Kreil rested his head on the rough oak table and breathed heavily. If he kept his mouth occupied maybe the contents of his stomach wouldn't come hurling out. He curled his arms above his head to shield himself from the light and noise. His tangled beard was greased with fish and drool, and he needed to wash it with more wine. For a few blessed moments, the wine almost worked, and he had returned to a simpler oblivion. But the returned memories would give him no rest. He reached for another drink, but it slipped from his sweaty fingers. Wine dripped on him from the toppled cup.
His body felt heavy, and it was hard to move. "No…" he groaned as his face tightened into a frown. His unsteady hand moved towards the cup again, but he misjudged the distance and knocked it off the table with the tip of his fingers. He could hear the copper cup scrape against the ground, but he was sure that he would barf if he lowered his head below the table to take a look.
A tall silhouette blocked the light from the bonfire. Kreil squinted his eyes and recognized the man, who then squatted and picked the cup up from the ground. "I see you're scheming to render yourself unable to remember the code of conduct," Bastet smirked as he handed him the cup "can't follow an order that you don't know about!"
Kreil's eyes widened. He'd already talked about Lilian four times tonight, each time while more inebriated, but he felt obligated to speak more. He needed to make sure that if the worst came, at least someone would remember that she existed. The world would be a lesser place if she was forgotten. The back of his head was aching terribly, but he still poured himself more wine. "I uh… I don't…" he groaned, not remembering how to start. His mind drifted in and out like the tide. He squeezed his head in an attempt to sober up, and his face flushed in response. The mountain range that inverted inside out. A bargain struck in shame. "I brought her into this hell," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. "And here I am. Shoveling food down my throat while she's starving."
"Your daughter?" Bastet sat down next to him. "With how much food they served today, I doubt she's starving. Doesn't look like Wesians are struggling with supplies."
"No," Kreil looked down. "You know what the cells are like… To think she's here… in this very fortress. And I can't even see her…"
"Have you talked to the commander?" Bastet provoked, "Is there any chance they'll let her go?"
"No," Kreil dug his face into his hands and cursed. "And I damned her to this fate," his bottom lip quivered. "My stupid ambition… Oh, what would her mother think. I should have never let her go…" he reached for more wine.
"How old is she?"
"Fourteen."
"She must be dying to see you."
"Oh, Lily is strong." Kreil's lips shook. "She'd, uh…" He scratched his head. "Just like her mother she…"
Bastet frowned as he leaned in. "Listen, Kreil. I'm sorry to interrupt, but now's not a good time to talk about this. Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?" Kreil mumbled.
"Must be because you've been drinking. The Wesians are after some woman called Miara. If we stay here, chances are they'll order us to help find her."
Kreil's mouth dropped and his eyes widened. The nausea did not stop, but it felt like his mind broke through the drunken haze "How could…? How would they…?"
"Wesians seem wary," Bastet squinted his eyes, "Any minute now the commander could come here and order everyone to help with the search. It'd do us good if we quickly leave the feast. After all, the only way to resist an absolute order is to not be there to hear it."
Kreil took Bastet's hand and pulled it until he was up on his feet. He had to find Miara. But after a few staggering steps he fell down with a loud thud, vomit splashing on the stone. This will be one very long night, he thought.
***
Barely any moonlight passed through the thick clouds. He and Kreil parted ways, since Kreil insisted on it, saying that he would go to the river to clean off the vomit. But Bastet knew he would hurry to meet up with that woman instead. It looked like Kreil was familiar with how to get there. In no time, he was already banging on the door of a dimly lit brick house, and was then let inside. Bastet lay down nearby where the green foliage looked the thickest, and from where he could overlook the front door.
This was it. His heart was pounding and his breathing was unsteady. This time he couldn't hear anything. He cursed in his mind for Kreil to hurry up and convince her already. The barrel was in the water. There was no going back. He pressed a hand against the crumbling brick, the rough texture a grounding sensation. A farmer's hands, he thought. Hands meant for turning soil, for mending fences, for testing the ripeness of a melon. Now they had betrayed someone he owed his life to. But there was no other choice. He could not fight the very symbol of order without a little bit of chaos on his side. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. He had spent months as a passive thing, a body to be tormented. Now, for the first time, what happened next would happen because of him.
He repeated the familiar words like a mantra in his mind. If he managed to escape, it would prove he was worth more than a sacrificial pawn, so it would be in the best interest of Wesia that he doesn't get used as one. He had to convince himself it was the truth, or else Ariadne's oath would interfere. And free from their absolute influence, he could try to find the truth about Maria. He had to.
The window on the left opened without warning, and Bastet saw a silhouette dash outside so quickly that at first, he thought it had to be a shadow. He balled up his fists. He had a terrible time convincing his body to lay still. A few minutes later Miara returned with a small, unconscious girl in her arms. It happened much faster than he anticipated. Perhaps Miara had enough authority to order her release, or maybe she worked with the berserkers, so it wasn't difficult to take her out. Whichever it was, it wasn't important. Miara handed the girl to Kreil, who put her on his back, and together they left the house. With unsteady steps, Bastet followed after them, being mindful of the distance. He only dared to go after them once they turned to a new alley. Kreil's pace was steady, it looked like he sobered up. He wouldn't allow himself to stagger while carrying his daughter.
So far so good, Bastet reassured himself. With their current pace, it would take them at least fifteen minutes to reach the western gate. No patrols so far either. He hoped that it would stay that way. His plan had already made Miara move, so it had served its purpose. If Wesia never truly acted on his warning, then maybe what he did would not count as a total betrayal.
He had to peek around the corner to see where Kreil's group would turn. But just before he did so, a scarlet column flared through the night sky. A deafening alarm bell began to toll from the western watchtower, its clang echoing through the stone alleys. Two Wesians, their armor glinting in the moonlight, had blocked their way. They bore the same sigil on their chest plate as the man who was fighting the satyr.
"Finish this fast, Miara!" Kreil yelled, and she rushed to get closer to them. Miara kneeled and slammed her hand against the cobblestone pavement, which made it break into several chunks of stone that then flew up in the air. With a wave of her hand, the stones started whirling around her, and once they built some momentum, she hurled them at the attackers. The two Wesians managed to change the direction of the stones, and with a loud noise they smashed all around, a shard whizzing past Bastet's head. He scrambled silently and desperately to a new cover.
Bastet watched as two fireballs kindled the night. His own breath caught in his throat. Kreil, without a moment's hesitation, curled his body around his unconscious daughter, making himself a shield of flesh and bone. A sickening wave of nausea washed over Bastet, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to keep from crying out. It was his doing. He had done this. He had justified it all for Maria, telling himself this was the only way he could be free to look for her. In her name, he had repaid the man who saved him by painting a target on his back. It was to be a desperate but necessary gamble, a final bid for freedom. But looking at the child he had just condemned, and the father willing to burn for her, his justification felt like a foul, self-serving, lie. Like one his masters would likely think of.
But no heat scorched Kreil's back. When he turned to look, he saw that the stone road bent upwards and formed a wide wall, which covered them from the blaze. Miara then lifted the wall up and ran towards the Wesians while holding it as cover. She took only a dozen steps before throwing it at them.
A Wesian shrieked, "Look out!" and the air tore itself apart. Bastet flinched as the stone wall Miara had raised exploded inward from a blast of wind, showering them in sharp fragments. Through the dust, he saw her move. She was a blur of lethal intent. The first Wesian lunged, his blade a silver streak aimed at her heart. There was a deafening crack, like lightning striking nearby, filling the air with the sharp, metallic smell of something burning hot. Miara's blade, now crackling with arcs of raw blue energy, met his in a shower of sparks. The Wesian screamed a high cry of agony, stumbling back as the smell of scorched flesh overpowered the burning air. Before Bastet could even process it, the second soldier slashed wildly. Miara flowed under the attack, the blade shearing off locks of her hair, and Bastet heard a sickening, wet crunch as her fist slammed into the man's chest. He staggered, clutching himself, his armor visibly dented. The first Wesian, still reeling, tried to retreat, but Miara was already there. She stamped her foot down hard onto his. Bastet saw the man freeze mid-stride, his leg instantly turning to stone.
At that point, Bastet realized his terrible mistake. He shouldn't have been watching. The last order he was given specifically addressed scenarios such as this. Seeing that his superiors were in trouble, Ariadne's oath sprung him to his feet, and his mouth opened against his will and released a loud cry to divert her attention. And it worked. Piercing through the air a single vein of lightning flashed once, roaring mightily as it struck him. Bastet lost his balance, and next thing he knew his face was dug in the dirt.
Miara's sword was cloaked in blood as it sliced through the immobilized Wesian's neck. He vainly put his hands over the wound to stop it from squirting blood, but he quickly lost his strength and fell on his side. The other Wesian had trouble breathing. The previous strike had caved in his chest, and every breath came as a wet, broken gasp. She sliced his head off, and hot blood splattered on the road. Cleaning her sword with her robe, she faced the collapsed Bastet.