"Oi, you lot! What business have you in Ferox?"

A female guard cloaked in azure Western battlegear, spear at the ready, approached the cart. Restlessness danced in her gray eyes, barely visible from underneath the blue scarf adorning her neck and the curved helmet atop her head. From her battlegear, it was simple to tell that she was a higher-ranking Feroxian light-armored knight.

Desmond sniffed the air, something not sitting quite right with him. The air tasted foul, akin to a large city rather than the middle of the wilderness. The faint smell of iron wafted through the air, but not the same kind as used for weaponry.

The lightweight knight stood in front of Lester's mount, gold-adorned steel spear attached by chain pointing at him menacingly.

"Well? Spit it out, Ylissean. I have six archers, bows at the ready. Don't even think for a moment about doing something shady."

Desmond opened his mouth to say something, but fortunately Lester, ever interpersonally skilled, held his hand up reassuringly.

"Peace, milady. We are here to simply cross the border." Lester's face maintained a calm coolness as he spoke, yielding no emotion to the Feroxian guard.

"Don't think you're so special," she spat, "You're not the only ones who've said that today. Had a cart of Ylisseans go through here earlier this evening, and they turned out to be Sons of Naga cultists. How can we expect different from you?"

The female knight turned her attention to the front of the wagon itself, Brooks and Samuel's heads poked through the canvas curtain.

"Look, we've got two more Ylissean dogs in back," she jeered, smirking cockily at Lester, "This whole cart stinks of cultists."

Unexpectedly, Brooks began to glare daggers at the soldier.

"Lady, I may be Ylissean, but I'm—"

"Can it, mage," she interrupted, "I've heard it too many times before."

Lester sighed and shook his head, almost disapprovingly.

"No, madame. We are not cultists. The four of us are on a relief mission for West Ferox sent straight from Exalt Spes himself. I implore you to open the gate."

Spitting on Ranofer's hooves, the Feroxian demanded, "Your claims are less than the dirt I walk on. I don't suppose you have any proof of that, paladin?"

"Of course," Lester returned, a faux smile playing across his face, "If you'll pardon me a moment."

Lester unhooked the clasp of Ranofer's saddlebag and fished out a sealed scroll of parchment. He held it in the knight's direction as she approached and tore the document out of the paladin's hand. Hastily ripping the red seal off of the front, she unraveled the missive and began to skim through its contents.

"Relief agents to Arena Ferox, huh? Suppose you've got me beat."

She turned back to the gate where her fellow gatewatchers were positioned, yelling a command to let the party through.

"'Pologies for the confusion," she said with a sheepish grin. "My boys are opening the gate now. Feel free to pass on through."

Desmond narrowed his gaze at the soldier as Lester expressed his thanks for the rite of passage. Something didn't seem quite right with the whole situation. Near the wall, he noticed axe-armed soldiers shifting nervously, his ears picking up a range of muddled whispers.

As Lester commanded Ranofer and the tawny horse Desmond was seated upon forward, a hooded Feroxian jogged up to the knight who was several paces ahead of them, well out of earshot for the humans. He whispered something nigh-unintelligible to her, while she spoke back in a voice loud enough that Desmond could pick up.

"Western sympathisers. Head back up to the battlements and have your archers fire on my command."

The hooded Feroxian saluted and sprinted back towards the gatehouse as Desmond's pulse began to race.

"Lester," Desmond murmured, attempting to keep his panic under control.

"Yes, Desmond?"

"I overheard the soldier. They're Easterners."

"What? That simply cannot be so!" the paladin spoke in disbelief. Calming himself down, he added, "How can you be sure?"

"My ears," Desmond smirked, holding them towards the paladin, "Have you forgotten about them already? The archers on the battlements are preparing for a surprise strike."

As if to insinuate his point, the hooded Feroxian man from earlier appeared high upon the wall, almost out of sight in the dense fog. He muttered something to one archer before descending down a set of unknown steps while the first archer passed on his message. Lester pondered this for a moment, then continued.

"Right. I believe you, Desmond, but we cannot simply turn around. There is no other way to get into Feroxian territory, and there are people on the other side that need our help. That girl the mage at the tavern mentioned earlier comes to mind."

"Well then, what should we do? You've planned for battle before, right?"

Lester glanced side to side quickly, racking his brain for a solution.

"Well, I'm no Robin, but I'll do everything in my power to make sure we walk away from here."

He turned to the front of the cart, Samuel and Brooks still gazing out with expressions of concern.

"Samuel, Brooks, we have a situation on our hands. This gate is supposedly an Eastern trap. As soon as you hear the female guard say anything, jump out the back and prepare for battle."

The two robed men nodded, withdrawing into the wagon. Desmond turned to the wagon, noticing Brooks scribbling something down on a loose sheet of paper. He handed it to Samuel.

"If you're cornered, use this. It's a Wind spell," the mage said in a low voice.

Samuel took the page, albeit hesitantly, and nodded at Brooks.

"Desmond," Lester commanded, jarring the taguel's attention back towards the paladin, "As soon as you hear the female soldier speak, chop the trace attached to Ranofer's saddle. We may have to abandon yours if we're to find a desirable position for battle."

He nodded, and placed a hand on the leather hilt of his steel-edged iron axe, the final memento from his departed mentor and friend.

– – –

The air pressure around the four companions seemed to increase dramatically as Lester and Desmond towed the long, canvas-covered wagon towards the gate. Desmond found his breath growing short. The guards around them seemed to slink through the fog with evil, glowing eyes before disappearing into the blackness. The wrought-black iron bars of the portcullis rose with a foreboding creak, the dark-bricked, eerie structure of the border doing little to contract from the severity of the situation.

The wind, once howling, had tapered off completely—the air was completely dead, the fog thick enough to make the lanterns nothing more than blurry splotches of light in an endless void of darkness, the sun having only just fully set.

Desmond gripped the hilt of his axe tightly, the skin of his heavily hair-covered knuckles whitening. He snuck a glance backwards, revealing that Samuel and Brooks were positioned at the end of the cart, ready to spring at a moment's notice. He couldn't see their expressions, but he assumed that they had fear written all over their faces.

It wasn't long until a heavy silence permeated the gateway, not even one that Desmond's superior ears could detect any noise through. The portcullis had risen completely, the cart positioned directly beneath the raised iron bars. The Feroxian soldiers had completely disappeared, the light from the top of the battlements not strong enough to reveal the position of the archers that were surely awaiting them.

"Loose!"

The shout of a distinctly feminine voice from a large distance up the pathway into Feroxian territory permeated the silent air. Immediately after, the quick drawing of bowstrings and the immediate twang of the release signaled the beginning of the ambush.

"Desmond! The trace!" Lester's voice rang out over the sound of four arrows tearing through the canvas of the cart. Desmond raised his axe over his head, and brought it down on the leather strap connecting Ranofer's saddle to the drawn cart. It broke with a clean snap, the gilded horse immediately rearing up and charging to the left towards the massive wall of the gate.

Desmond half jumped, half fell off of the tawny horse he was riding on, who had begun to panic as it was still trapped by the trace connecting it to the cart. A misfired arrow from above, whistling on the wind, pierced directly through the mare's skull, killing it instantly. It fell to the ground with a limp thud.

"Brooks, get those archers shut down!" Lester shouted, taking hold of command, "Desmond and I will handle the ground infantry!"

Desmond couldn't tell if Brooks had nodded in agreement, but he soon heard blasts of fire striking the battlements above. Brooks had at least two archers safely pinned down, but there were more hiding in the shadows on the other side.

As Desmond searched for an opening against the archers above, he and Lester still heavily pinned down by constant arrow fire, a small flame was alit atop the battlements before being tossed down into the passageway the four were battling in. A small torch fell from above, landing atop the canvas roof of the cart. Taking a chance, Desmond reached for the sole hand axe strapped to his belt, lobbing it towards the battlement. Immediately after, an archer robed in blue West Feroxian gear fell to the ground with a sickening crash.

Turning back towards the cart, Desmond noticed that the fire from the torch had spread quite quickly, the entire roof burning intensely. Samuel leaped out of the back of it, clutching something in his white-robed arms. He ran up to Brooks, handing him something as he took cover behind the burning cart. All the while, the sound of a man screaming in pain rang out over the battlefield, affirming that the mage landed a direct hit on one of the archers. He turned, and rushed up to Desmond, waiting for a clear opening to join Lester.

"Here," Samuel said, handing him liquid stored in a small, brown vial. "A vulnerary, just in case you get hurt while I'm helping Brooks."

Desmond nodded, before rushing off towards the sounds of battle on the other side of the gate.

Gripping his red-gemmed, wooden Heal staff tightly, Samuel poked his head out from behind the blazing conestoga wagon, intently watching as Brooks engaged in a firefight with an archer positioned atop the battlements and shrouded in heavy fog. Every burst of fire shot from Brooks' outstretched hand cut through the veil of haze, revealing the position of a sole archer atop the wall. For each blast of fire that opened a hole in the clouds, the archer returned one shot directly down the center of the tear. Brooks nimbly dodged each one, the arrows lining a path in the dirt in accordance with Brooks' movements.

The priest snuck a glance at the page that Brooks had written for him earlier.

"Wind," he thought, studying the intricate design, "Should I…?"

Looking down the gate's pathway, Samuel could recognize the silhouettes of Lester and Desmond tackling a large amount of cavaliers and soldiers, but his gaze was wrought back towards the dark-robed mage as he heard the sound of an arrow piercing flesh. Samuel caught a glance of the arrow protruding from Brooks' left shoulder as he stumbled back from the blow. The mage retreated towards the cart, Samuel rushing out to meet the mage.

Samuel pulled the arrow from Brooks' shoulder, causing him to let out a sharp cry of pain and his blood to cascade rapidly from the wound. The priest raised his staff, a soft, soothing green light descending upon Brooks, whose wound promptly closed. He rubbed it, the pain obviously still there.

"I'm going to need your help if we're going to take down that archer," Brooks ordered, pointing towards the concealed battlements, "That wind spell is our only hope of getting out of here."

"Do you not remember what happened last time I used magic? I—"

"Of course I do!" the mage interrupted, "You burned the cart. As you can see now, that's the least of our worries."

The fire consuming the cart had been reduced to a smoulder, the vehicle looking irreparable under any circumstances.

"Besides, the worst you can do is hurt someone, and right now, that's exactly what we need."

As if to cut their conversation short, the archer atop the wall fired an arrow blindly into the fog, landing between the two robed men.

"Let's move, Samuel!"

The priest nodded, tightly holding the page. He rushed behind Brooks, attempting to recreate the magic he had used in the cart earlier that evening. He concentrated, the characteristic yellow runes of a successfully cast spell appearing around him. He could feel the energy coursing through him, and released it towards the battlements. A green, coalesced gas appeared in the circular runes in front of him, and flew towards the battlements while clearing the fog through its path. The green energy struck the archer, as if guided by the gods, and caused the archer to stumble. The bow he carried was cast away from his hands, landing some distance on the battlements behind him.

Brooks, noticing the opportunity, immediately turned the pages of his book further to the newest entry he had inked. He casted, and deadly fire appeared around the exposed archer before exploding outward violently.

The mage snickered, pride dancing in his eyes.

"Heheh… didn't expect for the Elfire to work. Brooks is moving up in the world!" Brooks pumped his fist in the air in victory.

Samuel smiled at his friend's celebration before turning his attention back to the magical page he was holding.

"Perhaps I am good enough after all," he pondered, capturing every detail of the intricate magical design.

Suddenly, Samuel's attention was captured by the sounds of voices and footsteps resonating from inside the wall.

"Brooks, I think we have company!" the priest shouted, Brooks' celebration promptly ending. From behind the southern end of the gate, two Feroxians dressed in archer garb along with two more in traditional myrmidon gear rushed towards the sounds of battle, swords and bows at the ready. Samuel held his Heal staff defensively in both hands with the Wind page wrapped around the wooden hilt in his left hand. He was ready.

Desmond reclaimed his hand axe from the chest archer who had fallen from the battlements. Blood still dripping from its wicked edge, he lobbed it towards the battlements a second time. This time, he heard a person atop the wall cry out in pain, but nobody fell from the dark-bricked structure. Chalking the final archer up as dead, he continued towards Lester, who was dueling a mounted Feroxian cavalier.

To his left, however, a Feroxian soldier was bravely standing his ground, iron spear at the ready. Changing his course, he rushed the soldier, axe at the ready. Quickly slicing forward, Desmond's blade met the iron plating of the soldier's buckler, who retaliated with a quick thrust of his spear. Desmond sidestepped, but was clipped on his right side, which began to bleed lightly.

Mentally blocking the pain, Desmond followed up with a vertical slash, cleanly splitting the soldier's wooden spear hilt as he attempted to raise the weapon to block the attack. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the taguel fighter wailed against the Feroxian's buckler, which eventually gave way under the might of Desmond's animalistic strength. Leaving the fallen soldier with a heavy strike to the center of his chest, he continued to pursue Lester, who had finished dealing with the Feroxian cavalier and another soldier who appeared to have been trampled over.

By the time Desmond had closed the distance between them, Lester had already engaged a second cavalier, dueling the inexperienced rider handily with his royal silver-inlaid sword. The lance-wielding rider could hardly keep up the paladin's strength, only having enough time to parry the strikes against him.

Sensing movement as he approached the two combatants, Desmond turned to his right where a bare-chested, Feroxian axe wielder had seemingly appeared from nowhere out of the dense fog. He rushed the taguel, his standard-issue iron axe hoisted above his head. The fighter leaped into the air, his blow meeting nothing but earth as Desmond quickly dodged to the side. Aiming for the small of his back, Desmond stuck, but missed as the Feroxian log-rolled away quickly.

Seizing the opportunity, the fighter went on the offensive, blow after blow parried by Desmond's axe. He didn't begin to falter, though, even increasing the frequency of his attacks. Desmond, almost being overwhelmed by the onslaught, thought quickly before using one of the breaks in between the fighter's blows to strike at the hands.

Blade meeting flesh, Desmond's axe caught the fingertips of the Feroxian, who dropped the weapon as he howled in pain. Recoiling, the fighter charged Desmond in a final gambit, tackling the taguel to the ground.

The Feroxian punched at Desmond's face desperately, but the taguel was quicker. After taking two hits to Desmond's eye and nose, a sharp knee to the center of the fighter's bare chest caught him off guard, knocking the wind out of the desperate Feroxian. Pressing his advantage, the taguel forcefully pushed the incapacitated fighter off of him, slicing at his exposed chest twice in quick succession. Confirming the Feroxian fighter dead, Desmond limped up to Lester, who had finished dealing with the inexperienced cavalier. Desmond cringed as he noticed the body was partially hidden, and completely crushed, under his fallen mount.

"Some fight, huh Lester?" Desmond laughed, his expression still pained from the beating the fighter had just given him. Lester did not respond, simply guiding Ranofer to stand at Desmond's side. The taguel rubbed his index finger under his nose, revealing the extent of his bleeding.

In a moment of insight, Desmond pulled the brown vial Samuel had given him earlier, which was fortunately still intact. He uncorked the vulnerary, downing the pale liquid in one mouthful, the soothing effects of the potion took effect immediately; the gash at his side closed slightly and his nose moved back into position with a sickening crack.

"Torchlight on the other side of the path," Lester said without pretense, pointing towards several small dots of light just barely visible through the fog.

"Three of them," he added, turning to meet Desmond's gaze, "Are you prepared for another skirmish, Desmond, or should we seek out Samuel's aid?"

Desmond shook his head, his ears flapping somewhat comically despite the situation.

"I'm ready for anything, pal. Just give the word."

Brooks jerked his head to his left side quickly, the stab from the Feroxian myrmidon sailing just to the left of his head. He casted a quick Wind spell in order to try and create some distance between the swordsman and himself, but the Feroxian seemed unfazed by the attack. His blade danced around him, barely missing Brooks each time he struck.

"Could use a little help here, Samuel," the mage thought, before quickly realizing that the priest was beset upon by two archers and yet another myrmidon, barely managing to keep himself out of harm's way.

The swordfighter set upon Brooks struck again, his blade digging into the earth where the mage was standing only mere moments ago. Brooks used the additional time granted to him to unsheath the small dagger strapped at his side before the myrmidon regained his composure and began to let blow after blow fall upon the mage.

This time, however, Brooks had the advantage of having a bladed weapon, and was able to parry one of the myrmidon's strikes handily. The Feroxian swordfighter must have not realized that Brooks had a dagger on him, because he hesitated long enough for Brooks to turn the pages of his spellbook to a random spell before casting.

Lines of magical electricity appeared in the iconic yellow spellcasting runes around Brooks, electrocuting the myrmidon as he wailed in pain. As he fell, a swift strike with Brooks' dagger to the back of his neck was enough to dispatch the swordfighter.

Brooks turned his attention back to Samuel, who was dancing around the pile of ash that was once the conestoga wagon. How he was ever going to explain that to his friend Jonathan, he may never know.

Pushing that unpleasant thought aside, he noticed that Samuel was able to defeat one of the archers all on his own, who was now slumped against the easternmost wall of the path underneath the portcullis, unconscious.

"The crafty guy must have thrown him into the wall," he thought, laughing slightly at the idea of an Eastern archer flying headfirst into a brick wall. Composing himself, Brooks flipped the pages of his book open to Fire, the field of magic he was most comfortable with. Focusing briefly, he shot the basic spell at the myrmidon striking at Samuel's wooden staff hilt.

Noticing the flames out of the corner of his eye, the myrmidon ducked swiftly before turning his attention to Brooks. He scowled angrily before charging at Brooks, sword at the ready.

"That's gonna cost ya!" Brooks shouted, magical power dancing at his fingertips. He reached both hands back before shoving them forcefully forwards with force, red-hot fire appearing around the approaching swordsman. He had no time to even scream before the flames consumed him, leaving nothing but a charred corpse in its wake.

Brooks closed his spellbook, panting heavily at the amount of energy he poured into his last Elfire spell. He wearily looked back at Samuel, who had blasted the second archer into the wall, joining the first. The mage limped tiredly up to the priest, clapping him proudly on the shoulder.

"See? I told you that you could do it!"

Samuel grinned, the beginnings of a prideful blush appearing on his cheeks.

"Heh. Perhaps using magic isn't so bad after all. I really do like wind spells."

"Oh? Then we'll have to keep up your training once we get back on the road… oh wait, damn."

Brooks looked sadly at the charred remains of the proud conestoga wagon they were riding in that very afternoon. Samuel smiled comfortingly.

"We'll find a way to get to Stormguard, Brooks. But for now, there's a fight that needs our attention. Lester and Desmond need our help."

The mage nodded sadly, glancing once more at the charred wreckage before following in Samuel's wake. The two rushed along the easternmost wall in the pathway underneath the portcullis, robes dancing in the newly-blowing wind.

A faint whistling sound appeared on the wind as Samuel and Brooks ran along the Feroxian border pass's easternmost wall. Dancing in the faint torchlight, a spinning, familiar hand axe appeared from the dense fog, sailing directly into the back of Brooks' knee. The mage violently crashed to the ground, yelping in surprise.

"Brooks!" Samuel shouted, voice mixed with concern and surprise. He knelt at Brooks' side, noticing that his spellbook had been wrought from his hands, and was laying in the snow with the pages opened to a spell that Samuel did not recognize.

Out from the darkness, a lone archer appeared, bow at the ready. Her right shoulder was torn open and bleeding profusely, but she held the bow fully taut despite the pain.

"Damned Ylissean," the archer spat, "The captain gave the order to stand our ground, and I'm not about to roll over and die just because a couple of knee-quakers decided to show up."

The archer let the arrow fly, sailing through the air and embedding itself in the ground just in front of Samuel's feet. Thinking quickly, Samuel grabbed Brooks' book and began to cast the spell the pages were open to.

As the spell channeled briefly, Samuel's hair began to stand on edge. A thick, energetic power began to flow from the yellow runes surrounding him.

"Breathe, Samuel… and release!" the priest poured as much energy as he could into releasing the build up, magical energy. From above, two massive bolts of lighting directly struck the archer, their sound reverberating through the gateway. The power of the spell was massive enough to knock Samuel back, falling back first onto the snow-covered pathway.

Samuel began to right himself, his vision spinning from being knocked onto the back of his head. He rose, rubbing the injury soothingly, before remembering Brooks was still in danger. He rushed as quickly he could to the mage's side, removing the hand axe from his leg. Brooks uttered nary a word in protest, having fallen unconscious from the sudden blow.

Raising his slightly-damaged healing staff, Samuel channeled his energy into the red gem affixed to the top. Green light coalesced, enveloping the fallen mage. The wound on the back of Brooks' knee closed, and his breathing began to normalize. Samuel returned it to its holder on his back, turning Brooks upright.

"Are you alright, Brooks?" the priest asked, shaking the mage slightly.

Brooks opened his glass-covered brown eyes, which focused intently on Samuel's face before nodding.

"I'm alright. Thanks for the save, buddy."

Brooks sat upright, turning his attention to the small fires where the Feroxian archer once stood.

"Samuel," the mage asked, looking back at the white-robed priest, "What spell did you use to do… that?"

"This one," Samuel replied, handing the spellbook back to its owner, still turned to the page the book had landed open on. Brooks studied the page for a moment before gasping in shock.

"This is Elthunder," Brooks gaped. "You… were actually able to use Elthunder?"

"Yeah. That's… good, I guess?"

"Good? That's absolutely fantastic! I'm not even able to use that one. And believe me, I've tried!"

"Really? You're serious?"

"Absolutely But we still have more important matters to see to, right? Lester and Desmond are still fighting out there."

"Can you walk?" Samuel fretted in concern.

Brooks rose to his feet, taking several tentative steps forward.

"Looks like it. Imagine that, fantastic at both healing and spellcasting. Who knew?"

Lester pulled his spear from the neck of the fourth Feroxian cavalier, while Desmond kicked the fallen body of a soldier. Among them were the broken corpses of another fighter and the third cavalier the Easterners had sent their way.

Desmond's ears pricked at the sound of movement, too faint for Lester to hear. As Desmond's gaze shifted towards the movement, so too followed Lester's, spotting the silhouettes of two robed men making their way up the northward path.

Samuel and Brooks stepped out of the fog, both looking like they had seen their fair share of battle. Brooks dragged a heavy, curved throwing axe behind him comically, unable to lift the weapon. As soon as Samuel laid eyes on Desmond, he instinctively reached for his healing staff and pointed its red-gemmed head at the taguel.

"You're injured, Desmond. Let me fix you up," Samuel spoke attentively, beginning to channel as healing energy appeared around the taguel. The bruise around his eye where the first fighter had beaten him began to disappear, while the gash at his side and various other scrapes sealed completely. He then turned his attention to Lester, looking him up and down. "And you are not, Lester."

The stern look on the paladin's face did not falter.

"These East Feroxians fought like children. I expected a better-trained force manning their conquered territory."

Brooks laughed raucously, patting Ranofer's side firmly. Desmond, noticing the weapon the mage was attempting to carry, asked,

"Hey, is that my hand axe?"

Brooks composed himself before nodding.

"I think so," he affirmed, struggling to hand the weapon back to its owner. Desmond, saving the mage the trouble, stepped towards him and plucked the axe effortlessly from his grip.

Lester and Samuel erupted into laughter at the very sight, the paladin nearly falling from Ranofer's saddle. Desmond, however, interrupted the fleeting joyous moment. Silence fell upon the nighttime plains of Regna Ferox.

"One thing, though… what happened to the lady with the spear? She's Feroxian, she wouldn't flee a battle like this."

"I don't remember cutting her down," Lester pondered, stroking his chin. "Have you dealt with her, Brooks?"

The mage shook his head slowly in disappointment and worry.

"Afraid not, no. Samuel and I haven't seen her since she took off at the start of the ambush."

The paladin humphed, Ranofer kicking at a pile of pebbles.

"That makes four unaccounted Feroxians. Two armored knights, a hooded man, and her." Lester raised his sword and red-gold kiteshield, the gold-armored white horse trotting in place. "Be on guard and stay close. They could come from anywhere."

As if on cue, the characteristic clanking of heavy armor appeared from further up the northern path through the darkness. Torchlight illuminated the four approaching figures as the fog began to fade. Two heavily armored knights, a hooded man, and the imposing, spear-wielding Feroxian woman from before, exactly as Lester had accounted for.

"Stay vigilant, everyone. They advance."

The wind began to howl and snowfall once again began as the party of Feroxians approached into shouting distance. The knights held wicked spears at the ready, while the hooded figure held a spellbook open to an obscured page.

"You lot have slaughtered my men, and ruined my standing with my captain," the lightweight knight shouted from across the snow-covered path. "For that, I will slaughter you all."

"I am willing to end this quickly, Feroxians" Lester retorted, maintaining his ever-calm disposition, "Lay down your weapons and we will grant you just deaths."

The female knight spat, an indistinguishable expression crossing her face from the intensity of the snowfall.

"Like hell I'm going to lay down and die to a bunch of Naga worshipping, Western-loving Ylisseans. Guardsmen, advance!"

The knights and mage exploded forwards like a spring, charging into battle with gusto. The hooded Feroxian mage selected Lester as his target, firing a simple Fire spell at the armored paladin as he drew his blood-red lance from its sheath on Ranofer's armor in anticipation for a long-ranged battle. He raised his shield to block the incoming spell, but its force was still great enough to knock the paladin from his mount's saddle. Startled, Ranofer reared up on her hind legs before charging off in the opposite direction from battle.

Lester landed upon the snow-covered ground shield first, pain coursing through his left arm. He quickly pulled himself to his feet, rushing forward only to stab the air where the Feroxian mage was standing a moment before. The Feroxian was nimble, seemingly appearing behind Lester instantaneously. He only heard the sounds of pages before an excruciating shock coursed through his body.

Crashing into the ground, Lester screamed in agony as the mage channeled electricity through his body. Pain like he had never experienced coursed along his skin, his gilded armor doing little to protect him from the Thunder spell.

"I expected more from you, paladin," the mage chided arrogantly, erupting in maniacal laughter. "To think someone as weak as you was responsible for—"

The mage cut off, and his spell ended as abruptly as his speech. Struggling, Lester managed to glance backward to where the mage was standing before. A familiar, curved axe protruded from the left side of his skull, as he fell limply to the opposite side.

Desmond casually strolled up to the fallen Feroxian and injured paladin, plucking his throwing axe from the mage's bloodied scalp. The taguel kneeled at Lester's side, a large white vial in hand.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked with a concerned tone, rolling the armored man to a face-up position.

"I… am fine," Lester responded, wincing after each and every word. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, noticing that the ends of his short, brown hair were singed off as he rubbed the back of his head.

"You don't look that way, pal. Drink this, it'll make you feel better." The taguel laid the vial at the paladin's side before standing up.

"One of the knights had this concoction on him," Desmond continued. "Luckily, it didn't break when he fell after I lopped his head off."

Desmond charged back into the fray, assisting Brookswith the remaining heavily armored knight. Samuel was attempting to help as well, his short blasts of Wind having little effect on the massive wall of a man.

Lester uncorked the vial, letting every last drop of the pale liquid flow down his throat. His vision began to blur as the healing took effect quickly. The red lines on his hands, and presumably running down the rest of his body, faded into the natural olive color of his skin. As the burning sensation passed as well, the paladin rose, feeling as fit as ever.

The paladin pulled himself to his feet, the waves of healing still disorienting. He could hear fighting, but his vision was blurred like a weathered oil painting. The figures in the snow danced gracefully, green and red particles of magic floating like ribbons.

Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind, Lester took a step forward putting his weight on his blood-red hilted lance. He stumbled, quickly picking himself back up and watching the horizon in the distance.

As his vision began to clear, he noticed a distant figure slowly approaching him from out of the fog, carrying a gold-adorned steel throwing spear. Their simple set of blue armor was light, yet heavy enough to take a hit. The scarf tightly woven around their neck was enough to conceal their face, yet at the same time reveal exactly who they were.

"So the Ylissean pup has woken from his dirt nap," she mocked, planting the pointed end of her spear in the ground, the long iron chain rattling in response.

"Well? Here I am!" the knight raised her arms to the side and above her head in challenge. "Come and take a stab at me, paladin."

Even through the miasma of Lester's concoction-addled mind, he was aware enough to take notice of the obvious baiting strategy the knight employed. Lester held his ground, spear and kiteshield at the ready.

"Not buying in, huh? That's alright, I suppose."

"Why are you doing this?" Lester asked, surprising himself that he was able to form coherent thought despite the state he was in. "This is Western territory, a Western gate. You have no right to be here."

"Why?" the knight replied, eliciting a slight chuckle from her. "Same reason as you, I suppose. We both have our orders to fulfill. Yours to your exalt, and mine to my captain."

"I suppose you understand what comes next, then." Lester stood up a little straighter upon saying this, the side effects of the concoction finally ceasing after the brew worked its healing powers.

Lester could not tell in the gloom, but the hint of a smile seemed to spread across her face.

"That I do, paladin. Hell, if you were Feroxian you'd be the kind of man I'd like to share drinks with. But no matter." The light-armored knight plucked her regal spear from the snow, calmly walking forwards. "Time to end this. Have at you!"

– – –

The knight lunged forward with almost inhuman speed, and was soon upon Lester before he could even comprehend it. The effects of the concoction had all but ended, yet Lester's limbs still felt slow and heavy. Fortunately, the heavy golden-red armor that the paladin wore was enough to keep most of the knight's assault from harming him.

A stab from the knight's lance struck plumb to Lester's kiteshield, causing her to stumble backwards. Noticing the opening, Lester swung his lance in an arc only to connect with the ground that the knight was standing upon moments ago.

Raising a challenging smirk, the knight held her spear horizontally, pointed directly at Lester.

"Y'know, you and I are a lot alike, paladin," she taunted, "Just following orders."

Lester scowled angrily, almost being blown back by a strong gust of wind. Perhaps he was still weak from the concoction, but Lester was more concerned with his nerves. He was never nervous going into battle, ever.

He raised his kiteshield once again, refusing to fall for the knight's bluffs. He was in no condition to charge her, and even if he was she was far more agile than he. Defensive tactics would be the key to walking away from this battle. This did little to please the thirst for combat the knight harbored, the confident smirk fleeing her face quickly.

"So that's how it's gonna be, huh," she muttered, giving a short sigh, "Two can play at that game, then."

Instead of lunging forward with ferocity, she shifted the regal spear into a throwing position. Aiming briefly, she lobbed the spear at the paladin, who deftly blocked it with his shield. Before he had the chance to move to face her while she was unarmed, a quick tug on the chain attached to the weapon brought it back to her grasp.

She tossed the weapon again, Lester stepping back from the spear's path this time. The regal spear whistled through the air, impaling itself into the snow-covered ground. The knight once again gave the chain a powerful tug, but the weapon had landed at just an angle that made it difficult to pull.

Noticing her error, Lester raised his spear, thrusting it straight down into the connecting chain. Lester's weapon bounced off, seemingly doing little to sever the chain. He brought it down once again, this time with more force.

Ka-chink.

The wrought iron chain split in two, the end attached to the spear falling uselessly into the snow. The Eastern knight at the other end dropped the broken, useless chain links in panic. She quickly, with shaking hands, unsheathed a small dagger and held it towards the paladin with both hands her face carrying an expression of horror. Lester had never seen a Feroxian person, Western or Eastern, genuinely scared before.

Lester pushed his emotions to the side, gripping his spear intently. This was his chance, nothing she could do would be able to stop him. The paladin charged, heavy footfalls against the snow clanging like iron against iron.

"I will not hold back!" his cry of anger, mixed with something that seemed like vengeance, rang across the battlefield. The roar even reached Desmond's ears, tilting his head to the sky and away from the body of the fallen general he was standing over.

Metal met flesh, and the end of Lester's spear ran cleanly through the light layer of armor and heart of the East Feroxian knight. As he pulled the wicked blade from the knight's chest, her legs began to buckle, falling to the snow with an unceremonious thump.

"…Clever ploy, Ylissean," she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper, "I guess I had you pegged all wrong…"

The knight seized up one final time, her last breath escaping her lungs. The pool of scarlet that flowed from underneath her was the only sign that the corpse ever had any life to begin with.

Lester stared at the body. No matter how many times he would kill, this part would never get any easier. He took several paces back, reclaiming the regal spear from underneath the pile of ruined chains. The intricacy of the weapon felt off for a nation as simple as Ferox.

"You were wrong," he muttered, placing the Easterner's spear blade-first into the snow. Even though she was his enemy, her body and weapon at least deserved some measure of respect.

"You and I are nothing alike."

"You know, Lester, I felt like the battle between you and the leader would have… y'know, lasted longer. Been more noteworthy, maybe."

Brooks appeared behind Lester, almost as if he materialized from the whirling snow around the battlefield, or what was left of it. Brooks beckoned Lester, and the two began to walk together to the cart parked underneath the portcullis.

"Just because she was their leader does not mean we would spar in a duel fit for legend. That is material for children's tales." Lester returned a stern gaze to the dark-robed mage before sighing heavily.

"She was just one woman. Not an entire army."

"I know, but I was looking forward to telling the story to the others over the campfire tonight. All I have right now is: 'Lester stumbled into the enemy confusedly, she hit him a few times, he broke her weapon chain and killed her.' The end. Not very exciting."

"If I were you, I'd be more concerned about whether or not we'll have a campfire."

Lester pointed to the burned remains of their transportation, which elicited a groan from the mage as he remembered what had happened to it. The thrown torch, and the cart going up in a puff of smoke. As the two neared ever closer to the ruined remains of the conestoga, they could see Samuel digging through the ashes, salvaging what supplies he could.

The two approached Desmond, who was standing anxiously next to the ruined cart.

"C'mon, c'mon… please be okay…"

"Desmond? You okay?" Brooks asked, with concern heavily weighing his voice.

"Gwah!" The taguel jumped, and turned with a rattled expression that quickly faded into a more neutral face.

"Brooks? Oh, it's you. It's you. Sorry about that," Desmond laughed nervously to himself while Lester and Brooks stared with confused expressions. "What? I'm… just hoping that our stuff survived the fire! Yeah, that's it."

"You do not sound so sure," Lester spoke simply, causing Desmond to sweat nervously.

"What? Quit staring! Don't you two have something better to do?"

"I do not believe so."

"Ugh… go find another Eastern lady to skewer. I need space."

As if to diffuse the conversation, Samuel poked his head from the gray ash heap that was once a cart, and started towards the group.

"Alright, here's what I've pulled. Brooks' tinderbox…" the priest tossed the iron box to Brooks, which he deftly caught before giving a disappointed look at the newly blackened exterior.

"I just had this thing replaced last week…" Brooks pouted, stashing the item into his robes.

"…Lester's first aid kit, two canisters of water, three vulneraries, and… this thing," Samuel finished, before setting a heavily-ornamented, steel box on the ground. Objects within clattered around at the sudden shock.

"YES!" Desmond's face beamed with joy, as he ran up and plucked the keepsake from the ground. "It's okay!"

The taguel pulled the box into a tight hug, falling over backwards into the snow with it.

"Pray tell, Desmond. What is that thing?" Lester asked innocently, standing over Desmond with a curious expression.

"My rock collection."

"What." Brooks spoke, his one word proving more than enough to express his bewilderment.

"But I thought you disliked rocks," Lester continued, still as innocently curious as ever. "Considering you have never used your beaststone in combat."

"That's different!" Desmond argued, standing upright to meet the paladin at eye level.

"I do not see how."

"Damn it! Leave me alone, old man!"

"But I am only one year older than you."

Desmond began to argue furiously at the paladin, who returned all of his points with simple emotionless responses. All the while, Samuel approached Brooks with an unsure expression.

"What're we to do now?" he inquired, not able to meet Brooks' gaze. "We've lost our transport, and the chill of midnight is encroaching quickly."

"Don't worry," the mage returned with a comforting gaze, "I've been in this situation before. We'll have to keep walking until we can find something to burn or someone else who has set up a shelter."

Samuel nodded, but behind him the arguing taguel stopped mid sentence with his head turned to the sky. His expression was unreadable, which was never good news in Desmond's case.

"Wait. I smell something," he spoke plainly, nose tilted in a specific direction unflinchingly. "Truth be told, I've smelled it since we've gotten here, but I haven't had the time to pay it much mind."

"What is it? Describe it to me," Lester demanded, his serious expression unaltered from their previous conversation.

"…Iron. And not the kind that they use in weaponry. And… something else beneath that. Something I can't really describe."

"Iron…" Lester turned the word over on his tongue, almost tasting it as he spoke the word while pacing up and down on the snow. "Iron, iron…" After pondering for a moment, he turned back to Lester, his expression still neutral. "Lead the way, Desmond. I have a vague idea of what it is you speak of."

Desmond nodded, and lead his other three companions away from the destroyed cart and down the northward path. As they walked, Desmond was able to pick out a faint scraping sound from beneath the howling of wind and snow. The beckoned the three towards the detour, and approaching the noise revealed Ranofer, stamping the snow impatiently.

"Ranofer! My girl, there you are!" Lester wrapped his arms around the white horse's neck, and could faintly tell that the regal mare was shivering slightly in the frigid air.

"She's cold," he stated, leading her back to the other three. "We need to find something to warm her up, and quickly."

Desmond nodded knowingly, patting Ranofer on the head comfortingly before turning to Lester.

"She'll make it. C'mon, we need to find the source of that smell before the cold sets in much more deeply."

The other three nodded, while Desmond quickened his pace to a jog. After a short while, he stopped at a mound of slightly raised ground just outside the gate. The wind blew ever harder while the snow continued its relentless onslaught. Shivering slightly as the wind buffeted his bare chest, he kneeled at the ground and placed a hand atop it.

"This is the spot."

Lester joined his friend at his side, kneeling down as well. By now, even his weaker human nose could detect the presence of something foul. The two robed men covered their noses with their thick, cloth robes.

"This, Desmond…" Lester began, adopting a solemn tone, "…is a mass grave. Undoubtedly, the Western Feroxians who once manned this gate are all buried here. I do not wish to open it."

"A mass grave?" Desmond's voice was almost seething at even the thought. "Typical of the East, using nothing but dirty tactics. I can't believe I ever lived alongside them."

The taguel stood, hiding his gaze from the rest of the party.

"C'mon. Let's keep moving."

– – –

"Feroxian nights are a lot like Feroxian days. More often than not, they're colder than cold, and in a lot of terrible ways. Oh, how I've terribly missed you, Regna Ferox."

Desmond spat at the snow drifts, his saliva comically freezing in midair before piercing through the thick layer of snow.

"Hey, Brooks? How long until we find something to burn?"

"How the hell should I know?" the hatless mage roared against the howling gale, holding a small, magical fire in his right hand. "I've never been up here before!"

"Of all the times our cart had to go up in flames…" Desmond shielded his face with the flat of his arm as a heavy gust of wind blew towards the taguel, nearly knocking him over.

"Steel yourselves, friends," Lester reassured, yet his voice wavered. "Only a few more steps."

Because of the cold, the paladin was forced to dismount Ranofer and was leading her with a rope. The majestic horse appeared cold, weak, and frail despite her elegant armor and coat.

"It was 'a few more steps' a few steps ago, too," Brooks complained. He took another step, tripping over as he stumbled onto a stone buried by the massive layer of snow, extinguishing his fire and reducing the visibility to next to nothing. "Gods damn it…"

"Hey Brooks? Do you think you can get that light back up?" Samuel's voice was barely a whisper against the howling squall of wind and snow. The priest had the hood on his white, blue-trimmed robe pulled up to combat the storm, but did little to shield against the onslaught.

"Yeah, yeah, hold on. I can't really focus with this storm… wait a minute."

Brooks craned his head forward, squinting to focus on something on the horizon. Surely enough, something that wasn't darkness was buried deep within the heavily falling snow. Something warm, inviting, and cozy…

"Light!" Brooks exclaimed, pointing forward. In the rage of the storm, his companions had some difficulty pinpointing the beacon of hope, but eventually picked out its warm gaze against the backdrop of endless nighttime void. Just down the slope the four were standing upon, a small, fuzzy, orange patch illuminated several of the snowflakes before their luster was extinguished by reentering the darkness of midnight.

"Hold a moment," Lester cautioned, killing the joyous mood of the other three quickly. "I sense danger. We must be cautious in our approach."

"Oh please," the bespectacled mage scoffed, "We just took down how many Easterners? Twenty? And with the element of surprise, too."

Lester appeared quite disgruntled at Brooks' lack of concern, his voice becoming that of a low growl.

"All I am saying is to be cautious. We are still going over there regardless."

Brooks nodded, satisfied with Lester's answer. He turned the pages of his book with some difficulty due to the wind, yet eventually managed to light a small fire above the palm of his hand once again. He shut the pages of the tome before the falling snowflakes had a chance to ruin the neatly inked pages.

"C'mon. Only a few more steps now," Brooks added before chuckling at his own unintentional joke.

The lightened mood seemed to quicken the steps of the four companions, the heavily falling snow much less of an issue than before. Brooks took the vanguard, his tiny flame doing little to suppress the incoming onslaught of snowflakes.

After several labored paces, the white barrier slowly turned to that of welcoming orange warmth. In the light, objects surrounding the welcoming fire became more visible. The central campfire became plain, and a tiny, covered wagon lay damaged nearby. And was that… red cloth? A scarlet bundle of something lay still within the confines of the wagon, contrasting heavily to the otherwise ordinary items inside.

Brooks started laughing maniacally, rushing over to the steadily roaring fire.

"Eheheh… so warm…" Brooks began to pant and drool heavily as he kneeled over the fire.

Lester took a seat next to the mage, an inquisitive expression upon his face.

"The wagon is positioned just so to block the brunt of the wind," he noted, "Very clever, indeed."

"Hey, bring Ranofer over to the fire, Desmond," Samuel urged, finding a spot next to the other three. Desmond nodded, tugging on the rope entrusted to him by Lester as he spoke something quietly to the mare. At his beckon, Ranofer trotted up to the campfire and collapsed of exhaustion next to it, a rumbling snore emanating from her shortly after.

"Hey, Lester," Desmond asked, leaning back against the sleeping horse, "Why do you think that… y'know, all of this is here?"

The paladin pursed his lips as he lay his kiteshield, scabbarded sword, and warspear against a nearby stone. He reclaimed his spot near the fire, and responded,

"I am not quite sure myself. The previous owner may have gone searching for food and succumbed to the cold. Or perhaps…"

He turned slightly to his left, where the red bundle of cloth had leapt from the damaged cart and was brandishing a segmented gray blade with a gold hilt. The grip was fashioned out of burnished red leather, a similar shade to the color of the cloak its master was wearing.

The sword-wielder drew back her scarlet hood, revealing that the cloak was white on the inside. And more importantly, the owner of the campsite was a fair-skinned girl, with striking eyes as gray as her blade and two long blonde pigtails that rested in front of her shoulders.

"…she has been among us the whole time," Lester finished, surprisingly calm about the owner of the fire pointing a blade directly at Brooks' neck.

"Y-you there," she demanded, grip tightening on the blade's hilt, "State your name and your business or I will end you here and now."

Brooks raised both his arms above his head in surrender, looking incredibly panicked.

"I-I-I-I just wanted some fire, that's all! Please don't kill me!"

"Name. Business. Now," the red-cloaked woman articulated, refusing to lower her gaze from the frightened mage, "I will have it. Please." She tacked on the please at the end of the sentence as if to invoke some measure of sympathy from the mage.

Lester stood up, bowing respectfully to the cloaked girl.

"Pardon my friend's manners, miss," he spoke, his interpersonal skills once again proving useful. "His name is Brooks, and those two over there are Desmond and Samuel."

The priest and taguel both raised a hand in greeting, not daring to move an inch.

"And I am Lester. We are travelers, and our cart has been destroyed, and with it our supplies. We respectfully ask if we may seek refuge here for the night, and no longer."

The cloaked girl turned to the paladin, her glowering expression melting into that of recognition almost instantly.

"Wait a moment. That face… clean shaven, short hair, defined jawline… traveling with two humans and a taguel… I know you." She paced around the paladin, taking in every inch of him. "You are Lester of Blackwood, paladin of Ylisse. Right?"

"T-that I am, miss," Lester stuttered, taken aback. "Have… we met, before?"

"Ack!" she exclaimed, quickly sheathing her curious blade, "Dammit Esthara, you are such an idiot!"

As soon as the blade disappeared into its scabbard, Brooks retreated behind Ranofer, who was still snoring away. He poked his head up from behind her to watch the scene from a safe distance.

Clearing her throat, Esthara continued, "I apologize, Lester. I am a student of the professor of strategy, Kairos. I have grave news."

Her expression became downcast as the snowstorm ever raged on, with only the protection of Esthara's small, damaged wagon to provide comfort against the storm.

Roster

No.001 Nila

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (Sword|Anima, Dark from Shadowgift)

No.002 Matthew

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (Axe|Lance)

No.003 Hunter

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (Sword)

No.004 Chastity

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (Lance|Staff)

No.005 Marius

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (Sword|Axe|Anima)

No.006 Valkus

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (Lance|Axe)

No.007 ?

…

No.008 Lester

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (Sword|Lance)

No.009 Desmond

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (Axe|Beaststone)

No.010 Samuel

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (Staff|Anima)

No.011 Brooks

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (Anima)

*New* No.012 Esthara

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (Sword)