the spin with her dagger. The globe grew to the size of a fist, glowing with an inner, flickering light, and she let the sphere rest on the tip of her dagger. Through its glossy translucence, she admired the burning image of the crimson city captured in the spinning globe. 'Open them,' she told it. 'Bring them my blessings.' She blew on the sphere and sent it flying. It swelled as it neared the gates, gathering a tail of red flames as it grew larger and faster. She watched as warriors jumped and skipped away from the death she sent to them, abandoning their walls and shouting unintelligible curses. Morgynn imagined she heard swift and whispered prayers as well, but these were only a faint descant above the orchestra of storm, magic, and the pulse of the Weave.
The red fireball exploded like a dying star as it made contact in the center of the gates. Shattering ice disintegrated the walls embedded with frozen sorcery. The force and heat of the impact spread outward, burning everything in its path. Weapons and objects were charred or melted. The living were burned from within. Infused by Morgynn's blood, they twisted unnaturally in bloody flames before falling still. Those outside the blast watched with eyes watering from the incredible heat. Noses stung with the smell of char and cooked flesh. Even the freezing rain and biting winds could not quell the flames. Warily, the hunters raised their weapons at billowing clouds of smoke and steam. Some broke ranks and ran ahead of the racing cloud, slipping in puddles and falling over those in their path. All knew that the gates were gone and that the true battle was upon them.
Morgynn's heart skipped a beat, shock passing through her body as a wave of brief freedom shook the bathor behind her. A series of spasms rolled through the undead host and she felt her muscles flutter and quake, responding to the mindless will of her creations. She exhaled, closing her eyes and willing them to advance, but they did not move. She screamed in rage, arching her back and raising her voice to a thunderous roar. The gnolls ceased their howling and covered their canine ears, yelping in pain. Even the malebranche paused as her voice reached them, feeling the tingle of magic itching across their hides. Out of breath, she inhaled and lowered her head, curling her lip as she observed the gaping hole in the wall where the gates had been, where her minions should be crawling and clawing their way into the city at her command. 'Nothing,' she muttered, 'only little deaths and-' She stopped, detecting the lilting tones of the oracles. Their prayers and spells rose unhindered, drifting through the dissolving cloud of her destructive spell. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she flexed her right hand, opening the fresh wound on her palm. Blood pooled in the jagged fissure and she whipped her arm left and right, spattering the grass and mud with crimson drops. Sheathing her dagger, she dipped into a small pouch, grasping a fistful of black insect wings. She crushed them in her fist and muttered quick words over them. 'Ixelteth suranyat!' The dried wings turned to fine dust, released to the wind as she opened her fist. The sooty cloud peppered the ground around her, hissing where it met the waiting droplets of her blood. Each drop turned solid and bulbous. Clusters of pale pink sacs formed, splitting open soon after, hatching hundreds of writhing red larvae. The larvae split open as well, giving birth to shiny crimson wasps on buzzing black wings. She held her arms out lovingly and several insects landed on her fingertips and wrists. They crawled across her skin on thin, chitinous legs. 'Seek them out,' she whispered to them. 'Sting their wretched tongues and fill their mouths with wings.' The swarm gathered and flew at her command, buzzing through the rain like a red mist to find the source of their mistress's displeasure.
Dreslya could not take her eyes from the smoking remains of the gates and those unlucky enough to have been caught in the blast. Black water, thick with ash, streamed along the street and around her feet.
Several times, Lesani held her back from searching through the ash and char to find Elisandrya. 'Mourning will come,' she said to the oracle,
'but not now.' Dres gasped at the words, a lump forming in her throat.
Her vision from earlier had carried voices and snippets of conversation drifting in and out of focus. The vision had been a warning, showing her the consequences of inaction. She remembered Lesani's voice telling her of mourning, but she had thought the Ghedia spoke of the coming sunrise, of hope, not the death of her sister.
Lesani took her by the arm, leading her away from the defenders. The Ghedia searched inside empty doors and dark windows, though Dres did not know why. She followed in a daze, her eyes burning, trying to summon the courage to look away from the clouds of steam on the western end of Brookhollow. She tried to focus on the present despite the uncertainty of her vision. Rain soaked her robes and hair, and a numbness from the cold crept through her hands. 'Here!' Lesani shouted over a fresh round of monstrous thunder, pointing to the doorway of a stonework hovel. Low and sturdy, it stood abandoned and lifeless.
'Come, I need your help!' 'Yes, you do,' Dres mumbled, confused. Cold and shivering, she was having greater difficulty discerning between present and future. 'I mean, I know. At least I think I know.' As the pair ducked inside, Lesani cleared a space on the floor, pushing a modest table and chairs against the wall. She took several items from hidden pouches within her robes and sat cross-legged on the floor.
Dres wandered to the lone window. Facing north, she could no longer see the steam and smoke, but she could smell them. 'Sit down, Oracle,'
Lesani said, the edge in her voice catching Dreslya's attention.
'Elisandrya is a great warrior. I do not doubt you may see her again, but I need you here and now.' Dreslya turned away from the window and the sounds of battle. At Lesani's gesture, she sat across from the Ghedia. Though focused on the items she laid out in front of her, even Lesani glanced up at the window, like Dreslya, when the thunder died.
In that moment of silence, filled only with falling rain, horrendous screams echoed through the streets. A furious buzzing filled the quiet. This, too, Dreslya remembered, and she paled in fear.
Sudden and untamed chaos jolted Morgynn's body as the bathor were released from the oracles' spell. She lowered her protective bubble, her feet dipping into the mud as the sensation overwhelmed her.
Hundreds of feverish pulses rivaled the fury of the storm, drowning out all else. She stood still as the undead surged around her.
Unnatural heat drew beads of sweat across her brow and down her back.
She dismissed her protective sphere, allowing the rain and wind to cool her. Searching left and right, over the backs of the hunched bathor, she watched as the Gargauthans advanced alongside the tortured throng of her creations. She stood quietly as they raced past her toward the ruined wall. 'Prophecies be damned, now,' she said. 'This is the beginning of my vision, my Order of Twilight. Woe to those who stand against it.' She fell into step with the undead. Magic itched along her arms to the tips of her fingers. Rain flowed in rivulets across her scars, following their patterns before dripping to the ground. Her crimson gaze fixed on the Temple of the Hidden Circle, and on the pitiful old woman who cowered within. A moment later, the broken gates became the vision she'd imagined. The bathor crowded into Brookhollow, pushing debris and bodies aside in their haste. Drawing closer, she saw that beyond the destruction, Brookhollow's defenders had rallied admirably. They presented an impressive wall of flesh for her bathor to rend and tear. Bows and spears were prepared to meet her horde. They fired arrows first, piercing the pale skin of the bathor with no visible effect. The undead did not bleed or scream in pain. A few paused and stared curiously at the feathered sticks that seemed to spring from them. Flickers of intelligence hung like cobwebs in the attics of their eroded minds, but they soon pushed forward, shaking off confusion. Long spears stood propped between the archers, ready for combat face to face, and the bathor sprang forward mindlessly, some impaling themselves. They ran down the hafts of the spears, skewering themselves through their abdomens or chests to claw at their shocked opponents. Horrified, archers and spearmen dropped their weapons, drawing swords and axes more suitable for close combat. The bathor knew only claws and teeth, and a single-minded urge to kill what they no longer understood. The heat surrounding Morgynn's horde burned eyes and lungs. The carrion stench forced more than a few weak-stomached defenders away to retch and cough. Some averted their eyes, afraid of seeing a relative or friend among the undead. Most held their ground and fought, and many defenders died in the first few moments. The bathor were relentless, wailing horribly and dragging down the weak. They spat boiling blood on their victims, scalding skin as they tore at exposed throats. Slowly, the defenders were pushed back, making way for impossible numbers of feral opponents. Morgynn watched their progress, glancing at the fallen hunters with interest, eventually finding what she sought. Lying against a half-burned stable was a young warrior with striking green eyes and wavy brown hair. The blood mage extended a hand toward him, gesturing at his chest. She felt his slow heartbeat plodding toward death. Several bathor noticed him as well and crawled forward, splashing through the mud to claim their prize. Morgynn approached the young man and waved a hand at the undead, sending them
