The next morning, Quill sat with Deckard outside of the squad's tent. On the crate in front of them sat a large, leatherbound tome with no design, just a plain brown cover. Still, Quill couldn't help but feel a strange sense of dread looking at it. 

"So," he started, "this Codex has information about... them?"

"We've only two days of Calm remaining," Deckard replied. "So you won't have long to learn."

"From what I've read at the Royal Library in Rokhov, I know that the..." He hesitated, glancing down at The Codex, "Hallowbound... come from some sort of cursed item. But, I know not what creates the item itself."

"We call them Totems. These cursed items you've read about are created not on purpose by some maniacal mage or cultist. Instead, they are made unintentionally by various peoples. It is the belief of The Order that Totems are created through a moment of incredible human emotion, usually fear or anguish. Obviously we cannot prove that because no one has ever observed the creation of a Totem."

"And the creatures, they come from these Totems?"

"Yes. The more powerful a Totem is, and the longer it remains undisturbed, the more Hallowbound it spawns, and the greater the danger."

Deckard leaned forward, a grim seriousness spreading across his face. "The Totem in the Frostwood, or what The Order has deemed The Hallowed Marches, has been festering for years. Untouched. Unknown. I am afraid you've joined us at a perilous time, Quill. I don't know why the Captain allowed you to join our ranks, but personally I'm glad to have any extra men for this war."

Quill swallowed hard staring at the tome before him. He glanced up at the Volantan who had leaned back and begun lighting his pipe. Deckard seemed to sense his hesitation to open the tome.

"You best start your reading. What you fear isn't in those pages," Deckard turned to face the distant forest to the North. "It's out there."

Quill hesitated a moment longer, running his hand along the leather cover. Finally, he relented and opened The Codex. What he found inside made his stomach drop. Descriptions of inhuman monsters accompanied by depictions that looked like they were drawn by a madman. Each entry detailed the creature’s size, behaviors, threat level, and tactics for engagement. As he flipped the pages, his heartbeat quickened. He knew this was meant to be a tool used to combat the Hallowbound, but it made him feel nauseous. 

They can't be real, Quill thought. Nothing so horrific cannot exist in this world.

"These are all out there?" Quill said, turning to face the distant woods to the North. "In the woods?"

Deckard frowned. "No. Not every Hallowbound appears with every Totem. The Order has spent the years since the last Crusade studying which Hallowbound emerge in The Hallowed Marches. I can help you learn what we are likely to face over the coming days so you will at least be somewhat prepared."

"What happened in the last Crusade?"

Deckard went silent, staring at the ground for a long while before answering.

"A Crusade is when The Order musters the entirety of their strength to march on a particularly powerful or ancient Totem. It does not happen often, most of the time The Order is scattered across the world dealing with lesser ones. It is rare for a Totem to require a Crusade. Rarer still for The Order to fail." Deckard swallowed hard, still frowning. "I was there the day Commander Halvon sounded the retreat. The day we call The Breaking."

Deckard sat still again, a shadow of a memory passing over his face. "We've spent over eight years rebuilding, growing our numbers, and sharpening our skills so it doesn't happen again."

The entrance flap to the squad's tent opened and Vardok stepped out, lighting his pipe.

Deckard turned to the big man, waving a hand. "Ah, Mr. Vardok, have you anything to add about the Hallowbound for our new recruit?"

"You tell him how he's puttin' us all at risk by joinin'?"

Quill looked to Deckard, confused.

Deckard gave a reassuring nod. "He simply means that the more people in a single squad, the more likely they are to attract Hallowbound. They have... a sense for us. That is why our squads are usually limited to eight. But if there was a Sergeant who could handle nine, it's Cross."

Quill sat in silent contemplation as Vardok wandered off into the camp.

"If adding one man is truly so dangerous, why did they let me join?"

Deckard shrugged, "I suppose that's up to you to decide."

———

Squad S-22 spent the next few days lounging about, passing the time playing rounds of eight-card. Quill spent most of his time learning from Deckard and revising his manuscript. He hadn't spoken to Wil about the events of his first night, believing it best to keep his distance for a while. Sergeant Cross only made the occasional appearance to check in on the squad, but Quill learned that every man held their commanding officer in high regard.

On his fourth day, the Kindleroot ran dry. Quill and Trevin had tied for the fewest wins in eight-card so they were tasked with fetching everyone refills. He had only spoken in passing to the twitchy, little man.

"So... Trevin, how long have you been in The Order?"

Trevin was busy tapping every finger on each hand to his thumb, one at a time over and over again. He was mumbling numbers, counting maybe.

"Five m-more than one."

"Have you encountered many Hallowbound?"

Trevin closed his eyes hard, his fingers wiggling near his face. "S-sixty seven twice over."

If one single man had seen so many in six years, Quill knew he was sure to encounter some during his tenure here. He didn't have time to continue his thought as his companion was already exhibiting more strange behavior. Trevin was staring hard directly above Quill's head, scrunching his nose as if working something out.

"Something the matter?"

Trevin looked quickly away as if he'd been caught doing something unscrupulous.

"S-sorry," he muttered. "I s-see things sometimes. O-over people's heads."

Quill couldn't help but be intrigued. He had never believed in mystics or shamans, but the always seemed to have something interesting to say. He once listened to a shaman on the road north simply to add an interesting encounter to his book, meaningless or not.

"And what is it you see over my head?"

Trevin turned back to face him, eyes wide and drifting over his head once more. 

For the first time, the little man spoke with no hint of the stutter that usually plagued his speech. "I see a blade looming over you."

"What does it mean?"

"I d-don't know. Sometimes i-it seems m-meaningless."

"What of the rest of the squad? Do you see anything over their heads?"

Trevin stopped, his fingers tapping faster than before.

Then, with that same eerie clarity: "Sergeant Cross. He has a bloody battlefield with a singular banner still standing."

Quill put a hand on the twitchy man's shoulder. "Well, perhaps that points to our victory on this Crusade. And for the blade, I am a fine swordsman after all."

Quill let out a small laugh and continued on through the camp, Trevin following close behind. 

He had laughed it off, but for the rest of the day it kept creeping back into his mind. What did it mean for a blade to loom over him? He wrote it in his journal, but debated whether to include it in his manuscript, feeling a strange unease about the whole exchange.

———

That night, Sergeant Cross entered the tent, eyes scanning the space. 

"Good. You're all here."

"What is it, Sarge?" Slim asked, turning from his game of eight-card.

"Tomorrow is the final day of The Calm." The Sergeant kept the same stoic look on his face regardless of the words he spoke. Quill hadn't seen the man laugh or smile, nor had he seen him grow angry. Cross could've walked in and said the threat was over, that they were all going home, and Quill was certain he'd wear the same grim expression.

"Only two of you were here for the last Crusade, but The Order has a tradition. On the final night of The Calm each squad gathers around a fire speaks"

No one spoke for a long moment.

"About what?" Quill asked, finally. He and Stevan were unsurprisingly the most talkative of the squad. Most of the others wouldn't simply strike up conversation to fill the void of silence in the tent.

The Sergeant locked his gaze on Quill. "The past. The future. Whatever you want really. Say things you need to say, because once the march begins, there will be no more time for simple conversation or making friends."

"A final chance," Deckard said, "at normality before the Work must begin." 

The priest rubbed the small pendant around his neck. It was a simple wooden hammer, the symbol of Iacred.

"Call it what you like. You will participate. There will be no judgment for any man, no matter what's said."

The Sergeant looked around the room, waiting for any more questions. When he received none, he nodded and promptly left the tent, just as quickly as he'd arrived.

The final day of Calm seemed to anything but to Quill. Men prepared weapons and armor, took down tents, and carried crates all throughout the encampment. The entire place seemed buzzing with anticipation. These were not men used to sitting idly by, and every one of them seemed more than ready to begin their duties.

Then night finally came. They had taken down their large tent, all that remained was the center firepit. They along with every other squad in The Order had received a hefty stack of firewood to keep their pit burning through the cold night. The entire landscape of the camp was now dotted with orange flames licking into the darkness and somber-looking men surrounding each one.

Sergeant Cross was the last to arrive, pipe already lit and clenched in his teeth.

"Alright," he said, "Who's first?"