A/N: An idea that's been rolling around in my head since finishing the campaign, so I decided to put it in writing. Let me know what you think!

I may expand this to a two-shot if enough people are interested.

Kravor

She found him atop the highest point in Svernguard, just outside the burning ruins of the Great Hall. The small plateau gave a fine view of the surrounding township, and the large courtyard below had hosted citizens and traders as life had moved through the settlement. Once it would have been beautiful, in a rustic sort of way. Looking closely, one could still make out the intricate carving on sturdy wooden doors, and the remains of signs proclaiming everything from arms and armor to a warm meal and a soft bed. Merchants from far and wide would have braved the persistent snows to set up shop and hawk their wares. Men and women of all ages would have browsed through everything from iron nails to cured meats, the warriors gravitating toward all manner of arms and armor while womenfolk would purchase and barter for foodstuffs and household items. Slaves would have moved fine furs and barrels of sweet mead through the streets, and children would have laughed and played in the snow.

Then the Legion came.

Now, abandoned, empty stalls littered the plaza, the wares long since taken with the fleeing merchants or looted by opportunistic Legionaries. Fruits plundered far to the south lay trampled beside broken jars of spices from the Dawn Empire, mixing with blood and mud to create a revolting mixture that clung to one's boots.

She ignored the filth on her boots as she did the burning air, choked with ash and embers, that stung her eyes as she strode forward. The children were gone, the slaves had been rounded up or slain alongside their masters, and the warriors lay cold and unmoving with their womenfolk in the softly-falling snow. The last of the Warborn defenders were being put to the sword, and she thought to seek out her Warden, if only to ensure he was unharmed.

Not that she would ever admit that, of course.

She saw Gudmundr's body first, laying broken at the Warden's feet in a patch of crimson snow. The Warlord's thick leather armor and large furs were torn and ragged, and dark lacerations lay across his body. His wounds still wept ichor slightly, meaning the body was still warm. She spared the corpse only another moment before looking to the other figure in the open space.

The victor himself was turned toward the burning township, the raging fires below them presenting an eerie picture of a lone knight standing before a wall of smoke and flames. What she could make out of his armor in the light of the fires was dented and bloodied, whether his or his foe's, she knew not. His longsword, the one he had long since claimed from that traitor, hung from his left hand, gripped around the pommel tightly.

She wasn't surprised when he heard her approach; he had long gotten used to her light step.

"Why are we here, Mercy?".

If she was surprised at the question, she did not show it, her metal mask fixed on the last of the buildings being put to the torch. She ignored the burning at the back of her throat from the acrid smoke that permeated the air, tasting ash on the tip of her tongue.

"You know why", she said simply, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

His helmet turned toward her slightly, enough to make out the large slash in the metal directly over his nose. "You never stop lying, do you, Peacekeeper?".

Not the first time she'd been accused of such, but when he said it...

Ancient wood cracked and splintered, stone crumbled and fell as the structure behind them continued to collapse in upon itself. A fresh wave of glowing embers swirled into the air, an almost beautiful sight despite its origin. The two Legionaries did not notice.

"I saw what was in these buildings. Grains, meats, fruits, salt…".

She remained quiet.

"This isn't a fortress". It wasn't a question, and she didn't bother trying to rebuke it.

"There are no armories, nor barracks, only granaries and storehouses here. We're not stopping them from raiding, we're stopping them feeding themselves".

His voice was low and curt, barely audible over the crackling fires. It didn't stop her adrenaline from spiking suddenly, as a primitive part of her spurned her fight-or-flight instinct. Her hands had tightened unconsciously around her blades, her knuckles white under her gloves.

"I'll ask one more time, Peacekeeper. Why are we here?".

Still, silence.

"Damn you, Mercy, say something!" He suddenly roared, finally turning toward her.

"To fight the Warborn" she finally replied, sounding far more confident than she felt at the moment.

"To fight the Warborn, Mercy!?" He strode up to her, towering over her in his burnished steel plate.

"Do you mean the paltry twoscore warriors we killed!? Or do you mean the women and children that took up arms against us!?".

Her lips were drawn in a thin line as she met his gaze, at least as much as she could with them both wearing helms. The eye-slits in his helm remained dark, despite the abundant firelight.

"I killed women and children, and for what? So that we could burn their stockpiles and let them starve to death!?" He continued to rage.

"Not… quite" she murmured.

He apparently heard somehow, as he was suddenly seizing her by the shoulders roughly. His metal gauntlets dug into her arms uncomfortably and she froze at the sudden contact. She was still… unused to such closeness, and there was no affection in this. Not this time.

"What do you mean 'Not quite'?" he demanded, drawing out each word as if they might run away if he spoke too fast.

She regained her senses and tried to shove him off with more force than she'd intended. He let his arms drop but didn't budge, forcing her to take several steps back to create some distance between them.

"We burn all but enough for a clan or two. They fight over the rest". She gazed at the ruined Hall, unwilling to meet his piercing stare.

He stood silent for a long moment, unmoving in the dirty snow and ash-choked air. "This won't end their attacks on Legion lands", he said slowly. "This will increase them. They'll be desperate now. They either raid or starve, and the Warborn have never laid down and died. More of our peoples will die now".

He suddenly clawed at his neck with his free hand and tore off his Legion pendant as she remained silent. He glared at it before shifting his gaze to her again. She had turned back to him as he spoke, unwilling to offer any confirmation or denial. She could just barely make out his eyes through the firelight and slits of his helm, and with a sinking feeling she realized this wasn't him. Not as she had known him up until now. Those warm, brown eyes she'd come to know had been replaced with the cold, hard eyes of something else.

"I cannot-I will not do this. Apollyon's insanity has gone too far! I took an oath, to fight for peace" he hissed, shaking the length of metal at her, "Not for this-this madness!".

He abruptly turned and lobbed the wrought-iron pendant down onto the streets below, watching into disappear into the smoke of dozens of fires. For long minutes he simply stared unseeing into the orange flames, hands in fists at his sides. Fire and smoke, orange and black. The Blackstone Legion's colors, funnily enough.

A part of him idly wondered if he'd feel a blade sliding into his back any second now. The woman he'd loved-foolishly loved, had played him for a fool, just like Apollyon had. Stone had been right, truly. He'd been a madman to think anything except wary distance with a Peacekeeper would turn out well. These were no great tales of valiant Knights and beautiful damsels. These were the times of murderers and madmen.

The Legion he had sworn to was in the grip of a madwoman, obsessed with sowing war to draw out the wolves. The image of a snarling wolf over a castle tower came into his mind's eye, the symbol of his house before he had joined the Order years ago. He could be a wolf, he would be a wolf.

The wolf that would tear out the throat of the Blackstone Legion.

The silence was broken only by the distant sounds of looting and jeering, and the crackling flames around them.

"I swore an oath, and so did you" he finally muttered.

He turned away from the sight at last, back toward the Blackstone encampment a half-league away.

He'd made it a dozen feet when he suddenly gasped in pain and staggered, leaning heavily on his sword to keep his balance. He half-expected a dagger in his belly, but looking down at his bloodied torso only reminded him of his wounds, gone from a bearable ache to burning agony so quickly.

Mercy made to assist him, laying one slender arm on his shoulder when he violently pushed her away, nearly knocking her over. Her yelp of surprise received only a grunt of pain and effort in reply as he continued on his way, slower and more carefully now. He did not explain or apologize, not even bothering to spare her a glance as he left.

"Don't come after me, Peacekeeper". His words were quick and venomous, his message clear, as he limped down to the burning streets and did not look back.

How she could feel so cold amongst all the flames, she did not know.