"I will confess my sins here. I am responsible for the fall of the Blyth Clan, the last of their bloodline being reduced to a broken man that once called me brother."

"Three ticks before we arrive," a man called from above. James craned his neck to the ravensnest, seeing how the man peered over to call down to Villtur.

"That's two ticks sooner than I expected," Lukas muttered, the Jarl looking up at the sky.

"Winds must favor us, friend!" Dimitri called from the rear. "Must be a good omen."

Somehow, James doubted it. He stood up from his spot on the ship, stretching his legs as he walked over to where Lukas stood. The other Jarl saw him coming, his brow raised as James got close.

"Having doubts?" Lukas asked, cutting off James' initial question.

"What do you think?" James asked. "What happens if they spot us coming?"

"They won't," Lukas said simply. "At least, not until it's too late."

"What makes you so certain?" James asked.

"Hard time trusting, I see."

"It goes both ways, Lukas," James responded. He looked at the other Jarl. "I'll start trusting when this goes off without a hitch." That earned a couple looks from the men around them, their gazes drawn to the Outlander. James didn't care.

"What are you suggesting?" Lukas asked.

"You know exactly what I'm suggesting," James murmured. "There's more to what you're hiding, isn't there?"

Lukas looked off to the sea, hand carrying a sundial. "You want your revenge, don't you?"

"I want the truth," James said.

"You'll get it after we're done here," Lukas responded. "I promise."

James held back a comment, his gaze turning to the men watching. Nearly all turned away in return, avoiding eye contact. James sighed and headed back to his spot by the main mast, his hand idly resting on his sheathed side sword.

"We won't have long until we arrive," he muttered.

"I have ears," Naomi said, her lone eye-opening slightly as she napped.

"I wasn't talking to you," James said to her, his finger tapping at the side of his head. Naomi just stared at him.

"I don't think you know how crazy that makes you look," she pointed out.

"Just shut it," he sighed before sliding down into a sitting position. Then, to himself, 'We'll have to keep tabs on Lukas from now. Make sure he's not going to try anything.'

'You're still on this?' Faust asked. 'I thought we were past this.'

'It bothers me, okay?' James admitted. 'I'm not going to just trust him out the gate, even with what he told me.'

'I can see your reasoning,' Faust muttered. 'But we should do our best to remain unbiased. There are too many moving pieces, too much going on, for us to confront anyone. When Yorktown is safe once more, then we shall investigate.'

James nodded idly to the Centurion's words, his arms crossing as he closed his eyes.

'Faust,' he thought, changing the subjects. 'What happened to you during my recovery? Back when I was…'

'I was reliving my life,' Faust said softly. 'At least, the months before my eventual death. I remembered things from that time and recalled the smaller details that were lost in my return. I… have all my memories back.'

James blinked. 'All your memories?'

'Yes. And I wish I didn't,' Faust revealed. 'I was a different man back then, James. Someone who was nothing more than a hound let off his leash. And even then, I broke out of it just to inflict more pain. In a sense, I'm no better than Gryff himself.'

James frowned at that, his thoughts going back to the glimpses of the Centurion's life. Back when he and Faust were first getting used to each other. Those glimpses showed a man who was hungry for the next battle, ready to tear out the throats of any who dared get in his way. From the men he killed during his final battle to his fight with Lumen Knight Leonard Kord, who was brutalized in what was supposed to be an honorable duel.

The Centurion in those visions was a terrifying warrior. Yet the Faust that James had gotten to know was entirely different. His initial days were, of course, full of curses and anger, but Faust had mellowed out over the course of a year. He was a different person almost now, a man who advised and assisted. A friend who wanted James to live a life that he had never experienced.

"You're not the man you used to be," James said softly. "I'd say you've grown from that."

'Do you believe that?' Faust asked. 'Truly?'

James looked down at his chest, where a wound once lay. A terrible wound that threatened his life. Now, it was reduced to a faint scar, no longer a threat to him. Just a part of his body. In some ways, that was how he felt about the Centurion.

"Well, if you got your memories back," James said. "And you're still the man I knew from before, then yes. I'd say you've grown past your destructive self."

Faust was silent for a moment, James feeling how his emotions stirred deep inside. While he couldn't fully grasp what they were, he had a decent guess.

'Thank you,' Faust said finally after a few long seconds. 'For putting up with me. For being a friend.'

"Don't mention it," James said with a slight head nod. "I've dealt with worse roommates before."

'I've seen,' Faust joked. 'I'm quite the upgrade, aren't I?'

James smiled at that, his eyes closing as he finally allowed himself to rest for the first time in days.

Silas huffed as he loosed an arrow, the projectile whistling as it flew toward a captain. It struck him with a resounding crack, the sound echoing in the forest as Silas watched the orc's corpse fall in a slump within the barbed wire. Archers ahead of him loosed their arrows at the same time, a mix of human and orc projectiles striking against raiders who were also stuck within the field of razor-sharp barbs.

Soon enough, the field was cleared of them, leaving only corpses as a result. They didn't even reach the trenches.

"Good grief," a human muttered nearby. He pushed up his bucket-like helmet, eyes wide as he looked upon the remnants of the first wave. "That all of them?"

"Don't be foolish," Silas said. "Blood-Irk will send more soon. Be prepared for reinforcements."

"Yes sir, of course," the human said with a curt nod. Silas turned from him and headed toward the group of orcs who were finally arriving from Yorktown. Gruk was at their lead, carrying a sack of spears and war arrows.

"You finally came," Silas called as he hurried to meet them. "Prepared this time as well."

"Figured you might start loosing arrows the minute we heard about the attacks," Gruk said. "We got what we could, as much as we were allowed, of course."

The gruff orc set down his pack, his hand waving for his group to do the same. Silas looked into each of them, checking their inventory.

"It's not much," Gruk admitted. "Time wasn't really on our side these past weeks, what with the trench digging and lookout increase."

"It'll be enough," Silas said as he checked the last bag. "We will have to conserve, of course."

"Throwing heavy rocks, right?" Gruk asked. Silas nodded. "Good thing we have those in spades, thanks to the amount of digging we had to do."

"Just hold them at bay from a distance," Silas said. "We'll have to avoid direct conflict at all costs."

"I know that already," Gruk muttered. "I'm an old blood, Silas. Passed my prime ages ago. Still, you might need to hammer that into the heads of the others." He pointed toward the other orcs, who were all distributing arrows and spears. "They're more used to hunting monsters, but they still have that thrill. You know the one."

"I know it well," Silas said. He idly felt at his War Bow, which was slung over his shoulder. "What do you suggest?"

"Keep them to the rear, have them supply and gather stones," Gruk advised. "I don't want them to be too close to the frontline. Not that I mistrust them. Just…"

"Just in case," Silas finished. "In case they get the urge to run in like a bunch of dolts."

"Yeah, that," Gruk said with a wave of his hand. "Just make sure to not keep them back for too long. Young bloods have the temper of a leviathan in laying season. Keep them from the action too long, and they'll start doubting you."

"Understood," Silas said. He turned to Gruk, who went to sit down on one of the many tree stumps nearby. The old orc didn't look much his age until he went for a rest, his body sagging like a puppet put back on the hook. His silver hairs became noticeable, and his wrinkles were more pronounced. An old blood, rare to Silas' people.

"So," Gruk muttered. "You gonna tell me the real truth?"

Silas raised an eyebrow, head tilting.

"Don't look at me like that," the old orc growled. "You and I both know that you're more than just some advisor who Blood-Irk decided to imprison. You can lie all you want to the humans, but you don't lie to your own. Tell me, 'Silas,' the real truth. Because I don't think I ever met an orc who could draw a bow like you do."

Silas chuckled at that, his head shaking as he found a nearby stump to sit on. He could afford a couple minutes of rest. A second wave probably wouldn't come in the next thirty minutes if they were lucky.

"Fine," he said to the old bastard. "Where do you want me to start?"

Helen looked over the carnage of their battle, the stack of bodies by the beach signifying that they had killed a good number of the bastards. Despite that, she knew that they were far from over. She looked at her forces, all of whom were busy tending to wounds sustained from the initial attack. While the orcs didn't have bows, they were throwing rocks back at the defenders, hoping to get a lucky strike.

Thankfully, Helen's side didn't suffer a casualty. Not yet, at least. Most of the wounds were just bruises, and very few of them were drawing any blood. Regardless, Helen made sure they were all treated. On the off chance that one of them suffered a concussion, she didn't want to suffer a weak link within their archer line.

As Helen moved to check on the next group of injured, a scout hurried over to her position. They had their spotting glass in hand, still extended, as they pointed toward the ocean beyond.

"They're preparing another ship, Marshal Dunn!" the scout said in a breath.

"That's expected," Helen said, "We've prepared enough for a second wave."

"There's more to that!" the scout said with exasperation. "I… I wasn't sure at first, but… it looks like they have bows, Marshal."

"Bows?" Helen asked, confusion hitting her first. Then, the realization. Then, the horror. She spun to the nearest messenger, the same one who had recently arrived with the much-needed bucket of pitch. "You! I need you to return to Yorktown and alert them now! The orcs are deploying War Bows in the next wave! Pass it to Felix and make sure he sends the message to the North. Now, dammit! MOVE!"

The messenger ran away, leaving Helen to her remaining defenders. She turned to them all, seeing their expressions of concern. With a deep breath, she straightened herself.

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"Everyone! I need you all to gather shields, wood, and anything that could be used to defend yourselves!" Helen turned to the archers. "You all, this next wave will be hard, but we can get through it. Just listen carefully…"

Elena Derrick held firm, the string of her bow quivering with unreleased tension. The Raven guard could feel her lungs burn as they held in freezing air, her hands stilling as she focused. With a careful eye, she picked out a figure in the mass of orcs, their exposed head marked with bright red paint.

Elena couldn't tell between the orcs and their arbitrary ranks, but she was almost certain that this one was someone important. Without waiting to challenge that thought, the young woman released the breath she held, the arrow's bright red fletching slipping from her fingers at the same time.

The arrow flew true, whizzing in the air as it cut through the snowy scenery. It soon struck the fat orc right in its eye, sending specks of tar-like blood everywhere. Elena pulled back from her bow, watching with satisfaction as the orc fell back into a stumble, clearly in agony.

The orcs nearby recoiled from the sudden attack, confusion clear in their poses and visible hesitation. Elena reached for another arrow, only to stop as more projectiles struck at the marked orc. Her fellow archers had spotted her marked arrow and had moved their focus on its target.

It didn't take long for the bleeding orc to fall, his body riddled with arrows from all over. The orcs around him broke right after, fumbling through the field of sharp-wire as they retreated. Some stumbled over the carcasses of their fellow allies, while others were shot down by Raven archers.

"Retreating already?" Rolan asked, the shorter man watching the harbor alongside Elena. Yorktown's defensive had been mildly successful, their efforts driving back the initial wave of orc raiders.

"This is probably another test against our defenses," Elena said. "I don't think we should count this as a win."

Rolan looked at her, helmet and chainmail obscuring his face. "Well, whatever it is, at least they're pulling back for now. How are you doing on arrows?"

Elena checked her quiver, her fingers counting arrows. "Twenty left. I'm going to have to resupply soon."

"You think we'll have enough to outlast them?" Rolan asked.

"Probably not," Elena admitted. "Judging from what the Marshal said, the orcs outnumber us greatly. Even if we manage to hit all of our arrows, we'll run out before they eventually reach through."

"It's that bad?" Rolan muttered, his hands clenching around his short spear.

"We can still hold," Elena said quickly. "With the defenses we have, maybe we could keep them from getting past these walls."

The young guard seemed to relax at that, his shoulders losing some tension. He looked at the others nearby, who all moved to resupply arrows for the archers. Elena stepped down from her perch, cutting the view from the harbor as she went over to check on the rest of her squad.

Arno was resting by the wall, pike next to him as he watched through the palisade's crack. He had his helmet off, exposing short black hair and stubble that was growing into a scruffy beard. He looked at Elena as she passed by, his head nodding to her as he focused back on his peephole.

Petrov was bringing over breakfast in the form of bread and dried jerky, the guardsman handing out the food to the resting men and women by the palisade. He spotted Elena watching and offered some.

"I'm fine, thank you," Elena said with a raised hand.

"Nonsense," Petrov said, grinning as he shoved a big piece of salted beef in the archer's open hand. "We'll need all the energy we can get, friend Elena."

"Thank you," Elena said with a sigh, her hand closing over the food. "Others might need this, though. Are you sure?"

"We're Squad Seven," Petrov said with a smile. "We have to look out for each other, no? Even if one of us is transferred to the bowmen."

Elena nodded at that, her head turning to the rest of her squad. The same squad she had worked with since the last time Yorktown was in danger. While becoming a bowman didn't exactly separate her from them, it meant that she was more susceptible to transferring fronts due to the hectic situation.

"Rest well," Petrov said as he headed in Arno's direction, food basket in hand. "I fear this moment of rest will be short-lived."

Elena watched the guardsman walk off, her gaze moving to the jerky in her hand. With a hesitant sigh, she bit off a chunk.

"War Bows?" Felix asked as he watched the map, the scribes updating the location of the orc ships.

"Helen confirmed that the orcs are preparing War Bows on the southern front," Elaine repeated. "I encountered a runner who was coming from there, who told me about it."

"Has Silas been notified?"

"Not yet," Elaine said with clear hesitance. "I'm heading over as soon as my next set of vials is ready."

"I see," Felix muttered, biting his thumb in anticipation. He watched as scribes sent runners off to Yorktown's palisade, their faces pale with realization of what was coming. War Bows, held by orcs ten times stronger than ordinary men. "How fast can you get to the northern side of the island?"

"I can get there in a tick," Elaine said. "But I don't know if it'll be fast enough, despite my utterances."

"It will have to do," Felix muttered. "Start your way there, now. I'll get a runner to Helen in the meantime."

"Of course," Elaine said. "May Orpheus grant you luck."

"Just a moment," Felix called before the Bard left. He headed over to a corner of the table, stooping down to a burlap sack that audibly clattered with what sounded like a bundle of rocks. He brought out a small black stone, its smooth face displaying a red glyph.

"Fireball rune, from Falrick's stockpile," the Captain said as he tossed the rune to Elaine. She caught it warily, her eyes glancing over to where he had gotten it.

"You just have them lying about?"

"Technically they're our backup plans for when the walls break," Felix admitted. "Still, I'd recommend you refrain from using it outside of emergencies. We don't have a lot to go around."

"Got it," Elaine muttered as she placed the rune in her satchel.

Felix watched as the Bard headed out, accepting a couple vials from a messenger. The Captain looked over at Kate, who watched the map with a worried face. Her hands itched bit by bit, almost like they were being held back from reaching her sword belt.

"Stay calm," Felix said. "The fronts will hold."

"It's not that I'm worried about," Kate admitted in a murmur.

"The death, then," Felix sighed, his hand brushing against the remnants of his goatee. "Kate, we both know there's nothing we can do about it."

"There's always something we can do," Kate insisted. "I can… My squad can fight, Felix. We can do more."

"Don't be rash," Felix said. "Squads Nine and Ten will be able to lead the defense for now. The best we can do is hope that our rangers and defenses hold out."

Kate was silent for a moment, clearly frustrated.

"Go get your squad to clear Gladis' tavern," Felix ordered. "I think we might have to start turning it into another infirmary soon."

Kate just nodded solemnly, her hand grabbing a nearby spear from a rack.

"You were right to discourage her, sir," a nearby scribe spoke up. Felix turned to the lanky man, who was busy updating the map according to the reports received. "She was rather rash with you."

"Shut it," the Captain growled. "Just do your job."

The scribe hurried to return to his work, red faced as he moved a couple pegs in the Southern Front, indicating that the orcs were about to hit the shores once more. Felix stared at those simple pegs, a certain dread making itself present within him. Helen held this front alongside most of the new recruits who had joined the Ravens after Midsommar.

'Am I worrying for the marauder who raided my home? Who was partially responsible for the death of my closest friends?'

No, that was a lie he told himself. Felix knew it. He had done well to separate Helen from those events, for she had nothing to do with the deaths of Thomas and the rest of the Old Guard. Harald himself had told him days before his eventual death.

Still, Felix couldn't let it go. He couldn't forgive Helen. He could never forgive her. It was irrational of him, stupid probably. Helen had proven herself to be a worthy ally, ready to give her life for Yorktown and its residents. For this clan that James had built. She had redeemed herself, so to speak.

Felix had even found himself enjoying her company despite their differences. Despite the spats they've had. Despite the smoldering looks they once shared. Helen was someone he could see caring for, a person who clearly had similar pains to his own. Yet, Felix could never forget the bodies he found on the shores following the first Yorktown siege. The men there were dressed in blue and black, their patches being that of what was now known as the Old Guard.

"I can accept you," he whispered. "I can even see you as a friend. But I can never forgive you. No matter how hard I try." Felix felt at the pin that adorned his guardsmen sash, the same pin that signified a Captain. "Still, I hope you don't fall. If only we could share a few more angry looks with each other."

Felix turned away from the Southern Front, his focus breaking from that part of the map.

"I need every able-bodied man on Nodes Three and Four," he commanded. "Now."

Archibald stared at Delilah, the rapier's hilt not making a sound as he watched. It hadn't made a sound since the tavern, and he was beginning to think that perhaps he had actually gone mad. He stared at the sword regardless, nervous at the thought of it speaking to him once more.

"You're getting nervous, too?" Harris asked from his left. Archibald turned to the young man, who was leaning against the alleyway in boredom. His spear was leaning against the wall alongside him, leaving his good hand free to hold what looked like a card.

"A bit," Archibald said.

'But not about the raid,' he added silently as he glanced at the blade once more.

"Well, I can't really blame ya," Harris said, "Those orcs don't seem to be willing to stop, judging from the recent reports. They'll be coming back soon, in bigger numbers from what I've heard."

Archibald didn't say anything, his hands shaking slightly as he held Delilah tightly. He rested his forehead against the guard, teeth gritted as a headache began to course through his skull.

"Oh dung, I didn't mean to get you all nervous!" Harris quickly stood from his spot on the wall, feet scraping against the ground as he stepped closer. "Look, I'm sure we'll be fine. I mean, Felix placed us waaay back here. I doubt any of those brutes are going to make it that far into the—"

"Can you please be quiet?" Archibald hissed. "For a minute? Please."

Harris went quiet at that, leaving the elf to stew in his misery for a moment longer. It didn't last long.

"Orcs are rallying again!" a shout came from the street outside the alleyway. "All able-bodied men are needed at the palisade on Nodes Three and Four!"

Archibald looked up at Harris, who watched the guardsmen rush by in a hurry. The guardsman just watched, spear still on the wall as he held his card.

"You're not joining?" Archibald asked.

"He said able-bodied men," Harris said. He raised his left arm, showing the elf its short nub that ended right at the elbow. "I'll just be a weak link in the line. Better I stay here with my squad just in case."

Archibald stared at the arm before his gaze eventually moved to the card the man was holding in his right. The light had just hit it at the right angle, showing the elf what it contained. It was a soul card, with what looked to be a…

'Knight of Embers?' Archibald recognized. Confusion settled within him. 'Isn't that the card for martyrdom?'

Before he could say anything about it, a guardsman appeared at the alley's entrance. "Hey! You! Are you experienced with medicine?"

"I… In a sense," Archibald admitted, recalling the times when he had to bandage his wounds and take care of wounded allies.

"Then come with me! We'll need every medic we can for the upcoming wave!"

Without a complaint, Archibald was forced to follow the guard out and into the street. Before he left the young Harris, however, the elf got a better look at the soul card, which displayed the strange drawing of the Knight in Embers. It was only then that he realized the card was upside down.

He never got the chance to tell Harris.

Dahlia stopped midwalk, the breeze brushing past her in a rush. She looked up at the cloud covered sky, which was lit by the rising sun. Despite the light, she could see how darker clouds moved in from the east, the same direction these drafts of cold air were coming from.

'A storm?' she thought. An omen, her mentor would've called it. Did she even believe in such things anymore?

"Are you coming?" Marion called, her deadpan tone catching the Frue off guard. Dahlia turned to the intelligent undead, who waited for her. Seamus and Lilith were far ahead of them both, the two leading the mass of townsfolk. Dahlia noticed how she and Marion were now currently at the tail end of the group, far enough from earshot to be overheard.

"Sometimes," Dahlia said, turning to the undead. "I forget you exist."

"I get that a lot from you livings," Marion said. "But that's usually a mistake on your part. Always is."

Dahlia tilted her head, concerned. Something about Marion bothered her. Not the undead part. That was expected. It was something else. Something a little more primal. Why did Dahlia find herself forgetting about the undead? It seemed… wrong that she would forget about Marion. This creature, this thing, was a creation of Malik. Created using unholy magic that even Dahlia saw as taboo.

She wanted to ask her this but held that question back. Dahlia couldn't afford to find herself trifled with trivial matters. Not in her station.

'Then again, it's not like you could do much.'

Dahlia frowned as she turned back, facing the west where her home lay. A piece of her wanted to go back, to return. To do anything other than be out here, seemingly useless. Yet before her instincts could even consider such a thing, a hand tugged at her dress. Dahlia turned to see Lilith, the young berserker, giving her a look of concern. She had broken from Seamus to check up on her.

"I… I guess we should catch up," Dahlia murmured, following Lilith as they walked off. As much as she wanted to return to Yorktown, Dahlia knew there were other ways she could help. Providing hope for these people was one of them.

Falrick took a short rest by some fallen tree, his old bones sore at the joints and his fingers numb from the cold. He didn't have much left in him, his reserves exhausted to double digits and his body already failing him.

"Why does an old relic like me keep trying?" he muttered as he looked behind in the direction of Yorktown. While the scale was laughably different, the fear was still there. Falirck felt as if he was back in that accursed fort, his wards, and magical protections doing nothing to prevent raiders from destroying his only home.

First, it had been Kjor. Then it was those Barbarians. Then Deimos. For some stupid reason, Falrick thought that perhaps James would somehow be different. That perhaps his clan would be lucky to escape the ire of fate and its wrath.

He had been wrong. Falrick cursed every god he knew as he stood up from his rest, his feet slogging through the snow. He needed to get up to the top of that mountain if only to set up one last circle.

He knew that it probably wouldn't do much, given how little strength he had. Hel, he couldn't even fight in his current condition. No, Falrick had done what he could to add to the defenses of this island. They had his runes and his potions. Those would have to do.

'The nexus point, I need to get to the nexus point.'

That mountain, it was a source. A convergence of power that could boost Falrick's rituals, halving the amount of reserves he needed to cast them. He only needed to set up the circles and runes first.

"Protect From Elements: Cold," Falrick cast another of his spells, his body becoming enveloped in a warm invisible blanket. He sighed softly, his eyes closing for a moment.

For a moment, he could almost imagine himself back in Fort Ursa, sitting by the crackling fireplace of its library. The sounds of melodic music traveling through the halls, accompanied by the laughing of a once innocent child.

The Wizard shuddered and shook away those painful memories. With gritted teeth, he stood and started his trek up the path, headed straight toward the same place where a man was summoned. A man who had both saved and condemned this island.

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