"There exists only the ideals each one of us holds. What each of us believes to be a perfect world."

They had nearly run out of chalk drawing the circle necessary for the runes, as Malik had only brought what he needed for simple rituals. Thankfully, there was enough for Naomi to draw out the ritual site. She had traced and copied a couple from the hull of Frostbite, laying them out as a circle rather than a straight line.

The entirety of the ritualistic circle was made up of complex geometry and sigils, each marking placed with purpose and care. Naomi had drilled it within every man's head the importance of her drawings. Should any of the chalk be disturbed or smudged, it would need to be redone.

Thankfully for them, the wind had died down to a passive breeze, allowing the other Outlander to draw out the necessary runes and glyphs without much trouble.

Once she was done with it, Naomi took a minute to examine her handiwork. Her hands were stained with blue and red chalk, the dust getting all over her cloak and dark clothing. She didn't seem to mind one bit.

"All good?" James asked, more than a little nervous as he bit his thumbnail.

"You can never be too careful," Naomi murmured as she scrutinized a couple of the runes. Malik peeked over, one eyebrow raised.

"That's crooked," he muttered. Naomi quickly looked over and frowned. Without a word, she bent down to redraw the glyph with a piece of chalk that was the size of a small pebble. It was the last they had, and James could feel himself cringe as a couple chunks broke off during the redrawing.

"Got it," Naomi breathed out as she stood once more. Both she and Malik examined the leftover runes, the process agonizingly slow. Eventually, they deemed it good enough as the Outlander prepared to start the ritual.

"How long will it take?" James asked, arms crossed as he carefully stepped around the circle.

"Depends," Naomi breathed out. "I never did it at the distance we're doing now. So… maybe fifteen minutes? Probably longer."

With trembling fingers, she started to form hand signs over the glyphs before placing her palms upon them. She breathed in one last time before chanting softly. James watched in silence, nerves on edge, as the runes began to glow blue. Slowly, all the chalk around began to illuminate, engulfing the other Outlander in a soft light.

It grew in intensity, bit by bit before it turned to a blinding flash of magical feedback.

"What is your location?" Felix called over the communication crystal. Elaine huffed as she brought the glowing thing to her lips.

"I'm nearing the Northern Front," Elaine answered. She slowed her run to allow herself to speak properly. "I'm carrying the medical supplies for the men stationed there."

"How fast can you get it done before you get back?"

"Not fast enough, I fear," the Bard muttered. Her run slowed to a tiring walk, her legs burning despite Nimble Feet still being active. "My body is reaching its limit, and I'm down to two reserves."

"I see," Felix said. Elaine could hear the frustration in that simple response. She couldn't help but sympathize with the Captain. Even with communications restored, it only managed to pull back the veil over the absolute chaos that was happening. All fronts were on the verge of falling, and both Silas and Helen had gone dark.

Either they had disposed of their crystals, or something worse had happened. Elaine tried not to let those kinds of thoughts cross her mind, for her hope had already dwindled far too much.

"Elaine," Felix's voice came back after a minute. "Should you arrive at the Northern Front, give them the order to retreat."

"What?" Elaine looked down at the pulsing crystal. "The orcs will break through if they do!"

"They most likely have," Felix revealed. "The Western palisade is already buckling, and last I heard from the Southern Front, things aren't looking good. Tell them to pull back and head toward Yorktown's center. This will be our last front, grim as it is. We can probably hold stronger with everyone defending a smaller section of the island."

"I…" Elaine trailed off, her hands shaking slightly. "The orcs will give chase. I'm not sure if I can…"

"Just get them out of there," Felix softly said." You won't need to fight. Just get them out of there. Find a way, Elaine. Be a Bard. Misdirect the attackers."

With that, the glowing crystal in Elaine's hand dimmed. She stared at it, unsure of herself. Finally, the Bard took in a deep breath, her hand placing the small crystal within her satchel, which hung right next to her medical bag. As she placed the item within her inventory, her fingers felt the smooth surface of a rune.

She stopped and recalled what Felix had given to her earlier that day. She swallowed hard, her hand bringing out the small black stone, its face smooth as glass.

The palisade had broken not long after the evacuation order, the breach too fast for any guardsman to even process it. Elena hadn't even stepped down from the steps leading to the battlements when orcs broke down a nearby section of the wall.

She stood there, frozen in fear as orcs rushed through like a stampede, their war cries shrill and terrible. She would have died had it not been for Savard's quick thinking. The Squad Leader had come out of nowhere, his shoulder violently shoving the young archer to the ground. He staggered in place for a moment after the shove, face flushed as he looked down at her. Elena stared back, wide-eyed.

Savard didn't have time to say anything before an orc ran him through with a spear, the rough iron tip coming out the other side of him in a splash of crimson. The rest of its kin followed right after, their axes and rusted swords cutting down nearby guardsmen. Elena had to be dragged away by Arno, for her body refused to respond to her.

She dropped her bow in the midst of chaos. She didn't care for it. The archer was only focused on the scene before her, where humans and monsters clashed together in a terrible song of screams and cries.

It was funny, the things that ran through someone's head when they faced death. For Helen, it was the memories of her childhood. Of her mother before her father left them for a calling that ended with his death. Of her small village, a small way stop near the North.

Helen was the daughter of a Seamstress, her fate relegated to being her mother's successor. Or at least, it once was. Then her father had left, and her mother had gone insane. Grief, anger, whatever it was, Helen found herself at the brunt of it all. The abuse had gone on until Helen fought back, her actions resulting in something unforgivable.

And so the Seamstress's daughter left that village and joined the fight against the Barbarians in the Outside Wars. A fight that lasted for years, shaping a troubled young woman into a veteran with more than her fair share of baggage. Mercenary work came after that, and then the marauders. All the while, Helen avoided attachments. She hardened her heart, turning herself into what she thought was a cold-blooded killer.

Then Seamus Halvorson happened, and everything seemed to crash down. Suddenly, she found herself teaching young guardsmen to fight and to hold a spear. She had allies and friends, some of which she considered close. Like a family she never had.

Helen had begun to think that perhaps her life could change. Perhaps things could be different. Maybe the gods would show her some mercy after everything she had experienced and done. Perhaps the White Raven clan would be a fresh start.

What was it that Deimos always liked to say?

'Ah, yes. Never wonder if that's the hardest Fate could hit you,' Helen thought as men died around her. Their bodies added to the chaos of the battle, their spear wall formation struggling to stay coherent as a horde of orcs bashed against it.

Her arms screamed with effort as she thrust forth her bloodied spear, its iron tip sinking into the throat of an attacking orc. It spasmed in pain, hateful eyes staring at the blood-soaked veteran.

Helen glared back with a fury, her shoulders strained as she shoved the bastard away. Another greenskin took its place, a rusted sword in its hand. Helen raised her shield, blocking the hit. The vibrations of the strike shook her arm numb, sending volts of pain to her already sore muscles.

A Raven near her managed to assist, his spear stabbing the orc clean through the jugular. Oily blood fountained from the wound, the dark substance soaking Helen's armor and shield. More orcs hurried to take the dying one's place, shoving him out of the way just to get a chance at the Marshal.

Helen pulled back just in time to avoid a deadly strike from one of their crude clubs, her spear rising to fend off the overbearing tide. After only half a minute of this, she managed to switch out with one of the men behind her, allowing her a brief moment of respite.

She spent it catching her breath, her lungs burning like fire as she took in their situation. The spear wall was holding out better than she'd expected, the line of men and women blocking the invading orcs from getting past the wall's breach. The raiding bastards were even dying by the droves, their desperation and savage nature giving the defenders openings to exploit.

Still, even with their high-ground advantage and the barbed wire working in their favor to slow their advance, the orcs were slowly beginning to overwhelm them. For every Raven who died, the line weakened, and more of their reserves were shoved into the front. Rests were getting shorter, as Helen usually only had a max of forty seconds to catch her breath before she needed to switch out with a frontman.

'We're not going to last,' she thought grimly. The sense of dread almost made her want to call retreat, but she knew that it wouldn't do anything but make them easy pickings. And even if some survived, they'd all be cornered like rats on a sinking ship. Helen knew what orcs did to prisoners.

With a shaking hand, the Marshal reached for a vial on her belt. Her heart sank when her fingers brushed against nothing. She searched her satchel instead, looking for anything that could help. Perhaps she had forgotten a vitality potion?

She stopped when her hand felt the cold brass of a vial. Helen pulled it out, recognizing the cork seal almost immediately. The vial of alcohol with bits of horcus leaf. The memory of her meeting with Dahlia flashed in her mind, reminding her of the small marble she had stowed within the brass cylinder. She swallowed, recalling what the Frue had told her.

It had the chance to heal her wounds whilst activating her ley lines. The thing was, however, Helen was a Dunn. Her ley lines were nonexistent and, as such, wouldn't react to the marble.

'But what if?'

Helen remembered Dahlia's words about her mentor's words. That perhaps, if given to a Dunn, something could change within her. The Marshal held onto that thought for what seemed like forever within the chaos of the battle at hand. After two seconds of consideration, she popped the cork and drank it, marble and all.

The burn of alcohol accompanied the faint medicinal taste of herbs, the drink making the small marble of condensed power go down easily into the veteran's gullet. Helen held her breath after she drank it, expecting a burst of power not unlike how Felix had described it.

Yet nothing happened. Even as her moment of rest ran out, the Marshal felt nothing.

'Damn it'

She didn't know what she expected. Helen found herself cursing the hope she had within the Frue, for it was common knowledge that a Dunn person could never harness the power of ley lines. No matter how well-intentioned they were.

The Raven in front of her fell not a second later. Helen quickly went to replace his spot, her spear rising. The orc in front of her countered with a wild swing of his oversized sword, the edge of which splintered and shattered her weapon.

Helen felt agony as her arm recoiled back. Pain flared from it like a burning flame, and the Marshal felt a scream die in her throat. Her world went still at that moment as she tried to get her bearings.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

She never saw the spear that ran her through.

Archibald braced himself as panicked men ran up to the barricade that was supposed to be their second resort. Some disregarded the shoddy defenses, leaving them behind as they dragged more wounded with them. Both Archibald and Harris attempted to help the best they could, assisting the guardsmen with getting the injured across the barricade. Some of the ones who were still conscious enough to speak screamed nonstop about the palisade's fall, their description of the event harrowing, even to the elf.

Archibald felt more and more sick about the situation as it devolved, his jaw clenched tightly as he held back the bile that built up in the back of his throat. Dirk had gone out to assist with the defense not long ago, leaving both Archibald and Harris to man this barricade alone. The reinforcements promised from Nodes Four and Five hadn't arrived yet, despite the messengers and their insistence that the promised backup would come.

'Had they got the retreat order?' Archibald thought as the passing guardsmen carried their wounded off to the tavern's makeshift infirmary. He looked to Harris, who seemed to wonder the same thing.

"We have to go help," Harris said.

Or not…

"We can't abandon our post," Archibald protested, his hands shaking as he tried to clean the blood off of them. The rag he used was already beginning to turn into a murky brownish thing. "Captain Arlo specifically instructed we—"

"To hel with those orders!" Harris snapped. His good hand fumbled around the length of his short spear, the iron tip of which shook sporadically in his hold. "Dirk and the others are still out there despite the retreat order being given out nearly half an hour ago!"

Archibald was silent at the young man's outburst. Almost mindlessly, his right hand began to caress the hilt of Delilah, the rapier's smooth silver pommel icy cold to the touch. He bit his tongue at the thought of using the elegant weapon once more to defend those he deemed important.

That thought was soon replaced with the sight of a dead dwarf, his only eye glassy as it watched the clouded sky.

Archibald shuddered at that, his eyes closing for a moment as he considered. Then his ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming from the northern alley, right behind Harris. Reinforcements from the other nodes. They had finally arrived.

'Took them long enough,' the elf thought. Perhaps then he could manage to convince the other guardsman to hold back while more capable men took care of—

Archibald's throat went dry when he turned to the direction of the footsteps. The loud and heavy footsteps. Standing right behind Harris was a hulking figure, its features hidden in the shadows of the nearby buildings. Still, the elf could see the bulky weapon it raised in its hand, the dull metal catching the light of the filtered sunlight.

Harris only barely noticed the creature, his mouth opening in surprise just as the ax was swung toward his right side. He was too slow in his reaction.

The dulled edge of the brutish weapon tore rather than cut, the ax head ripping through the guardsman's raised arm and embedding itself into his chest. Archibald flinched at the specks of blood that flew from the strike, his eyes staring at Harris' wound, where crimson started to flower through the White Raven's patch. The man stared at the sight below him in a shocked trance. A second passed, and his lips vomited a bail's worth of blood.

The orc, without ceremony, tugged and ripped the weapon out with a terrible wrench, the act throwing the dying young man to the icy street. Archibald stared at Harris, who tried desperately to crawl away. The orc's ax came back a second time after that, and the snow around the street was stained in scarlet. Harris' body didn't move after that.

Archibald's stare was transfixed on the blood-soaked ax that rose from the body, its edge dripping with the remnants of the dead man's viscera. The elf stumbled back from the sight, his legs finally forcing him to move just as the ax swung toward him. It missed, the chilly air whipping from the attempted attack. The orc grunted and tried again. The elf staggered away from the second attempt, his boots slipping on the icy ground and landing him on his ass.

"W-Wait…" he stammered, his feet kicking as he tried to find purchase on the icy street. He couldn't even get away from the approaching orc, whose ugly expression was unreadable. The elf began to jabber incoherent pleas as the creature's ax raised once more, its blood dripping down onto Archibald's pale face.

"Please! NO!"

Archibald screamed as the weapon swung down before it struck the ground right next to him, missing his head completely. It made a loud reverberating noise, which echoed in the narrow street. Archibald blinked and looked up to see the orc's eye dribbling dark blood, an arrow's shaft protruding from it. The orc roared in agony as it raised its gaze to the origin of the arrow, which had come from up the street.

Men in black and blue tabards rushed the greenskin in a roar, their lone archer supporting from behind as they clashed against the orcs in front of Archibald. Reinforcements from the tavern had finally come to save the elf, it seemed.

Archibald didn't stick around, though. He only crawled away, clutching his rapier as he tried to get away from the sounds of violent battle.

The world around Felix burned and fell, the longhouse erupting into chaos as orcs forced their way through the entrance. The Captain watched them in silence as they broke the wooden doors, their weapons gleaming with freshly spilled blood. Scribes and guardsmen alike jumped to action, some fighting whilst others tried to escape.

It was futile. Both the exit and entrance to the great hall were flooding with savage creatures, leaving no room for escape and little advantage for defense. Felix knew this, and so he didn't panic. Yet the hysteria struck the building's occupants like a plague, screams and shouts echoing as men died and orcs advanced forth.

Felix looked down at the map of Yorktown, his hands shaking as they rested on the parchment. He stared at the static tokens that represented Nodes One and Two. He hazarded a guess as to why no messengers returned from that section of wall.

The Captain drew in a deep breath, doing his best to stay composed as he glanced toward the sheathed sword that lay nearby. With a trembling motion, he forced himself to grab the weapon. He would have preferred a bow, but he knew that it wouldn't have done him any good in such close quarters.

Felix gritted his teeth as he slid the blade from its scabbard, his gaze moving to an orc that had managed to reach him through the cacophony of chaos. It dragged along a cleaver-like weapon, the red warpaint on its ugly mug signifying its rank. A squad leader or Captain, Felix supposed. He stared down the creature, which had stopped a couple paces away. It watched him with a quizzical look as if curious about the Captain's refusal to panic.

"My name," Felix started. He forced his words out loud and confident despite his thumping heart. "Is Felix Arlo, Captain in the White Raven Clan! Last of the Old Guard!" He raised his sword, gripping the pommel with both hands as he locked eyes with the orc.

'Are you watching me, James? From wherever you are?' he thought as he prepared his strike. With a shout of effort, Felix swung his sword toward the orc. The creature instantly caught the blade with its hand, its look of curiosity changing to mild amusement. Felix watched with rising horror as it raised its cleaver.

'I curse you,' Felix thought as the orc swung down. 'For making me believe that we'd ever stand a chance.'

The thick blade of the cleaver tore right through the middle of his left shoulder, splitting and ripping through tendon, muscle, and bone. Felix Arlo's world went dark right when the pain reached its zenith.

When Blood-Irk stepped onto the gravel beach of the Northern Front, he knew the day was his. The smell of blood and acrid smoke filled the air like a miasma of death, familiar to the orc chieftain. Even with the amount of casualties they had sustained, Blood-Irk considered the effort worthwhile. Not only had they reclaimed the honor they lost during their failed excursion on the hidden island, but they finally found a sizable piece of land for their new camps.

Men would come to try and claim it, of course, but with Blood-Irk's remaining forces, as well as the Shaman Un'aka, they'd be able to repel any invading force. Yes, the chieftain's plans for Valenfrost domination did look promising.

'Perhaps I'd pay a visit to that Red Death,' Blood-Irk thought as he traversed the bloodied battlefield left behind from the previous waves. 'And kill him for what he did to Blood-Kro.'

One thing at a time, a distant part of himself chided as the orc saw the flickering flames that licked at the defender's palisade. More bodies littered around the hole in the wall, some human, most orc. Blood-Irk stepped through, passing brambles of sharp wire that were crumpled as they beheld corpses.

Once he made it past, he saw the remainder of their final push. The remaining orcs were at a standoff against a patch of defenders, all of whom were trying to retreat. They were a mix of orc and human, their sashes blue and their weapons much more finely crafted than the rusted and dulled cleavers and axes Blood-Irk's kin wielded.

They held spears out against the remaining attackers, who held out javelins of their own. It was clear that they were at a standoff, with neither side at full strength or health. Some of Blood-Irk's own were bleeding profusely, and others were burnt to near crisps, a result of the hidden Fireball runes outside the walls.

'So few?' Blood-Irk thought with a rising anger. He had sent more than enough orcs to finish this line of defenders off. Did most of them just jump at the first chance of death?

The orcs and humans noticed the chieftain not long after his arrival, their reactions mixed with fear, malice, and outright joy.

"Boss!" one of the injured orcs called. He shambled over to Blood-Irk, a stupid grin on his face. "We got these humans and traitors all lined up nicely for you, we did! All 'at left is to—"

The orc's head whipped back violently as Blood-Irk backhanded the fiend. The useless oaf fell to the ground with a heavy thud, his voice gargled as he put his good hand over his bleeding mouth. His jaw sagged, likely shattered.

"Useless," Blood-Irk growled. The other orcs shied away from him as he stepped toward them. "This is what's left of you all? Even after everything I had given you."

None spoke, the only sound around being the crackling flames of the palisade and the pained groan of the bleeding orc he had struck. Blood-Irk grunted at their silence, reminding himself to have them all whipped and beaten once this was all over. He stepped forward, his gaze settling on the surviving defenders.

He couldn't help but scoff when he met eyes with the Traitor himself.

Blood-Rok—now Silas—looked like hel. He was bloodied all over, his arm useless, and his back hunched as he rested upon an older, arguably more useless, orc. They both watched the chieftain with scrutinizing looks.

"Still alive, Traitor?" Blood-Irk asked as he took another step. All the survivors stepped back despite their raised weapons. So desperate. So pathetic.

"Turns out," Silas spat. The orc flashed him a grin devoid of mirth or confidence. "I'm hard to kill."

"Is that so?" Blood-Irk asked. He couldn't help but feel amused at the Traitor's attempt to look stoic. Perhaps he would give him a quick death. Right after he killed everyone else, of course. Blood-Irk would start with one of the humans, then move to the other traitors, and finally, Silas. He thought about maybe crushing his skull but dismissed that. He would need a head to display for all to see.

Just as the chieftain mulled on what he needed to do, the orcs behind him all emitted surprised gasps and curses. Blood-Irk scowled, his head tilting toward the idiot on his left.

"Quiet, all of you. Otherwise, I'll—"

He blinked. A bright bluish glow was painted on the faces of the orcs and men, their eyes affixed on a point behind Blood-Irk. He turned and was met with a sight near impossible.

Standing there, in the melting snow near the palisade, stood a man clad in steel and wolf fur. The air steamed around him, waves of heat and cold mixing as they produced steam from his left side. His eyes, while hidden underneath the helmet he wore, burned brightly with an ethereal glow.

The Draugr. In the flesh.

"It's him!" one orc shouted, his face contorted with surprise and… fear? The others seemed to share his reaction, their weapons shaking as they held them forward. Fear spread around Blood-Irk despite the chieftain's presence. In any normal situation, Blood-Irk would've had them killed for cowardice. The thing was…

'Can I truly blame them?'

Blood-Irk felt something within him twist with newfound dread. The Draugr, here. Alive and full of overwhelming power. His sword glowed with engraved runes, and his left hand formed frost like a powerful cyromancer from Lumen City. His posture was casual yet was taut with expectation. As if he was waiting for them to make the first move.

"You're… You're alive," Blood-Irk said, more surprised than he cared to admit.

"I am," The Draugr spoke, his voice doubling with whatever spirit lurked within. He raised his sword toward Blood-Irk, his eyes flaring. "My name is James Holter, Jarl of Yorktown and Draugr of the South. I wield strange, otherworldly powers and command terrible spirits from the depths of Helheim itself. In the ways of the Jarls of Old, I challenge you to a fight to the death."

Blood-Irk could only stare at the man, no, this creature in front of him. How long had James bided his time? How long had he planned for this meeting with the orc chieftain?

'He's mocked me since the start of this raid,' Blood-Irk realized. 'He made me think I could win, only so he could get a chance to kill me.'

No… It went further than that.

'He planned all of this from the beginning. Forced me out of Aldren so I could return with all my tribe. He made himself look weak, made his island look weak. All part of one big tactic to take out me and my clan in one fell swoop.'

Blood-Irk had lost. It was clear to him now. James Holter had mocked his strength and now was taking sick pleasure from humiliating the chieftain in front of his own orcs.

Anger bubbled and overtook the dread within the orc, and he unhitched the ax by his side. He took a step toward the Jarl, who watched him with a carefree gaze. It only pissed the orc off even more.

"You DARE?!" Blood-Irk roared as he prepared himself. He didn't care anymore about this damn island, about that damned traitor. He only wanted the Draugr's head.

"Come at me!" the Otherworldly Jarl shouted, his sword raising for a strike. Blood-Irk charged gladly, ignoring the orcs by his side as he barreled through them. Using every bit of his strength and speed, the chieftain swung his ax down on James. It struck, slicing the human from neck to groin in one clean strike.

Yet, instead of being treated with the sight of a disemboweled man, Blood-Irk saw as the image of James was shattered into a thousand blue teardrops. He stared at the sight, dumbfounded. His orcs all shuffled closer to him, confused. Their fear had evaporated not even a second after 'James' was killed.

"...What?" Blood-Irk asked, genuinely dumbstruck.

"It seems to me," a small, trembling voice called out. The orc slowly raised his head to his right, where a young human girl stood. She shook in place, a lute hanging around her torso in a loose strap as both her hands held something small and black. A stone with a smooth glass face. "That you've been duped, arsehole."

'Is that a…

The orc's thoughts were cut off when a red glyph flared from the black stone.

"Fireball!"

Blood-Irk's roar was lost within the spells' overwhelming heat.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.