Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“CAPTAIN!”

Logan looks up from his desk in surprise, startled, mind running through all the possibilities of what can it be now? and already thinking of who he can assign to protect Queen Jennah. As always, of course, he wonders if he should just do that himself and not leave it up to chance (however miniscule). Then he sees the handlebar mustache of his second-in-command, and realizes that it is only Lieutenant Groban, who had been to Shaemoor Garrison, just outside the city, to get a report.

But Groban is standing in the massive door of Seraph Headquarters with a desperate expression on his face, green eyes wide, and Logan blinks, this time just confused. Shaemoor is only just outside of Divinity’s Reach, nothing could have scared him too badly. To be fair, Logan reflects bemusedly, he doesn’t leave the walls of the city that often… perhaps he was frightened by something relatively mundane. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Centaurs, Captain! At the garrison!”

Logan raises an eyebrow in surprise and not a little confusion - the nearest centaurs are quite a ways southeast of Shaemoor. He checks the reports scattered around his desk. Out in the Krytan Freeholds, in fact. The centaurs couldn’t have got past the Seraph forces stationed in the area without a lot of effort, manpower (or horsepower? Logan never knows), and most importantly, time - nearly two days' travel, assuming they didn't flat-out gallop the whole distance. There's no way the Seraph wouldn't have had warning. "How did they - ?”

“I don’t know, Captain, but they’re there. If they get past the garrison, Divinity’s Reach itself will be in danger.”

Logan furrows his brow. That's true... he admits reluctantly to himself, finally accepting the gravity of the situation. He nods at Groban. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Send runners to the Krytan Freeholds. We need to know how the centaurs got past the Seraph there without being stopped… or even noticed.” Logan pauses and frowns. The Wintersday festival was just yesterday, which might be enough to explain any lack of attention... but a whole troop of centaurs passing right outside the walls? That's hard to miss.

The whole situation is… fishy. But Logan needs more information - he doesn’t know if the centaurs at the garrison came from the Krytan Freeholds at all, and if not, how they did get to the garrison. He doesn’t know how many centaurs there are at the garrison, or - well, he doesn’t know much of anything yet. That is easily remedied.

Logan glances at the lieutenant. He seems to have calmed down a bit. Groban could do with more time in the field anyway, Logan reflects. “Correction: go yourself, and get me a timeline of the centaurs’ movements. Handle the disposition of the troops stationed at the Freeholds once you’ve gathered all relevant information. Dismissed.”

Lieutenant Groban comes to attention and salutes, thumping his chest, before turning and striding out of Seraph Headquarters.

Logan speaks to the other Seraph in the room. “Someone send to Shaemoor Garrison for a report on the strength of centaur forces there and the ability of the Seraph stationed within the garrison to withstand the attack.” A corporal salutes and hurries off. Logan calls after him, "find out how soon their shift changes, too!" Logan himself had been looking forward to heading home to Rurikton soon, but it seems those plans will have to be delayed.

In any case, Shaemoor Garrison had not, in Logan’s memory, ever had to withstand any attacks. The centaurs had never pressed so far north before, and the garrison, as a result, is only lightly defended. Logan usually sends new graduates of the Seraph Training Academy there for some risk-free experience ‘in the field.’ The centaur attack, however, may be similarly light. Hopefully.

Logan glances across his desk, looking for anything on the small village that Shaemoor Garrison defends, then turns to one of his aides. “Get me the files on Shaemoor and the surrounding fields. I need to know the significance of the land we’re defending.”

The man nods, rummaging through some papers on the long desk Logan shares with his aides, and finally comes up with a stack of papers. Shuffling through them all briefly, he says, “Lieutenant Francis is the ranking officer in Shaemoor, sir, and the village's primary complaint is bandits. It’s mostly farmland and there aren’t many Seraph on patrol except in the village itself, so the outlaws are... unrestrained. I believe Shaemoor’s fields are the primary source of food supply to Divinity’s Reach. ”

“Ahh.” Logan sits back thoughtfully while his aide goes through the papers more thoroughly. Valuable land, then - to be protected at all costs. Divinity’s Reach wouldn’t survive a siege without it - Shaemoor Garrison is the last defense. Logan's breath hitches momentarily. “Is the garrison the village's only defense?”

“The only man-made defense, sir. Shaemoor Garrison straddles the river - Altar Brook - which goes around all the east and south side, and there’s a mountain to the southwest… that the civilians have nicknamed the Bandithaunt Caverns... I…” he tilts his head at the paper. “I guess it’s got caverns in it…?”

Logan tunes him out for the moment. He doesn't need to hear about the bandits - he'd done what he could about them long ago. Between a mountain and a river, Shaemoor Garrison is a quite tactically useful choke point for holding off the centaurs… but if it fails, not only do the civilians in Shaemoor get trampled over, but Divinity’s Reach could be sieged easily and starved out within five weeks - less, coming out of winter and with no spring crops in production yet. Logan realizes his heartbeat had sped up in anxiety, but he forces himself to hold his leisurely position. His men can't see him worried. A siege is not a likely possibility, Logan reminds himself. A large enough force to achieve that could not have gotten this far without being noticed.

Logan takes a deep breath. “Who’s the ranking officer at the garrison itself?”

“Lieutenant Ryder, sir.”

“Ah, an experienced man, then." Logan nods decisively. "And he has Lieutenant Francis in the village for backup. They’ll do fine, with sufficient manpower.” He'll have to keep an eye on the situation, of course. It wouldn't do to let such a strange threat go unmonitored so close to home.

A minute later, the massive doors of Seraph HQ open to admit a Seraph soldier. “Captain, I have a report on Shaemoor.”

“Continue,” Logan says, leaning back in his chair.

“Centaurs are currently attacking the garrison. They seem to have a temporary camp on the southern edge of Scaver Plateau and are only sending forces in small waves. It’s a sizable force at the camp, but the garrison is holding - for now at least. The lieutenant there requests replacements for the newer soldiers so he can get them out of the frontline fighting, and reinforcements to handle the centaurs when they decide to mount a full-scale attack. He’ll need more than the command stationed in the village, and he's already using twice the manpower.”

"Where'd he get extra manpower from already?" Logan questions with a frown.

"The centaurs hit us right at our shift change, Captain. The lieutenant kept the day shift on guard to help the night shift with the defense."

Logan grimaces, but otherwise doesn't let his worry show on his face. That's over half the men on duty tired from a day of service. These centaurs have far too much information on Seraph troops and movements. More than Logan's own active information, at that. “Send as many men as he needs,” Logan says aloud to his aide, who scribbles notes frantically. “Call in men from Altar Brook Crossing, even Claypool if need be. We may need them - we still don't know how the centaurs got here or where they came from.” Logan notes to himself that there may also be Seraph forces incoming from Krytan Freeholds, too, depending on Groban's findings.

“Yes, Captain!” The man salutes with a thump of his fist to his chest, and leaves.

Logan takes a deep breath to settle his nerves and stretches slightly. He had never been built for desk work, and rather itches to be on the battlefield where he can actually be helping instead of gathering information. But, alas, such are the trials of love. With that thought, Logan rises from his desk. “I need to report to the queen. Send Lieutenant Groban to me when he returns.”

~oOoOo~

Logan pauses outside Queen Jennah's throne room and straightens the white fabric stretched across the breastplate of his armor, bearing the color and design of the Seraph.

Then, he enters the throne room and bows with a flourish. Jennah would not have minded if he'd strode right up to her - and Logan certainly would have preferred to - but appearances must be maintained, for nobles, ministers, and commoners alike. They need to see the Seraph Captain showing proper respect and deference. Logan hides a smile; showing the Chamber of Ministers that the queen has the full support of her military is one of his favorite pastimes. It wouldn't do to let them forget, after all. So he follows the forms with all the respect and dignity he can muster. Passionate embraces can be saved for... less public spaces.

Jennah meets his eyes with a warm smile from across the room. “Ah, Logan!" She beckons him closer.

Logan approaches gladly. “My queen,” he murmurs, kissing her hand. Now, that part of the ritual... well. But there is business to be done.

Straightening, he goes on, “I’m afraid there’s no time for pleasantries. Centaurs are sieging Shaemoor Garrison as we speak - threatening the Village of Shaemoor and the Shaemoor Fields, farmland that provides for most of Divinity’s Reach. Even more worrying, we don’t know how they got so far into Kryta.”

Jennah frowns. "Weren't the closest centaurs reported by the Krytan Freeholds? That was worrying even three weeks ago - the battle lines still are focused in Faun's Gap, are they not?"

Logan nods with a grimace. "They are. They got through the Gap and Guardian's Pass by a stroke of luck, but we at least saw them coming. This - this doesn't make any sense."

“And you say they threaten the city?”

Logan forces himself to let go of the tension between his shoulders. “The lieutenant at Shaemoor Garrison isn’t certain he can hold out for long. I’m gearing up the Seraph to assist them already. The centaurs also have displayed an uncanny knowledge of our operations - shift changes particularly. I’m confident we can handle it, but it’s a worrying development.”

“I agree,” Jennah says softly. She sighs. “I do not see the point of continuing to spend lives on this war. Is there any chance of a parlay?”

"I wish," Logan mutters resentfully. How do they know our shift changes?? He takes a breath to calm himself. “You know we’ve tried before, Your Majesty. They won’t settle for anything, reasonable or unreasonable - they want to claim all of Kryta and do who knows what with humanity. Kill us all, possibly; or enslave us. Most generously, I can imagine they’d pack us off to some remote corner of the kingdom while they have free rein of the rest." He shakes his head, anger bubbling in his chest. The centaur war had been taking its toll on the people for far too long.

Countess Anise speaks up from Queen Jennah’s right hand, almost like the lady-in-waiting she pretended to be. “Their view is understandable. By nature, we shouldn’t even be here - we’re relative newcomers to this world, and the centaurs know it best of all. They have better reason to than most - well, save the charr, and we’re at war with them, too. Excuse me, ceasefire. Of course the centaurs resent our presence on their land.”

“We can’t exactly leave,” Logan replies sharply.

“Of course not, Captain,” Anise says easily. “It is a tragedy that we’ll have to beat them into submission the hard way, but one that must be endured. What concerns me more is their appearance out of nowhere - right at twilight and the day after Wintersday, no less.”

“I have scouts on the problem already,” Logan says, speaking more to Jennah than her advisor. “They’ll take longer to report in, but I thought you should know of the situation. I’ll let you know when I know more. Also, I may draw Seraph from the city to supplement our ranks in Shaemoor.”

“That is good to know,” Jennah tells him. “Thank you.” She hesitates. “Might I suggest going to the garrison yourself? You’ve seemed restless of late - the combat will do you good.”

Logan frowns. “I’d like to, but I should stay where I can coordinate things… “ He's still waiting for Groban to report in about where the centaurs came from, and then he has to make executive decisions from there; he needs to find out where the centaurs got their information and plug that leak; he has to be able to reallocate men to the garrison as needed; he needs to be able to respond quickly to any new information that might come in - surprise attacks elsewhere in the kingdom, for example - 

Countess Anise grins at him. “You mean you should stay where you can keep an eye on the queen? Don’t worry your head, Captain - nothing will befall her.”

“With Divinity’s Reach itself in danger from a threat that materialized out of nowhere, I’ll ‘worry my head’ until I’m one hundred percent sure she is safe,” Logan snaps. “As should you.”

“Oh, I do," Anise says with a slow smile. "Concern yourself first with the centaurs at the gate, Captain, and leave me to handle our… internal affairs.”

That means Anise suspects an information leak or inside job of some kind. Logan wishes he could investigate and manage everything. But Anise has her job, he has his, and...

Jennah smiles at him. “Go, fight your battles, Logan. Anise will take good care of me. I’ll be here when you return.”

She is right - it's just hard. Logan bows, then turns and leaves the throne room. He really should stay at Seraph HQ and coordinate... But a command from his queen is a command from his queen.

But he won’t stop worrying about her.

Chapter Text

On the way out of Jennah’s throne room, Logan nearly runs into Caudecus. Sorry, the Lord Legate Minister Caudecus Beetlestone the Wise. Him. More importantly than his pompous litany of titles, he is Jennah’s biggest political opponent… and the reason Logan and Jennah can’t formalize their relationship. (Jennah is being overly cautious about him in Logan's opinion, but he isn't about to question her decision.) Logan gives him a polite smile. Caudecus smiles back at him surprisingly warmly before passing on towards the throne room.

Logan stops and stares at Caudecus' back, chills running down his spine. As the doors to the throne room close on the Legate Minister, Logan almost turns to go after him. But - there's a battle on. Logan doesn't have the time to supervise Caudecus while he presents whatever matter is troubling him this time to the queen. Logan hates the thought of Caudecus in the same room with the queen - especially with that disturbing smile - the man is plotting something. He won't do anything in the open, Logan is sure of that, but Logan likes to keep his own physical eyes on problems. Maybe he can post some extra Seraph in the throne room...

Concern yourself first with the centaurs at the gate, Captain, and leave me to handle our... internal affairs.

Anise has her job, and Logan has his. With an effort, Logan turns away from the queen's doors and heads back to Seraph Headquarters.

He can't spare any men from the fight in Shaemoor, especially since Logan will be joining them and unable to oversee administrative matters in HQ. Nevertheless, he sends an aide to summon two Seraph - qualified and vetted by Logan himself for such tasks in the past - who can provide an extra eye in the queen's throne room until Caudecus leaves. Or, ideally, until the centaur attack is over and the danger passed entirely...

The aide salutes and dashes out the door, passing Lieutenant Groban on his way in. Logan turns to him and raises an eyebrow, inviting his report.

“Captain, none of the Seraph at Krytan Freeholds heard any word of centaur movement in the area. Their scouts had reported in not half an hour previously at shift change - the centaur camps they’re watching are still there. Captain Tervelan himself assured me no centaurs had come toward Divinity’s Reach - from the south or the east.”

Logan frowns. That's good, but he is still uneasy about the situation. He makes light of it in the presence of his men, though, relaxing his shoulders and putting some relief in his voice. "Well, that must simply mean the force at Shaemoor is quite light! Hm, possibly a diversion of some sort… Did you issue any additional instructions to Tervelan’s command?” Light force or no, the centaurs know their shift changes somehow, and the garrison is hard pressed without reinforcements. Logan will have to tread very cautiously.

“No, Captain. Do you think we should take precautions there and at other locations?”

Logan frowns for a moment, considering it - but there is not much to be helped if other attacks do spring up. “No. Our garrisons and outposts are well-manned and prepared for attack. Tervelan’s command will be on their guard already, knowing we are seeing unusual centaur activity, and otherwise the attack on Shaemoor doesn’t hinder our efforts on the battlefields further out. At the request of the queen, I’m going to the garrison to coordinate the defense. You stay here and forward me any relevant reports. I was going to arrange for supplemental forces from inside Divinity's Reach to exchange with some of the newer soldiers - I'm giving you that task. The forces at the garrison are underequipped to deal with the attack. We will also require additional forces to fully man the garrison for all shifts plus some standby. Also, the centaurs have displayed a knowledge of our shift changes. There may be an information leak, so be aware of that.” Logan would mention Caudecus, but all he has is an odd smile and an uneasy feeling - plus, the minister has a history of unproven allegations, suspicions, and rumors that universally slide off Caudecus and his reputation like water off snake scales, and Logan doesn't want to wade into politics with his men right now.

“I’ll handle it, Captain.” Groban salutes.

“Good.” This is the real reason the man never gets field experience anymore… he loves paperwork. And I prefer the field work.

Logan turns and heads out the door once again. He emerges from the door of Seraph Headquarters - small in comparison to the doors to Jennah’s throne room right next to it - with a view of the elegant Palace Gardens occupying the center of the city of Divinity’s Reach, slowly lighting up as dusk sinks into night and the city’s magical lights come out. Logan glances toward Jennah’s throne room; Caudecus is likely still in there, too. If Jennah's hurt... but no. Jennah is depending on him to protect her city, to prevent the centaurs from even coming close. The whole kingdom of Kryta depends on it. Jennah depends on it.

Fresh determination rises within him, and Logan strides with purpose toward the edge of the Palace Gardens, where a waypoint - an iron-wrought sigil with a blue glow floating high above the ground - glitters in the city's magical lights.

Standing beneath it, Logan calls to mind the image of the waypoint in Shaemoor, at the intersection of the village’s main roads. Magical blue dust - the same hue as the waypoint’s glow - fills his vision, and when it fades, he is standing at the crossroads in Shaemoor. To the north, up the road, he can see the massive gates of the city - good, physical distance between here and Jennah. Westward, on Logan's left, lie the Shaemoor Fields, rich farmland upon which Divinity’s Reach depends; and, to the east, the road to Shaemoor Garrison.

The Shaemoor Inn stands right across the town square, and a Seraph sergeant standing in the doorway turns to him and salutes, fist to chest. “Captain Thackeray!”

"Name and rank, soldier."

"Sergeant Walters, sir! I report to Lieutenant Francis."

Logan nods. “At ease, Sergeant. Report on Seraph numbers and disposition.”

“I’ve set up a perimeter around the village, Captain - mostly with the recent graduates of the Academy. The more seasoned Seraph are at the garrison.”

Logan nods. “Good. Where is Lieutenant Francis?”

“At the garrison, sir.” Sergeant Walters answers promptly. "He left me in charge here at the village."

Just then, another man - a middle-aged civilian - comes out of the inn. “Captain Thackeray! Are we in danger?”

The sergeant sighs. “I’ve told you, Mr North - “

Logan holds up a hand to silence the soldier. The civilian needs to hear it from the living legend himself, Logan Thackeray of Destiny's Edge. His fame might have gone sour in the last few years since he became Seraph Captain, but already a crowd had started gathering.

“Sir,” North says, straightening and meeting Logan’s eye with only a trace of trepidation, “are my people in danger?”

“Your people?” Logan asks, a sinking in his stomach.

“I am the Mayor of Shaemoor, Captain,” North says, almost snapping, eyes darting to the gathered people.

“My apologies, Mr North.” Logan feels slightly sick. Shaemoor is inside his jurisdiction, he should have known who North is. He should have asked his aide about that when gathering his information on the region. What a way to gain the confidence of the people, not knowing who their mayor is… he needs the confidence of the people. Without that, there’s no hope of he and Jennah formalizing their relationship… and he’d just insulted their whole village.

North glances back toward his people, clearly worried that if he doesn't have the respect of the Logan Thackeray, he'd just lost the respect of his people - but Logan knows better. The people will back their own, local, elected mayor above a national, distant hero they'd never met and to whom they can - and often do - attribute any incompetencies, failings, or insufficiencies of the Seraph, from poor legal resources to inadequate peacekeeping... He hurriedly moves on to consider North's initial question about danger.

Safety procedures, of course, dictate the village should go on lockdown. Curfew, rather, this late in the evening. Logan eyes the inn the mayor had come out of. It's sturdier than other buildings; has a good vantage point on the road from the garrison and second-story windows to shoot from if necessary. The inn could probably hold most of the village for a night; in fact that'd be safest. Not to mention the people would all be in one place to evacuate to the city if things get out of hand.

But Logan feels the stares of the civilians on his back - civilians who would be out of home and possessions if 'things get out of hand' - and North is still radiating a bit of self-righteous indignation. Logan had insulted the whole village, and they must be feeling it still. Logan needs the support of the people. He stiffens in determination. The only way to solve this disaster is through helping them with their disaster. Luckily enough, fighting centaurs is something Logan excels at. "You and your people may be assured there are no concerns whatsoever, Mr North. The centaurs are few and far from any other effort on their side of the war; this is probably a foolish attempt by one of their officers to do something great for recognition among their own people." Logan glances around and sees relief on their faces - they're buying it. They trust him, despite his offense. "The queen has commanded me to personally see to this battle - be assured it will be handled safely and quickly. You have no need to worry - I'll be sure to keep the centaurs out of Shaemoor." Logan pauses, then adds to North, "if you do feel unsafe, feel free to tell your people to stay indoors; leave the fighting to the Seraph."

The crowd raises a light cheer, and North's stance relaxes immediately. "Thank you, Captain," the mayor says, looking greatly relieved. No doubt he also appreciates the delegated authority; Logan had done that on purpose to assuage the sting of Logan's earlier disrespect.

Just to reinforce it, though, Logan falls into the performance of a high-ranking, competent, and qualified military officer, and makes a solid salute, fist thumping his chest, to North. "I have to be getting to the garrison, Mayor North. I'll see to the defense of your village."Sergeant Walters gives him a funny look - that is not the proper context for a military-grade salute - but it underscores Logan’s point to the civilians quite effectively.

Logan knows quite well how to perform for an audience - he is now perceived as a public servant of the people, and a nationally recognized and therefore competent one, too. 

Logan even turns square to Sergeant Walters and gives her a salute. "Keep an eye on our civilians, Sergeant." There, a possessive thrown in. They love that. If the women in this village hadn't been swooning for the dashingly handsome captain of the queen's court already, they will now, tormented by the knowledge that he is good and taken. Then, he spins on his heel and marches with perfect form through the square. The civilians scatter, staring, whispering among themselves. Logan catches admiring tones, giggles, a mention of Champion of the Queen, and even a reference to Destiny’s Edge.

That last puts a bit of a damper on Logan’s otherwise cheerful mood, but he ignores the whispers with military focus and marches down the road toward the garrison, a watermelon patch to his right, and doesn't relax until he is too far from the square to be made out distinctly. Then he drops the rigid march and huries along at a quicker pace toward the battle, albeit with a smile on his face.

Shaemoor is a village that won't forget Logan Thackeray any time soon, or his heroics; Logan wishes he could make such an impression on every village in Kryta. With the support of the people, he and Jennah could conceivably defy tradition - and Caudecus, and all the nobles and ministers - and formalize their relationship.

However, despite Logan's battle prowess, his poor skill at managing the civil side of the Seraph's duties - peacekeeping, judiciary, prison management and maintenance, non-criminal affairs, finances and taxes, paperwork - often earns him distrust and resentment, especially when clearly demonstrated as he just had with North - and Logan had worried. A captain without the support and trust of the people - regardless of his actual accomplishments - would find himself working against the people rather than with them, and such a captain would, if he didn't lose his job, have to be banished to the front lines of the war and replaced. (Groban probably has North's name and office memorized.) Logan would probably be happier on the front lines, doing the parts of the job he enjoys and is unanimously agreed to be good at, but that would mean being away from Jennah for many weeks at a time.

And, while uncustomary, it is still within reason - just barely - for Jennah to marry her left hand and top Seraph Captain; less conceivable a mere high-ranking officer, away past Guardian's Pass in Faun's Gap. Logan is merely a commoner in Kryta, and that's all there is to it. If Ascalon were still a human nation, where the Thackeray name carried its full weight, then their marriage could be spun as a political union - but, alas, it is not so. As Logan is a hero in his own right, such considerations could be waived - if not for the opposition of Caudecus and the people in the name of tradition - but the more Logan looks like an incompetent Seraph Captain, on top of the hierarchy chain and more bureaucrat than soldier, the less friendly the people would be to a match so far outside custom.

But clearly, Logan had been worrying too much - something he tends to do when it comes to Jennah - if the reception in Shaemoor is anything to go by. Clearly his military prowess is enough to offset the civil damages done by his otherwise lackluster performance of his domestic duties. The people took his word for everything and went joyously about their evening, certain that the legendary Logan Thackeray of Destiny's Edge would handle everything. it was a little risky, telling them to go about life as usual, but Logan is sure he can handle the centaurs, given his personal presence on the upcoming battlefield. His military renown isn't for nothing, after all, and it is on his accomplishments with Destiny's Edge that he'd attained his position, and those skills on which he keeps it.

Logan has passed the watermelon patch, and now the road runs along the top of a high embankment, the Altar Brook (more of a river at this point) running far below. Ahead, the island in the middle of the river - connected to both banks by bridges and the only way into Shaemoor and Divinity's Reach - is home to Shaemoor Garrison, currently under attack by centaurs.

Logan enters Shaemoor Garrison to the organized chaos of the back lines of a battle; aides rushing back and forth, officers shouting, armor clanging, and men on the walls showering insults and arrowheads at their opponents on the other side. Logan breathes deeply, forgetting his worries. This is his element. This is his place. These are his people, and this is his war. This is where he shines.

"Lieutenant Francis!" Logan calls. Heads turn at the sound of his voice, and the activity moves, if possible, a little faster.

Logan fights for Queen Jennah of Kryta; for her safety, for her country, and for her love.

Chapter Text

It is dark - past midnight, Logan estimates, he as ducks more on instinct than sight under a centaur's swing. While the blade is only faintly visible in the darkness, the centaur's hulking form towering above Logan is more easily discernible. It gives away its position further as its hoofs shift on the paved flagstones at the south gate of the garrison, splashing in puddles that had formed since it started raining. A whistle of steel through air heralds another swing, and Logan ducks that as well, then lunges forward, stabbing into the center of the dark mass he is facing. The centaur shrieks, adding its cries to the din of other noises filling the battlefield - of swords on steel and the screams of Seraph and centaurs (eerily indistinguishable from each other). Logan rips his sword out of the centaur and it falls to the ground with a thud.

Logan lets one of his men take over his position in the line and steps back from the battle to let his magic and energy recover. The fight had been going on for hours (and at some point it had started raining) and the initial thrill of getting back into battle had long since worn off.  His arms had ached for a while from swinging his sword - but that had worn off a while back and now he is just numb. Seraph had arrived from the city earlier, supplementing the force at the garrison and promising reinforcements from outlying towns soon, but the battle is long and grueling nonetheless. Where are all these centaurs coming from?

The centaurs’ camp had been barely visible from the southern wall of the garrison even before it started raining, and now it is hidden in the distance. Groups of centaurs periodically emerge out of the mist and rain and charge across the plateau to the garrison’s southern gate. This had been proceeding for hours and shows no sign of stopping. Logan had started watching his expenditure of magic to make sure it lasts through the battle. Centaurs don’t normally behave like this; the centaurs had been outmaneuvering the humans for a millennium. It is almost uncanny - the regularity and size of the waves of centaurs. The only thing more uncanny is that Logan is beginning to think it’s working. More of his men fall with each wave. Those who survive - including himself - are, at this point, nearly exhausted. And thoroughly soaked. Logan pushes wet hair out of his eyes for the umpteenth time.

It’s just an incredibly stupid strategy. Don’t the centaurs value their own people? Far more centaurs had fallen today than Seraph. And yet, Logan is going to have to call reinforcements from the defenses at Shaemoor until the additional forces from Altar Brook Crossing and Claypool arrive. (Which they should have done already…)

The centaurs hadn’t even brought trebuchets. They can’t take the garrison without artillery of some sort. The garrison’s own ballistae are firing regularly from the walls despite the rain. And it’s maddening that an enemy so idiotic could be so effective. Especially with the lives of his men on the line. The Seraph had killed so many more centaurs than Logan thought could be brought this far into Kryta without being noticed that he suspects foul play - but they hadn’t brought trebuchets?

Logan reminds himself that it’s a good thing they didn’t bring trebuchets. Maddening, but certainly preferable to the alternative. He turns back to rejoin the battle, but then Private Amar, the garrison’s scout, arrives from Shaemoor. Amar makes a beeline for Logan, who is nearest to the northern gate. He doesn't look happy.

"Report," Logan barks.

Private Amar is slightly out of breath, but he dutifully responds, "there are centaurs back in Shaemoor, Captain."

Logan blinks, processing, and then his heart sinks horribly. Centaurs in Shaemoor. In the village itself. He stares at Amar with a stricken expression on his face. He doesn't even hear the man's next words - something about swimming the river - there are centaurs in Shaemoor. In Shaemoor!

He hadn't put any safety protocols in place. None. The people are in the streets, getting slaughtered by centaurs Civilians - defenseless civilians under Logan's protection! His oath as a Seraph Captain - ! His personal promise to them just hours earlier - no!

No! No, this can't happen! I won't let it!

"Captain?"

Logan blinks. He is panting; his mouth had gone dry. "Centaurs... in Shaemoor?" he asks emptily.

"Yes, Captain. Not many - they got past Sergeant Walters' perimeter, but she'll handle them."

Logan swallows thickly. "Send - " no, he can't send aid. His men are hard-pressed as it is. Civilians are dying... dying, and it's my fault... He'd promised them. He'd promised them protection. He hadn't even told them to stay off the streets...

A small voice in the back of his head whispers, I've failed. No. No, that can't be true. One mistake doesn't -  Logan can win this battle. He can prevent further casualties. He can - 

Logan grips his sword convulsively. He can't do anything. His men here in the garrison need support as well. Where are the reinforcements from Altar Brook Crossing and Claypool? "We need reinforcements," he snaps to no one. Fresh soldiers to fight the centaurs at the garrison, a strong team to clear Shaemoor and get the civilians to safety, a rotation... But his words fall empty. Everyone needs reinforcements, and none are to be found. None

Logan can do nothing about the tragedy going on in the village at this very moment. Nothing. Civilians are dying, cursing his name most likely, dying - how did this happen? I'm Logan Thackeray - I'm - I should have been able to - they shouldn't have gotten past - I should have - how did this happen? How many Six-cursed centaurs are there??

Logan doesn't know. He doesn't know. He just - Dwayna, protect them. Protect the civilians. Protec-

"Captain, what do you want me to do?"

"I - " Logan stops himself. He wants so badly to break down, to say he doesn't know - but he can't. His men need to see his confidence or they'll all fall apart. He draws a deep breath, pulling himself together, and huffs it out. Focus. Kormir, guide my sight and my judgement. ...Grenth, have mercy on their souls. To Private Amar, instead of saying give me a minute, Logan says "wait there, soldier." He needs to figure out what to do. He'd failed. He can't fail. All those deaths - on my hands - Amar comes to attention and salutes, fist to chest, and waits.

Logan turns away from the runner - resists the urge to pinch between his eyes - blinks hard and looks at his troops, still fighting on the wall and on the bridge just beyond the southern gate. His men need him - they're struggling as it is. Dying. Civilians are also dying. Logan pushes that thought aside - he can't let this tragedy stop him. He needs to keep fighting. He has to focus. Grief can come later. It has to. His men need him. Jennah needs him. Logan nods in determination and turns back to Private Amar in time to see a centaur cleave the man’s head open from behind.

Logan reels back in shock, surprise, and dismay, but that doesn’t last long. His battle-trained reflexes kick in and he draws his sword and launches forward, yelling. He slashes at the centaur’s chest, putting it on the defensive. It backs off for a moment.

Logan summons his magic in one hand and grips his sword in the other, facing the centaur as it recovers. Energy drains from his body and pools in his hand. Logan feels the drain more in his heart than his body. He can't let them win. Centaurs - Caudecus - anyone. His heart feels like lead. He can't - he can't - he can't let them win. The energy glows a bright blue from the magic in it - a symbol of intimidation of enemies and encouragement of allies.

The sign of a guardian.

Logan will protect his people, his country, and his queen. So help him, he can't do otherwise. They need him - and Logan Thackeray will always respond to their call. He faces off with the centaur for a long moment, both standing there, neither moving - centaur sizing him up, hefting a large battleaxe, and Logan standing firmly, blue magic glowing brightly in one hand and sword clasped firmly in the other, waiting. This centaur must have come through the northern gate, from Shaemoor. Logan hears the Seraph behind him engaging with another centaur - and then his opponent charges. Logan sweeps his energy into the hilt of his sword. Clasping the blade in both hands, he ducks under the centaur’s swing. He slashes the centaur’s chest again, with force. He uses magic to push the energy down the length of the sword. The energy explodes with fiery heat in the centaur’s chest.

The centaur rears back with a roar. Logan takes a step back and adjusts his grip on his blade. Then he steps forward again, and sinks his blade into the centaur’s side. Logan considers casting another spell, but the centaur gives one last scream and collapses.

Logan steps back, drawing his sword after him, and glances around. The other centaur had been defeated, but Logan eyes the northern gate wearily. Now they have to fight on two fronts.

Lieutenant Francis - one of his most useful officers so far in this battle, although this is not his usual post - hurries toward him. “Are you alright, Captain?”

“Yes. But get someone to do something with Amar’s body. He fell in service to the queen.” Logan sighs and turns to Francis. “The centaurs haven’t beaten us down, and, by Grenth, I won’t let them. But we just lost our fastest runner, and there are centaurs in the village.” Logan can't think about the civilians. He has to focus on the queen and the battle.

“Wasn’t Sergeant Walters supposed to be holding a perimeter in Shaemoor?” Lieutenant Francis asks with a frown.

“Yes, but Private Amar said centaurs were already there, and Walters is apparently having trouble containing them.” She needs aid more than the garrison does… Logan squashes the thought down. He can't worry about that right now.

Lieutenant Francis looks worried. “If the garrison falls, we’ll have to retreat to Divinity’s Reach.”

“It’ll just have to not fall, then,” Logan says grimly, hoisting his sword. There's not much other choice - reinforcements will come when they come, and all he can do is keep fighting, keep inspiring, keep the centaurs away from Divinity's Reach. This is the last defense. It will hold. Logan won't countenance any other outcome. “We’ll keep an eye on the northern gate in case any more centaurs come.”

"Where are they all coming from?" Francis asks in frustration. "They just keep coming!"

Logan grimaces. "Balthazar only knows," he sighs, and scowls at the southern gate where the men are fighting. "But it should be discoverable. Centaurs aren't overly good at covering their tracks."

"Small mercies," Francis grunts. "Doesn't help now, though."

"Oh, it doesn't," Logan assures him. He is glad Francis is asking the important questions, though. Lieutenant Ryder - the one actually assigned to this garrison - is off indulging in the thrill of battle. "But know that whatever miracle they pulled off to get here, I will make sure it doesn't work and they don't try again." He hefts his sword. "Half of that involves finding and plugging whatever weakness they've exploited. The other half involves beating them soundly here and now." With that, he turns and marches back toward the front line, Lieutenant Francis following behind.

But the fight is not going well. The Seraph soldiers at the south gate brighten a little as their leader joins them, and a medic calls for Logan to use his guardian magic to staunch a near-death injury, but the centaurs keep coming. The rain continues coming down in torrents, and the moon and stars are obscured by the clouds. Light comes from magical flames, but Logan comes to resent the magic it takes from his spellcasters. Some of his soldiers are fighting through injuries that Logan can’t spare the magic to heal. Other soldiers fall with grave injuries that absolutely must be healed, and others take injuries severe enough to take them off the battlefield, but still too light to waste magical energy on.

And other soldiers die in combat. The Seraph force is shrinking, and the flow of centaurs doesn’t look like stopping anytime soon. It takes all of Logan’s strength to project an image of confidence to his men as he goes about, fighting, healing, encouraging, rejuvenating, defending. The blue flashes that accompany his magic are a light source themselves, if not very bright through the rain - but more importantly, they bring hope to his men. They perk up, and fight better, and are heartened when they see the blue of the guardian magic. They are defending Kryta. Logan carefully rations his magic so it lasts through the battle.

Periodically, centaurs come through the northern gate behind them; and as the night draws on (or turns to early morning?) they become more frequent. Logan posts a few soldiers to watch the gate. Maybe they can get a little break from the fighting. If he sets up a rotation… Logan shakes his head. Focus. This isn’t significant enough to help. Still no reinforcements had come from Altar Brook Crossing or Claypool.

The centaurs keep coming. Seraph soldiers fall, or are sent to the medics along the garrison’s north wall - no longer quite safe, of course, but nowhere is safe in a military garrison or an active battlefield. But the gate holds against the southern assault, and Shaemoor Garrison does not look like it will fall just yet.

Hopefully it can hold out until reinforcements come.

Chapter Text

"And give him quick treatment," Logan finishes. "The lieutenant is high priority."

The medic nods, gripping her dagger tightly as it maintains the spell keeping Lieutenant Francis floating in midair. "Yes, sir, Captain! We've still got some spells left." Then she hurries off, gesturing with the dagger. A gust of wind pushes Lieutenant Francis after the medic as she hurries back to the north wall, furthest from the fighting.

On the south wall, Lieutenant Ryder shouts excitedly, “Captain! Massive wave of centaurs incoming!”

Logan turns toward the front line. Does Ryder have no sense of the severity of this situation? For a lieutenant - the one in charge of this garrison, no less - he'd been particularly reckless the whole battle. Logan is he'd had Lieutenant Francis to rely on as a right hand so far. And this isn't even Francis' post! In less desperate times, the man was assigned to the village proper, not the garrison. Logan had ended up needing his support, what with Ryder's carelessness and the severity of the situation - the centaurs are relentless, and more reckless than Logan had ever seen them. Logan sighs; he doesn't have the time or leisure to call Ryder into line. But the lieutenant is doing just fine commanding the defenses on the wall for now. Logan can do nothing but fight and continue setting an example for his soldiers. Even without Francis for the minute.

Reinforcements should be here soon. But should-be's don't make honey - reinforcements have not come, and it's been hours. Logan is losing hope that they will... but he can't let himself think that way. Reinforcements have to come. Until then, he and the Seraph will have to fight it out here alone.

Logan hurries to the front of the line and stands in the middle of the southern gate. There is no reprieve from the rain. Logan raises his shield in the dim light; he widens his stance and grips his sword. He takes a deep breath. Hooves thunder on the bridge as the centaurs cross. The ballistae must be firing from the wall above him, heavy bolts not swayed by wind or rain.

The centaurs emerge out of the sheets of rain. Logan raises his sword and steps forward to meet them, swinging, putting all his strength and a little magic into it. One centaur falls, blue flames erupting from a wound, unquenched by the downpour. A soldier on his right fells another.

The rest charge on. Logan swings and ducks, thrusts and dodges. He catches a centaur axe on his sword; blocks a twohanded overhead blow with his shield; and twists out of the way and lets them cut at each other. There are centaurs on both sides of him and ahead; Seraph behind; Logan takes a gamble and uses magic to gather his energy. He takes two steps forward and pushes energy and blue magic into his left hand.

“HEY!” Logan roars, now surrounded by centaurs. He thrusts his fist, glowing blue, into the air. “I’M RIGHT HERE!” He smashes his fist to the ground, pushing the energy out. Blue bursts along the ground. A ring of blue fire leaps up. Centaurs scream in unnervingly human voices and leap into the air. Take that, you ponies! Take that for my soldiers, my people, my queen!

Despite the blue fire, they rush towards him rather than away. Oh Dwayna! Logan blocks one strike, two; dodges a third, lashes out once, and ducks towards the line of men he’d so foolishly abandoned. He is obstructed by hooves and horseflesh. Logan prays for protection and spends more of his carefully-rationed magic particles. He gathers energy and expel it from his body in a shield that shimmers a faint blue. He ducks and rolls beneath the centaur blocking his way. A dull ringing sounds in his ears. The centaurs are yelling.

“Get him!”

“I will find you!”

He emerges from under the centaur, rolling across the line of blue fire he'd set, leavning him unscathed but providing a useful obstacle to the centaurs that try to cross. More screaming comes from those who do. Logan leaps to his feet. Before he can turn to face the enemy, he realizes there are more centaurs ahead. I only took two steps away - ! Logan glances around frantically - no Seraph. Just a sea of centaurs. He glances up - he is standing directly under the archway of the south gate.

By Balthazar - we’ve lost the gate - ! The extra spell he’d cast suddenly isn’t so important. Heart hammering, Logan spins around, spilling magic and energy from his fingertips to paint a blue field in the archway. Then he presses his hands to his stomach and sends energy into his adrenal glands. Exhaustion vanishes as an overpowering wave of energy surges into his limbs, nearly giving him heart failure and leaving him jittery. Logan rushes further into the garrison, dodging centaurs and swords at inhuman speed.

A centaur roars, “you will be broken!”

The world narrows to just Logan and the centaurs surrounding him - some only just realizing there is an enemy in their midst - and the flailing of swords, hooves, and tails. Everything else fades to a blur as Logan ducks, dodges, and blocks with the occasional parry.

Finally - seemingly an eternity later - Logan stumbles out of the crowd of centaurs into his men. The line opens to let him in and then closes again; Logan takes a few steps, disoriented, breathing hard, and his hands shaking. Lieutenant Francis appears out of the crowd - newly healed - and, after one look at him, leads him away from the fighting.

Logan sinks down onto a bench against the east wall. His adrenaline rush is fading - he hadn't used much magic - and he is trembling violently. Pure energy is… strong. His heart is still racing. He looks up at Francis, breathing heavily. He’d be drenched in sweat if he weren’t drenched in rain. “We… we lost the… the gate…”

“I know. What’d you do to yourself?”

“Don’t recognize… a magical... adrenaline rush… when you see one?” Logan grunts.

“You can do that?” Francis asks in surprise. "A guardian?"

Logan grins weakly. “Guardians specialize in manipulating... our own energy. All my spells... healing, fire... all energy. You’re not special just because you warriors... do the adrenaline trick more often.”

Francis smiles like he’s about to laugh, then stops. “That’s more serious for you, though - if you need energy for spells, then you just - “

Logan waves it off. “I run out of magic faster than energy. I’m more concerned about the crash after. Oooh… “ his head spins and he grimaces, leaning back more against the wall and closing his eyes momentarily. A wave of exhaustion washes over him and he sinks into it, relaxing.

Logan sits bolt upright, forcing his eyes open. “I’ll be fine. Fine.”

“You sure?”

“We just lost the gate,” Logan snaps. “I have to be fine.” His eyelids flutter.

Jennah. My love. Centaurs are in the garrison. Logan blinks, hard. Centaurs are in the Village of Shaemoor itself. For queen and Kryta. He takes a deep breath, huffing it back out through his nose. Divinity’s Reach can’t survive a siege. Caudecus, smooth-talking an audience of adoring nobles. Foul play, centaurs this far into Kryta. Logan glances back up at Francis, determination etched into his face. “Let’s go.” He shoves off the bench - steadies himself for a moment on the wall. These centaurs threaten MY PEOPLE. My country! my queen!

“Wait, Captain - “

“Yes?” Logan asks irritably. He was in the middle of something!

“The soldiers at the north gate are holding, but I think not for long. The centaur attacks there are increasing.”

Logan’s heart sinks. They’d lost the gate, now this? And he himself is in no position to be helping much. He’d just burned a lot of magic. “Any word of reinforcements from Divinity’s Reach, or further out? Altar Brook Crossing, Claypool - ?”

Francis just shakes his head grimly.

“Balthazar protect us,” Logan whispers. They're cut off; he can count on no aid from outside. He’ll have to call Sergeant Walters’ forces in Shaemoor. Civilians - more civilians - will die from this command. Well, I've already been the cause of plenty civilian death, haven't I, Logan thinks bitterly. Yet his men will die if he doesn’t give it. The garrison cannot fall. Divinity's Reach cannot come under siege. Jennah must be kept safe. Logan hangs his head in defeat. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then looks up. There's nothing he can do. “Send to Sergeant Walters for reinforcements. Tell the men at the north gate they won’t have to hold much longer.”

Francis grimaces, but doesn’t argue, which might be a little miracle. Logan had certainly done enough to not deserve the trust of his men. Francis hurries off to find… Logan supposes the next-fastest runner. He should also send a message to Queen Jennah updating her about the situation, but he can’t spare anyone. Too many of his soldiers are dying for him to spare one on a side mission. His force is shrinking by the hour.

And the civilian death toll is on his bloody hands.

He had failed, as Seraph Captain, to protect the people. In his element - on the battlefield, fighting and commanding an army - he had failed. There is nothing more to be said of it. Cruising on his personal tactical and combat ability and letting the civil, domestic affairs slack off... he clearly can't do that anymore. And Jennah's civilians deserve more than just physical protection - they deserve justice and legal protection. Something has to change. If he survives long enough to make a change. That is the present concern - the survival of Kryta.

Lieutenant Groban had been on top of his orders earlier, sending reinforcements from Divinity's Reach - but why not now? Something fishy is going on, something Logan wishes he could investigate back at HQ.

But he isn’t just fighting on a whim from Jennah anymore. His men need him - this battle needs him. Divinity's Reach needs him. Inspiration, passion, and motivation are his specialties, and even if he can’t do much magic, Logan’s presence alone boosts the confidence of his men. And he had led them into this predicament - he has a responsibility here. But he and his men need reinforcements, and there is something deeply wrong back in the city, that none had arrived yet.

Concern yourself first with the centaurs at the gate, Captain, and leave me to handle our… internal affairs.

Had Countess Anise known already? The queen's advisor and right hand seems to know everything - which is her job, admittedly.

Logan draws a shaky breath. By Balthazar, he hates this. He and his men are far too vulnerable out here alone. Kryta itself is vulnerable. But he can serve Kryta best on the battlefield, defending the city.

“Captain?” Francis is back. “Are you sure you’re alright? Adrenaline crashes are nothing to be trifled with, especially if you can’t get it back.”

Logan shakes himself out of his thoughts. “Yes, Lieutenant. I’m fine.” He draws his sword and strides toward the battle-line. The centaurs are in the garrison. He’d just summoned reinforcements away from defending civilians. And odds are this is an inside job at some level. Anise suspected an information leak. By Kormir, Caudecus will PAY. He sets his jaw and grips his sword. His men need him. He needs to show them he is fighting alongside them.

No magic for a while, though.

Logan reaches the battle line and hoists his sword in the air. “For Kryta! For Divinity’s Reach! For the queen!”

“For Kryta!”

Chapter Text

Across the Shiverpeak Mountains, in the once-human land of Ascalon, Tribune Rytlock Brimstone lashes his tail impatiently. He has only half the force he needs to take on the ghost of the human Duke Barradin - and half of the force he has isn't even Blood Legion. “Where’s Centurion Krysknife?” Rytlock rumbles to the charr behind him.

The soldiers shift nervously on their feet, claws clicking on stone, and avoid his eyes. Several of them have twitching ears. The highest-ranking charr - a Blood captain - mumbles, “I don’t know, Tribune.”

“What’s that, soldier?” Rytlock demands.

The captain clears his throat. “I said, I don’t know, Tribune.”

Rytlock snarls to himself and turns his back, glancing quickly over the non-Blood troops as he does so. Quite aside from the additional troops under Centurion Krysknife’s command, and regardless of the fact that Rytlock outranks him, things will run more smoothly if the Iron soldiers have an Iron leader to look to. And having a guardian on the team, at that.

Rytlock hates waiting on guardians. Reminds him of Logan. His replacement Blood Legion pendant shifts in his fur. Rytlock wants to claw it out and throw it away. But he doesn't, and instead turns to glower through the archway into Barradin's chamber.

At the far end, the chamber contains a coffin topped by a grandiose statue in the prideful human style. The room is shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the sickly-blue glow of the Ascalonian ghosts. No telling how many, of course - the bloody things prefer staying hidden, unformed trailings of mist drifting about.

The underground crypt is getting on Rytlock's nerves, and waiting had never been his strong suit - he thirsts for Barradin’s blood... metaphorically, of course. Stupid ghosts don’t even bleed right. Barradin and his ghost army had been sieging the Black Citadel for weeks, in enough numbers that they can’t be killed quickly enough to matter, and Rytlock is about fed up with fighting off enemies that come back a few days later. Defeating Barradin himself will, hopefully at least, cause the other ghosts to scatter.

A surge of ephemeral pain that is beyond the physical shoots through him, and he clutches at his chest in pain, claws passing through a transparent blue blade. Rytlock roars and spins around, ripping his own sword out of its stone sheath. Fiery blade in his claws, Rytlock slashes repeatedly at the human ghost until it disintegrates, then angrily slams the flaming sword back into its sheath.

Not even Sohothin kills the Ascalonian ghosts easily, and it is brother to the sword that created them in the first place!

More ghosts spring up, and the rest of his soldiers spread out to tackle them as more periodically materialize out of thin air - probably reforming from the last time they’d been killed a few days ago. What a blight on Ascalon… !

Rytlock slashes through the ghosts angrily. His soldiers fall back and let him take the killshot on each ethereal foe. Although each ghost has a different reform timer, killing them with Sohothin does cause them to take longer to reform. A day instead of a few hours, a week instead of a few days. That's a hint right there that Sohothin is linked to its brother-sword somehow, and to the curse of the Ascalonian ghosts.

Half-a-dozen charr die in the battle, but when the ghosts are cleared, there is still no sign of Centurion Krysknife. Rytlock is about ready to charge Barradin’s tomb, reinforcements or no reinforcements. They’re losing soldiers by the minute in this siege, soldiers that Black Citadel leadership - including, no, especially Rytlock - can’t afford to lose.

He fumes for a minute in silence. The ghosts don’t threaten Ascalon themselves - the charr had defeated the humans once already. But the charr fight on other battlefields, too - the minions of an Elder Dragon have been only too eager to overcome steadily weakening defenses. This - none of this would even be an issue if Logan had stayed. The brass had been keeping it from the soldiers, but Ascalon doesn't have much time left. A solution to at least one of the three major threats to the Legions has to be found, and soon. Preferably the ghosts - they're the most annoying and least beneficial to kill. A permanent solution would be... lovely. 'Till then, temporary solutions are the best to be had.

That’s why he, a Blood Legion Tribune and the feared wielder of Sohothin, is leading this mission to put a stop to this siege, and not Centurion Krysknife, who apparently wasn’t going to show up anyway -

Just then, the sound of many claws clicking on stone reverberates throughout the crypt. Rytlock doesn’t wait for them to arrive and starts speaking immediately.

“Fall in, soldiers! It’s time to remind these ghosts who’s in charge.” Rytlock is about to go on, when the newcomers - a mix of the three Legions but predominantly Blood - round the corner. They are led, not by Krysknife, but by another Iron Legion soldier, a well-armored charr with rust-colored fur and a big bulky backpack probably filled with odds and ends of machinery. No evidence of him being a guardian. Scorch it. Rytlock nearly snaps at him to ask where Krysknife is, but it isn’t relevant. This Iron soldier is in the lead of Krysknife’s forces - if Krysknife couldn’t come, he couldn’t come. He continues, “we’re going to hit Barradin so hard it’ll take him weeks to reappear! Move out!”

Fuming, Rytlock leads the way into the last chamber. As the troops separate into their warbands, that Iron soldier remains alone. He doesn’t have a warband. Krysknife had sent him a bloody gladium. A gladium to lead his warbands! Well, no - Rytlock would have to lead Krysknife’s command, on top of the others. He snarls. He’d asked for a qualified Centurion for a reason!

…but at least, Rytlock muses, pulling out his pistol and aiming for the ghosts that are charging his position, at least Krysknife sent someone, and at least that someone came. The loyalty of a charr is hard to break. Not fickle like certain humans he could name. He resentfully unloads a few rounds from his pistol into one of the ghosts, picturing it with the face of Logan Thackeray.

Now that's satisfying. The ghosts blindly charge his position, and Rytlock gladly engages them, slashing wildly with fiery Sohothin, tearing them apart, picturing each one with Logan's face. He'd destroyed any hope Destiny's Edge had of killing the Elder Dragon. He's the reason for the force of dragon minions embedded within Ascalon. He'd betrayed Rytlock's trust... Rytlock had given him his Blood pendant, and he deserted!

Rytlock slashes through the ghosts mercilessly. His allies give his flaming sword a wide berth.

A new wave of ghosts appears, and Rytlock shouts to the soldiers behind him, “dig in and stand fast!” The charr spread apart in a line, waiting for the ghosts to come to them. There’s the Iron gladium on the end of the line, wielding a flamethrower, scorching the ghosts as they approach him. He seems to be holding his own, so Rytlock ignores him and fires more pistol rounds into the ghosts as they charge, switching to Sohothin as they get inside the flaming sword’s range. A few hot minutes later, the ghost onslaught fades and, finally, ceases.

For a moment, all is still. Rytlock breaks the formation and strides toward the statue.

Immediately, more ghosts coalesce out of nowhere.

“Rally to me!” Rytlock roars, now charging, slashing with Sohothin. “Cut them down, stomp them flat.” The line of charr breaks and surges forward, ramming into the ghosts and tearing them apart. They converge on Rytlock and the loose collection of warbands face off against the ghosts as the incorporeal forms flood around and surround them.

Rytlock finds himself fighting side-by-side with the Iron gladium. He is a blur of rust-colored fur and flames. Rytlock can’t help but approve, grudgingly, of the gladium’s choice of weapon. Most charr would avoid fire as a matter of course, but this one had embraced it. Rytlock’s own Sohothin is looked at in fear and awe by other charr (something Rytlock quite enjoys), but this one joins him fearlessly.

The last wave of ghosts is defeated, but the respite is brief; Rytlock grins in satisfaction as the form of Duke Barradin coalesces in the center of the chamber, ringed by ghostly attendants and guards.

Barradin roars, his voice distorted by ethereal matter; “filthy animals! You will regret this!”

Rytlock doesn’t need to repeat his orders; the charr surge forward, some bounding on all fours; weapons flashing, firing, and slashing. Rytlock makes straight for Barradin while his troops finish off the ancient duke’s coterie of ghosts. This is his task. Rytlock bares his fangs in a snarl as he ducks Barradin’s swings and returns the favor, tearing ethereal matter from Barradin’s form in raggedy trails. The other charr surround and flank Barradin, and he is pierced by a dozen blades.

Finally, his form wavering with instability and wreathed in flames, Barradin turns and flees intangibly through the mass of charr behind him, toward his tomb and statue. The charr make way for Rytlock, none wanting to accidentally deal the final blow to their quarry.

But suddenly, the statue above them creaks, groans, shifts; Barradin’s ghost vanishes; and ghostly energy flares from the statue, from its mouth, eye-holes, and every stony joint of its massive chest. The statue swings a huge sword in one hand and a massive fist with the other, and smashes down upon the warbands, crushing and scattering them. It roars in Barradin’s ghostly voice, “I will not be defeated! I will destroy you all!”

Rytlock rises from the ground with aches that will become bruises later, and hoists Sohothin high. “You lost this war long ago!” he roars, “and we’ll kill you until you get the point!” His soldiers roar in return and charge the statue. Rytlock clambers atop the tomb, making sure to keep his claws out so as to disfigure the regal human relic, and wedges Sohothin between the statue’s stones, prying them apart.

The charr bash the stones, smashing them. The rust-furred gladium ratchets up the heat on his flamethrower. Barradin howls.

“We burned down his kingdom and buried the ashes!” Rytlock roars. “Make him remember that  day!” The day his own king turned him into a mindless, vengeful ghost rather than admit defeat - yeah, that's gotta be a pleasant memory. He yanks Sohothin around inside the statue, and Barradin roars, swinging wildly, flinging charr across the room.

Flamethrower boy dodges and climbs up beside Rytlock and then continues clambering up the statue, despite the heavy backpack with the machinery of the flamethrower. He finally reaches the top and wrestles his flamethrower around to blast Barradin in the face at full heat. A cheer comes from the doorway behind them.

Barradin claws at his face in agony and flings the gladium to the floor, where he crumples.

“Forward, Legions!” Rytlock shouts, glancing back at his scattered soldiers. “Finish him!”

There is a new charr, white-furred, barreling across the floor from the doorway, a massive sword held high, a snarl on his face. He pauses a moment next to the flamethrower-wielding gladium - hm… perhaps no gladium after all - who stirs and seems to speak, before the white-furred arrival joins the other charr as they surge forward. Rytlock turns back to the statue as they reach him, and stabs Sohothin into any available hole in the statue.

Stones are smashed, and the ghost roars in agony. Stones are dislodged, and the statue wavers. Its base is cut out from beneath it, and it falls, stones raining down around Rytlock and piling up past the tomb he stands on. He leaps out of the way, landing ten feet away on all fours as pieces of the statue continue to rain down. Last of all, Barradin’s fire-scorched head lands with a thud on the mound of the ruins of the statue.

Rytlock rears upright on his hind legs and stretches head and shoulders above the other charr, looking around at his soldiers in grim satisfaction. Flamethrower boy is getting up, and his white-furred maybe-warbandmate is hovering anxiously next to him. There is no sign of any more ghosts, and the other soldiers are gathering around, looking to him for next actions. Rytlock returns to a natural position and grins at them. “Mission accomplished. You’re heroes now, boys and girls; congratulations.”

The soldiers roar in victory, but while this battle is won, it remains to be seen if defeating Duke Barradin had ended the siege outside the crypt. Motion catches Rytlock’s eye as Barradin’s head rolls off the pile of rubble and across the floor. Rytlock frowns, realizing that the rumble from the falling statue had not stopped, and indeed is getting stronger. “Report back to Smokestead!” he barks.

“Yes, Tribune!” comes the chorus of replies.

Rytlock sheathes Sohothin, its flaming length disappearing inside the stone scabbard. Rytlock drops to all fours, and bounds towards the door, followed by his warbands. Rytlock spares a glance for the Iron soldier - that flamethrower-to-the-face trick was impressive - but he seems to have recovered nicely and is running alongside the others.

Rytlock chooses the most direct way out of the crypt, avoiding the side passages. Occasionally another ghost pops up, but each charr gives it a slash of their claws and by the time the whole column passes, the ghost is dispersed.

Emerging outside the crypt, Rytlock sees that the ghosts attacking Smokestead seem to have retreated at the death of their leader, and the charr are regrouping. Rytlock turns to his troops, grinning again. They’d done it. The ghosts are gone and the Black Citadel is safe. It won’t be overrun today, not by long-dead humans or by other foes - Rytlock envisions dragon minions bleeding out of a miles-long scar in Ascalon, and bares his fangs in a grin. The battles aren’t over yet.

But for now, Rytlock’s troops had earned their victory. “Report to Smokestead,” Rytlock repeats. The crypt collapses with a loud rumble as the soldiers salute. Aah, and maybe that ghostly mouse won’t be reforming at all. That’d be something indeed. One can hope, at least. The charr scatter, heading to meet up with their respective legionnaires and centurions.

One rust-furred, flamethrower-wielding Iron Legion soldier stays behind, frozen, staring at the entrance to what is now rubble. Now is as good a time as any. “Name and rank, soldier.”

“Howl was in there,” the soldier says irrelevantly, still staring.

Rytlock snarls. “Unless this ‘Howl’ was a ‘bandmate of yours, I want your name and rank, soldier.”

“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir.” The soldier turns to Rytlock and salutes. “I’m Vargok Hellforge, of the Forge Warband. Howl was my legionnaire.”

“I see.” It’s always unfortunate to lose a ‘bandmate, but in Rytlock’s estimation, this Hellforge fellow is decent enough to replace him. He doesn’t know the warband, though, and that’s not his call. “I assume Krysknife was your centurion?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t think he survived.”

“He didn’t,” Rytlock snorts, “if he had to send a soldier without any leadership experience to lead his troops to a pivotal battle. But you did an admirable job. I like your flamethrower; innovative, thinks outside the box. Find the rest of your warband and report to your Tribune.”

“Yes, sir!”

Rytlock turns away. Now these ghosts are dealt with, at least - for now - and the Allied Legions can focus on the dragon minions in eastern Ascalon. At least until the ghost forces recover... Rytlock stomps toward the Village of Smokestead and the gate to the Black Citadel, lashing his tail. He needs a breakthrough. There has to be some way of reversing the curse of the Ascalonian ghosts.

Or at least, some way of slowing them down. Rytlock passes warbands gathering, repairing damage, rebuilding defenses. The dragons are only getting more bold and more powerful, and with the ghosts participating in the war of attrition to wear down the charr Legions...

Well, this situation isn't tenable. Something has to change. Rytlock's research on the curse that turned the humans to ghosts two centuries ago... hadn't been going well lately. Absolutely no clues on if Sohothin could help reverse the curse its twin had cast. And the Legions don't have long left.

If only there was a band-aid solution to tide them over... something to nudge them into a holding pattern, at least...

Who am I kidding?

Rytlock has two leads, and two only: the myth, untenable and unsupported, that his sword Sohothin has the power to reverse the curse; or the proven strategy of teaming up with Destiny's Edge and Logan-flaming-Thackeray, and slaying the Elder Dragon outright.

Rytlock would take the myth.

Chapter Text

A centaur falls to the rain-soaked ground, and Logan moves to the next. This centaur holds its blade defensively and blocks Logan’s first blow. They stand, swords locked, staring at each other for a moment through the rain. Logan’s magic had been slowly regenerating, but he’d been fighting without it for a while and he is exhausted. He can’t spare much energy at this point. He isn’t a warrior - his adrenal glands can’t take too much magical overstimulation. Stop thinking negatively.

Logan spins and ducks to the left, under the centaur’s sword. He dodges away from the centaur to bring his own sword free. The centaur turns to face him.

Another Seraph soldier flanks and sinks a blade into the centaur’s side. He pauses, breathing heavily.

Logan capitalizes on the centaur’s distraction. He leaps forward, thrusting his sword into the centaur’s chest. It falls.

The soldier gives him a weary salute and lifts his eyes reluctantly to the next foe. Logan turns with him to face the next threat together.

But another centaur comes from the right. The Seraph soldier turns too slow and takes a heavy blow to his sword-arm. Logan jumps in front of him and catches the centaur’s next swing on his own sword and twists it out of the enemy’s grip. Logan sinks his blade into the centaur’s chest.

His men are exhausted. Logan had trained extensively in energy manipulation, but his men don’t all have the same luxury.

Already another centaur is approaching the man. Logan can tell that the soldier doesn’t have it in him to keep going, even if he’d had a functional sword-arm. “Get to the back and find a healer!” Logan tells him, pushing past to engage the centaur.

Logan should be able to heal him. That is one of his men, a loyal soldier and a brave one, on the front lines in this battle. But he has to save his magic, and the man isn’t dying yet. Cradling his arm, the soldier sprints back toward the northern gate, where the healers work as far from the battle as possible.

That’s another soldier out of commission. Logan fights on. A thudding boom comes from behind them. The northern gate had closed.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Francis calls, and Logan gladly disengages with the fight to hear his report. It's a risky business, stopping to rest, but a necessary one. Logan heads over to him.

“Lieutenant Hines arrived with a few extra men from HQ - she’s taken over the fight at the north gate. Centaurs from Shaemoor won’t be able to slip past her group with the gate closed - she wants you to know you can focus on the south gate.”

Logan appreciates it; he does need the space. Good woman, Logan thinks. What Francis had left unspoken hovers in the air between them. The gates of the garrison don’t open from the outside - Hines and her men are stuck outside unless someone inside opens them. “We all fight for Kryta,” Logan says solemnly.

Francis straightens and thumps his fist to his chest in a salute. Logan returns it. The two of them stay at attention for a long moment in honor of those Seraph who risk their lives.

Logan sighs. “Did Hines bring any update from the office?”

“Just that Lieutenant Groban is having difficulty gathering Seraph from the city to send to our aid. Not many are out at this time of night, and there’s red tape - regulations the Ministry pushed through ages ago about off-duty public servants and not making people work overtime. Flimsy excuse, of course, but Minister Beetlestone is insisting that troops need to be kept in the city in case you, ah, fail. For the protection of the queen."

Logan stares. "By all Six Gods! Balthazar curse him! Dwayna have sweet mercy! Grenth be just to his soul when I get done with him! What!"

Francis coughs. "Groban has apparently been going head-to-head with Minister Beetlestone himself for the last hour.”

“Good for him,” Logan growls. Truth be told, Logan would probably have punched Caudecus Beetlestone right in the face after five minutes. I hope he’s finally left behind something incriminating after all this. He turns back towards the centaurs, anger burning in his veins. Lieutenant Hines is leading a suicide mission, or as good as. His men are dying. And Caudecus is standing there, an oily smile on his face, spreading his hands innocently and claiming to have the best interests of Kryta at heart while poisoning her from the inside. “I have to punch some centaurs,” Logan announces to Francis.

Francis nods and draws his sword. “As do I.”

The night drags on. The rain pours down. Logan is exhausted. Even his training hadn’t taught him how to make do when he has no energy. His men are worse off. He takes injuries. His swordsmanship suffers. He continues holding his sword up against the centaurs simply because he must, because there is no other option. Because if he leaves, the garrison falls, and if the garrison falls, Divinity’s Reach comes under a siege that can only end one way.

And yet, despite Hines’ huge risk to protect the garrison’s northern flank, and despite the home advantage, and all the desperation and ferocity of being backed into a corner, the Seraph are losing. The centaurs keep pressing them back across the courtyard of the garrison as the rain continues to come down in torrents. Logan has no energy to spare for casting spells. Even so there are injured and dying. More fall each moment. The medics can’t keep up with the healing - they are as exhausted as Logan himself is. Even the ones that don’t need physical energy to cast spells are flagging.

Logan ducks a battleaxe. He counters with a swordstroke. Weariness rests in his bones. I wish I could've done right by the civilians all along... they've been suffering from lawlessness and banditry just because I gave up on managing the civil side of the Seraph's duties... now I'll never...

Logan narrowly avoids the sharp side of a centaur's blade. This may have been his last day. He is not done yet, by a long shot, but the centaurs show no sign of letting up any time soon. It's only a matter of time.

Logan rejects that idea. I cannot fall. Not here, not now! I am needed - there are soldiers and civilians both depending on me. I am the Champion of the Queen. I did not fight her foes on distant battlefields only to fail when they are at her doorstep! I will defend Jennah.

…I won’t let all the sacrifices be in vain. Snaff, Glint... Destiny's Edge.

But Logan struggles to live his sword. He struggles to breath. He is at his limit. Nothing can overcome the simple fact that he is long past exhausted. His magic pool isn’t much use if he has no energy to turn into heat or light or healing. Nevertheless, the renewed determination holds Logan in place. He won’t give in to despair. He won’t fall. He will keep fighting and he will overcome. He has to.

And then there is a moment when there are no centaurs; Logan meets Francis' gaze across the battlefield with only the glimmerings of understanding in his eyes. The bridge rumbles from hoofbeats. The centaurs charge across the courtyard. Logan is back to fighting his tired body to lift his sword against the enemy threatening Kryta… Divinity’s Reach… Jennah… the queen of his heart.

The momentary break had allowed the Seraph to advance a few feet. For Jennah, he whispers to himself as the battle commences. His muscles scream in agony as he forces them into motion again. For Jennah, as the pain dulls to nothing in the overwhelm of the clash and combat of battle. For Jennah, as he shouts empty words of encouragement. Centaurs fall. Tired Seraph fall. Logan’s body feels big and bulky and moves sluggishly.

A centaur looms over him, sword rising high.

Logan tries to lift his own sword to block. His arms refuse to move. Logan looks dully up at the blade arcing down at him, and wonders if this is it, if he had failed, and he will be struck down in a moment and Kryta will finally succumb, if he had failed Jennah, failed Snaff, failed everyone…

And then he moves with a jerk and blocks the blade. The shock jolts through him. He slashes at the centaur and it falls with a yell. Logan fights and destroys the foes that threaten his everything - his country, his people, his queen, and now his own life.

He tries to block a blade and fails. The weight of a centaur sword crashes down on his pauldrons. A jolt lances down his arm and leaving it tingly and numb. He manages to duck the next swing. He blocks the one after that. The centaur rears back and kicks him. Logan crashes to the ground, head spinning, a sharp pain in his chest. Above him, two centaurs raise two blades high. Then there is one centaur, one blade. Two again.

Logan shakes his head. The world spins. He tries to crawl backward. The sword arcs downward. A Seraph soldier leaps over him and crashes into the centaur, flailing with two axes.

Logan slowly, painstakingly, hauls himself to his feet. He picks up his sword where it had fallen. His savior had beaten the centaur and its body lies with those of its brethren.

"Alright, Captain?"

"Good work, soldier."

Logan steps forward to the battle again.

Logan's late brother had once said he fought like a charr - which meant he was a brutish, dirty fighter, concerned more with practicality and ruthless victory than etiquette. But Logan had taken it as a compliment; his best friend Rytlock had been a charr. Charr are skilled, ruthless, and graceful even in the face of death. And nobody can say they don't get results.

But here in the garrison, long past midnight, tired and soaked to the bone, Logan could not be said to fight like a charr; here he fights like an animal cornered, desperate and fearful.

Logan is half-aware as he stumbles through the forms of battle. He earns himself many cuts, scrapes, and injuries. Blood trickles down his face. The pain in his chest had not gone away. One pauldron is missing and the other dented. His natural healing magic can't keep up with the larger injuries, although smaller cuts and scrapes had healed quickly.

There is another break in the onrush of centaurs, Logan can't appreciate it - he barely registers Lieutenant Francis shouting. The lieutenant is ordering the northern gates open. If there are any men left on the other side, they are needed. It takes a moment for Logan to register that this won’t help. It will only expose them to centaurs from the village.

But there is an exclamation. A weak cheer rises from the men on either side of him. Logan brightens. Sergeant Walters must have sent reinforcements. The extra men will help tide them over until Groban can send real aid. Logan forces firmness and confidence into his voice, although it feels like a voice not his own. “For Queen and Kryta!”

But it isn’t Seraph soldiers who join the fight. A double handful of villagers from Shaemoor, wielding all manner of old, rusty weapons - or items not designed for combat at all - rush into the garrison. The cheer dies. Logan’s heart plummets. These are reinforcements? Untrained? Civilians? Despair creeps over him. Exhaustion settles into his bones. He finds he cannot find the will to lift his sword. There’s no hope.

Nonsense. Logan can do this - he CAN because he MUST - because Snaff had died so Logan could protect Jennah once. Logan can’t let her down now. If he fails here, Snaff’s sacrifice was in vain. Logan would have achieved nothing for it. Rytlock would have been right to condemn him a faithless coward. Logan would have the blood of not just Snaff and Glint on his hands, but also of Jennah and all of Kryta. He cannot fail here. The civilians have come, and the civilians will fight. Logan cannot lay down the sword while anyone still fights, much less do so and let civilians do his work for him.

Yet the shame of turning to civilians for help - civilians whom Logan should have been protecting - is still present, if overwhelmed by sheer exhaustion and desperation. The garrison is in no position for Logan to turn away willing aid. All are standing against the destruction of Kryta. Logan turns and trudges toward the civilians, sheathing his sword tiredly. He is met by a young woman - dressed for combat in leather armor, with a quiver and longbow slung over her back. A big brown bear paces by her side. Well, a ranger and her companion might have more than just passing skill…

"Captain Thackeray! We've come to help!"

Word must be spreading. Maybe Groban had found a loophole. But she is no Seraph. “Civilian, can you and the others fight?” The question sickens him. Civilians dying at enemy hands is one thing, even if I did leave them unprotected... having them actively participating in battle... But he has no choice.

“Some of us can, but not all,” she replies. “Some of them have healing and reinforcement magic, but other than that only my sister, my companion, and I have been in a serious fight.” It goes unsaid that all will fight and do their best regardless.

Logan nods - that is about what he’d expected. This pair and the sister might be quite capable fighters, but three is a far cry from ‘reinforcements.’ Logan wishes he had more - even of civilians. He suppresses a sigh - it’ll have to do. “We have many injured. Send those healers to the back of the garrison - we have several medics there already who could use a hand. Tend first to those who have been there longest - they’ll be most rested.”

The ranger glances at her companion. “I have no healing magic myself, sir. Beorn - my companion - does, but that’s specifically a companion thing.”

Logan blinks. Most rangers have quite good healing and support magic. “No matter, I want you on the battlefield anyway.”

She nods. Logan wonders what he did to obtain such trust and loyalty from his civilians. Certainly it wasn’t by good civil management, he thinks ruefully, and not without a touch of regret. He is seeing more and more that it was unacceptable for him to leave the civil, domestic side of Seraph affairs to rot while he gloried in his battles and victories. He'd tried to sit through Groban's lectures on legal codes and penal and appellate systems and non-criminal disputes... he really had. But he'd had a duty and responsibility to set up a system that would work instead of just abandoning it, and he'd abdicated responsibility because he was lazy, and good enough in other areas to get away with it.

He blinks, scans the battlefield again and sighs. “You and those who are willing to fight - speak to Lieutenant Francis about equipment - armor and weapons. Once you join the battle, focus on reinforcing the center - it’ll be hit hardest once the next wave of centaurs comes.” Logan grimaces, guilt squeezing his chest. “I’m sorry to put you in the thick of the fighting like that, but my men are about to collapse. Get in there and do your best. Today you defend Kryta and her queen.”

The civilian comes to attention and salutes, one hand behind her back, but instead of thumping her chest with her fist, she brings her index and middle fingers to her temple. “Yes sir!”

That is… disorienting and rather odd, but she spins on her heel and marches back to the group of civilians, shouting instructions at them. Logan catches Francis’ eye across the courtyard and nods toward the civilians.

The next wave of centaurs arrives. The ranger and another woman join the ranks, helping a little to fill in the gaps in the line where Seraph had been injured. The line falters at the centaur onslaught, wavers, steps back. Other civilians join the line over the next few minutes. Miraculously, the line holds. Barely. Not for long. The unskilled civilians fall quickly, doing nothing so much as providing a distraction for the centaurs and an opportunity for Seraph soldiers to finish the centaurs off. His stomach churning, Logan focuses on his own fight and tries to block out the civilian screaming. He had failed again. Those are his people - people he had sworn to protect. He had betrayed every oath of protection of the people he had taken when he joined the Seraph - all in one night.

But there is nothing he can do. His oath to protect the queen and her kingdom is set over them all.

Chapter Text

The new additions to the Seraph line don’t make much of an effect on the battle - at least not right away. But the civilians’ healers are hard at work, and one by one, as the darkness of night sinks deeper and deeper with each hour, healed Seraph return to the battle, replacing bone-weary and moderately-injured Seraph. With each one, the line firms.

Logan’s magic is slowly recovering - not that it is of much use, Logan is ready to collapse from exhaustion (the night had been long already, with dawn still a ways off), but he can’t. Not while the centaurs still attack. Not while his presence still inspires his soldiers to keep fighting. Not while civilians are dying. His heart twists. He hates that the civilians are dying. Each one is a huge black mark - a symbol of just how badly he’d been failing Kryta the last few years. If we fail, the centaurs will kill them anyway. At least here their deaths actually assist the Seraph. At least they signed up for it knowingly.

But it is still too far - something has to change.

If he survives this battle. (He has to survive.)

Another healed soldier joins the ranks. Logan orders him front-and-center. He goes and starts casting spells; apparently he’d been sitting injured quite a while and his magic had recovered!

Logan hadn’t thought that a few extra healers could make this difference, but they do. Another healed soldier joins the line. But civilian healers likely don’t know how to pace themselves properly, so this will hit a wall eventually. The healing will slow or stop, and it’ll be back to non-magical means of healing. Maybe the more experienced medics can take this opportunity to let their magic recover a little… their pace will be faster… Logan sighs. He can’t calculate all the things. He’ll have to take what he can get and hope for survival.

Logan sees the ranger he’d spoken to in action, and realizes that while she might not be Seraph trained, he’d underestimated the power of a fresh, lively, and skilled fighter. Maybe she’d even gotten some sleep recently. She takes down five in the time it takes Logan, in his exhausted state, to kill one. Logan is willing to bet that she’s using magic, too. Good rangers can. Her bear companion - what name had she said? Beorn? - rips through centaurs at her side, roaring.

He sees her once speaking to another civilian who must be her sister - and then he sees an identical copy of that sister. We have a mesmer! An actual, Lyssa-be-praised mesmer!

As another healed soldier joins the fight, one of the mesmer clones engages a centaur, putting up some resistance. Purple bolts dart from the head of the mesmer's staff, sinking deep into the beast's hide. It screams in pain, then swings its attention to its attacker, viciously slashing at the clone. From the centaur's flank, a healed Seraph soldier charges, sword swinging, and cuts deep into the centaur's chest, and it collapses. The clone had disintegrated into puffs of smoke at the centaur's single strike, but the residual magic diffuses in several directions, injuring nearby centaurs. One rears up in alarm and surprise, shouting for reinforcements as it glances around wildly, hair whipping in its face. Still another soldier, exhausted and badly injured, takes advantage of the distraction to deal a fatal blow.

That’s at least two casualties avoided by a single mesmer clone. Mesmers’ skills are… not to be taken lightly. And that's without taking into account their offensive capabilities.

The Seraph have noticed the clones, too - a slight boost in confidence ripples through the line. A skilled ranger, a monster of a bear, a mesmer, and healed Seraph now joining the fight - perhaps the men are just tired, but Logan had never guessed civilian support could be so useful. Although it is really just the healers and these two… Logan wishes he could send the others away, but they still need that backup. For now.

Logan is waiting for the other shoe to drop - the healers to hit their limit, one of these valuable civilians taking a bad injury - and he needs all the help he can get. But the healers slowly work through their backlog of injured, and don’t seem to be flagging yet.

There is a gap in the onrush of centaurs; the next wave is a few precious seconds away. The Seraph line presses forward, retaking ground.

The next wave arrives. More soldiers join the line, and they press the centaurs back to the southern gate. The healers finish with their backlog and move up to the front lines, rejuvenating tired soldiers. This takes more energy but less magic - which is perfect. The healers haven’t been fighting and have plenty of energy to spare.

Now Logan orders the other civilians back to Shaemoor - if they want to fight they can help Sergeant Walters, but there’s no need for them on the front lines anymore. It's almost too good to be true.

The Seraph line - plus the mesmer, ranger, and bear - advances.

A healer approaches Logan. “We can’t keep casting!” he yells over the battle.

Around them, the fight rages on, Seraph yelling energetically and engaging in robust combat with the centaurs.

“Go back then! We’ll manage until you recover!” Logan hollers back.

The healer nods gratefully and hurries off to tell the others. Perfect timing - his men are good for a while. Balthazar has smiled on Kryta today. Logan himself could use an energy donation, of course, but if the healers are spent, they’re spent. I really should’ve stopped one of them and asked for it before now, but what’s done is done.

The conflict is heated - swords swing and spells are cast. Centaurs fall with final threats and screams.

They have a moment before the next group of centaurs arrives. The Seraph rush forward, retaking ground.

They reach Seraph artillery that had been abandoned - arrow carts and cannons and ballistae.

“Man the defenses!” Logan shouts. Now they have artillery, and hopefully can hold out 'till... something changes. The gaps in the onrush of centaurs give him a spark of hope.

“Here they come!” a Seraph soldier shouts. “More centaurs on the bridge!”

They aren’t out of the woods yet - Logan’s arms groan in protest as he raises his sword - but they are close. “Maintain the pressure! We’ve got them off balance!” And all they’d needed was more healers and a few stubbornly foolish civilians. Logan can’t help but be proud of his country and his people.

But the healers are spent, and Logan is fighting his own battles - warring with bone-deep exhaustion. For Jennah, he whispers to himself as his muscles scream in agony. For Jennah, he tells himself when there is a moment of peace because the centaurs are coming more slowly. For Jennah, as he fights exhaustion and sleep and relaxation just as desperately as he fights the centaurs when they come. He will not stand down while civilians are fighting and dying for this war, his war, his responsibility.

There is a sudden break in the onrush of centaurs, but there is hardly time to think before another wave comes, fierce as ever. The Seraph fight back just as fiercely. (Logan fights to get moving again, fights with himself and sometimes he doesn’t move when he tells himself to move, and those times he faces the oncoming stampede, hands stuck to the hilt of his sword and unable to lift it until the last moment, or sometimes until another soldier steps in to defend him.)

Logan’s men fight on. The centaurs die screaming defiance. None of the Seraph are as exhausted as Logan is - those who were had fallen. If they were lucky they were only wounded and got to recover in the back for a while. They are the freshest soldiers, the quickest, the ones who kill the most.

Then there is another calm, longer than the last. Logan catches his breath. Centers himself. Resettles his grip on his sword. Eyes up, deep breaths, ready.

He can't stop to rest - can't let the adrenaline fade. He makes circles with the tip of his sword. Even that makes him breathe more deeply. The sword feels ten times heavier than usual.

The centaurs come again, but that gap had been closer than the others, and longer. Logan seizes hope with everything he has, though it isn’t much. “They’re backing off! Keep pushing!” It isn’t victory, and it is a little bit of a stretch, but after the long night spent fighting hopelessly, thinking of inevitable death, it’s like a breath of fresh wind. And yelling helps remind his body that he needs to move again.

The Seraph fight on, the battle on the threshold of the southern gate. The ranger and bear slash through enemies ruthlessly. Mesmer clones distract, divide, explode. Civilians fighting the Seraph's battles for them - but at least Shaemoor Garrison holds. If only it can hold ‘till dawn. Sunlight brings hope. …I won’t last ‘till dawn.

Logan swings through the air, letting his sword’s own weight carry it into a centaur’s neck. Logan draws it out and down, letting gravity assist him. The movement fuels his next, and that the one after it; Logan flows from form to form. He swings his blade and leans into the motion, letting it carry him through the battle. The adrenaline of battle sustains him, but Logan is acutely aware that is all he really is running on. If his body had its way he would lie down and go to sleep right here; but Logan had trained extensively in energy manipulation, in commanding his body to do his bidding. He can last a while like this.

But not ‘till dawn.

Logan sees Jennah’s face in his mind’s eye, her brows furrowed in concentration, her eyes looking into something beyond - into his memory. She had touched his forehead and poured power into him, bonding them forever. Logan can see the slight curve of her lips, the ghost of a smile. The authority of her posture, commanding magical energy - much like the civilian mesmer somewhere on the current battlefield. I’m sorry… my queen.

The last of the centaurs fall, and Logan peers out into the pitch blackness, listening hard for the sound of centaur hooves or the rumble of a stampeding herd that will be his end. He doesn’t let himself relax. The next wave will be in just a few seconds…

A few seconds tick by. Logan fights to hold himself tense and alert, ready. It is a losing battle as adrenaline fades at an alarming rate. What if they don't come...

Then there is the drum of hoofbeats on wood, and though he was anticipating it, Logan's heart drops and his shoulders sag a fraction. A lone centaur, roaring in rage, bursts into the garrison before the defenders can reform the ranks. “Must I do everything myself?” the centaur bellows, striking the first Seraph in his path before he can defend himself, and cleaves his head open.

No! - Logan reaches for his magic, but there is no energy with which to use it. Logan tries to step forward, but his limbs don’t respond - he can hardly move.

That moment of rest had destroyed him. 

Chapter Text

In her chambers, Jennah, Queen of Kryta, paces in worry, hours after midnight, having barely slept. Countess Anise, personal guard of the queen, sits on a luxuriously-upholstered chaise, hands folded demurely, eyes bright and alert, watching.

Jennah had given up trying to come up with some political stratagem to circumvent Minister Caudecus’ scheming. She’d interceded in his argument with Logan’s second-in-command, informing the venerable Minister of her position on the matter, but he would not be moved. She had spent hours with Anise, desk scattered with parchments, calculating favors she is owed from various nobles and how she can gain more - various requests she could concede to, for example - to gain a faction’s support.

Nothing worthwhile had turned up, although Jennah will ensure the law is modified as soon as she can convene the Chamber of Ministers - as soon as daylight if possible.

Caudecus has a lot of influence, but not enough to stop that. Not when Caudecus is so obviously exploiting a loophole - although why he would be so obvious is beyond her. He’s usually far subtler, but of course he and Logan have been at loggerheads since Logan was made Captain five years ago. And he’d been at loggerheads with Logan’s predecessor, Dylan Thackeray, long before that.

Loyal captains are hard to come by. It seems the Thackerays breed them well.

“What if he’s hurt?” Jennah asks Anise for the ten thousandth time as she paces in her chambers.

“Then he will recover,” comes the quiet reply for the ten thousandth time. “Logan is resilient; you know it best of all.”

Jennah returns to pacing. This is no ordinary battle, else Caudecus would not be so blatantly opposing his access to reinforcements. Something important is going on.

“It is beyond conscionable,” Jennah bursts out, “that a Legate Minister should have the power to limit Kryta’s access to military force in a time of danger!”

“Well said,” Anise says stoically.

~oOoOo~

In the Shaemoor Garrison, Logan’s arms groan in protest as he raises his sword. He is warring with bone-deep exhaustion.

~oOoOo~

Jennah fumes. She doesn’t have the support to oppose Caudecus on a matter of written law. Even now, she cannot risk dividing Kryta. Not on a whim; not on a worry. “What… what if I lose him?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper. She curls up next to Anise on the chaise, slippered feet tucking underneath her for warmth.

Anise wraps her arms around Jennah and remains silent for a long moment. “Then he will fall defending you, and Kryta, and he will have died content.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that!” Jennah cries, burying her face in Anise’s shoulder. “Is there nothing we can do to help?”

“I won’t ‘talk like that,’” Anise says gently, “if you will likewise abstain. Don’t worry - Logan will come to no harm.”

“I cannot help but worry!”

~oOoOo~

Logan fights exhaustion and sleep and relaxation just as desperately as he fights the centaurs when they come.

~oOoOo~

“You cannot send help without violating the law of Kryta. If that is a political step you feel secure enough to take…”

Frustration bubbles out of Jennah with a cry. “Oh, Anise, I cannot - !“ and she returns to pacing, up and down in the large room. “What if he’s hurt?” she asks again, plaintively. “He’s out there - fighting - without adequate troops!”

Anise’s lips curve into a rare, gentle smile. “Would you call seven against a dragon champion ‘adequate troops?’”

~oOoOo~

Logan fights to get moving again, fights with himself and sometimes he doesn’t move when he tells himself to move.

~oOoOo~

Jennah chuckles softly. “Well - I suppose - when you put it like that - “

“So, will you sleep now? You can do no more good tonight, and will do little tomorrow if you are not rested.”

“Oh, I - I don’t know, Anise. I think not. I don’t think I can rest ‘till I know he is safe. He is in danger, whether or not he has beaten it before.”

“At least lie down,” Anise urges. “Worry in your bed. Dream your dreams of him; perhaps in that you can find peace.”

Jennah reluctantly allows herself to be led to her bed, hung with embroidered drapery and gold, and lies down. She stares up at the canopy. Logan is in mortal danger. He is quite capable, of course, and had pulled out of many similar messes before, but… Jennah cannot shake the feeling of doom and despair that had settled over her.

~oOoOo~

Logan, at times, faces the oncoming stampede, hands stuck to the hilt of his sword and unable to lift it.

~oOoOo~

Jennah props herself up on one arm and looks over at Anise. “Anise, do you think - “ She pauses for a moment, struggling with words.

Anise looks at her expectantly.

Jennah opens her mouth again.

She is interrupted by Logan’s voice speaking directly into her mind. His voice is weary and labored, and resignation tinges his tone. I’m sorry… my queen.

Her heart skips a beat. No - no! Logan! He is speaking to her from his heart - as she had once spoken to his in the midst of danger. He can’t have already given up - !

Jennah scrambles and nearly falls out of the bed, sheets tangling about her ankles. Anise looks up in alarm.

“He’s calling to me,” she murmurs. “Logan is calling to me.” She scrambles to her feet, Anise helping her up. Jennah takes a deep breath and regains her composure. “Logan is in trouble. Real trouble.”

Anise’s brow creases and she frowns, confusion marring her features.

“He’s calling to me!” Jennah insists at her friend’s disbelief, glancing around for her scepter. “I have to go! He needs me!”

Comprehension dawns on Anise’s face and she nods. She had been there when Jennah bonded Logan to her. She had been there again when Jennah’s heart had cried out to Logan - and he came and turned the tide of a battle, if not of a war.
Jennah sees her shift from Anise, concerned lady-in-waiting and friend, to Countess Anise, Master Exemplar of the Shining Blade, loyal advisor, bodyguard, and right hand of the queen.

“It is late,” Countess Anise says. “My magic is spent and you are tired. What - ?”

Jennah lifts the royal iron-wrought scepter from its place by the door and turns to her advisor with eyes like steel. He’d come for her. She can do no less. “Take me to the city wall.”

Anise bows her head in acquiescence.

~oOoOo~

Logan can’t make himself move - he just stands there as the centaur throws back its head and bellows a challenge. Logan’s body had shut down. It feels good - like resting while standing up. He can’t move.

His Seraph surge forward and surround the centaur - the lone centaur - and it puts up a serious fight. Logan manages to stumble forward a few steps while the Seraph (and the trio of civilians) batter it down, some of them falling in the process.

Logan can barely stagger two steps forward when two soldiers retreat out of the fray, carrying Lieutenant Francis. Logan grimaces - this is the third time Francis has been taken out of the fight, but at least it seems it’ll be over soon.

The centaur does finally turn and - miraculously - flee the garrison.

There are no other centaurs. They’d made it. Logan allows himself to relax.

The ranger and the mesmer are running after the centaur, and some of the less weary Seraph run with them.

Logan slowly drags himself out onto the bridge. He thinks of calling them back, but if they have the energy to run and take down the centaurs’ leader, Logan isn’t going to speak against it. A smile spreads across his face. They’d done it. He’d survived. Shaemoor had survived.

Kryta will stand another day.

Logan checks his injuries - he might have a few broken ribs, from where a centaur had kicked him earlier, but that will heal. It'll be okay. Everything will be okay. He'll see Jennah again. He'll have his opportunity to make a chance.

The ambient magic stirs like a motionless earthquake - cracks creeping along the ground, but no shaking. No rumble. Just cracks quietly spiderwebbing outward in an ever-growing expanse, like something twining gently across his skin. Logan glances back at the centaur and those following it. He opens his mouth to request its capture, not death. Logan wants to question it closely.

But it is standing on the hilltop beyond the bridge, hands in the air, and surrounded by flying earth and debris... casting a powerful spell. Seraph and the three civilians are clambering up the hill towards it.

Oh, no…

But he can’t quite react to this new threat right away. He’d already relaxed. His body isn’t going to be moving far anytime soon.

The earth circling the centaur suddenly coalesces into two gigantic hands, an elemental rivaling the garrison itself for size, reaching for the sky. The centaur, standing between the two hands, gives one last gesture and topples over. The dangerous whirlwind of flying debris goes on unabated.

Logan heaves a sigh and immediately winces, putting a hand to his chest. The centaur sage’s death means little in the face of this threat, and Logan can only hope his men and the civilians can handle it. He’s useless. That elemental - possibly a greater elemental, although Logan had only ever heard of them - is probably mobile, highly ranged, nigh-indestructible, and with a mind of its own. There can be no retreat from this. Only the garrison stands between it and Divinity's Reach. A chill runs down Logan's back.

They had this up their sleeves? Scrap starving out the city in weeks - those giant hands would batter down the walls in days.

They still might. Even with no centaurs guiding it... Logan's heart races.

One of his soldiers gives a shout of fear upon seeing the greater earth elemental. "By all Six Gods," she shouts, "what is that thing?"

Logan sets his jaw. Those hands are a threat to Divinity’s Reach, Queen Jennah, and Kryta. It is his duty, and that of every Seraph, to stand between them and destruction. Logan raises his voice - about the only thing he can do - to include all the Seraph in his reply, and speaks with confidence. “That, soldier, is a threat. And we’re going to take it down!”

~oOoOo~

Jennah stares over the rampart of Divinity’s Reach at the distant, square-shaped silhouette of the Shaemoor Garrison… and the shifting, glowing mound beyond it. The wind flaps the queen’s robe about her feet. Jennah has eyes only for the something that is commanding a swirling vortex of ambient magic… right in front of the garrison Logan is defending.

Jennah’s expression firms. There is only one thing she can do. She grips her robe tighter around herself and draws herself up to her full height. “Anise, I’m going to overload it.” She draws out her scepter and holds it at her side, between herself and Anise.

Anise’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly, then nods. She steps up to stand next to Jennah and places her hand over the queen’s on the scepter. Jennah raises her left hand toward the disturbance. Anise raises her right.

Queen Jennah of Kryta summons her magic.

Her palm glows purple.

~oOoOo~

Logan can only stand there as his men hammer on the giant hands of the greater elemental... and the smaller elementals it had spawned.

Logan had failed Kryta in numerous ways tonight, and now he can’t physically move. Kryta’s welfare is his responsibility, and here he is on the sidelines not lifting a finger while his men batter on the elemental hand. In fact, he’s still forcing one foot after another, trudging toward the conflict.

But none of their efforts seem to harm it. Its sheer size shrugs off all attacks, physical and magical.

At least it isn’t moving - but the capital city of Kryta is in very real danger if it can’t be killed. There has to be some way.

Logan remembers Caithe’s words: everything has a weakness. You just have to find it. He remembers Rytlock roasting devourer tails with his sword. He might never see them again.

No! Logan shakes his head and focuses. He will live, and he won’t see Rytlock again. This elemental has a weakness, and it’s up to him to find it and kill it.

Logan’s magic thrums within his veins. It had been hours since he’d cast a spell. But all his magic is useless if he has no energy to manipulate with it.

Well… I have plenty of energy. It’s just, you know, keeping me alive right now - if barely. Living takes a lot of energy. But if Divinity’s Reach is in danger… if Jennah is in danger…

A purple bolt of magic shoots through the air and spears straight into the elemental’s magical core. It seems to shudder at the impact. The bolt leaves a purple trail behind it, pointing back to…

Divinity’s Reach. Jennah. Only she could cast a spell from this distance, much less cast and hope for it to be effective.

The purple trail hovers in the sky. Hope rises within Logan’s heart just looking at it. His queen is watching. His queen is fighting. Seraph glance up between trading blows with centaurs, only to return quickly to their battles.

The elemental begins to glow from within. Significant power must be pouring into it from that bolt, that purple trail. My queen came, Logan marvels. She came for me! She is his reinforcements in this battle. One of the giant hands begins to shake. The ambient magic quivers violently.

Another bolt soars beside the first, another purple trail. Logan’s eyes light up at the sight. The second hand trembles. The whole elemental is destabilizing. But even two BOOMA’s from a mesmer as powerful as the Krytan Queen - probably with Anise backing her up - are not enough to bring down the elemental.

Purple magic coalesces in the air near the trails. The image of Jennah shimmers into existence, standing in the air and gesturing with an iron-wrought scepter. It is a mesmer clone - insubstantial, unreal, and yet a projection of Jennah’s presence and power onto the battlefield.

Purple magic gathers around the head of the scepter. The illusion slashes. A bolt of magic, glowing so brightly Logan has to shield his eyes, soars out of it and stabs like lightning into the heart of the elemental.

The greater elemental rumbles ominously, glowing with yellow energy. The ambient magic quivers like still water disturbed - ripples circling outward, the site of impact heaving dangerously.

Logan draws a sharp breath at the sight, but the next moment he shouts, “brace yourselves, I think it’s going to explode!”

His men look up; but even as he speaks, the hand crumples upward into a floating ball of debris. The Seraph barely have time to blink at the elemental and turn away before the elemental falls thunderously to the ground. A shockwave ripples across the hill, and many soldiers stumble and fall. Huge boulders and other debris roll down the hill, freshly-churned earth falling in chunks.

Seraph shout in alarm. Others scream in pain. Some yell in desperation as their friends fall under the landslide.

Logan cannot move. He tries to step forward to help, but his whole body groans in protest.

The illusion of the queen wavers. Sways. Flickers. Alarm sparks in Logan’s heart.

Then it winks out, along with the streamers of purple. Logan stares upward at where they had been, transfixed; only one thought pounding through his head. Is she alright?

It takes no small amount of power to cast a spell like that, from that distance - Logan remembers the day, five years ago, when she had cast a mighty spell to end a battle, and perhaps a war. Afterward, she had mustered the energy to make a grand proclamation from the top of a tower, and then toppled into Anise’s arms and remained unconscious for days.

Is she alright?

Chapter Text

Jennah is… mostly alright. At least, once she’d slept… the rest of the night and then all day, finally awakening at dusk. Anise, too, had needed substantial recovery.

But after immobilizing three armies at once and summoning a convincing illusion of an Elder Dragon, simply overloading a greater earth elemental was quite manageable for the two most powerful mesmers in Kryta.

Now Jennah stands over Logan in Vanguard Hospital, who is still unconscious. His injuries are mostly healed, but it will take time for his body to recover its usual strength.

He had worked himself to the point of death, and still stayed after the battle to make sure to issue orders for the recovery of Shaemoor, and to hand off responsibility for cleaning up.

Jennah caresses his sleeping face. Her Logan, so selfless - always willing to sacrifice for the good of his people. For her. Sometimes, she thinks he should not be so willing. He has his own life to live.

~oOoOo~

The first thing Logan sees upon waking is Jennah’s face. He smiles at her almost involuntarily, and she smiles her radiant smile back at him.

His own smile grows. “How did you know?” he whispers.

“You called me,” Jennah replies softly. “Through our bond. As I called you away from Destiny’s Edge.”

Logan’s gaze drops. “I thought I was going to die,” he murmurs softly. “I thought it would all be for nothing.”

Jennah’s arm wraps around his shoulders. They sit there in silence.

Finally Logan speaks again: “I thought… Rytlock would be right. If that happened.”

Rytlock is right. Logan had left him, left Destiny’s Edge when they needed him… Snaff had died. Glint had died. The Elder Dragon had lived. Kralkatorrik is still at large. Every one of those tragedies hits Logan like a blow to the chest.

He had failed Destiny’s Edge, as he had almost failed Kryta. As he had failed Shaemoor Village.

He had never failed Jennah. Logan twines his fingers in hers. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “I love you,” he whispers.

“And I, you,” she murmurs, planting a kiss on his hair. A long moment passes.

Rytlock is wrong about one thing, though. Logan had not been disloyal. Logan had promised to come to Jennah if she needed him. And he did. He had made no such oath to Rytlock, to Destiny’s Edge. After he had fulfilled his contract to help defeat the Dragonspawn, he’d been a free agent. Kept working with the group of his own free will, and then left of his own free will.

Rytlock could call it cowardice all he wanted. He was wrong. It was loyalty.

Jennah speaks, her soft voice drawing him out of his thoughts. “And… Logan? You did all you could. Do not condemn yourself for the lives lost under your command. Or even outside of your command.”

That lifts a weight from his shoulders. Well, part of it. “Thank you.”

“Likewise… if you wished to go, to return to Destiny’s Edge, to return to saving a world greater than Kryta - I would not ask you to stay. I know you tire of the life of a courtier - you are most alive in the heart of battle.”

Jennah had said that before. But Logan could not leave her. He squeezes her hand tightly. “No, my queen,” he murmurs. “I will stay by your side.” He lifts her hand and kisses it. “When Kryta’s enemies can come to our very doorstep… I would be remiss in my duties to remain very far away.”

“Such a hero,” Jennah sighs, and Logan looks up to see a longing smile gracing her lips. “Always so sacrificial.” She glances down at him. “But I am glad. I would miss you if you left.” She smiles, one of her radiant ones that means I love you. “And I have grown used to seeing you every day. And I won’t deny I worry less when you are here.”

“And if Kryta’s enemies continue being so stubborn, my queen, then I will have plenty of battles to fight,” Logan says. “Do not worry for my happiness, Your Highness. My joy is fulfilled every day by the sight of you.”

~oOoOo~

After getting discharged from the Vanguard Hospital - on strict orders to rest for another three days, and do no strong magic for a week - Logan goes to the Thackeray family home in Rurikton, where his mother takes her turn fussing over him. She had been worried sick but also dead proud of her son for his skills; conserving his energy; swordsmanship; management of the battlefield; and of course his eventual victory.

Logan had always basked in Lisbeth Thackeray’s pride over him for his various accomplishments; destroying dragon champions as a member of Destiny’s Edge, being the queen’s personal champion, being Seraph Captain, or the numerous awards he’d been given for leading the Seraph to victory. Those are things he’d earned and claims proudly.

It’d taken him all his life to live up to her expectations, after all.

Perhaps it is just because Dylan died five years ago and she has no one else to dote over, but Logan chooses to believe his achievements are simply good enough. They are for the rest of the world - and for Jennah. Remembering her warm glow - her praise barely put into words - puts a smile on his face.

But this time, his mother’s delight makes him uncomfortable.

This time, his victory had come at a steep cost.

Civilians had died in that battle. Civilian casualties from his own negligence as well as his forces being insufficient. Worst of all are the civilians who died in active combat. Their families are going to get a personal visit from him with posthumous awards. Proclaimed national heroes, probably. Right as soon as he can get away from his mother and defy his doctor’s orders.

But his mother won’t hear it.

“Your health is of utmost importance,” she lectures him regally while the servants set out a light lunch. “You need to stop staying late at the office as it is. Take some days off! You’re a Thackeray, you don’t need to work yourself so hard.” She folds her hands delicately in her lap.

Logan frowns at the rich wood table. “I can’t. There’s much work to be done in the aftermath of the battle.”

“It was two days ago, Logan. Whatever hasn’t been done will keep.” She smiles gently at him. “Don’t get me wrong; battles are fine; delightful! Heroic! But you hadn’t really been home for a few days even before that. And for what? Office work? Can’t you leave that to your aides?”

Logan had been. That’s something he plans to change. No more late nights in Jennah’s chambers; he has work to do.

But Momo, his mother’s jungle stalker companion, curls at his feet and looks at him with forlorn eyes, and Louis, the family dog, jumps on him and licks his face, and Logan finds himself delaying his escape back to Headquarters ‘till evening. Louis and Momo had been his steadfast - and oftentimes only - companions throughout his childhood. If he hadn’t shown such an aptitude for guardian magic, Logan would have adopted a pet and become a ranger, natural affinity or no.

They seem able to tell - well, Momo at least knows quite well - that Logan had been in danger and almost died. Louis curls up next to him. Momo touches his nose to Logan and casts a low-powered spell. Rejuvenation rushes through Logan’s veins, washing some of the exhaustion away. Logan scratches behind Momo’s ears.

~oOoOo~

The next morning he finally manages to extract himself and return to HQ two days early. He walks through the Palace Gardens, still glistening with morning dew, as the sun peeks over the high walls of Divinity’s Reach.

Three days had passed since the attack, but his three best lieutenants had wind of his coming and are waiting for him as he steps in the door. Lieutenant Francis had recovered quickly from his injuries on the battlefield, and even Lieutenant Hines had survived on the other side of the garrison gate. They and Lieutenant Groban are huddled around the desk in Seraph HQ, talking quietly. When they see him, they turn and salute, gauntlet to chest, as he approaches.

Logan approaches and slides into his chair, still feeling low-energy even after his days of rest. “At ease,” he says, waving off the formality.

Lieutenant Groban raises an eyebrow at Logan. “What’s this I hear about you fighting all night straight?”

“Yeah, Logan, tell how it went,” Francis urges, grinning.

Lieutenant Hines crosses her arms. “From what I heard, our Captain here was a menace on the battlefield. Once, he stepped out of the gate and took on half-a-dozen centaurs by himself!”

“And lost the gate in the process,” Logan responds, looking at Francis. “You were there, you hauled me off the ground and lectured me about adrenal magic.”

“I tried to,” Francis corrects. “Then you got up and marched back into battle from cold!”

“What!” Groban nearly shouts.

“Wow,” Lieutenant Hines says, suitably impressed.

Logan shakes his head. “Well, I’ve been out of commission for three days since that fiasco, so hopefully I don’t have to do it again.”

Francis spreads his hands. “Hopefully won’t have to do it again, he says!” The lieutenant chuckles and shakes his head.

Logan huffs in annoyance. “Okay, I’m great and awesome. So what?” He’d dealt with this enough from his mother.

“Fighting for, what, eight hours? Without rest or an outside energy source?” Hines raises an eyebrow. “That’s not something any ordinary person can just do, Captain. Especially not with a singular use of adrenal magic.”

“It wasn’t adrenal magic, it was guardian magic,” Logan snaps. “It has its own limitations and uses, and I’m trained in that. You’re not. I’m telling you, I’m not - I’m just -“ he gives up and gestures for a moment. “I only gave it my all like every other soldier - and civilian! - in that battle.” Oh gods… the civilians. Logan’s heart sinks just thinking about it.

There is a moment of silence while Logan tries to figure out how to articulate this, his brow furrowed. Then, Francis snorts, Groban chuckles, and then even Hines is laughing and shaking her head. Francis speaks first, still laughing - “he just went hard, he says!”

Groban grins. “Don’t sell yourself short, Captain.”

“Look - “ Logan stands up. “You - “

Hines ignores his imposing figure and speaks over him to Groban, making a show of pondering the matter. “You know, this is Logan Thackeray we’re talking about. The Logan Thackeray!”

“And he’s our Captain,” Groban puts in smugly.

Something in Logan snaps. He slams a gauntleted fist on the table, startling them into silence. “We lost civilians in that battle,” he says, pinning first one, then another of his lieutenants with a cold stare. “In the battle. Dying! This wasn’t a hit-and-run centaur raid with civilian casualties. This was a military operation with civilians in it. Civilians were fighting, alongside Seraph, in a Seraph garrison, and with Seraph equipment. Civilians were dying. And there at the end, they were some of the BEST FIGHTERS WE HAD!”

Logan plants his hands on the desk and leans forward at his lieutenants. “I don’t want to hear about how I survived the battle and I did great things and I acquitted myself admirably, when I have half-a-dozen civilian homes to visit and give posthumous awards to! Fathers and sons and daughters died! Under my command! I should NOT! be giving MILITARY! AWARDS! to CIVILIANS!!"

There is silence for a moment. None of the three have a response.

After a long moment, Logan speaks again, his voice hard like steel. “We failed the citizens of Kryta. We failed as Seraph. Act like it.”

Lieutenant Hines lifts her fist to her chest in salute and murmurs, “Yes, sir, Captain Thackeray.” She holds the salute, her eyes on the ground.

Groban comes to full attention and salutes as well. “Yes, sir, Captain Thackeray!”

“Yes, sir,” Francis says dejectedly. “Sorry, sir.” He brings his fist up in his own salute, avoiding Logan’s eyes.

Logan stands back with a sigh for the dead, for his men, and for himself. His lieutenants didn’t mean any harm. They couldn’t have changed the outcome of the battle any more than he could have. Logan straightens to attention and returns the salute, acknowledging Francis’ apology.

Then he sits down. His men don’t move.

“At ease,” he says.

Francis and Hines relax, shifting nervously. Francis takes an awkward step to the side.

Groban moves to his usual position at Logan’s right hand, adjusting papers that don’t need to be adjusted. Logan may have put his lieutenants back in line, but now it is time to restore the status quo. “Anything significant happened since the attack? Hines?”

“Nothing to report, sir. The north side of the garrison wasn’t heavily assaulted, but we were pressed. My soldiers have recovered well.”

“It was a great help,” Logan tells her sincerely. “Thank you. Dismissed.”

Hines salutes and heads off to another part of Seraph HQ.

Logan turns to his most useful field lieutenant. “Francis?”

“I have my report on the battle prepared, Captain,” Francis responds. “Groban has the file. In brief, Shaemoor is shaken, but the villagers have been recovering quickly. I’ve got Sergeant Walters and Corporal Beirne heading up the recovery effort.”

It almost feels like slipping back into a familiar routine… but Logan has civilian homes to visit in the upcoming week. That, if nothing else, will keep him focused on his resolve and commitment to Kryta and her people.

Chapter Text

Tribune Rytlock Brimstone is about to tear his fur out. Scattered on his desk are various books, scrolls, parchments, copies of ancient documents, and his own handwritten notes and analyses. A thick journal of his efforts lies in the corner of Rytlock’s office, thrown in frustration.

Nothing.

No leads on the ghosts, Sohothin, or the Foefire.

The ghosts created by the Foefire are unique, as far as Rytlock can tell. There is no research on how to dispel them, unlike other sorts of ghosts.

That’s probably because I’m the leading researcher.

Fancy that, a Blood Legion Tribune being a lead scholar in any subject other than war… terrain, supply lines, troop morale, death, campaign planning, and, of course, the quickest ways to personally kill anything under the sun, lead armies, head up battles, establish sieges, and be flexible enough to respond to new threats or circumstances.

Well, his research probably falls under the category of “campaign planning.” Or “threat responsiveness.”

The ghosts themselves? Inscrutable. The sword that cast the Foefire? Unreachable. The twin of that sword?

Rytlock has run every discoverable magical test on Sohothin that might possibly interact well with the flaming sword’s magic. Possibly there are more, but they are beyond his skill (which is none), and spellcasters willing to cast more complex spells for him have busy schedules.

Rytlock also has a busy schedule.

They don’t often line up.

Nothing.

No leads on a way to deal with the dragon minions or the rebellious Flame Legion, either.

Rytlock grips the armrests of his chair, claws digging into the leather, and shoves himself up.

The charr need a breakthrough. Ascalon won’t survive otherwise.

He stomps to the window overlooking the Black Citadel. The charr had conquered Ascalon, defeated the humans, destroyed their cities, and rebuilt on top of them, yet somehow the humans are still winning.

Unacceptable.

He has their sword and access to all modern research, and yet a dead human from over two centuries ago - !

Rytlock shakes his fist in the direction of Ascalon City. Still in ruins after two hundred and fifty years, haunted by hordes of ghosts and the human king Adelbern himself, the charr hadn’t bothered to rebuild it.

Magdaer, twin to Sohothin, also lies within the crypts of Ascalon City, so close and yet so far. Disturbing the ghosts there would be a last resort, an unwise risk made out of desperation. Taking a force large enough to fight through the city would leave the Black Citadel unacceptably weakened. Not even counting the fact that the ghosts would retaliate. Harshly.

They’d barely held off the latest siege on Smokestead, led by a minor duke of the king’s estate. A siege led by the king himself?

Rytlock itches to get his hands on Magdaer - perhaps the spells and magical tests would reveal something on it - or perhaps just having it would yield some insight - but it is too risky.

Not now. 

Perhaps fifty years ago, or a hundred, when the charr were stronger…

Knock knock.

Rytlock turns. “Enter.”

Erracus, Tribune Bhuer’s assistant, pokes her head in. “Tribune Bhuer has something you might like to hear.”

Bhuer is Iron Legion, the soldiers of artillery and weapon design and maintenance. Perhaps Iron had made some innovation that would help against the dragon minions or Flame Legion. Or perhaps it’s unrelated entirely.

Rytlock needs a break from the books anyway. He follows Erracus across the hall to Tribune Bhuer’s office.

Bhuer is grinning from ear to ear. “Look at these plans, Rytlock. I got word from the maker last night that there’s a working prototype.”

Rytlock studies the blueprints. He gets the general idea - a specialized rifle of some sort - but he doesn’t know most of the Iron Legion’s internal telemetry. “What is it?”

“The maker calls it the Ghostbore Musket. Good for fighting against ghosts. Reminds me of your sword, actually.”

Rytlock flicks an ear and his eyes narrow. "Really? A fire-based weapon?"

"Oh no, no, nothing like that. It's charr tech, very little magic - it stops the ghosts from reforming."

"Oh." Rytlock relaxes slightly. Not a challenge or... replacement for Sohothin, then. It would just commoditize one of the sword's useful side effects. “Do you know for how long?"

“Supposedly for weeks.”

Rytlock’s eyes widen. His tail twitches. “That’s marvelous indeed. Who came up with this?” 

“I believe you’ve met him. Vargok Hellforge, of the Forge Warband. He’s a legionnaire now, too.”

“Ah, the soldier with the flamethrower.” Likewise, flamethrowers are no threat to Rytlock's fame as the Sohothin-wielding charr.

“Perhaps. I’m not familiar with him personally - yet, at least. Seems quite your style if he does, though! He’s an excellent engineer regardless. I’ll certainly be taking an interest in him. I think we all should.”

“Smodur’s eye, yes!” Rytlock growls. “With that kind of an advantage over the ghosts, we could focus on the dragon minions!”

“And the Flame Legion,” Bhuer rumbles dangerously.

That brings Rytlock up short. “Smodur’s eye, the Flame Legion are probably nervous as grawl right now. They’ll want to put a stop to that weapon as soon as possible."

"Well, we can't let that happen," Bhuer grins. "We'll keep it under wraps as long as possible… and then keep it under guard."

Rytlock nods. "Dragon minions and ghosts might be mindless, but the Flame will fight back. Adapt tactics.”

“Yeah,” Bhuer grumbles. “They’re no strangers to sabotage, either.”

“That’s your problem,” Rytlock jibes. “Your machines can be destroyed. Iron can melt. The instincts of a battle-trained Blood Legion charr? Unsurpassable.”

Bhuer flicks an ear. “You gotta get up close for that. Flame’d singe your fur right off, and kill you too, without blinking. You do that if you want, Iron Legion will shoot safely from the back lines.”

“Cowards.”

“Idiots.”

Knock knock.

Bhuer shoots Rytlock a grin. “Enter,” he calls.

The rust-furred Iron Legion not-gladium soldier enters, holding a rifle instead of a flamethrower. His warband remain outside the door, staring wide-eyed. His very small warband. Rytlock narrows his eyes. Nine? What kind of a ‘band is that?

“Ah,” Bhuer says, clearly delighted. “Here’s my new up-and-comer now. I was just telling Tribune Brimstone about you. Nothing good, of course.”

Rytlock rolls his eyes and speaks to Hellforge. “Don’t you believe it, soldier. In fact, Tribune Goreblade was bragging about some special weapons project you’re heading up.”

Hellforge nods at Rytlock nervously and addresses Bhuer. “I have an update on that, sir. I’ve built a working prototype of my Ghostbore Musket. I’ve also arranged a weapons test.”

“Very good,” Bhuer muses.

“B-but, there’s a problem, sir,” Hellforge adds. “I’ve seen the Flame Legion twice inside the Citadel. First, they were after my plans, and then they showed up at the scrapyard to ambush me. They want my weapon, and they want me dead.”

Hm, a scrapper. A diamond in the rough, then. And even the Flame Legion knows it.

Bhuer snarls. “Flame? Inside the Citadel? Grr. That steams my ears. How did they find out about your weapon design?”

Rytlock interjects; “I told you, Bhuer, the Flame commanders are nervous. If this musket makes ghosts take longer to reform, we’ll need less troops to fight them.” He’s speaking as much to Hellforge as he is to Bhuer, of course. This guy needs some Blood training. “If that happens, Smodur will allocate more soldiers against the Flame Legion, and we’ll finally wipe them out. Mind if I watch the weapon tests?”

Bhuer grins. "Sure. Just stay behind the gun this time, Brimstone." That gets a snort out of Hellforge. Bhuer goes on, "and I'll invite Tribune Desertgrave, too. She'll want to see this."

It means something that Bhuer had let Rytlock in on this before letting the Ash Legion in.

Inter-Legion politics are always complicated.

At least the ghosts will get taken care of. And the Flame Legion. Then they can focus on the dragon minions.

The test is at Duke Barradin's old estate - still filthy with ghosts, of course, just staying out of their way for now. Rytlock grins toothily. The tide is about to change.

~oOoOo~

Duke Barradin's estate had once been a sprawling villa from the time of humanity in Ascalon. The duke had been buried beneath it when he died fighting the last charr invasion, and his ghost had lived on - in a manner of speaking - down in the crypt until it collapsed two days ago.

The weapons test in the ruins of the estate follows all the usual protocols and is, in fact, relatively boring.

That's always good news, of course. At one point Hellforge even comments to one of his 'bandmates that he still has both paws attached. Other than that, the warband seems strangely subdued. That may be due to being babysat by three Tribunes, of course.

Rytlock's mind wanders to the Battle of Smokestead two days ago. Although Barradin's ghost essence can't have re-formed already, Rytlock finds himself wondering what the ancient human will do now that his crypt has collapsed.

The other ancient human ghosts - possibly in life they were soldiers, servants, or family - are in the process of getting lured out and slaughtered by the test of the Ghostbore Musket. The ghosts fall quickly, quicker even than Sohothin can do it, so that's significant progress for the Legions.

While Hellforge confers with Bhuer, Rytlock envisions sweeping the plains of Ascalon with fire that puts ghosts down for weeks. That Musket will work wonders in the hands of Rytlock's Blood Legion warbands.

Suddenly, he realizes Hellforge is speaking to him. "Tribune Brimstone, would you like to accompany us further into the ruins? We could compare the musket against your sword."

Rytlock frowns. Sohothin is special, and while it's uniqueness can't be diminished by another weapon dispersing ghosts for longer, the idea that it could be in direct competition with Sohothin like that… it's not really a mindset he wants to encourage. "Not now. The important thing is that this is technology we can replicate and equip soldiers with en masse. And… nothing personal, Legionnaire… I may have fought beside you once before, but I haven't seen your inventions yet. I'd prefer to start with one that's tried and true."

"Hm," Hellforge says. "Alright, sir…" he turns away.

Rytlock's tail twitches. "You have something to say, Legionnaire?"

"Oh!" Hellforge doesn't seem to want to answer, but he won't refuse a direct request from a Tribune. "I - er - well, you seemed pretty impressed with Scorchy, too. Uh, my flamethrower."

"Ahh, fair point." Rytlock considers. His interest in this soldier is piqued. He's already thinking up ways to implement the Ghostbore technology in Blood Legion ranks.

He side-eyes Torga Desertgrave. The Ash Legion will want to use this tech, too. Might be best to get an in with the maker.

He glances back at Hellforge. "You want me to accompany you?"

"Sir, I'd be honored to have your company on a field test."

Rytlock grins. "Well, when you put it like that… fine. I'll come with you. Heh. It'll be fun."

The kid didn't ask any of the other Tribunes, and for a moment Rytlock wonders why… but there are many reasons. Rytlock is Blood Legion, a legendary frontline fighter and the famous wielder of Sohothin, and they are not. Rytlock had already fought beside Hellforge once, too.

And perhaps… he's simply a fan.

Rytlock doesn't really care. It's just nice, after all, to have someone who's not… afraid of him or Sohothin, but who still has a proper respect. Unlike Logan. Hah. The number of times Logan had tried to take Sohothin from him, 'because it's a human sword' - well, it had gotten them into more scrapes than it got them out of, that's for sure.

They head into the ruins of Barradin's estate, with the goal of stealing a ghost torch from the center, alit with a transparent, sickly-blue flame, to prove the Musket's success. 

The Ghostbore Musket in Hellforge's hands takes only three shots to disperse a ghost. Consistently. Ghost after ghost, scattered to the winds.

It’s amazing.

Imagine what it could do inside a Blood Legion cannon? High-powered, long-range, scatter-shot - ooh, or machine-loaded rounds… Rytlock envisions taking out many divisions of ghosts at once… establishing a dead zone around the Citadel… hah, dead-zone… pushing out into Ascalon and claiming it undeniably as charr land at last…

Hellforge's warband is quick, quiet, and efficient as they fight to the center of the ruined estate, ghost essence dispersing in their wake. 

Rytlock can't get in more than two swings with Sohothin before his target is annihilated by the Ghostbore Musket, and he finds himself fighting an irrational anger and frustration at the musket's effectiveness compared with the legendary human blade.

Sohothin is undeniably special… and owning it has made Rytlock undeniably special for quite some time. But this is no threat to him, so Rytlock pushes the anxiety aside and battles on in silence, keeping his thoughts to himself.

As promised, Hellforge steals a ghost torch in the center.

Aha, that unlocks his warbandmates’ muzzles. They gather around the torch, exclaiming over it and bragging as Hellforge heads out of the ruins. 

One comment catches Rytlock's ears; an older female charr points out with a half-grin, "bet Howl wishes he had one of these muskets, eh?"

The name isn't familiar to Rytlock, but all four of Hellforge's ears droop, and he speaks gravely. "It wasn't the ghosts that got Howl. It was disobedience of a direct order."

There is silence after that as the warband marches out of the ruins, and Hellforge presents the torch to the other two Tribunes as proof of his weapon’s success. Even they exclaim over it and over the Ghostbore Musket.

Clearly neither Iron nor Ash had pushed into a ghost ruin before. At least not with enough competence to spare an eye for ghost tech. Rytlock is more interested in the musket than the torch - it packs a punch while killing ghosts as well as in keeping them dispersed. That… does give it a leg up on Sohothin any day. Not that Rytlock would say so.

Bhuer is gushing, “…exceptional work, Legionnaire. Iron Legion is mighty proud. You’ll get a commendation for this, I promise you.”

Rytlock snorts and butts in. “A commendation… and a roll-out. Blood Legion’s already got ideas how to put your upgrade to use.”

Quite predictably, Torga speaks up immediately. “Hold on, Brimstone. Ash needs that weapon more than your bruisers.”

Bhuer grins at both of them. “Ha! Too bad it’s not your decision. Iron built the weapon, so Iron will make the choice.” Then he turns to Hellforge. “Legionnaire?”

Ooh, game on, Bhuer. The game is clear: three Tribunes fighting for the favor of an unknown scrapper warband. Unconventional, but Rytlock had always thrived on unconventional. At least, if our new favorite legionnaire can handle the attention.

Hellforge frowns, glancing between Rytlock and Torga. “I’d need to see what Blood and Ash have in mind before I decide anything.”

Rytlock’s ear twitches. Inside, though, he’s grinning from ears to ears. This kid knows how to play. This’ll be fun.

Chapter Text

Logan nods as Lieutenant Francis finishes his report. “Thank you, Francis. Keep up the good work. Dismissed.”

Lieutenant Francis salutes, turns on his heel, and marches out the door with perfect form, heading back to his post in Shaemoor.

“Alright, Groban - “ Logan turns to face his lieutenant, his second-in-command, his best advisor and a veteran of the Seraph. Logan drops the mask he shows to most of his officers and lets Groban see his frustration. “What happened up here?”

Groban puts down his papers and sighs. “I don’t know, Captain. I sent fast runners to Altar Brook Crossing and Claypool for reinforcements, but I never heard back. I thought they’d made contact with you in Shaemoor, but it wasn’t until after the attack I realized the outposts never got our runners. Their bodies were discovered on the roads. Centaurs.”

Logan scowls, his hands curling into fists on the desk. “By Lyssa was it centaurs,” he hisses vehemently. If it was centaurs he’d eat his sword.

Groban shrugs. "Arrows of the Tamini tribe were found on the bodies. It's likely the runners didn't even see them. Speaking of centaurs, I've sent scouts to track the centaur force that was at the garrison. We should get their report in a few days."

"Days?" Logan asks in disbelief. "You mean to tell me that the Kingdom of Kryta could be vulnerable to another attack like this one for the next few days?"

Groban sighs. "It's a long way to the Harathi homeland, Captain. But to be honest, I don't think that's as much the issue as is our ability - or lack thereof - to access our troops in the event of an attack."

Logan sighs. After a moment, he nods reluctantly. If it's out of his hands, it's out of his hands. That was one good thing he'd learned in life. His parents had never blamed him for things out of his control.

Groban continues, “after my runners left, I tried to get more reinforcements from within the city while you were in Shaemoor, but I was obstructed at every turn. Minister Caudecus really puts a lot of effort into, ah, ‘defending the queen.’”

“The beloved minister would do better to leave Seraph troops at the discretion of Seraph officers,” Logan mutters. “I didn’t see him volunteering any Ministry Guard. I’d bet my left gauntlet he was involved in your runners not getting out. Somehow.”

Groban glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Treason is a serious charge, Captain. He did seem to be acting to protect the queen, if misguidedly. Using legal matters to back up his tactical opinion.” He shakes his head.

Logan scowls again. “You think he was just honestly naive about the situation?”

Groban shifts his papers and doesn’t answer.

Logan sighs. Groban had seen as much of Caudecus’ treachery as Logan had, but he’d never been willing to say the quiet part out loud. “You mean… he didn’t say anything prosecutable?”

“No, Captain. He’s too cunning for that.”

Logan growls, at least as well as he can for not being a charr. It’s hard to call any noise a human can make a growl after he’d spent a year with Rytlock. “It sickens me that he’s a Minister, but I’d have at least thought he’d value keeping the current political system in place. Instead he lets Divinity’s Reach get nigh-overrun! And I can’t see the centaurs promising him more power than he has now over whatever nation they want to set up in Kryta’s stead.”

“We have no proof he’s actually a traitor,” Groban points out cautiously. “I’d like to think he’s above consorting with centaurs, at least.”

“So would I,” Logan mutters. “But he’s a slippery snake, and he’s always covered his tracks well. I can only hope he’s extended himself too far this time.” Logan shakes his head. “Well. In any case, your runners never reaching the other outposts explains a lot.”

Groban nods. “Yes, that was a disaster. Once I realized Caudecus wouldn’t budge, I looked for loopholes in the law instead. I started with the families of deceased Seraph - most likely to have the ability and motivation to defend Kryta - and informed them of the predicament and asked for their aid. Caudecus’ precious regulations only said I couldn’t disturb off-duty public servants - didn’t say anything about regular civilians. Not like I could compel them to do anything anyway.”

Logan nods. “Good thinking.” He himself had joined the Seraph after his brother had been killed in service. He looks at the report Francis had given him, skimming it until he finds what he is looking for - the names of the mesmer and ranger that had aided the Seraph. “Were a Tiffany and Fiona Saryrn among them?”

Groban snaps his fingers. “Ah, yes! The Saryrn family has had members in the Seraph for decades. They were one of the first ones I went to. Andrew Saryrn attained the rank of Corporal during his time… and one of his granddaughters - disowned child of a noble, in fact - served most recently in the Screaming Falcons division… ah, well, anyway,” Groban interrupts himself, clearly self-conscious about his rambling. “I went to the Saryrn home and Tiffany and Fiona - half-sisters of the granddaughter - were quite willing to lend a hand. I trust they served well?”

He’s such a nerd, Logan thinks affectionately. Outwardly, he nods. “Yes, the Saryrn sisters were some of the most effective soldiers we had once they arrived. They and the other civilians saved Shaemoor. You did good work, Groban.”

Groban smiles at the praise. “I only did what I could from here, Captain. Anyway, when Francis delivered his report yesterday, I took the liberty of looking through it. If you’re interested in the Saryrns, well… they’ve been helping out in Shaemoor quite a lot. Admirable, really - making the rounds and helping villagers get back on their feet. Reuniting families, helping repairs, doing odd jobs to help people get back on their feet, even providing some healing… then Francis was telling me they’ve apparently struck out into the fields. And the villagers have started calling them the Heroes of Shaemoor.”

The corners of Logan’s mouth twitch slightly. “They deserve it. Hand me that report.”

~oOoOo~

Paying visits to deceased soldiers’ families is never an easy ordeal. Soldiers’ families await that news with dread every day, and hurts no less when the Seraph Captain shows up at their door. But the civilians…

Logan usually manages to stop the enemy before they reach towns and villages. Or at least evacuate them beforehand. The centaurs this week had appeared out of nowhere. The possibility of more arriving still hovers in his mind like an itch on the back of his neck. When those scouts report back...

Logan shakes himself and raises his fist to knock on the door in front of him. This is the home of Kiert Sens, who had lived with his sister.

The woman who opens the door bears a resemblance to the man. “C-captain Thackeray!” she exclaims. “What - oh.” Her expression falls.

Logan takes a deep breath. “Katherine Rigali nee Sens? Can I come in?”

“Y-yes, of course - I’m sorry - “ she opens the door further. “Kiert was my brother. I - he -

“Yes. I’m sorry. He fell bravely in battle.” Logan follows her into the house.

The living room is decorated with pictures - of Kiert, and Katherine, two children, and a man who must be their father. A corner holds a dollhouse. Kiert is laughing in the pictures, throwing a child into the air. The hearth is well-worn.

A man - the father - enters the room.

Katherine says, “Richard - could you go make sure the children stay out of the way?”

“They’re with the Saryrns today,” Richard says quickly. “Captain Thackeray - please, sit down. I’m Katherine’s husband.”

Logan sits reluctantly. The Rigalis sit across from him. “Mrs Rigali - your brother - “ 50% of civilian participants in the Battle of Shaemoor are deceased - “bravely volunteered to help defend his home. He is a hero.”

Katherine already has her face buried in her husband’s shoulder, clinging to him.

No award can make up for a life lost. The couch beneath him has an extremely long thread pulled out - likely by a child. A child now missing his uncle. Logan forces himself to go on. “The Kingdom of Kryta wishes to… posthumously bestow one of our highest awards… “ Logan carefully unwraps the package he’d brought. He hands Mrs Rigali an engraved amulet pendant.

Kiert Sens
Defender of Shaemoor
- Hero of Kryta -
fell in service, 1325

Katherine takes it, weeping. Richard holds her close, his face also wet with tears.

None of this can make up for the loss. None of this can make up for his failure. None of this can bring a loved one back. Logan forces words out, his own eyes stinging. “It says he fell in service, but… Kiert was no Seraph. He was a civilian - a citizen of Kryta - one of those that I swore to protect when I became Seraph Captain. I failed.” Logan closes his eyes. It hurts to admit, but Kiert Sens deserves no less. He would not have died if Logan had done his duty. Logan takes a careful breath, trying not to let the Rigalis hear the tremble in his voice. "He could have stayed home and waited, but he came out in defense of his home, his people, his country. He is and will be honored like one of our best.”

There is a long moment of silence for the fallen man - brother, uncle, friend.

“He did it for the children,” Richard says softly.

The couch thread tickles Logan’s leg. He offers a tortured smile to the bereaved family.

~oOoOo~

The rest of the day is likewise. Family after family, grieving, hurt, their worlds shattered. Civilian families don't expect death to come knocking so suddenly.

Logan empathizes deeply. He’d lost his own brother, who’d been Seraph Captain before him. No matter how much you know it could come any day… no matter how much you expect it… it’s awful.

Logan had at least had last words with Dylan.

These villagers…

Logan couldn’t have done better. He did all he could. But still there is pain.

Their grief mirrors his own.

Their tears tug at his.

Their regret waters his remorse.

He sees the homes, the houses, the families. He sees the love they had their for those lost. Each one is unique. The inside of a house is personal. Trinkets, pictures, tools of trade and passion, signs of the lives of those who dwelt there. Lives that had once been intertwined, now torn apart by death.

Like Destiny’s Edge, shattered by Logan’s decision to leave, Eir’s decision to press forward, Glint’s sacrifice, Snaff’s death.

Every battle causes grief. Every death causes pain. It never fades. It reminds Logan of all there is to be protected. Reminds him of his duty.

“I failed” does not come easier after the dozenth time he says it. He failed. And he doesn’t know when or if he might fail again. He can’t be counted on anymore.

Rytlock’s voice echoes in his head: you left. I should never have counted on you. Logan pushes it aside. He had done his best.

He leaves each home both burdened by responsibility and encouraged in his duty - his responsibility to at least try.

But then… there are those who lost loved ones because of Logan’s own command.

Centaurs had galloped into Shaemoor and killed indiscriminately. Helpless civilians whom Logan had actively chosen not to protect. Krytan citizens caught off guard because Logan didn’t warn them of the very real danger so near their doors.

There are no awards to assuage the pain. Logan can do nothing for them. Civilian deaths happen and they are grievous. But these… these came about because of Logan’s assurance that all would be well.

And they know it.

People avoid him in the street as Logan goes from house to house, ducking their heads and hurrying past. Others stare at him as they pass, haunted… or accusing. Others scream at him.

“You killed my husband!”

“It’s your fault my cousin is dead!”

“My child!”

“How can you live with yourself?”

Every word, every accusing glance, every civilian hurrying away - it gnaws at Logan’s soul. He would rather the dead themselves rose up in condemnation. The grief of the living is too much. He marches through the street, straight-backed, unable to block it out.

I failed. I failed. I failed. I failed.

They’ll never trust me again.

Like Rytlock.

They can’t rely on me.

They’ll never support me.

Jennah can’t depend on me. I’ll never be able to support her.

The thousand-year-old centaur war is unwinnable anyway.

I’ll never be able to keep her love.

Maybe I should leave.

Memories of his parents doting on Dylan while Logan was left to wander through the Thackeray mansion by himself cascade through his mind. His parents giving him the cold shoulder as punishment for a bad report from his tutor. Dylan, too, had been shunned for bad behavior… but Dylan had learned how to do better.

Logan was never good enough, until he grew up and moved away and… eventually became a hero. Heroism found him, rather. Did I really even deserve the accolades I got as a member of Destiny’s Edge? Even Rytlock had walked away when Logan failed.

Now, at last, he’d failed Jennah, and grievously. He should leave Kryta and go… out. Somewhere. Anything would be better than sticking around and watching Jennah’s love fail.

Coward. Deserter. Traitor. Running away again, Logan?

No.

No no no no no.

Logan had left Destiny’s Edge because he absolutely had to. Jennah had needed him - had called to his heart across miles of sand and desert. Snaff had died so Logan could protect Jennah. For Snaff - for Rytlock - for Zojja - Logan won’t abandon his duty. He will stay with Jennah. No matter how painful it gets.

No matter how much he misses the victories and celebrations. No matter how much he misses his old friends. No matter how much he misses even Rytlock… well, the old Rytlock, at least.

The new one hates his guts.

Jennah does not… yet.

Chapter Text

More reports trickle in over the next two days, while Logan strives to shore up his weaknesses as Seraph Captain. He asks Groban to teach him the intricate file system he’d made for Seraph records, which thrills the older man.

Logan spends those two days with a whirlwind of information spinning through his brain - how to figure out what documents he’s actually looking for; how to find it and why; reports about the Saryrn sisters; reports about the wellbeing of Shaemoor; how to store records, files, and reports based on whether they’ll be needed again and what kind they are and whether they pertain more to this or that part of the structure; or what they do, or did do, or will do; various reports on the war efforts further out, which Logan attends to with keen interest; memorizing key people (North, the name of Shaemoor’s mayor, is burned into Logan’s memory), the residences and jurisdictions of various ministers, nobles, and public servants and officials; the details of the chain of command; what the duties are of the three different lieutenants in Shaemoor, which are different at different times of day…

All in one ear and out the other, except for the sparse details about the Saryrn sisters - the Heroes of Shaemoor - who have continued to be the talk of the village, including the Seraph stationed there.

THE REST OF THIS CHAPTER IS DOWN FOR MAINTENANCE (aka editing)