"Stay back, beloved," Bram said to Marianne. "Get some distance." He dismounted his steed and pulled his sword from the sheath it carried before stepping away so that his betrothed could heed his warning. She set the horse at a trot and moved several meters away, but stopped near enough to keep watch as the young Master faced the Ikoras.

Seeing him stand his ground had Mara feeling rather irate. She snorted and spat at the nearest lump of Lord LeBaron she could see. "Do you not remember me, young Master?" she queried. Bram offered no response.

Mara grumbled in discontent. "You don't, do you? I wager you'd not dare draw steel on me if you remembered your last attempt."

"I am in chains," said Bram. After a long, deep breath, he took a step toward his enemy. Mara only scoffed.

"Fear not, precious pup. I will break your chains. There'll be nothing left to tether you to this foul plane when I'm through."

"You will break my chains," Bram repeated blankly. At this, Mara's shadowed countenance dropped all pretense of calm. Fists clenched and teeth bared, she continued her advance with her fury on full display. Power took its place in both her hands in the form of golden light. Its pressure forced steam from her pores to fill the air around her.

"How I long to see your corpse," Mara seethed. The distance between them was nearly closed. She drew back her fist to strike at him, but when she swung, he ducked and pulled his blade across her bare abdomen: the last ditch effort of a desperate noble.

Or so it should have been.

As usual, Mara felt no pain, and she swung a second time without a second thought. But after he dodged low and leaped away from her, she finally recognized the feel of fluid pouring down her legs.

She looked down to see the ground painted red-gold with holy blood. She then looked up to see Bram's cold countenance split into a sickening grin, and the pain came all at once.

"To hell with this! I'm leavin'!" shouted a warrior on the field. Though the remaining hired swords numbered at least thrice as many as the Hovaleans, the latter group had suffered nary a loss thanks to the divine power they had been given. Their enemies recognized at last how truly hopeless the conflict was, and one after another chose to turn tail and run rather than wage war for a Lord who'd already fled the field.

"Take the damn manor!"

"I'm not about to die here!"

"Cheatin', I say! They's cheatin'!"

No matter the particular cry, the message was the same: LeBaron's forces were fleeing the field. The Hovaleans had won the day.

When none remained to attack them, the blessed peasants indulged themselves in several rounds of cheering and laughter, basking in the glory of a victory they could never have conceived before. They embraced. They shook hands. They raised their weapons to chant their victory to the heavens. Thus enraptured, their minds soon turned to celebration.

"Dunno 'bout you lot," spoke the red-headed woman, whose scythe had managed quite a bit more harm after she'd opened her eyes to swing it, "but I'm quite ready for a drink."

"Here here!" came the call of those around her. And together, they made for the manor.

The fires that raged when they'd first set out were gone now, though they gave no thought to the cause. They instead marched in glee and solidarity toward the dining hall whence they'd come, where there still remained plenty of wine and mead to be enjoyed.

When they entered, they quickly sighted three of the four who'd been responsible for saving the manor from the siege:

Ars, who sat with his head hung low and his arms resting securely upon the table.

Torbin, who was already well ahead of them where consumption of pleasurable drink was concerned.

And Hethys, who stood idly swaying atop the table in a dance of witchy whimsy.

"Victory, oh victory. How it fills my heart with glee! Winning, wiling, willing souls who deal in justice left undoled!"

She continued her chanting and dancing as the Hovalean mass filed into the hall. They sought the barrels, the pitchers, the decanters, and their cups. They were all too quick to fill them up and raise a toast to their good fortune.

Alas, their celebration was soon cut short. A sphere of light appeared at the center of the table where they hoped to sit. Its radiance briefly blinded all unfortunate enough to bear direct witness to its appearance. The tendrils of light it fired out then ensured that no hand in the room could hold fast to any cup, any glass, or any mug.

The raised hand that had spawned the light then fell upon the table, and the light faded away. Ars raised his head and rose from his seat. Eyes afire, he turned on his fellows with a pointed query.

"Where's Mara?"

She was far afield facing a struggle for her life the likes of which she’d not endured for years. With a Wonder of Life, she’d sealed her stomach, but only barely so; Bram chased her with manic fervor, swinging and slashing in hopes of tearing open yet more of her flesh. Focused as she was on keeping her wound from reopening, it was all she could do to evade him.

He swung high, and she ducked low, then threw herself back to get some distance. At last, he saw fit to allow it, noting with sadistic glee that he’d left her far too winded to work her Wonders to their utmost.

“Father hoped to keep me from fighting,” said Bram. “‘The field of battle is no place for nobles,’ he always said. But it’s the only place for me now. Where else can I enjoy such elation as this?”

“You are sick,” Mara seethed.

Bram chuckled. “Very much so. And who can I blame for that?”

Though briefly puzzled, Mara eschewed the question in favor of attempting to further her healing. But Bram noticed the light that entered her hand, and he leaped at her with a violent thrust in the next instant. He managed to graze her left arm as she dodged right to escape him, and his vile grin grew wider.

“Do I remember you?” he repeated mockingly. “How could I forget you? The vile and murderous thief who killed my friend and cursed my hands. Do trust me when I say that scarcely a day has gone by without you clawing your way into my mind.”

Mara placed her palm against the ground and willed the earth to move in her defense. A series of stone spikes sprung up to strike her assailant, but he deftly sliced them all apart and continued his advance.

“Oh, how my father hated it. ‘Highborn men must never obsess over women who wallow in mud.’ ‘Turn your mind to matters of state.’ ‘You must consider your legacy, my boy.’ But when he came to me wailing about a witch who’d assaulted our home, I knew. Who else could it be but that same desperate thief? Have you ever held anything that you didn’t steal?!”

“Have you?” Mara shot back. But her cold rebuttal earned her naught but scornful laughter from the heir of the Lord. He then rushed her and swung to cleave her vertically, and again, she launched herself away from him, narrowly avoiding his blade.

He launched himself after her with a series of wild slashes, some of which she was forced to block with carefully-timed expulsions of Light. But his blade found purchase in her left forearm and her right thigh, and his bloodlust intensified at the sight of yet more luminous fluid spilling from her veins.

The longer she struggled to evade him, the more challenging she found it to track his movements. His steps had grown unbalanced, and his swipes unrefined, but his speed and ferocity only intensified as sadistic fervor seized control of his faculties.

From her distant spot, Marianne watched worried as her betrothed’s assault grew ever more erratic. She had not seen him battle at length before. Quicker conflicts never brought out such madness in him.

“How have you gained power to harm me?” Mara asked at last. The question actually gave Bram pause, and he paused his pursuit. Mara took the opportunity to catch her breath while the young Master gave in to another round of laughter. Dropping his sword to the ground, he began to unfasten the buckles and straps that kept his gauntlets on his arms.

“I am highborn, foolish wench,” he spoke. One gauntlet came off, revealing that his right hand remained as black as the day Mara had unwittingly cursed it, though the boils appeared to have been scoured off. “No matter how high you reach, I will always be able to reach higher.”

He let the second gauntlet drop to the ground to reveal a hand that had lost its blackness, but gained a brand upon its backside. It was similar in substance, but not in shape, to the brand Mara’s own Mark-bearers now carried by her blessing. The Ikoras’ eyes widened at the sight of it, for she easily guessed what it signified.

“You have seen the Kingdom,” she uttered in awe. Once more, Bram laughed.

“As high a boon as any can hope to claim: the blessing of a true Heir, not some mewling wench who once got lucky.”

“Why?! What use has Auberalea for a lowly lordship?!”

“Not much, I imagine, or perhaps the price might not have been so high. Alas, my faithful steward Duul had to be sacrificed for the privilege.” Bending down, he took his sword up with his blackened hand and pointed it at her. “That makes two dear friends you’ve stolen from me. Whenever will you be satisfied?”

“When you have nothing, and I have-”

Her response was cut short by an agonized scream as Bram’s blade impaled her just under her breast, launched with overwhelming force from his hand. She dropped to her knees and gripped the blade, but hesitated to pull it free. Bram’s crooked grin threatened to split his face in half, and his eyes quivered as his mounting madness claimed them.

“Ah, the thrill of spilling blood,” Bram cooed as he stepped toward her. “It’s the only thrill left to me now thanks to the will of that Heir. Nothing else brings me the slightest hint of joy. Alas, so few can stand up to power like this.”

When he reached her, he gripped the hilt of his sword and did what Mara would not. He then kicked her to the ground and held the weapon over his head. A derisive laugh escaped him.

“This certainly takes me back,” he said. “I daresay you’ve taken quite enough from me. The least you can do is allow me the pleasure of hacking you to bits!”

Yet unwilling to surrender, Mara raised one hand in defense while the other put pressure on her freshest wound. Her raised hand produced a wall of light to protect her from the impending attack, but before Bram could try his hand at shattering it, a separate light came to strike his sword and broke the blade at the hilt.

With a giddy chuckle, Bram slowly turned to see Ars standing with his hand outstretched as the golden glow faded from it. The lad dropped to one knee, his breaths falling heavy against the air as Torbin stepped forward to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Good eye, me boy,” Torbin said. He then focused on their fallen liege. “Thousand pardons, girl. We got a bit…caught up. But ol’ Ars here thought maybe you could use a few extra hands.” He chuckled. “Looks like he was right.”

Alongside the pair of them stood the Hovalean mass, who’d postponed their revelry to find the one who’d given them the power to save their own lives. The hook-scarred man had pulled Marianne from her horse, and the red-headed woman held the blade of her scythe just beneath the lady’s dainty neck. Hethys stood leaning upon her cane, smirking and shaking her head at Mara in mock disapproval. Those with weapons brandished them, and those without stood ready to defend the Ikoras with their bare hands.

Mara heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of her gathered subjects. Seeing her enemy’s attention diverted, she dropped the shimmering barrier she’d raised and placed her liberated hand over her stomach wound. With effort, she summoned the light back to her palm and forced her flesh to knit itself more securely.

Bram tossed his broken sword aside and stomped his foot to summon a great stake from the earth. His borrowed power enabled him to will it into the rough shape of a halberd. “Very well, then,” he said with his mad grin still intact. “I could hardly wait to hunt you all to the last anyway.”

Once his weapon was fully formed, he tore it from its tether and leveled it at the crowd. “The game is afoot!” he called.

"Sick 'im, lads!" Torbin shouted in response.

And together, the Hovaleans charged.