"Perhaps this is what my father had strived for."

James was nearly thrown back from the failed ritual, his feet sliding against the cold ground as magical energies filled the air. For a second, he could have sworn he saw a pillar of white light emerge from the circle's center, only for it to dissipate as quickly as it had come.

Naomi staggered to her feet, her chest rising as she took in deep breaths. The air around her sparked randomly, the smell of burnt berries permeating the air. James blinked away the whiteness that encompassed his vision, his gaze shifting to the surrounding soldiers who had been waiting. Almost all were on the ground, groaning as they slowly recovered.

"What the hell happened?" James asked slowly. He looked at Naomi, who shook her head like she was trying to get rid of some bad memories.

"Too much…" she breathed. "It's too much. The ley lines overwhelm me too quickly for me to produce a gate. I… I can't handle it all."

James felt his throat dry at her words, the dread within him twisting into an uncomfortable knot. They needed this to work. If not….

'Don't let those thoughts back in,' Faust's stern voice called to him. 'Keep yourself composed for now.'

James refrained from lashing out, his head nodding as he walked toward the other Outlander. She was taking quick breaths of the cold air, hand on her chest as she tried to regulate her breathing.

James looked down at the broken glyphs beneath Naomi, the chalk dust fizzling to black ash. He thought back to the remaining chalk they had left. It would barely be enough to reform this circle.

'And even if we do… how do we make it work?'

The ritual had failed because of the overbearing ley lines. Naomi had drawn from their source to fuel the gates. Not uncommon for these types of rituals. So what went wrong?

'The distance,' James realized. From what little he knew of Valenfrost, he had an idea of its scale. Lukas had once told him that a trip from their base in Turstead to Yorktown would take three weeks, even with magical wind. Given that their trip to Iree, aided by Malik, took two days, James was left with a staggering distance from home.

'Not even Bernis is as far from Yorktown as Iree,' James thought. 'The amount of juice needed to power these gates would be insane.'

And Naomi had to somehow manage it all. The power of a ley line rushed through her like a conduit as it ripped through space and time. For some reason, he felt as if he could relate.

Must I spell out the answer?

A voice called to him, distant yet dripping with snide reproach. James frowned at the words, which had brought out the thought he was afraid of considering.

'Are you well?' Faust asked.

'Not really, no,' James answered. He looked down at his left hand, which slowly crystallized frost from its fingertips. 'I think I know what to do. The thing is, it's gonna suck. A lot.'

'Then let's not waste any more time.'

With a sigh, James approached Naomi.

"There's a way we can do this," he said slowly. "Without you burning out the way you did."

"You don't sound too sure of that," Naomi muttered, her single eye looking at him with caution.

"Just trust me on this," James said. "I've technically done this before."

"Ok… I'm listening."

"Here's the plan. We're going to use my body as a battery."

Un'aka scowled as seawater speckled against his face, the waves battering against his longship so violently it was like the ocean itself was trying to sink him. Thankfully for him, the wards he placed upon this vessel and the others would keep them all afloat for the moment.

Even if struck by Fireballs or other projectile spells, Un'aka was confident his defenses would hold true. He was a Shaman of the Cerulean Isles, trained from a young age to increase his output of mana and control. It would take a lot more than a few runes to even crack his wards.

He looked over to the longship's occupants, which consisted of the remaining orcs he had gathered around the ring of ships that surrounded Yorktown. It had taken him some time to group them up properly, as well as some arguments, but the Shaman got what he needed. A small fleet of ships filled with orcs would be more than enough for the three ships that headed toward them.

A naval battle was a brutal affair, even with magic. So Un'aka prepared some buffs and protections for the orcs, even going so far as to alleviate their weight so they wouldn't outright drown if they fell into the sea. In the end, there were so many enchantments active that the Shaman could taste the aroma of fruit in the air.

He looked over at the approaching longships, the humans on there navigating strangely in the black waters. While distant, he could see how the lead ship turned. He blinked. It turned? Yes, the lead boat had turned its port side facing Yorktown, the sails whipping as they forcefully changed direction.

'They're retreating?'

Had the fleet realized the island was lost for good? Un'aka glanced back toward Yorktown, where pillars of black were already beginning to rise into the sky. Perhaps that could be the case. The Shaman brought his attention to the retreating ships, which had stopped mid-turn. He squinted at them, his confusion slowly shifting to dread.

What was happening? They had no spellcasters on board, did they?

'Even if they did, we're properly prepared. Still…'

Un'aka's speculations faltered when he saw one of the men aboard lug a huge metal tube over the port side of the ship. He struggled to straighten it, aiming its open end toward Un'aka's own fleet. For some reason, he felt an unease come over him, his heart suddenly thumping with fear.

He turned to call for his orcs to loose arrows despite their distance. Unfortunately, right when the words began to leave his lips, the end of the tube was engulfed in a flower of flames.

"Give them hel," Hilda said as Haggard activated the Fireball rune in the rear of the cannon. It lurched back, nearly tearing at its straps as the spell exploded within the iron tube. The metal held, and Haggard was treated to the sight of the Shaman's defenses breaking.

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Cracks appeared amongst the invisible wards that surrounded the opposing fleet, strained for half a second before they shattered. Following that, the red hot cannonball struck against the wooden hull of one of the ships. It tore through the wood, leaving behind a sizable hole that began to burn.

"It worked!" Liam called from the rear. "Freyja's tits, it worked! I half expected the damn thing to blow itself into slag!"

"The iron is more than enough to hold in the Fireball's heat," Hilda explained. "It's made of the same material as Rockford's forge."

"Still," Haggard started, his hands moving away from the hot barrel. "That one shot was almost enough to rip its ropes out."

"No matter," Hilda said, the gnome scribbling notes into her little journal. "Just reinforce the knots, and we'll be fine. My guess is that it'll be able to handle four more ignitions before it gives out. Either from the heat or the recoil."

Haggard nodded, letting Liam move in to secure the knots and tie another set of thick ropes to the cannon's rear. While the shipmaster dealt with that, he moved to load the weapon with another Fireball rune. He glanced over at the distant island of Yorktown, where ships of black and red surrounded it.

He was reminded of the first siege, back when Deimos had sent his men to burn the town down in an attempt to weed out Seamus. Even then, the marauders had some kind of goal. From what Haggard knew, these orcs had no goals, no ambitions. They just wanted to destroy everything.

'Hold out for just a little longer,' Haggard thought as he loaded the ball. He pulled back to allow Hilda to adjust the cannon's aim. She mumbled as she reviewed her notes, where she had calculated the trajectory of the first shot. With a glance at the flag by the ravensnest, the gnome guided Haggard to point the barrel's end to a specific point.

Then he fired.

Kof felt more than a little disappointed. For one, the orc had easily dispatched the enemy commander without so much of a swing. One strike was all that it took to take down their Captain, cutting the head of the White Raven and capturing their base of operations. It was all so… anticlimactic.

Kof expected a fight, a real fight. One of glory and guts, with both sides trading lethal blows. Instead, the orc and his troop had torn through weaklings and sparse fighters. Not even the Captain put up much of a fight, despite his rousing monologue and declaration of his titles. Kof didn't even know what the 'Old Guard' was, let alone its significance.

"Boring," the orc muttered as he played around with the small map of the town. He knocked over the small totems at its center like a game of Regicide, his grin growing a little. Well, at least he had taken over their base. Blood-Irk would surely reward him for that. Perhaps Kof would even get the infamous Blood surname.

"Blood-Kof," the orc muttered. "It's got a nice ring to it, no?"

His fellow orcs ignored him, their focus on looting the longhouse. Kof shrugged and turned to his latest kill, the Captain himself. Perhaps his head would prove some value to the chieftain. Maybe it'll boost his standing. He was about to raise his cleaver for some impromptu surgery when he noticed that the body had moved. No, scratch that, it was still moving.

The Captain was still alive. Barely, of course. His entire left side was split open, showcasing cracked bone and exposed muscle. Still, his right side was shifting ever so slightly, his only working hand grabbing at something near the bottom of the table.

Kof walked up to the dying man, his foot slowly turning the man over onto his back. The Captain winced, his blood-covered face contorted in agony. He looked up at Kof with a glassy look that indicated he was only seconds away from death.

"You're tough for a human," Kof said with a chuckle. He racked his thoughtcage for the man's name. "Felix Arlo, right? Resilient little bastard, aren't you?"

The Captain mumbled something. Kof leaned forward, his foot 'accidentally' pressing on the man's stomach. The human groaned in pain, his teeth clenching.

"Come on now," Kof taunted. "What are your last words, Captain Arlo? I'll be sure to inscribe them on your pyre once we burn your bodies. Well, the useless ones, that is."

Felix groaned, his right hand clutching at the torn burlap bag to his chest. Kof raised an eyebrow as he leaned in a bit more. Through its torn material, he could see what looked like a bunch of rocks. The human was grabbing onto as many as he could, his fingers clinging to their smooth faces.

"I…" Felix called softly, his glassy gaze gaining a bit of clarity as he locked eyes with the orc, who blinked in confusion at the sudden change in the human's expression. Kof took another look at the burlap sack. Confusion was replaced with daunting realization when the orc recognized glowing glyphs upon the smooth stones, both red and blue runes reacting to the Captain's will.

"I… I cast Fireball, bastard," Felix finished, his raspy voice gaining an ethereal tone.

Kof wasn't fast enough with his strike. Even as his rusted blade buried itself in the human's skull, the runes in his hold all brightened to a blinding white. They all activated at the same time.

Kof never felt the explosion. Only the heat and then darkness.

An explosion rang out in the town ahead, the echo reverberating like the roar of some ancient creature from the Age of Myths.

Elaine shuddered at the implication of such a detonation. She looked toward her troop, which consisted of the orc and human defenders of the Southern Front. Silas was with them, carried by both Gruk and another orc. He gave her a grim look, which told her all she needed.

"Where do we go now?" she asked softly, her voice shaking as she considered options. The Northern and Western fronts were compromised, and Elaine doubted the Southern Front was in any better shape. She found herself holding her arms close to her body, her knees buckling from both the fear and the exhaustion of running messages all day.

"You head to the Shaman's hut," a voice called to the Bard. Elaine perked at that, her eyes glancing about for the source.

"What?" she asked. The others gave her questioning looks.

"This is Wizard Falrick," the voice said. Elaine jumped at the ethereal words, her gaze soon setting toward the east. Through the forest, beyond the smoke that had started to cloud the canopies, she focused on the small mountain in the island's center.

"You are to retreat to the Shaman's hut,' Falrick continued. "Frue Dahlia will meet you all there in due time. She will treat the wounded and help you all recover."

At this point of the conversation, the orcs and humans around Elaine perked up noticeably. It seemed as if the Wizard's words had reached them as well.

"What then?" Silas asked in a grunt, his breathing ragged. "Is there a plan to counter the invaders?"

"He's right," Gruk said. "Even if Blood-Irk is out of the fight, his orcs will stop at nothing to see this island conquered."

"We'll come up with something," Falrick said. "Things might seem hopeless, but there is a chance we can turn this around. Haggard and the others arrived not long ago. Given enough time, they'll make landfall before sunset."

"So we have to hold out until then," Elaine muttered. She shivered, despite the Frost's chill lessening bit by bit as the flames from the Northern Front spread, their glow visible even from afar.

"Unfortunately, it is our best course of action," the Wizard said.

He went silent after that, leaving the Bard and her remaining companions alone in a forest that was filled with smoke.

Blood-Irk's nerves burned with agony, his maw opening to a silent scream as he stirred awake. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air, the sound of something sizzling reaching his ears. He could feel the immense heat fuzed his skin to the armor, the agonizing process nearly unbearable. The orc chieftain forced himself to move regardless, his teeth clenched tightly.

The Fireball had nearly killed him, its blast nearly ripping him apart. Blood-Irk only lived due to Un'aka's armor enchantments and the basic buffs he had placed on the orc before his departure to the island. Even then, the impact alone had threatened to scatter his remains across the clearing, the heat following it nearly finishing him off.

Yet Blood-Irk survived. Out of sheer anger or spite, he wasn't truly sure. He only knew that it was a gods-given miracle he hadn't lost any of his arms or legs. His fellow orcs hadn't been blessed with the same convenience. Blood-Irk's gaze passed by the lifeless heaps that surrounded him. Remnants of the orcs who were near him.

'They were weak anyway. I probably would've killed them regardless.'

The orc grunted and slowly stood up, doing his best to ignore the searing of his flesh against the heated steel that was his armor. He had escaped the clutches of death once again, a feat of both luck and pure strength.

Blood-Irk searched his surroundings, which had darkened bit by bit as flames spread from the fallen encampment to the forest. The orc chieftain made his decision there. This island would burn for its sins. He didn't care that it'd make a decent base. He didn't even care about the Traitor. He only wanted to set the whole thing ablaze, a pyre to put all other pyres to shame.

"Their bodies will be used as nothing more than fuel for the flames," Blood-Irk seethed, his remaining eye moving in the direction of the town. He slowly took a step toward it, his body steaming as it trudged through melted snow and muddy marsh.

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