"I curse myself for not being strong enough to save them. For not being able to save the only other family I knew."

"What do you mean he's gone!?" Lukas snapped. The young lad in front of him shook with barely contained fear, his eyes wide like dishes.

"He's just gone, my Jarl," the guard stammered. "Holter was there one moment, and the next he… disappeared. Along with your mercenary, as well."

"Miller?" Lukas asked, surprise muffling his anger for a moment. The lad nodded furiously. Lukas cursed harshly, his eyes moving to the approaching island. The winds had picked up in the last hour, throwing sleet and gusts of snow everywhere. It made for the perfect cover for the moment, disguising Lukas' fleet.

It would also be the perfect cover for someone who could teleport with a throw of the knife.

"Naomi," Lukas growled under his breath. It seemed that both the Outlanders had wanted to cut ahead of the chase and take out Ivan as soon as possible. In any other situation, it would've been the smart call. However, Ivan had nowhere to run, and he wasn't an ideal target. Frostbite was their objective, and James had chosen revenge over it.

'Damn him,' Lukas thought as he gripped the ship's railing. The deck below shifted as the vessel broke through waves, the icy water soaking through the Jarl's cloak. Despite that, Lukas could feel the steady warmth of his clothing's enchantments, which kept him comfortable. He resisted the urge to look back at the crew as he stared ahead.

"What do we do?" the young man behind him asked.

"We keep pushing forth," Lukas said gruffly. There was no point in yelling and cursing the situation, unfortunate as it was. The only course of action he had was to raid the island as planned and hope to the gods that James didn't alert the entire place of his presence.

"Ready the men and spellcasters!" Lukas shouted, his boisterous voice reaching the nearby longships that glided alongside his main vessel. "We make landfall in half a tick!"

Some of the men cheered at that, clearly excited at the prospect of battle. Lukas wished he could share their joy. He could only manage to feel anxiety, as even the slightest mistake could end with his destined fate becoming black with misfortune.

Blood-Irk watched as his remaining orcs prepped the sails of their longships, their combined weight swaying the vessels from one side to another. Regardless of the questionable movements, the last wave of their raiders seemed eager for the upcoming bloodbath.

They carried the best weapons and armor, their captains marked with the boldest of red warpaint. Blood-Irk himself had praised their seriousness and had lent them the best his armory had to offer. Some even glowed with the enchantments and buffs provided by Un'aka, the Shaman currently handing off bags to the raiders. Fireball runes, enhanced specifically to spread flame and destruction.

This was more than enough to break the siege, no doubt about it. Blood-Irk almost felt apprehension at the idea. He himself had wanted to join in on the fun, if only to feel the slickness of blood upon flesh and the tearing of bone from the joint.

'Ah, good times.'

Perhaps he would be able to experience it, should he hold back a ship or two. The old orc turned to the gravel beach that led into the Northern defenses. There, he knew a traitor lay. Silas, formerly Blood-Rok, was waiting there. Reports had told him that the orc had been struck by their archers, but Blood-Irk doubted that it was that easy. The traitor had survived deadlier situations.

'Let your orcs wreak havoc upon the shores; have them break their walls and spirit,' a deep voice within his mind whispered. His rational side, no doubt, exuded a thirst for battle. Yet even it knew what to focus on. 'Even if the traitor survives, he will be broken. You will deal with him then and show him what happens to those of his ilk.'

Blood-Irk grunted at that. He turned away from the shores and focused on his offensive forces. They all began a war chant, powerful and loud. It echoed into the sky like a challenge to the gods, as if daring the heavens. Blood-Irk couldn't help but grin at the sound of bloodthirsty yells and harsh words.

This day would be one to remember.

Eilif heard the horns even from his lone longship. He could even hear the loud and boisterous voices of those savage orcs, their unpronounceable language filling the chill air. The Immortal man turned to where Blood-Irk's ship floated, its crew all preparing for one last assault.

It was almost time for Yorktown's final stand, their defenders surely rallying and preparing themselves for the upcoming battle. Or massacre, as Eilif put it. He had seen more than his fair share of raids and sieges in his lifetime. He had witnessed entire fortresses put to the sword and burned to ash. He had seen men die in worthless battles, their young lives snuffed out like candles. A better alternative to having their willing spirits shattered.

Eilif had even watched those he thought immortal die like nothing more.

'Faust. Desimir.'

Had James really possessed that man's spirit? Eilif found himself stirring uncomfortably at the thought, a deep part of himself horrified at what he had done on that ship. Voices shouted and screamed from those depths, begging for the Immortal man to atone for the sins he had committed.

Eilif closed his eyes at those voices, his breathing growing shallow as their words grew louder. Then, with a quick command, something tore them away. Silence filled his mind, and a ringing headache followed right behind. Then, a small reserve of Life appeared deep within his soul, already dissipating back into his body. He let out a sigh, his eyes opening.

Sacrificing memories as an Immortal was useless. The body considered such recollections to be part of it. Which meant Eilif couldn't be fully rid of his past traumas and pains. But he could always keep them at bay, using the trick his master had taught all his children.

The reserves he gained were useless, of course. He couldn't use them since they almost always dissipate, returning the erased memories back into his subconscious. They would stay there, deep inside, until Eilif found their voices overbearing and sacrificed them all over again.

"Voices getting loud again?" Kira's whisper reached him from behind. Eilif resisted the urge to turn and ram a dagger into the woman's throat. He knew it wouldn't truly kill her. Still, it would be cathartic…

"I can fix that y'know," Kira continued. "Give you a little kiss, and poof, your troubles are gone."

"Poof?" Eilif asked, his head slightly turned to her. She was hanging from one of the lower sails, her upper body upside down while her legs kept a hold on the mast. She smiled at him, her eyes shining through the illusion she cast upon them.

"Just a small intimate moment," Kira said. She reached out to him, her fingers straining to get close to his face. "If only to relieve you of your stress. Come on… let's take off that mask of yours and—"

Eilif grabbed her hand, his patience reaching its limits. With a deliberate motion, he yanked Kira off of her perch, sending her to the deck, tumbling. Even with her eyes and skillful dexterity, she was too slow to even react in time. She hit the deck with a heavy thud, a soft groan escaping her.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She pouted. "You're boooring."

"Like I care," Eilif scoffed. "Keep your hands away from me. I'm not one of your little toys to break."

Kira started to complain and whine, her voice reaching deaf ears. Eilif decided to just ignore her for the moment, his focus going back toward the island ahead. Even after they were done here, the Immortal man still had business in Southern Valenfrost. He felt his pockets, his gloved fingers grazing against what he knew was dull green crystal.

It was a gift Eli had sent to them before his demise. Taken from Yorn Halvorson's corpse on the night of Deimos' raid, the crystal was a special tool. Crafted from the likes of Wizard Falrick himself, its purpose was to track an artifact of legend. A shard from the Wishing Shrine itself.

According to Eli, the thing was dunn when he found it and most of the late Jarl's records had confirmed that it had been that way for decades. Despite its initial uselessness, his master had kept it. And it paid off. The crystal had activated more than a year ago, its pulses starting weak. They grew stronger as Eilif took it more south, the glow within brightening bit by bit.

Unfortunately, it had gone dunn. Again. This time, Eilif was sure that it had something to do with its charge being depleted, but he wasn't exactly sure. He would have to take it to a Wizard to recharge it. A skilled one, of course. He wouldn't dare give it to Kira, for she'd most surely break it out of pure incompetence.

"A lot of work ahead of us," Eilif said to himself as he watched the orcs send out their final wave.

Elena grasped at her bow, which seemed to weigh more and more as the day dragged on. Guardsmen, the most they could procure, stood guard at the walls, raven insignias sewn onto their shoulders. The mark of a man who wasn't there. Elena wasn't sure why the men and women here continued to uphold their loyalties to Jarl Holter, who had abandoned them to their grim fates.

'You know exactly why,' she thought as she watched some of the guardsmen move the corpses of the fallen.

The dead had once been fueled by the vague promises of hope. That was why the guardsmen here wore Holter's insignia despite his absence. He represented hope for them. The man who had pulled through thick and thin to win against impossible odds. It was because of this mentality that many of the men here still held the wall, spears, and swords at the ready. Even with shoddy gambeson and rusted chainmail, people like Petrov still thought they had a chance. They had hope.

'Little that did for them,' Elena thought as she watched them carry Petrov's limp corpse, his raven patch bloodied and ripped. He had been by the walls when the orcs had tripped their Fireball defenses. Some of the opposing force had pushed through them and managed to stab through the palisade with spears. Petrov had been on the receiving end.

She caught the gaze of Arno, who watched alongside her at the bottom of the stairs that led to the wall perch. Despite his sullen look and slumped shoulders, he didn't seem to falter. His grip on the spear was tight, and his jaw was clenched with clear determination. He gave her a curt nod before standing up. Elena watched him stroll over to where other guardsmen were grouping, their hands grabbing at crates of provisions.

"You should get yourself something to eat," Savard said. Squad Nine's leader stood right under Elena's perch, his arms crossed as he watched. He didn't meet the archer's eyes.

"I'm not hungry," Elena muttered. Savard grunted.

"At least grab something," he said. "We've been fighting since dawn. You won't last long on that jerky from earlier."

Elena didn't answer that. She just held onto her bow as if it truly was the only solid thing she could hold without shaking. Perhaps it was. She didn't care. As long as she held it, Elena could still fight.

"We won't have time for more later," Savard continued, quietly this time. Elena could barely make out the words. "These walls, they won't last another wave. You know this as well as I do."

Elena tightened her grip on the flexible wood that was her weapon. Finally, she broke her silence, if only to mutter the obvious.

"We're all going to die, aren't we?"

Savard said nothing. Elena expected as such. She stayed quiet after that, only watching as the last of their contingent prepared for one final stand.

Three men sat upon the barricade that blocked most of the street leading to Yorktown's harbor. The makeshift wall was made up of nailed planks and broken tables, put together in haste. It was supposed to act as a backup for when the walls at nodes one to three broke. Supposedly.

Any observant guard knew better, however. They would know that the barricade was a false hope, a way to make it seem like they had a chance. Nothing was wrong with that of course. Morale was always in high demand, and given their situation, false hope was better than the alternative. Pure despair.

Archibald lay his head against a plank that was nailed to a set of table legs, clumped strands of his sweat-soaked hair resting on his face. He held tightly onto Delilah, the silver rapier deceptively quiet. Next to the elf, rested Dirk, whose own brown locks were damp with the sweat of his labor. Both men had been called to the harbor front earlier if only to assist the defenders and drag the wounded to safety. Only recently had they finally found the time to rest.

Opposite of the two men paced Harris. The one-armed guardsman kept shooting glances off to the harbor's direction, his eyes flashing with what Archibald could guess was worry. And maybe even some envy. Unlike Dirk or Archibald, Harris had been relegated to the rear of their defenses for the entirety of this siege. He had spent most of it sitting around and doing nothing whilst men died defending the frontiers. Even Archibald and Dirk had done more than the disgruntled guardsman, even if their roles were solely on evacuating wounded and applying first-aid.

"This is wrong," Harris complained once more, his feet skidding to a stop as he stared eastward, where the cobbled road began to slant downward. If one were to stand at a certain angle, they'd be able to see the edges of the defensive walls and the flapping flags of enemy ships. "We should be reinforcing our fronts, not standing around like a bunch of dolts!"

"Reinforcements have already been dispatched," Dirk answered with a tired sigh.

"Not all of them," Harris argued back. "We're still here. Same with Kate and two other squads. We can bolster our defenses, hold off the orcs."

He knew that there was a tactic to Felix's decision. One that seemed more and more like a suicidal attempt. What kind of leader banked on their defenses falling? Who placed their faith in losing the battle?

Archibald just let the two men hash it out, the elf's eyes closing as he did his best to drown out their bickering. He had spent today surrounded by death, the distant moans of the damned haunting him to the core. It all brought forth a single, morbid thought.

Had Bjorn spent his final moments like the men in that makeshift infirmary? Or did the dwarf go out differently?

"I don't fear death," the dwarf's voice seemed to echo within Archibald's mind. A memory from a better time, back when the two shared a drink. "I know it comes for me, like a whore hunting a sailor's daily pay. But I don't fear it. At least, not deathly so. If anything, I wish for a proper end. An honorable one. Maybe against a Lumen Knight or even the Red Death himself!"

Archibald had been sloshed already, even after half a tankard of ale. Still, he listened, if only to try and anchor himself to reality, even if it was for a moment.

"So what do you fear?" he had asked.

"A long life, of course!" Bjorn had chortled. "A boring life, to be specific. Imagine spending decades running in place, not moving, not progressing. Just… existing. James once told me about his life on Earth, his homeworld. Sounded like a nightmare. Maybe that's why his behavior is so dwarf-like!" The dwarf was grinning ear to ear, his nose pink from the brew he had made.

"A long life…" Archibald had murmured, his head too sloshed to make a coherent thought.

From the perspective of hindsight, the elf recalled the years of his life spent in wealth. The decades of his life had blurred all into one uninterrupted slog. Until the day his mother died and the world turned upside down. When he realized that life was fleeting and that everything around him was doomed to crumble to fine dust.

An immortal who had to come to terms with his curse of longevity.

Accept your responsibility.

A soft whisper brushed against his pointed ears, the rapier in his hands gently shaking. No one seemed to notice Archibald as he held the hilt in place. He was still for a long long minute, his eyes closing as he recalled the dwarf he had called a friend. The man who had chased after and found his honorable end.

Archibald let out a shaky breath as he opened his eyes, his focus settling on Delilah. The rapier was silent.

Flags of red and black fluttered in the wind, the crude visage of a raptor skull seeming as if it were letting out a war cry of its own. Opposite of them, hosted upon the walls of the Southern Front, flapped the blue and white heraldry of the White Raven clan.

Helen watched with a sinking feeling as longships descended upon the shores, the distant yells and shouts echoing in the chilly air. The veteran shivered at the sight, her hand brushing off the snow that accumulated on her cloak. Snowfall had grown denser in the past hour, and the cloudy sky above was dark like storm clouds. It was almost as if the heavens knew what came next.

'What was it that James liked to say?' Helen wondered absentmindedly as she watched orcs make landfall upon the black sands. Guardsmen around her prepared spears and bows, grim expressions as they waited.

"Time to face the music," Helen muttered as her forces loosed arrows.

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