News of Ambrose's appearance had already reached Sandshadow City.

Just as he had anticipated, Allen was immediately thrust into the eye of the storm.

The paladin taken captive by Ambrose was from a prestigious family in the capital, high in status and one of the "heroes" of the desert campaign.

Now that he had been seized and Ambrose had publicly demanded that Allen Watson ransom him by name, all the pressure fell squarely upon the young commander.

Allen's first reaction was immediate: to reinforce the city's defenses. Rotations were halted. A message was dispatched to the capital requesting reinforcements.

From one perspective, this was prudent. From another, it looked like fear.

Rumors had already been plaguing Allen for some time. Allegedly, after being captured by the lich, he had been brutally tortured; he had lost the courage to return to the battlefield; his presence here was merely an attempt to find a respectable ending to a tragic life.

At the mere mention of that lich, Allen had sealed the gates and called for reinforcements. It was far too easy for others to interpret this as cowardice.

Allen could not even properly refute the rumors.

Because deep down, he did fear Ambrose.

Not death, no. He feared falling for Ambrose's trap again.

Everything had begun with the five thousand gold he had paid Ambrose to cast Detect Evil on him. From there, events had spiraled out of control. Even the Knights Penitent had suffered catastrophic losses at the lich's hands. Most outrageous of all, an artifact had been lost.

Had he known the true cost of associating with Ambrose from the beginning, he would have refused the Detect Evil outright.

Ambrose was not merely powerful. Whoever he set his sights on would be like an insect caught in a spider's web. The more it struggled, the more tightly it was bound.

Absolute defense and reinforcements from the capital—every decision Allen made was aimed at avoiding that trap a second time.

Though many objected, Allen silenced them with two simple arguments.

First, he was the appointed commander of Sandshadow. The transfer of command had been witnessed by all. To defy him now would be a violation of military law, a grave crime in Lyon.

Second, Ambrose was a legendary lich. There was no one in Sandshadow capable of opposing a legend. Some argued that a hundred prepared paladins was enough to stand a chance. Allen countered by citing the crushing defeat of the Knights Penitent.

The empire's elite, trained specifically to confront legends, had failed. What right did these paladins, most of whom had never even seen a legendary undead, have to take such a reckless gamble?

Though some still believed Allen simply feared death and refused to exchange himself for the captured paladin, his arguments were unassailable.

After all, Lyon's law forbade compromise with the enemy.

When Allen himself had been captured, had the empire offered even a single gold coin in ransom? No. They had sent the Knights Penitent to eliminate Ambrose instead.

If Allen refused to consider a hostage exchange, no one could compel him otherwise.

The gates of Sandshadow were sealed. Martial law was declared.

The holy light arrays throughout the city hummed at full capacity as the city prepared to repel an undead siege.

From dawn until nightfall, Allen stood atop the walls, binoculars in hand.

After sunset, the desert fell into darkness. He scanned the horizon relentlessly, hoping to detect the undead before they approached. But half the night had passed, and nothing had happened.

"Just what is that lich planning? The empire has already pardoned him. Why target me now? If he truly meant to eliminate me, he wouldn't need to kidnap others. He could lure me out without my knowing. So just what is he after?"

Allen had long since shed the faint arrogance of noble birth. Hard lessons had taught him to analyze his enemy with care.

Ambrose was no reckless brute. If he acted this way, he had to have a purpose Allen had yet to discern.

"The ransom demand is likely a smokescreen. His true objective lies elsewhere. But what could it be?!"

As Allen tried to focus, holy radiance flared outside the city.

"Holy light!"

He wouldn't mistake that frequency. It was clearly a signaling pattern.

"They're requesting the gates be opened?"

Allen raised his binoculars and observed the source of the light.

The captured paladin was sprinting toward Sandshadow with over a dozen Lyon soldiers behind him. Trailing them was a massive shadow.

Only after straining his eyes did Allen make it out: a gigantic black panther. Upon its back rode a golden-haired girl of breathtaking grace.

Allen swore to the Holy Light he had never seen such beauty in his life. Even at a distance, even as a silhouette, she made his heart pound.

The group approached swiftly. Before Allen fully gathered himself, they were already beneath the walls.

"Allen Watson! Open the gates!"

The shout jolted him awake. He ordered the gates opened immediately, but even as the heavy doors swung wide, a pang of regret struck him.

Wasn't this rash? What if it were another of the lich's trap? Why hadn't he verified their identities first?

With that unease gnawing at him, Allen descended to meet the returning soldiers.

"Simon!" he called to the rescued paladin. "How did you escape? Are you injured? Do you require treatment?"

Simon's voice was cold. "What, now you're concerned about my life? Allen Watson, didn't you leave me for dead?"

Allen frowned. "I don't know what you endured in the lich's hands. You're exhausted. Rest. We can speak once you've recovered."

He refused to argue here, not when the undead were lurking outside. Public discord would only destabilize morale.

But Simon pressed on loudly, "I didn't return to take orders from you. I bring urgent news. We have gravely wounded that lich. This is our chance to strike!"

"What? What happened?" Allen demanded.

Instead of continuing the quarrel, Simon stepped aside to reveal Catherine. "It's all thanks to Her Majesty, Queen Catherine. She rescued us and severely wounded the lich. Now is our best opportunity. We can destroy him completely!"

Allen looked toward Catherine, belatedly discovering that she was an elf.

She seemed faintly luminous. Her skin was flawless as moonlight, her features so exquisitely proportioned they seemed crafted by divinity itself. Perfection from any angle.

For a fleeting moment, Allen wondered if the goddess of beauty might look just like this.

Catherine smiled politely. "Forgive me," she said softly, "but this will make conversation easier."

A hazy shimmer enveloped her form like a veil of mist.

She had cast Blur, usually a buff to increase evasiveness, to cover up her overwhelming beauty.

Allen finally came to his senses. "My apologies. That was discourteous of me. Your Majesty... are you truly Queen Catherine of the elves?"

"I have already proven my identity once. That is not what matters. I have pursued this lich for some time. Today, I saw him capture Sir Simon and seized the opportunity to strike in coordination with him. The lich was gravely wounded, but I, too, sustained injuries."

Her voice trembled slightly. "Mr. Watson, I request your assistance. Will you stand with me and end this lich?"

To Allen, her trembling sounded like pain suppressed by willpower.

A surge of sympathy welled up from within. Yet just before he agreed outright, he paused. "Your Majesty," he said carefully, "to my knowledge, the elves signed a peace accord under that lich's mediation. Why pursue him now?"

"That is correct. We signed an armistice. The details are confidential. If you doubt me, Mr. Watson, I will swear it before the gods. The elves paid a remarkably heavy price to end the war, all because of the lich. I follow the lich now as part of that terrible cost."

Clear light shimmered around her. Faint hymns echoed in the air.

Allen recognized the phenomenon instantly. This was the resonance unique to a god-blessed. His own father, the High Inquisitor of Lyon, manifested similar signs during prayer.

An elven queen being favored by the elven pantheon was only natural. A divine response to her oath signified truth.

And yet... why did he still feel so uneasy?

He searched desperately for the source of his doubt, and grasped at another reason to refuse.

"He is a lich. Even if we destroy his body, he will reform from his phylactery. Unless we find it..."

It was a perfectly reasonable objection. Killing liches permanently required destroying their phylacteries. But before he could continue, Catherine produced a silver-white box radiating dark energy.

"This is his phylactery. I stole it while he was distracted. This is our best chance!"

Allen stared at the ornate box in her hands. The aura of darkness felt genuine.

He... seemed to have run out of excuses to retreat.