text: [Themes: fantasy, fantasy, action]
  
  They don't place torches near you. There's no sort of light for the prisoners, unless you count the moon. Tonight, however, it hides behind a thick cloud layer. Darkness surrounds, not even allowing you to see two cells over. Your cellmates, along with Morgan, are dark forms in the foreground of blackness. For days you've sat, imprisoned, Morgan still content where you both are for the time being.
  
  That's about to change.
  
  A cold hand lands across your mouth, the face behind it shrouded in black. Morgan. Her other hand motions towards her face, and you barely make out her finger gesturing in front of her lips, the sign to be quiet. You nod, slowly rising from your prone state. Morgan's finger, still in front of her mouth, pulls an object from underneath her tongue. A small pin, not longer than an inch, rests between her forefinger and thumb, likely something she snagged in the councilor's tent. No wonder she was content. She was biding her time for the perfect moment. A night like this, moonlight hidden, is that exact thing.
  
  She creeps to the cell door, you closely behind, and maneuvers the pin into the lock, taking care not to jumble it around and alert the others. With a satisfying click, the mechanism releases. You both pause, listening to see if there's a response from the other prisoners. It's silent. The two of you slip from your cell into the Helswith air, free.
  
  Suddenly, a burst of light emerges from one end of the camp. A group of soldiers appear, five in total, carrying torches, marching straight for you. How did they know you escaped so quickly? Before the torchlight can land on you, you make a break for the nearest makeshift barracks, a canvas tent designed in a long, rectangular position. In the safety between two of them, you watch the soldiers pass you by. They aren't coming for you. And you have a good idea who they are coming for. The sentries did say Joren tried burning the camp down. Bound to be some angry Helswith soldiers as a result of that.
  
  > Intervene
  You decide to intervene, although it's probably best to wait until the proper moment. Morgan may have her smuggled pin to open the lock, but these soldiers no doubt have a key. If they're willing to open the door for you, might as well let them. They head straight for Joren, the light from their torches interrupting the prisoners of each cell that they pass. The soldier in front of the others reaches in his pocket for a key, digging around for a bit and missing the lock twice before swinging open the cell door. Most likely has been spending his night drinking until now. The soldiers pull Joren from the cell and toss him to the ground in front of them.
  
  "These shackles better work. I don't want to end up like Fetts," one of the soldiers mutters under his breath.
  
  Another one answers. "You'll be fine. You really think the High Lord would not take the proper precautions against someone like this?"
  
  To ensure he won't escape, the soldiers start to kick at Joren in his prone state. He covers up, attempting to block as many blows as possible with his arms, redirecting the bulk of the force to the ground beneath him. Now's your chance. Joren occupied, the soldiers busy, there wouldn't be a better time to attack.
  
  Morgan, agreeing with you, silently creeps forward at your heels. You are unarmed, but the soldiers aren't. As you approach the closest, still undetected, you pull a knife from the soldier's belt. He turns, only to have his own knife cut his throat. Blood splashes in the air then down to Joren's prone body, too much for one man. To your right, Morgan has done the same maneuver, and she's working on the next one. You do the same, making quick work of the drunken soldiers.
  
  "You'll not get away this time," Morgan speaks to the man before her, the very man who burned the temple and killed her mentor.
  
  Joren looks up from the ground. Some of the soldiers' blood splattered across his face. "I was doing the work of your Lady. That old man of yours was a traitor to your cause."
  
  "Your lies mean nothing," Morgan answers. "I only wish I could make it slower." Morgan thrusts the dagger down, sending the tip piercing Joren's chest. A small gurgle escapes his mouth. His hands, still chained, half-heartedly reach towards the blade in his chest, unsure whether to try pulling it out. Either way, he's doomed. Morgan takes a deep breath and looks up to the night sky, as if in contemplation or looking for divine direction. You stand back a few feet, allowing her to savor the moment. What does this mean for the two of you now?
  
  Men's voices begin to ring into the night, still a way's off. Your skirmish must have alerted other soldiers, who are now making their way to your very location. You drop down, searching the leader of the now-dead Helswith men and pull a key from his belt.
  
  "Good luck. You're better off traveling west, just steer clear of any tribesmen," you say, tossing the key into the nearest cell. The prisoners inside nod and immediately unlock their door, passing the key to the next and so on. Not many would likely make it, but at least some will. It's a better chance than you ever received. Deep down, not a prideful thought, but you also know they will cover your own escape, distracting the soldiers away from you.
  
  With Joren dead, your mission completed, Morgan and you escape into the night.
  
  Louder and louder the camp gets, coming alive in the middle of the night. Prisoner escape. Not that the soldiers would have noticed you and Morgan sneaking through, but the chaotic circumstance makes for a nice cover. Men rush past your various hiding positions, all heading straight for the prison area. Soldiers lie dead, prisoners breaking free, they're more concerned with stopping a revolt than searching for lone escapees.
  
  You take the opportunity to snag some equipment on the way out. After finding a soldier your height and build, you're now armed with simple protective leather and sword at your hip. Morgan's only able to pick up a sword, as the soldiers you came across wore armor much too big for her. Just as you suggested to the prisoners, you head west into the barbarian plains. Now that you've put some distance between you and the camp, you see it's littered with fires. The prisoners who seemed docile enough, must have made more of an impact than you were expecting. They likely know it's their one chance at escape and are making the most of it.
  
  It's still dark, although the first sign of morning light is starting to appear. A thick cloud layer still hangs in the air, doing its best effort to shield the approaching sunlight.
  
  "Finally. It is finished," you break the silence as both you and Morgan gaze out on the camp to the east. The rolling hills of the rocky plains offer a substantial viewpoint over the Helswith war camp.
  
  "Our task is, yes. The Lady's vengeance is complete. There is still much work to be done. Rebuilding, you see, is no small thing," Morgan answers.
  
  "You plan to rebuild the temple?"
  
  "Not on the island. But yes. Perhaps your home would be a suitable place, your second home. I hear the Mountains of the Nameless are welcoming to outsiders."
  
  For some reason, that doesn't sit with you well. Something you can't explain just doesn't feel right. The Mountains are a place of escape, for those to find themselves. "It's not a refugee camp," you say. "The Mountains bring their own obstacles and challenges."
  
  "Good thing we are not refugees. What do you say, will you take part in reestablishing the order?" Morgan asks.
  
  > Yes
  "Yes," you answer. "It's a new era for the Lady's followers, one born from vengeance, true to her nature. Not to downplay Killian's death, but it's paved the way for a new beginning."
  
  Morgan replies. "I know what you're intending to say. That's just a poor way to state it. It's almost as if you're saying Killian's death was necessary."
  
  "That's not--"
  
  "I know," Morgan cuts you off. "I foresee an order with many devoted followers, ones that are loyal and won't give in to the Walkers' lies. We'll travel far away from this place. We'll forget the conflict between Helswith and the horde. There are more important things to do than get involved with petty border disputes. As the Lady's herald, I name you second-in-command and grant you the title of Elder."
  
  Morgan is the Lady's herald. When did that happen? It doesn't matter now. You're certainly not going to dispute the claim. That word brings a small sense of longing in your mind. It's been silent since your last vision with the Lady. Where did she go? You quietly say a prayer, hoping that you didn't fail her in some way.
  
  It's strange, but you always assumed straying from the proper path would have major implications, like you'd instantly know when a wrong turn was made. Perhaps you're reading into it too much. Joren is dead, and you will start over with Morgan. Things could have ended up worse. Still, though, a tiny part of you doesn't imagine this is how it was all supposed to end. You've only just learned that you have a little brother. And he's here. Whatever reunion you were to have is all for nought now.
  
  "Elder, you're quiet. Everything alright?" Morgan asks.
  
  "Yes, Herald," you answer. "I'm only reflecting on the path that brought us here."
  
  "You'll have plenty of time for that. We have a long journey ahead of us."
  
  And so you do.
  
  His friends lay around him dead, their bodies twisted and slashed to pieces. The sand beneath him is scattered with pools of red. Soldiers, wearing royal blue, stand over him, the ocean at their back. King Tristrand's navy, once allies of the Helswith, have turned their backs on the High Lord.
  
  His friends, something he didn't dare call them when they lived. They first started off as his masters, captors. Slowly, by the bond of battle, they became his friends, his fellow man. Paxson, the only surviving slave from the western front, bleeds out with his squad. His squad. He would have followed Squadleader Pralthar's orders even if the chains weren't at his wrists. K'rell, a hulking figure of a man once known for raw strength, finds it drained, his life absent from his body. Caius, sharp of mind, quick of wit, forever silenced as well.
  
  Alone, dropped to bended knee, Paxson bleeds from several wounds, his own strength starting to fail him. His trusty buckler rests on the ground next to him, his arm unable to hold the defensive weapon. One hand clutched at his side, the other uses his short sword as a crutch to stand back up fully.
  
  Sand beneath his feet, fitting for a gladiator, Paxson welcomes his death, something he's embraced since first entering the arena. His mind flashes back in a blur of memories. His childhood. His wedding. His military days. His capture. Fighting in the arena. As another pike pierces his gut, the images suddenly halt. Blackness takes over, framed by a single memory. Of her.
  
  The End