The morning was cold and still. Marcus stood on the once-more-repaired section of the western wall and watched his breath plume and vanish in the thin winter air while he tried to map his forces in his head. It had been about two weeks since Bent's patrols started rolling out in staggered teams -- six men here, eight there. The fort was thinner than he liked -- fifty soldiers after the departures -- but the quiet was a mercy.

 

He pictured the movement of the squads because he was trying not to think about Melissa, but it wasn’t working – he always thought about her. The morning had a way of making it worse -- the pale light, the stillness, the way the frost clung to everything like a second skin. It had been a morning just like this went he had learned the truth.  When he had…

 

A blessed distraction from his thoughts arrived in the form of a cry came from the watchtower: "Travelers! North road!"

 

Probably Squad A returning. More prompt than he had expected! Marcus reached the edge of the wall in three strides, then stopped as disbelief ran through him.

 

Imperials. Here.

 

Why?

 

There was no mistake - below, on the road that wound through the frozen scrubland between Fort Amol and the mountains, a column of Imperials moved at a relaxed pace. No scouts ahead. No flankers. No urgency. They were talking among themselves, weapons sheathed, armor catching the pale morning light like scattered coins. A full company, marching loose and easy, expecting nothing, though they had to know they had entered Stormcloak territory.

 

Poor discipline, Marcus thought. Whoever leads them is going to get his men slaughtered. He opened his mouth to call for formation, a plan already half formed. They were too few for a head-to-head battle - they needed to draw the Imperials into a trap.

 

His men had other ideas. Even as Marcus started speaking, a wave of arrows rained down on the Imperials. This, in itself, might not have been too bad had more of them hit, but the arrows had been rushed – only a handful of the Imperials went down and now the enemy started to act like a military unit, ruining the opportunity for the best placed blow.

 

Marcus discarded his plan in an instant, mind already reaching for another as he turned toward the men on the wall and roared, "Hold! HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

 

And they did – in the worst way possible: a cheer went up and a mass exodus followed. The garrison had been chafing for months -- the fiasco at Whiterun, the abandonment, the sexual tension. No fights, no outlet for the restless hunger that had been building since they left Windhelm. They did not wait for orders, did not look for permission.

 

They opened the gate.

 

The iron-reinforced oak swung wide before Marcus could reach the ladder, before he could scream at them to stop, before he could do anything but watch his garrison pour through the opening like water through a broken dam. Fifty men -- some armored, some half-dressed, some still carrying bowls of half-eaten breakfast -- streamed onto the frozen road with a battle cry that tore the morning apart.

 

"STOP!" Marcus bellowed. "GODS DAMN YOU, STOP!"

 

They did not stop. They did not even slow. They crashed into the Imperials, forming an instant knot of bodies and steel, a filthy, close-quarters scramble, discipline shredded under weeks--months--of waiting. Marcus sprinted for the gates, unsurprised but grateful when Bent appeared at his side.

 

A pressure built in the air, heavy and foreboding, and Marcus felt it a fraction before it hit: a shockwave punched outward, scattering bodies and forcing space where there had been none. Stormcloaks staggered, several fell. Marcus braced against it, boots grinding into dirt, and already he knew…

 

The She-Devil had come to them. The irony was almost too much to bear.

 

Marcus did not see her arrive, exactly; he only saw the space she occupied -- first at the center of the Imperial line, then at the left flank, then behind his men, in the space they had just vacated. She moved like smoke, like wind, like something that did not obey the rules of flesh and bone, moving too fast to see clearly.

 

The She-Devil was here. And there. She was everywhere.

 

Marcus was a little surprised at her tactics. Not her speed – they had all seen that on the Whiterun walls. But she didn’t seem interesting in killing. He watched her appear at the shoulder of one of his men and slam the pommel of her sword into his head. The man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. The flat of her blade caught another across the temple. A kick to the back of a knee dropped a third, followed again by the flat of her blade. She moved through his men like a reaper, but one who had decided not to reap.

 

The Imperials behind her had no such restraint -- a Stormcloak went down with a spear through his gut. Another took a blade across the throat. The screaming rose -- not the clean screaming of a battle, but the wet, broken sound of men dying in the frozen mud of a road they should never have charged down. Marcus cursed as he and Bent pounded toward the melee but then slid to a halt when the She-Devil stepped through the Stormcloak lines and faced them.

 

For the first time, Marcus got a close look. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, and he was somehow both surprised yet not at the same time: a Redguard’s dark skin wrapped in black that clung and cut more like scandal than armor. Lace, stockings, high heeled shoes straight from a Court soiree. Something like a tiara caught what little light there was, trailing a veil that shifted like smoke. Another veil--lower, thinner--hid the rest of her face, leaving only silver eyes exposed behind a small, elegant mask.

 

It was…absurd. Funeral garb twisted into something indecent. A mockery of mourning, something meant to be seen. And yet…

 

His hand tightened on his swords. The She-Devil was half his size; a quarter of the Nord beside him. But Marcus could feel it in the way she stood, the way the air seemed to bend slightly around her – whatever she looked like, she was not human. At least, not completely.

 

“I’ll take the She-Devil,” he said, stepping forward before Bent could answer. “Help the others.”

 

For once, Bent didn’t argue, for which Marcus was grateful – he gave a nod and started sprinting. Marcus was afraid the She-Devil might try to intercede, so he moved first -- one moment the She-Devil stood across the churned ground; the next she was within reach and Marcus’ blades were already cutting.

 

He took a risk on the opening combination, opting for vod enmê and its heavy strikes, hoping to keep the She-Devil’s attention on him. To his surprise, she didn’t lift her sword or even move. but it soon became apparent why -- one pass. Two. Three. Four. Clean lines, undefended, and all for naught -- Marcus' blades passed through her body like it was made of mist. Marcus slid back, resetting his stance in the same motion, eyes fixed on her. No impact, no blood, not even a sign he had been there.

 

Interesting.

 

He let the observation settle and didn’t waste breath on surprise. If it hadn’t worked, it hadn’t worked. Adjust.

 

She tried something then--he felt it gather. Another of those invisible blows; the pressure built again, coiling forward, but this time he recognized it – it was very similar to the force King Borgas had used to keep him at bay, way back in a different life.

 

The She-Devil could shout. It tickled his mind with mild surprise followed by a moment of clarity -- if her power was based around shouting, he was on firmer ground than he had dared hope. He had already shifted when the wave of force shot forward; with one slice, he cut through it. A simple motion, a sweep of one blade, angled just so. The force unraveled before it reached him--dispersed, dismissed. He watched her eyes widen behind the mask and almost smiled.

 

Almost. He could not take his small victory for granted. He took advantage of her surprise and moved again, the same heavy stance but this time with the variation 4 twist. And this time, something caught -- steel kissed flesh just above her hip. She did something just after, so Marcus’ blade passed through the rest of her as it had before, but he had managed a cut and a reaction - a sharp break in her breathing, a sound torn loose despite whatever trick she used to slip his edge. A bright splash of red erupted from the cut, shallow but present.

 

“So you can bleed,” Marcus said, more to confirm it to himself than to taunt. She seemed surprised by the fact herself. Marcus settled himself, now feeling less out of his depth -- if she could bleed, she could die. He only had to figure out how. “I am glad to know it.”

 

Her breath was coming in short gasps – whatever tricks she was using to supplement her Shouts clearly drained her. All he had to do was keep her moving until she wore herself out. It was just like the fight with Borgas: circle, slice the shout, dive in, get in a hit, repeat. Hold pressure. Exploit weakness. Finish.

 

Still, it would not do to underestimate her. Instead of another attack, Marcus reset and prepared.

 

The She-Devil took a breath. Her eyes -- those shining, terrible eyes -- did not leave his face. Her jaw opened beneath the veil and Marcus shifted to bêr êngee, ready to cut the moment sound left her mouth.

 

The She-Devil disappeared – she was just gone in less than the blink of an eye. As, Marcus realized a moment later, were his swords – his hands were empty and there was a distant ringing in his ears and a sudden ache that rushed through his head. All of this registered on his mind at the same time something heavy and metallic slammed into the side of his head.

 

Consciousness slipped and got dragged sideways. His body folded, knees buckling as control bled out from under him. As the world faded from his senses, his last thought was that his mother was going to kill him for allowing himself to be disarmed. Then, just before the final dark, a bitter thought countered, no she’s not; and it was with a sort of bitter relief that he embraced the nothingness.

 

 

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