Liberi Reader

Paprika clenches the blood-stained piece of paper in her hand and tries to imagine what it felt like as the Steam Knight wrote these words.

Wiš'adel surveys the resting place of kings, now barely-recognizable rubble.

Shadows spread from Ines's feet, locking on to every Victorian soldier present.

Then, she senses a different kind of shadow.

Hoederer points towards Wiš'adel.

The Nachzehrer King looks up to see a frenzied flame cut open the veil of decay for an instant.

In an instant, innumerable tattered rags rush out of the fog, drifting across the sky above the city like a gray-white tide.

There is cloth freshly torn from clothing, and there are banners woven by hatred over the millennia.

They have wrapped generation after generation of Nachzehrer warriors, hiding the rot beneath, but now they fly freely in the sky, inviting all they touch to walk into decay.

The Nachzehrer warrior's body quickly collapses, losing all form and color.

An invisible fog takes up the form of the dead, and gently embraces the remains.

Liz's blue fowlbeast perches on Shining's shoulder, rubbing against her cheek.

'Bzzz—bzzzz—'

'Bzzzt—'

Closure clenches her comms terminal tightly, but she can feel the pain of its metal corners biting into her skin fading away. Her limbs are becoming numb.

The fog clings to all life equally, inviting them to join the procession of decay.

She knows what Fang's suggestion implies. She wants to reject it.

But she does not.

Even if their flesh has decayed, even if their consciousness has long faded, the lifeforce of the Nachzehrer continues to sing in joy as they return to the Cycle.

'Bzzz—bzzzz—'

'Clo—sure—bzzz'

The massive explosion almost ruptures the young Nachzehrer's eardrums. A massive suit of armor flies past him.

The fog gently picks away the broken limbs the armor is wearing, pale fragments dispersing with the steam.

Several Sudarams fly towards it, their swords making screeching sounds on the metal, piercing the dull thud of Originium explosives.

The young Nachzehrer has no time to look back. Heavy metal legs break the fog in front of him, blocking out the already-dim sunlight.

The young Nachzehrer falls to the ground. Cold blood immediately seeps through the remaining mop cloth, as though he was born to wipe such filth.

But why was he born to?

He has no time to think about the answer. A great iron hammer is raised above his head, its glaring reflection in his eyes.

A tide of rot rushes past him, and the hammer falls to the ground as scrap.

Behind the Nachzehrer King, the ranks of Sarkaz part silently.

They reveal a black path between white shroud, white bones, and white pall.

The Banshee shakes his head and says nothing. His bone pen floats up in front of him.

The Nachzehrer King spreads his arms wide. The Banshee begins to move his bone pen.

A thousand branches rise from the Nachzehrer, formed of flesh, blood, and bone. A thousand incantations are etched by the point of the Banshee's pen, in opposition to the decay.

A thousand branches spread out on the battlefield. Every Nachzehrer corpse they touch, from the ethereal remains of the ancient Sudaram, to the yet-unrotted flesh of young Nachzehrer warriors, blooms in flowers of decay.

Once again, the Nachzehrer rise from decay.

Once again, the fearless charge forth in the incantations of the Banshee.

The rays of dawn shine from the pinnacle of the Palace of Westhaleg.

They drive away the fog, revealing the aftermath of battle.

The daybreak was unfamiliar to those returning home, or to those on the battlefield.

Morning rays pour down like blood, over the carpet of bodies on the ground.

The cold dawn pours blood toward the skyline, toward the winding mountains in the distance, like an ocean of blood.

The few cries of joy from the crowd quickly fall silent. This is not how anyone imagined the glory of victory.

In the silence, only the lonely sound of a bone whistle reaches the pitch-black underground throne room.

It is the Banshee's elegy for the dead.

There is no answer. The Regent of Kazdel, the one who began this war, is not here.

He closes his eyes and seems to see a river of blood flowing towards the sky.

Manfred cannot even tell what became of the Sarkaz hero who left so many legends behind.

But he sees an image in his mind's eye—

When the fires of war once again ravage Kazdel, death shall emerge from the mountains on the skyline.