Another concussive blast sent shockwaves through the castle, followed by the deafening groan of wood and stone straining to hold shape. Dust spilled through the cracks, swirling like phantoms in the glow of the blazing tapestries lining the walls in the Hall of Wisdom. Screams that had been echoing through the upper floor suddenly fell silent.
The man staggering down the corridor wondered if they belong to Mages or his fellow Templars. Sawyer had no idea how many of either were left, but judging by the number of corpses he’d tripped over already, he doubted many. They’d been slaughtering each other for the last few hours, those who’d chosen to remain. Most mages had fled, chasing their first taste of freedom without a backwards glance, but a surprising number had stayed in an attempt to restore order. Or some semblance of it, at least, until the highest ranking Templar declared the Rite of Annulment and too few others voted against it. Those who did were cut down with the mages who fought back, forced to defend themselves and each other. Sawyer saw it happen, and still scarcely believed it. Brother and sister against brother and sister, as if the matching armour they wore and the vows they took together meant nothing. Slaughtering unarmed but certainly not defenceless mages without hesitation, men and women and children they had sworn to protect.
From there, the situation rapidly unravelled. Now, Sawyer couldn’t be sure whether the next face he saw would be his last. Even after removing his armour, and holding his hands up peacefully upon approaching survivors, mage and Templar alike had attacked him on sight. He was forced to kill more mages this night than he had in his entire career, and, for the first time, members of his own Order. But the blood coating him could just as easily be his own as someone else’s. Could be human or elven, noble or common, innocent or corrupted. In the roaring firelight, it all looked the same.
Which begged the question, what was he still doing here? If nobody was listening to reason, what was the point in getting himself killed? He’d asked himself a hundred times why he hadn’t just left, along with everyone else who knew which way the wind was blowing, but every time he made the decision to go, something got in his way. A wounded Templar in need of care, or mercy, or a mage paralyzed by fear huddled in a corner somewhere that needed rousing. A Templar being tortured by enraged blood mages who had already given in to temptation, or a mage cornered by ruthless Templars looking to make yet another example of them. It was endless. And he couldn’t just...accept what he was seeing. If the situation could be salvaged -- he wasn’t sure it should be, or if he even wanted it to be. He didn’t know what he wanted. All he knew was the Circle was broken, and the only thing left to do was make sure the aftermath claimed as few lives as possible. If he couldn’t at least do that, then he never should have taken those damned vows in the first place. For all the good they were to him now.
Another explosion, a bigger one than before. Several spells coalescing by the sound of it. Sawyer paused, gaging its distance and direction. Somewhere near the library, he surmised, though he couldn’t be sure. Stone had a way of scattering sounds that could trick the senses. But the library was centrally located, and would make a fine battleground for those looking to fight. It had wide open spaces, but plenty of bookshelves and tables to provide cover.
He arrived expecting to find mages and Templars at war, but was surprised to find it utterly quiet. Someone had already ransacked it, burning and destroying the ancient tomes that had been studied for centuries, but as he carefully picked his way through the aisles, he saw no signs of life. The sight of so many books torn and burnt beyond recovery was tragic, representing volumes of wisdom lost to future generations of mages; if indeed the tower would ever again house them.
Sawyer was about to leave the place to its dust when a whisper of movement caught the edge of his eye. Freezing in place, he cocked his head a little and listened while his peripheries scanned for further disturbances.
Turning, he moved a warning hand to the hilt of his sword but refrained from drawing it. “Come out slowly,” he ordered, keeping his tone firm but neutral. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
When no one emerged, he crept closer until the sight of a familiar face stopped him in his tracks. Crouched in the far corner, wedged between a shelf and overturned table, was Veata Aydelotte. The young mage stayed motionless in her hiding place, staring at him with dark, frightened eyes that belied the stillness of her expression.
Sawyer waited a split second longer for her to react. To say something, to rise, to summon a spell that could obliterate him on the spot or turn into an abomination. Nothing of the sort happened, not now, and not during her Harrowing, where he’d stood vigil and watched her graduate from a novice to a sorcerer of rare and impressive talent. They’d spoken little before and after, but he knew her well enough that he felt safe to approach her.
Relaxing the hand on his sword, he took a few slow steps forward with his other hand raised in peace. “It’s alright,” he said in a gentler tone. “I won’t hurt you. But you can’t stay here, it’s not safe. You have to leave. Now.”
