<Have you seen the Vault of Forseen Inncentives at the top of the page? Check it out for pre-order rewards like signed bookplates! –pirateaba>

Every evening, Captain Osthia Blackwing read. She didn’t like reading, really. It was something she could do, as a Pallassian and daughter of the prestigious Blackwing family…but she’d probably read all of three books in her entire life before recent events.

She knew that made her a helmet-headed idiot [Soldier], like many of her uncles, aunts, and cousins, who had a history of military-service. She hadn’t cared. There were more important things than what went on between the covers of a book, and that was still a belief she held.

No battles were won by the turn of a page, only a swinging sword.

But she didn’t swing her sword much these days. She’d lived for over a year after escaping the Goblin Lord Reiss, learning the Necromancer of Izril was alive, and joining Wall Lord Ilvriss to form a desperate secret alliance against him.

They’d gotten a bit done, but not enough. Too many fears of the Necromancer’s minions being everywhere, as Reiss had claimed. Too few levels, and too much damn infighting with Drakes. It made her entirely bitter about her people, sometimes.

She wished she could have gone to Pallass and told the Cyclops. Maybe that would have been the right move.

Or maybe they’d have interrogated her for suspicion of being a double-agent. Charged her with treason for abandoning her army. She didn’t know. She only knew that sometimes she didn’t feel like the bright-eyed, impatient Osthia Blackwing who wanted to be promoted, who admired her uncle Thrissiam, and who saw Pallass as the greatest city, beyond reproach.

She’d begun forgetting her name. She responded to ‘Asrira Shieldscale’, her cover, more these days. Ilvriss sometimes forgot to call her Osthia in private. Even ‘Othmissa’, another cover-name, was more familiar to her than her own name.

The cobalt-blue scale dye was now Osthia’s face. She had a Salazsarian accent, if a bad one. Was she happy?

…No. The Drake would swing herself out of bed each day and address her command. Which was a bunch of damn Humans who didn’t even show up for muster.

Sisters of Chell. If they weren’t lazing around, they were drunk, insubordinate, and had more attitude than anyone she’d commanded. They’d saunter up, listen to her for a while, then grumble as she made them patrol an area and report in.

“We ain’t soldiers, Ma’am. You just leave the gangs to us. And the next time we all gotta line up and get minced by a Golem, give us a sick day, eh?”

A woman with brown hair and a twice-broken nose hefted a long club on one shoulder and spat on the ground, not quite at Osthia’s boots. A few of the Sisters gazed down at their feet; the rest laughed. Most were newcomers, replacements for the dead ones.

One of the Sisters not laughing was a kid with red hair. In her teens, a single dagger in her belt. Osthia remembered her because she’d been there when Ilvriss had been attacked. She hadn’t been minced because she’d been too slow. The Drake pointed at her.

“It’s been two damn days since your comrades fell in battle. Don’t you have any respect for the dead? You there, soldier. Er, Human! You were defending Wall Lord Ilvriss. It’s my job to issue commendations for the dead and pensions. As well as awards for everyone who fought to defend the Wall Lord and the expedition. What’s your name?”

She had it in her head to reward the girl. Make an example of her to at least incentivize the others. But it didn’t work. The young woman just slid her eyes sideways.

“Boyd, Miss.”

“Boyd? Er, Interesting name.”

“Boyd On. She’s a rookie. Just some dagger-wielding kid. You want to give out some coins for th’ dead? We’ll spread it around real generous.”

The twice-broken nose woman slung an arm around the kid’s shoulder and rubbed her fingers together to more laughter. Osthia frowned at her. As far as she understood it, the Sisters were a mix of lowlifes and former escorts or prostitutes. They ran racketeering and theft operations, but they made a lot of money from taking over red light districts.

They were a large organization that spanned the north, but the result was a lot of…quality issues. You got high-level members and raw recruits.

“Well, Miss Boyd’s in line for a commendation, and I’ll require her help identifying the dead. The rest of you, on patrol. Do you have any formal training?”

“Sure, we teach the new girls how to stab right. What, you fancy soldiers going to train us too?”

“I might do just that. Report in at midday for training. Anyone who passes is exempt, of course.”

They glared and grumbled at that, but Osthia was a former officer, and she had command Skills. She pressed them down, and the Sisters broke off. That left Boyd, the broken-nosed woman who was loitering around for some reason, and Osthia.

“Miss Boyd, can you list the deceased for me?”

“Dunno who they were, Captain.”

Osthia blinked. She could remember a woman grabbing Ilvriss out of danger and taking on the Golem. It sweeping knives through them in seconds.

“You don’t know? But I know the Sister who rescued Ilvriss was assigned personally from Celum’s headquarters. Base? She was your superior, wasn’t she?”

Boyd shrugged her shoulders, staring down at her feet and mumbling.

“Dunno who she was, Miss. I was new t’ the group.”

“How new?”

“Six days?”

Another laugh from broken-nose. The woman smirked at Osthia, revealing some foully corroded teeth.

She needs a damn [Toothmaker]. Osthia covered her nose.

“Told ya. She’s a real newbie. Dagger and some pants.”

“What, you mean a rookie soldier?”

“Sure. Must’ve signed her up. That’s what you get. Dead woman’s dagger, dead woman’s pants. Don’t bother asking who else got killed. If anyone knows, it was their buddies from whichever cities they got pulled from. No one’s gonna come begging for their money. They ain’t got families. Though if you wanna donate it to their local chapters…”

…It’d go straight into the pockets of Boss Yeire or the like. Osthia wasn’t an idiot. She massaged her forehead. She had a headache already. Damn Ilvriss for asking her to do this! But it wasn’t like she had the training or authority to command all the soldiers. She exhaled.

“Let’s start from what you know. Miss Boyd? Can I get your name?”

“Fer what?”

“For my roster. I am in charge of you. That’s ‘Boyd On’, correct?”

What a weird name. The young woman fidgeted so much when Osthia wrote this down, and the broken-nosed woman laughed so hard that Osthia squinted at her. Miss Boyd couldn’t even meet her eyes, so Osthia underlined the name and got the other woman’s.

“Call me Crooknose. ‘Sbetter than another name. I ain’t gonna go on a list to get myself caught once this job is done.”

Despite Osthia assuring her that this was only for her records and that she was from Salazsar, not a local city, Crooknose refused to give another name. So Osthia gave up. She was writing an inquiry to Celum and realizing that ‘Boss Yeire’ was not about to respond to [Message] spells. So that meant going herself or sending someone she could trust.

Xesci? Would Xesci know? Osthia was checking the list of names of the women under her authority, thirty Sisters of Chell in the base camp, and sixty spread around the other dig sites. They were lazy, gambled, stole, and fought with the [Miners] and actual guards…but they had apparently caught several thieves themselves and prevented a few incidents in town. Even so, she regarded them as a full net-negative with few upsides for how much Ilvriss spent to buy their ‘protection’.

Except for the group that had died to save the Wall Lord’s life. For that and that alone, Osthia balanced the scales and felt like she owed them some effort. So she persisted until she stared at the name at the top of the list.

Boyd On. Another sister had called herself Girnol Ereh. Much to the same laughter. Osthia eyed the names, then began writing with a quill.

A few minutes later, she kicked her way out of her tents, swearing. Stormed off to go shout at Xesci because she figured it out.

Boyd On. An anagram for…‘nobody’. And Girnol Ereh. ‘No girl here.’ Fake names for criminals. Women who didn’t exist. It was enough to make Osthia mad enough to breathe acid over the lot, except for one thing.

They were like her.

——

“You want to do what with the dead?”

That kind of question was never welcome, especially from a [Courtesan] like Xesci. The woman was all promiscuity. Not lewd, sultry desire and temptation like you thought. She was more casual, sometimes. Like her personal hygiene or how she talked about it! Like it was as common as blowing your nose and, often, just as pleasant.

Osthia fancied she was a bit jaded from her captivity and seeing the Walled Cities from the perspective of someone in hiding. But if she was a bit of jade, Xesci was a Relic-class piece of art fit for the Empire of Drath’s palace. Nothing made her blink. Not death, not the most depraved acts. She’d given Ulva Terland a heart attack, slit her own throat, and didn’t seem shaken by it at all.

“I want to issue pensions for the deceased, Xesci. Not have sex with them!”

“Who said anything about sex? Don’t be disgusting. This is a clean brothel.”

She was running a brothel. Osthia drew a deep breath.

“I have a question about some of my…people. You see—”

“We don’t have undead chained up. I’ve heard of a few ‘exotic’ brothels that tried that. Always a bad idea. If the sickness doesn’t get you, the undead adapt. Ever seen one grow teeth in the genital area?”

“Please stop talking. No one does that, right?”

“…Seen it happen six times. To be fair, four were the same fellow. Never learned his lesson. What’s this about the Sisters?”

When Osthia got Xesci on track, the [Courtesan] laughed.

“Boyd On. Classic. Crooknose is right. Don’t ask her what she knows; she was a local recruit. Probably from this very town. They’re called Nightlights. That’s Sister-slang for their ranks. It’s nothing as formal as the Brothers.”

“I don’t understand. The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings? They’re just another gang, right?”

Xesci raised her brows.

“To you, a Walled City Drake, maybe. To the underworld? The Brothers are an organized, professional lot. Some kid wants to run with them, they have to prove it. The Brothers don’t let anyone just join. Or even if you kill someone—you’re less likely to get in. Some gangs have it simple: knife your first person and enter. Others make you kill a member, but those never really last long. Too much attrition.”

Osthia shook her head.

“Insanity. The south has nothing like that.”

“Heh. Oh, wait. You’re serious? Pallass, Salazsar, both have gangs. Not as much flash because the Watches are more serious, but plenty of blades, even so. Sorry, that’s cant. Flash is showy, blades are stabbing-types. Violence.”

“…So the Brothers are organized?”

“Sure are. They train new members, make them walk with veterans, try not to let them get killed. Sisters do it differently. Anyone wants to join the Sisters? They can get in after pledging loyalty. Just costs you a bit of blood. But all you get is a dagger and—”

“A dead woman’s pants. New recruits, Nightlights, must not last long.”

Xesci poured herself a cup of iced water and sipped from it. Osthia tried not to listen to a thumping sound from overhead in the brothel. The [Courtesan] sighed.

“Hydration? It’s getting hot out there, and I want to run this brothel right. No? Suit yourself. Yes, turnover’s high, but there’s always a girl wanting to join. And they don’t always fight like that situation with Ilvriss. Frankly, I was worried there might be trouble. Getting Sisters killed means the local bosses or Haple get unhappy.”

“The leaders, right. They understood it was dangerous.”

“I’m just mentioning it. But you’ll have more reinforcements. Just lower-quality, I suspect. More Nightlights and less Night Stalkers or higher ranks.”

Osthia made a note of this, grumbling.

“Great. At least I can train them. Why does anyone join the Sisters of Chell?”

She let a bit too much of the acid she could breathe, the liquid contempt and ire in her Oldblood heritage, enter her tone. Because when she glanced up, Xesci was annoyed. The Courtesan’s face changed and became a red-haired woman that Osthia recognized.

The dead Sister who’d saved Ilvriss. She spoke softly.

“Who joins? Anyone who wasn’t born with the Blackwing name, Osthia. Girls whose only option is to spread their legs in marriage or a brothel, who don’t have anyone’s help. Can’t read or write good, don’t have any classes, and who won’t last a second on the streets without anyone to watch their back. A Sister’s feared. A Sister has family, even if she’s a lowlife scrounging for coin. Watch your tongue.”

Osthia held up one claw as she backed up a step.

“I apologize, Xesci. I just—it’s frustrating because I need records. I need to identify the dead, and no one knows them. Unless you do?”

Xesci turned her head, and her features shifted, melting like wax and morphing in a moment that made Osthia shudder.

“No. Just the faces. You’ll have to go to Celum where they were drawn from. I can go with you to talk to Yeire. She won’t be pleasant, otherwise.”

“Will it be…difficult? We got nearly a dozen of her best women killed.”

Now Osthia was feeling her way forwards, a bit on more solid ground. She knew politicking; she’d served in Pallass’ armies. Her time in Thrissiam’s 3rd Army had taught her a lot. Taking someone else’s command and getting them killed? Edellein, her uncle in 4th Army, had held grudges for decades over that sort of thing.

Uncle Edellein. Not the [General] I would have chosen to lead Pallass. He was always a bit of a nightmare to everyone but Thrissiam, who outranked him. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe they don’t have anyone else better with Duln dead and Shirka out of an army. I can’t believe High Command wasted the Slayers. One of Pallass’ trump cards dead.

And some had been anti-undead specialists. More and more Walled Cities squandering their power. Osthia already felt bad with this job, but she was resigning herself to some anger from Boss Yeire when Xesci tilted her head.

“What? Her best…is that an insult or a joke?”

Osthia frowned and glared at Xesci.

“The ones who died! I assume they were all Night Stalkers? Is that the highest rank?”

The [Courtesan of Change] gave Osthia a probing stare, then half-smiled. Bitter irony on her face now. She drank more water and exhaled in that weary way. And then Osthia understood, because Xesci replied.

“Night Stalker’s a high rank, yes. If Yeire lost twelve of them, she’d be trying to murder Ilvriss herself. But those weren’t Night Stalkers, Osthia. You think they’d be stupid enough to try to take on a Golem with knives? All three of the ones assigned to Ilvriss weren’t anywhere close to the fighting.”

Three Night Stalkers? Osthia frowned.

“But who—?”

Xesci lifted her fingers and counted.

“The ranks go Nightlight, Dusk Prowler, Sister of Chell—that’s most ordinary ones, just ‘Sister’—Night Stalker, Lantern Lady—no one uses that term, that’s just ‘Gang Boss’ like Yeire—then you get bigger bosses for an entire city, and the Haple, who command everyone. The twelve that got killed were just Dusk Prowlers and Nightlights, Osthia. Maybe a Sister or two among them.”

What? But they’d fought the Hunter-Killer Golem when Salazsarian [Soldiers] had hesitated to rush in. Osthia stared at Xesci.

“But why did they…?”

The [Courtesan] just shrugged.

“They must have thought they had a chance. No, wait…”

She snapped her fingers.

“I remember! Boss Yeire put a counter-bounty on Ilvriss’ head to motivate the girls. If they saved his life, they got a five gold reward. Pretty smart of her. She has grown up.”

Xesci smiled at Osthia, and the Drake stood there with answers and insights into the Sisters of Chell’s nature. But no idea who had died. Just twelve dead women.

And more reading to do.

——

New jobs were rough. Sometimes, you were a trembling Drake with someone holding a dagger to your throat, making you sign a contract in blood, sitting in the backroom of a fake Guild as expressionless [Assassins] eyed your pet rats.

Sometimes, you were dealing with a bunch of lazy Humans yawning and farting and nudging each other while you tried to whip some discipline into them. Osthia felt like her life was nothing but new jobs.

First it had been Ilvriss’ employ and being a [Bodyguard] in the City of Gems, with their different culture and having Welca and the other [Aides] thinking she was there to take their jobs. Starting the anti-Az’kerash operations. Feeling useless reading books and not knowing how to counter super magic.

Here, at least, she felt like she was on solid ground. Osthia shoulder-threw Boyd onto the practice courts and tossed a punch. She winced as her healing bones protested, but clocked Crooknose as the woman came in for a tackle—and it took the woman out.

Literally out of the sparring ring. The Sister walked off, holding her nose and swearing.

“Fuck this, I’m out!”

“What? You don’t leave the ring, soldier! We are sparring—”

“I ain’t getting paid to get punched in the nose if it’s not work.”

The Sister snapped back, and Osthia saw her already-broken nose was bleeding. It probably hurt like hell; Osthia hesitated, but then growled.

“Take five, and someone else get in here. I want you up to military standard!”

“Military, she says. You think we need all that?”

One of the Sisters produced a knife as she sauntered into the arena. She was just a Dusk Prowler; now that Xesci had told Osthia the ranks, the Drake recognized the low-level Sisters. It was their clothing, actually. They could dress how they wanted, but each new rank meant you wore standard-issue clothing. Nightlights got a dead Sister’s pants.

Dusk Prowlers all got…a belt. It was a pretty good one, worn, with plenty of loops and pouches for storing things like lockpicks, tools, and so on.

Full Sisters of Chell got issued new pants, boots, and Night Stalkers got a fancy cloak which was actually magic. Almost all her ‘command’ were low-level Sisters, sadly. The Dusk Prowler sauntered over, thinking Osthia was afraid of her blade.

The Drake waited until Boyd got closer, then feinted a punch at the Dusk Prowler. She kicked the blade out of the woman’s hand; the Sisters watching dodged the spinning knife. Osthia grabbed the woman’s shoulder, swept a leg.

“You’re not Night Prowlers or full Sisters. And none of you are as good as regular [Soldiers]. Name?”

“Pennybought.”

Another fake name. Osthia rolled her eyes as she helped Pennybought up. She glanced around.

“Fifteen more minutes of sparring! Then I want to see how good you are with your daggers!”

——

They were not good with the daggers. Osthia spent half an hour correcting grips, having them stab practice dummies, then went to sit and have a drink.

Water. She stared at the cup.

They don’t know how to fight! Any Salazsarian recruit with a month of practice would be better! The Sisters literally had no experience. Boyd, for instance, had been initiated a week ago.

It meant she’d never stabbed anyone. She’d cut a few purses, participated in a mugging where she’d done some kicking—she’d never seen combat until the Golem attack. Nor was she a streetwise tough with a background that meant she was used to brawling. After some questioning, she’d admitted she’d run away from her home.

Am I going to have to repatriate some of my command to their parents? Osthia decided she’d just keep training them up. She had to do something, and the Sisters might grumble and walk off if they got hit, but they were willing to learn how to fight.

The trouble was…Osthia was sort of alone, making little progress in her field.

Everyone else seemed to be having a grand old time.

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss came back dancing after his first visit to The Wandering Inn.

He stopped when Osthia stared at him. She had a black eye; one of the Sisters had gotten annoyed after a training session and thrown a [Dirty Punch].

Ilvriss looked great. Good sleep at the inn, good food; he’d brought back a hamper and dancing.

“Miss Lyonette is, ah, having trouble keeping up, but I have homework. This darn Highstepper—oh well.”

“Is this a good use of your time, Wall Lord?”

They were having a briefing where Xesci, Ilvriss, and Osthia discussed how things were going. Nerul would have been present, but he was gone. Ilvriss hesitated.

“Well…it keeps Lyonette happy. And I must say, it’s a good workout!”

“He should keep doing it. Dancing is in the purview of [Lord] classes. It might level him.”

That was Xesci’s comment. Osthia couldn’t object to that; she was just sour.

“I have a report: the Rubirel Guard engaged the undead in the mine after careful digging. The undead fought viciously, and two were destroyed, but the rest pulled back after an inability to damage them.”

“Really? Damn. Any more breaches?”

“Nossir. Just a cattle raid. Eighteen wounded.”

Ilvriss grimaced. He checked his notes.

“Sounds like the undead are clever. Well, we’ll keep the Rubirel Guard at it. They’re the only forces who won’t take casualties…we could pull our [Soldiers] off reserved duty to augment their advance. Let’s do that if they don’t make progress. I don’t want to take casualties, but we have to push.”

Everyone nodded at that. The Wall Lord sighed.

“I’ve got a few other reports to share…Nerul’s in Salazsar trying to deal with the Terlands. He has a plan, but his only update is that the city’s got a bit of a problem. The Fissivalian war is ongoing, and there’s unrest. Remember Sellme?”

Osthia shrugged; she’d never really cared about him, but Xesci sighed.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Likely. That’s what the claim is, but the [Anarchists] who supported him are still causing trouble. Not in the Walled City; apparently the Watch and army came down on them hard. But other Salazsar-aligned cities are reporting trouble. Well, it’s minor. The war…Father said Eschowar was helping direct our military.”

“Is he that important, that old Drake? I recall him retiring, but we have modern [Generals] and [Strategists], right?”

Osthia snorted at Xesci’s ignorance and got a flat look from her. She ducked her head, recalling Xesci did outlevel her.

“Eschowar was a military genius, Xesci. I have no doubt his insight is as useful as the Cyclops’ was. Surely Fissival wants to sue for peace after your father’s victory, Ilvriss?”

He just grimaced.

“It’s pride and the cities. It sounds like they’re still engaging, just not with full armies. Smaller skirmishes and a lot of their damn [Mages]. New magic. Just keeping you apprised. I think that’s it. I need to do some stretches.”

He was still doing more dancing? Xesci grinned as Ilvriss practiced a few lunges.

“Want help?”

“You can do the Highstepper?”

“I haven’t practiced it since the last time I was here, but I can take the most flexible dancer I’ve ever met. Unless it’s a magical dance, sure.”

They began practicing the silly Human dance, and Osthia ground her teeth together! She wanted to lecture Ilvriss about wasting time, but she had been to The Wandering Inn.

She knew what it could do. She raised one claw.

“Before you dance off, Wall Lord…do I have permission to visit Celum to talk to the Sisters of Chell? I’ll bring Xesci as a negotiator, of course.”

“Hm? Naturally. And I do thank you for dealing with the Sisters, Osthia. No one else is as flexible in my command. Just imagine Dramm dealing with them. If they didn’t stab him to death within the first hour, I’d be worried they were blackmailing him or something. The same with Welca and my other people. I do trust them, but…”

That cheered Osthia up a bit. She coughed, slightly mollified.

“Of course, Ilvriss. Just don’t expect miracles. But I was worried about our leadership now that we’re seeing combat in the dig site. Real combat, not the Humans.”

They needed a capable officer. Osthia had only ever been a [Captain] of a wing; she knew they had decent military forces, more than the Humans expected. But a good commander made Wyverns out of regular [Soldiers]. Ilvriss could do it, but…he slowed.

“I just told my father the same thing the other day. I’m decent at leading an army, but no Zel. And if I’m splitting time…my father’s still around, isn’t he?”

“He was touring the dig site. I believe he wanted to fight the undead, but he was kept from doing so.”

“Ancestors, there’s a relief. Ask him if he has someone. He knows the army better than I do.”

Osthia marched out of the tent to do just that. She heard Ilvriss speaking to Xesci.

“The high-kicking gets me, though. I know you do it in a line, but that fast?”

“It’s a showoff dance. Your flexibility sucks. Let’s do some stretches. Can Lyonette do this?”

“Er…politely, no. Her detrimental Skill is really affecting her mobility, even with [Flawless Attempt]. But I expect that if I do a few more practice sessions with her, in about four visits or so, Mrsha will uncover a Relic-class Golem Destroyer for me or something.”

“Sounds about right. Okay, put your leg up on a table and see how high you can raise it before it starts to hurt…”

——

“He’s not sleeping with that [Prostitute], is he?”

Wall Lord Zail’s first question to Osthia made her bite her tongue. After assuring him that Xesci was purely there for a professional matter, he relented. He looked good. Military, and he was far more at home with Osthia than his own son.

“It’s only a problem since she’s so damn obvious. It’s not like it’s not traditional. I used to raise morale by hiring a hundred of them in local towns. But employing one? You understand the issue, don’t you?”

“Yessir, Wall Lord, sir. This is just because she’s so high level, sir. And the Sisters of Chell, sir.”

The constant sir-ing was reflexive from Osthia and pleased Zail. He walked around a map of her dig site.

“Good that you set up an actual model of your camp. I was concerned—until I noted how many troops you have here. Very clever. That lad, Dramm?”

“Yes, Wall Lord Zail?”

“Sharp as a bag of rocks. Even some of the other spies might not have noticed…idiots. I’m not sure about the monsters, but I noted the lack of a commanding officer. I happen to have someone fit for the job. I was going to recommend them for the anti-Antinium initiatives, but I’ll trial them here. A good man; new. Came from Manus—well, dishonorably discharged, but I reviewed his files and spoke to him. He might do well here.”

Zail had a bit of a soft spot for veterans, it transpired. Osthia nodded, though ‘dishonorably discharged’ didn’t fill her with hope, but if he thought they were good…the Wall Lord glanced at Osthia.

“These Sisters…useless?”

“They fought the Golem, sir. They’re brave. But, ah, any green company could mince them. No armor, no training. Shortswords and daggers. A few throwing weapons, but nothing more.”

He pulled a face, and she was relieved to talk to someone who got it.

“Eugh. Conscripted Tribal Gnolls were more dangerous in my day. So this is one of the dread Gangs that plagues the north. Hah! Well, they’re brave enough if they charge a Golem. Or dumb as Humans. I’ll have some more armor and weaponry sent so they’re at least outfitted right. I’m releasing more funds to Ilvriss; the rest are needed, but he seems to be doing well enough.”

“Yessir, Wall Lord! And The Wandering Inn is providing monetary assistance as well!”

That alone justified Ilvriss dancing with Lyonette; how they had so much money, Osthia didn’t want to know. Zail pulled a longer face.

“The inn…and that [Princess]. Fine. Fine. It’s my son’s life. I’m heading back to Salazsar. Keep him safe, would you, Wing Captain?”

“Yess—”

She caught herself and hesitated.

“It’s, it’s just [Captain], Wall Lord. Not Wing Captain. I never served with any fliers.”

She saw the grey, faded scales around Zail’s eyes wrinkle up as he turned his head to her. And the hunched figure straightened over the map.

“I’m sure that’s what you claim. And I am sure my son knows your particulars. But my class doesn’t lie to me. Keep him safe, Wing Captain. That’s an order. Anyone does their job right, man, woman, Drake, Gnoll, and I don’t ask questions. Gemscale rewards loyalty and good work. Always has.”

“Yessir.”

She managed, and he nodded and walked for the tent flaps.

“I have to fly back to Salazsar. Fissival needs its tail stomped in. Oh, and Captain?”

“Sir?”

“If those damn Humans keep raiding us, do me a favor and break all their damn jaws, would you? Drakes don’t run—that’s a stupid saying. But Drakes don’t lose a fistfight. Not to Humans.”

——

Old-school. Meeting Wall Lord Zail invigorated Osthia; she wanted to be like him. Tough, efficient, a leader—she bellowed at her ‘squad’ of Sisters of Chell.

“C’mon, give me a proper stab! Thrust, thrust, thrust!”

She was having them practice with shortswords, the ones not with dagger Skills, because Osthia didn’t see a place for daggers in a large engagement. Too short. She was envisioning using them as mobile [Rogues] or [Scouts]; skirmishers.

“You shout like that when you’re having sex, Captain?”

Crooknose grunted, and there was a lot of laughter. Osthia glared.

“You lot wouldn’t survive an encounter with a single Mothbear! Now, I’m going to Celum and obtaining reinforcements—I want you running laps around the camp!”

“Hell to that.”

Another Sister muttered and yelped as Osthia thwacked her with her tail. The Sister glared, and Osthia tensed. She was ready to throw down to assert her authority. It was the only thing they seemed to respect. That and gold.

“I’ll have your progress monitored. If you don’t run, you don’t get paid, got it?”

That made them grumble and swear, and she believed they’d do it. The Sisters wouldn’t work hard, but they would do things. Honestly, she’d had more trouble with raw [Recruits] back in Pallass’ army who also thought they could give lip and object.

They’re actually sort of easy to work with, bawdy comments aside. She wouldn’t tell them that, of course. And the main problem was…even if they got Zail’s equipment and trained for a month, she’d still rate them like Level 10 [Soldiers].

Mincemeat the next time a Golem came at them. However, Osthia did her best. She shouted, doled out punches for idiots, and then stomped off to ride with Xesci and Ilvriss to the portal door to Liscor. Then she took a door to Celum.

While Ilvriss got to dance, Xesci got to deal with the Sisters.

——

Boss Yeire was a loud, huge woman who looked like a brawling, hard-drinking troublemaker to Osthia. She was friendly as could be—to Xesci.

Osthia got spit, literally, on her boots. Yeire wiped her mouth.

“Here’s the Drake who got some of our own killed! Why’re you here? We sent reinforcements!”

She glowered at Osthia until Xesci pinched Yeire’s ear.

“None of that. Be nice.”

“Ow, owowowow—Xesci! Not in front of my gang!”

It was a weird ranking with Xesci around; the Sisters of Chell were rather wary around her, but she was no fighter. She was a civilian who outranked them, which meant she had limits. The other complication was…[Scribe] Zage.

Zage was a short, pedantic woman with spectacles who wrote things down on her clipboard constantly. She had a note that said ‘kick me’ attached to her back, and the Sisters of Chell picked on her. Again, up to a point—she was a ‘bean flicker’, some kind of flunky in charge of maintaining the Sisters’ finances and accounts.

Yeire clearly liked her as much as Osthia, but just as clearly didn’t want to get in that much trouble with their leadership. Whomever they were. She jerked a thumb at Zage.

“Listen, officer-Drake. We’re not the army. You get us killed, there’s a price. You get me? And don’t be upset when we don’t want to send our best.”

She rubbed her fingers together as everyone quieted and nodded. Osthia ground her teeth together.

“The deaths of the Sisters were highly regrettable. I came here to commend them posthumously, not complain. Identifying the deceased was my goal.”

“…What’d she just say?”

Yeire rubbed at one ear, utterly confused by Osthia’s comments, but Zage frowned.

“You wish to issue the members of the Sisters with pensions, Captain? I can accept that on behalf of the Haple.”

Everyone went silent, and Yeire stopped holding out her own hand from the mention of gold. But Osthia just folded her arms.

“I don’t intend on issuing any pensions to anyone except the deceased’s relatives, Miss Zage. I suspect the money would be spread around if I gave it to you or Miss Yeire.”

“Damn right it would! We’ll pour one out for our sisters! You think they’ve got anyone who’ll miss them?”

Yeire shouted, flushing and rising. Xesci put a hand on her arm, but Zage just eyed Osthia.

“I can furnish you with some names, and Boss Yeire may have other details, but she is largely correct, Captain Shieldscale. Sisters of Chell do not have relatives nor…wills.”

“I understand that, Miss. Nevertheless, I have my orders.”

Osthia lied here a bit, because Ilvriss hadn’t given her explicit orders in this, but Zage just peered at her before nodding.

“I will help compile said lists. Boss Yeire?”

“Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“I believe Haple regards our contract with Wall Lord Ilvriss and Xesci the Changer as important.”

“Oh, if Haple’s saying so—fine.”

Yeire was twice as unhappy, and as Zage walked past her, she kicked the [Accountant] flat on her face.

“Oops! Sorry about that. Piece of paper.”

Everyone laughed, and Osthia rubbed at her forehead. Their visit accomplished little beyond illustrating how chaotic the gangs were. Well, Zage was all business. She wiped at a bloody nose as she handed Osthia a piece of paper thirty minutes later. Yeire’s gang had conferred and given all the names they thought ‘might’ be the dead women’s real names.

“If I may, Captain Shieldscale. The Sisters of Chell have agreed to protect and secure Wall Lord Ilvriss’ project. Casualties are inevitable. Further casualties may result in punitive fines, especially if our members are sacrificed to no point.”

“That was an assassination attempt. Believe me, everyone was in danger, Miss Zage.”

Osthia replied honestly, meeting the sharp eyes of the [Accountant]. Zage nodded, glancing up and down at Osthia.

“So my investigation has revealed. My superiors were concerned as it appeared primarily Sisters were killed in the assassination attempt. I understand this is because your forces were slow to mobilize. Sisters do have an instinct for trouble. Nevertheless, the warning stands.”

That stung on several levels; the Sisters had been faster than the military, because they had no need to organize into squads. And they had…Osthia cleared her throat.

“May I expect further reinforcements?”

“I can offer you more Sisters.”

“Of the…Nightlight and Dusk Prowler ranks? I’d like more senior members.”

Osthia hinted, and Zage’s eyes flicked to Xesci. She nodded and made a note on her clipboard.

“You understand our ranking system. Good. Frankly, Captain Shieldscale, few senior members can be spared or want to join a highly perilous or boring guard job. We have several free-roaming Sisters in the camp who have nullified two [Assassin] attempts already. The lower-ranking members under your command are there for you to make use of.”

“But what are they good for?”

Osthia snapped, and Zage’s eyebrows rose. She wiped at her spectacles.

“Throwing themselves between a Wall Lord and a Golem, Captain? I rather think you wouldn’t have many of Salazsar’s [Soldiers] half so brave. Try not to get your current group killed. And if you require help delivering pensions, we will accept donations on their behalf. And note if they have been dispensed.”

That sounded like a threat. Osthia assured Zage that she wasn’t lying and stomped off to wait for Xesci to finish speaking with the Sisters. When the [Courtesan of Change] was ready to go, she made a point of talking to Zage before strolling out of the base. She had taken the form of a Human woman, tall and rowdy, and she shifted back to the nondescript Drake as they walked together.

Osthia was always unsettled when Xesci changed forms. But the [Courtesan] was calm.

“You’ve got your list, and Yeire’s feathers are smoothed. She thought you were sacrificing her girls, but I cleared up how it went down.”

“With a lot of bribes.”

A shrug from Xesci.

“Gold’s their language. Nothing’s real except if you pay for it. Talk’s cheap. It was good that you were polite to Zage too. She and I used to work together.”

“What, was she doing your taxes in a brothel?”

That might have been a bit too snide from Osthia, who felt like this was a waste of time. Xesci gave her a very cool look, and Osthia bit her tongue.

“No, she and I were working the same profession. [Prostitutes]. She hated the job, but it’s the only kind of living someone could make before the Sisters of Chell.”

“Oh. I—I didn’t mean—so the Sisters are new?”

“Their current iteration is. Bear in mind that Zage reports to the Haple. Yeire never understands that; she won’t ever make a higher rank, but she probably doesn’t care to. The Sisters will keep working with us, at least for now.”

Wait, had that meeting been that important? Osthia turned to half-glance behind them, then exhaled, relieved that Xesci was here. She didn’t understand Gang politics. The two women walked towards the magical door in Celum, and Xesci murmured.

“With that said, Yeire says it’s hard to do business with Lord Xitegen around. He’s quite effective in reshaping Celum. She claims two major gangs ran into him, and he wiped one out very effectively. Several members had to join her. And their leader…oh, here we are. Do you have time to watch a hanging?”

They stopped in an open square with a huge crowd. Osthia saw a gallows had been erected, and a pair of Golems were flanking a woman ready to go to the noose. The Oldblood Drake swallowed hard.

“That’s damn barbaric.”

“Yes, nothing like the axe that Salazsar uses. So much better than other Drake cities like Oteslia and Loeri that practice hanging.”

“Exactly, it’s so slow!”

Xesci rolled her eyes. The two watched anyways, with macabre fascination, as Lord Xitegen made his appearance. And then a certain [Lady]…Osthia had to admit, it was pretty entertaining. It turned out this event had a bearing with later events that came to Ilvriss’ attention.

But she didn’t know all the particulars. She was just…a [Captain].

——

The next time they had a meeting, Wall Lord Ilvriss was complaining. Well, sort of. He was actually in a good mood.

“We’ve got some new recruiter who’s bringing a score of hires to the camp. I don’t know how, but it’s a vast number. Even a Gnoll tribe, apparently? Xesci, do you know who this woman is? It’s a ‘Damia Reinhart’ which makes me worried it’s some kind of scheme…”

Xesci hmmed as Osthia munched on some waffles from the inn. Waffles with egg and bacon, a classic. Yum. It beat camp rations. She’d utterly missed…whatever was going on while training the lazy Sisters.

“I put out a few feelers. She’s a young Reinhart. She might just want the money. There’s not much known about her, other than that she’s been sleeping with her brother.”

Ilvriss stopped drinking some water, and Osthia’s head snapped up.

“What—is that some Human thing? A Reinhart thing?”

“No, just her. Is she trustworthy? I say let’s just wait and see. Not all Reinharts are purely evil, if that word exists. Just self-serving. Everyone’s forgotten how they work.”

“Well, I’ll accommodate all of them as best I can. And Georgie’s still causing trouble. She’s—or is it he—? Damn, damn. Any word from my Uncle?”

Osthia spoke as she stopped wolfing down waffles before Xesci said something else to put her off her feed.

“Nothing major, sir! He’s bogged down in paperwork. Some kind of very important negotiation in the City of Gems.”

“He’s got top-level clearance. If we can help—and I know we keep getting raided. Damn. But we’re making progress! Listen, Lyonette created some magic boots!”

Xesci and Osthia eyed Ilvriss. He waved his claws excitedly over his head.

“No, I realized that sounds inane, but it was elegant! It was a Solstice event, but in her style. There was the Quarass, and she can dance now!”

The who? And why does this matter? Osthia wasn’t impressed at all until Ilvriss demonstrated the Highstepper, and she had to admit, his feet moved fast. Xesci was quite admiring.

“Wall Lord, you’re really getting the hang of it.”

“Well, it’s not just that. There’s some kind of…magical dance that Mrsha found. A real magical dance, Xesci.”

The [Courtesan] sat up.

“No. Really?”

“Erin had a bunch of instructions for one. We’re going to learn that and the Highstepper. I told you! It’s not quite a Golem-killer, but…”

Magical dances? Osthia snorted quietly. It sounded like a bunch of useless claptrap. She was a [Soldier]. No time for dances. But Ilvriss sprang up, excited.

“It’s worse than the Highstepper in a way. Hugely complicated. And there’s this part at the end that I swear Erin added just to embarrass me. Look, I can do a few parts…”

He executed several snappy moves that would probably look better on a smooth floor, trying to glide over the ground in the tent. Xesci nodded along at the complex stepping, then Ilvriss hesitated.

“…Then you get to this part which Erin swears is part of the dance. And, uh—”

“Show us.”

Ilvriss didn’t want to. But after a second, he threw his arms up. Waved them right, then left. Did a shuffle around in a circle. And then did the finger guns to the right and left.

Osthia wore the blankest expression she could muster as her tail curled around the chair leg and squeezed. Xesci just started laughing.

“That’s the dance?”

“I swear it’s not! But Erin wrote it down, and apparently, the dance only works if I do that—you should see what Lyonette has to do. It gets worse. Remember Ksmvr’s silly dance? You do that, slap your butt, spin around three times, and that’s while I’m waving my arms around like a tree in a windstorm…and then I flap my arms like a duck—stop laughing, I swear it’s written down in her notes.”

The hilarity of Ilvriss dancing aside, Captain Osthia didn’t have anything to add to her report.

“I think the Sisters are actually learning, sir. But slowly. I have a list of names of the dead, but I need to make sure they’re actually the deceased. The Sisters use so many pseudonyms, you see…”

Ilvriss’ smile faded. He nodded and sat.

“Of course, Osthia. Let me know if I can help.”

She nodded and excused herself after polishing off the rest of the food. Osthia went back to her tent and sat there.

Alone. When she wasn’t working, Osthia didn’t have friends to socialize with. Xesci, Ilvriss, and Nerul were her companions. The rest of Ilvriss’ people had never quite taken to her.

She was alone. So what did Osthia do with the remainder of her night? She poured herself a drink of Firebreath Whiskey, put it on a little end table next to her bed—she had an actual bed even out here, which she was grateful for, and she’d heard Ilvriss was fixing their atrocious bathroom situation—and read. She read a lot these days.

And she had more reading to do. Osthia shook out the pages and lifted the dog-eared corner to find where she’d left off. It was nothing like a book. Just a bunch of reports she’d accessed via Salazsar’s shared military command. It had taken a lot of work from Nerul to get it to her without tripping some major flags, actually. Chaldion retiring had helped.

This is what the scrawled notes said:

Witheart Hiscale (Gnoll), Age 34. [Level 16 Soldier]. Pallass’ 3rd Army, 3rd Battalion, 6th Company, Squad 2. Private, 1st Class.

Notes: -Reprimanded twice for personal hygiene, court-martialed for striking an officer, 5th Army.

-Charges revoked and induction into 3 Army by General Thrissiam’s orders.

-Body never identified. Marked as ‘Killed in Action’ after [Casualty Report: Name the Fallen] deployed.

-One son in Hilight city, potential for recruitment after coming of age.

The report was, well, nothing. Age, name, rank. And a few details about the Gnoll’s life. Osthia poured over the file for details, and she found some interesting things.

A Gnoll with a Drake’s name. He was definitely Pallassian-born, though he hadn’t grown up in Pallass, but a periphery city, Hilight. He had a son and was married, according to the file. If she read between the lines, he’d been written up formally—an actual problem compared to a minor incident—for ‘bad hygiene’.

Which sounded like a Drake officer taking objection to a Gnoll under his command. Bad hygiene was really hard to actually be fouled for. Especially because General Thrissiam himself had intervened after the incident had escalated into a fight, pulling Witheart into his army.

From 4th. That meant General Edellein and his nephew might have clashed over this. Edellein gave his officers way more leeway than Thrissiam had. Osthia hadn’t known about any of this, of course. She’d never known Witheart, and the Gnoll hadn’t been that outstanding. He had joined Pallass’ army, done well enough to be a decent [Soldier], but without any real promotion…

And then he had died fighting the Goblin Lord. Two armies of Drakes and Gnolls had died in the mountains, unburied, their bodies animated to fight for the Goblin Lord, and it hadn’t been that long ago, but it felt like it.

Who remembered that battle after the Meeting of Tribes? Or even the Goblin Lord’s fall at Liscor? After the Winter Solstice, 2nd Army going down in the High Passes?

It was just one more event in Pallass’ recent history of defeats and losses—and oh, Ancestors, they had a lot. You could be forgiven for forgetting it. There had been no survivors.

Just one.

Just Captain Osthia Blackwing. She alone had lived, and so she read Witheart Hiscale’s report, then pulled up another file. Even briefer, about his life. She’d paid for a local [Informant] to dig up anything they had on him. Nothing major; she hadn’t paid for actual legwork, just anything on file. She had used her salary for this, and while Ilvriss was generous, she had paid for…tens of thousands of reports.

“Nothing on Witheart. Son…arrested twice for delinquency. After father’s death. Charges not filed due to father’s status.”

A kid without a father running with gangs. Or just mad and tearing up the city. Osthia put the report down. Sat in her bed and tried to remember if she’d ever seen…

No.

She hadn’t. But she put the file aside, carefully, and wrote his name down on another piece of paper. A list.

It wasn’t long. Only four thousand entries so far. Given how much time had passed…but she tried to be thorough. Someone had to be. Osthia knew there were lists of the dead. She’d read them.

Just…it was her list. Someone had to write it. Someone had to know the brave men and women who had died, from General Thrissiam and General Garusa on down.

That was how she spent her nights. Quietly, Osthia read for an hour and a half until she put the pages aside and picked up a new document. This one was fresher, and she read from it. It was even less precise.

“‘Adder’, Age 25-ish. Full Sister of Chell. Ran with Boss Yeire’s gang for two years—after original gang beaten and assimilated. No children. ‘Mentioned her old man and spat a lot.’ Bimthe? Came from Ocre so I dunno, ask them Sisters there or something.”

She wrote that down slowly. Bimthe. And Ocre. She’d have to ask Xesci to help contact the Sisters there, or maybe she could inquire about the name. Who’d have a registry of names of people in the city? Runner’s Guild.

Osthia scanned the brief biography of a dead woman’s life and wondered which one she’d been. The one with scarlet hair? No—she read the next page.

“Scarlett. So that was her…”

The Drake kept reading into the night until she fell asleep and had to turn out her lamp and roll over in bed. The papers crinkled as she put them aside. And slept. She hated the Necromancer. She would see him dead.

But the fury that had kept her going for a long while felt tired sometimes. Really, what kept Osthia going some nights was just the dead.

She slept on a pile of bodies. Faceless, lying still, a Drake sleeping amidst a silent battlefield’s end. When she looked down…a few faces stared up at her, recognizable. Thrissiam’s. Garusa’s…and now a new one.

Witheart gazed up at Osthia, a resentful expression on his face as he lay there. Bitter in death, an arrow sticking out of his collarbone, fur savaged by Ghoul teeth, yellow armor bent and broken.

The horror of it was just one of the countless tens of thousands. And now there were dead women as well, torn to pieces by a Golem’s knives. She didn’t know any of their faces yet.

She would. The Drake slept, gazing down at the dead as she lay there. Knowing she was dreaming.

She had been Osthia Blackwing, Level 24 [Oldblood Wing Captain], a perfectly respectable, if ordinary enough class.

Tonight, the only other being who knew the names and faces of all the dead in her dreams whispered to her. As it sometimes did.

[Chronicler of the Fallen Level 21!]

[Skill – Identify True Name (Daily) Obtained!]

[Condition – Battlefield of the Silent (Dreams) Intensified.]

[Aspect – Odour of Carrion (Dreams) Obtained.]

The Drake shifted as she inhaled, and then she could smell the urine and feces coming from spilled intestines. The sweat, terror, and blood. The rot.

She kept sleeping. Embracing it.

It was no worse than her other dreams. If anything, she was grateful.

It meant she didn’t forget.

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss had left for yet another visit to The Wandering Inn when two events occurred involving Osthia. The first was when she met the new commander of Ilvriss’ fighting forces.

Osthia had been worried about that, actually. She wasn’t under his authority, but that was the thing—some commanders could get tetchy about anyone outside of their realm of command. Uncle Edellein? A great example of that.

However, this particular commander had been vouched for by Zail and clearly had passed Ilvriss’ personal inspection. And he found Osthia before she could introduce herself.

She was just finished shouting at the Sisters of Chell and telling them why they were maggots—and getting their insults in return—when a Drake coughed and saluted.

“Captain Shieldscale? I’m in charge of this expedition for the foreseeable future. Don’t worry, I’m not some fool who’ll insist on breathing down your neck spines. Nor am I angling to replace you; I’ve got other missions in mind, but I did think this was worth sticking around for, as a favor to Wall Lord Zail. He’s quite worried about his son, despite how he talks, and if there’s a hope for some interspecies peace despite all the tensions, I’m here for it.”

Of all the openers—Osthia blinked as she held out a claw and got a solid handshake. It was pre-calculated to assuage her concerns, but it was also so open and contrary to most commanders’ perspectives. No wonder Zail had approved of the Drake.

At the same time, Osthia clearly saw why this fellow had been discharged, dishonorably or not. He had multiple visible scars and had even lost an eye in battle, but unusually, had a prosthetic eye that stared with a bright, gemstone glow. And a leg made out of green wood that was articulated enough to look like a real one. He’d been through something.

He seemed…highly veteran, and he also carried a sword she bet he was good with. Something about the way he moved just screamed to her that if he wasn’t Level 40, he was approaching it.

“I wasn’t in fear of losing my job, sir. But it’s good to know I can work with you. I’m in charge of the Sisters of Chell, for my sins.”

She smiled. He did not return it, which made her slightly uneasy; she’d thought it was a good joke. Instead, the Drake nodded around the dig site.

“I’ve been impressed with Wall Lord Ilvriss. I had already heard of him, but this operation makes him one of the few Drakes worth a damn in my books. I apologize if I’m candid; war rubs off niceties. I’ll stick around to make sure he stays alive, then I’m off for another command unless I find a real reason to stay. I doubt it. Again, so we can stay professional and not snipe at each other for position this entire time.”

Okay, he’d definitely had to talk with Welsca and the others. Osthia frowned as she crossed her arms.

“Where to, sir? And which war? Salazsar and Fissival?”

Some city-to-city war she didn’t know? The Drake’s good eye sharpened, and his tone became more brusque, annoyed—until he forced it down. But he had a temper.

“The war, Captain! Apologies…I know it’s not top-of-mind around here, but coming home is not pleasant, and I was warned. I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. Major Shellc. Formerly of Manus; I’m redeploying to Rhir once I’ve completed my contract with House Gemscale. Wall Lord Zail was worried I’d be down after getting drubbed out of the City of War, and I appreciate his hospitality, but I know where I’m needed.”

Rhir? Osthia was entirely surprised, so the [Major] explained.

“I’ve been serving there for the last three years. My command was—lost. I was the only command survivor among the Drakes. We were on 5th Wall when the Death of Magic returned.”

“Dead gods. I remember that!”

Osthia was astounded, then horrified. Shellc nodded and took a huge breath.

“I was a [Captain] under Commander Cirille at the time. We fought with a bunch of irregulars—I’m surprised anyone remembers us.”

“I—I recall the incident, sir. I’m—it was a tragedy.”

“Yes.”

That was all the Drake said. Then Osthia had a thousand questions.

“How did you end up here, sir?”

Shellc’s twisted smile became a grimace.

“Simple. I kept on in Rhir after my command was destroyed. They couldn’t drag me back for love or money. Drakes don’t run. I owed it to the others to stay. Not that I blame anyone who left, of course. But I was still an officer of Manus. They called me back for a report and, potentially, reassignment.”

“Makes sense. They’d want your expertise.”

They were walking around the dig camp, and Shellc spat to the side.

“Everyone wants advice until you tell them something they don’t want to hear. I was frank in how I saw the situation in Izril. Too frank, clearly. Well, I couldn’t hold my temper. I told some idiot we shouldn’t be fighting the north and then heard someone say that Fissival might have been right in taking the Gnolls’ magic. A few punches to other officers and I earned my discharge.”

Osthia winced. Yep, that was a good way to get yourself kicked out of the military, even if you were a war hero. Shellc barely seemed to care. His fake leg kept pace very well thanks to his Skills.

“I’ll head back to Rhir, and they don’t care if Manus dropped me. That’s where we need to be. The Deaths are back, and we’re squabbling over the New Lands and fighting each other!”

It was a variant of her and Ilvriss’ complaint about the state of the Walled Cities. But Rhir? Osthia cleared her throat.

“We have some issues here, Major.”

“Oh, yes. The Antinium. I’m well aware of that issue, which is why I came back. Nothing like a firsthand view to give Rhir an awareness of how bad it might be. Still, I appreciate Wall Lord Ilvriss working with Gnolls and hiring Humans. That’s what I learned in Rhir, Captain. Flexibility of thinking. I was an idiot most of my time there, until the end…but if I have anything to give beyond purely tactical advice, I’ll deliver it.”

He smiled at her, and she nodded at him, resisting the urge to ask him about the Death of Magic or that battle—he must get that a lot. And that was all she thought about the matter.

She noticed Major Shellc moving around the different dig sites, of course. Peering around, making recommendations. He apparently shared Ilvriss’ notions about Drake hierarchies too because he drubbed down two officers for ‘toxic leadership’ publicly.

He was not here to make friends. But he was also apparently amazing with a sword. Osthia even heard that regular [Soldiers] had joined the Rubirel Guard in clearing the undead in the mining tunnels; they refused to engage the Rubirel Guard, who were virtually invulnerable to most threats with their armor.

However, she was just…dealing with the Sisters of Chell. By now, Osthia had developed a routine where she trained them multiple times per day, taking the youngest Nightlights and making them run, do pressups, even lift some weights, anything to get them into fighting trim.

They were still pains in the tail, even if they actually did most of what she wanted with only giving her lip as the consequence. But they weren’t good with the shortswords she issued them. Daggers? Okay. Clubs, throwing weapons? She supposed they were adequate, but nothing she’d trust them for in a pitched battle!

She didn’t realize Shellc was watching her until she saw him after kicking around Boyd, Crooknose, and one of her squads. He beckoned to her as she wiped sweat from her brows.

“Captain Shieldscale, a word?”

“Yes, Major?”

He walked her away from the training arena.

“I understand you’re one of Ilvriss’ special adjutants. Including, ah, Miss Xesci?”

“Yes…”

“Fascinating woman. Rhir could use someone like her, though she laughed the idea off.”

Shellc saw Osthia’s jaw drop and raised his brows.

“Soldiers need an outlet, and she’s more widely travelled than you or I put together, Captain. Honestly, I expected the same from you, but either you’re playing a game I don’t see or we need to have a word. What’s your end-goal with these Sisters of Chell?”

“Sir? Getting them to actual fighting trim, sir! They’re a miserable lot. Some were quite courageous in the line of duty, but the rest don’t do much. I’ve been trying to make something out of them.”

Shellc made a beckoning gesture at Osthia.

“Expound on that, Captain.”

“Sir?”

“You want to make them…what? What position do you envision them in?”

“Er, scout-rogues, sir. Skirmishers. Hit and run given that even with armor, they won’t be up for much. I believe Wall Lord Zail is sending some gear, but even with that, they’ll fall behind a regular [Scout] troop. Still, do what we can with them.”

Something was wrong. Shellc was staring up at the sky, then at the Sisters, who were sitting around probably gossiping about Osthia. He exhaled slowly.

“Captain Shieldscale, I was told that my commander, Cirille, once got an offer from no less than Wall Lord Ilvriss. She was mulling it over when 5th Wall fell.”

“She did? I mean, I do recall something about that, sir.”

Shellc nodded.

“I wish she’d gone a day early. Izril needed her perspective, and I think Wall Lord Ilvriss was actually the Drake who would have worked with her. Cirille was a [Combined Arms Commander]. Someone who got synergy Skills for both Drakes and Gnolls under her command.”

“I…see. An interesting class, sir.”

“An unprecedented class for any officer in the south, Captain. And a powerful one, I think. We never saw its full potential, but it taught me the same lesson I’m going to teach you. Take a good look at those Humans over there.”

“Sir?”

She directed her attention at the Sisters of Chell. They were eying her and Shellc. One raised a middle finger. Boyd was picking her nose. Shellc grinned at them.

“Tell me, in what way do the Sisters of Chell exceed a standard Salazsarian unit’s capabilities?”

“Sir? You mean in levels or competencies?”

“Tell me something the Sisters of Chell can do that you’ve observed you can’t. An improvement you think you should take to whatever command you have moving forwards.”

Osthia tried to think about it, but she was put on the spot.

“Er, their ability to intercept [Assassins] and other lowlifes, sir? I imagine their capabilities in theft, underworld talents—”

She turned her head to look at him, right into Major Shellc’s full glower. He put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Captain Shieldscale. It’s my opinion from serving with other species that there are plenty of things each species can do that we Drakes can’t. If you have nothing good to say about your command, then you don’t deserve them.”

“Wh—sir.”

Osthia saluted, growing red under the unexpected reprimand. Shellc snorted.

“Don’t sir me. Speak freely.”

Her jaw worked.

“Sir, I am working with members of one of Izril’s largest gangs. They are lazy, insubordinate—”

“Captain Shieldscale, if you were working with [Soldiers] from Salazsar, I would accept your complaint. Did they or did they not suffer the only significant casualties defending Wall Lord Ilvriss from that Golem?”

“They did, sir. But the rest of the soldiers who responded were armored, and they are still critically flawed for any kind of military operation—”

Shellc glanced past Osthia.

“I’d put ‘speed of response’ on that list, Captain Shieldscale, then, wouldn’t you? Bravery?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say bravery, but—”

She fell silent. Would she say bravery? Yes, for the ones who’d died, but not all the Sisters. Shellc shook his head slowly.

“Captain Shieldscale. In my position as commander of Wall Lord Ilvriss’ standing forces here, making use of all hands without prejudice is where I believe I’m useful. I’ve had to dress down a number of Drakes who don’t appreciate our Gnoll friends. Humans are still a minority here, but the only reason a lot of Gnolls are here is because they know Wall Lord Ilvriss’ company is equal-opportunity. And because he respects them, and so do I.”

“Yessir, I appreciate that sir—”

Shellc stuck a finger in Osthia’s face.

“Of course you do. You’ve served with Gnolls. I can tell; that’s good. But I suggest you’re treating our other allies, the Sisters of Chell, like the most junior, close-minded new [Lieutenant] you could name.”

“Sir, I protest! I’m not calling them furbags—”

“No, you’re not slinging names. Congratulations. And no, you’re not as bad as some idiots which is why Ilvriss gave you the job. Being the best of the trash pile doesn’t mean anything, Captain Shieldscale. You don’t feel like you’re getting anywhere with them? That’s because you’re not. Only, the problem isn’t them, it’s you.”

Shellc poked Osthia in the chest, and she saw why he’d been discharged. She wanted to take a swing at him.

“Sir, if you would care to deal with the Sisters of Chell, I’m sure you’ll find they’re difficult.”

He gave her a one-eyed glare as he closed his good eye.

“I’m sure they are, Captain. And you know what? You win the loyalty of good soldiers. If I must, I’ll do just that, though I don’t have the time. If you don’t change how you are working with the Sisters in my estimation by the end of the week, I will petition Wall Lord Ilvriss to replace you.”

Is that a threat? It sounded great! However, Osthia’s scales itched at the way he said it! She threw a salute.

“Yessir, understood! Permission to get back to it?”

“Denied, Captain. Go for a walk.”

“Sir—”

“Go for a walk, curse me out, and think about what I said. You’re not an idiot. Don’t start acting like some hidebound Drake who thinks the Walled Cities can do no wrong. Dismissed.”

She stormed off, and Major Shellc sighed.

“Dead gods. Sometimes I miss Rhir.”

——

Osthia was so mad she had to avoid other people because she was literally breathing acid fumes. She flew around the dig sites, cursing Shellc loudly because—well—

Things stung when they had a point! She didn’t like how he’d delivered it; he had no grace or tact, but the part about the Sisters saving Ilvriss really stuck.

I never got why they did that. Xesci said it was because they knew they’d get paid five gold coins for saving his life. Is that it?

Five gold coins. For five gold coins, she’d do a decent amount of things, but put herself between a stranger and death?

No way.

Yet they’d done it. And…she flew lower over Dig Site C, which was largely abandoned now that everyone was going after the undead mine. It was close enough to Dig Site B that they’d set up a number of these holes in the ground, then abandoned them and filled them in when they’d found nothing. She floated there.

“How am I supposed to win their trust? They don’t want to learn to fight—well, they don’t mind learning better ways to stab. But they’re criminals. Once this is done, they’re gone. Am I supposed to like them? They’re damned gang members.”

She sank lower, thinking. And she’d not even dispensed the pensions. She’d confirmed a number of names with her new Skill, but finding the actual relatives from that took time, and no one could exactly deliver the news.

Busy and yet doing nothing. Story of her life of late. Osthia almost wished Shellc took the Sisters from her. She knew what they did to men they didn’t like, and she’d even been told by Crooknose that the Sisters took souvenirs.

And yet…when she slept, the dead were piled up, and the Sisters of Chell gazed up at her too. They had a place amongst the honored dead, even in that horror Skill. So what should she—?

Wait. There was movement in Dig Site #3. Osthia saw several Drakes and a Gnoll moving across the site’s floors and ramps spiralling downward. Sprinting, actually. It still appeared slow to her. But they were running.

Running…from another shape that emerged out of one of the mining tunnels. A…white figure. On horseback?

Osthia swooped lower, and then she heard the screams in the air. And the figure below her became clear.

A skeleton with glowing orange eyes, covered in armor of bone. A massive dreadnought of a skeleton with armor made out of ivory, an amalgamation of bones, riding a horse equally armored. A [Knight] of undeath.

“A Skeleton Knight?”

It was beyond any undead she had ever seen before. Osthia had fought mounted undead, rarely, in her time in 3rd Army. But this thing looked like an actual…

The Bone Dreadnought brought down a huge mace and tossed one of the fleeing Drakes down into the pit. It raised its weapon overhead and howled. A shriek like some bird—right before Osthia sprayed it with acid.

Its bones smoked, and it recoiled. Osthia shouted as she drew her sword.

“Run! Sound the alarm!”

The alarm was sounding across Dig Site #3, she realized. But so few—no one was here. All the Rubirel Guard, the [Soldiers], undercover and real—they were where they expected the undead to be.

And the miners were so used to hearing the alarm for the damn Humans that they were slow to react. Osthia flung a wing out, darting right past the Dreadnought, whose head turned to regard her. She spat acid again; it raised a shield and blocked the acid! Then flicked the shield and sprayed her own acid back at her!

“Ancestors!”

Osthia was immune to her own acid, but it smoked on her light armor as she floated out of reach in the open air. The Dreadnought could not reach her, so it turned its horse and began to thunder after the other miners.

“Stop!”

Osthia flew after it, then nearly missed the flicker in the air. She turned her head—

[Emergency Maneuver]!

She skimmed up and around in a tight spiral, dodging the figure that reappeared for just a moment. A pale white Drake, denuded of scales, and who seemed almost…sticky. Osthia’s panicked mind and her studies of undead told her what it was.

Wight.

It went tumbling into the center of the dig site, but she saw it squirming and getting up, even after the multi-story fall. Osthia whirled, and then her heart sank. She saw something peeking at her from the mine shaft the two undead had come from.

A giant…eye. It was glowing and pulsated oddly, in a pale face of twisted bone. Then the ‘eye’ winked out, and she realized it had been a magical eye in an empty socket.

Not a round socket, either. Nor a round head. A lumpen ‘head’ of bone with huge, black voids was tottering around, an oversized head on tiny little legs that she realized were made up of hands.

She—she didn’t know what kind of undead it was. Only that as the head rotated, more ‘eyes’ appeared, magical irises focusing on her. Drawing her in—

Osthia slammed into the ground so hard she nearly broke both her arms and her ribs. Only one of her skills, [Lightweight Frame], saved her. It broke the hypnotic gaze the undead had placed over her.

Mind control Skill. She struggled to breathe, to get up.

The undead have tunneled out of their mine. Flanking. We have to stem them here. She flew up just in time. A scuttling scorpion with too many legs had been advancing on her. It had an oversized Drake’s skull for a head and a stinger that oozed black putrescence.

Advanced undead.

“Alarm! To arms! To—”

When she flew higher, avoiding the eye-undead, Osthia saw [Miners] fleeing. The Bone Dreadnought was running them down, swinging a red mace down, and everything it hit—

She dove at it. Osthia had an enchanted sword and some magical gear. She knew she wasn’t ready, but someone had to stop it.

“[Diagonal Slash]! [Hit and Away]! [Acid Globule]!”

She cut across the Dreadnought’s back, her enchanted blade leaving a scar of flames on the thick bone, backflipped into the air as it swung at her, and spat a glob of acid.

This time, it began to melt part of the horse’s rear, and the Dreadnought swatted at it as the undead horse reared and came back. It charged Osthia as she dipped low, and she spun.

“[Pierce Stab]!”

She tried to execute a kill attack, but the Dreadnought raised a shield, and she just took a big divot out of the bones. Osthia cursed and flew higher.

The giant skeleton on horseback eyed her as she circled, then went back to pursuing the living. It didn’t attack even when she spat more acid on it.

Damn it, it was intelligent! It knew it couldn’t hurt her, so—

She was coming in for another attack on the horse to slow it down when she saw the giant undead’s arm droop. That was the only warning she got before it half-turned and threw something at her.

The blow clipped her, and she hit the ground—hard. When Osthia peered up, she had a hole in one of her wings. The pain was faint; her blood was pounding, and she rolled.

[Deflect Projectile]!

She knocked the second object aside and got a look at it. It was…a piece of the Dreadnought’s body. It had ripped part of its armor out to hurl it.

“Insanity.”

Osthia staggered upright. She set herself, knowing she couldn’t fly. She took a two-handed grip on her sword, walking left as the Dreadnought swung its mace up. It rode at her, and she saw death in its swing. It raised the mace high as it shrieked again, and a dagger’s hilt bounced off its head.

“Shit.”

Boyd lowered her hand and turned dead white as the Dreadnought’s head rotated slowly towards her. Osthia shouted.

“You idiots—”

[Sword Art: The Rising Phoenix]! She activated her Skill, launching into an uppercut with her blade as the Dreadnought was distracted. It brought its shield up, blocking the flaming cut, and Osthia twisted, flapping back and avoiding the return blow. The Dreadnought tried to charge her as she half-crashed to the ground, landing on one knee. Then it glanced down.

Its mount took a shaky step. Then collapsed onto one knee. The Dreadnought stood as the horse, whose head was melted and half-severed by Osthia’s Skill, collapsed. Osthia shouted.

“Get back! Get Major Shellc!”

“Oh fuck me with a battering ram, that’s not a regular undead—”

Crooknose paused as the Sisters of Chell, half the morning squad, halted. She threw a dagger at something—Osthia twisted.

The invisible Wight leapt, but the dagger thunked into its arm, and Osthia dodged left. It still clipped her, and she half-froze, muscles going dead.

Nononono—she couldn’t get her sword up, but she breathed acid straight into its face. It wasn’t expecting that and shrieked as it clawed at the acid. It rolled away—and then Girnol put a shortsword in its head. She tried to ram it through the Wight’s head, but the undead was too tough! It snarled, snapping as she stabbed at it—then the Sister put her boot down and hopped up on her blade.

Like someone pushing a shovel through the earth. There was a wet crking sound, and she jerked as the blade pierced the Wight’s head. It began jerking, and she shoved.

“Fucking—it’s so—”

Osthia got up and axe kicked the blade down. The Wight spasmed and then went down. Girnol panted, wide-eyed, as Osthia felt the paralysis wearing off.

“Hey, Capt’n. How much was that worth?”

She grinned at Osthia, then swore and pivoted.

“Hells, there’s—”

Girnol’s blade flashed, and she tried to deflect the blur of motion. But the stinger was larger than her hand and cracked forwards with such force that it gouged a chunk out of her hand. Osthia turned and saw the scorpion. She exhaled, and it ignored the acid.

“Let’s get—”

A throwing dagger from Girnol’s offhand bounced off its face. It lunged, and she grabbed the mouth mandibles before they could bite her, and the stinger jabbed again.

It went through Girnol’s chest.

Blood splattered Osthia’s face. Girnol’s eyes turned glassy, and she sagged. Osthia recoiled; the stinger withdrew and jabbed.

She parried it as the scorpion came after her. She slashed across its face.

“Reinforcements! Fall back! Fall—”

“I’ve got it! I’ve got—”

Someone threw a net over the scorpion. Boyd. It began to jab furiously, and the Nightlight lifted a dagger.

“How do we—”

“Get out of here! Fall back!”

Osthia shoved at Boyd. Then she heard Crooknose shouting.

“Hey, hey, run! It’s fixin’ itself! It’s—”

The Dreadnought. It had gone still when its horse had fallen, and Osthia had forgotten it. But now—she saw the horse rising onto its legs again. Its head, that she had nearly cut in half, was gleaming. Bone.

More pieces of the Dreadnought. It snapped its armor closed with one hand, seamlessly repairing its body. Then it charged her. On foot. The horse galloped at Osthia, screaming silently.

“Hells—”

[Flaming Slash]! Osthia slashed along the horse’s side as it charged at her and thought she’d dodged—it hit Boyd in the chest, and the young woman screamed. Once—right before she went falling into Dig Site #3.

Tumbling over the guardrails, straight down. All the way to the bottom.

Osthia never heard the scream cut off. She lifted her still-flaming blade and concentrated. Breathed a mixture of acid on it.

The acid hit the fire, and it grew hotter. Acidblaze. She lifted the sword, knowing it had thirty seconds before the acid wore off. The Dreadnought thundered at her. Swung horizontally. She kicked up, leaping over the mace with her good wing—realized it wanted that as the shield came up and it swatted her down. Like a bug.

Osthia lay there. She gazed up and rolled out of the way of the mace. So the Dreadnought just stomped her. She heard her ribs break like cheap pottery. Then the scorpion leapt on her. It had razors on its legs and began to claw at the Drake until Osthia’s acidblaze sword burned a hole straight through its head.

It collapsed, and Crooknose tried to heave the undead off Osthia.

“Hey, Boyd. Kid, kid, where’d you—”

Osthia couldn’t speak. She tried to lift a shaking claw. Crooknose blinked at her, began to turn her head, and stepped sideways as the Dreadnought raised its mace. It brought it down like dull thunder, then the Drake saw Crooknose staggering from the impact that had shaken the ground.

It had missed her? She leapt away, shouting, trying to draw its attention away from Osthia. Up the mace whirled, a horizontal sweep that would have crushed Crooknose if she hadn’t jumped it in a single leap Skill. Then the Dreadnought threw a piece of its armor.

Crooknose landed on the ground, a hole in her side. She spasmed and lay still. The Dreadnought closed a fist in a single motion of victory. Then it turned and regarded Osthia. She lay there, hating the smile that split its helmet-like face. The mockery of brave knights in armor.

The mace rose again, then the Dreadnought turned. Osthia saw it recoil, then bring up its shield. It took a step back, and Major Shellc advanced, eye glowing as he held his sword, tip pointed at its chest.

Rubirel Guard—running past her. Grappling with a multi-headed Ghoul. Then—someone heaving the skeleton scorpion off Osthia.

A pair of Sisters of Chell, white-faced. Lifting the broken Drake out of the impression in the ground. The last thing Osthia saw, before the world faded out, was one throwing a dagger at the Bone Dreadnought’s back. Right before Major Shellc activated a sword dance. And then—

Then she was staring down at the pile of bodies. And Crooknose was gaping up at her as Osthia’s blood dripped down onto her face. Crooknose, Girnol, and…

[Covert Wing Captain Level 34!]

[Skill – Unit: Piercing Weapons Obtained!]

——

She lived. Being stomped on by the Dreadnought instead of turned to paste by its mace…they had to use a healing potion on her, since her insides were badly damaged.

There was no using healing potions on the Sisters of Chell. They had died. Six of them. Osthia had only seen two die.

Major Shellc delivered the report to her, despite the [Healer]’s objections.

“We didn’t know they could tunnel. Didn’t believe they’d think strategically. We’re all idiots. Now it’s a damn race to both corner them and keep all the other exits secure. They must be trying to escape. Either that or they’re trying to divide and flank us. Either way, their levels are way too high.”

“D-Dreadnought. Did you—?”

His face was grim.

“I got it. Barely, with support. The undead with all those holes drew a squad into the tunnels and minced them there before fleeing. We’re trying to identify what it was. Aside from that, casualties were only the first [Miners]…and your squad. I’ve written a commendation for all of them and yourself, Captain Shieldscale.”

“Why’d they do it?”

She didn’t understand. The [Major] stood there, tired, as he glanced around.

“You’d have to ask the survivors, Captain. Why do some people run into burning buildings? Brave kids. Get some sleep.”

Tears were leaking from the [Wing Captain]’s eyes. Shellc then seemed to focus on another bed. He slapped the table since Osthia was still completely bandaged.

“Don’t fall apart on me, Captain. More of those Sisters are coming, and they need your leadership. Someone who can stop them from getting killed and who knows what they’ve done. At least one of your squad there survived. Probably more.”

She didn’t know what he meant. Not until Osthia dragged herself up, despite her mending ribs, and realized she’d seen only two familiar faces in the Skill that haunted her dreams.

Boyd, the youngest Nightlight with her messy red hair cut short by a knife, was staring up at the ceiling. Her neck was in a cast and she’d broken her right hand in two places, her leg, and half as many ribs as Osthia, but the horse knocking her down into the dig site hadn’t killed her.

She stared upwards as the swaying Drake gaped at her. Then Osthia fainted, and for once, she didn’t see the pile of the dead.

Just a scared girl who’d attacked undead horrors staring up at the roof of the tent. Grateful to be alive.

——

No one called on Osthia even after she was discharged from the [Healer]’s tent and was limping around. Osthia had no crutches or wheelchair; the broken ground meant both would trouble her chest a lot.

Rather, she had orders to use her powers to hover or suspend herself in the air. Oldblood Drakes, much like other too-heavy flying species, could regulate their body weight. Unlike Garuda, who actually flew, Osthia could reduce her weight, and she had a Skill.

It still hurt. She was not able to train or do…anything. Not that her command was in any shape to train.

Losing more Sisters to the undead attack had the women who presented themselves to her for inspection dead quiet. They avoided looking at her. Played with daggers, scuffed at their boots, muttered about Crooknose noticing the alarms and beating all the other idiots—

But there was no will to continue from them. They’d seen what happened when they went into fights in Ilvriss’ dig site. Osthia didn’t blame them. Veteran [Soldiers] would have stopped after seeing the results of the Golem and undead attacks.

She just didn’t understand why they’d gone in the first place. The answer was in the kid who also was discharged from the [Healer]’s tent.

“Boyd. Front and center.”

Boyd’s arm was still in a sling, and she had one leg that was braced; she limped over as Osthia read from a little notecard.

“For your service in combat, you are awarded a commendation by House Gemscale. So are Crooknose, Girnol, Redshark, Brier…”

She had a bag of coins, which Boyd accepted and instantly opened to count. It was a lot more gold than she was expecting. She shot a glance at the others before putting it in her money pouch.

“…I’m also issuing posthumous commendations as well as pensions to the dead.”

Osthia finished, and someone laughed. More like a snort of derision.

“Just give it to us, Captain. Not like it’s going to any of their kin.”

Osthia regarded the speaker, a Sister of Chell. The rest of the lower-ranked Sisters shuffled their feet, but they were too dispirited even for wisecracks. Before, Osthia would have snapped at them or ignored the comment. Right now, she just hung in the air, feet hovering off the ground. Like a broken puppet herself.

“Sister…Marigold?”

“Marrygold. Good name, ain’t it? Proper nickname for the streets. I always told old Crooknose—that ain’t no name. If you’re gonna choose one, get a real good name.”

It sounded like how Goblins made their names up. Apparently, there was some weird overlap between Goblins and the gangs, at least, according to Reiss. One Goblin Chieftain worked with the gangs. Osthia just met Marrygold’s eyes.

“Do you object to your fallen sister’s kin getting a pension?”

“Object? They’re not getting one because they don’t exist! Who cares about nothing-women? The only people who coulda used the gold were Crooknose and the others. And they’re dead.”

Marrygold’s eyes narrowed, and Osthia exhaled. So that was the skepticism she remembered Yeire and Zage expressing. She nodded at Marrygold, and everything hurt. Most of all her heart.

“That’s fair. It’s not been easy to track down their identities. I understand there is skepticism. But given my current state…I’m appointing you as a bodyguard and part of my—squad. You too, Boyd. You can watch me giving out the pensions.”

The hostile Sister hesitated. She rubbed at one ear that had a huge chunk taken out of it.

“Huh?”

——

The Sisters of Chell didn’t believe Osthia had found any of the dead women’s relatives. Osthia herself had doubts on the carriage ride to Ocre.

Magical carriage ride; they had to hire a Wistram Magical Carriage™ because anything else would have hurt her and Boyd’s ribs. Osthia and three other Sisters of Chell entered the coach and waited as it sent them northwards.

At first, in silence. But silence could only last so long. After a while, the Sisters began to talk.

“So, Boyd, what’d you get, kid?”

“H-huh? My gold?”

Boyd covered her money pouch, but Marrygold rolled her eyes.

“Not that. Though you’d best save your dues for Boss Yeire. Or are you local? Whatever, you’d better pay what’s owed or you’ll get that other leg broke.”

“If there are any fees, I will pay them.”

Osthia snapped, and Marrygold sat back.

“Ooh, scary. Don’t get her riled up or she’ll break another rib at you. I meant levels, Boyd. You gotta have gotten some for challenging those fucking undead. Who does that?”

They gazed at Osthia, and Boyd muttered.

“I got four. An’ a new class.”

Everyone stirred at that. Four levels and a class for—?

For attacking insanely advanced undead, alone, and getting hurled down multiple stories into the ground? That was the least you deserved. After some badgering, Boyd revealed she’d changed her class from [Street Blade] to [Brave Knife].

“Ooh. Nice! You could be a Bronze-rank adventurer with that. Silver-rank. All fancy n’ shit.”

The other Sisters applauded with less irony than Osthia thought. They pestered Boyd for her Skills, one of which was, apparently, [Break Fall].

Skills after life-or-death experiences were usually ironic like that. But Boyd revealed one Skill that had Osthia’s brows raising.

“Say that again? [Heroic Stab]?”

She’d never heard of a Skill like that—well, not from anyone she’d actually met. Boyd demonstrated; her simple knife glowed gold, stabbed into the wall of the semitranslucent magical carriage, and promptly made the entire carriage explode in a puft of mana and air.

Everyone went tumbling across the ground, except Osthia, who caught Boyd before she could re-break her bones. Then they had to wait for a second magical carriage to appear and for a [Mage] to start screaming at them about fees and demand to know how they’d destroyed one of the carriages.

——

It turned out Wistram carriages were fragile, a fact Marrygold knew.

“Damn things explode or Wistram can blow ‘em up. Someone was trying a racket collectin’ em to make run how they wanted. Didn’t work. So you quitting the Sisters, Boyd?”

“I dunno.”

“You got that fancy stab. Could be a Gold-ranker, even.”

“I dun wanna be a Gold-ranker. I’m not pretty. I ain’t got the book learning for that. Or want t’die that bad.”

Boyd was still pale-faced as she avoided glancing at Osthia. And the Drake remembered she was from the local town. A kid in a nowhere place like this—well, not nowhere if you were a [Rancher], but for everyone else it seemed grim.

The exact opposite of Osthia Blackwing, a Drake born into a Walled Family in the City of Inventions. The other Sisters teased Boyd before one slung an arm around her.

“Well then, you’re a Dusk Prowler for sure. Just you wait until we get back, and we’ll get you that new belt. Just as soon as we finish this goose-chase to nowhere, huh?”

None of them believed they were going to find a relative of Bimthe. Marrygold said as much.

“Look, I knew Bimthe. She sometimes yapped about her old man, but never in the way that said she’d ever go back. How’d you even get his name?”

“I have some unique Skills.”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect much. Sisters don’t got families for a reason. Oh, some find some. You, uh, giving money to Alta’s family?”

“Alta Suarbloom? I was looking up her next of kin—”

“Nah, nah. She’s got two kids working the trades. One’s fourteen, and she’s some apprentice in Celum, real respectable. The other’s working in the brothel we run. She’s, what, twenty?”

“Can’t be. She was just a kid—”

“No, that was years ago. She’s twenty.”

Kids? Osthia checked her notes, and there was nothing there about that. But Marrygold was insistent.

“They’re hers. She raised ‘em. Ran around with them as a streetkid until Yeire picked her up as a Sister.”

“Oh, adopted. That’s why it’s not on the records. If they’re her next-of-kin…you’re not lying to me, are you?”

“Who, us? Not about Alta’s kids!”

The other Sisters were indignant. Osthia just glanced from face to face.

“I did hear the comments about splitting their pensions. This is a military matter. I’m a [Soldier], even if I’m not active. If it turns out you were misleading me about giving the pensions meant for the deceased to the wrong people, I will breathe acid over the lot of you.”

She held Marrygold’s gaze as the Sister shook her head.

“That ain’t it. Swear on Haple’s sagging tits.”

“Okay, then.”

Just in case, Osthia sent a [Message] to Xesci to ask Boss Yeire to confirm this. And she sat back in her chair after writing in the [Message] scroll only to see the Sisters eying her.

“What?”

“I dunno. We just don’t get pensions. Weird.”

“Your Sisters fell in the line of duty. It’s true they don’t have medals, and we cannot commend them as [Soldiers], but House Gemscale has similar plans for [Miners] or anyone who works for them. Drakes believe in monetary, tangible rewards for service. Living and the dead.”

Osthia grimaced as she checked her bandage. Marrygold nodded.

“Yeah, well, that’s why Alta was a damn fool and went fighting Golems.”

The Oldblood Drake’s head came up, and she saw them all nod. And there it was. The mystery.

“For what?”

“For the gold, a’course.”

The Sisters frowned as if this weren’t hard, and Osthia breathed in and out, holding her ribs.

“It was five gold coins that they were promised. Five gold coins, and that thing was a Hunter-Killer.”

“Yep. Wasn’t worth it for me, but the pay’s good enough I stuck around even if you didn’t catch me running at the undead. It were worth it for Boyd and poor Crooknose and the rest.”

“Five gold?”

Then, and only then, the grieving women’s eyes flashed, and Osthia saw Marrygold regard her. The Sister of Chell wiped at her nose.

“Guess you ain’t ever been poor before, huh, Captain?”

——

In the end, that was all it was. What would drive a woman to fight a Golem or risk their lives against the undead?

Five gold pieces. More than Boyd had ever seen in her entire life. More than a Sister made until they actually hit the Sister’s rank.

It wasn’t like Osthia was a fool. She knew plenty of [Soldiers] in Pallass’ army who’d joined up for the pay and their own pensions they’d hopefully claim when they were living. It was just…

Bleak.

She sat there on the ride to Ocre; she wanted to confirm Alta’s two kids were who the others said they were. As for Bimthe, the deceased Sister of Chell did have a father in the city.

A Master Genous. He wasn’t exactly an upstanding member of society. The first thing he did when Osthia asked if Bimthe was his daughter was demand to know if she was a [Debt Collector]. When she delivered the news, he went still.

“She was workin’ as a what? A damn criminal?”

Marrygold and the other Sisters of Chell had come to listen, and they bristled.

“As opposed to what? Your fascinatin’ job?”

Genous was a [Laborer], which was a generic class you got when you bounced around for work. His nose was weirdly bulbous, and when Osthia presented the gold, he snatched it.

“You serious?”

“Yessir. As you are her next of kin—did she have any will? Her mother—would Bimthe want—sir?”

He was glancing around at the rest of the workcrew, who’d paused to watch the strange meeting. Genous tried to fumble the gold coins into his moneypouch, but he wasn’t exactly slick. He dropped a few gold coins and panicked.

“This is mine! Where do I—they’ll jump me for it!”

“I can escort you to the Merchant’s Guild, sir—”

“I don’t got an account!”

“They’ll open one for you.”

Osthia was not enjoying herself. Or the man’s reaction, but she had done this before. Only a few times, but the man relaxed as they walked him down the street. Only then did he grin, staring at the gold coins.

Then look up.

“Bimthe. How’d she go? What—why was she working for some Wall Lord?”

Osthia explained, and the man’s face screwed up in confusion.

“A criminal working for…? Golems? That damn idiot. I told her to mind me, and she went and got herself killed.”

“I heard Bimthe say she’d rather make a livin’ on her back than have you coming home and stealing her pay.”

Marrygold put in with a silky purr. Genous jumped and edged away from her.

“I never did! She was staying in my home, eating me out of my rent long after she came of age to work.”

“I heard she was fourteen and you started takin’ her apprentice money.”

Another Sister put in, and the man began to sweat. Osthia was the one who interrupted.

“Marrygold, leave it.”

“We don’t leave grudges—”

“He’s her last-of-kin. Leave it. Please.”

The Sisters eyed each other, and Genous ran ahead to the Merchant’s Guild. He spun on his heel.

“No wonder she got herself killed, hanging out with you lowlifes. It’s your fault! And yours!”

He pointed a finger at the Sisters, who flashed knives at him, and Osthia. She just bowed her head. She looked down at her boots, and further still.

A pile of dead soldiers gazed up at her. Each one fallen. And Bimthe…the Sister of Chell lay among them. Osthia knew her, even if she had never known her. She met those vacant eyes and spoke.

“I’m deeply sorry for your loss, sir. Bimthe was incredibly brave. I’ve known [Soldiers] who couldn’t do what she did. She saved Wall Lord Ilvriss’ life.”

The man stood there a second, and then he gazed down at the money pouch in his hands. Gaped at Osthia, and then he did seem lost.

“She did? How?”

The Sisters of Chell turned to Captain Osthia, expecting the Drake woman to march off, gold delivered. Marrygold was spitting invectives under her breath. Even if Osthia didn’t recognize the look on Humans, even Boyd could tell that Genous was a drunk. His face was full of ruptured blood vessels that gave him that permanent flush, and he’d glanced at the pub and licked his lips. He was probably a higher-level [Drunk] than [Laborer].

He’d piss away a dead woman’s gold in the week. No doubt. If someone didn’t mug him for it. It was…something that the Drake woman was giving any gold away for a Sister. But there it ended.

Or so they assumed. Because Genous himself was half-turning for the Merchant’s Guild door, showing the [Guards] eying him his gold, when Captain Osthia put her clawed hands behind her back.

She stood at perfect parade rest, the Humans of Ocre passing by the street slowing, and spoke in a loud, carrying voice. Like the military woman she was.

“Sir! Warrior Bimthe was engaged in the bodyguard duty to Wall Lord Ilvriss when an attack was made on his life last Lundas at 7:36 PM! A Hunter-Killer Golem attempted to assassinate Wall Lord Ilvriss, armed with Tier 4 magic and killing weaponry. The Wall Lord escaped with his life due to the actions of his personal bodyguard, including Warrior Bimthe and her escort. I personally watched her pull him to safety; but for her, he would have been cut to ribbons. She then engaged the Hunter-Killer in hand-to-hand combat, whereupon Warrior Bimthe took fatal wounds. The Hunter-Killer Golem was later neutralized and destroyed. It has been my honor to serve with Warrior Bimthe and her comrades. Bravery of that kind is the difference between those who run into burning buildings and those who do not.”

Her voice was loud. Boyd stood there, blinking at the Drake. Bimthe? Boyd knew the woman, who had been swearing and stealing drinks from the Drakes until—

But that was what had happened, right? Marrygold stood there as Bimthe’s father blinked at Osthia. He stared at her and then turned. Staggered away and only recalled he had a moneybag of gold after a dozen steps down the street. Then he turned back to the Merchant’s Guild.

“I see. I…”

He walked through the doors, and Osthia Blackwing waited. Then she saluted, once, and strode away. When the Sisters of Chell followed her after that, it wasn’t because they had been paid to. They wanted to see.

——

Genous was hard because it had felt like he hadn’t cared about his daughter and that the gold was wasted on him. But you did not choose that.

Alta’s daughters were—harder.

Neither one was like her at all, apparently. One was a Stitch-girl, a [Prostitute], the other a regular Human with permanently-scuffed hair, an [Apprentice] cobbler.

They’d both known about Alta dying and greeted Osthia, stone-faced. When she offered them the gold, the older of the two took a look in the bag, poured half into her money pouch, and handed the other half to the apprentice.

“Right. Thanks for the gold. Beat it, Drake.”

She turned and would have walked off except for Marrygold. The Stitch-girl hesitated, and Marrygold hugged her.

“Hey, Kivia. No one messing you up? C’mere, girl. I’m sorry—”

“Sorry for what? Ain’t like you got her killed. This gold’s good, right? No tricks? No bloodstrings on it?”

Kivia was speaking hard street; the apprentice, whose name was Thirth, was just staring at the gold. They all knew it was a lot. Kivia might be worried about being jumped for all that gold like Genous, but the Sisters of Chell had rules.

You didn’t steal from workers or your own like that. They weren’t Brothers with all their fancy ideals, but they were still…Sisters. Marrygold shook her head.

“It’s clean. But dontcha want to ask a question?”

“What kind? We heard how it was. Some Wall Lord survived, and Alta got killed defendin’ him. Some ‘easy job’. Guess she set us up, though. She always said she would. Alta don’t lie after all. ‘Leastways about this.”

“Kivia.”

Thirth made a sobbing sound, and Kivia glared at her sister, but then averted her gaze from Osthia. Before Ocre, the Sisters would have had the same reaction, but Marrygold turned to Osthia.

“Maybe you—you should talk about how Alta died. She was pretty brave, weren’t she girls?”

“Brave. Hah! She probably got killed runnin’ too slow.”

Kivia wiped at her eyes, and Captain Osthia saluted. That perfect, stupid caricature of military perfection that they were told. But when she spoke, it was straight-faced, staring ahead, just like before.

“Sister Alta has been commended by House Gemscale of Salazsar for heroism unto death, Miss Kivia. She and her—squad—willingly engaged a Hunter-Killer Golem. They advanced in the face of overwhelming odds and magical firebreath to buy the Wall Lord time to escape. I was not in charge of their squad at the time, but I regret that my actions, and that of the Rubirel Guard, Salazsar’s elite soldiers, were not enough to stop the Hunter-Killer on their own.”

“She did what? That idiot—”

Kivia turned to Osthia, then to the Sisters. They nodded wordlessly. Captain Osthia’s voice was hoarse, yet soft, like falling gravel.

“It…has come to my attention that the Sisters of Chell were unprepared for the engagements they took. Their unpreparedness was my fault. Nevertheless, Sister Alta fought valiantly.”

“You’re lying. She weren’t brave. How much didja pay her to dress up and talk nice about her.”

The young Stitch-girl whirled back on the Sisters, but Captain Osthia shook her head.

“Miss Kivia. Salazsar’s commendation is an official one that can only be awarded to the dead. A record of Sister Alta’s deeds will be kept, and a medal has been sent for. The record exists in the annals of House Gemscale.”

“Shut up. Just—”

Kivia was blinking rapidly. She peered away, and Thirth was trembling. Osthia paused.

“I am sorry for your loss. She was a brave—”

“You got her killed! You and that stupid job, and for what? A Golem? She was a Sister, not some Gold-rank adventurer!”

The slap caught Osthia on the chin. Boyd caught Kivia before she could swing twice, but Thirth began to attack Osthia.

“Hey, hey! Don’t hit her! C’mon, kid. Listen, it were just the job. It—you know how it goes. But she was that brave, right?”

Marrygold grabbed the sobbing girl, and then they had to stop them from attacking Osthia. The Drake held still until the two were separated. And then—

Then they went back to the dig site.

——

Captain Osthia didn’t have any more confirmed relatives. Apparently, she could only confirm a fake name into a real one daily, and looking people up was hard.

The Sisters were shaken themselves. They didn’t really know what had gone on back there. Only that…the [Captain] had lied. Or not lied. But she’d gussied up the truth and made the dead Sisters into something they weren’t.

Heroes. As if them throwing themselves at a Golem had been better than it was.

—But it had been brave. No matter how much Boyd rolled it around in her head, it stuck.

Brave. Just like Crooknose and the others had been. Everyone knew it had been for the gold. But the two girls had been sobbing for Alta, and it was like she’d mattered more.

“More’n how she was. Alta was just some coward. Never saw a fight she wasn’t running from. She only joined the Sisters ‘cause what other work do you got? It was good sayin’ how she died, though. Made it feel right. Maybe she was brave.”

Marrygold broke the silence after a while. She turned to Captain Osthia; the Drake was staring out the window at the rushing landscape as they rode back to the Cowpat Plains.

“There’s really a registry with Alta’s name on it? An’ a medal? Really?”

Captain Osthia’s head turned at last. She looked…lost. Guilty. She’d been a hellish trainer for the last week or so. Now? She just muttered.

“No, there’s not.”

Every woman in the carriage sat up. Marrygold’s jaw dropped.

“But you said—!”

“I lied. Walled Cities keeps registers of fallen soldiers for several generations. But even they don’t maintain them indefinitely. Mostly, it’s for recruiting purposes. House Gemscale doesn’t award medals; it’s a company. It has a pension plan. That’s it. Even if Ilvriss did apply for a medal, no one would approve it for a Human who’s not part of Salazsar.”

Silence. Marrygold sat back hard, and Captain Osthia stared out the window again. At her bandages, her claws.

“I’ll have one made. And I will request something from Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

Boyd’s head rose, and Captain Osthia turned back to them.

“I would like your assistance with delivering pensions to the rest of the deceased.”

“I…sure. I mean, yeah. We can do that.”

That was all Marrygold said. She glanced at the others. Boyd kept watching Osthia’s face, but the Drake didn’t elaborate on her promise. When people lied, they talked a lot and explained things, in Boyd’s experience. But the Drake just sat there.

Later, when they got out of the carriage, the Sisters milled about, gossiping. Half didn’t believe Marrygold’s account of what they’d seen, but they listened. No one made them train.

Boyd saw more Sisters had come to replace the dead ones. None looked ready to jump at the next monster coming out, and apparently the undead were in the mines something bad. But the odds…

The news of the second attack had become actual news, because a woman was there with funny things on her face.

Spectacles. Boyd had never seen someone with glasses before, but the woman, whose name was Zage, asked Boyd about if she’d actually been compensated and about delivering the pensions.

“I see. And did Captain Shieldscale order you to fight the undead?”

She pressed Boyd until the young woman got angry and shoved her back.

“No! We just heard there was an attack, and we reckoned we hadta do our jobs or we wouldn’t get paid. And there’s gold for saving Captain Asrira. See?”

She shook her money pouch, and Zage stepped back.

“Hm. In that case, I have no more questions. Thank you, Miss Boyd. Tell me. Would you like a different position in one of the gangs? Your new class and Skills might warrant it.”

Boyd hesitated. In another gang, in another city? She wavered, but then stared at the gold. A lot of gold pieces for nearly getting killed. Twenty.

Twenty whole gold pieces, more than she or her family had ever had.

“I’ll—I’ll think on it.”

“Very well. If you’d like to leave, tell the Night Stalker in charge. The offer does not expire.”

Then the fussy bean flicker was gone, and Marrygold came over to ask what that was about and say they should all go drinking, if Boyd was paying. The Sister of Chell realized that Zage had left behind a brand-new belt for her.

Dusk Prowler. She held it up and felt nothing. But when Captain Osthia appeared the next day, Boyd followed her.

Out of curiosity.

——

Osthia stood in front of Ilvriss’ desk, and he was concerned.

“Osthia, I know you take your job seriously, but throwing yourself into combat like that—”

“Someone had to, Ilvriss.”

She stood at parade rest before him, and he nodded.

“Of course! You might have saved dozens of lives there, Osthia! If you hadn’t been there, I shudder to think how badly it would have gotten. It’s just…you threw yourself at high-class undead. We need you.”

“I had my sword, sir. I could use more gear, but I had House Gemscale’s finest.”

He pulled a face.

“You had good gear, but we should have given you my gear or better—! I’ll try to find you something more. It’s just that I can’t exactly empty House Gemscale’s vaults. I am taking this seriously.”

“Yessir, so am I. I’d like to speak regarding my command. It was my fault they engaged the enemy without proper gear or training.”

“Your…the Sisters of Chell, of course. Incredibly brave. Xesci didn’t lie. They actually went hand-to-hand against those undead? With daggers?”

“Yes, Wall Lord. They did. To that end, I’d like to continue paying their pensions, if I can take the time and magical carriages. And I’d like a few other approvals. I have a list.”

She pushed one over his desk, and Wall Lord Ilvriss read it and did a double-take.

“You want a…a formal list in House Gemscale? I mean, I can arrange it; we have a list of [Miners] and—but for the Sisters of Chell?”

“The Sisters of Chell and all the people who have died in the line of duty, sir. They gave their lives in the name of Salazsar, House Gemscale, and our efforts, didn’t they?”

The purple-scaled Drake opened his mouth, then rested his claws on the table. He peered down at the paper and murmured.

“Yes. They did. Would it be appropriate to append those who died at the Winter Solstice? Under our command…”

“I would like to add all soldiers who died in the battles I participated in, yessir. Regardless of affiliation.”

“I—I could definitely see that, Captain. We have casualty reports, and each city maintains their records, but that’s not public access. Indeed, a memorial of a kind. Something for our libraries?”

Osthia thought about that. It didn’t seem right to write it up and just…shove it away in one library.

“Perhaps a copy could be made, sir? And that’s a start. But I’d also like to commission medals.”

“For the Sisters of Chell. Of course.”

He was watching her. With an expression she’d never seen before, at least directed her way. Fascination and—and a kind of weird insight. It felt like she could have asked for anything and he’d give it to her.

The Wall Lord could not imagine the spinning emotions in her stomach. See the pile of corpses. Feel the guilt pressing down on her. But he had been here before. He cleared his throat.

“As for your other requests…I think I can find room in the budget. I’ll spin off a few [Miners] and [Builders]—just let me know if you need more. It’ll be a good break from the digging for them anyways. Just don’t go near the, ah, septic zones we’re laying.”

The what? Some kind of project was he doing? Osthia was focused.

“Yessir.”

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest, Osthia?”

“Nossir. This is very restful. Thank you, Wall Lord. I’ll get back to work. May I assume everything’s approved?”

“Of course, of course. I’ll have someone draw it all up and organize it. Alrric, though he’s busy. Damn.”

She nodded; it was a money thing, and he was a money-[Lord].

“Don’t forget the palace made out of silver carried by Djinni, sir.”

“Of course, we’ll get that as soon as I can buy—”

Wall Lord Ilvriss hesitated and checked the list.

“Er—”

“A joke, sir.”

She walked out of his tent. The Wall Lord sat back in his seat. After a moment, he turned to Xesci.

“Do you think she’s—?”

“Traumatized? Oh, yep. Who here isn’t? But she’s functional. Focused. Guilty. I think let her do what she’s going to do.”

He opened his mouth, then rose.

“Right, well…who isn’t traumatized? Just for clarity?”

“Of the people you and I interact with? The inn? Maybe…some of the Calanferians?”

Ilvriss thought about that.

“Do you think I should find a [Thought Healer]?”

“Sure. Level 40 should do for a start, and they’ll definitely counterlevel.”

——

Captain Osthia Blackwing dug a hole. Not because she was good at it, but because she felt like it was important.

“We can do the rest, Captain Shieldscale. It’s not the hardest project. And we’ll throw our best Skills at it. Nice break from, uh, the damn undead. You should take a break.”

The [Foreman] was very respectful as he eyed her injuries. She just nodded at him and let them finish breaking ground. It wasn’t the most difficult project. They were laying a foundation, using quick concrete that Salazsar knew how to make. They had plenty of stone, after all.

When she turned, Boyd tried to duck down, but there wasn’t anywhere to hide. And the rest of the Sisters of Chell didn’t even bother.

“You, uh, up to something, Captain?”

“Yes. It will take some time to complete. In the meantime, I intend to continue delivering pensions. Wall Lord Ilvriss has paid for medals of honor to be awarded, and I will have a Courier deliver them if I can’t get them made in Esthelm or a city near Invrisil.”

“He what? Really?”

Osthia kept moving. She marched over to a tent where Wall Lord Zail’s promised equipment had arrived. Too late.

“This is armor and weaponry for you. I intend to have you all trained and ready for combat inside the week.”

Marrygold froze. She bent down and inspected some chainmail armor, whistling. There were serrated, wickedly curved knives and weaponry that any decent [Rogue] wouldn’t mind having. Steel wire nets. But—

“Combat? Against more undead? You, uh, serious?”

Captain Osthia nodded. She had been thinking. She had been…remembering.

Why had she even become a [Soldier]? Well, it was a family tradition. She’d wanted to go up the ladder. Become a [General]. Be a Drake who commanded that much fame, power, and respect. Defeat the Antinium.

No actual great reasons. She’d done it because her family did it. Because the alternative was some job she couldn’t envision doing. Getting married for the family.

Sometimes, you didn’t have a good reason to be a [Soldier]. Then you fought for your life, and when you asked yourself, shakily, why you were doing this, the reason was just because that you were here.

And your buddies were here, and you couldn’t let everyone else down.

Those were the reasons you stayed. But there was a deeper reason that Osthia believed in as well.

Someone had to kill monsters. Someone had to defend her home. She’d never say that with a straight face, but she had looked into a roaring Wyvern’s mouth. Fought the undead, and she believed it.

Someone had to fight monsters. She was decently good at it. Let it be her. And she wasn’t some heroine. She was, in fact, a bastard, because she believed the same thing about soldiers.

Someone had to fight the undead coming out of those mines. Someone had to be first into the fray, to slow them down if nothing else, and yes, it meant they’d likely die.

It seemed those someones were the Sisters of Chell. They had what was needed, what great soldiers were made of: the willingness to be first into that fray.

She was doing a terrible thing. But if she gave them the things they needed, armor, training, her respect, then she was giving them every chance she could. She would do that.

Yet here was the question: how did you motivate women to take on what might be suicide missions? It was insanity.

There were Antinium in Liscor who’d fight against insane odds because, well, they were Antinium and they had no futures. The same with [Assassins]; the Ranks knew only how to kill to win all the things they didn’t have.

But [Soldiers]? Captain Osthia had to ask herself how to motivate the Sisters of Chell. The answer was one she had not understood because of her rank, her own privilege. It was the answer that came from talking to them.

——

“Marrygold. Yeah, ‘smy nickname. Pretty good, I thought. Like Marigold—you got it, which I really like. Stylish. I reckon if I ever get to makin’ a Face, it’ll be a good name.”

Marrygold had talked about her name after inviting Osthia to a fire after their first visit to deliver pensions. She took a sip of the stolen wine, then stared into the fire.

“Nice nickname, right? Wonder how I came up with it?”

“Sure.”

The Sister drank again.

“It’s easy. I really thought I was doin’ it. I was a bit of a looker before I lost bits of me. I polished up real nice. [Local Beauty], would you believe? And I thought I’d marry up. Aimed for it, really. My ma, she thought the same. Thought if I landed the right fellow, we’d all be set. I thought it was a good trade. Raise a few kids to stop going hungry or washing clothing? Heh. Just turns out you should lock down whatever sap you’re trying to hook. Or they have a tumble with you and ride off. Lord Rithmond. Don’t bother looking him up; name’s fake. He was laughing with his buddies all the way out of our village. I know he was. A friend of mine heard him going.”

Then she glanced up, caught Osthia’s look, and laughed before pouring some of the wine onto the fire and handing it off.

“What? It was my damn fault. My ma hit me, hugged me, and told me we’d find someone and trick’ em about me being a virgin and all since the village knew. I ran off. Thought I’d run into the bastard and put one between his back, but that’s how I found the Sisters. It’s better than the other jobs you get. That’s how everyone else ended up here, right, kid?”

She kicked Boyd, and the young [Brave Knife] shyly looked away from Osthia.

“There ain’t nothing else to do. Just making money like that Miss Xesci does, but someone’s like enough to beat you up if you’re not careful, and until she came by, you’d give all you got to whomever was in charge for protection. No work for a Bronze-ranker, really. Even if you were crazy enough. And the Lischelles are real picky about who gets made a [Rancher]. You gotta ride like you’re half-Centaur to beat a boy for th’ job.”

“It’s good enough gold when you get made a full Sister. ‘Till then, it’s harder, but you don’t starve. Sometimes, you have to fight in a gang war, and that’s bad. But Sisters don’t stab each other in their sleep. So that’s us. We heard the Wall Lord was flush with coin and it pays well. But that’s it. When we get enough, we’ll split since this job seems like a good way to get dead and high-level. No offense.”

Captain Osthia had nodded.

“And then what?”

“Then…we’ll go back to our gangs. Spend some gold on something nice. Hit the town. Hopefully all get promoted. You get to Night Stalker and you can sort of sit back a bit. Gang Boss sounds tough, but you can live to maybe sixty if you’re a Night Stalker?”

“Nah. You see anyone with white hair in our job?”

Marrygold protested.

“I’m serious! They’re all up north, but there’s a buncha old women! They remember a time when Haple was just startin’ out. Meanest bunch of know-it-alls you ever met. Fast too. Saw one knife a rival ganger so fast he didn’t know he was dead until he stood up. That’s how I want to be.”

Sixty years old and then dead when you got too slow. Captain Osthia listened. They asked her what she wanted, of course. Why she’d joined the army.

“I just thought it was something I should do. And I never really found a reason to quit, or the opportunity. What do I want to do? Kill someone. Make sure they’re dead. Then I can die.”

The conversation had gone out after that. Boyd swallowed hard, and Marrygold and the other Sisters who were fascinated by the strange Drake exchanged looks. Marrygold held up a cup.

“You’d make a fine Sister. Somedays, that’s all it takes. I just keep turnin’ over because I know everyone else’d laugh at me if I died in my sleep.”

And Captain Osthia had smiled.

“I used to have friends like that in my army.”

“Then what happened? Why’d you quit?”

“Someone killed them all.”

That ended the conversation, of course. The Sisters trailed off, then began talking amongst themselves, and Osthia, who still needed a bit more healing, went to rest. Only after she’d gone did Marrygold lean over.

“One of the Night Stalkers was lookin’ into her. While we were givin’ out the pension things. I think Haple wanted it. Quick move—took her ring of anti-Appraisal off her finger, got it back on before she noticed.”

“And?”

They all leaned forwards, interested. Boyd turned to watch Osthia trailing away.

“She’s got a redline Skill and a strange class. Sounds like…she might be walking through a battlefield filled with bodies all the time. Or in her dreams, the beanflicker said. A guilty woman, instead of someone who don’t care. They said she was from Pallass, but which battle lost that many troops?”

No one knew, but the Sisters’ gazes followed Osthia as she went to dream. Marrygold spoke on after a moment.

“That’s not the crazy part. The crazy part is that, apparently, Haple or someone asked the Wall Lord if he wanted to pay for a Skill removal. There are ways of dealing with that in the gangs, sometimes. But she said no.”

“Maybe it cost too much?”

“For a Wall Lord of Salazsar? She’s mad as a Face or Named-ranker.”

They all murmured, speculating, telling stories. Boyd sat there, and the next morning, when she saw Captain Osthia brushing her teeth and looking bleary-eyed, but no more than anyone else, she and the other Sisters exchanged glances. And they grew even more curious about their strange leader.

——

How did you motivate the Sisters of Chell into doing what Osthia knew they could do? She did some reading. And then writing.

Not her usual reading. She didn’t notice she hadn’t dreamed of the pile of dead for a while. She was too busy going over reports. House Gemscale’s reports that an amused Alrric had copied over to her upon request. And other records; all public knowledge. He’d appended a little note.

‘If you’re going to be doing any serious hiring, please consult with me first.’

As far as Osthia was concerned, she didn’t have to do anything. It was already done, if that made sense. Wall Lord Ilvriss was rather surprised, but he agreed that if it worked…why not? It wasn’t like he hadn’t already spent a fortune here.

“Are you sure, though, Osthia? It’s a rather long-term arrangement.”

“Do you have anyone better for the job?”

She had asked him to his face before he signed the contracts. He’d hesitated.

“We have my anti-Antinium warriors. Some have even been shipped out here, and they’re sharp, capable—the Rubirel Guard are highly trained.”

“Mhm. Who pulled you out of that Golem’s reach?”

He stared at her, then lifted the quill.

“I’m, ah, just going to [Mass Sign] there. Let me know if you need more. As for the housing, it’s a good idea. A very good idea. If I may, I’ll use that with our own people. But obviously, maintain what you need.”

“Very good, sir.”

——

Captain Osthia took the contracts to the Sisters of Chell. They were actually training, or at least playing with the new weapons Zail had sent and teaching each other tricks. They were amenable to learning how to fight better, especially because they all knew they’d have to fight at some point or other.

But when she appeared, they went still, because Captain Osthia walked with the dead. She was on a one-way mission, and she said so.

“Sisters of Chell, it’s my intention to form a fast-response force out of volunteers. The undead attacks are continuing, and someone has to head them off. All applicants will receive equipment, training, but be expected to respond to emergencies without delay. We will be first into combat.”

“Against more Golems. Or giant undead.”

“Or more. Yes, Marrygold.”

“And you want volunteers?”

The Sisters relaxed when Osthia confirmed that, yes, this was all volunteers. One wiped at her brows theatrically. Boyd just watched Osthia. When the [Captain] turned to her and held something out, Boyd flinched.

“I can’t! I’m scared, I won’t do it, even if you ask!”

She shouted, moving away from the hand, but it wasn’t an open hand, but a piece of paper. Boyd hesitated, then colored as everyone laughed at her. Osthia passed out the contracts to everyone—and realized few of the Sisters of Chell could read.

“That’s something else I’ll add to the contract.”

“What, us signin’ up for more pay? Even if it’s a hundred gold per fight…well, maybe a hundred. But it ain’t worth dying.”

Marrygold snapped, but she had hesitated at her own words. However, Osthia shook her head.

“Even Wall Lord Ilvriss can’t offer a hundred gold per fight.”

“Right. And we’d leave after that. So why’d we ever sign up for this?”

Captain Osthia shuffled the contracts together and inhaled.

“Because I will arm you with the best gear I can. I will personally lead this squad, and you will counterlevel. You will all be paid proportionally to your deeds and levels. Generously, even. Believe me, not even some of Pallass’ best squads get this kind of pay.”

“Yeah? How many of them make it till the end of the year?”

One of the other Sisters called out, and Osthia met the women’s eyes.

“Exactly. I can’t offer you a commission; you’re not soldiers. I can promise a pension for any woman who dies in the line of your contract. And a medal.”

“That ain’t worth nothing to a shallow grave.”

Someone else commented. Again, Osthia nodded.

“It’s my hope I don’t have to pay a single pension. That’s for the fallen. Your benefits end with the final payment after your death—unless you serve for ten years. In which case, a permanent pension will be awarded to your family for a duration of two years, escalating with the time you served.”

“Ten years? Is she mad?”

Now, Marrygold was choking, but Osthia waved the papers at them.

“Yes. But that’s if you die. As I said, your benefit plans under House Gemscale apply more to living employees than the dead.”

“Employees?”

Boyd didn’t actually know the word. Osthia turned, and the [Captain] nodded at her. She slapped the pieces of parchment she was holding.

“These are employment contracts. Sign them, and you will work for House Gemscale, much like the rest of the [Miners], long-term [Guards], and [Soldiers] here.”

“You want us to work for that Drake? Why would we do that? We’re Sisters.”

Someone scoffed, and Osthia unrolled the contract.

“Basic contracts for workers in Walled Cities include room and board, or stipends for such. This is a longer-term contract, the kind they offer prospective employees after trial periods. I’ve amended this one. Ten years, not twenty or longer. After ten years, you would be eligible for increased pay or to retire with a permanent pension. I have also convinced Wall Lord Ilvriss to guarantee housing.”

“Wait, retire?”

“In the city of Liscor, yes. He has purchased a lot of real estate. Full employees will, on completion of their contracts, be awarded with a property. Just an apartment unit after ten years, with potential graduation to a house or larger areas depending on performance. You will also be given a basic education, if you lack one, and a [Healer]’s services. You may apply to have members of your family live in Gemscale or affiliated company housing for substantial discounts.”

Another thing Salazsar offered. The Sisters of Chell were rubbing their ears, confused.

“Retire. You can do that? That only happens if you’ve got a fat bag of gold or enough kids or apprentices to make it happen.”

“You can do it in Drake cities. You’re guaranteed a stipend—a monthly payment—for life. That’s why our [Soldiers] fight and stay in the army so long. We know that if we keep at it long enough, we get to retire and be paid.”

Not many veterans got to see those full bonuses. But it was the dream. The damn dream that kept you going, because even if you were in Rhir, you were there with your buddies, and if you were hurt, High Command wouldn’t toss you out to beg on the streets.

The Sisters of Chell didn’t know this system. Not only were they used to the underworld, but they were from the north, where that kind of luxury was for the nobility or people far richer than them.

They clustered around one contract, making one of their own read it out for them. None other than Zage. Somehow, the secretary-woman had popped back up, if she’d ever left. She stopped reading and met Osthia’s eyes.

“So that’s what you were up to. The Sisters of Chell have obligations to their gangs. They are not for…sale.”

“I’m not buying them.”

“What’s this, then?”

Zage’s eyes narrowed. Osthia gave her the bleak smile of a [Recruiter] as she saw the Sisters turning from her to the representative of Haple.

“A competing job offer. The Sisters of Chell have countless members. They join, die, and it’s probably still safer than what Wall Lord Ilvriss is asking for. But he pays better. He will gear any woman who volunteers in the best armor and weaponry that he can afford. After all, it’s company property.”

The spectacled woman’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She turned and pitched her voice louder.

“Haple will want to consider this. No one here should take the [Captain] up on her offer.”

“But it’s legit, right? No flash, no bloodthread?”

Marrygold pressed Zage, and the woman’s mouth compressed.

“It appears to be. But given how many Sisters just died—Haple will not be happy to lose more members.”

“Would they accept it if Wall Lord Ilvriss paid a hiring bonus to them?”

Osthia had a rather jaundiced view of how much the mysterious Haple cared about any one Sister of Chell like Boyd, who hadn’t demonstrated their value yet. Zage’s silence told Osthia her answer. But the Sisters of Chell didn’t rush to sign up.

They had all seen the two incidents that had left only one survivor. Osthia let them have a contract and time to mull it over. She’d made her pitch.

Would she have chosen that offer? She didn’t know. But she wasn’t Boyd or Marrygold. Five gold pieces.

“At least this pays better than five gold pieces, once.”

Osthia waited until she was in her tents to say that and curl up in her bed. A terrible thing. She didn’t want to know if any living women would sign up to be dead ones.

She just lay there until someone came to tell her that the only other thing she could do was be ready. Or at least, ready enough.

Osthia had little to give the living. And the dead?

Only this.

——

It was just a building in the middle of the Cowpat Plains. It wasn’t like anyone owned the land. Osthia had requested it be made as sturdy as could be. Something that wouldn’t fall over when an earthquake or tornado hit.

It wouldn’t last millennia. But there was nowhere else for it. She owned nothing.

She was not rich enough for anything more. So here she sat.

It wasn’t even an original idea. She’d gotten the idea, actually, from Erin Solstice. It always went back to her. But it hadn’t been Erin…but someone else who had been connected to her.

A Dullahan [General]’s place. A [Garden of Sanctuary] in the freezing cold. Past the vast Snow Golems that had grown up in the timeless isolation, in his sanctum, he had made something. A place to remember the men and women he had known in life.

A sepulchre, a memorial filled with heads. How Dullahans mourned the dead. Captain Osthia was no gifted [Sculptor]. But anyone could pick up a brush and some ink. She could not capture the nuances of a form; even the shape of heads looked wonky and off, for she was no [Artist].

But there was one thing she could see if she just closed her eyes. So the Drake captured it in detail, because if she made a single error, she would just toss it all away and start again.

Faces.

She gazed down, and the battlefield of the dead stared up at her. The Drake drew and captured a single expression as she had known him. 

Thrissiam Blackwing. She worked…it must have been three hundred tries before she stopped throwing away pieces of paper. Then only because she was out of paper. So she just drew on a piece of white stone, washing it again and again until it was discolored. Prevailing on the [Miners] who asked if she was alright, if she needed help, until she caught an eye just right.

Then the face seemed to fall into place.

Or maybe it was her levels.

[Chronicler of the Fallen Level 22!]

[Chronicler of the Fallen Level 23!]

[Skill – Advanced Artistry (Painting) Obtained!]

The night after her first face, Osthia heard it speak, and then she would sit there when she wasn’t at work. Drawing on the pieces of stone that began to litter the…

Memorial.

Below the faces, she wrote an epitaph. Briefly, their names and ranks and levels if nothing else. A detail, a quote about them she found fitting.

It was unfitting, incapable of capturing their lives, but it was all she could do. And she was the only one who could do it.

No one else had been there. Not for Pallass’ 3rd Army. Nor for the Sisters. That was what Osthia did when she wasn’t finding the relatives of the Sisters of Chell and delivering pensions.

It was just a week. Wall Lord Ilvriss checked on her several times, asking if she was well. If she needed…but he understood.

“Something for them. I wish I had the same for Periss.”

She just handed him a brush. And when she found a face peering at her from the pieces of stone that were becoming a second wall to the memorial, she didn’t argue. Just kept adding them. Until she realized she’d have to hang them up. Make more walls for them all.

This place will never contain even Thrissiam’s army. It’s okay. I’ll keep working at it. She could buy a second wing if she saved gold.

What surprised Osthia was when one day, one of the Rubirel Guard approached and asked if she would allow the woman to add her own father to the wall.

Of course.

People began to visit the memorial. Some found it highly uncanny. They left quickly. Others would walk from face to face, then turn to Osthia and ask about one or another. She would talk about them.

Lie.

She’d lie about them, as if she knew Witheart. Or had even known her uncle that well. But she lied, because that too…was what she was.

A terrible liar. But she didn’t feel guilty.

——

For some reason, the Sisters of Chell began hanging around Osthia more and more. Even when they weren’t working. Meal times especially. No one had taken her offer yet, but they’d march along to demand food and argue with the [Cooks] over getting better portions, and Osthia would have to eat with them.

“You got to eat more than that, Captain. Puts skin on your bones. Or scales. Fuck, I dunno, but you’re not eating enough.”

“Oldbloods who fly tend to be lightweight if possible. Leave me alone.”

Osthia grumbled and kicked at Marrygold, but missed. The Sisters were annoyingly good at dodging. Some new Humans who didn’t know the score walked by and whistled at the all-female group. Marrygold turned her head to give one of the men a sinister look, and Osthia dipped some of her lunch in her water cup. Then she flicked a piece of bread at her head, hard and fast.

It was a [Soldier]’s move, but Marrygold ducked the piece of food and came up grinning. Osthia blinked at her.

“How’d you do that?”

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Sisters—even low-level ones—react or dodge enemies in combat. Marrygold shrugged as the others chuckled.

“Chell’s specialty. If you don’t got fancy armor and you’re gonna fight other gangs, you’d better be fast. You just watch out of the corner of your eyes. And there’s always one spotter in a gang. Boyd’s doing it now.”

She directed Osthia’s attention at Boyd, who’d been quiet, glancing around. Barely touching her meal. She was listening, Osthia realized, on sentry duty.

“That’s how you all react fastest.”

“Sure. Some of us get Skills like peri—peripher—something vision. Doesn’t help except with ambushes, and even then, it’s not perfect.”

“Still, it’s a useful trick. You beat Salazsar’s [Soldiers] for reaction time.”

“Yeah, well, so what? They’ve got army and numbers, and a ‘sneak attack’ is probably a bunch of bastards riding down on them at night or something. Easy to spot a thousand people. Us? A single [Rogue] gets behind you and your squad’s dead.”

Another Sister commented, and they all laughed. Osthia raised her brows.

“So how do you train?”

She regretted her question the moment she saw the others smile. Someone hissed.

“Like this—”

They went for a jab to Osthia’s side with a sheathed dagger. Osthia blocked that to their mild approval. But she failed to block the six other times they snuck up behind her and goosed her, stomped on her tail, or stabbed her with a sheathed dagger.

Hard.

The Sisters of Chell, it transpired, had turned hazing into training. Boyd got the same treatment as Osthia—though the Sisters all seemed to very much enjoy targeting Osthia—and the Drake [Captain] began to regret asking for training.

Though it certainly put eyes on the back of your head! After a few days, she grew used to noticing odd shifting movements around her and would stare at a Sister about to creep up or thwack one coming up behind with her tail. After that, it wasn’t hard to pick up on when the [Ranchers] were coming for brawls, either. If five people began staring at something, it was obvious.

If you were always paying attention. Between those moments of training and working at the memorial, Captain Osthia would go out and deliver pensions. She did little else.

——

“Sister Chrell engaged an Undead Dornstone during a breach of Dig Site C. It is my belief that her actions, along with the rest of her squad, saved countless lives in the evacuation. I sincerely regret her passing.”

Boyd and the Sisters of Chell listened to Captain Osthia lie. She did it well, in a way they could admire.

She lied with the truth. Her truth, it seemed. Because what she said was right. It was just…it put a shine on ordinary women. Made chance or running into a monster and getting killed into something heroic.

Because it was when you saw it through Osthia’s eyes. It was real to the people she told it to, like the polish on the simple brass badges, painted until they looked like something far more valuable than the labor and materials.

It was that which made her so dangerous to the Sisters. She took them, members of a gang, lowlives and criminals, and made them into brave and even heroic people as they died.

Someone their families could be proud of. And yes, it was a bastard’s move, a [Conman]’s shell game. So what?

Better to be remembered like that. Better to be the tears in someone’s eyes who’d sworn they didn’t care if you ended up with your throat cut, or a muffled sob and a treasured memory that got to erase the things you’d been.

A better memory than who you were. They were selfish women to the last, the Sisters of Chell.

They wanted it.

Captain Osthia herself seemed like a dead woman the more Boyd watched her. She moved fast for a corpse, but so did undead. When she sat in that memorial, drawing a face, it felt like something was leaving her. Going onto that piece of stone that would pierce you to your core.

A week had passed since the first undead breach. Just a week, but she had added over a hundred faces already to the memorial, and she was actually standing on a ladder, working on something that was going to hang from the top of the vast room and walls of faces in progress.

This place…made Boyd walk slowly, and she handed Osthia her correspondence and something else. The [Captain] paid no notice until she was done.

“There. Does it look crooked? I can redo it if it is.”

“It’s straight t’ me, Captain. What’ve you got?”

Boyd didn’t know how to read, but she wanted to. Reading made you able to get an account at the Merchant’s Guild and the like. Reading meant no one could trick you and tell you what something said.

She wanted it. Captain Osthia just read correspondence, then snorted.

“Word spreads fast. This is from Salazsar. They want me to add people to this place. I don’t know what they think this is. Salazsar has to have memorials. But they fill up. I…”

Her claws were flexing, and she grimaced.

“I don’t have time for—I’ll see what they want. Are the Sisters training?”

“Yeah. Um, they’re all ready, boss. I mean, Captain.”

Osthia nodded and shuffled the papers, then gazed down at the contract. Boyd mumbled.

“I dunno how to write. So I put my thumb there and a bit of blood. That works, right?”

“Yes. Yes, it does. You’re sure, now?”

Osthia glanced up, and Boyd nodded. All the [Captain] said was—

“I’ll need your real name for my files.”

“It’s, uh, actually Boyd, Captain. None of the Sisters believed me, but it is. Boyd Sunver. My da was really hoping for a boy. Guess that’s how I started letting him down. Never stopped.”

She hung her head until Osthia found her shoulder.

“Got any family, Boyd? Ones you want to write in a will? You need one.”

“Maybe my little brother. I’d like t’send him some gold, but I don’t know how to get it to him without my da taking it. And he’s too young to run away.”

Boyd muttered. Osthia nodded.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Really?”

“You’re in my squad now. And we’re Sisters, Boyd. We don’t let each other down.”

“All two of us, eh?”

Boyd was terrified. She hoped the undead never broke out, but she knew they would. Level. Level, and then she’d live, and if she did, she’d have a nice house someday. Someday…but she’d take a gang, the kind she could run with forever without regrets, first.

That made Captain Osthia stop and then smile. She tucked the contract into her bag of holding.

“Two? It’s eight now.”

“Wh—I’m not first?”

The [Captain] flew down off the ladder, chuckling, then felt at her ribs.

“Mending well. Barely hurts when I flap my wings. Come on, Boyd. We’ve got to get you outfitted for armor. Trouble might come any day now.”

“Sure, Captain. We’re a squad, right?”

“That’s right, so I’m going to insist on some discipline. But I understand you’re all Sisters. Informality will work. I’m not really a [Soldier] anymore. Being a bit unorthodox will be good for us.”

Captain Osthia still walked like a stick, but Boyd strolled after her.

“Reckon you’ve got a problem with your dreams.”

“I’m one step closer with you all, Boyd. And we’re going to see blood and combat. How’s that a problem?”

“Well, ‘cause you got a squad now, and Sisters. Can’t go dying on us.”

Boyd grinned triumphantly. Captain Osthia slowed and peered back at her. Boyd waited for a cuff, a kick, or Osthia to tell her to get lost. But the Drake just blinked at her, then smiled. Guiltily.

“I guess I do. I’m sorry, Boyd.”

“It’s better prospects than what I got, Captain.”

“Yeah. A pity I couldn’t offer you anything else. But someone’s got to do it.”

They walked out of the memorial. Above the faces of the dead—Boyd looked back once at the words that Osthia had written up there. The only words beyond the ones that describe the dead. It was a simple phrase.

A question.

Does it not matter?

——

That evening, Captain Osthia and the Sisters threw a party for the dead women. By which they meant Boyd, Marrygold, and the others who had signed up for Osthia’s squad. The party involved older Sisters who walked in, grabbed food, talked to Osthia and eyed her—then went to try and talk the younger Sisters out of it.

It seemed not to work; Osthia received a dozen signatures from the event alone. She…was conflicted.

“Pay’s good, and we can still back out and be regular Sisters after. Not like Haple cares so long as we level. Shut up about it already. You Night Stalkers forget what it’s like, not bein’ high-level and rich.”

Marrygold snapped at an older Sister. In response, the woman threw a jab at her side, and it was blocked—Osthia’s hand-to-hand training was paying off.

When the older Sisters realized there was no changing minds, they gave up and just watched the squad drinking and celebrating.

“Captain, if you’re leading us, you have to try this. C’mon, we got some special.”

One offered Osthia a Dreamleaf joint. She almost knocked it down.

“That’s contraband in Salazsar.”

“Well, we ain’t in Salazsar. And if you’re gonna drum us out for using that, I reckon you’re back to a squad of zero. We’re not polishing up that nice and bright. We’re Sisters.”

“More like Asrisa’s Bitches. Throwin’ over the Sisters for a Walled City.”

One of the older Sisters said that, and the group around Osthia produced throwing daggers. The air grew tense, and Osthia snatched the joint.

“If it cuts the smell and gets you lot to stop fighting—give it here.”

She lit it up and smoked awkwardly as they all turned to her, then began cheering, old and young sisters, like it was the greatest thing in the world. Getting a Drake officer to break regulations probably was an achievement to a gang like that. Osthia felt herself relax and feel better, then harrumphed.

Ancestors damnit. She’d refused any from the [Thought Healers] that Ilvriss had found—it would have provoked too much trouble in the Walled Cities, even with documentation. But she kept smoking it as she stood there, and the party relaxed.

“You know, you look better than you did when we first met. Less uptight. It reminds me of myself—but you’d already lost your command. Finding one again…that makes me jealous.”

She didn’t freeze or spin around in horror, because she’d already known Major Shellc was there when Boyd’s face had turned waxy. Osthia just sighed. He was good if the Sisters hadn’t tagged him right off.

“Major, the Gemscale company and Ilvriss might object, but we’re not in a military outfit. This is just—”

“Oh, stop. You think we didn’t have that in the ranks in Rhir? I know how Dreamleaf works. I just came by to congratulate you, Captain. Learned anything new about your command? Yourself? I’ll be putting your squad into action soon. I hope they’re ready.”

Osthia’s stomach fell as Shellc filled his plate with some food, and they stood apart. She took a breath.

“Ready? No. But no one’s ever ready. We’ve got gear, training—have us on quick-response wherever you think is needed. Would you like a formal report, sir?”

“Who has time for that kind of paperwork? Let me have it.”

She nodded.

“The Sisters might be unconventional and used to skirmishing action, but it means they’re the fastest-response group you can ask for, aside from being experts in anti-infiltration and close-quarters combat. They’ll be there…if there’s a reason they respect. That’s all.”

“Sort of a short list.”

“I’m sure I’ll find more qualities, Major Shellc. That’s just my initial impression. I’m not trying to sell them as a replacement to our standing forces. Just one squad.”

Major Shellc smiled. He held out a claw, and she shook it as more Dreamleaf smoke wafted upwards.

“Good enough for me, Captain. You’d be welcome on Rhir with that kind of mentality. If you ever want to fight the good fight up there, let me know.”

She studied him up and down. Captain Osthia, whose own conditions and Skills would have made her unsuitable for promotion in Pallass’ army…she glanced at her ragtag squad, then at Shellc, one-eyed, standing on his prosthetic leg, a consummate commander. She wondered if he had his own battlefield he saw when he slept, even if it wasn’t a Skill.

“The same to you, Major Shellc.”

“Hm? I don’t follow, Captain Shieldscale.”

The [Captain] saluted.

“I hope you find another command, instead of just a place to go back to and die. Begging your pardon for speaking out of turn, sir. It’s not fun, but there’s nothing else for it.”

For a moment, the [Major]’s face went blank, and she feared he’d grow angry. Then Shellc just closed his one good eye and nodded.

“I’d hate that. There’s only one unit I want to serve with. There’s nothing to do but go back in time, or join them. This is just a holding action until I find my way back.”

He turned his head, and his teeth flashed in the fading light. Then he regarded Osthia.

“You scare me, Captain. Was it…hard?”

“Yes, sir. The hardest part is doing it twice.”

“I see.”

They stood there, in silence. Then Major Shellc excused himself, and Captain Osthia kept puffing on her joint. Boyd wandered by with Osthia’s new squad after a second.

“Was he giving you shit, Captain? You don’t gotta keep smoking that.”

“No, Boyd. Just two [Soldiers] talking. Give me another one of these Dreamleaf things. I have acid in my blood; it makes it harder to get drunk or anything else sometimes. Now you’re a member of my squad, there’ll be rules and regulations. Only two people on Dreamleaf at any time. One spotter—and we’ll figure the rest out later.”

They stirred, then began chuckling and heckling her, and she smiled. Just once.

——

That night, Captain Osthia laid down and waited to see the dead. But she didn’t. There was no familiar scent of rotting bodies, no blood hanging in the air.

The pile of corpses was gone. Instead…Osthia got up and found herself walking through a camp before the eve of a battle. Soldiers were milling around, some leaning against tent walls. Some idiot was urinating, and a [Sergeant] was sneaking up to bellow at him—Osthia saw the familiar yellow armor on his breastplate.

Then she saw a face she knew, felt a buffet on her armor, and one of her Oldblood Fliers jogged past. Osthia turned her head and knew where she was.

General Thrissiam and General Garusa were sneaking out of her tents, as obvious as the sun. Captain Osthia heard her wing shouting at her, and there were voices asking if the [Scouts] thought they’d cornered the Goblin Lord, someone asking for a loan of a whetstone…

She blinked and raised her claws. Turned from face to face. She was waiting for the dream to turn to bloodshed. Or death. Or for those faces to become reproachful, to blame her for being—

The [Sergeant] paused, mid-bawl at the cringing [Soldier], and looked at her. He touched the brim of his helmet. Thrissiam and Garusa turned and waved. Osthia spun on her heel, and the [Soldiers] halted in their tasks.

For just one moment, they turned and regarded her. Some smiling. Others nodding. Saluting her. She wanted them to shout. To rage or blame her. They just waved her onwards. Some slapped her back, or shoved her, like the Sisters did to each other. But grinning, teasing.

Pushing her forwards, not dragging her down.

She was crying. Reaching out for them. Murmuring names, and for a second, she clasped hands with a Gnoll she knew. Remembered what Thrissiam’s smile should look like.

Then, Osthia heard the voice speaking softly in her ears.

[Covert Wing Captain Level 35!]

[Chronicler of the Dead Level 25!]

[Class Change: Covert Wing Captain → Sister of the Unforgotten Class!]

[Class Consolidation: Chronicler of the Dead Removed.]

[Sister of the Unforgotten Level 30!]

[Skill – Squad: First to Greet Death Obtained!]

[Skill – Squad: Lesser Acidbreath Obtained!]

[Skill – That One Dies Obtained!]

[Skill – Squad: Magnified Training Obtained!]

[Skill – For the Fallen, Survive Obtained!]

[Condition – Battlefield of the Silent Changed.]

[Skill – The Memorial of Passing Faces Created.]

Then she slept. The weary daughter of Pallass, a tired Drake. The first of her city for over five millennia to create a Skill that would endure with the world’s turning forever.

A Legacy Skill.

Captain Osthia Blackwing.

Author’s Note:

I found a dead mouse in my basement.

Things were going actually pretty well in life until that point. You take things for granted. Could be better, could be worse.

Then you find mice poo and the culprit, and you wonder if you have mice, and you realize life can get worse. And distracting. That’s the thing—I hate the thought they’re around, spreading filth, eating stuff, reproducing…it’s a drain on my writing focus, and it knocked me out of my writing cycle fully.

With that said, I split this chapter up purely because it hit 80k, and it was split between two POVs anyways. Osthia and Selys deserve their chapters, and we shall have them—this is just a shorter chapter compared to the Selys one.

Blame mice. I’ll try to deal with it, but while I have you, have you checked the merch store for cool new stuff? Have you pre-ordered books? Have you filed your second quarter taxes? Have you cleaned your basement or taken out your trash?

If I have to do things, you do too! Well, I’d say maybe check back later this week for something interesting. That’s all I can say, and I’m glad I have help doing stuff because I am a nonfunctional potato about non-writing things at times. But I shall not let the infestation in my house stand.

Pray for me.

Oh, uh, this chapter was also about Osthia, and I have devoted all of this note to talking about my own petty life instead of the dead and lost. It really can get worse, and as one note, I’m aware that in the end, there is a cynical element to Osthia’s solutions. She is, at the end of the day, a soldier, and she is creating more soldiers from people who see her as the best of a set of bad options.

She’s not a perfect character, just the heroine of her own story and beliefs, as we all are. I think she regrets it. Wishes it could be different. But there are monsters that need killing, and someone has to do it. I hope you found Osthia’s story compelling. That’s all from me.

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