Legacy's Edge

Alaric’s arm muscles tensed as he raised his sword, its polished steel surface catching the dim light of the day through the overcast clouds. He met the incoming attack with a resolute block, the collision of metal against metal producing a jarring, echoing clang. The impact sent a wave of sharp pain radiating up his arm. His fingers, wrapped tightly around the cord grip of the hilt, tingled.

His adversary, a figure clad in black leathers, bore the distinctive marks of the ash men, his face obscured under a heavy smear of ash and charcoal. With a snarl that matched the ferocity of a beast, his opponent drew back his sword as he prepared to unleash another strike. But Alaric, fueled by a blend of adrenaline and sheer will, refused to be bested by this animal. He surged forward, taking a stab at his opponent, driving the ash man back even as he hastily blocked the attack.

With lightning speed, Alaric lunged again, pressing his advantage. Caught off guard, the ash man backed up a step, giving ground. He took another step backward, and a rock, concealed amongst the grass, became his downfall. He stumbled, arms windmilling to keep his balance. Seizing the fleeting moment of his adversary’s vulnerability, Alaric advanced. He took several rapid steps, channeling the force of his momentum into his shoulder. Like a battering ram, he collided with the ash man’s chest, the impact resonating with a pained grunt that drove the man backward and to a knee.

The battlefield around them was a maelstrom of violence and chaos. Men’s voices rose in a tumultuous blend of screams, yells, shouts, and curses. The desperate chorus was underscored by the relentless clashing of metal as swords struck against swords and the duller, reverberating thuds of impacts taken on shields.

Amidst this chaos, the wounded were rendered invisible in the press of the battle line, their bodies trampled underfoot as they screamed out their agony, their fear, their pleas for help. The air was thick with the acrid stench of spilt blood, sweat, and excrement.

Yet, for Alaric, this bedlam was a familiar landscape. To him, the chaos of battle was an old companion, its rhythms and demands something to which he had long since become acclimated.

In the midst of the chaos of the line, Alaric found a grim sort of homecoming, a place where, despite the horror and the bloodshed, he knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of doing.

Lightning tore through the darkening sky, its brilliant flash illuminating the battlefield in stark, fleeting contrasts of light and shadow. Alaric executed a slash, his sword carving through the air with lethal precision to bite deeply into the kneeling ash man’s thigh. Alaric’s enemy cried out in pain as the blade cut deeply, a singular note of suffering amidst the cacophony of the fight.

As the ash man fell, Alaric was without mercy, his movements fueled both by necessity and a grim familiarity with the dance of death. He drove the point of his bloodied sword into the man’s exposed throat.

The result was a fountain of thick, oily blood that sprayed into the air with a gruesome beauty that only one familiar with death could truly appreciate, showering Alaric in its warm, metallic-scented mist. The taste of blood on his tongue, strong and tangy, mingled with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, prompting a triumphant shout from his lips.

Yet there was no respite, no momentary break. Even as Alaric stood over his fallen opponent, another enemy was upon him, fueled by rage, his scream piercing the tumultuous air. Alaric raised his sword in a block, just as the sky was yet again torn asunder by lightning, its brilliant illumination followed by the resounding crack of thunder.

Amidst the tumult of the heavens, with lightning cleaving the sky and thunder bellowing its ancient rage, the battle below took on an almost mythic quality. Alaric, locked in a fierce duel with this new adversary, found himself a player in a scene as primal as the storm itself. Each strike and counterstrike between them spoke to their skill and determination, a struggle for life under the watchful eyes of the gods, whose own battle seemingly raged in the skies above. Pressed hard by his opponent, Alaric retreated steadily down the slope of the hill, his boots slipping slightly on the blood-soaked grass. He was careful where he stepped, for he did not wish to trip over a body or unseen rock.

As if to add a layer of misery to the already dire situation, the heavens opened, releasing a slow drizzle upon the combatants. Blood mixed with rainwater rapidly created a slick veneer over the grass, a hazard that Alaric knew would soon prove treacherous. Hundreds of feet, belonging to both friend and foe, would rapidly churn the grass and dirt to mud as they struggled against one another. Soon, those battling would not just be fighting each other, but the very ground beneath them for purchase.

This fight for the crest of the hill, amidst the elemental fury and the mire of conflict, was reminiscent of a child’s game of King of the Hill, albeit with stakes incomparably higher. The ash men, currently in possession of the hill’s summit, were the adversaries to be overcome, a force sent to block them from reaching and relieving the Cardinal’s army. Alaric and his men, driven by a fierce determination, discipline, and faith, sought to claim that elevated ground for themselves.

The ash man, his wet features obscured by the remnants of war paint, ash, and the grime of battle, launched a ferocious attack, his broadsword descending with lethal intent, accompanied by a primal scream that echoed the chaos of their surroundings.

Alaric, with agility born of desperation and skill honed through countless encounters, executed a swift dodge to the left, evading death by mere inches. A rush of air nipped his neck, a ghostly caress of death, as the blade sliced by and embedded itself in the ground where he had stood a heartbeat before.

Seizing the moment of his enemy’s overextension, Alaric counterattacked, jabbing out. His blade found its mark, piercing the ash man’s side. The impact was met with a heavy grunt, along with a look of shock and disbelief in the eyes of his opponent, a powerful figure now vulnerable, who could only muster a guttural grunt of pain as the steel of Alaric’s sword bit deep.

As he released his grip upon the broadsword, the man stumbled as he took a faltering step back and away. Alaric could read the pain and sudden fear in his opponent’s eyes as he sought retreat.

“Give your hateful gods my regards!” Alaric advanced and lunged forward again, driving his sword into the stunned man’s stomach. His opponent exhaled heavily as the sword went in. Alaric’s senses were assaulted by the stench of the other’s acrid breath. With a final, cruel twist of his blade, Alaric unleashed a storm of pain upon the ash man, a grimace of agony etching itself across the warrior’s face.

An unseen assailant barreled into Alaric from the right, severing the moment of his triumph and sending him crashing to the ground. Sword ripped from his grip, he landed hard and awkwardly. Scarcely had he begun to gather his wits and recover when a crushing weight bore down on his arm—a merciless stomp that threatened to shatter bone beneath the weight of ironclad and hobnailed boots.

Around him, many sandaled and booted feet—symbols of the varied factions clashing on this field—moved perilously close, each stomp a potential death knell. The sharp bite of fear, cold and visceral, flooded Alaric’s veins. The dread of being crushed underfoot gripped him. He had witnessed the horror of such a fate befall others—warriors rendered helpless, their lives extinguished beneath a crushing tide of indifference. Determined not to meet such an end, Alaric struggled for purchase, for any advantage that might get him back on his feet.

A booted foot, devoid of any semblance of mercy, struck his helmet with a force that sent a blinding white shockwave through his consciousness. The world narrowed to a pinpoint of pain, leaving him momentarily adrift in a sea of disorientation. Fighting through the haze, he attempted to maneuver, to position himself in a way that might allow him to rise and face the onslaught with the dignity of a warrior standing his ground.

Yet before he could marshal his strength, another blow, this time to his armored side, sent him sprawling helplessly onto his back.

“Get back! I said get back!”

An unexpected reprieve enveloped Alaric, as if the chaos itself had momentarily recoiled, granting him a fleeting sanctuary of precious space. Within this bubble of calm, he found the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings, his gaze lifting to meet the chaos that raged beyond his immediate respite.

It was then that a firm grip seized him, a hand clad in a black worn leather glove grabbed his shoulder. With a forceful yank on his armor, Alaric was pulled upright and to his feet. His rescuer was none other than Ezran, one of his Shadow Guard. Alaric let go a relieved breath. Ezran’s presence, a beacon of steadfastness amid the storm of conflict, was a sight for sore eyes.

Mere steps away, Thorne, another guardian, sword drawn and with a shield held at the ready, shoved at one of their own men, forcing the man away from the bubble of protection the two men had created.

“Are you all right, my lord?” Over the cacophony of clashing swords and the cries of the embattled, Ezran’s voice, laden with concern, pierced through. Ezran’s gaze flicked over Alaric, searching for injury. “Are you all right?”

“My sword,” Alaric bellowed back, desperation edging his voice as he scanned the battlefield around them, searching for the weapon. “Oathbreaker, where is she? Do you see her?”

As Alaric’s gaze darted across the battlefield, his men continued their relentless push up the hill’s crest, a living wave of determination, will, and steel moving around the bubble Ezran and Thorne had created. Each step was a struggle against not only the enemy, but the very ground itself, as they sought to claim the high ground.

Lightning flashed.

Thunder followed.

Ezran, a former ash man, stood out starkly in the black and comfortable leathers characteristic of his people. His dark eyes scanned the battlefield with a predator’s precision. Then they stopped. With a swift motion, he extended his scimitar, the curved blade pointing. “Over there, my lord.”

Alaric turned around, his gaze following Ezran’s guidance and settling where his sword, Oathbreaker, remained embedded in the body of his fallen adversary, just steps away. The man lay motionless, his life’s light extinguished, eyes frozen open in a final, vacant stare toward the heavens.

With a decisive stride, Alaric approached his fallen enemy. Grasping Oathbreaker’s hilt with a firm hand, he placed his boot upon the man’s chest. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still as the sword recognized him and the magic of its bond flowed into him, infusing his being. Then, just as abruptly, the world shifted back into motion, and with a resolute tug, he liberated the blade from its unwilling bodily sheath.

Breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight, he paused to allow himself a moment to grasp the ebb and flow of conflict, to get a sense for what was happening. It was easy to become hyperfocused on the immediate fight before him, but Alaric was responsible for the overall fight.

Nearby, Kiera and Jasper, the last two members of his Shadow Guard, remained vigilant, their gazes attuned to the chaos that swirled around them. Kiera, a Luminary, her stature imposing and her presence unmistakable in the dull gleam of her plate armor, stood as a beacon of strength. Her silver armor was splattered with a mixture of blood, grime, and mud.

Kiera’s demeanor was somber, her gaze steely, a reflection of the resolve that had seen her through countless battles. The ritual scars and tattoos that adorned her face spoke not only of her order, but of a warrior’s path, each mark telling a story of survival, achievement, and defiance. Armed with her longsword and shield, she embodied the martial prowess of the Luminaries, a dwindling order of female knights whose legacy for valor lingered in her every action and being.

Jasper, hailing from the forested realms of Likaysia, presented a contrast to Kiera’s armored might. Dressed in light, studded leathers that allowed for nimbleness and speed, he carried a short sword in hand. His trusted and prized bow was strapped to his back. The man’s quiver was empty, his missiles likely well spent.

Jasper’s long brown hair was secured in a practical braid that fell across his back, while his keen eyes moved ceaselessly as he also scanned for threats that might come their way. Together, all four formed a circle of guardianship around Alaric, their sworn charge.

The tumult of battle had surged forward, leaving Alaric and his Shadow Guard momentarily in its wake. Under the rain and rapidly darkening sky, Alaric’s men pressed hotly against the thin enemy line at the crest of the hill, who sought to block them from reinforcing the Cardinal’s army. The rain had intensified, fully transforming the slope into a treacherous morass, each footstep a battle against both the enemy and the elements.

The standard of Alaric’s company, the Iron Vanguard, was just a few yards ahead, waving and bobbing as its bearer labored just behind the line. The standard struggled under the weight of the rain, its once proud bearing now appearing burdened, sullen, as if echoing the somber mood of the skies above.

“Onward!” Captain Grayson, the company commander, stood with the standard, rallying the men with fervor. Waving his sword overhead, his voice, a clarion call amidst the cacophony of steel and thunder, spurred the men onward. He was the embodiment of leadership, his presence instilling a sense of purpose and urgency as he led the advance up the hill. “Push!”

Flanking Alaric’s company were allies from the Twelve Realms, a coalition of northern kingdoms united under a common cause. They advanced with equal determination, gradually forcing the ash men back, step by step, inch by inch, toward the hill’s summit.

Overall, the fight was going their way. That, Alaric knew, was a welcome change.

Upon the call of the Cardinal—a plea cloaked as a demand, woven with the gravity of desperation—Alaric, alongside a cadre of fellow lords, had been thrust into the role of savior. The missive, delivered by Father Kemm, had reached them as night was about unfurl its shadows over the city of Hawkani, Alaric’s seat of power, located nearly twenty miles away. Without hesitation, he’d marshaled the available forces and set out, marching through the night toward battle.

The journey from Hawkani to the Cardinal’s army had been difficult, for there were no roads. Alaric’s force had traversed fields, negotiated forests, and forded streams under the cloak of darkness, their path lit only by the stars and the moon. It had been a punishing endeavor, each mile a battle against fatigue.

As dawn broke, they pressed on, driven by the knowledge that their arrival could help tip the scales in favor of the Cardinal’s beleaguered forces as the battle was joined.

Beyond the hill they were now fighting to take, Alaric’s scouts had reported that the Cardinal’s army was in the valley on the other side, heavily engaged with the enemy army. It was reputedly being led by Sunara himself.

They were almost there.

“Come on,” Alaric bellowed, starting to climb again, and calling to those on either side who were struggling toward the battle line. “Come on, boys!”

Lightning lit the sky. Thunder followed several heartbeats later.

Fighting uphill against a determined enemy was incredibly difficult. It was something you generally did not wish to do, something best avoided—but there had been no choice, no opportunity to choose their own ground, not this time. Besides, they outnumbered the enemy facing them by more than two to one, so that canceled out some of the advantages of elevation. Along with his company and their allies, Alaric had brought more than two thousand men to the fight.

Ezran chopped down at a wounded enemy, who had been trying to crawl away, taking the man in the back. The ash man stiffened. A moment later, he relaxed and went limp, falling still, as if going to sleep. Ezran spat on the vanquished man.

Ezran’s disdain for the ash men was more than a simple expression of victor’s contempt. It was a personal vendetta, rooted in a history as tumultuous as the landscape upon which they fought. But then, the man had good reason to loathe his former people and their gods.

“Push them,” Alaric urged. “Push them hard, boys.”

“My lord,” Thorne said, drawing Alaric’s attention. He was pointing with his bloodied sword off to the right. Alaric followed with his eyes and found himself scowling. There, more than a quarter of a mile distant, a contingent of mounted men had appeared, distinguishable even at a distance by the banner they carried—a symbol that struck a chord deep within Alaric’s heart.

The banner, emblazoned with the symbol of Eldanar, stood out starkly against the backdrop of conflict. The Radiant Compass, more than just an emblem, was a profound representation of their faith and the divine guidance it promised. The outer circle of the compass was gold, symbolizing the holy light that encompassed all creation. From the center, eight rays of light extended outward, each pointing in the cardinal and intercardinal directions, signifying Eldanar’s omnipotent guidance to his followers in all paths and stages of life.

Alaric’s gaze locked onto the distant figures. His observation of the knights, from one of the many orders who had joined the Crusade, discerned through the telltale glint of plate armor and the careful maneuvering of their heavy mounts, sparked curiosity. The knights seemed to be withdrawing. Their careful descent down the grass-covered hillside, moving away from the fray, stirred a sense of unease within him.

“Where are they going?” Kiera inquired, her confusion plain. Under the dim light and her helmet, her blue eyes sparkled with an intensity that was almost mesmerizing. The shadows danced across her scarred and tattooed face, highlighting her features in a way that made her look otherworldly.

“I don’t like it,” Thorne responded gruffly, his voice laden with distrust.

“Neither do I,” Jasper said.

Alaric shared their sentiments, feeling a knot of apprehension tighten in his stomach. It was an ominous sign, one that he could not simply ignore. Yet he knew dwelling on it would serve no purpose, for he had a job to do. “We need to focus on the fight before us,” he asserted, his voice firm, slicing through the tension like a blade. He turned his gaze away from the puzzling scene, redirecting his attention back to what mattered. In the short time they focused on the riders, the advance up the hill had continued, and the frontline was now more than twenty yards ahead of them.

“Push them!” Grayson’s voice thundered across the battlefield, a rallying cry that cut through the chaos like the crack of a whip. At the forefront of the line, he was a figure of relentless determination, his sword arcing through the air, gleaming ominously as he waved it for his men to see. “Come on, boys, we’re almost there! Onward! Keep pushing the bastards. They’ll break soon enough.”

From his vantage point, Alaric observed the unfolding drama with the keen eye of a seasoned leader. Grayson was correct, for his instincts also whispered of the imminent collapse of their foes’ line. The ash men were on the verge of breaking. Their numbers had thinned considerably.

Despite the weariness that clung to his limbs, a result of the grueling march and the fierce combat he had joined in when the two lines had met, a surge of resolve steeled over Alaric. He resumed his ascent, following the path carved by his men.

Moments later, the inevitable happened. The holy warriors of the enemy, once unified in their fanatical zeal, broke ranks in a collective realization of defeat.

With a thunderous cry that seemed to shake the very ground beneath their feet, his men unleashed a primal roar and gave chase to the retreating and fleeing enemy. It was in this moment, as the once cohesive lines of their foes disintegrated into chaos, that the true carnage and killing began as his men ran the enemy down. Once more, the one true faith, a light in this shadowed and cursed land, had guided him and his men to victory.

“Eldanar, thank you for your many blessings,” Alaric breathed.

As he made his way up the hillside, his gaze swept over the scarred landscape. The ground was littered with the fallen, many of whom he had to step over. Among the hundreds of bodies, the dead of the enemy outnumbered his own, yet this did little to alleviate the heavy burden of sorrow that weighed on his heart.

The reality was that with each clash, with every drop of blood spilled, his ranks thinned. What was more disheartening was the dwindling stream of reinforcements from their homeland. Over the last three years, the flow of men willing or able to join the Crusade had slowed to a trickle, a phenomenon not unique to his realm but felt across all allied lands. This alarming trend, coupled with losses suffered during campaigns, had gradually eroded the Cardinal’s army, diminishing its numbers at a time when the enemy seemed only to swell in strength, ferocity, and boldness.

Every soldier lost was a precious resource they could ill afford to squander, let alone replace. The dwindling reinforcements meant that each victory, however significant, came at an increasingly unsustainable cost. Alaric’s once formidable force, a proud assembly of four companies from Dekar, numbering nearly a thousand warriors, had been eroded by the relentless tide of war.

At the end of the previous campaign season, recognizing the need for unity and strength in the face of diminishing numbers, Alaric had made the difficult decision to merge the remnants of these once proud companies, now totaling little more than two hundred souls. The outcome of this consolidation was a new formation, one he’d named the Iron Vanguard. This new unit was composed of the most hardened, experienced, and resilient of his warriors, those who had survived ten hard years of war.

As Alaric continued to make his way up the slope, his boots stained with the mud and blood of the fray, he encountered a wounded soldier from his own ranks. The man, Jessen, lay on the ground, his breaths shallow, labored, a hand pressed tightly to his thigh, covering an ugly wound from which blood flowed liberally.

Alaric’s heart clenched at the sight, knowing well the man’s pain and fear, yet also understanding the brutal necessity of their situation. The wounded would have to wait, their cries for help echoing in the back of his mind as he pushed on, passing by the man, another soldier he could ill afford to lose.

The battlefield demanded cold priorities, and the living who could still wield a blade took precedence until victory was assured. This was the unforgiving equation of war, where mercy had to wait for the silence that followed the storm of combat.

The thought of continuing this seemingly endless conflict filled him with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. It was the fatigue of the soul, a yearning for peace, escape, and a return to a life unmarred by the constant shadow and specter of death.

The idea of returning home, of abandoning the Crusade that had consumed so much of his life, flickered in his mind like a bonfire of hope in a storm-ravaged night. Yet duty and loyalty anchored him firmly to his current path.

Of late, he had received no word from his father, nor any directives from his king, or even, for that matter, queries concerning the Crusade’s progress. The silence from his homeland, the Kingdom of Kevahn, was as disconcerting as it was isolating, leaving him to navigate the murky waters of his conscience and duty with no guiding star other than faith. The absence of communication, the lack of guidance or acknowledgment of his own letters, only deepened the chasm of uncertainty that threatened to swallow him whole.

Alaric’s resolve, however, was as ironclad as the name of his newly formed company. Despite the doubts that plagued him, he was a leader, a noble warrior bound by honor, duty, and the unspoken oaths that tethered him to his men and their shared cause. The possibility of retreat, of abandoning their sacred mission, conflicted with every fiber of his being.

Yet, as he looked upon the faces of his wounded and dead, the stark reality of their situation pressed upon him. In the quiet moments of reflection, he dared to contemplate a future where the swords could be laid down, where the echoes of war would fade into memory.

Until that day, or until orders commanded otherwise, Alaric and the Iron Vanguard would stand firm, facing whatever trials awaited them on this foreign soil, far from the homeland he and his men yearned to see once more.

“My lord,” Ezran’s voice cut through into his thoughts, urgent yet controlled. With a subtle gesture of his chin, he directed Alaric’s gaze to a scene that immediately drew his full attention.

Ahead, just a few short yards away at the hill’s crest, Alaric’s men had inexplicably stopped. They were not engaged in the fervent chase he anticipated, the relentless pursuit to run down the fleeing ash men. Instead, they stood eerily still, their silhouettes outlined against the grim sky. Their postures were tense yet hesitant as they peered into the distance with a palpable sense of uncertainty. It was an unexpected sight, one at odds with the momentum of their recent victory.

A cold shiver of apprehension ran down Alaric’s spine, a premonition of danger that he could not quantify. His mind raced with possibilities. Was there an unseen enemy force lying in wait just beyond the hill’s crest, ready to spring a deadly trap on his men? The very thought that they might be walking into an ambush or facing a second line of the enemy set his heart pounding with a mix of fear and adrenaline.

Even Grayson, a pillar of strength and aggression on the battlefield, had come to a standstill. His inaction was out of character, signaling to Alaric that something was terribly amiss. With no time to lose, Alaric quickened his pace, urgency propelling him as he made his way up the hill. Each step brought a growing sense of dread, the kind that tightens its grip around one’s chest.

As he moved toward Grayson, Alaric prepared himself for whatever lay ahead. His mind was a whirlwind of strategy and concern, ready to adapt to the situation, to lead his men through whatever new challenge awaited them.

“Make way for the lord,” Thorne’s voice boomed over the clamor of shifting armor and uneasy murmurs. His command rippled through the ranks like a wave, parting the sea of warriors as Alaric, driven by a mix of dread and determination, shouldered his way through the press.

As he reached the hill’s summit, he found Grayson, a figure of unshakeable resolve, looking defeated, his shoulders slumped and his sword’s point buried in the grass and dirt. Alaric’s gaze followed his captain’s, extending over the crest and down into the valley beyond.

The sight that greeted him was one of stark, raw impact. Below, the remnants of the enemy force they had routed were in retreat, a disorganized stream of figures scrambling madly down the hill’s reverse slope, which was quite steep. Yet it was not the sight of their fleeing adversaries that captured Alaric’s attention or caused his heart to sink. No, it was what lay beyond the immediate chaos of retreat.

The valley, sprawled out under the dying light of day, revealed a scene that reshaped the entire context of their victory into something much more daunting. The implications of what Alaric saw were chilling, forcing him to reassess their situation and the challenges they faced.

The heart of the Cardinal’s Holy Army was engulfed in the throes of battle, their forces locked in a desperate struggle against a numerically superior enemy. The clash of arms and the cries of combatants filled the air, a cacophony of violence that resonated even to the hilltop half a mile away.

Beyond the immediate melee, Alaric observed with a sinking heart, the methodical advance of the enemy’s reserves. Like dark, inexorable tides, massive block-like formations were in motion, moving across the battlefield and maneuvering to completely encircle the soldiers of the faith. Thousands of enemy cavalry, sounding from a distance like the low roll of thunder, were moving around and behind the Cardinal’s army, pursuing the remnants of the allied cavalry, clearly sweeping them from the field.

It was a tactical nightmare realized: The Cardinal’s army was completely surrounded, caught in a vise from which there seemed little hope of escape. He estimated their army was outnumbered, perhaps as much as three to one, likely more.

The reality of the situation was inescapable, the strategic implications dire. The enemy, in all their massive might, had not only engaged the Cardinal’s forces, drawing them into battle, but had outmaneuvered them. There appeared to be no path for retreat, let alone victory.

Alaric searched the enemy banners and, after a moment, settled upon one that was crimson red. Sunara, the great enemy general, was on the field and in command. This was his doing.

“We’ve arrived too late.” Alaric’s words were barely more than a whisper, a stark awareness that settled heavily upon his shoulders and soul. The scene before him, with its raw depiction of chaos and loss, painted a truth he could no longer deny. Even as hope flickered dimly within him, he acknowledged the bitter reality: Their timing mattered little against the overwhelming force the enemy had marshaled and brought to bear.

“The Crusade is lost.” Grayson’s voice echoed Alaric’s despair, imbued with a tone of disbelief and shock.

The battle, the Crusade, their sacred mission—everything they had fought for was slipping through their fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass. Alaric was powerless to change the dynamic, let alone stop it. Standing beside Grayson, he could only offer a wooden nod, his body reacting while his mind reeled.

There was nothing to be done, nothing he could do to help.

As the reality of their defeat settled in, Alaric’s initial shock gave way to a deep, seething anger. He had led his men across the sea, fought with every ounce of his being, believing in the righteousness of their cause. And it was all for nothing.

“Ten years,” Alaric said, his voice thick with emotion, each word imbued with sacrifice, struggle, and now, a pervasive sense of futility. The heat in his breath was not just from the exertion of battle but from the fire of frustration and disillusionment burning within him. How many had died for this failure? “Ten years…”

“What?” Grayson’s response was a mix of confusion and concern, his brow furrowed as he faced Alaric, trying to decipher the underlying meaning behind his words. “What did you say, my lord?”

“We’ve been here for at least ten years.” The weight of those years pressed down on Alaric with renewed force. A torrent of memories flooded through him—battles fought, comrades lost, victories and triumphs that now seemed hollow. The bitterness that welled up inside him was an elixir of regret and resentment.

“Aye,” Grayson said softly.

“Ten wasted years.” The finality in Alaric’s voice was a reflection of his internal reckoning, a painful acknowledgment of the time and lives consumed by this Crusade. The dream they chased, the victory they sought, seemed now more elusive than ever, leaving behind only a trail of lost opportunities and what-ifs.

Alaric and his men had come to this land as bearers of a cause they believed just and holy, only to find themselves ensnared in the complexities and brutalities of a conflict that drained their spirits and questioned their convictions.

“We must press forward,” a voice implored, imbued with a fervor that seemed almost out of place. “We have to keep going. By Eldanar’s light, we must keep going.”

Alaric, gaze still locked on the calamitous scene unfolding in the valley below, was for a moment untouched by the urgency of the plea. The battle raged on, a living animal ravenously consuming lives on both sides, yet he remained motionless, caught in a tumult of thought and despair.

“We must press forward!” The insistence in the voice finally drew Alaric’s attention away from the battlefield, compelling him to find the source of this unyielding determination. Father Kemm had emerged from the ranks, his waterlogged holy robes a stark contrast against the backdrop of war. In his hand, he clutched a finely honed staff, a symbol of his office.

The priest was the Cardinal’s direct representative. When he spoke, it was with the Cardinal’s voice. Father Kemm, with the golden compass hanging around his neck—a delicate, yet powerful symbol of their faith—was here as the Cardinal’s dog, meant to watch over Alaric, to ensure compliance and obedience. The priest pointed toward the embattled forces below with a conviction and authority that brooked no argument. “We must go to their aid—before it is too late.”

Father Kemm’s gaze, intense and unwavering, locked onto Alaric and Grayson, his staff directed toward the tumult below. His voice carried the weight of authority, a command that demanded obedience and action. “My Lord Alaric, we must press forward before it is too late. You cannot fail us now.”

Alaric’s response was a measured glance, first toward the chaotic dance of death below, then back to the priest. Kemm, for all his ostentatious display of piety and dedication, was a figure that Alaric had always struggled to respect. The priest’s ascent from humble origins in the Kingdom of Gress to a position of considerable influence was a tale not of divine favor, but of political acumen and ambition. His involvement in the Crusade from its inception had served solely as a ladder to power, elevating him above his birthright and into the circles of the nobility. Kemm’s reputation for greed, consumption, and manipulation was well-known to Alaric, who found such traits distasteful, if not outright reprehensible.

Yet for all his personal grievances against the man, Alaric could not dismiss the influence and power Kemm wielded. As the Cardinal’s direct representative, his words carried the force of command, his directives shaped by the unseen hand of the church’s highest authority in this land. In the complex hierarchy of their holy mission, Kemm’s position afforded the man a degree of power and protection that could not be easily challenged, even by those of noble birth.

The irony of their situation was not lost on Alaric. The Cardinal, the spiritual leader of their cause, was likely somewhere in the midst of the valley’s turmoil, his fate intertwined with the thousands of souls battling in his god’s name. The distance between the lofty ideals of their faith and the grim reality of war had never been more apparent than in this moment, with Kemm urging them into a battle that was unwinnable.

Alaric’s disdain for Kemm’s character did not blind him to the gravity of their situation, the moment, and what was being asked. The call to rally to the aid of their embattled brethren posed a dilemma that transcended personal animosities.

“What are you waiting for? We must press forward. Surely you can see that. We can turn the tide!” Father Kemm’s insistence pierced the heavy air, his voice a mix of command and desperation. His words, though laden with conviction, seemed to Alaric like the last flickers of a candle in a storm—doomed to be extinguished by the overwhelming might of the enemy.

“Going forward is nothing short of suicide,” Grayson said.

Alaric’s response was a silent shake of his head, a gesture laden with the weight of resignation. The Crusade, for all its lofty ambitions and divine aspirations, was over. The journey that began as a grand adventure, a holy quest to reclaim ancient and sacred lands and spread the light of their faith, had deteriorated into a quagmire of loss and disillusionment.

In the early years, the fervor of their mission carried them forward, driving them to remarkable victories and the establishment of a new kingdom in Eldanar’s name, raising the Cardinal to new heights, making him a holy king. But as the years passed, the nature of their endeavor shifted. The focus strayed from the divine and the devout, corrupted by the very mortal failings of man—greed and power. The Cardinal, a figure who should have embodied the highest virtues of their faith, had instead steered their mission toward mortal concerns and political machinations.

About five years ago, the tide had begun to turn. The ash men, once scattered and subdued, rallied under Sunara with a newfound unity and purpose. With each passing campaign season, the momentum of the Crusade faltered, then gradually been reversed, until they found themselves retreating toward the very shores that had once seen their arrival as conquerors and liberators.

Now, standing on the brink of this final defeat, Alaric could not deny the evidence before his eyes. The infidels, so long branded as the enemy, had turned the tide, reclaiming their conquered lands and repelling the invaders. The faith, which once seemed an unassailable fortress of righteousness, had crumbled under the weight of its own hubris and misdirection.

The Crusade, indeed, their entire endeavor, was lost. The dreams of glory and divine favor had dissipated, leaving behind a bitter legacy of conflict and loss. The proof of their failure was not just in the battered remnants of their army or the lands they failed to hold, but in the very soul of the Crusade itself, which had strayed so far from its original, sacred purpose.

The infidels had begun winning and the faith had started losing.

No, the enemy had won. The proof of that lay before him. It was undeniable now.

Alaric envisioned the inevitable downfall with a clarity that bordered on prescience. In the aftermath of the battle, which would see the Cardinal’s complete defeat, the horizon bore the grim promise of a future where the cities along the coast stood on the precipice. The enemy would lay siege and methodically dismantle their powerful defenses, one after another, until those of the faith were gone from these shores.

The Holy Land of Divinara, a realm sanctified by the prayers and blood of the faithful, stood on the brink of being reclaimed by the enemy, once more plunged into darkness. The stark choices that awaited the defeated were dire: death beneath the cold edge of a sword or an executioner’s axe, the shackles of enslavement, or the erasure of their beliefs under the weight of forced conversion.

Sensing movement in the distance, Alaric shifted his gaze to the left, looking down the line of his men. He caught sight of their so-called allies—their spirits clearly shattered—retreating in a disheartened exodus. They slipped away quietly, in ones and twos, without a backward glance, hurrying back down the hill. This retreat was not a mere physical withdrawal, but a symbolic fracture in their collective will to stand against the encroaching darkness.

Despite the disheartening scene unfolding before him, a surge of pride swelled within Alaric’s chest as he observed his own men. Not a single man amongst them had succumbed to the instinct of flight. They stood as unwavering pillars of discipline and loyalty, in absolute opposition to the faltering morale around them. His men, forged in the crucible of countless battles, shared a bond with Alaric that was unbreakable. They looked to him for direction. Where he told them to march, they would march. His duty to them now outweighed any oaths he’d made to the Cardinal.

“We must go to our brethren’s aid!” Kemm shouted, stepping forward, his face contorted with passionate zeal. Spittle flecked his lips as he brandished his staff, jutting it toward the battle in the valley below. “In the Cardinal’s name, I command you, Lord Alaric, to advance.”

“No,” Alaric countered. Unlike Kemm’s impassioned plea, Alaric’s tone was hard, resolute. It carried a harshness that was foreign even to his own ears. “The fight here is over. Adding more souls to the slaughter will serve no purpose.”

“Blasphemy!” Kemm screamed, his voice tearing through the air. His outburst was more than mere disagreement; it was a challenge to Alaric’s authority, a denunciation of his decision. “The faithful will prevail by our divine righteousness alone!”

“Divine righteousness?” Alaric murmured under his breath, his gaze lingering on the priest. He took in the sight of Kemm, noting the opulence of his attire. The robes draped over the man’s rotund frame were of a fabric so rich and finely woven, their value alone could surpass what the humble peasants of this land could hope to earn in a span of five years, maybe more.

As Alaric’s scrutiny continued, a cold realization dawned upon him, painting Kemm’s fervent plea in a starkly different light. It wasn’t just spiritual conviction that fueled the priest’s desperation; it was the looming threat of personal loss. Kemm balanced on a chasm’s knife edge, facing the potential downfall of everything he held dear—his esteemed position within the church hierarchy, the opulent lifestyle to which he had grown accustomed, the companionship of those who catered to his basest desires, and perhaps even his very life. The stakes were far more personal for Kemm than they were spiritual, and he wanted Alaric to spend the lives of his men on the folly of it all.

This insight into Kemm’s motivations filled Alaric with a profound sense of revulsion. Disgust welled up within him. In this moment of clarity, Alaric saw the true face of those who cloaked their ambitions in the guise of faith. It was a dour reminder of the corruption and moral decay that could fester within the hearts of those who professed to lead in the name of the divine.

“So be it,” Alaric said. “The die has been cast.”

“What?” Kemm asked, confused, his eyes narrowing.

“Grayson,” Alaric intoned, his voice carrying the weight of command as he motioned toward the base of the hill behind them. There, in the relative safety of the rear, lay their baggage train, a lifeline amidst the chaos, stationed a quarter-mile away with a small guard. Within that assemblage of mules carrying their supplies and provisions were ten horses, among them Alaric’s own steed—a majestic black stallion named Fire. “Detail some men to our horses as an escort. Thorne, you go with them. You are in charge.”

Thorne gave a nod. “As you command, my lord, so shall I obey.”

“Yes, sir,” Grayson said. “And what are your orders for these men, for Thorne?”

“There are three ships currently in port. They put in the day before last. You know of which ones I speak, yes?” Alaric stated, directing his attention now to Thorne.

“Captain Magerie’s ships?” Thorne inquired, seeking clarification.

“That’s him,” Alaric affirmed, determination and an undercurrent of urgency now in his voice. “Find that old pirate. Tell him we’re on the way and want passage. Whatever he demands as a fee, I will pay it and then some. We need space enough for our company and those allies who desire to go with us,” he continued, casting a sweeping glance at the nearest of his men. The weight of leadership bore heavily upon his shoulders. “Passage is to include our women and children. They will be coming with us as well.”

Many of his men had forged bonds, taken wives, and started families in this foreign land, ties that he knew they could not bear to sever, let alone leave behind at the mercies of their enemies.

“Then tell the garrison to pack everything, and I mean everything, all of our supplies. When we go, we will bring with us several months of rations. Instruct the garrison commander to buy anything else we need or could possibly require and get on that immediately. Understand?”

“I do, my lord,” Thorne said. “And what of you?”

“I will march back with the men. My intention is to board and leave as soon as the ships are loaded and the tide will bear us. We must move fast on this matter.”

“Yes, my lord,” Thorne said. “I will see your will done.”

“Oh, and be wary of our allies,” Alaric cautioned, his gaze shifting toward the unsettling scene of their erstwhile comrades-in-arms on either flank. The trickle of retreat had become a flood, with ranks thinning as more and more figures slipped away, a tangible sign of the crumbling alliance and the recognition that the Crusade was finally over. The sight foretold a grim future where the bonds of loyalty and duty dissolved into a desperate scramble for survival. “Soon it will be every man for themselves, even the nobility.” His voice carried a note of somber realism, acknowledging the bitter truth that in the face of overwhelming defeat, the veneer of unity and honor amongst allies would quickly erode, leaving only self-preservation in its wake. “If I am any judge, some will be switching sides, and we don’t want to be here when that happens. Be on guard.”

“I will be, my lord,” Thorne replied.

“Grayson.” Alaric turned to the captain. He hardened his voice and raised it so it would carry. “Prepare to withdraw. First, we will look to our wounded. We will not be leaving them.”

“Yes, my lord,” Grayson said with a nod, then looked around. “Sergeant Miks. Form a detail to care for the wounded and get them ready for transport back to Hawkani.”

“Aye, sir,” came the response from Miks.

“You cannot leave!” Kemm shouted, tears in his eyes as he looked between Alaric and the Cardinal’s army. His outstretched finger, trembling slightly, pointed accusingly at Alaric, as if trying to anchor the warrior to his spot with sheer willpower. “You must fight. You swore an oath to obey. I forbid you to go!”

Alaric’s response was visceral, a primal surge of anger that welled up within him, mounting rapidly, like heat from a freshly lit and fired forge. He drove the point of Oathbreaker into the soft dirt with a force that left no doubt of his fury. He started for Kemm, each step deliberate, causing the priest to retreat instinctively, stumbling in his attempt to maintain distance between them.

As Alaric closed the gap, driving the priest to the edge of the steep slope, Kemm’s defense was feeble at best—his staff raised more in hope than expectation, serving as a barrier between them. With a swift, contemptuous motion, Alaric brushed the staff aside, knocking it from the man’s soft hands. It went clattering down the hillside, as if chasing after the retreating ash men.

“I—I forbid—” Kemm stammered. “I—I forbid—” Kemm’s attempts to assert his authority were pitiful, his voice faltering. He looked to Grayson for help. None was forthcoming. And then, it came—an explosion of force as Alaric’s fist connected with Kemm’s face. The priest crumpled in a heap.

“I can and will leave.” Alaric’s voice sliced through the charged air, as cold and unyielding as the steel of his blade, his towering presence casting a long shadow over the fallen priest, even as the rain continued to pour around them.

From a split lip, blood was streaming down onto the man’s wet robes. He stared up at Alaric in horror. “You struck me!” Kemm’s voice was tinged with shock and disbelief, his words hanging between them. The notion that he, a servant of the cloth, could be subjected to such violence appeared to all but shatter his understanding of the world. “You struck one of the cloth!”

“Struck you? You are lucky I don’t kill you. Long ago, your Cardinal turned from the faith, his focus, like yours, becoming greed and the accumulation of wealth and power. He worships gold more than anything else, and this day, our god is punishing him and everyone else with him for his avarice. Even someone as blind as you should be able to recognize that.”

Alaric’s gaze fell upon the golden compass around the priest’s chest. He reached down. Kemm’s instinctive reaction was to shield himself, his hands raised in a futile gesture of warding. Brushing the hands aside, Alaric seized the golden compass from around the trembling priest’s neck and ripped it free, snapping the gold chain with a crack.

“You don’t deserve this,” he declared, voice echoing with finality, a renunciation not just of the man before him, but of a corrupted system that had strayed far from its divine path. Alaric waved the compass. “I will take this into safekeeping for someone worthy.”

The look in the priest’s eyes hardened.

“I curse you, Alaric of Dekar,” Kemm hissed, his fear morphing into pure hatred. “I curse you to the end of your days.”

“I am already cursed.” Alaric turned away from the fallen priest, his focus shifting back to his men, eyeing them as he considered all that would need be done. But first, they had to make it back to Hawkani, before the enemy could catch them. He glanced back at the battle in the valley and judged it would continue for several hours to come. After it ended, the enemy would need time to regroup. That would give him a head start.

He turned his attention once more to his men. They had all seen what he’d just done to Kemm. The air, already heavy with anticipation, thickened further. He opened his mouth to speak, then was interrupted.

Behind him, a scream of pure rage and hatred shattered the momentary calm. Before he could turn, Ezran responded with a speed that belied human capability. His movements were a blur. Something flashed briefly in the dim light as it flew from his free hand, narrowly missing Alaric’s shoulder—a missile guided by intent and years of practice.

The sound that followed was gruesomely distinct—a meaty thwack that spoke of flesh being forcibly united by steel. Alaric, reacting, spun around, his warrior instincts fully awakened.

Kemm stood just behind him with a dagger clutched in his hand, its blade glinting dully under the muted light. The priest’s stance was frozen, dagger poised to strike at Alaric’s back. Then the moment shattered. He stumbled backward, a look of shock painting his features, his eyes wide with disbelief. The cause of his halt—the hilt of another dagger protruded grotesquely from his throat, a silent arbiter of his fate.

Reaching up, Kemm grasped the hilt with his free hand. His mouth worked and then opened. The priest’s attempt to scream never came, silenced by his own blood, which poured forth in a gruesome fountain that flowed over his rich robes. He took a step back, only to lose his balance and fall, tumbling down the rocky and grass-covered slope until a large boulder halted his involuntary journey.

Alaric gave a nod to himself. He should have known better than to turn his back on an enemy, especially one like Kemm.

“Nice throw,” Thorne said to Ezran.

“I never liked him anyway,” Ezran replied simply, then a regretful look overcame his face as he stepped to the edge of the slope and looked down. He let go a heavy breath. “But I will miss that dagger, for it was well-made.”

“Where will we go, my lord?”

The inquiry, laden with uncertainty, pierced the tumult of Alaric’s emotions, carving a path through the remnants of his anger and bringing him to a moment of clarity. As he turned, his gaze fell upon Beechum, the man who’d spoken from the ranks. He was one of Alaric’s veterans, his visage marked by the scars of war, yet alight with the steadfast loyalty that had seen them through the darkest of times. Alaric’s eyes lingered on him, a silent acknowledgment of the bonds forged in the crucible of battle, before sweeping across the faces of his gathered men.

Every warrior’s gaze was fixed upon him with a mixture of anticipation and hope. They were men who had followed him through the abyss, their faith in him unwavering, even as they stood on the precipice of the unknown. It was a responsibility that weighed heavily on Alaric’s shoulders, a mantle he bore with the solemn dignity of a true leader.

“Home,” Alaric said. “At long last, boys, we are going home. Home to Kevahn… home to Dekar.”