As the soldiers from both sides lined up on either side of the Sodoryl Bridge, twilight had descended. The Alliance forces had lost a third of their strength in the battle the previous night, with most survivors bearing wounds. Due to this, Jorgen and Flint had devised a prepared plan to prevent any Bloodscar attacks and to manage the situation effectively.
Jorgen stood at the western end of the bridge, accompanied by the unshackled Jemar. On the opposite eastern side stood Demitria and High Inquisitor Ethenrion. Though Demitria's position was slightly forward, much like the impression Jorgen had from the previous negotiations, Ethenrion seemed more like the one in control. His chin raised, his right hand repeatedly tapped the hilt of his sword, from index finger to pinky. Two heavily armed Bloodscar warriors stood by his side, each wielding a large poleaxe. Demitria kept her head bowed, her palms pressed together over her abdomen, resembling the posture of a devotee after prayer, lost in thought. The subdued twilight lent her an almost indistinct silhouette, akin to a solitary cloud drifting in the distant horizon.
"Have your journey not been smooth, Lord Jorgen?" Ethenrion remarked. The river's water lapped against the bridge piers, creating an eerie accompaniment to his voice.
"Just a few minor hiccups."
"I apologize deeply for this inconvenience. I will offer prayers for the fallen soldiers, as we indeed face the same adversary."
"Why not complete the exchange of prisoners now? We must find a place to set up camp before nightfall."
"Of course, of course. You've taken good care of Jemar, and for that, I am thankful. What's your view on this matter, Lady Saint?"
"...I share the sentiment."
"Well then, come here, Jemar. Return to the ranks of the Bloodscar Crusade, where you pledged your unwavering loyalty."
"Go," Jorgen said to Jemar. While a hint of tension flickered in Jemar's eyes, there was a prevailing calm resolve, akin to a rock weathering relentless waves. He nodded at Jorgen, a silent gratitude, before taking his first step.
Jorgen watched as Jemar's pace gradually quickened, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Demitria lifted her head, and Ethenrion placed his left hand on her shoulder, while the two heavily armored guards at his side advanced. As these two guards neared Jemar's position at the center of the bridge, they assumed a stance ready to strike with their poleaxes. With swift and forceful movement, Jemar unsheathed his sword and swung at them, a strike both rapid and powerful, yet seemingly devoid of retreat, as if upon its execution, everything would come to a standstill: his body, his thoughts, his time, and all that he perceived.
One guard intercepted the blow with the shaft of his axe, while the other severed Jemar's right arm at the shoulder. They moved like two executioners forged from steel. Jemar's sword remained in the detached hand, as the guard stepped on its blade, sending it tumbling off the bridge. Jemar's body fell forward, blood splattering across the bridge's surface in a sinuous pattern, akin to a red serpent. The edges of the two poleaxes converged at his throat. Demitria hadn't yet uttered a sound when Ethenrion's left hand looped around the back of her neck, firmly muffling her mouth, and drew her into his grasp. Blood seeped from between his fingers, though whether it was from her lips or his own, no one could discern. Perhaps it was both.
"Who told you to sever his arm? How many times must I remind you?" Ethenrion spoke.
"Because... he was a threat, Inquisitor," the guard replied.
"We'll have to sew him up now... Useless. Once we return, you'll receive your lashings at the tribunal." The guard gave a response as Ethenrion turned his attention back to Jemar. "Jemar, repeat after me: What is your oath?"
Jemar remained silent. He lacked both the strength and the will to speak. Beads of sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring the figure of Demitria that occupied his gaze.
Ethenrion drew his sword and placed its blade against Demitria's throat.
"Exterminate," Jemar's words emerged as if struggling from a dark and muddy abyss, "Exterminate the Arlaki, obtain... obtain the ashes. Attain... divine... glory."
"Yes, that's how you swore. In front of me, Saint, the blood-red war standard, and the effigies of countless martyrs. You failed. You languished under the Alliance's protection, disappointing me and all our revered martyrs — naturally, the most disappointed of all was the Saint. Do you agree, Demitria?"
More blood seeped from between Ethenrion's fingers.
"Proceed."
A guard swung his battle axe, the tip piercing through Jemar's chest. Jorgen couldn't see Jemar's expression; he only knew his body stiffened for a moment, then collapsed like the countless soldiers who fell in the war. Toss a teacup out the window, and it would shatter. Cast a stone into the river, and it would sink. A person lost control of their body and then stilled.
"Go, Demitria," Ethenrion said, "You have the right to see him one last time. Don't be too heartbroken, at least he died as a warrior."
He released his grip, and as Demitria rushed out, she stumbled like a fledgling bird nearly falling from its nest's edge. She wiped the blood from her mouth onto her hand, then knelt before Jemar, cradling his upper body. It was a struggle; Jemar's form was too heavy for her. His blood stained her left side, obscuring the blood-red cross on her garments. Her right hand clutched his spine, attempting to pull him closer, but the slippery blood caused the Crusader's surcoat to repeatedly slip from her grasp. Her left palm rested against his scarred face, her elbow drawn close to her body, distancing herself from his bloodied shoulder.
Demitria seemed to whisper something to Jemar, something Jorgen couldn't hear, and he had no way of knowing whether Jemar had even a final breath left to hear those whispers.
Ethenrion approached from behind Demitria.
"I'm sorry, Demitria. But you know... an oath is an oath. The Crusade's honor rests on rigorous oaths. It's getting late, and we should..."
"I saw..."
"What? I can't hear clearly, Demitria. Speak louder."
"I saw the apocalypse of the Bloodscar Crusader." She turned her head, looking up at him. When she had just started speaking, Demitria's voice carried a sob, but it gradually grew intense and scorching, like a furious wind sweeping over scorched earth.
"I saw blood and flames. Flames burning endlessly upon countless Scarlet Crusaders' bodies. A torrential flow of blood formed a lake, and the broken Scarlet war standards floated on its surface. I heard the wails of the deceased, and it was these cries that dragged the Scarlet into hell... all the dead, those who never had the chance to beg for mercy before we beheaded them, all the Scarlet dead, the children who died before they were born because their parents perished, our children..."
Ethenrion drew his sword and severed Demitria's throat. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the blood from his blade with the ease of a chef cleaning knives and forks. He watched as Demitria's head drooped, leaning against Jemar's shoulder. The two bodies propped each other up, unable to fully collapse, akin to a pair of lovers lying side by side on a park bench on a Sunday afternoon. The only difference was that the warmth of the sun did not cover them, but the foul stench of blood.
"Verbose woman," Ethenrion discarded the handkerchief over the bridge's edge, then turned to the guard. "Carry them back. Don't forget Jemar's right hand. Instruct the medics to stitch it up promptly. Incomplete corpses should not hang at the gates of the Hand of Tyr."
"But... do we really have to do this? Lord Taelan, he..."
"Who did you swear allegiance to?"
"... To you, Lord Ethenrion."
"I have many others who can take your place at any moment. Do you want someone else to replace you?"
"No, Lord."
"Then do as I say."
The heavily armored guard secured the poleaxe on his back and hoisted the two corpses onto his shoulders, Jemar's severed limb held in his right hand. He headed toward the eastern end of the bridge. At some point, a tarot card fell amidst the trail of blood he left behind, unnoticed by anyone. The pool of blood where the two bodies had met flowed to Ethenrion's feet, and he took a step back to avoid it.
Gazing at the blood and then locking eyes with Ethenrion, Jorgen took steps forward.
"Jorgen, what are you doing?" Elin said.
"Both you and Flint stay here and don't move."
Reaching the center of the bridge, as he approached the pool of blood, Jorgen was met by the remaining guard, ax in hand, barring his way.
"Step aside. I have something to discuss with Jorgen," Ethenrion said. The guard moved to the side but maintained his defensive stance.
When they were only five yards apart, Jorgen halted.
"Should we shake hands, Jorgen?" Ethenrion quipped. "To commemorate the successful completion of the prisoner exchange. It's quite a historic event, though it probably won't make it into the official records of either the Alliance or the Bloodscar Crusader. Well, at least not how our historians would write it."
"Explain what just happened. I need to report to my superiors."
"Is it necessary? In truth, this is an embarrassment within our Bloodscar Crusader... I doubt Archbishop Nehari would find much interest in such matters."
"Except for Archbishop Nehari, many others are interested as well. If you insist on concealing this, then I'll have to describe this operation as a ruse orchestrated by the Crusade. Just as you said, it might be a historic event, but if it turns out to be a charade, it would be a shame on our Alliance. We would be seen as making concessions repeatedly, returning prisoners in earnest, only for the Bloodscar Crusader to treat it as a mere farce. To erase that shame, I'm not certain how those higher up would react. I understand that the Bloodscar Crusader's situation isn't easy either—so far, you haven't gained an inch in Andorhal. Is it a matter of strategy, or is it beyond your capabilities? Meanwhile, our people are busy reconstructing the city... This isn't a good time for either side to escalate the conflict, wouldn't you agree?"
Ethenrion fell silent for a moment. "You have a way with words, Jorgen. I'm sorry for exposing you to that scene; I should take responsibility for that... Well then, you're probably most curious about why I killed the so-called 'Prophetess' Demitria, the Scarlet Saint. To personally carry out the deed wasn't easy for me either, given our history... But to uphold the Bloodscar Crusader's beliefs, I had no choice. She was guilty, Jorgen. She and Jemar committed an unforgivable sin—together, they conceived a child."
Jorgen remained silent. There was a near-mad enigma in Ethenrion's eyes.
"Ah, yes. Love between a man and a woman, bringing forth a child to carry on their legacy—no one can argue against that. In fact, we encourage our warriors to find partners within the Crusade, as two people's beliefs are stronger than one's. However... bestowing life is a matter not to be taken lightly. Men and women must take responsibility. You're aware of Demitria's high status; she's the spiritual pillar for countless Scarlet Crusaders. And yet, this woman chose to be with a bodyguard, one with a history of plague and a former prime suspect in a priest's murder case. As a saint, one need not shun love, but it must certainly stay away from love that contradicts one's identity. When she lies in Jemar's arms, the sanctity of her status as a saint is utterly lost. If this were to become known, do you realize how much it would shake the faith of countless Scarlet Crusaders? Not to mention the cursed child being born. No, we had to resolve this before any signs of her pregnancy emerged."
Jorgen recalled Demitria's posture at the bridgehead moments ago. Her head hung low, hands folded on her abdomen.
"However, please believe that we're compassionate toward our comrades. Among the leaders who knew about this, voices advocating the immediate execution of the two were plenty. Except for me, there was one suggestion: to offer Jemar a chance of equal sanctity. No one would contest the union between the hero who brought back Arlaki's ashes and the Scarlet Saint—it would provide an unparalleled spiritual strength for our warriors."
"But you know Jemar couldn't possibly comply. He has only a few dozen soldiers under his command."
"And so what? We offered the chance, but we can't accommodate him. Since he can't comply, he naturally forfeits the opportunity to be the Saint's partner. However, I've heard he once confronted Arlaki himself... such a pity. You can imagine the torment it was for me to carry out judgment on them both."
Torment? From where I stand, you've been relishing it all along, and it sickens me. "Is it more damaging to your so-called faithful for the Saint to bear a sinner's child than for you to kill the Saint herself?"
Ethenrion glanced back; the guard was already carrying the two bodies back to the camp, dozens of yards away from the bridgehead. He continued facing Jorgen. "The faithful will know that it was the traitor Jemar who killed Demitria. Jemar's body will hang at the gates of Tyr's Hand, picked at by crows until it's just another set of bones, fading from everyone's memory. But Demitria is different. We will give her a grander funeral than ever before, create statues in her image. A Demitria sacrificed for the Scarlet cause will be more than just a 'Saint.' She will become 'Immortal.' The Scarlet soldiers who looked up to her will likely experience a temporary dip in morale, but in the end, their faith will grow tenfold, a hundredfold, because of this 'Immortal.' I can't wait to see that day arrive."
"You're revealing more than I expected. I'm curious how those Scarlet soldiers would react if they knew the truth."
Ethenrion chuckled. "Don't jest, Jorgen. You're a direct agent of MI7, don't you understand how to manipulate those lost souls? These souls, fragile as they are, must gather together to survive, and they need spiritual guidance to gain strength. Even if I told them the truth now, they wouldn't believe it; to preserve their spiritual guidance, they would torture me to death for revealing the truth, then continue living in their world. There, the 'Immortal' Demitria would provide all they need. Within all of Azeroth, your superior, Varia Sowleye, excels at this. So, please, spare me these childish threats, Jorgen. It's getting late, and I'm sure you need to find a place to camp. Shall we put an end to this meaningless conversation? Goodbye."
After taking a few steps, Ethenrion paused and Jorgen asked, "What are your thoughts on Demitria's prophecy of doom for the Crusade before her death?"
"What...?" Ethenrion turned back. "You mentioned a prophecy... I'm a bit confused. If your laughable words aren't some convoluted ploy beyond my understanding, then I'm concerned for the future of MI7."
His right hand started tapping on the hilt again, from his index finger to the fourth finger, in succession.
"There was never any prophecy to begin with. The only meaningful things in this world are judgment and verdict. All of Demitria's prophecies were scripted by us after gathering enough military intelligence. We bestowed her with a divine halo, yet she ungratefully sought the affections of an ordinary man, guilty at that. We should have revoked that halo, but instead, we're planning to polish it even brighter. Who could be luckier than her? Apologies, her final words were just the ravings of a madwoman. Until next time, Jorgen... if there is a next time."
After returning to the western side of the bridge, Jorgen did not ask what had transpired. He said, "What do we do now?"
"There's nothing more to do." Jorgen glanced at the wounded Alliance soldiers on the bridge. They were depleted after the long wait, and many were now looking disoriented under the pressure of potential Scarlet attacks. He couldn't help but wonder if the Scarlet Crusaders, who anxiously awaited news of Demitria, had the same look in their eyes.
"The mission is complete."
The sky darkened. The sound of the Thondroril River washing against the decaying banks began to swell. A charred black bloodstain on the bridge surface captured Jorgen's gaze. He understood that this bloodstain bore witness to the sole purpose of Jemar's survival up to this day: to share the destined fate with Demitria. This fate had been sealed at the very moment Jemar fell before Arlaki, even from the very first night they spent together. And now, Jorgen realized that this bloodstain seemed like the entrance to a world of no return, a world where countless lost souls resonated in harmony, singing the prelude to destruction.