Liberi Reader

A strange aura permeates the battlefield around the fallen soldiers.

Something seeps out from their skin, their eyes, their ears, their noses. It is not blood; it is nothing tangible.

Perhaps it is fear, the fear of what comes after death, an unsurmountable fear that is rapidly draining their lifeforce.

No response.

Your call goes unanswered.

Something is not right. Amiya is not in the habit of ignoring you, even in the middle of fierce fighting.

PRTS does not show the status of operators, but you realize that she is in great danger.

Retreat?

No.

They cannot. The Vampire's blood shackles can be cut, the Nachzehrer's deadly corruption can be resisted, but there is no way to avert the dark cloud's gaze as long as they remain on this land.

There is no place untouched by the anguish and wrath of the Sarkaz.

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Countless voices rush into her head.

She hears children who lost their parents to war sobbing as they walk amongst the ruins.

She hears the dull clunk of a young soldier's sword as it meets the head of an enemy for the first time.

She hears a Banshee, facing a deformed city, chanting incantations that he has just learned in the silver moonlight.

She hears a Vampire chuckle alone in a canyon, turning the enemies charging towards the Sarkaz settlement into a sea of blood.

She hears the dead souls in the sky, screaming towards the earth.

Why did we have to die?

Because we were Sarkaz?

Black lines surge uncontrollably from her eyes, ears and mouth, stretching and entwining.

For an instant, all the Sarkaz feel their hearts grasped by the black strings.

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The rings do not crack or change color.

They are trembling because she is.

Infinite sorrow engulfs her, binding her, suffocating her.

Dark clouds fill her vision, no matter where she turns.

How can she escape? What would it take?

She can only listen.

A Sarkaz scales the city walls.

Behind him, a city of gray iron. Above his head, a black banner.

Wounded warriors line up before him. Young Sarkaz, about his age but untrained, guard the city walls with rusty swords in their hands.

Countless compatriots stand behind him, some old, some young, many with nothing more than bows and arrows for hunting.

The enemy has tread the barrens and come before their city.

They hear the staves of the Spire Casters cut through air.

They hear the Gaulish gunners directing their Originium guns.

They hear the heavy footsteps of steam armor, and the gushing of steam as they charge.

The Assassin delays the Vampire.

The Caster slows the falling.

You fly across the battlefield on the zipline, pulled along by the drone.

You grab Amiya's hand and pull her into your arms, just before she hits the ground.

You see tears of sorrow in the corners of Amiya's eyes, and fury in her furrowed brow.

What did she see? What did she hear?

A silhouette.

A Sarkaz, watching you silently.

He lacks the thick malice of the Vampire, the proud contempt of the Confessarius, or the fearsome aura of the Nachzehrer. He even lacks the Wendigo's imposing stature.

Just one Sarkaz, no army, no servants. He rose from his throne, laid down the authority that he never truly cared for, and walked here.

With a cold gaze not seen for two centuries.

His sword is right before your eyes, you see it before you see his face clearly.

Amiya will die. So will you, if you do not let her go.

He came here with one goal, to kill the King of Sarkaz in your arms.

All the effort could only deflect the unremarkable sword by inches.

Closure pulls on you desperately, while you continue to hold Amiya in your arms.

The drone rapidly pulls you back, while a bloodied Kal'tsit remains in front of you.