webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/tex/Ch-037.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-24-like-a-hanging-sword}{%
\section{Chapter 24: Like A Hanging
Sword}\label{chapter-24-like-a-hanging-sword}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Loyalty to an unworthy prince is treason against the Gods Above,
for it places that prince before the teachings of the Heavens
themselves.''}

-- Extract from ``The Faith of Crowns'', by Sister Salienta
\end{quote}

Four Named, three mages and forty legionaries.

It wasn't a large company to take into a demon hunt, but in hallways and
narrow rooms being too many would be a disadvantage anyway. It'd be a
lot more useful to be able to move swiftly and without getting in each
other's way than to have another forty bodies to throw into the maw of
the enemy. I'd have taken more mages if there were any to spare, mind
you, but those didn't grow on trees. I'd sent runners out to gather
reinforcements as quickly as possible and send them our way, but I
doubted they'd arrive in time to make a difference -- whether the demons
got to run loose or not would probably already have been decided by the
time the second wave made it to the fight.

We set out briskly even as I arranged our formation so that it wouldn't
result in immediate collapse if one of the demons got the drop on us. A
shield wall would be useless, so instead a tenth of regulars in a loose
skirmish formation took the front. The sole tenth of heavies behind
them, their tall shields meant to buy time for the soldiers behind them:
crossbowmen, spread out both so they could fire from broad angle and so
that Named would be able slip between them. Then came those same Named,
Hierophant closer to the back where the three Gifted whose gifts he
would be using stood, and behind that our rearguard of ten regulars.

The junior lieutenant was with those in the back, so that we'd still
have an officer even if Lieutenant Inger died up front where she stood
with the other tenth of regulars.

``For the four of us,'' I told the other Named, ``the tactics are simple
enough. I won't enquire too deeply about your bag of tricks or try to
tell you how to fight with it, but I want our priorities established
before we find the enemy.''

\emph{Or the enemy finds us}, I silently added.

``You are the seasoned battle commander among us,'' the Repentant
Magister said, ``and you've fought demons before. You will not be
gainsaid.''

I glanced at the Blade of Mercy, who silently nodded, and considered the
potential powers struggle a done thing. Masego knew our business well
enough and would not argue, though I still jabbed my elbow into his side
to make sure he was actually listening.

``If we're lucky, the demons come at us from the front,'' I said. ``Most
of them are aggressive, in a tactical sense, which is where our first
three lines come in: my legionaries will slow them down as much as
possible.''

My fingers clenched, knowing full well that the slowing would come
through dead bodies and the corruption of the still-living.

``That's when we come in,'' I said. ``After the crossbows fire, Lady
Eliade and I will use what means we have to try to pin down the demon.
Even if we succeed, it'll be temporary, which is when Hierophant will
attempt a binding.''

The Blade of Mercy shuffled on his feet, as if afraid he'd been forgot.

``There are no guarantees that will work,'' I said, ``and even if it
does, we can't simply leave the demon there: we need a killing blow,
which will be provided by the Blade of Mercy.''

Nods all round, until the Repentant Magister cocked her head to the
side.

``I believe, Your Majesty, that your intention is not to try to slay all
of these demons,'' she said.

It wasn't, because rolling the dice against eldritch abominations eight
times in a row was a \emph{shit} plan. Kind of her to indirectly
reassure me she didn't believe me to be an idiot, though.

``No,'' I said. ``We'll be trying to push through towards the room where
the Severance was being kept. Hierophant, if you'd care to elaborate on
why?''

I leaned a little closer.

``\emph{Simply}, if you would,'' I murmured.

``There will likely still be ward foundations there,'' Masego said,
``which I can use to trap the demons inside before closing the door on
them.''

He shot me a disgruntled look.

``Sword room good, demons go in,'' he peevishly added. ``Much rejoicing.
Was that simple enough, Catherine?''

``Rejoicing has three whole syllables,'' I replied without missing a
beat. ``A lackluster effort at best.''

``Sometimes, when you fight other people, I root for you to get hit,''
he confessed.

``That's treason, you know,'' I gravely told him.

``It is not,'' he triumphantly said. ``You kept saying that about a
great many things, so I got my hands on a Callowan law codex. It's not
treason to say you snore either, which you insisted to Indrani it was.''

I heard the Repentant Magister politely cough into her hand to hide her
laugh, while the Blade of Mercy looked away with slightly trembling
shoulders.

``Tread carefully,'' I told him, ``or I'll raise taxes on mage towers.''

``I'll make it invisible,'' he defiantly said. ``You can't collect taxes
from an invisible tower.''

``Don't think I won't contract it out to the fae if I have to,'' I
warned.

He stared me down from the side of his head, before grudgingly nodding.

``Accusing you of snoring is treason,'' he offered.

Ah, selling out Indrani instead of admitting you were wrong. One of the
classic retreat stratagems of the Woe, along with blaming anything from
rain to mispronunciations on Akua's scheming.

``So is throwing wooden carvings at my court wizard,'' I granted him,
magnanimous in my victorious tyranny.

He brightened at that, though for some reason Nephele's cheek went red.
Had she thrown something at Masego's head? Curious as I was, now was
hardly the time to ask. I'd leaned into the banter at least in part
because it would distract the four of us -- and also the soldiers all
trying very hard to pretend they weren't listening -- from the grimness
ahead, lighten up the air some. But we were well into the Repository now
and wariness was the order of the day from here on out. We passed
through a sort of confluence of hallways, like a lesser Knot, where the
marks of Named fighting against fae were evident. Nephele confirmed as
much when I asked, as it had been her band that fought here, and added
that there did not seem to be any missing bodies.

Thank the fucking Gods for that.

Hakram had fought here, I could tell from the way some tall rocklike fae
had been slain, but I set the thought aside before it grew too dark. I'd
done what I could by ensuring the Concocter was there for Archer to send
as reinforcements. Shy of the Sinister Physician himself, she was
probably the best healer in the Arsenal. We hurried along, quickening
our pace to a near run, and we'd just passed the corpse of another fae
when a shivering scream sounded in the distance ahead. I felt it go
through my soldiers, my allies, through my own bones. It'd sounded
human, or at least ripped out of a human throat, but there'd been
something\ldots{} wrong about it.

``At least one is out, looks like,'' I said, forcing my voice to sound
even. ``Advance with caution, swords out.''

I'd offered up my calm and it was drawn from by those who needed it --
there was no need for a harangue here, simple confidence would serve the
same purpose better. From the corner of my eye I caught Nephele staring
at the back of the neck of my soldiers, and I raised a brow. It was man,
Callowan by the paleness and the flush.

``Lady Eliade?'' I asked.

``Please call a halt,'' she quietly asked.

I did, and a moment later the Repentant Magister was at the legionary's
side and asking him the permission to perform an exploratory cantrip.
The light on the sorceress' fingers was barely visible and she spoke no
incantation, but a moment later she withdrew her hand with a grim look
on her face.

``We are facing a Host-Breaker,'' Nephele Eliade said.

I looked at Masego, expecting an elaboration.

``Demon of Terror,'' Hierophant said. ``I know little of their kind, few
in Praes have ever summoned them.''

My fingers clenched at the words.

``They're that dangerous?'' I asked, pitching my voice low.

If the \emph{Empire} thought they were too risky to use, it boded very
badly for out little crew.

``No,'' Masego replied. ``But it is known they can be subsumed by Demons
of Excess, which made them a highly unpopular choice among diabolists.''

No doubt Wasteland nobility saw it as a faux pas, like a tasteless
bracelet or using a floral poison during winter court. Nephele looked
fascinated and sickened by what she'd gestured heard, but she focused on
the dangers a hand.

``I know of them, Your Majesty,'' the Repentant Magister told me. ``The
Magisterium has used them for war in past years.''

I nodded in appreciation, gesture for the Blade of Mercy to cease
standing at the edge of the conversation and come in closer so he'd hear
properly.

``What are we in for?'' I asked.

``Fear, in essence,'' Nephele said. ``It can be carried by sound or by
sight, though like with all of their kind direct touch has the most
powerful effect.''

``That sounds dangerous and potentially lethal, but not horrifying,'' I
said. ``Which given my past experiences with demons lead me to believe
means I'm missing something.''

``Permanence of contamination, Catherine,'' Masego reminded me.

I blinked then finally put it together. He meant that the fear would
\emph{never} go away, and the contamination -- the fear -- would only
grow worse with every scream or glimpse or touch. Yeah, that was closer
to the kind of despicable fuckery I'd expected.

``There it is,'' I darkly muttered. ``How quickly does the fear
escalate?''

``My people say it comes in three steps,'' the Repentant Magister says.
``Fear, which can still be treated by Light and alchemies. Dread, which
puts men to flight they will never break from. And terror, which breaks
the mind and ends only in death.''

Charming. And it was starting to sound like fighting this would be a
headache and a half.

``So we can't even look at it,'' I slowly said.

``There are enchantments which would protect people from the effects, if
not for long and not against direct touch,'' she said, then bit her lip.
``Yet I am in no state to lay them, not on so many. I do have an
artefact whose effect is \emph{similar}, but I did not make it to face
demons and it will not protect nearly fifty people for more than
moments. It has not the power.''

``Trace the formula for the enchantment in the air,'' Masego said.

The Magister glanced at me and I nodded. Fine fingers left coppery
traces in the air that Hierophant studied it for a moment before he
sharply nodded.

``Now your artefact,'' he instructed.

Nephele, having discarded her hesitation, presented a ring in a pale and
silvery metal, set with translucent stones whose shine was not natural.

``Ah, I see,'' Masego muttered. ``Originally a torture spell, yes? To
keep the mind from breaking under pain. The formulaic traces are still
there.''

The Repentant Magister, face grown ashen, silently nodded.

``It can be done,'' Hierophant decided. ``Give me a moment.''

Casually he reached towards one of the Proceran mages, seizing the man's
magic with a ripple of will, and then he extracted the sorcery from the
sorceress' artefact with a great deal more care. Lights spun up and
formed themselves into runes -- several wriggled their way out of my
thoughts, which smacked of High Arcana -- then rearranged themselves
under Masego's dancing fingers and clucking tongue, before he finally
let out a little noise of satisfaction. The runes collapsed onto
themselves and formed into a series of small pinpricks of light that
sunk back into the ring.

``There,'' the Hierophant said. ``It will protect fifty people for a
quarter hour, though the protection will be stripped permanently by
contact with a demon. It will also break after use, Catherine, so spend
it wisely.''

The Repentant Magister was looking at him like he'd just knocked over a
castle by blowing at it -- split between disbelieving and awed. I
sometimes forgot how brilliant Masego was, exceptional even among a
people whose excellence in sorcery was legend. I thanked him and passed
what we'd learned on to the two lieutenants, who in turn handled
informing their soldiers. Advance resumed as I limped forward with the
ring clutched tight between my fingers. Two corners we turned before
another scream sounded and before it finished I broke the artefact --
the demon sounded close enough to warrant it. There was a pulse of light
and warmth, then a sensation like a wool in my mind.

``Quarter hour starts,'' I called out. ``We finish this quickly.''

The third corner we turned, mere heartbeats later, led us to the sight
of the waiting abomination. It was far -- knowing sight and distance
worked in its favour? -- and currently unmoving, at least as much as
such a thing could ever be. Corruption had been a revolting twisting of
flesh, but this thing was of a different mold. At its heart was a black,
faded body that evoked a snake or a slug, but most of it was made up of
translucent black veils that spread out like trails and tails and wings,
ever moving. Five moon-round eyes, two angled on each side and a larger
crowning one, stared at us like the glare of a lighthouse through the
fog. Behind it I glimpsed delicate trails on the ground that were like
smoke made liquid. Blood from a wound or secretions?

``Don't step on the trails,'' I warned.

It was unlikely that my soldiers got to hear the latter part of the
warning, as before I was finished speaking some of the demon's veil-like
layers formed a triangular mouth between the eyes and it began
\emph{screaming}. I felt the protective enchantment on me begin to wane,
like parchment being picked at by a swarm of insects. The screaming did
not stop, for the demon needed no breath, and just like that our battle
had begun. I reached for the Night even as Masego wrested power from our
mages one after another in quick succession, but first blood went to my
crossbowmen. Without flinching they brought up their weapons and fired a
volley in good order, seven of the ten bolts fired landing on the enemy.

Four of those went through the veils, including one through the `mouth',
but they passed if through them as if they were smoke and ended up
clattering on the stone further back. The last three shots, though, sunk
into the dark flesh at the heart of the monster and remained there. The
demon was unlikely to have been wounded by this but it was still moved
to act even as liquid smoke began to sweat out of its flesh around where
the bolts had sunk in. Layers upon layers of translucent blackness
unfolded, splitting into wings and limbs and hooks as the demon skulked
up the side of the wall and onto the ceiling with unnatural lightness.

``\emph{Kytima},'' the Repentant Magister said, a slender wand of iron
in her hand.

The metal length shivered and spat out burst of transparent sorcery that
struck at the demon's body even as I began to shape the Night I had
gathered and Masego began to incant in the magetongue. The host-breaker
was knocked down from the ceiling, slipping and falling but landing
below with insect-like deftness. It was still screaming, and when
another salvo of bolts was fired upon it instead of trying to avoid it
the demon simply convulsed. The four shots that'd tasted of its flesh
went flying out and I hastily abandoned the cage of Night I'd been
crafting, instead forming a sweeping scythe that would slap the
projectiles aside. When the roiling Night came to touch the first
bloodied bolt, though, it \emph{winked out}.

Sve Noc had forcefully dismissed it from my grasp before it could make
contact

\emph{Oh Merciless Gods,} I realized. \emph{They're the Night, or close
enough. So they're afraid that the taint might seep into it, and of what
that would bring when it returns to them.} It was not a senseless fear,
I knew, but that was a hollow and bitter thing to tell myself as I
watched the four bolts unnervingly find a targets. One glanced off a
shield raised just in time, but the others sunk into flesh -- neck or
elbow or knee, the weak parts of the armour that brute force would be
able to punch through.

My soldiers screamed loud enough that not even the demon's ceaseless
hollering was able to drown it out.

I glimpsed their eyes turning white, the utter panic that seized them as
their mouths foamed and their own screams served to amplify the
spreading infection of the demon. Swallowing a snarl of bitter rage I
swung out with Night, making a thick knot of it detonate in the air by
the closest soldier's ear. Whether the shockwave killed or knocked her
out I couldn't know, but before I could clear out a second the bolts
fired into the demon earlier found flesh and my fingers clenched in
dismay.

``\emph{Stop shooting},'' I screamed, but cacophony overruled me.

Hierophant stood utterly still behind me, save for his moving lips.

``\emph{Kytima},'' the Repentant Magister yelled again, knocking back
the demon once more.

I put down another soldier with a detonation but the third taken had
turned to flee and when the heavies got in his way he began hacking
wildly at them, still screaming at the top of his lungs. The demon had
landed almost flat on the ground when knocked back by Nephele, and
instead of rising at full height once more it remained there and began
slithering forward like a sea of tails and tentacles creeping along the
ground. Gods, just the sight of it\ldots{} A heartbeat later its veils
burst open, like a peacock unfolding its tail, and the bolts it'd just
taken went flying back. I was ready, this time: one after the other
hanging orbs of Night exploded, scattering the bolts into the walls.

I only realized I'd missed the greater threat when one of the heavies
struck down the last contaminated soldier and her blood went spurting
out looking like liquid smoke. The soldier in plate began screaming in
turn, clutching the dead soldier as he convulsed and so spraying
smoke-blood everywhere. I lost four heavies in that heartbeat, but a lot
more worrying was the single drop that landed on a crossbowman's cheek.
I killed him without missing a beat, teeth grinding my mouth raw, and
then I saw the Blade of Mercy pass by my side at a run and hatefully
cursed.

``It has to be now,'' the boy screamed, and charged forward with his
greatsword streaming behind him.

But the demon had never ceased moving and it'd taken advantage of the
chaos to push through. On veiled limbs it slipped through the last
regulars of the front and through the screaming gap in the heavies. The
Blade of Mercy swung his blade at it, glinting with Light and blindingly
quick, but it cut only through translucent layers and the demon's body
tumbled among the crossbowmen. One, two, three, four -- seven orbs did I
weave out of Night, detonating them in a perpetual circle I filled as
soon as it broke so that the abomination would remains stuck, but
tendrils shot out and the Night shattered again as Sve Noc fled the
demonic taint. A thief's power, mine, not a soldier's, and now my
legionaries were paying the price for it.

The creature, still screaming, struck out at still-whispering Masego but
the Repentant Magister blew it back -- in part, at least, for it had
been expecting the blow and it merely spun about some as it was mostly
translucence that was blown through. I spun Night into a vortex behind
it, sucking it backwards, but with a bat of wings is stayed in place and
the Repentant Magister was forced to blow back another reaching hand,
screaming the same word of power in a ragger voice. The Blade of Mercy
had swung round, slicing through a taken regular as he did, and now
swung at the demon from the back but the thickening glare of Light ate
away at my own working -- the demon fell to the ground, a single long
limb extending as it tore through the Repentant Magister's torso.

Nephele began to scream, face twisting in \emph{utter terror} in a
vision that would stay with me until I died, and the Blade of Mercy's
strike faltered at the sound. The Light trembled, the demon was ripped
back by the strengthening anew of the vortex I had not ended, and the
limb unfolded into a dozen wings of translucent black that clawed to
Antoine of Lange's sides as they were torn away. Was he\ldots{} No.~His
armour, I thought, his armour would have been thick enough no blood was
spilled.

``Dry rivers and sunder mountains,'' the Hierophant said, his calm voice
cutting through the chaos like a blade. ``Scatter chariots and snatch
sunlight: I command that you will be \emph{still}.''

The demon froze. Immediately and utterly, as if it had been the decree
of Creation itself.

``Now,'' I screamed through the screaming, ``\emph{now}, Antoine.''

``\emph{Burn}, you misbegotten thing,'' the Blade of Mercy hissed, and
his blade shone bright once more as it went down.

It was blinding to look upon as it went through the Demon of Terror. The
veils evaporated, the black flesh shivered and boiled and went up in
smoke as the wrath of the Gods Above came down upon the abomination and
eradicated it through their chosen champion. Like a sun at midday, the
Light swallowed the hallway whole and chased away my Night. When it
faded, there was nothing left of the demon but the aftermath. Screaming
soldiers, who I knocked unconscious as gently as I could with spinning
orbs, and one more yet. Nephele Eliade had slumped onto the ground and
she was bleeding, but the red was turning darker. Soon, I thought, it
would be as liquid smoke.

She bit her lip until it bled to swallow the scream, and unto me she
turned a pleading gaze. I knew what it was she was asking.

``I'm sorry,'' I whispered, as I brought up my staff.

I made it quick, quick enough it'd be painless. It was the least I could
do.

``Handle the contamination,'' I told Masego without turning. ``Please.''

I felt him nod without turning and left him to it, as began the roar of
flames and I closed my eyes. It was a weakness, but I would allow myself
it. Just this once. I only wished that, even with eyes closed, the only
thing I could see was not the look of grateful \emph{relief} in Nephele
Eliade's eyes as I killed her. I did not allow myself more than a few
moments, though. Now was not the time for indulgence. Our losses had
been\ldots{} harsh. Not only was the Repentant Magister dead, but we'd
also consigned to ash six of our ten heavies, two of our ten crossbowmen
and eight regulars. Nearly half our company had died in its first
engagement.

Against a demon, that couldn't even be said to be a bad roll of the
dice.

Before the ashes grew cold we moved on, carefully stepping around the
rivulets of contamination the demon had left coming there. It slowed our
advance, but we were close to the part of the Repository where the
Severance awaited now. The slight detour we allowed ourselves was taking
the hall the Demon of Terror had not at a crossroads we stumbled upon,
so that we wouldn't have to keep stepping around death and worse as we
tried to hurry up. I was on edge the entire time, but it wasn't a demon
we ended up running into. It was a woman, with striking purple eyes and
black hair pulled into a topknot. Not someone I knew from sight, but the
Concocter had been described to be before and her appearance was unusual
enough. It was what she was dragging behind her that had my heart rising
up in my throat.

A makeshift litter with an orc on it.

It'd taken me a moment to recognize Hakram, for most of him was now a
raw and bloody wound. With unnatural precision and severity his flesh
had been cut, from his upper thigh to the side of his now visible ribs
to the shoulder stump that'd been made of the same arm he'd once mangled
for Vivienne. He looked more than half-dead, skin pale and wan as sweat
covered his armour-stripped body. His wounds were not bleeding, I
thought, but neither was he in any way \emph{healed}.

``Gods Above,'' the Blade of Mercy whispered.

``Hierophant,'' I began, but Masego had already been moving.

He swept past the Concocter, whose face showed only relief at our
arrival, and I was left to speak with her as Masego saw to our friend.

``He'll live?'' I asked her, even though it was not the most pressing of
matters.

``For an hour,'' the Concocter said. ``If I get him to the Sinister
Physician before that, he'll make it through.''

I breathed out. At least there was that.

``Lieutenant Inger,'' I called out. ``Our heavies are to help the
Concocter carry the Lord Adjutant to the infirmary in the Knot.''

``Ma'am,'' the orc soberly saluted, then set to passing along the
orders.

``The Mirror Knight?'' I asked the villainess.

``Doing his best to contain the mess,'' the Concocter grimaced. ``When I
left the Vagrant Spear was still alive, and she insisted on staying
after taking a potion.''

I nodded.

``How many demons?'' I pressed.

``I couldn't tell,'' the Concocter admitted. ``They got to the fae, it
was\ldots{}''

She shivered at the memory.

``I would not have stayed even if asked,'' the purple-eyed alchemist
said. ``We weren't pursued, so at least one of them should still be
alive.''

I clenched my fingers, then unclenched them. Not necessarily promising,
but better than nothing. It'd have to do.

``Anything you need to keep him alive,'' I said, forcing myself not to
look at Hakram lest my voice shake, ``you have it. Use my name if you
have to.''

She dipped her head in acknowledgement.

``Concocter,'' I said, voice going low. ``I am in your debt for this. I
will not forget it.''

She watched me, eyes considering.

``Neither will I, Your Majesty,'' she said.

Masego came back to me even as the Concocter and her escort of four
heavies -- half of them carrying the litter -- left.

``He was struck by a demon, though I cannot tell which sort,''
Hierophant told me. ``The Severance was used to cut the flesh,
presumably to halt the spread of the taint. He will survive if properly
tended to but there will be no reattaching the limbs.''

I breathed out. Hakram would live. Masego himself had told me, and I did
not doubt his words. The rest we could deal with when horror had been
thrown back into the hole from which it had crawled out. We pressed on,
our company thinned even further, until we had reached the threshold of
madness. What I had expected to be waiting for us was two Named on the
edge of annihilation, or perhaps a desperately fighting Mirror Knight
devoured by grief at the loss of his companion, but what we got was
different.

As we approached what had been the resting place of the Severance, we
stepped into a charnel yard.

The corpses closest to us were fae, or at least had been. Several of the
bodies were in hacked pieces, some of them twisted by what I recognized
to be the touch of Corruption, and even those of the fae that had died
without first being swallowed by demonic taint were a grisly sight.
Carved through from head to groin or across the torso, spilling red or
half a dozen other things as their faces remained frozen in ugly
rictuses of surprise or anger. My boots waded through blood as I
advanced, but other things too -- red leaves, grown that as much from
autumn as death, stuck to the bottom of my boots. There were precious
stones and broken wooden shafts, silks and shattered dreamlike armours.
The might of the Court of Autumn had come for the Mirror Knight, and he
had \emph{massacred} it.

Beyond those rested a thing that looked like a twisted afterbirth,
hacked into and burned until it was no longer a threat. The remains of a
demon, I thought as the lot of us walked through death. There was
another, forced into a hole carved in the wall and both stone and corpse
were scorched so thoroughly nothing could be glimpsed of the manner of
demon it had been, Beyond it a few steps up led us to open steel gates
and the last gasps of madness beyond. At the gates, where the Mirror
Knight and the Vagrant Spear must have stood and fought, the blackened
and scattered remains of another two demons could be seen. It was
further in that the fighting still held, past the three stripes of
burned flesh that had my heart stirring in unease to look at and
the\ldots{} hole that it hurt my mind to even think of. There I first
found the Vagrant Spear, the Levantine heroine named Sidonia, ever
barefoot and holding her tall spear as she let loose the occasional
small burst of Light from it to prevent the last demon from
\emph{escaping}.

Christophe de Pavanie's face was calm, but his eyes hard. Armoured in
polished silver plate from head to toe he was hard for the eye to follow
-- he was quick, quicker than a man in such heavy armour should be, and
the mirror-like plate obscured his movements to even a careful eye. His
shield was dazing to look at, a perfect reflection of all it beheld, but
it was the sword in his hand that had my hair raising. Whistling softly
as it cut through the air even when it did not move, the Severance
sliced through a twisted shape of shifting mercury like it was butter.
The demon screamed and tried to flee around the hero, but the Vagrant
Spear drove it back with a burst of Light. One, twice, thrice did the
Mirror Knight strike, his plate burning with radiance as the demon
burned into molten remains from the glare of the reflection.

I no longer had to worry about madness swallowing whole the Arsenal, it
seemed, which was a relief.

Less pleasing was the fresh peril that the day had brought to my door:
if I fought the Mirror Knight, now, I believed I might just \emph{lose}.