Lidian breathed deep. The musty, wet smell of pine and grass at twilight filled her nostrils.

The men and women who had raised her in the Stormwind seminary assured her it was her imagination, but she could remember when Westfall smelled that way during the harvest. If she closed her eyes, she could almost fool herself into hearing the jingle of the tin chimes in front of the kitchen window, and smelling the faraway scent of her mother’s fresh sourdough bread. But when, with a start, she opened her eyes, and found herself sitting on and old, slow horse behind her fellow paladin, Wexford.

He turned his head. “Everything all right, miss?”

Lidian nodded, yawning. “Sorry, Wexford, just dozing.”

“Careful you don’t fall, miss.”

She adjusted herself in the saddle, leaning onto Wexford’s back.

Westfall hadn’t always been a barren wasteland. The soil was once rich and fertile, as black as tar. Grass grew on the roadside, and lean, healthy coyotes hunted quail in the dusk, and sang haunting song of their successes as the moons rose over the glistening ocean. Then the Defias came. The disenfranchised Stonemasons were only a nuisance at first, stealing pies from windowsills and squatting in barns, but they soon thought themselves entitled to terrorize the farm folk to the point that they were unable to tend their land. With the fields left fallow for seasons at a time, the top soil eroded into the sea, and in under a decade, the dirt was hard as stone, the grass had thinned to straw and thistles, and the coyotes, having exhausted their supply of quail that hadn’t starved in the drought, grew thin and mangy, and took instead to hunting anything that roved too close to their lairs.

Lidian could remember with distinct clarity the day they took Moonbrook, though she was barely three years old. She remembered her mother smiling to calm her, being insincerely gentle and playful. But her eyes held the terror of a woman who knew that she would watch everything she loved die. Lidian remembered her father drawing kitchen and garden tools to fend them off. She remembered, too, the nightmare noise of battle. The grating sound of steel against bone. The one you can feel behind your nose.

Katherine told her, as she matured, that she was far too young. That her memories, such as they were, were imaginings based on the stories told her by the paladins. And tell them they did. Lidian was raised to hate the Defias as all of Stormwind did. The city was not quick to forget the riots that cost them their queen.

But Lidian dreamed enough to know the difference.

Katherine had not wanted her to return to Westfall; had all but ordered her not to return, but Lidian’s smile, her bright eyes, her polite eagerness, all belied a resolute, unchanging desire to bring justice back to Moonbrook.

“Who?” Katherine had asked. “Who among us knows truly how to bring justice to the men and women who killed our parents?”

Lidian shivered. Wexford felt it. “It will get colder quickly as we climb the foothills, miss.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Stormwind’s first response had been minimal before it stopped altogether. A few regiments came, patrolled the farmlands for a time, and Defias activity would decrease, but the reprieves were always short-lived. The forces would be recalled to Stormwind City and the Defias would immediately strike again, and strike hard. Westfall played out in this fashion for years, before Stormwind simply ceased to send them in at all, and the Defias’ stranglehold on Westfall was all but unchallenged.

Gryan Stoutmantle eventually rallied the citizens together and created the People’s Militia, a loosely militant group of simply farm folk pushed to their limit. They began to fortify specific holdings throughout Westfall, but lacked the forces required to strike back in any meaningful way. The nobles of Stormwind turned a blind eye, convinced, they said, that the king’s armies would be wasted chasing petty thugs and vandals.

Eventually, news of Westfall’s plight drew sympathetic adventurers who, for want of gold, justice, or merely a story to tell, journeyed to Sentinel Hill, the Militia's base of operations, to offer aid.

Despite Katherine’s protests, Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, the commander of Stormwind’s paladins, was eager to send Westfall the help it needed, in an effort to guilt the nobles into action. Lidian’s past made him encourage her all the more, and dismiss Katherine’s concerns as melodramatic.

When Lidian arrived, the People’s Militia had already gone on the offensive, their ranks bolstered by their many allies. A traitor from the Defias had even revealed the brotherhood’s hideout in the Deadmines, complete with secret entrance from the basement of a barn in the heart of Moonbrook. After that, Stoutmantle had put a bounty on the heady of the Defias kingpin, Edwin VanCleef. Stoutmantle and the Militia had begun organizing a proper strategy for raiding the Deadmines, but a number of adventurers had gone forward alone, hoping to claim the bounty with no competitors. Not willing to sacrifice the element of surprise, Stoutmantle ordered the plan into action. Lidian awoke at dawn to hear word that the raid was already underway. She was still buckling her mail on as she ran to Moonbrook on foot.

Moonbrook had changed much in the years since Lidian had been found there by the Knights of the Silver Hand and taken back to Stormwind, but she wouldn’t have been able to recognize it anyway. The dead littered the streets; the wrath of the People’s Militia had not been forgiving. She followed the violent trail of destruction to the barn entrance, and confirmed that this was the passageway to the Deadmines from the faraway sounds of war. It wasn’t long before that war was upon her.

Some of the Defias were attempting to flee the mines, but most were taking a stand. Lidian was amazed at their numbers. She knew better than many that evil lurked within the hearts of all men, but still… how could so many be so willing to turn on their countrymen? There were many workers who abandoned their nodes to swing their picks at the intruders, even the goblins the Defias had captured and eventually coerced into service were willing to lay down their lives. She passed the badly burned corpse of an ogre as she journeyed deep into the labyrinthine mines. He was the first of his kind she ever saw.

Eventually, she got lost. Lidian found herself in a narrow passage, dimly lit by lanterns hanging off the wall. She could hear a low roar of battle cries, curses, incantations, and steel on steel. She followed the passage for some time, seeing no sign of anyone, until she came to a dead end. A thin tunnel off to the left carried a plank shaft that dripped water into a shallow puddle, as well as a pale ray of light. But the lantern hanging from the ceiling had gone out. Lidian sighed.

A soft, faraway boom reverberated through the mine, and shook dust and grit from the ceiling of the cave. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself and held her breath, listening for any follow-up, but none came.

She took the opportunity to take a gulp from her water skin, then turned, resolving to find her way out. She bit her lip at the prospect of being lost in the Deadmines for the entire battle without ever even facing one of the Defias.

No sooner had the thought occurred to her than a fireball streaked past her head and shattered a support beam in the ceiling. Lidian jumped back to avoid the rocks crashing down in the tunnel. She cried out as a fair-sized boulders smashed into her shoulder, tearing the hastily-fastened plate from her armour. Lidian tumbled towards the cavern wall, fumbling to draw her claymore from its scabbard across her back, to both strike back at whoever had attacked her as well as potentially fend off any more falling debris. Shaken, panicked, and alone, she searched for her attacker.

Twin gloves of flame alighted in the darkness through a fog of dust, illuminating her attacker as she approached. She had yellow hair and wore dirty leathers that caused the opulent red jewel about her neck, with matching mageweave mask, to stand out starkly. In one hand was clutched an obsidian dagger, and another was in a well-worn sheath latched to her belt.

During the course of the battle that followed, Lidian and her opponent exchanged only grunts and shrieks and cries, but Lidian would learn later that this was the bandit-mage, Marisa du’Paige.

Wexford’s mount whinnied. The trees had grown barren from the winter.

Marisa threw out her hand and a bullet of flame flared past Lidian, blinding her as much as singeing her hair. She twisted out of the way and it blasted into the cave wall, throwing stone shrapnel into Lidian’s face and armour. Even before the dust settled, Marisa had drawn her second dagger and was rushing her. Lidian managed to elbow aside a kick before taking a dagger right to the chest. The chain mesh blunted the attack, but it winded her nevertheless.

She fixed her shaky grip on her claymore and swung it out wildly. Marisa dodged the attack with ease, but it succeeded at least in putting some distance between them.

“Ho!” came a voice from behind the newly-formed wall of stone. “Is anyone back there?”

The voice was heavy; male. Lidian had no means of telling whether he was one of the Militia’s raiders or one of the Defias, but she had little to lose.

“Help! Please!” she cried. “I’m under attack!”

“Hold out!” said the voice. “I shall assist you!”

The sound of shifting stone was drowned by a grunt from Marisa as she lunged forward again, both daggers out. Lidian caught one on her sword, and the other on her exposed shoulder. She felt the pain, but it didn’t hurt. She did, however, manage a clumsy counter that struck a hit – a sloppy hit but a hit all the same – on Marisa’s arm. She winced and maneuvered away, blood seeping out and down her arm. Had Lidian managed the attack properly, she knew, she would have severed the arm altogether.

She used the momentary reprieve to put a hand to her own wound. It was deep, and she was bleeding, but it hadn’t struck an artery nor bone nor tendon. It had not taken her ability to fight.

The man on the other side of the rocks said something, but it was so muffled Lidian couldn’t make it out.

Marisa came at her again, and Lidian could tell from the way she ran that she was preparing to kick, so she braced her sword accordingly. Marisa leapt up and kicked as expected. Lidian caught her boot on the flat of the blade, but Marisa quickly spun about and kicked her in the face. Lidian cried out, stars speckling her vision as she fell to the ground. She tasted blood on her lips; felt it dribble out her nose. She made to rise.

Marisa quickly fell to one knee, and slammed the pommel stone of her dagger into the ground. It flashed, and a wave of ice suddenly washed over the ground. Lidian at first felt the sudden cold in her burning wounds refreshing, but quickly reevaluated her reaction upon finding everything that had been touching the ground fastened there by a sheet of ice. Even as it formed, she felt it giving way, but it would take precious seconds she could not afford, for not only could she not move her feet, but also her hand, and the sword it bore, were held in place.

Lidian frantically shook her frozen hand, and raised the other in weak defense. Marisa advanced without even a hint of mercy in her eyes.

With a grunt, a great stone in the wall was pushed aside, and a tall man, his shining armour dirtied and scratched, stepped over the rubble. Marisa glanced at him for a moment, but hastily turned back to Lidian, drawing her knife, looking to finish her quickly. The man, however, evaluated the situation in an instant, and threw himself at the two women with a great shout, hefting a heavy stone hammer in both hands.

As Marisa swiped her dagger at Lidian’s throat, the man slammed his hammer into her side. Lidian felt the edge of the blade on her neck and shuddered. Marisa cried out; was thrown to the other side of the small cavern, and one of her daggers clattered off into the darkness. Marisa held her side and coughed, blood darkening the red of her mask.

The man turned to Lidian as she wrested her sword free from the ice. “Are you all right, Milady?”

Lidian nodded frantically, pointing behind him. “Look out!”

He turned just as Marisa shot out her palm, and a buffet of fire exploded in his face, setting his beard aflame. He staggered back, trying to beat the fire out.

Lidian pulled herself completely free from the ice and rushed Marisa as the bandit pulled herself to her feet. She raised her hand across her face. With a shriek, Lidian swung her claymore, and cut off both Marisa’s hand and head. Somewhere in the attack, Marisa screamed, but it was only for a moment.

They made camp at the side of the road that evening. Wexford awoke her in the middle of the night and they hid from a Forsaken caravan, but the night passed otherwise without incident.

As the heat and adrenaline subsided, Lidian felt fatigue drift into her limbs, and every cut and bruise hit her at once. She cringed, dropped her sword, put a hand to her shoulder and collapsed against the cavern wall. Her eyes roved to Marisa’s remains.

Her body was slumped against the wall, the front of her chest slick red with blood. Her hand was half-open between her legs. Lidian could not see the head. As grotesque as it was, Lidian managed a laugh. Every murmur felt like a stabbing pain in her chest, but she laughed nonetheless.

She had drawn blood in retribution, and she felt so ecstatic it brought tears to her eyes.

“For you, Mother,” she murmured, “and you, Father.”

“No, child.” She turned around and saw the man who had saved her, his face scorched and his beard uneven. “For the Light.” He reached out a meaty hand to help her up.

“Just a moment,” she nodded. “I just need a moment.”

“Evil affords you none,” he said, his hand unmoving.

Lidian looked up at him critically before taking his hand. “You’re a paladin too, then, aren’t you?”

He hoisted her to her feet. “Commander Michael Goodchilde.” He put his hand over the wound on her shoulder and she felt much of the pain subside.

“Lidian of Moonbrook,” she replied.

“Come,” he said, turning, “you have great strength and great will, Lidian, especially for one so young. We shall stand together, you and I, at the battle that now rages in the caverns below.”

Lidian glanced at her shoulder. Beneath the blood she had already bled, all that remained of the wound was a twisted scar and a violet bruise.

He stepped over the rubble. “Come, Lidian!”

She abandoned her haphazard search for her missing shoulder plate and picked up her sword, following him out.

She had to hurry to keep pace with him; had to ignore the urge to limp. “I would have died without your aid, Commander. Thank you.”

“I am glad I saved you, Lidian, however my true quarry was the Defias woman. I would see her pay for her crimes, as all these dogs shall pay.”

They came out of the narrow passage and followed a set of crude iron tracks that led to a larger cavern. Here were more signs of travel, and of battle. Mangled bodies, of both the Defias and the Militia and their allies. As they carried on, the sound of battle grew closer. Soon, they came upon pockets of people still alive. Small groups tending to the wounded throughout the caves. The first they saw was a priest applying a wet cloth to a Militiaman who had lost his leg. Lidian moved to assist him, but Goodchilde pulled her back by the arm.

“The wounded are being tended to,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Our place is not here.” They passed others, some using magic, others conventional healing methods. Others were stable, but unable to battle further. Some guarded groups of miners and goblins bound in chains or thick ropes, whom, she guessed, had given themselves up.

As they passed one such group, Goodchilde spat on the chest of a miner who was tied to a stone. The miner looked at him with utter exasperation. The gaze that Goodchilde returned was still and cold. Lidian would later shudder at the memory of it.

They came through a final cave to find a heavy door blasted from its frame by a nearby cannon. A barrel of gunpowder was spilled on the floor. The cacophony of battle from beyond it was overwhelming.

Goodchilde laughed and bounded over the remains of the door. Lidian followed, and gasped.

The cavern beyond was enormous. It was lit by lanterns that hung on long cords that disappeared into the inky black overhead, as well as torches upon the docks. Sturdy docks that led to a massive ship, so gargantuan that Lidian at first thought it a strangely-devised building. And everywhere, along the docks, upon the decks, even on the scaffoldings erected to build the monstrosity, was battle.

Swashbuckling Defias pirates locked swords with the People’s Militia. Goblin builders threw their tools at sieging gnomes. Dwarves, even night elves covered every foot of the vessel, swarming in a roiling madness that made it seem like a living thing. Men fell from the decks into the still water below, and blood of many colours oozed down the planks and stakes.

A shout managed to rise above the rest of the noise, though it took nearly ten minutes for the rest of the ship to quiet down.

At the very pinnacle of the vessel stood a number of people. Mostly human, but there were at least two gnomes and a night elf with them. A human man raised a small bundle over his head with both hands. The woman next to him cupped her mouth with hers.

“Edwin VanCleef is dead!”

A great cheer erupted from the People’s Militia and the Alliance adventurers at their side. Many of the Defias dropped their weapons and raised their hands. Some tried to flee but were quickly subdued or killed by the Militia

Lidian drew a deep breath. She smelled sweat, blood, freshly cut wood, gunpowder, mildew, and salt. She watched the men and women slapping each other on the backs, passing about flasks and celebratory rations. Night elves stood side by side with dwarves. Paladins and obvious warlocks shook hands. People from opposite sides of the world wept together over the broken bodies of mutual friends.

They were united with a bond that went beyond brotherhood, family or friendship. Lidian was struck suddenly by the idea that she was witnessing firsthand marks being made on people’s souls. These men and women would forever be parts of each other’s lives.

Her eyes turned to Goodchilde with the knowledge that he, too, would carry her with him until the end of his days, and that she would take him with her. They were united. United by justice. By violence.

“You see it too,” he grumbled with a grin. His eyes were never still for a moment. They roved all about the ship and the distant faces of all the people who, even if just for a day or just for an hour, shared his vision.

“The Light speaks to its followers in many different ways, Lidian,” he explained, putting a hand on her shoulder, but leaving his dancing eyes in the distance. “Some are instructed to spread its teachings, others to channel its powers to protect and heal their fellow men. But others – others like you and I – are made into weapons of terrible righteousness. We are made to punish those who fly in the face of all the Light stands for. That, Lidian, is who we are. You can feel it, as few can. Justice being done.”

She could. Lidian felt happy and right in a way she hadn’t since she was a child. It was liberating and terrifying. She nodded.

“Men and women of our calling are charged with the most difficult of duties. But when you prevail, Lidian, you will know such greatness and such oneness with the Light, it shall reduce you to tears.” With a warm smile, he hefted his hammer onto his shoulder. “Well, goodbye, then,” he said with a shrug, and turned to leave.

Lidian watched the people on the boat begin to descend, then climbed down the rocks beside the dock, and washed her hands in the still, frigid water.

Wexford’s horse was more troublesome as they ventured further up the mountain, mostly from the cold. Lidian walked alongside them for far stretches at a time.

News of VanCleef’s death spread slow, but it had reached Stormwind before Lidian. She had barely collapsed on her bunk when she heard a light cough from the doorway to her dormitory.

Katherine the Pure stood there, dressed in a blue gown.

“This is a great victory for the People’s Militia,” she said with a nod. “And for all of Stormwind.” She narrowed her gaze. “I trust the experience was satisfying?”

Lidian sat up. “Educating,” she replied.

Katherine sighed. “Did you avenge yourself?”

Lidian shook her head. “It was never about vengeance, Katherine. It was about justice. And I experienced it, I saw it. I felt it wash over me like… like I was being anointed.”

Katherine walked in and sat down beside her. “The thing you must understand about justice, Lidian, is that it is our creation. Our sense of justice has changed over the ages. The night elves have their own, as well. It is a thing of change, just as we are.”

Lidian raised an eyebrow. “So, what, it means nothing?”

Katherine put a hand on her shoulder. “No, Lidian. That’s why it means everything.” She touched Lidian’s claymore, leaning against the bedframe, still in its scabbard. “This is who we are because this is who we’ve chosen to be. The Light direct us, but it is we who decide to follow.”

Lidian frowned. “I… I felt it.”

“When you felt came from you, Lidian,” said Katherine, “but that makes it no less meaningful.” She stood. “The time has come for you to leave my study.”

Lidian gaped. “Because of Westfall? Katherine, Lord Shadowbreaker all but insisted!”

“This isn’t a reprimand, Lidian, and this isn’t because of Westfall. Westfall was a symptom. It showed me that I have nothing more to teach you.”

“That’s ridiculous!” said Lidian, exasperated.

Katherine shook her head patiently. “What I’ve given you has been mere words, rituals, sparring matches. You’ve graduated from all that. It’s time to let the world teach you as it will.”

Lidian could think of nothing to say.

“It’s all been arranged. Grayson agrees. You will leave the monastery at week’s end. The Church will direct you when it has need of you.”

Lidian shook her head. “Katherine, I’m sorry.”

“If you remember all I have taught you, there will be nothing to apologize for,” said Katherine, turning to leave. “And if that has not been enough, Lidian, then I am sorry.”

The attack came so quickly Lidian was amazed she survived.

There was no warning at all. She and Wexford were still hours from where they expected to find him, had only left the road but a few minutes earlier. The horse’s ears didn’t even flicker.

Lidian was still walking beside Wexford and his mount. There was a flurry of movement, a madness of horrific noise: a thick blade slicing through the air; a gasp of surprise from Wexford; the rough wet sound of rent flesh. The horse whinnied and gurgled, its two remaining legs staggering for a gruesome moment, its innards spilling out behind it, before it mercifully collapsed to the ground. Wexford made no sound at all. The three pieces of his body fell into the snow in different directions.

The other half of the horse had fallen towards Lidian. She had hopped back to avoid it, had tripped and fell in the snow. A spray of hot blood slapped her across the face, and she was unable to tell whose it was.

There was an instant of stillness. The only sound was the snow quietly melting under the wash of blood and viscera. Steam rose lightly, carried off by a silent mountain wind. Cold eyes fell upon her.

He was magnificent and horrifying. Beautiful and grotesque. He had a handsome face, framed by long white hair that undulated in the breeze. He wore glorious armour, black blue, and glimmering, and a blue cape that draped over the back of his steed. The steed, too, was some kind of nightmare horse. Sunken flesh clung to his muzzle, and two jagged horns twisted up from his fiendish, grinning skull. He was draped in dark rags, and equipped with cruel barding.

The horseman turned his steed towards her, and moved his blade elegantly aside. It caught the light; drew her eye. It was thick, heavy and barbed, emblazoned with runes, with a carved skull at its hilt.

She imagined she said his name aloud, but in truth she merely thought it.

Lightstalker.

Lord Lightstalker.

He laughed as a gentleman laughs. “My word! When I heard that the Church had taken action against me, I confess myself flattered, but now that I see the paltry force they send…” he clucked his tongue, and shook his head. “Children…”

“More than enough to deal with you, when you’re not striking from the shadows like some coward!” Lidian spat.

He laughed again, throwing back his head. He clapped the side of the skeletal horse. It did not move. “Such reflexive insolence! Uther certainly hasn’t lost his touch.” He paused, putting a pensive hand to his chin. “Or whoever it is training paladins in Stormwind, I suppose. Duthorian Rall, perhaps?” He snapped his fingers victoriously. “Oh yes, Shadowbreaker, isn’t it? I’m constantly forgetting.”

Lidian sneered. “Traitor! Who in the bloody nether are you to mock them?”

“Such language,” he tutted. “Do you really want your last moments alive laced with profanities?”

“If I die today I take you with me.”

“Not quite, my dear,” Lightstalker shook a finger at her. “For you see, I have seen the outcome of this battle. It was shown to me by a power greater than the Light. A power which must be the absolute power. You call me traitor, Child, but it is you who have been betrayed by your mongrel religion. The Light claims to be the unifying force of the universe, but that’s not true. The Lich King is that force. Chaos is that force. It is for that reason that I have made it my new religion. Why I have hunted down and defeated the paladin heretics of this lang; why I have claimed sixteen of their lives. Seventeen counting your friend here.” He gestured idly to a piece of Wexford.

“Now tell me, my dear, if the Light was to the greatest power, then how could darkness have so easily claimed seventeen of its devoted servants, hm?”

Lidian drew herself to her feet, and unsheathed her sword from its scabbard. “You shall claim no more.”

He smirked. “Of course not,” he chuckled, amused. He clicked his tongue and tugged at the reins. “Come, Galahad,” he muttered to the horse. Lidian braced herself.

The horse, Galahad, turned and rose to a charge in an instant. Lightstalker swung his blade with a triumphant cry. Lidian caught the blow on her claymore but his strength was unhuman, it rattled the bones in her arm and she staggered back on unsure feet. Galahad came about, snorted through rotten nostrils. Lightstalker flicked a stray lock of hair from his eyes with a toss of his head.

With a wordless grin, he charged at her again. This time Lidian jumped to the side, avoiding the arc of his sword altogether, but as he turned he swung out his blade and a black, skull-like bolt erupted from its tip and blasted Lidian in the chest. She was thrown backward into the snow, clutching at her chest. Her ribs felt like they were on fire. Her lungs ached with every breath, and her heart shrieked in pain with every beat.

He was already upon her. Lidian tried to roll aside but his sword raked across her shoulder plate. It held, but dented, pinning into her flesh. He swung again and she parried, but parried sloppily, and released one hand from her sword to steady herself. Lightstalker yanked on his reins, and Galahad reared up, then stomped down on Lidian’s arm. She couldn’t tell if the crunch was from her crinkling armour or her breaking bone under his heavy hoof. She cried out and drew back.

Lightstalker thrust his sword at her. She was dazed from the pain exploding in her arm but managed to avoid his strikes by rolling to and fro. He raised his sword; a momentary reprieve.

Lidian acted almost purely on instinct, as if her body itself knew what it was doing. She threw out her sword, and felt the now-familiar sensation of holy energy well up in her chest before snapping down her arm and out her hand. She aimed not for Lightstalker but for Galahad, and a ray of heavy light show out the tip of her sword and blasted the undead horse in his face. He whinnied and jumped back, nearly falling over.

Lightstalker tried to grip the reins better but there was only so much he could do with only one free hand. He toppled backward off the horse and rolled as he hit the snow. Galahad staggered off to the side, rubbing his muzzle vigorously on his back.

Lidian thought about trying to heal her arm, but if the bone was indeed broken then healing by magical means could caught severe problems if the bone wasn’t set. She considered risking it but if that was the case, she’d only be worse off. She struggled to her feet and raised her sword as best she could with one hand. She curled up her wounded arm close to her body, and propped the pommel of the claymore against her thigh. It wouldn’t do much, she knew. Lightstalker was stronger than her by leaps and bounds, and clearly more skilled with a sword. And he was still in peak condition. Knocking him off Galahad may have wounded his pride and perhaps given him a hefty welt on his rump, but otherwise she hadn’t landed a hit on him.

He had managed to regain his footing and the grin had been replaced by a grimace of annoyance. “Even knowing the outcome of this ordeal does little to dull the sting of these minor humiliations.” He – roughly, this time – tossed the hair from his face.

Lidian muttered a prayer under her breath and the feeling returned, surging through her arm and into her sword. Faint, golden runes appeared on the flat of the blade, and she felt it grow lighter in her fist.

“Light guide my hands. Watch over me as I carry out your judgement.” It was barely a whisper. She wasn’t even certain that she actually said it.

Lightstalker stabbed at the air with his blade and another black coil burst from its tip. Lidian held her sword aloft and the bolt dissolved before her, as if it had hit an invisible wall about her. He moved towards her on foot, the knee-high snow not even an obstacle. He made a high swung from above. Lidian maneuvered her claymore to meet it. The blades crashed into teach other, and though another fiercely jarring rattle shook her whole right side, the blow was deflected.

He turned above, swiping low. She blocked a blow that would have cost her left leg with the claymore, but the maneuver cost her balance. He seemed to see it, too, for he spun his blade against hers, twisting the sword from her grip. It flew through the air. She tried to follow it but Lightstalker demanded her full attention with another overhead strike. She hopped out of the way as his runeblade cut the air before him; sent up a spray of snow as it hit the ground.

Lidian channeled the Light once more, and it blasted across his chest. But this attack was weaker than her last. Her reserves, she knew, were running low. Soon she would be too exhausted to fight. And he was barely injured at all.

She chanced a quick look around, trying to find her sword, but she couldn’t. It must have been buried in the snow.

Lidian blinked, and prepared herself for death.

It was inevitable. She had spent her strength, she was severely injured, and now her weapon was taken from her. She was alone; miles from any assistance. She was going to die.

Was Lightstalker right? Was the Light the weaker force? Had it forsaken her? No. No. A thousand times: no. The Light hadn’t failed her. She had failed the Light.

Lightstalker advanced. Lidian turned to face him.

Yes, she would die. But she would not die easy.

Lightstalker threw a dark bolt at her again. She raised her hand to summon another shield of Light, but her powers were too diminished, and the bolt only lost some momentum as it tore through the field before her. It hurt no less as it fell into her stomach. She doubled over, and Lightstalker rushed up and backhanded her across the face.

She flew backward, her feet leaving the ground, and a tooth, with a tiny trail of blood, crossed her field of vision.

She fell into the snow, and choked a little on blood. She sat up abruptly, coughing, and steadied herself with her back arm reflexively. Pain lanced through it the moment she put pressure on it. She pulled back.

Her other hand struck something hard in the snow. Something familiar. It took all her strength not to smile. A smile would betray her.

Snow was falling about the shoulders of Lord Lightstalker. His face was unmarred, his hair immaculate, his armour smooth and clean. His sword was all that looked used; its flat covered in scratches and its edge peppered with chips. The runes along the blade pulsated an unforgiving blue.

“This has been a pleasant diversion, Milady,” he bowed with a grin, “but ‘all good things,’ as they say…” He raised his sword in both hands, and charged towards her.

His cloak billowed like demonic wings; his white hair whipped about his face. His eyes were calm and apathetic. His mouth only hinted at a sinister grin. She could feel his every stride tremble the ground as he neared her. Her hand closed around the hilt of her sword, buried in the snow.

Lidian tore it up from the snowbank as he came within striking distance. She held its tip forward, directly at his chest. As he collided with it it knocked her elbow in, and pushed her futher into the snow. Anguish flooded her every wound, but she held it firm.

For a fraction of an instant he was suspended there on the tip of her sword, as her blade fought with his armour. But his armour gave way, and he was propelled forward once again. Lidian rolled aside, releasing her sword and avoiding his as it slammed into the ground. He tripped into it, forcing the blade further into her sternum. It pierced his back and tore through his cape. There was a burst of blood that flecked everything with scarlet. Hot red dots blistered into the snow.

Lidian watches him, her eyes wide and her body shaking, not even sure if this could stop him. He remained there, leaning on his sword, his lower jaw trembling, and tears welling in his eye.

“Unexpected,” he whispered, spraying blood from his lips on every P and T. He took a deep, broken breath. “Interesting. Hmm…”

The pommel of Lidian’s sword finally succumbed to his weight, and he slid down with a moan, still clutching his own blade. His face fell into the snow. The sword propped up his arm.

Slowly, the blue light of the runes faded, and soon were dark.

Lidian shivered. She looked to and fro, her eyes passing over Wexford’s remains, his horse’s, and the patches of blood that washed bright reds and pinks into the otherwise grey and white landscape. Even Galahad, some distance away, looked well suited to it.

She hadn’t realized how cold it was.

Victory. Justice. So why no catharsis? Why no profound sense of right? As vicious, as cruel as Marisa du’Paige was, Lightstalker’s depravity easily exceeded hers. No doubt existed in Lidian’s mind that she had done right. The very acts she had witnessed him commit only minutes before condemned him. Still…

Lidian cradled her maimed arm to her chest. Perhaps she was simply too tired. Perhaps she was too cold and exhausted to notice.

She gingerly picked through the bags that scattered across the ground from Wexford’s horse. She found some bread, cheese, and whiskey. The waterskin had broken, and the whiskey would not freeze. She dabbed some on her glove, and rubbed it on the wounds she could easily access.

She felt ice-cold breath on her neck, and turned about with a start.

Galahad stood behind her. It was hard to place her feelings, for his moribund visage held no semblance of emotion, but Lidian’s heart wailed for the beast. She looked at him and somehow saw a blinding sadness within him. For a moment, she almost felt sorry that she had killed his master. Almost.

Lidian reached out to touch his muzzle and he did not shy away. He was cold to the touch.

Is this why she had been sent? Not to punish Lightstalker, but to save Galahad? Is this why Wexford had had to die?

Lidian drew him closer to her, and draped her arms over his bony neck. She leaned into his gangly mane. He smelled like late autumn.

She wept for Galahad, for Wexford, for herself. Maybe even for Lightstalker. Perhaps for the fate of Michael Goodchilde.

Lidian put her things in one of the few remaining packs that were still intact, and slung it over Galahad’s back. She waited, but he made no move to resist. Tentatively, carefully, she placed one foot in a stirrup, then with more confidence swept her over over his saddle. The movement sent jolts of pain through her body, but she winced and pushed through.

The horse was cold beneath her, which she’d been expecting, but it made her nonetheless uneasy. The wind picked up suddenly, whipping her hair and Galahad’s mane about, even threatening to knock her off. She pressed her knees into his sides and shortened the reins with her one working fist.

Galahad was an unusual horse to begin with. Riding him down the mountain in her condition would not be easy.

Lidian turned back. The wind was sweeping over the carnage. The washes of blood were almost completely covered already. Lightstalker’s runeblade still stood at a slant, with the death knight’s arm hanging limply from it. She turned away, clicked her tongue, and flicked the reins. Galahad started forward.

There was little left for Lidian to do that was easy.