer of steel and impacts me. A bullet and an edge of steel meet the Angel before Flickering into the ground, vanishing entirely. Virgil's sneak attack only makes Sir Malew stumble, neither attack breaching his defenses. But I use that juncture to dodge to the side, barely evading the blow as the weight crashes into the rock below. Stony shrapnel flies like that of a stick of dynamite, and I cover my eyes with my arm to protect them.

 

Then, using the strength still hidden in my arm, I push myself off the rock, further sending myself away from the Angel. My act annoys Sir Malew as he yells at me while Sacate and Abraham fight one of the 6th Sigileds. My worry, however, is higher for the other group of Bonfire, Blake, and Skychaser, who are facing the other Nahullo.

 

As I scramble away from the Angel rapidly catching up to me, I can only hope that Virgil gets Blightraven fast or that Sacate and Abraham kill their opponent. Then, kicking and pushing with all my might, I skitter toward the dying Nahullo whom I impaled with the Claymore. If I can use that, I can at least partially defend myself. But before I get close, a force slams upon my back, pushing me to the ground as I turn my head. An outstretched and dozen-foot-long liquid metal limb comes from Sir Malew that is crushing me against the stone ground of Starkbluffs, the pointed rock stabbing into me.

 

A gasp of air is forced out of my lungs from the force as I try to extricate myself, and as Sir Malew gets closer, the pressure only increases. Finally, I can feel my ribs crack as the Councilman laughs at me.

 

"A human of the fourth Sigil attempting to fight me? Sir Malew? A Councilman of the High Table? How arrogant. I know some of your kind are damaged in the mind, but you must be suicidal. Therefore, allow me to fulfill this death wish of yours."

 

I push against the liquid metal with my arm, but it doesn't relent. Instead, the arm merely swarms over my arm and covers my whole body, crunching me into the terrain. Pain wracks my entire body as I see a smile under the helmet of the Councilman, razor-sharp teeth within the northerners maw.

 

And as that smile reaches its pinnacle, going from ear to ear, a shout calls us—one from a man with insomnia far worse than mine.

 

"Sorry, Wyatt! Brace yourself!"

 

Before I can even ask him what he's going to do, I see, in the corner of my eye, a giant knight, one larger and far more formidable than Sir Malew appears. I hear the Councilman gasp in awe as a maul with a weighted side larger than my torso slams into him.

 

"Niyte!"

 

Sir Malew goes tumbling for half a dozen feet before quickly regaining his stance as the pressure he was exuding onto me dissipates, allowing me to breathe again. Then, coughing and attempting to stand with my shattered ribs, I look over to Abraham, who is coughing up blood on his hands and knees. Behind him is a bloodied Sacate against an even bloodier Nahullo.

 

Once I reach my feet, I look back and forth between Abraham and Sir Malew, trying to figure out what to do. The Councilman seems to be unscathed from Abraham's hit. Fuck.

 

The Councilman stands up from the nightmarish strike and cracks his neck with one hand as he laughs at Abraham. For some reason, he seems to recognize the pale-haired man. But wait. Nahullo also have pale hair, right? What's happening? Sir Malew doesn't seem all that serious, though, the man taking a moment to speak during combat. Almost as if this is all far below his level to him.

 

"Ohoho, what do we have here? How did I not notice before? Though I could never miss those phantoms, after all, among them, one is me! The prodigal son returns! Your father has been looking for you, Ahbram. And he's not happy about you running away, not happy at all. Ahbram---"

 

"Shut up! Don't say that fucking name!"

 

My eyes widen as Abraham stands from where he is struggling, his hair standing up with pointed ends in defiance of gravity as his mind Forces stones to lift and fight the primal force. The man's eyes are bloodshot, and I've never seen him so... emotional. He's always joking, tired, or numb. Flickers of phantasmal figures clad in steel appear behind him, twenty-seven in total, but they fast fade, unable to exist in reality all at once. They were, however, the exact number of Angels among the Nahullo, twenty-four Councilmen, two Vices, and a Chairman.

 

What the fuck is going on? Father? Ahbram? Is Abraham a Nahullo like Darkstep?

 

I get my answer as Abraham stands, illusory armor coalescing around his right arm to create a gauntlet, the man pointing a finger of his own against the Councilman.

 

At his pointed finger, a terror of Abraham's wakeless self emerges, swinging a maul of steel right for Sir Malew's head.

 

"Only my mother can call me that. Neither you, the Vice, nor the Warmaster have the right."

 

Flabergasted, I observe Malew catch the head of the hammer this time with a single hand, the plate steel liquefying to engulf the entire maul. Air swerves from the impact, leaving dust to swirl around the Nightmare and the Nahullo.

 

The Councilman stands still as specks of dust fly up from the impact, the towering humanoid speaking down to Abraham with lax.

 

"Your mother has been dead for years, half-breed. I told your father to focus on his other children, but no, he found something extraordinary in one as frail as you. Look, you can barely even use Ether without breaking apart. Just like your---"

 

Another Nightmare appears, an archer with a great bow that fires a projectile more elongated cannonball than an arrow. Again, Sir Malew catches the blow by liquefying, only taking a single step back. At least the attack cut him off. But Abraham isn't doing too well. His face is blue, and I can see his knees shaking from here. Those two conjurations took too much out of him. So much so that they have both already faded into nothingness, leaving him to Sir Malew's mercy. They also aren't his first and were noticeably more potent than usual.

 

But seeing that the Nahullo would rather talk than fight right now, I shimmy over to the dying Nahullo warrior. I notice they are pinned to the stone with the Claymore I threw. Hurting and stumbling from Sir Malew's single half-hearted strike, I reach the dying Nahullo. The pale-haired warrior is still trying to remove the Claymore from his stomach, but the blood loss and injury prevent him from doing so. And that's not even mentioning the weight of the damn thing.

 

With a grunt, I lean and wrap my hand around the handle, leveraging my foot onto the man's stomach. Then, as I hear Sir Malew continue his words to Abraham, I pull the blade out with great effort.

 

"I don't know why he chose a half-breed to pass his legacy onto, but it's not my choice. The Vice do as they want; only the Warmaster may order them. Nonetheless, a fragile being such as you deserves none of his favor, and neither did your foul mother. I wish I had enjoyed her--"

 

An almost feral screech from Abraham cuts off the Councilman as the pale-haired man is pushed too far.

 

"SHUT UP!"

 

And following that scream, I see Abraham lift his dagger, stabbing it into his arm. For a moment, I watch, dumbfounded at his act of self-injury, but as his chains darken to a deep blue, I realize what he's doing. He's advancing right here. Right now. The dagger he stabbed himself with dissipates into sparkling motes that return to the ground.

 

From 5th to 6th, Sigil Abraham vaults as two nightmares form before him, each clad in the same armor as Sir Malew. But the Councilman is only amused, not threatened, by Abraham.

 

"You are so naive, Abhram. Mislo wanted to drag you back herself, but your father said some time in human lands would do you well. How wrong he was. Come, Noble Phantasm's bastard, perhaps if I end you, your father will finally make a true heir. Warmaster knows we could use some competent warriors."

 

As the Councilman finishes his words, he darts toward Abraham, his body extending into liquid metal as Abraham's Nightmares move toward him. Each Nightmare wields a different weapon: a greatsword and a bow.

 

I twist my attention to the Nahullo below me that I had crossed out for dead in my mind, his groans growing louder. Looking down, I see him reaching for a hand crossbow by his hip, but before I can do anything to stop him, a shadow coalesces in front of me. Virgil plants a dagger into the Nahullo to end the durable bastard as he pants out to me. His face is red and has specks of black ichor on it.

 

"Go into the spire... I'll handle the outside... Blightraven has... trapped it... those with high Sigils take far more damage from his blighted mists. I can't push very deep... but I know your undying ass can."

 

I look back at the others still fighting, both of Abraham's Nightmares already destroyed and Bonfire, who has a severe stab wound in his chest. Then, I turn back to Virgil as the man stands tall, his hands reloading his Colt.

 

"You sure? I think--"

 

He cuts me off as he steps past me, darkness swirling around his feet. His voice is deep and unnegotiable.

 

"Go now. That tunnel they came from is the one. Follow it to the end through the gas, and you'll find him."

 

Virgil takes a deep breath, the man more like a brother to me at this point than a friend, as he stretches his neck.

 

"I'll keep Abraham from dying before you get back. Just... be fast, okay? I don't want him to die on us. I knew he had secrets, but this, this is more than a simple secret. My debt only runs so deep."

 

I nod to him as I hold onto the Claymore, my only significant weapon now. Then, without waiting another moment, I run toward the cave. My steps are heavy and laborious, and I hear a pained grunt or yell from behind me with every step.

 

Unwilling to fail Virgil and leave them to die, I grit my teeth and run toward the tunnel, refusing to look back. If I do, I'll lose the will to run forward and instead turn around. But just as I step into the darkness of the open cave, I hear a rumble from behind me, one so forceful that I can't help but look back.

 

And far in the distance, the Nahullo camp moves, thousands upon thousands of the northerners moving right for us in their legions. Dammit! Faster!

 

I pump my legs with everything I've got as I push all the Ether I can spare into this Claymore, Vigor flowing into me in response. I welcome the extra power that energizes and repairs my body. But I must be careful, for I cannot go any further with my Ether. I don't have a Sigil to advance to if I go too far or a Concoction to save me. All I have is myself. And my enclosed fists.

 

I see now, Eleanor, what you meant by trusting nothing but yourself. Fortunately, though, it is not entirely true. If it were, I'd have died long ago. I'd have passed even just a minute ago when an Angel barreled toward me, but Virgil saved me. Though just as I'm not alone, neither are they. I push into the cave's darkness as an even darker mist fills my vision and clogs my nose. Sediment seems to fill my lungs, the particles eating away at the Ether in my body and making it detonate.

 

I gasp aloud as I slow, the sudden pressure in my chest and body beyond what I was expecting. I thought the blight from Blightraven would be similar to the blight of the Motherbound, poisonous and mental. But it is not even remotely similar. His makes one's body fight against itself, and the stronger you are, the more Ether you have, and the more it eats at you.

 

My steps slow to a proverbial crawl as every movement tears apart my innards. Then, finally, I see what Virgil meant. He thought it was better if I did this because I'm the lowest Sigil, but he was wrong. I might only be a 4th Sigil, but I almost certainly have more Ether than him. That is the main thing of the Philosopher, after all.

 

Soldiers get more rigid bodies, and Rogues get lighter frames, yet the Philosopher expands his use of Ether far beyond the standard limit.

 

And so, as I step forward, the pain of the mist in the air makes tears fall from my eyes. All that exists before me is darkness, my eyes unable to pierce the blighted fog.

 

With just another step, I feel my lungs crackle. Another step, and I feel my heart skip. Yet another makes my stomach twist. He can't be far into the spire. It wasn't all that big.

 

Just a bit... further... just... a bit...