The center of the formation felt like a different world. Fires were lit and warm food was handed out. The squad even got the chance to clean off the dried blood from their armor and clothes. Quill sat outside a tent while a medic examined his wounded ear. The man was older, his gray hair tied back to stay out of his eyes. He wore an apron and gloves that were mottled with bloodstains. He looked like he’d been tending wounds all night.

Quill winced as the man touched the tender flesh around his ear. "How bad is it?"

"Not bad," the man rasped. "Top of the ear's mostly gone, but it'll heal. Hearing should be unaffected."

The medic swapped the blood-soaked bandages for fresh ones, then dabbed on a pungent herbal mixture. It stung on contact and the strong earthly stench remained long after.

"You said your shoulder too?"

"Yes I—" 

The medic had already grabbed his shoulder and begun stretching it, with little regard for the patient's comfort.

"This hurt?" he asked flatly.

"Y-yes," Quill groaned.

A few more forced motions and the medic finally relented.

"Gonna have a hell of a bruise, but it ain't broken."

Before Quill could thank him, the medic had already wandered off in search of the next wound to tend to. Quill rubbed his sore shoulder, quietly relieved his injuries weren’t as bad as he’d feared. He stopped to restock his Kindleroot before heading back to the squad. As he stood in line, he heard the sound of hushed voices behind him.

"I think that's him."

"Just ask him then."

"Oi!" Quill turned. Two bandaged soldiers stood behind him.

He pointed at himself. "Me?"

The taller of the two nodded. “Yeah. You the new guy in Cross 22?”

Quill furrowed his brow. "Cross 22?"

"S-22. Under Melvin Cross. Everyone calls it Cross 22 on account of... well, him."

"Uh, yes. I'm a part of squad S-22. Why?"

The two exchanged a glance before the tall one spoke again.

"Is it true what they say about him? The Sergeant?"

"Is what true?" Quill asked.

"That he don't sleep. That when the Hallowbound attack, their the ones that fear him, not the other way 'round."

"And they say," the other added. "during the last crusade, he went on patrol alone after his whole squad was dead."

Quill shook his head. "I can’t speak to the latter since I wasn’t there. But I know he sleeps. Just… not often."

He paused, remembering the cold, mechanical efficiency with which Cross had dismantled the Grinner.

"If Hallowbound have the capacity, then I'm certain they would fear the man."

The tall one nodded with a small smile. “Right? He was supposed to lead the Emberblades, y’know—but he turned it down. Said he’d rather stay a scout. Said he wanted to fight as many Hallowbound on the front lines as he could. Not many men have that in ’em.”

The other man clapped him on the shoulder, making Quill wince. "Well, best of luck out there, huh? We all need it."

Quill collected his Kindleroot and made his way back to the squad. He found them sitting around a small fire with two members noticeably missing. Vardok was the only one still awake, rubbing his injured arm. The bandage stretched from hand to elbow, already stained dark through the fresh wraps.

"Where are the others?" Quill asked, keeping his voice low.

"Sarge went to report to Cap'n Todd. Deckard's watching over the injured guy at the med tent."

Quill eyed Vardok's wound.

"How is it?" he asked.

Vardok shot him a hard look and huffed. "Fine. Ain't gonna die from a scratch."

With that, the big man lay down and turned his back to Quill. Quill settled onto his bedroll and lit his pipe. He carefully took his manuscript out of his pack and laid it on his lap. He wrote for a while, making sure to include each event of the past two days. Eventually, exhaustion overcame him. With the lids of his eyes growing heavy, he decided it was best to rest while he was in the safety of the encampment. 

But he didn't rest yet. Whether out of pride, empathy, or something else he couldn’t name, Quill decided to find Deckard and learn the fate of the man they’d saved. He wandered through the camp, passing tents filled with wounded and dead alike. Some were being tended to. Others lay still beneath cloths drawn over their faces. Quill made a point to look at each one. He could no longer turn away from death. He knew he’d see much more before his tale was complete.

Eventually, he spotted Deckard. The priest sat smoking his pipe, Codex laid open across his lap. Beside him lay the injured scout, bandaged and covered in a heavy blanket.

"You should be resting," Deckard said without looking up.

"I wanted to see if he'd survived," Quill replied, glancing at the scout's slowly rising chest. "Mind if I sit a while?"

Deckard gestured to a nearby stool. He set aside the Codex as Quill pulled close and took a seat, the injured man between them.

"How do you feel?" Deckard asked between puffs of his pipe. "You survived two full days on the march. Not everyone does."

Quill took a breath and shook his head. "I don't know. Everything hurts, and I'm more exhausted than I ever thought possible. But... I'm grateful to be alive."

"And what do you think?"

"About what?"

Deckard spread his arms slightly, motioning around them. "The Order."

"I know now this threat is far greater than I expected. I see why the men stay. The Hallowbound are not something you can just ignore or let fester. As for the men? I had expected great heroes like from the stories and in a way I suppose that's what I've found. But everyone's much more... human. Well, with some exceptions."

Deckard gave a faint smile. "You mean Cross?"

"He's not like the rest of us. Not once have I seen him bothered, angry, or even tired. Makes me wonder how much he's seen. Whether he’s hardened, broken… or if he was always like this."

"He was here before I joined... nearly ten years ago now. Far as I know, he’s always been like this. Forging ahead like the world behind him is falling away."

Deckard paused, exhaling a slow plume of smoke before leaning forward.

"But he's a man who embodies The Work, whether he realizes it or not."

"I'm afraid I am not familiar with the teachings of Iacred. I spent my days reading history or story books. Never quite got around to the religious texts." Quill furrowed his brow. "I heard you say 'praise Delmiir' earlier today. Would Iacred look kindly on you praising another god?"

Deckard chuckled. "Iacred isn't like the other deities. Of the five Creator gods, he's the only one whose faith is non-transactional."

"What do you mean?" Quill asked.

"When a man wishes for good fortune or happiness, who does he pray to?"

"Delmiir, I assume."

"Exactly. And if that fortune comes, he praises Delmiir in thanks. The other deities are the same. A worshipper of the Weaver prays to her when a loved one passes on to her domain, or begs her for a longer life. When she doesn't oblige, they curse her. Abandon her. Through faith and worship, the Fate Mother may grant you what you desire, tugging on the cords of fate to change your lot. When a warrior wishes for strength in battle, they pray to Maltukk. And when they slaughter a dozen men in his name, he rewards them. People even strike bargains with Ether to gain knowledge of the unknown, power beyond that of our realm. Each god gives. Each god takes. Transactional."

"And Iacred is different? Don't farmers pray to him for the harvest? Do his followers not abide by his teachings in exchange for divine reward?"

Deckard leaned back, taking a final puff of his pipe before emptying into the snow. 

"With Iacred, there's only The Work. His teachings were written thousands of years ago. That was the first and last interaction with mankind he ever had. He doesn't answer prayers. He doesn't punish those who shirk The Work. He isn't jealous or judgmental. He doesn't forgive or reward. He doesn't care if you pray and worship the other gods. He asks of us only one thing: to do The Work."

"And what exactly is The Work?"

"Hard to say," Deckard said, rubbing his chin. "Each man has their own Work to do. But, everyone has it. And everyone knows it."

"How?"

"There comes a time in every man's life when he finds his Work. It's always something that needs doing, but it's never the easy path. Most men run from it. They want their lives to be hopeful, happy. They don't want to slog through life, always tired, always working. But farmers know The Work. Every day at the crack of dawn they rise to face it. What would happen if every farmer believed their Work was too difficult? If they all chose an easier life? How many would perish from the famine?"

"And what's your Work? Killing Hallowbound?"

"Yes. I wanted to be a doctor when I was young. In Volant, it’s rare for a man to know medicine, and it’s quite lucrative."

Deckard's eyes dropped. He looked at the injured scout, whose breathing had grown raspy.

"But I saw them, those wretched creatures. There was a house in my home town where people claimed they had seen monsters. My brother and I went to check on the family inside. It was our duty, after all."

He paused, jaw tight, voice unsteady when he finally spoke.

"My brother died that day. There'd been a Totem in that house, in the middle of the damn city. Anyone could have been killed. The Order showed up soon after to destroy it. And that’s when I felt it. I knew of Iacred's teachings already, but I didn't understand until that day. I knew that my Work was to fight against this evil, I made my choice and here I am."

Quill fumbled for words. In the end, curiosity won out. "Why do it? What do you gain from all this?"

Deckard smiled. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I'll never see a single piece of silver for my efforts. I won't be thanked. I don't have a place waiting for me in some divine afterlife when I die. You do The Work because it must be done."

He gave a faint smile before adding, "I like to think it betters the soul… but maybe that’s just the lie I tell myself to keep going."

Quill sat quietly for a long while. He tried to recall if he’d ever faced a moment like that, if he’d run from his Work, or if, perhaps, he was finally doing it now.

Finally he broke the silence. 

"Why do the Hallowbound exist? Humanity faces enough strife already. Why would the Creator gods make nightmares that exist solely to kill us?"

Deckard shrugged. "Who knows? Some say that Ether himself created the Hallowbound. That he wished to deconstruct humanity. To see how many pieces a man must be in before we call him a monster."

"You said the Totems are born from intense human emotion. Do you think the Hallowbound are… extensions of the person who felt it?"

"I believe so. I think each Hallowbound is a piece of humanity, isolated and escalated to its most extreme form. When a person breaks, they’re torn apart. What’s left scatters, tethered to our world by a single physical item: the Totem. But those pieces? They’re fragments of humanity… given terrible shape. Joy."

The Grinner's lipless smile.

"Aggression."

The charging Needlemaws.

"Hunger."

The chomping, drooling mouth of the Gibbergnash.

"Duty."

The Black Knight.

"We may never know why they exist. All that matters is that they do. And that we must face them."

Quill turned Deckard’s words over in his mind as the injured scout’s shallow breaths filled the space between them.

"Deckard."

The priest looked up, pipe still in hand.

"Thank you. For fighting the Hallowbound. For doing The Work."

He paused.

"I won't take for granted the sacrifice of every man here. My story will tell the tale of The Order. Even if no one expects thanks or recognition, I’ll make sure the world knows. Every man will be remembered. Even in death, they will live on, through my book."

Then came silence.

The scout’s chest was still. His final breath had passed.