“An organization cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself.”
Piece by piece he dressed her, exhibiting the utmost care as though he was handling a delicate figurine made from hand-blown glass. He knew better than to regard her in such a manner. She was anything but fragile, yet he could not convince his hands to mistreat her despite his accelerating frustration.
“Tighter,” she urged while gesturing to the strap on her drooping pauldron.
Pride watched her for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he finished fastening her legguards into place. “I would much rather you send one of your underlings to carry out this task.” He had become irate the instant she made the proposal, however with the absence of his second Primordis, there was little he could do or say to overturn the Sorceress’ suggestion. His aura flared at the recollection, causing wisps of red energy to crackle like electricity around him. Here he was, against his better judgement, preparing the one monster who knew him better than himself for a mission he did not condone.
“You understand, as well as I do, that the success of this mission is heavily dependent on the absence of a heartbeat as well as an infallible disguise. If there is someone else you would nominate to take my place, then by all means, Lord Pride, I am listening.” While there were several individuals employed by Panzer who could fulfil one requirement or the other, the Sorceress was the only one capable of performing both.
His reply came in the form of a harsh yank on her shoulder strap, righting the piece of borrowed armor. A scowl darkened his features, and his eyes seethed a deep shade of scarlet as he stared her down in silence. He despised knowing she was right. “The instant you discover what Hasaar is planning, I want you to report back to me and get out of there immediately, do you understand?” He cupped her cheek, elevating her chin until their noses nearly touched, before growling, “That is an order, Red.” She would be furious with him for pulling rank at a time like this, but he could not afford to spare her ego when he knew it could be brandished against her. Be furious, he thought to himself, If for no other reason than to unleash your wrath when you return... because you will return to me.
The temperature in the room spiked suddenly as Malakortana’s eyes narrowed into menacing slits. If looks could maim, a lesser creature would have imploded on himself, but the Dread Father would not be so easily challenged. She knew better than to argue with a man whose iron-clad will rivalled only that of her own. Instead, she punished him by recoiling from his touch, denying him the hard-earned privilege of physical contact.
He let out an exasperated sigh, fully aware that once this task was carried out, the Sorceress would likely vanish for an undetermined amount of time. It was times like this he wished she would spit or scream at him; inflict some sort of hex or curse upon him; or even punch him square in the jaw. At least the suffering would be over quickly. True to the Sorceress’ conniving nature, rather than allow her temper to flare, she subjected him to the torment of absolute silence. With a single, backwards step, he acquiesced to her sudden demand for personal space. “Let me see you march.” Even the slightest misstep could spell out disaster and he would not allow her to infiltrate the Risen ranks without first gaining his approval.
The heavy armor felt restrictive compared to the freedom of silk. Saronite platemail clanked awkwardly as she marched, and although Malakortana did not feel the least bit encumbered, she wondered how others grew accustomed to such noisy bulk. “You do realize, with communication devices strapped to every guard, I will not be able to relay my findings to you.”
“I am painfully aware,” he grumbled, “but I also know that an open channel with a large audience has never been your preferred method of communication to begin with. I trust you will use the shard, then?”
“Its illumination will be the last thing they ever lay eyes upon.”
Shrouded by a thick curtain of smoke, a lone figure occupied the space where an entire army once stood. A strong gust of wind blew over the encampment, stirring a flurry of ashes from the incinerated corpses of both risen and cultists alike. Countless bodies littered the scorched earth, each more gnarled and twisted into an unrecognizable heap than the last, but somehow her intended target had managed to escape his fate. For now.
Tiny white flakes settled into the palm of her outstretched hand, bony fingers uncurling to caress the whisper of death, as she basked in the devastation wrought by her assault. Unfortunately, her victory would be short lived.
The unmistakable screech of a distress signal jolted the Sorceress to attention. During her absence, something had gone terribly wrong back at the Stronghold. And to think he was so convinced she was the one in danger. How quickly the tables had turned.
Gathering her thoughts, Malakortana’s eyes drifted closed as she projected a message through the pulsing shard, her own private link to the Dread Father. Pride, it is worse than we feared. Not only is the sixth, but the first, fourth, and fifth Risen battalions are also in league with the Cultists. Hasaar is nowhere to be found, and there is no doubt in my mind he is but one of many heads on this unsightly hydra. As for the sixth, they no longer pose a threat to Panzer. Consider them… dealt with.
His reply was as scattered as his racing thoughts. Hasaar is here. We are… overpowered.
Hold fast, she urged, I am coming to you.
Like hell you are! he barked, and the shard in her hand burned red with rage. The stronghold is lost... send backup… must…. retreat.
She could feel it in her bones, dread clawing its way up her spine as her thoughts turned toward the only person who could assist those on the cusp of imminent defeat... a greedy little goblin by the name of Crackhorn.
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