The Nem was unbound.

It was clear she was unharmed, and though her voice shook as she spoke, her first words were asking about her sister.

Despite everything, it was clear the news that Tili was alive was at least some small comfort to her.

The Lightning Witch was bound. She offered no resistance, and eventually elaborated somewhat on what she'd said to Lein.

That it was Damon Cazt who had brought the necromancer and his lackey, and Alfrid and herself, together. Damon Cazt who found the 'assassin' at the Necromancer's request.

It had gone from simply finding some way to strike at the crown that they would remember, in the name of family lost during the War of the Red Flag, to an assassination plot to kill the eldest Princess.

It was never meant to go that way, and by the time it had begun to do so there was no escape.

The prisoner was taken from the tomb.

Surely, Veilena would be angered to know just how many of her ancestors had been raised, but perhaps the exemplary performance of Erich Cazt even in death would be one she could show some pride in. There was no denying he reclaimed himself at the end, after all.

Damon's presence was far less of a proud moment for the Cazt heir.

Clerics from the church would be sent to cleanse the mausoleum and put the dead properly to rest once more.

For now, at least, whatever threat the conspiracy posed was ended.

And yet...

[hr]

[hider=Bonus Content]The throne room was decorated with purple and gold. The great windows lining its sides allowed the morning light to find its way in, each flanked by luxurious curtains.

At the far end were the five seats that housed the royal family.

The tallest of the five was occupied, the tall, finely-enrobed form of the King of Thaln seated there. The gleaming crown sat upon his head, his cool eyes fixed firmly upon her. On either side of him were two armored Crown Knights, their features impossible to see beneath the plate.

Fanilly knelt, her head bowed.

“Your highness,” she said.

It was the following morning that she had been summoned by the King. She had only just finished speaking with the Captain of the Crown Knights, the Princesses safely returned home, when she received the summons.

“Rise, Knight-Captain of the Iron Roses,” came the King’s clear, firm voice, “I simply wish to hear your report.”

She had been in the presence of the King before, more than once. But this time, it was following an attempted assassination on one of his children.

Fanilly rose to her feet, clearing her throat.

“It began with a disturbance at the ball,” she replied, “It soon became clear that, somehow, an assassin had entered the ball. Thanks to the intervention of Dame Lilette, no-one was harmed, and the assassin was swiftly apprehended by my knights.”

The King nodded.

“And then it was determined she was an adventurer from Velt?”

“Yes,” answered Fanilly, swiftly, “Her sister was being held hostage to enforce her cooperation. At the time it seemed strange that a note indicating as much would be left on her person, but everything that came afterwards proved it to be the truth.”

There was still so much that was strange about the conspiracy. The plan seemed fractured, as if sabotaging itself from within.

In fact, perhaps that was precisely the case.

From there, Fanilly recounted the events that occurred after their departure and arrival at the Cazt Mausoleum. The numerous undead fought there, the presence of Damon Cazt, the actions of the Lightning Witch and the death of all the other remaining Conspirators. His expression darkened briefly when she mentioned the presence of a demon, but aside from that he merely quietly listened until she was finished.

“Damon Cazt, then… to think, that family would once again become entangled in such wickedness,” he  sighed, “Thank you, Knight-Captain. Your service ensured the safety of my daughters, and the swift eradication of the conspiracy that threatened her.”

He paused for a moment.

“But, I’m certain you don’t think that this is the end of it, do you?”

Fanilly hesitated, before clearing her throat.

“Damon Cazt’s behavior was strange,” she replied, “He only stopped one of my knights, Dame Serenity.”

The King didn’t reply for a moment, deep in thought.

“Our prisoners needed little questioning before telling us that it was Damon Cazt who supplied the assassin, and the vampire also brought them together. That witch in particular blames him for introducing her and her companion to the necromancer.”

When taken in consideration with everything else that had happened the previous night, it painted a bizarre picture.

The vampire had assembled a conspiracy doomed to fail? The assassin was no assassin, no matter her skills, and had been given a note that lead them directly to the conspirators. The conspirators themselves didn’t seem fond of each other from the very start, and those cracks had only widened until the lightning witch was all too eager to ensure the necromancer’s death.

“The witch claims that an assassination was never their goal until they received a hostage, and then both due to her companion’s presence and for the sake of the nem girl’s wellbeing she felt she had no choice but to remain,” Fanilly said, “If that’s the case, then…”

She trailed off.

What did it all mean?

“She’s said the same thing under interrogation,” the king replied, “It could be a convenient lie to try and escape punishment, but it does fit with the events of the raid.”

A conspiracy that was doomed to fail. Brought together by someone who had seemingly taken every chance to sabotage it from within.

Why?

What was the purpose of such a thing?

The only guess Fanilly could make was that the vampire had never wanted them to have a chance in the first place. But then why aid them at all?

There was too much information missing.

“Still, no matter what questions we may still have, the important thing is that my daughters are unharmed,” the King’s voice carried palpable relief upon it.

“How are they?” Fanilly asked.

“Shaken, but trying to keep a brave face,” came the King’s answer, “I’m going to spend the rest of the morning with them.”

Given the Queen’s absence, Fanilly could guess that was where she was already.

“Once again, I’m thankful for your service, and the service of your knights, in ensuring their safety,” the king continued, “If not for your efforts, and the efforts of the Crown Knights, then something terrible could have happened.”

“Something terrible did happen, father.”

The commanding voice came from the other end of the hall.

When Fanilly turned towards it, she was greeted with the dark-haired form of Prince Enrich, the middle child of the royal family. At fourteen, if anything had happened to Princess Elisandre, he would have been next in line.

“There was an assassination attempt on my elder sister, and yet you seem all too keen to praise the ones who failed to stop it,” he continued.

“Enrich, it is because of the Iron Rose Knight’s services that Elisandre is safe,” responded the King, calmly.

“Is it? Because by her own words it was because of Dame Lilette, not by any of the knights in her service, that Elisandre is still alive. A ball filled with knights, and yet an assassin walks within range of a Princess? What does that tell you, Father?”

Fanilly hesitated, uncertain what to say. While it was true the nem had managed to come into close range, no-one had seen her in the first place. It was almost certain she had concealed her presence in one way or another. It was only when direct attention was brought to her that anyone realized she was there.

“It tells me that perhaps this so-called legendary knight order isn’t as capable as they’d like to portray themselves,” continued the Prince, “A girl only two years my senior, as captain? Not to mention that vampire forever lost in the past. Do we truly need such-“

“Enrich.”

The King’s voice was firm.

“We’ll speak about this later.”

The Prince was silent. Then he turned on his heel, proceeding out of the hall.

“I’m sure we will, Father.”

The door shut behind him.

The King sighed heavily.

“… You’re dismissed, Knight-Captain.”

Fanilly bowed low.

“Yes, your highness.”[/hider]

[hr]

All the knights in Candaeln had the same dream; they dreamed of battle. 
 
A dusty plateau amidst a sea of clouds, rolling grey stretching out to the horizon. A perfectly flat disc without the slightest hint of mortal work or natural life, notable only in how the brown wasn't the surrounding grey. In this featureless world, the observer in the blue sky above was all the more noticeable: a slender woman, hair black and eyes a chilling, icy blue. Although her features held all the chiselled sharpness of classical Ithillane nobility, her garb was unerringly foreign, a colourful asymmetrical robe with a broad sash and drooping sleeves. Why was she watching? No question would get an answer, no attack would connect, passing through like a mirage.
 
Then the fighting would start. A common bandit, appearing and going straight for the kill. A lopsided skeleton. An ordinary footsoldier. With each defeat, the body would disappear like smoke, and the ground would return to its pristine condition. With every foe, the challenge would increase, and soon the landscape itself would reshape--sometimes to the dreamer's benefit, sometimes to the enemy's.
 
The knight inevitably lost. Maybe it was pitted against a mountain of an Ingvarr from Barukstaed, his already armour caked in dried blood. Maybe it was some wizard of the foulest arts, dragging them down into the numerous graves the dream now contained. Or maybe they got so far as a mighty wyvern, almost a true dragon if not for the lack of intelligence.
 
Death was inevitable, a transient searing pain. Yet it didn't end, in a blink the dreamer was once again at the starting point. The next foe would come. And the next. Each stronger than the last; mighty commanders of Talderia in gilded panoply, elaborate plumes and trimmings making them no less deadly. Ancient knights and mages of fame, from across the kingdoms, heroes of prior wars. The sky above turned from blue to orange, and they were pitted against their heroic predecessors.
 
Although no less deadly, these fights were different. Although each dreamer fought but one, these founding figures of the Iron Roses were still there when they came to their feet again. Congratulatory, or apologetic, as was their nature: Cyrus the Hammer, enthusiastic and boisterous; Lilette as gentle as her name suggested. Even Edwin the Traitor would be jocular, not a hint of darkness about him.
 
Two foes remained. Those that had descended into the mausoleum at first would recognise the shining armour, the billowing cape: Erich Cazt, without the shackles of a necromancer. Aged even in a dream, but no less diminished, holding back none of the skill or magic he had been famous for. Grandfatherly words of encouragement given as the knight awoke once more, the sky turning to black, and the sea of clouds barely visible at the horizon of the vast platform.
 
A dragon. Massive and preening, scales a red so deep as to be almost black, save for when they caught the light of the full moon perfectly, or the actinic illumination of its own flames. Only then would it have a coat of a million rubies, an unearthly beauty on a monster so huge. A foe that had taken a full ten heroes to fight and the power of a saint to bring down.
 
Volkstraad.
 
And then they woke, memories of the dream lingering long in the daylight. 

[hr]

[hider=Bonus Content 2]She had never seen a place like this before. Or at least, if she had, it felt more like a distant dream then a real location. A featureless, unreal plane of vast nothing, surrounded by an endless sea of clouds. This was no real place. There couldn't be anywhere in the world that existed like this. Not unless it was crafted, molded for a purpose.

What she did recognize was the face of the petite woman drifting above, wordlessly watching her as she looked around her surroundings.

Before she could open her mouth, call out to her, it began.

The first was a bandit. His weapon was parried in an instant, his chest pierced by the gleaming tip of her blade before he could even respond. Then a shambling undead. It didn't even swing its rusty axe before she cut its head from its shoulders.

A footsoldier, better equipped and more prepared for combat, thrusting his spear. She ducked low and caught it beneath the tip and forced it upwards, sliding her sword along the bottom of the shaft and using it to guide her blade directly to his throat.

The battlefield changed.

Now it was a more natural location, a snarled table of branches obscuring clear vision of her surroundings.

The battles changed, too.

The enemies emerged from the forest, now, aiming to take her by surprise. Their equipment improved. Their skill. She found herself pushed back.

And yet...

A thrust into a gap of an Ithillane Knight's armor, as he raised his poleaxe for a blow that would surely have killed her. A slash along the chest of a mighty barbarian, disrupting his attack and opening him for a finishing cut along the throat.

Identify your opponent. Identify their weapons. Identify their armor. Understand how they fought as swiftly as possible, then understand how to end them as a threat as swiftly as possible.

It was a method of fighting that had been drilled into her very soul from the moment she was chosen as the successor of prior Knight-Captain.

A blade of justice that swiftly and righteously ended the wicked. That ceased all that would threaten the innocent with the edge of a sword.

Now the wind howled. There was corpses all around.

A great ingvarr caked in blood raised his mighty mace. A single blow would surely shatter her skull.

She had to move.

Each swing came horrifyingly close. But she had to keep moving. His strength, his skill, they were unquestionable. But she had to win, didn't she? She had to keep fighting, didn't she?

For Thaln's sake.

For the sake of her position.

What kind of captain would she be if she ever gave up?

The searing pain hit. She'd miscalculated, she felt the blow strike her left side, felt herself lifted into the air.

Her arm twisted in a way that was not natural, flopping limply as she hit the ground. It was agony undeniable, tears welling in her eyes as her ragged breathing escaped her.

The ingvarr raised his mace.

Fighting for Thaln.

For its people.

A Knight-Captain wouldn't falter here.

The strength that suddenly surged through her legs propelled her upwards, her sword finding a gap between helmet and cuirass.

The hulking figure fell moments later.

Her arm was mended in an instant, but that wasn't the end. Now her foes grew even stronger.

When a bright light flashed in from of her, a great circle of magical energy opening before her, the muscle of her thigh severed moments earlier, there was nothing she could do.

Her armor melted away. Her flesh soon followed. Then her bones.

And yet, moments later she had returned, and it began again.

It wasn't the last time.

She faltered.

Her heart sank.

A mistimed parry, now, let a blade take her head. A Talderian knight cut her entirely in half with an enchanted blade when she didn't dodge swiftly enough.

She couldn't measure up, could she?

There was no way.

No matter how hard she tried, she was nothing compared to those who came before. She'd die and fail her knights. Fail Thaln.

That was what this told her. Every death let her understand the truth.

Olivier the Crimson. His painted red armor was unmistakble. The man who had sought to 'shatter the mirror' and slay Sir Florian, the Knight of Ithillin whose bloodthirstiness drove him to further acts of terror. It had taken a legend to defeat him.

She didn't bother raising her sword.

She would fail.

She knew she would.

So when he thrust his blade into her throat, she didn't even attempt to resist.

"... Why did you do such a thing, Knight-Captain?"

That voice was one she'd heard not so long ago, in waking hours.

"You performed so splendidly earlier."

A soft voice like cool, running water.

Her slender sword gleaming. Her armor resplendent.

The Gentle Blade.

Lilette.

But this was not the healer long retired from battle. This was the knight who stood alongside a Saint.

"... I know. I'm not worthy of my position," Fanilly replied, refusing to meet her gaze, "I was picked because it was convenient. I can't reach the same heights."

"Is that so? From my perspective, I'm not certain I agree," replied the elven knight, "So perhaps this is the best course. Simply parry this next blow. If you are so certain you shall die, then there is no pressure for you to win, is there? So you can focus on one thing alone. Parrying my next blow successfully."

Fanilly hesitated. She knew there was no way she would defeat the Gentle Blade, no matter how hard she tried. Lilette was an undefeated duelist. In her training, Fanilly had admired her, and Florian as well. It was largely through pure nerves and concern over her duties that she hadn't spoken to her more during the ball. They were something to aspire to, in terms of skill, even if she was certain she'd never reach those heights.

"But if you do, I want you to understand what that means," continued Lilette, gently, "That you parried a serious blow from a legend. A legend you admire. Surely, if you can do that, then there is still a point in moving forward, is there not?"

"..."

Fanilly inhaled deeply.

If the Gentle Blade made such a request of her, then she had to try.

The young Knight-Captain took up her sword.

She returned to her feet.

She readied herself.

Lilette smiled.

It was an unusual blow. A thrust that followed a strange pattern, curving from outside and inward. A dancing sword that would find purchase in even sturdy armor. Swift, elegant, and unquestionable.

Fanilly's arms moved.

She couldn't measure up to the other Knight-Captains.

But maybe...

The sound of metal striking metal filled the air.

Lilette's blade was thrown from its course.

"Now you understand, don't you?"

Fanilly was quite certain she stilled died in the next moments, even if she didn't feel it.

But at the same time, she had parried an attack from the Gentle Blade herself.

Did that mean...?[/hider]

[hr]

It had been a week since the raid on the conspirators in the tomb.

Judgement had yet to be passed on the nem girl, Tili. Naturally, her sister wanted her to live. The First Princess, surprisingly to some, also didn't see the need for her to die.

And a delegation from the Velt Adventurer's guild, apparently notified by a mysterious man leaving a message notifying them of the situation, was to arrive soon in order to argue on her behalf.

But there was still no way of knowing what her fate would be, yet.

Fierense had vanished.

She had cooperated, and made no attempt to escape. The cell she was housed in was warded by the Court Mage himself. There shouldn't have been any way for her to escape, and she hadn't made any attempts to try. There was no damage to the cell. The wards themselves hadn't been displaced.

And yet there was no sign of the Lightning Witch.

It was fairly early in the morning when Fanilly awoke that day.

Her maids assisted her in bathing, and braided her hair before helping her get dressed. Her thoughts drifted as her morning routine continued, to the strangeness of the conspiracy and to the strange dream she had experienced the night before.

She didn't speak of it to her maids, and she was certain they noticed how quiet she was being, one hand placed to her chest(at least until they asked her to move it so they could continue bathing her).

A reason to keep moving forward...

She'd been wanting to do some research. Both to see if there was any sort of historical precedence for all of this(perhaps she could find some record of Damon Cazt?) and in order to see if she could find some information on the figures that appeared in that bizarre dream.

Naturally, this meant she'd at least be starting the day in the library.

It wasn't a bad day outside. Quite the opposite, in fact. The sun was shining, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Some of the local birds could be heard rather vocally in the gardens, serenading their fellows or staking claims on territory.

But Fanilly had plenty to do.

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