It began with the still canvas of bleakness and emptiness, the Kenoma, where once in this bleak nothingness, KHAOS was the only being in this plane of being, though it would be more accurate to say that he is nothing at all. A hole that spans on towards eternity. He despises those who exist, he who desires the simplicity of silence and the sleep of eons without a stir within his domain.

Yet despite this, time inspires change no matter how concrete the variables in the world, even when nothing is to act as a zero to one's infinity. In a rare moment of subconscious discomfort, KHAOS accidentally spurred and, in so doing, conceived of a thought that materialized into the Godhead known as AO. The Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and what will be the end, from whom would come the architect of all things conceivable. KHAOS realizes his folly and tries to kill this being in its infancy, but the creature drifts away from his attempts upon his life.

Seeking to escape the torments of KHAOS, AO would tether his being to his own dreams of another place of being, which paved the way for the Pleroma, and from its flourish came the world of Gaia.

But AO's dream-state is a dangerous being, for the world to retain its rules and structure, the Godhead must slumber as KHAOS does, for in his shared dream, all exists under his advocacy. If AO were to awaken, the dream would end, and everything within the Pleroma would fade from memory, consumed by the Kenoma.

Nevertheless, in place of AO's consciousness, he created the position of AVO, who would serve as chancellor of the heavens and virtue, to represent and lead the divine celestial agents who would defend this state of being, to create and to prosper, to fortify and to multiply. Within the Pleroma sits the Ogdoad ... a council of Aeons, who represent the virtues that galvanize further prosperity of the Pleroma against the Kenoma, the canvas of far-reaching non-existence where KHAOS reigns.

But much as AO created AVO ... KHAOS would then spawn AYIN, the accursed champion of the Kenoma, to debase and to destroy, to return creation to its nulled and motionless state where the awareness of the living soul is returned to slumber and its contents removed of all memory.

This is the true battle, the war for which those of celestial ascension must fight. For if AYIN and KHAOS win their existential conflict, neither the living of the earth nor the dead who reside within the afterlife shall escape the trappings of non-existence. All will end with nothing, naught but meek whimpers drowned out in suffocating dread. Such events, as heralded by the forces of the Kenoma, are monikered "The Grand Inevitability." For one day, AO, AVO, and all who shelter under him will falter in their ability to maintain existence and return to the void.

But in order to save the world, one must know the world and how it came to be as it is now.

Upon the creation of the earth that serves as the foundation for Gaia, the first man was made flesh, human. Flawed, imperfect, the very definition of paradox. To stand by his side, a woman was created. An elf, signature in her difference from human, from man. Together in their union, their descendant would go on to form under the banner of the First Kingdom. Through the marriage of men and elves, with the blessings and guidance of the Ogdoad, a grand allegiance was formed through the secular and the spiritual, united out of the desire for the world to continue its existence, ever onward to secure their place in this unforgiving life.

Yet from the inconceivable places of the void, it crept from its hiding place and encroached upon Gaia, charging head-on against the First Kingdom and the Pleroma.

For the first time, AYIN would descend upon Gaia to the detriment of many. From the shadows of the mind and the dark places of the unexplored came forth creatures of nightmares and unreasonable terror. Desperation of what was left to lose culminated into a desperate plan amidst the gods and mortal kind, a ritual designed and performed in secret that demanded a price in return for its saving grace. With the combined efforts of the heavens, through mortal kind, magic, machines, and the sacrifices of the brave, the fearful, and the doomed, the Grand Inevitability was delayed upon the deaths of billions and the sundering of the heavens. 

A great flood washed the world, drowning the lands of its denizens, malevolent and innocent, cleansing the canvas of Gaia and reducing civilization to ruin and cohesion between mortal kind and that of their gods with it.

The survivors who would crawl from their mountaintops, their shelters, and the flotsam they clung to as life itself scattered would search for new and fertile lands, finding the continent of now Balandaria and continuing with life during a time when all had seemed to abandon them.

Despite such a bleak existence, they forged on, creating meager husks of the legacy of the First Kingdom amidst the southern sands of Balandaria. Creating the remnants of a kingdom that showed the dauntless vision of humans and that of elves. The Kingdom of Sehlaria. Yet some would carry on from this second attempt at rebuilding in an effort to replicate the vision of the past. Nations upon nations would spread from the south all the way to northern Balandaria.

When they had least expected it, a glimmer of hope shined down upon them, for against the wishes of the Ogdoad, the aeon Pistis Sophia returned to Gaia to provide comfort to the surviving souls. A prophecy was handed to them, scribed in the tears of Sophia and upon the words of the wise King Solomon of Sehlaria upon his subjects and upon the world.

"Hear now the words of Mother Wisdom! Let all have an ear! Let them hear! A child born on this day to uncertain parents will cast down the agents of the false divinity. Four Forgotten Temples shall charge him with divine authority and power and shall suffer the scorn of the humble; from their razed earth shall bequeath the seeds to soil new faith. Ten crowns were bequeathed to him from ten sovereigns. Nine lands he shall inherit to house the First Kingdom reborn! The Venerated Son shall reunite with Mother and Father as the legacy of the first man and woman will find lasting peace. With mortal kind in joined hands, the Grand Inevitability shall be held at bay!"

For nearly two thousand years, the living and the dead were given a chance to continue with their existence. ... Now, at a time when few consider the approaching end of days, they see graver evil in their neighbors than the great evil lurking and crawling into the world. AYIN approaches from the inconceivable corners of life, scheming to subvert the world against itself, drawing all into discord until its weakened state can raise no defense against her encroachment.

Today, the world of Gaia is not as it should be. Mortals are divided by their races, countries, and cultures, and amidst them -- monsters of powerful mythos corrupt and change those considered of the more puritan breed. Faith, freedom, and felicity are but deprived of the mortal spirit. The realms of humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, halflings, and the fey are all at risk of being plunged into turmoil by greed, desperation, despair, and lesser souls driven by evil forces beyond their ken.

The faiths of the Seneschal God, AVO, offer succor to those who fear what comes, for AYIN, the Anti-God and the accumulation of non-existence loom over distance to claim the fair world of Gaia, once again threatening upon the world a Grand Inevitability, that all shall end, and not even the realms beyond death, neither heaven nor hell, exempted by this solemn decree.

Few now remember the vague words of prophecy from so long ago that were sown into the hearts of the corrupt who hold powers of secular and spiritual authority. Yet hope remains in the hearts of the people who have not yet fallen into despair. For even now the gods, long forgotten by their charges, rouse in stirrings that will avalanche the annals of history.

Sophia Pistis -- ??? -- ??? | A walk under endless stars and an emerging evil

My name is Sophia Pistis... I am both Wisdom and Faith. Both an anodyne of sweet succor and a bitter draught. I came into this world from the Pleroma, where all things emerged—drawn by my belief in the mortal condition, in the paradox of their limitations and their vast capabilities.

To this day, and all days hence, I will ever remember the bravery of fragile lives as they stood against decrepit forces—forces that threaten even an existence as elevated as mine. Their lot in life is both humbling and pitiable, and for this reason I have defied the decree of the Ogdoad, who bid me stay my efforts and remain in the heavens.

Many times I have done this—whether for better or for worse—in the world and among my peers. Perhaps it might be deemed folly, unbecoming of one whose very nature encompasses the wisdom of the ages. But wisdom is built upon action, upon consequences—intended or otherwise. To find wisdom, one must first be a fool in search of it. For what is a fool but a wise man too late?

But they will learn. Mortals have always shown a capacity for thoughtfulness that rivals even my own. It would be, perhaps, too easy to tell them too much. Yet I already exceed my mandate, and my meddling will be viewed by many as an affront.

So for now, I conspire in my own way—within the rules we as celestials are bound to obey—to save the world from another sundering.

So that I might save everything from my own mistakes.”

Barefoot, Sophia treads across fields of silver grass, sprouting from bleached, sanded soil blended with muck from star-reflected pools scattered across the landscape. Overhead, the open sky shimmers with a prismatic web of nebulas woven into the canvas of night. Glowing ivory roots twist up from the loosened earth, casting pale illumination and marking the path to the destination she seeks.

The source of these roots. A living tree of Mithril—a monument wrought from the silver of stars. Its leaves shimmer kaleidoscopically, mirroring the star-dusted sky above, yet it is the living silver of the trunk and branches that forms its chromatic shrine. When Sophia places her hand upon the tree, memories return: the thrill of creation, the ache of death, and the echo of an old friend who still resides within the tree.

"Nai lúmë raica, meldo yára nín [It has been some time, my old friend.]" Sophia speaks in the tongue of the Elves to the presence now stirring within the silver tree. Its branches sway, and its leaves rustle—though no wind moves through the air—before falling still, as if absorbing her words in silence.

"Aiya, Sophia, ná calima ar núra nórenyallo. Lá úvë i turë ya toyen, cé? [Oh, Sophia, your presence is both gladdening and melancholic. Not unlike the purpose you serve, I suppose.]" The response comes from the ancient feminine spirit within the tree, her voice as wizened and grim as any old, rooted thing.
“You have come for them, haven’t you? I knew not the day nor the hour... but I knew it would come.” 

“It is true,” Sophia says, drawing her hand from the tree’s living bark. She turns to glance over her shoulder—toward a growing cloud of murk that swallows stars and bleeds the color from the sky. It threatens to consume the land she has stepped into. Time is short. Sophia has been followed, and a hungering presence closes in. “Events now spiral swiftly toward their inevitable center. If ever we are to act, it must be now—while we yet have the strength to do so.”


“Are you certain this is the only path set before us, Sophia? Desperation is far too easily mistaken for sensibility,” counseled the presence within the tree. “It would not be the first time your actions, born of penance, have brought greater misery upon the world.”

At the sharpness of the words, Sophia sighed and turned again to the tree. “I will not lie to you—for you have far more to lose in this life, far more even than I. The bitter wisdom I wear like a mantle, the foresight I have adorned myself with... they grow heavier with every sacrifice made on my behalf. And yet—for the sake of this world, and for your descendants—I must act. If I do not intercede, the world will drown in darkness... or worse.”

Sophia stepped forward and knelt, her head bowed low until her brow touched the soft grass and soil.
“To that end... I must ask you to part with them, so that I might sow the world in wisdom once more.”

Her voice trembled with solemnity.
“I will take on their responsibility—and their safety—and I will guide them. I ask only this: do not seek them out, no matter how grim their fate becomes. And though I have no right to ask it...”
She paused, breath held like a fragile truth.
“If you could find it within yourself to forgive me—for what they must endure, and what is asked of them—I would carry your mercy with me as surely as your grief.”

The tree fell silent for a time. Then—from deep within its body—a loud crack resounded, a splintering snap echoing through the still air. A hollow began to form in its trunk, widening slowly to reveal a cradle, shaped like the nest of a great bird. But nestled within the woven grasses and fragrant herbs, shaped into a comforting mattress, were not eggs.

But two mortal children.

Human infants, wrapped in satins of deep blue and clothed in finely wrought garments spun from the fibers of this glistening world—each child glimmering faintly, silver radiating from their forms. Sophia rose slowly from her knees, lifting her gaze to the towering canopy of the mithril tree.

“Be upon my head the consequences of this gambit. And to all that prospers... I give to your children. Of this, I swear.”
Her hand pressed firmly to her breast as she spoke.

“...The entire world now depends upon your success,” the presence reminded the aeon, voice fading from within its form. “For neither my words nor yours hold such grand sway. All the same—I give you that which is most precious to me. I do this because you must succeed.”

A chilling air of responsibility lingered in the stillness that followed. And then—a stir. The silence was broken by the small, muffled fussing of the children, tiny grunts and mewls as their limbs shifted in sleep. Sophia stepped forward, gazing down at them. One child with black hair—another with white hair, soft and already thick, had begun to curl atop their heads.

A growl of thunder rolled across the land—deep, low, and building—rattling the ground to its core. Sophia looked back over her shoulder.

The evil had come. The clouds surged forward in pursuit, thick with dark murk now stained with crimson. They rolled across the sky like a curtain of boiling ink, swallowing light, depth, and even reflection. There was no time.

Sophia quickly wrapped the children tighter in their silken blankets. With one child in each arm, she whispered to them: “We must away, and fast.”

She pressed them gently to her abdomen, cradling them close. Turning from the tree, Sophia strode into the night, her bare feet parting waves of bleached silver reeds and star-dusted, sand-soaked soil. The infants stirred uneasily, grumbling in their sleep—wrenched from comfort, borne away from the only home they had known, as the looming shadow of encroaching darkness swallowed the sky behind them.

??? -- ??? -- ??? | A newborn's eyes open for the first time, in a strange world
The air felt like a cool breeze, but its chill carried a rasping edge that bit at the skin. Yet, despite that, a strange warmth enveloped his senses—an unfamiliar, protective warmth. It was not like before, when everything had been silence and comfort, when he had known only sanctuary within the silver tree.
Now there was motion. He was being carried—wrapped snugly in a blanket—his surroundings shifting with each step. But it did not frighten him. The movement was foreign, not unpleasant.

He opened his eyes—sapphire blue, wide with innocent curiosity—and blinked up at a sky unlike any he had seen before. Stars flashed in the darkness overhead, bursts of color scattered across a canvas of deep indigo. Nebular shapes arced like wild brushstrokes painted in frustration across the night. Beneath that sky, the land stretched out: silver sands glimmering under the starlight, punctuated by slender blades of grass. A strange world, shimmering with beauty, and yet utterly still—no sign of other life.

His gaze wandered along the arm that held him, following its line to the face of the one who bore him. She was radiant. A woman with bright blue hair flowing down from her crown, her silks matching the hue of her hair and softness of her touch. Her eyes gleamed—golden, sharp, striking—and her face bore the noble calm of someone with purpose, someone carrying the weight of more than just two children.

She pressed on across the shimmering landscape, her steps steady through the sea of silver reeds. When her eyes dropped to meet his, she smiled—tenderly, knowingly, almost as if a mother would have.

“You’re awake,” she said softly. “And what dashing, beautiful eyes you have... just like your father’s.” Her voice was warm, cooing with admiration. “I wonder if your little brother’s are the same?”

She looked over to the other child, gently tilting the first so he could see as well. At that moment, the second child stirred—stretching his arms in a yawn before blinking open eyes of vivid emerald green.

“Ah, eyes of emerald,” she whispered, “green—just like your mother’s.” She laughed lightly to herself.
“You humans are such bundles of joy,” she mused aloud, her voice a lullaby of affection. “Delightful in your moments of innocence.”

Still holding both infants close, she raised one hand and stretched it outward. A blue glow gathered in her palm—coalescing like a whirlpool of starlight. From its heart, a shape emerged: transparent, glass-like, the delicate form of a flower unfolding into bloom.

The children's eyes widened. Glee and awe lit their faces. They had never seen anything like it. The spectacle held them in a spell of wonder—part curiosity, part hesitation. Their tiny hands reached toward it, then retreated, then reached again, unsure whether to touch or simply watch.

At the first brush of their fingers, the flower cracked. Light flickered. Then the bloom dissolved—and in its place stood two tiny, silver rabbits, hopping and prancing in the woman’s palm. Each rabbit moved toward a child, drawing giggles and gasps. Their little fingers followed, chasing movement with wonder, touching the illusions as if they might vanish.

The woman giggled in turn, her voice echoing with joy. “Yes, little ones,” she said, her tone playful yet reverent, “this is magic. It is the center of all creation.” She looked at them both, the depth of her gaze belying the simplicity of her words. “And you will wield great magic too. It flows in your blood. It is your birthright.”

But the children, enraptured, heard none of it—too dazzled by the marvels that bloomed and danced in their guardian’s hand.

Suddenly, a great crack split the air—a blinding flash engulfed the children’s vision, followed by a deep, rumbling quake. The woman gasped, clutching them tightly to her chest as an unnatural roar tore through the heavens—an overwhelming cacophony, alien and incomprehensible.

The children cried out in terror.

Above them, the rolling clouds of evil had returned, parting at their center to reveal a single, insidious eye—red, immense, burning with contempt and spite. Its iris, unblinking, gazed down upon them, and the fear it evoked tore screams from the infants’ throats.

A voice boomed. It spoke in a language unknown to them, every syllable ringing with condescension and arrogance, reverberating across the sky like iron dragged across stone. The very air curdled around its words.

“ὥστε νῦν ὁδοιπορεῖ ἡ Μήτηρ Σοφία μετὰ τῶν δρευγῶν τῆς θνητῆς ἐλπίδος, ἐναγκαλίσασα ὡς βρέφη ἄσθενα. Ἐδόξατε ἀγνοήσειν; Ἐμὲ ὑπερήφανον νομίζετε, ὡς αὕτη ἡ ὑμετέρα ἀλήθεια ἐναντίον τῆς δικαίας μου ἀξιώσεως εἴη!?!”

The children clung to their guardian, seeking safety in her arms. One of them, the blue-eyed child, looked up—only to see not fear, but something else in her expression: weariness, perhaps... annoyance?

She did not flinch under the gaze of the eye. Her expression remained composed, unyielding, even as she raised her voice in response—answering in the same divine tongue.

“ὦ θεὲ τῶν στρατευμάτων, ὦ Φθονητέ. εἴθε μαθεῖν ἂν τι ἐξ ὧν πάντα ἐδίδαξας. ἀκούεις μὲν, ἀλλ’ οὐ μανθάνεις ἐπακούειν. οὐ σέ μισῶ, τέκνον μου, πρωτότοκέ μου. ἀλλ’ εἴθε μή μοι παρέστης. ὅσα ἔσχισας, ἐξήρτυσα. οὓς ἐβλάψας, ἐθεράπευσα. ἀλλ’ ἔοικας ἔτι μὴ συνιέναι, εὔχομαι δὲ μόνον ὅπως ποτὲ μαθῇς.”

There was silence. The eye widened, its focus sharpening as thunder growled behind it. Then the voice returned, even more dreadful, a storm behind each word:

“Οὐκ ἄν τοκῆσον ὀχέω, ἄμετρον ἀπόνημα τῆς ἀδηλότητος ἣν φέρουσιν οἱ σοὶ. Ἐγὼ δὲ ἐπὶ τὴν οἰκουμένην ταύτην συνθήξομαι καὶ λήψομαι ἐμαυτῷ ὃ ΣΥ ἠπίστησο. Τὸ πᾶν ἦν ἐμὸν καὶ ἔσται πάλιν, εἴτε οἱ ἐκλεχθέντες σου ἡγεμόνες διὰ τὸ ὀργῆς μου ζῶσι, εἴτε ἂν καταστρέψω τὰ πάντα καὶ πάλιν οἰκοδομήσω. Πᾶν δὲ ἡμῖν παίγνιον ἐστίν.”

The Eye’s words radiated a poison that seeped into the mind itself. Its malice was not simply felt—it was known. And though no attack yet came, the threat hung like a sword suspended in time. Only then did the woman’s expression shift.

Her face grew sorrowful. To the children, it was a cause for despair. Yet still, she carried on.

She came to a pool of still, crystalline waters. There, she knelt and gently laid the infants on their backs upon the soft sand. Her hands moved to gather reeds from the earth, and her lips parted in silent prayer. A hush settled over them.

Then—before the children's wide eyes—the single blade in her hand began to change.

It split, multiplied, lengthened. Fibers unraveled and grew, twining together, each strand weaving itself into the next, as though guided by unseen hands. What began as a simple reed transformed before them into a finely crafted basket—woven with grace, purpose, and love.

Taking one child, then the other, she gently nestled them into the cozy hollow of the woven basket. A cushion of soft fibers lined its base, giving them a natural, comfortable place to rest. Once they were settled, she draped a shroud over them, tenderly shielding their tiny bodies.

She paused. Her gaze lingered on them. Then her head dipped low, and her face disappeared behind the cascading curtain of her hair. A quiet sound escaped her—a whimper, barely audible—followed by a shaky intake of breath through her nose. A long sigh escaped her lips as she exhaled. When she looked up again, there was a mixture of love and pain in her eyes.

“You might never understand,” she whispered. She stopped herself. Thought better of what she would say. Then, softly:

“No... If the people of this world are righteous, it won’t matter. What matters is that you live. Both of you.”

Her voice trembled with both gentleness and desperation.

“You are what I sow to the winds—my hope, my love, and my faith. Please. You must live.”

Something in her tone shifted the fear in the children’s hearts. It was no longer the terror of what loomed in the sky, but a deeper, more haunting dread. For the first time, they saw it—moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes, glistening tears that welled and slipped free. One drop fell, landing on the cheek of the blue-eyed child.

Could she be afraid too? Not of the eye... but of something greater?

They could not know. They could not understand. She leaned in and kissed each child on the brow, her lips trembling with emotion, before rising slowly to her feet.

She turned from them, her arm extended, and light gathered around her outstretched hand—shaping itself into a gleaming staff of metal, forged in mystic design. Two serpents coiled upward along its shaft, their open maws devouring a ruby-red jewel that pulsed with energy.

Chaos descended from the shadowed skies with phantom-like shapes fell from the clouds that bore the eye above. She reacted at once, slamming the butt of the staff into the basket and shoving it into the waters. The cradle drifted from the shore, carrying the children away as the woman spun around—her staff carving streaks of light across the air.

Bolts of lightning leapt from its tip, striking at the spectral forms as they closed in. The phantoms shrieked with piercing wails, their cries twisting into the children’s minds—inhuman, painful, unnatural. The infants cried out, overwhelmed and terrified.

But the woman did not falter.

She cast forth light, radiant and blinding, forcing the shapes to recoil. The Eye above howled—a guttural, enraged roar—as it locked its gaze on the basket. A lance of searing light fired from its pupil, hurling toward the drifting cradle.

But she was faster.

She threw herself into the path of the beam, screaming as it struck her side. A wound opened beneath her ribs, and from it dripped not blood, but radiant, shimmering liquid—light itself bleeding from her.

“You will not have them!” she shouted, her voice defiant, unwavering. Her golden eyes blazed as she clutched her wound and turned back toward the basket.

The woman raised her staff, hands tight and grasping.

Then—slammed its base into the ground.

A shockwave rippled outward with immense power ... causing the basket to sink.

Water surged into it. The weave buckled. The cradle dipped, taking on water until its passengers were submerged. The infants screamed—but their cries were swallowed by the water, reduced to rising bubbles that danced toward the surface and vanished.

They sank—helpless, flailing, unable to escape.

Down into the dark.

Their wide eyes saw no more of the battle above. No light, no sound. Only cold, and silence.

Left alone with their fear.

The blue-eyed child wanted only to return to what had come before—to peace, to comfort, to the soft quiet of the silver tree. Not this. Not this nightmare.

But now, there was only uncertainty.

And then—darkness.

This was merely a bad dream...

A bad dream.

??? -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE
It was bitterly cold now—so bitter that the warmth once held by the blankets and the basket had begun to fade. The bindings around the children clung tightly, but they no longer offered comfort. From the dark waters that had carried them away, the children now emerged into a world stranger still.

The blue-eyed child stirred. He opened his eyes.

Above him stretched a bleak, cloud-heavy sky—dark and colorless. From it drifted flakes of snow, ivory and soft, spiraling gently downward in a slow, mournful descent. He no longer lay upon the surface of water, but beneath a dreary wintry sky, the time of night so deep it could only be the hour of the wolf.

The darkness of night cloaked the land. From his place inside the basket, the child saw it: a rustic village built from stone and thatch, its rooftops sagging under the weight of snow. Beyond the houses, pine trees loomed on the horizon, shadowy sentinels marking the edge of a forest—or perhaps the border of a frozen tundra.

A soft cry stirred beside him. The blue-eyed child turned, looking toward the source.

It was the green-eyed child—the same one from before. The same companion who had been carried by the blue-haired woman. So, it had not been a dream, after all.

The basket was unchanged in form, but its luster was gone. No longer silver and glowing. Now it was dull and wicker, its surface sickened to a brown, brittle texture.

Then—from one of the nearby homes—another cry rang out. Louder. Sharper. A woman’s scream, pierced by sudden horror, then broken into wailing.

The blue-eyed child looked toward the sound. In the distance, barely visible in the haze of snowfall, a human figure staggered into the open. A woman—her face obscured by distance and the veil of night—ran from one of the dwellings. She darted across the snowy field, kicking up plumes of white as she fled in panic, barefoot or unshod.

Then—glinting in the dark—came a flash. Brief. Metallic.
The flash vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a sound.
A crack. Wet. Final.

The woman collapsed into the snow, her limbs folding awkwardly beneath her. From her back jutted a spear-like haft of metal and wood. Crimson spread beneath her body, blooming across the ivory ground.

The blue-eyed child stared, frozen in more than just cold. From the doorway she had fled, a figure emerged.

It was human—but only just. Ghoulish. Twisted. It howled with delight, a sound of savage joy that chilled the child’s heart. The green-eyed child screamed, crying out in terror at the sight.

More shapes emerged from the woods—shambling, hunched, predatory. One raised a torch and hurled it onto a rooftop. Fire leapt to life in the snowbound village, licking at straw and timber.

And still the monsters came.

A plume of smoke rose as the torch ignited the roof. The howling beasts roamed from dwelling to dwelling, barging through doors, setting fire as they went—spilling chaos in flickering bursts of flame and shadow. Their path blazed behind them, each home consumed by fire, illuminating the night with a ghastly glow.

The village became a pyre. Each house, a bonfire. Each shriek, a punctuation of horror.

Within the light, shadowy figures chased others—shadows hunting shadows. Cries rang out. Some pleaded, begging for help. None came. Some were dragged away screaming, limbs flailing as they disappeared into the dark.

The children watched it all, eyes wide, breathless. But their view was broken—suddenly—by the jolt of motion.

The basket lurched. A hand had taken hold of it—lifting them from the ground, carrying them swiftly away. The green-eyed child cried out louder, his wails sharpened by the shock of motion and confusion.

“Shhh, child. Shhh!” hissed a voice. Feminine. Urgent. Sharp. “Be silent or they will catch us.”

The words meant nothing to the children—but the tone, the energy, the fear—they understood that. They felt it in the woman’s grip, in the way she ran, in the tremble of every footfall.

They were fleeing. Where to, they did not know. But anywhere away from the fire and screams was enough.

The woman came to a fork in the road—a wooden signpost at a four-way intersection. One path led uphill, overlooking the burning village. Another led down into the forest beyond. A third snaked toward fields blanketed in frost.

Without hesitation, she knelt at the signpost’s base. There, carved into its wooden trunk, was a hollow—just large enough to hide a small child, maybe two if packed carefully.

The basket descended.

A face appeared before them—a young woman, fair-skinned with pointed ears and long blonde hair tucked beneath a forest-green apron. Her hazel eyes were wide with concern as she peered into the basket.

An elf.

“You two need to stay quiet,” she whispered. “It’s not safe. Not for you, not for anyone.” She hushed them gently, her breath slowing as she tried to soothe the green-eyed child. “Close your eyes, close your ears. Don’t cry... don’t cry. Someone will come back for you. I promise.”

The boy’s cries softened to whimpers. The blue-eyed child lay still, uncertain, unblinking.

The elf glanced toward something unseen—past the arch of the basket’s hood—then moved quickly, maneuvering the basket into the hollowed space. It was tight, but it was warmer than the open field had been, and safer by far.

“Stay quiet,” she repeated. “Don’t cry. Close your eyes. Close your ears.” She rose, her footsteps swift as she dashed away from the post.

From within the cradle, the children whimpered—crying softly for her to stay, for her to return.

But the elf was already gone. They watched through the narrow opening of the hollow as she ran toward the woods, casting glances left and right before vanishing down the slope and out of sight.

Silence returned.

The hill beyond the signpost lay bare. No movement. No sound. Just the wind and the settling ash. But surely, she wouldn’t run far.

She had made a promise.
She would come back for them.

Surely... she would come back.

The blue-eyed child closed his eyes, just as the elven woman had told him. He believed—perhaps hoped—that if they obeyed her, the danger would pass them by.

But shutting his eyes did not shut out the sounds.

They still heard it all—the hiss and rupture of fire devouring wood, the helpless screams of villagers, the howls of human-shaped beasts wielding flame and steel. Their cries echoed across the frozen dark, wrapped in wind and death.

There was nothing the children could do but remain silent, still, and hidden. To close their eyes. To wait.

Time dragged on as the darkness around them deepened, broken only by the spreading light of flames as they consumed the village. The fires moved slowly, steadily, swallowing one house after another, inching ever closer to the outskirts—where the signpost stood like a last, trembling sentinel.

The screams grew louder, but fewer. Dying away.
Then came voices—not in anguish, but in command.
Harsh, cruel voices. Barking orders.

From within their narrow sanctuary, the children heard the thundering hooves of a horse approaching. It stopped just outside the signpost. A new sound followed—the heavy breath of iron-bound men, armor clinking, boots crunching through ash and snow.

A voice, loud and venomous, rang out above the rest.

“It’s not enough to burn the village! You know our mandate!”
The speaker snarled, his tone full of authority and wrath.
“Until they’re found, we don’t eat!”

He raised his blade, pointing to the forest, to the fields, to the hills.
“Comb the countryside! The woods! The farmlands! Find them! We regroup at camp. Officers—keep the men in formation. No survivors!”

His horse reared, hooves slamming into the ground.
“Men! With me! Over the hill! If they ran westward—we’ll run them down!”

The ground shook as the marauders cheered and stormed past the signpost, breaking into squads of three, scattering into the countryside in pursuit of fleeing survivors.

Then—silence.
Tense, breathless silence.

Time passed. It became impossible to tell how long. The fires still burned, but the shouts and footfalls faded. Buildings collapsed into smoldering ruin, sending waves of heat and ash into the cold air.

The children did not dare move. Yet pain gnawed at them—a deep, dull ache in their bellies, the pang of hunger growing unbearable. They clung to each other, trembling. The silence outside did not bring peace. It brought only fear. Was someone still out there? Would they be found? Dragged out and thrown into the fire? Used... in ways they could not imagine?

An eternity seemed to pass.
Even the fires, once so alive and violent, had withered to dying embers. Still, the fear remained.

And then—they could hold back no longer. They wept.

Crying softly at first, then louder, wailing into the cold night. A plea to the world. A desperate cry for someone—anyone—to find them.

For any shred of mercy.

For someone to save them.

Cassius -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE
In the earliest hours of morning, a traveling caravan wound its way through the forest trails, northbound from the Castillian border. Their destination lay deep in the realm of Lothar, bound for the city of Conevico by way of the village of Reinhurst.

Snow blanketed the forest floor, muffling the steady trudge of hooves and boots alike.

At the head of one wagon, a brown-cloaked monk pressed forward through the drifts, his gloved hands steady on the bridle of a sturdy pony. His hood shaded most of his face, though the faint lantern light revealed a man handsome by human standards. Brown hair, matching beard, and sharp eyes framed a face of quiet intelligence—though his cheekbones were soft, his build lean. At five-foot-eleven, he moved with the easy grace of someone accustomed to silence and long roads.

Not far from him rode a noblewoman, her long brown hair mostly hidden beneath the hood of a wolf-pelt cloak. Her green eyes were bright and vigilant beneath its shadow. Beneath the pelt, she wore blue satin robes, rich with gold embroidery—fine garments tailored more for court than pilgrimage, yet layered with warmth against the cold.

As she guided her horse alongside the monk’s mount, her gaze swept across the caravan. She rode not as an outsider, but as a known and acknowledged member of this sacred journey—a pilgrimage in the name of AVO, the patron god of all creation. AVO, answerable only to the ineffable AO, keeper of existence itself.

Among those within the caravan, it was safer to say they followed the Romagnian Orthodox Temple, the dominant human faith venerating AVO with fervent doctrine. This temple stood in philosophical contrast to their elven counterparts, who too revered AVO—though in different traditions, with older and more mystic rites.

The caravan was vast: 172 souls—pilgrims, Templar knights, merchants, and wanderers—banded together for penitence, protection, and the promise of discovery. Their journey spanned the breadth of Balandaria, each step a march of faith through frost-covered lands.

Horse-drawn wagons creaked along the frozen road. Torchbearers spaced along the column cast flickering light through the trees, their flames held high against the gloom. All were bundled in thick cloaks and layers of wool—clothes meant less for fashion than survival.

Lady Vesna guided her horse through the thickening snow, drawing up beside the struggling monk. Her green eyes glittered with dry amusement as she looked down at him.

“The lands of Lothar in winter seem to be quite an obstacle, Father Cassius,” she observed lightly, making small talk as the caravan pressed on.

Cassius, his gloved hands locked around the pony’s bridle, glanced up over his shoulder. A wry smile tugged at his lips despite the strain.

“Oh, hardly,” he scoffed. “Northern Neustria is far colder—wouldn’t you agree, Lady Vesna?”

They knew one another well. Vesna was a noblewoman of Neustria’s high gentry, and Cassius, formerly Prior of Lycaron, the capital’s abbey. When the King of Neustria had appointed him as minister to this pilgrimage, his path had naturally aligned with hers. From the green fields of eastern Balandaria to the burning sands of Sehlaria in the far south, their pilgrimage had spanned months and miles. Now, as they entered the cold reaches of Lothar, they followed the northern coast toward their final destination: the Holy Citadel City of Theleto, seat of the Arch-Cleric of the Romagnian Temple.

Vesna smirked downcast towards the monk's struggles.

“You’re awfully confident for someone whose constitution nearly failed in the desert. I thought, with all your sweating and puffing, you’d freeze into a statue the moment we returned to frost.”

Cassius let out a meek laugh, his tone good-natured, tinged with irony.
“A fair point, my lady,” he admitted.

They rode on, Vesna scanning the tree line ahead, her posture sharp with vigilance. A knight passed them—a rider clad in white and red, the colors of the Knights Templar. His presence was a reminder that their journey was not only holy, but sanctioned and protected by the Ordo Cleri, the clerical body ruling from Theleto. Knights like these were not only symbols of divine authority, but a practical shield against the dangers of the wild roads.

Cassius broke the brief silence.
“Say what you will, Lady Vesna... I can always build a fire in weather like this. We’ve lumber enough, and I’ve no shortage of flint. But I’ll never have the patience—or the purse—to stay comfortable in Sehlaria. Gods be merciful—my northern blood just isn’t made for it.”

Vesna chuckled, a soft sound barely audible above the crunch of hooves on snow.
“Well said, Father.”

Cassius adjusted his cloak and added, “Once we arrive in Reinhurst and replenish our stores, we’ll be bound straight for Conevico. With any luck, no delays.”

“Quite,” Vesna replied dryly, “and from there, you can wait out this bloody winter in a cold sweat instead.”

Her tone was sharp with jest, but her face shifted suddenly—eyes narrowing, brow furrowing. She pulled her horse to a halt, prompting Cassius to stop as well, his concern immediate.

A ripple moved through the caravan.
From ahead on the road, two Templar scouts galloped back at speed, snow kicked up by their mounts. Their voices rose above the muffled morning air.

“STOP THE LINE!” one of them bellowed. “Rouse Commander Reickart! STOP THE LINE!”

Shouts rang out as the command echoed down the caravan. Horses snorted, wagons groaned, and pilgrims turned to each other in anxious confusion. Cassius instinctively reached into his satchel, fingers curling around the hilt of a concealed knife. Vesna scanned the treeline, eyes alert, her posture tense.

The scouts continued barking orders, urging the line to halt within the woods. The column of travelers slowed to a crawl, then a full stop. Whispers spread like fire through dry brush—what had happened? Why the urgency?

“Everyone, calm yourselves!” Vesna called out sharply, her voice cutting through the noise. “Stay with the caravan! Do not wander!” Her gaze locked onto a nearby penitent pilgrim.

“You there!” she snapped.
The man froze under her command.
“Tend to Prior Cassius’s pony. We’ll return shortly.”

Cassius handed off the reins without protest and jogged through the snow beside her, his boots crunching in her wake as they made their way to the front of the line where the scouts were gathering.

“What’s happened?” Cassius asked in a hushed voice.

Vesna held up a hand, silencing him with a quick gesture.
“Hold your tongue, Father. Idle chatter will only invite panic—and that’s the last thing we need.”

Cassius nodded. He understood well enough: no shepherd profits from a panicked flock.

They reached a covered wagon just as a Templar knight emerged from its rear flap. The bedding inside still bore the signs of disturbed sleep. Captain Reickart had clearly only just donned his armor, his gambeson straps still half-fitted, the chestplate slightly misaligned. His golden hair, long and tousled, framed a proud yet weathered face. A thick, untamed beard hugged his jaw. His hazel eyes—dull from age or burden—widened as he stepped down from the wagon, helmet tucked under one arm.

“What’s the situation?” he barked. “Why have you stopped the caravan?”

One of the scouts dismounted immediately, passing the reins of his steed to a waiting pilgrim. He stepped forward, placing a clenched fist over his heart in salute.

“Commander Reickart, sir—the village of Reinhurst is aflame. Thick smoke rises from the south. We sighted raiders—organized, well-equipped—riding out in three columns: North, Northwest, and East.”

Reickart’s jaw tensed. His eyes flared wide, and for a moment he looked ready to hurl his helmet to the snow. Instead, he froze mid-motion. His fingers gripped the leather lining inside the helm, then curled against the cold metal. He exhaled hard—controlled, grim—and with both hands raised the helmet and placed it atop his head.

“How many did you see? Did they carry a sigil?” Reickart asked, turning toward the wagon as he tightened the sword at his hip, still sheathed but hand at the ready.

“Thirty... maybe forty, at least,” the second scout replied. “All on foot—save for one. He rode east.”

“We didn’t see a banner,” added the first. “Didn’t dare get closer. Fire made them look like shadows until we saw them from behind. They weren’t rabble—kits were too clean for that.”

Reickart’s eyes narrowed.
“Then we secure the village—see what can be saved… or salvaged.”

He turned on his heel. “Father Cassius—I’ll need you armed, armored, and with your magic at my disposal. Lady Vesna, I require you to keep the caravan calm and in the woods until I send for you.”

He strode forward, addressing the entire column.
“Extinguish the torches! I want this place dark as the void. Huddle close in the wagons to preserve warmth—move!”

Cassius placed a hand to his chest in acknowledgment and rushed to the adjacent wagon—an armory for the changing of guards. Climbing inside, he began rummaging through crates of iron and wood. He retrieved a chainmail shirt and layered bracers for wrist and hand protection, setting them aside as he stripped off his robe. Clad now in a green tunic beneath a brown leather vest, he worked quickly to don the armor.

Outside, he heard Vesna’s voice rise in protest.
“Ser Reickart, I must protest—I can help—”

“You can,” Reickart cut in sharply, glaring up at her from the ground despite her elevated seat.
“You can help by keeping the caravan together. If Reinhurst hides something we can’t handle, someone must keep this expedition ready to move—or survive.”

Vesna’s mouth opened to argue, but the commander continued.
“Your help is appreciated. But I must insist on caution over bravado.”

Then, calling back toward the armory:
“Father Cassius—double time. We need haste, not just stealth. If the cold claims us first, there won’t be anything left to protect.”

Cassius found a flanged mace, simple but serviceable. As a cleric, he relied on healing magic, not the art of the blade—so his weapon was chosen for utility, not style. He threw the chainmail shirt over his tunic, wincing as the weight settled on his shoulders, then pulled his monk’s robe back on over it.

Clambering out into the now-darkened woods, Cassius was met by the same scout, who clasped him firmly on the shoulder.

“This way.”

They made their way to the front of the caravan, weaving through tense pilgrims and extinguished lanterns. As they passed Vesna, Cassius caught her scowling in the saddle, white-knuckled on her reins.

But when their eyes met, her expression softened just enough.
“We’ll be back, milady!” Cassius called over his shoulder.

She said nothing, but turned her horse with a sharp jerk and began barking orders to the caravan, her voice cutting clean through the cold. For now, her role was to protect the helpless and keep hope intact.

The Templar soldiers gathered at the front of the caravan, their breaths misting in the cold air. Reickart adjusted the final straps of his armor, the steel plates clinking as he stood to his full height. Cassius arrived moments later, falling in among the levies and volunteers. The priest kept to the rear of the column, where healers were best suited.

Reickart stepped forward and raised his voice.
“RIGHT!” The entire formation stiffened, turning toward him.
“The village of Reinhurst is under attack—highwaymen, if the scouts are correct. Well-equipped, possibly led by a robber baron. If they’re still looting, we hold the advantage of surprise.”

He pointed to the rising column of smoke on the horizon. “By the Light of AVO, and under our holy mandate, we will secure that village and save who and what remains.”

He turned to the scouts.
“Take positions—bushes, hills, treelines. I want eyes on every angle.”
Then to the knights: “We march in skein formation, straight into the village heart. Shake the tree, see what falls. Priorities: Secure. Rescue. Regroup.”

He paused amidst nods among his soldiers, gaze firm.
“If you see someone in a burning house, do not engage—inform me immediately.”

“Sir!” the soldiers shouted in unison, stamping the frozen ground. Each pounded a clenched fist against their chest in salute.

“Scouts—advance!” Reickart unsheathed his longsword in one smooth motion, its edge glinting against the haze of firelight.“Vanguard—skein formation! Move!”

The scouts peeled off first, vanishing into the dark forest flanking the road, bowmen and light-footed blades darting like shadows toward the outskirts of the burning village. Behind them, the heavily armored Templar soldiers formed a tight arrowhead—skein formation—marching forward with deliberate speed.

Reickart led from the point, his sword leveled like a compass needle toward the enemy.

Cassius moved behind the formation—his role not to fight, but to mend. The cold metal of his chainmail felt heavier now, not from its weight, but from what uncertainty lay ahead.

The march quickened as they ascended the low hill leading to the village. Even from afar, the heat from the fires rolled out like a tide, searing against their skin despite the winter frost.

And then—they crested the hill. The village green came into view... or what was left of it.

Massacre.

The snow had turned red, stained by spilled blood. Bodies lay strewn across the field—villagers, young and old, hacked, slashed, and pierced, left to die and freeze in grotesque poses. The fires still burned, their orange glow casting flickering shadows across the scene. Snowflakes fell softly over the corpses, a quiet shroud settling over carnage.

No sound came from the village now. Only the hiss of fire, the creak of collapsing timbers, and the crunch of armored boots approaching a graveyard that had once been home.

"By the blood of the Martyrs." One of the soldiers recoiled with shock.
"Crucifix." Cassius curses as while his hands were open, he quickly reaches to his cross shaped iconic amulet.

A sudden hesitation from the soldiers stirs before Reickart pounded his breastplate which sharpened their attention. "Skein left! Check the north end of the village. Skein right! With me! Cassius, check for survivors amongst the dead." Reickart commanded. "Move!"

Cassius felt a wrenching dread deep in his gut.
But it wasn’t the dead he feared.
It was their faces.

He had served many years as an adventurer, holy knight, a cleric—alongside holy knights, in the ranks of his nation’s secular armies, in far-off fields and burned cities. Battlefields were wretched enough, but at least there was a cold logic to them. Soldiers bore arms. They had made choices. There, one could adopt a necessary callousness that kept them alive.

But this—this was different. This was slaughter.

Here, no one amongst the innocent had chosen anything. Here the innocent—the helpless, the defenseless, the elderly, the children. No blood shed amidst soldiers, only blood of the uninvolved.

He moved among the corpses, robes dragging through crimson-stained snow. Faces emerged through the haze—frozen in agony, cut down in flight, curled in futile attempts to shield others. He clutched his amulet tightly, fingers digging into the worn metal.

His voice quavered but held:
"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat eis. Fidelium animae, per misericordiam AVO, requiescant in pace. Amen."
(Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon them. And may the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of AVO, rest in peace. Amen.)

Tears welled in his eyes. But still he walked on, from one end of the village to the other, lips pressed tight, jaw locked. Hope waned with every step.

The Templar soldiers dug through rubble, overturned broken beams, lifted charred remains with gauntleted hands. No voices answered. No hands reached back.

Then—A crack.

A loud, splintering crash broke the silence as a house collapsed under its own burned weight. The sharp sound startled the entire search party. Cassius flinched, his heart hammering. He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing hard, steadying himself.

The soldiers resumed their sweep, wary and silent. Cassius paused. He wiped his eyes with the crook of his arm, blinking back the fog of smoke and sorrow.

Then he heard it. A sound cutting through the stillness—soft, but piercing. Crying.
No... two sets of cries. Infants.

Cassius turned, eyes narrowing, ears straining to confirm what he had just heard. The sound came from beyond the area already cleared—deeper into the ruined village, near the opposite end from where they had entered. It was a place not yet secured by the Templars.

For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
Then he gripped the icon at his chest, its familiar weight grounding him.
He ran.

Boots crunching through ice and ash, he weaved his way between the bodies, leaping over broken carts, dodging blackened debris. His heart pounded—not with fear now, but with fierce urgency.

They were still alive.

“Father Cassius!” a soldier called from the northern end of the village, spotting him breaking formation. “Cassius! Get back in formation!” Commander Reickart’s voice followed, sharp and clipped. He grit his teeth, then motioned his squad forward. “Damn it—Cassius!”

The prior ran anyway.

He reached the crossroads just beyond the edge of the village—a juncture that branched into a snow-coated hill, the shadowed forest, and the farmlands to the east. A weathered signpost stood watch, its wooden arms pointing the way.

The cries were clearer now—closer. But still, he couldn’t tell where they were coming from. They echoed strangely, muffled by wood, snow, or perhaps both.

“Knight Commander!” Cassius called back, waving as he turned on his heel, trying to triangulate the sound. “Over here! I can hear them!”

Reickart arrived moments later, flanked by the reformed skein formation. His gaze swept the field—forest, road, farmland—for movement, tracks, signs of life or ambush. Nothing but wind and the distant hiss of fire.

“Soldiers!” he barked. “Fan out—search the fields for tracks, drag marks, anything that might tell us who did this.”

Cassius stepped carefully toward the signpost, his brows furrowed. “They left their children here. But why?”

“Most likely because they had to,” Reickart replied grimly, moving beside him. “Bandits aren’t often organized—but they’re relentless. A child would slow escape. Give away a hiding place.”

He glanced at the signpost. “And children don’t fetch coin. They’re mouths to feed, not merchandise. If the raiders saw them... maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they didn’t notice. Or maybe...”

Reickart didn’t finish the thought.

Cassius dropped to one knee, crawling around the base of the post, inspecting its perimeter. When he circled to the far side—facing away from the village—he froze.

“My word...” Cassius leaned in, brushing away snow, and revealed the carved entrance.

Within the hollow of the signpost was a woven basket. And in that basket—two infants, bundled in soft, tattered blankets, their cries piercing in the cold. “That’s... that’s a lot of effort to hide a child,” Cassius murmured, almost stunned by the craftsmanship.

“Probably some village youth made the hole for games,” Reickart offered, kneeling beside him. “Hide and seek. Children are clever like that.”

Cassius reached in gently, pulling the basket free from its hiding place and holding it close. The infants cried louder in the open air, their cheeks red from cold, eyes glistening.

“There, there... let’s get you out of there,” Cassius murmured, soothingly. He opened the blankets, examined their clothes, his frown deepening.

“No names. No markers. Nothing to tell us who they are.”
Reickart exhaled through his nose, rising back to his feet.
“The village is secure,” he said. “I’ll order the caravan forward. We'll begin tending to the dead.”

He paused, then turned a hard glance down toward the priest.
“But you—Father—you need to stay in formation.”

Cassius looked up, startled. Reickart continued his lecture looking down upon Cassius.

“What if those cries were bait? A trap? You’re a priest, not a scout.”
Cassius’s mouth parted to speak, but he looked away.
“…Sorry, ser,” he said quietly.

Reickart turned toward the village, reaching beneath his gorget to pull out a small wooden whistle. He brought it to his lips and blew a sharp high note—clear and piercing—followed by a low, droning call. The signal was unmistakable: all clear.

From the treeline, a scout emerged and fired a single arrow into the sky—its flaming tip arcing through the haze before landing in a snowy field near the forest's edge, where the caravan lay in wait. The signal was received.

Cassius watched the fire fade into smoke, then looked down at the infants in his arms. Their cries had softened into hiccups and whimpers, tiny bodies warmed against his own.

“For whom is your family, little ones?” he murmured. “Did they even make it?”
He removed one glove, laying his warm palm against their chilled brows.
“Shameful,” he whispered. “The times we live in—where this can happen.”

Behind him, Reickart paced in tight circles, his expression tense. Then, with a sudden motion, he slammed his boot into the side of the signpost.

“A pox on it all,” he growled.

His gaze swept over the fields and the fringes of the forest. Nothing stirred but the wind. The raiders had moved on.

“We’ll need to change our course,” he said grimly. “There’s nothing left here to salvage—and I suspect the next villages will fare no better. Until we reach Conevico, we’re vulnerable. Not just to attack—but to cold. To hunger.”

Cassius looked up, cradling the basket. “But what of the children? What of their family? The people here—”

Reickart cut him off with a firm voice, tempered by a hand resting on the prior’s shoulder.
“They had families. They don’t have homes.”
He met Cassius’s troubled gaze as he continued his observations.

“We can’t send scouts into the woods—not in the dead of winter, not while escorting civilians. We don’t have the numbers or the supplies. The risks are too great.”

He looked back toward the village.
“It’s four days to Conevico. And the cold will only grow crueler to those without fire or shelter.”
He rejoined his eyes back into Cassius's, his expression reserved with coldness.
“Do you understand me?”

Cassius hesitated, his brows tight with conflict. He looked down at the infants, then back toward the smoldering rooftops. The weight of it pressed against his chest like a prayer unfinished. But he nodded.

“…Very well.”

He exhaled slowly, dread and relief twisting together in his gut. They had saved someone. Two small lives. But so many more had been lost.

“I’ll make inquiries in the city,” he added. “Ask after the village. The families. Someone might know them.”

“That would be best,” Reickart said, his voice softening. “We make camp here for the day. A pyre for the departed. Then we move on.”

From below, the caravan began its cautious approach. Soldiers filed past the crossroads, up the hill. The grim task of collecting and honoring the dead now began—wood for the pyres, cloth for the fallen.

Cassius said nothing more.
He held the children tightly and bowed his head.

Vesna -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

From the shadows of the southern forest near Reinhurst, the caravan waited—tensed in silence—for a signal... or a sign to flee deeper into the woods.

Lady Vesna remained mounted, her eyes fixed on the horizon. A detachment of Templar scouts flanked her, stationed to provide minimal security for those who remained behind. Though the caravan was not without able fighters, the balance was steeply in the realm of civilians—pilgrims, merchants, penitents. Far more to protect against petty wildlife than to wield arms against bandits. That knowledge made the waiting all the more unnerving.

Then—finally—the distant shriek of a whistle.

A moment later, a flaming arrow traced across the sky and landed in a snowy field. The signal that it was safe to approach.

Vesna spurred her horse into motion.
“Move out!” she shouted. “Keep tight formation—eyes on the perimeter!”

The caravan stirred to life, creaking forward through frost-hardened ruts and flurrying snow. Vesna rode alongside the moving line, scanning the woods even as the heat from the nearby village fires began to reach them—uncomfortably warm against the cold air.

At the edge of the treeline, Templar scouts emerged to intercept the approaching column. They redirected the caravan away from the village itself, steering them east toward the farm fields.

Vesna reined in and rode up to intercept the lead scout.

“What devilry’s happened here?” she demanded. “Any signs—any indication at all?”
The scout exchanged a brief glance with his partner before answering.
“We… we don’t know,” he admitted. “It looks like senseless slaughter. Whole place was torched.”

The soldier nodded toward the smoke curling over the hill.
“The retinue is building pyres. We had to—disease will spread otherwise.”

Vesna exhaled, jaw tight as her eyes climbed the slope toward the ruined village. From here, she could just make out the flicker of torches and the dark silhouettes of soldiers working among the dead.

“The commander’s ordered the caravan to set camp in the eastern fields until the salvage is complete and a full account made,” the scout added.

She gave a small, bitter scoff. “Might as well,” she muttered. “Carry on.”

With a kick of her heels, her horse broke into a smooth trot, circling along the detour around the village. Ahead, the caravan was beginning to settle—tents pitched in fresh snow, fires kindled to keep back the cold, wagons unloaded of supplies and gear to prepare the land for a brief but necessary stay.

Vesna dismounted near the edge of the growing encampment. A pilgrim stepped forward and took her reins, leading the horse off toward the hitch posts, where hay was being piled for the beasts.

She arrived just in time to see the mess tent's foundations hammered down, its first tables being braced and leveled.

“How are we set up here?” she asked, her voice brisk.

One of the scullery maids looked up from where she was unloading a crate of dried meats and root vegetables onto a butcher’s table. She set it down with a soft grunt, then offered a nod.

“We’ll be warm, my lady. Might not be rich, but it’ll fill bellies.” Around them, the smell of kindling and cooked grain began to rise through the air.

“Quite well,” the scullery maid confirmed, brushing her hands on her apron. “We’ve folk setting snares and traps along the forest lines and in the eastern fields. Should be some game before long.”

“Alright,” Vesna replied with a nod.

She drew back her hood, pulling it free from her shoulders and scalp, letting the cold air touch her face. Her long, dark hair spilled loose for a moment before she quickly gathered it into a neat ponytail, tying it back with practiced efficiency.

Then, without ceremony, she moved to help.

The mess tent had taken shape swiftly—comprising a butcher’s table, a cutting board, a preparation surface, and a cooking fire already crackling beneath a potluck cauldron. The aroma of roasted grain and dried stock was beginning to rise, signaling the first steps of breakfast.

At Vesna’s direction, the meal for the morning would be pheasant frumenty, a warm and filling dish suited for both nobles and commoners alike. If the hunters and trappers returned with hare, it would be diced and added into the mix—making for a richer, hard-earned feast that might offer a touch of comfort in these grim hours. Despite the blood and ash still clinging to the horizon, the camp stirred to life.

A tall figure moved from the line of supply carts, a bronze skinned man shouldering a beam of pine over one arm and a sack of iron spikes under the other. He moved with a tempered gait—steady-footed and purposeful, even across frozen mud and uneven ground. He set the timber down beside the mess tent, adjusted the leather strap of his tool harness, and gave the fire pit a quick glance, judging the bracing angles of the spit.

“Post’s leaning half a finger to the left,” he said, voice warm and marked with the rounded consonants of coastal Castillia. “It’ll sag once the cauldron’s full.”

One of the younger kitchen hands blinked at him, half-offended—until Vesna herself looked and saw the carpenter was right. The cookfire stand had been hastily leveled in the softening snow.

Without waiting for permission, the man knelt, produced a small wedge from a pouch at his belt, and tapped it beneath the back post. A few quick strikes with his mallet, and the lean disappeared. Satisfied, he stood, brushing wood dust and snow from his knees.

Lady Vesna tilted her head. “Quite the eye for detail. You’re one of the pilgrims?”

“Si, my lady,” he replied, offering a small bow—not stiff, but respectful. “Alvar Luego. Carpenter of Selenga. Shipwright’s apprentice… or I was, before the Guild ran out of work.”

Vesna's brow arched, but she said nothing at first.

“I joined with the caravan,” Alvar continued, gesturing absently toward the wagon train. “Looking to see more of the world, learn more than what keel and mast can teach. There's plenty to take inspiration from in the far-away places of the world.”

“Is there now?” Vesna asked, mildly amused. The heat of the fire played against the sharpness in her tone.

“So I've been told, and I imagine there is,” he said, with a small smile. “And if I may—your mess tent could use a second crossbeam. Snow seems to fall rather heavy here and if it snows again the roof’ll sag by sundown.”

Vesna nodded slowly. “Then see to it, fix it.”

Alvar gave a single, short nod. "Normally I would, but ... we would need already prepared wood. I didn't bring an entire workshop with me to shape and temper wood properly."

"Alright." Vesna acknowledged. "What do you propose?"

The carpenter looks towards the ruined village, a calculative expression upon his face. "I'm not sure if it would hold it, but there might be functional wood we could take from the village."

Vesna expressed a less than hopeful expression. "I would need Reickart's permission, right now its ... quite a scene and they need to prepare the dead before it becomes a pandemical issue."

He rubs his five-o-clock covered chin with a grumble of understanding. "I'll keep out of their way, could you inquire on my behalf while I get this camp built up?"

To this, the noblewoman nodded. "Certainly, I'll inform him when he visits the camp. For now though, I've got to get people fed and this camp coordinated."

With that, the Castillian carpenter nods his head with a two-finger salute from brow to outcasted sway. Departing from the tent and back to work.

From within the tent, Vesna watched as the sky slowly began to change—inky black giving way to muted blue and the faintest blush of dawn. Another column of smoke had begun to rise from the village beyond the hill, darker than the kitchen fires. It signaled that the pyres had been lit. The dead were being honored, and returned to ash.

Vesna sighed.

She stood over the potluck cauldron, slowly stirring a thick honied porridge as the kitchen crew worked around her. Cutlets of giblets and diced pheasant breast were being dropped into the broth one by one, the scent of savory grain rising with the morning chill.

Then—the cries of infants.
Soft, high-pitched, and unmistakable.
Everyone in the tent froze.

“…What on earth?” one of the cooks muttered, knife in hand as he paused mid-dice over the vegetable board.

Vesna’s brow furrowed. She looked up from the bubbling cauldron and set the ladle gently against the rim. Wiping her hands on a towel, she stepped to the tent’s entryway, the flap rustling as she pushed it aside.

Outside, a crowd had gathered at the edge of the encampment.

There, returning from the village path, was Cassius—the meek cleric—cradling a basket in his arms.

Soft blankets swaddled the source of the cries: two infants, fussing and wriggling in the pale morning light. Around him, womenfolk leaned in with coos and worried hands, while the men voiced questions—quick, curious, confused.

Vesna stared. This was not the return she had envisioned for the prior. She’d half expected a burnt relic, a wounded man, maybe a survivor with a tale.

Not... children.

Cassius, gently excusing himself from the circle of onlookers, turned in place until he spotted her. His eyes brightened with recognition—and perhaps a silent plea.

He made his way quickly across the snow to the mess tent, basket in arms.
Vesna stood in the entryway, hands firmly on her hips.
She said nothing at first—just stared at him, brow arched, expression utterly bewildered.
Cassius stopped before her, catching his breath. The infants whimpered softly in his arms.

“…Lady Vesna,” he said sheepishly.

“Well now,” Vesna began, a slow smile curling her lips. “I’m glad things didn’t take a turn for the worse for you.”

Cassius scoffed, clearly a little ruffled.
“I’m older than you, your ladyship. I can manage well enough without your supervision.”
He adjusted the basket in his arms for a better hold.

Vesna gave a mock gasp.
“Two hours out of my sight, and you come back with children. What’s a girl to think?”

She chuckled, then laughed outright, eyes closing as the amusement took her. It took Cassius a moment, but when he realized she was teasing, he sighed and smiled in surrender.

But her laughter faded quickly when she saw the look on his face.
“They were the only survivors,” Cassius said softly. “The rest…”

The words hung in the air like a weight. Vesna’s smile vanished.
She stepped closer, kneeling beside the basket. The infants looked up at her with wide, blinking eyes—one blue, one green. Her expression faltered.

“…That’s awful,” she murmured. “How could something like this happen to anyone?”
She didn’t expect an answer. She stood again, brushing her cloak back, then looked to Cassius.
“They must be starving. We’re making porridge potluck—would you wait by the fire? I’ll bring some out.”

“Certainly,” Cassius replied. “Something rich in milk, if possible. Gods know how long they’ve gone without it.”

Vesna nodded and disappeared into the tent. Cassius turned toward the central firepit, its flame licking high into the cold air. Benches ringed the blaze, and he gently set the basket atop one. The warmth reached out to meet the children.

“Right then,” he murmured. “Let’s get you two something to eat, shall we? We’ve a bit of a journey ahead of us. Find your parents... or where you’re meant to go.”

In the tent, Vesna stirred the cauldron, skimming off the thickest part of the broth and spooning it into two wooden bowls. The porridge steamed as she stepped out into the snow and approached the fire.

“Here we are,” she said. “Mind if I take one of them off your hands?”

“By all means,” Cassius replied, reaching in to lift the blue-eyed child. He handed the infant over, exchanging him for a bowl of porridge. Vesna took the child gently into her arms, her movements practiced and sure.

They sat side by side, each feeding one of the twins. The children, fussy at first, soon settled—content, even cheerful—as warm porridge touched their tongues.

“This one’s rather well-mannered,” Vesna said, amused. She wiped a bit of porridge from the child’s lip with her thumb, gazing down at him with a softened expression.

Cassius, meanwhile, was struggling. His charge had seized the wooden spoon with his gums and refused to let go, hugging it like a prize.

“I think he’s under the impression the spoon is the meal,” Cassius muttered with concern.
Vesna laughed under her breath. But then, her tone shifted.
“Is there… any effort to look for other survivors?” she asked quietly. “Maybe their parents escaped?”

Cassius’s eyes dropped to the fire, the smile fading from his face.

“No, Lady Vesna,” Cassius said quietly. “Times aren’t so favorable—not even without the burden of winter. Reickart has elected to press on.”

Vesna looked stricken by the news. She sat upright, bracing as though to rise in protest—but slowly settled back down. She knew all too well: without the supplies Reinhurst was meant to provide, what little salvage there was wouldn’t last. Feeding the caravan would become a race against time and weather.

Before she could gather her words, Cassius gave a tug on the spoon lodged in the green-eyed child’s mouth. The infant refused to let go, whining when the spoon finally popped free.

“That one’s quite the feisty one,” Vesna quipped, trying to lift the mood.
“He’ll be a hard child to spoil,” Cassius replied, dipping the spoon again into the porridge and offering it back. “And yours?”

Vesna smiled, glancing down.
“Quite the opposite. The moment he saw me—quiet, polite, patient. A picture-perfect angel.”

As they continued to feed the twins by the fire, a scullery maid arrived with two bowls of warm porridge, setting them on the bench beside them.

“Oats might be a bit plain, but maybe they’ve not yet grown fussy,” she said kindly, smiling at the sight of the children contentedly eating.

The green-eyed infant cried out again the moment his mouth was empty, drawing gentle laughter from the group gathered near the fire. The maid chuckled before retreating back to the mess tent.

With the twins fed, the adults finally ate. Cassius sighed as he set his empty bowl aside.

“The gods be good we were here today,” he said, eyes closing. “But perhaps not soon enough.”

Vesna had only finished half her meal. She was focused on the child in her arms, smoothing his hair with idle tenderness. But she looked to Cassius, sensing the grief in his tone.

“They’re with AVO now,” she said softly. “Those who didn’t survive. And those still living… there is always hope, even when there is nothing left.”

She glanced down again.
“…Do they have names?”

“None that I could find,” Cassius replied, frowning. “That makes all this harder. How do I file a temple notice for nameless children?”

“The village is easy to reference,” Vesna reasoned. “If their parents survived and come looking, the Temple notices will reach them eventually.”

“And if they didn’t survive?”

A silence followed—long, heavy, and filled with the things neither could say aloud.

“…Then I suppose it’s up to you to name them, Father Cassius,” Vesna said gently. She dipped her spoon back into her porridge, her free arm still wrapped protectively around the child.

“That seems... too personal,” Cassius murmured. “For a stranger like me.”

“It’s important for children to have names. Makes growing up easier,” Vesna said with a soft smile. “Who knows if these two even received the Rite of Baptism? They don’t look like they’ve been in the world long.”

Cassius considered that, then shrugged—half thoughtful, half resigned.
“If that’s the case... well, what right do I have?”
He glanced down at the green-eyed child, then over at Vesna.

“Why don’t we both name them,” he suggested. “That way, when their parents return—or if they never do—we can share the blame.”

Vesna scoffed, laughing quietly.
“Careful, Prior Cassius. I am married, as you very well know. Discussing the names of children just come into the world? People might talk.”

“Oh, come off it,” he replied with a grin. Then, rising from his bench with the infant in his arms, he walked over and sat beside her.

“I’ll name this one... Niall.”
“Niall?” Vesna repeated. “That’s not a human name. At least, not one I know.”
“It’s Elvish,” Cassius said, smiling as he balanced the spoon in the child’s mouth.
“It means Gift of the Gods. A name for someone destined to give much to the world.”

Vesna looked down at the boy.
“A gift... left in a smoldering ruin.”

“In a signpost, of all things,” Cassius added. “Ironic, perhaps, that we find lost souls under one.”
He looked over at her.
“Well? What about your picture-perfect angel?”

Vesna gazed into the bright blue eyes staring up at her, thoughtful. Then softly:
“…Sebastian.”
Cassius raised an eyebrow.
“Sebastian. A name of dignity and strength. Very kingly.”

“These are good names,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I’ll pray they grow to reflect them.”
Around them, the camp stirred. The last scouts and soldiers returned, dusted in frost. The night sky softened—from pitch black to deepest blue, where the barest brush of gold teased the coming of dawn.


“…It’s finally dawn,” Vesna said softly, her eyes tracing the pale gold blooming along the horizon. Cassius joined her gaze, the firelight dancing behind them.
“This concludes a very long night,” he sighed—relieved, as if something heavy had been lifted from his shoulders.

From the slope above, Reickart’s voice echoed as he descended into the camp, issuing orders to the soldiers now stirring with the morning.

“Prior Cassius! Lady Vesna!” he called, making his way toward them. “Who’s on foraging duty before we move out?”

Cassius turned, a touch flustered.
“Ah—it would have been me, but—” He glanced down at the basket, the twins nestled within. His point was clear he had other priorities.

Vesna rose smoothly, Sebastian still in her arms.
“I’ll take over foraging. No worry.”

Reickart raised a brow, visibly torn.
“Your m—Lady Vesna, are you sure? One of your retainers, perhaps—”

“I’m on pilgrimage, Ser Reickart. Not a pleasure tour.” Vesna adjusted the infant in her arms with practiced ease. “And I do know a huckleberry from a henbane. You’ve taken my coin, my favors, and my supplies—surely you can take my help.”

The commander studied her for a long moment, then sighed and nodded.
“Very well. But stay close to the village. Take no chances. These weren’t just common brigands—they were likely deserters from Lothar’s army. Trained, armed, and without mercy. Civilian women won’t dissuade them.”

He turned to Cassius.
“Father—we’ll need you in the village for the departing rites once we’ve finished the burning of the dead.”
Cassius nodded solemnly.

As Reickart moved off to coordinate the morning’s priorities, Vesna turned to Cassius, smiling.
“Well then, Father Cassius,” she said, handing Sebastian over with care, “while you go learn how to be an actual father, I’ll be putting dinner on the table.”

Cassius accepted the infant, one arm already juggling Niall, the other now wrapping securely around Sebastian. He watched as Vesna peeled off her wolf-pelt cloak and swapped it for a woodsman’s tunic layered over her fine blue silks. Heavy brown trousers and a sturdy belt followed. One of her retainers brought her a pair of worn leather gloves.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Cassius asked, as Sebastian nuzzled into his chest and Niall continued to numb his own fingers.

“I’d rather stretch my legs. Besides, if you knew how repetitive noblewomen can be, you’d know a chatty weaving circle is hardly soul-sustaining.” She fitted her gloves with practiced familiarity. “If you really want to take a turn, we’ll trade off. Me today, you tomorrow?”

“…Fine,” Cassius relented. “But I’m not interested in making this a contest. Leave that to your husband, your handmaidens—and whatever rivals you’ve left back at court.”

Vesna smirked. “What’s life without a bit of sport?”
She rummaged through one of the wagons, strapping on a belt with a sheathed dagger and a burlap sack for gathering. “Dinner at dusk, then?”

“Provided you’re alive.”
“Provided I’m not skinning deserters by nightfall,” she replied with a wink.
“Please don’t joke about that,” Cassius said, unease creeping into his voice. “Don’t go after them, Vesna. Please.”

She gave a half-smile, slipping her bow across her back.
“I won’t. I promise. Just dinner.”

And with that, she turned, her boots crunching across the snow as she made for the woods—her form disappearing into the thinning mists of dawn, following the path of the scouts’ snares.

Cassius looked down as Sebastian stirred, wriggling and glancing about with wide eyes.
“What’s this?” he murmured. “Miss your mother already? Or maybe Lady Vesna?” He smiled gently.
“She’ll be back soon, little one. I promise.”

He tucked the children snugly back into their basket, wrapping them tightly with the same soft blanket they had been found in.

“Come now, let’s set you to rest for a bit,” he said, lifting the basket with a slow breath. The morning light spread across the fields like gold drawn thin across frost.

And so, with two lives in hand, Father Cassius turned toward the camp’s heart—toward prayer, duty, and whatever came next.

Sebastian -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Morning, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

Time went on in the encampment with the children resting within a tent along with Cassius while the world goes on. The tent itself is most humble in space and appearance with a cot, a footlocker and enough space for a single chair to be set down for its inhabitant to sit down. The basket rests now with Cassius next to the cot where the three of them dream and sleep away their fatigue.

The blue-eyed child, Sebastian was also blissfully dreaming in the warm embrace of his blanket next to Niall as the days passes on ... and yet ...

The tent’s silence folded around the sleeping trio like a held breath. Sebastian's fingers twitched. And in the space between seconds, he was no longer there.

He awoke with a gasp, palms sunk into sand that shimmered with pinpricks of starlight — not reflected light but born of it. The grains twinkled beneath him as if each one carried the memory of a sun. Around him swayed silver reeds as tall as men, their long stalks gleaming like bladegrass but whispering like silk.

The sky was a madness of color — violet, gold, emerald — spinning like stained glass cast into orbit. No sun. No moon. Only unanchored light. He rose shakily to his knees, brushing grains from his palms. The wind carried no sound but his breath. The reeds bent as though aware of his movement.

The horizon stretched into forever. Not empty — but dreading something unsaid.

Sebastian began to crawl. The reeds parted gently, but each step forward dragged at his bones. It wasn’t pain, but something worse — that sense of having already walked too far, of having left something behind that could never be named.

Fatigue poured into his arms, his legs. With a whimper, he collapsed, laying his head against the sand. The stars within the grains blinked once, then held still.

Then came the sound.
Footsteps.
Soft, deliberate, approaching across the sand with the elegance of falling snow.

He tried to lift his head. Couldn’t.
The reeds parted behind him, and a shadow fell across his back.

A woman’s voice — not harsh, not warm, but like a bell remembered from childhood — murmured:
“…Ah.”

He felt her kneel beside him, the pressure of her weight shifting the sand beneath his arm. A cool hand pressed gently to his brow.

“You aren’t supposed to be here, little one,” she said, with a sigh that folded into a smile. “My whole effort was to make sure you would flee from this place.”

Her thumb smoothed his temple, brushing sand from the curve of his eye.
“But I suppose,” she whispered, “it is just as well. You are tied to this place after all.”
The sound of the reeds swaying returned — but this time, it sounded more like breathing.

Her thumb still traced the shape of his brow, moving in quiet circles as if remembering a lullaby.
“Let us avail ourselves somewhere else,” she said, as her voice carried something older than command — it was the way moonlight touches water: expectant, gentle, inescapable.

Sebastian blinked as the world around him unfolded.

The reeds drew back like curtains, not bending but withdrawing, as if out of reverence. The sand beneath him flowed like a tide, and he did not sink — he was lifted, standing now though he had not risen, held by some force that remembered who he was better than he did.

Before him now stretched a new domain. A garden.

But not one of mortal planting. The air was thick with the scent of impossible flowers — platinum-colored lilies with mirrored petals, pale blossoms shaped like tongues of flame, vines that wove music rather than leaves. Trees of mithril rose from the ground like frozen lightning, their bark shimmering with threads of starlight. Their branches chimed faintly in the breeze, a sound like distant glass breaking in slow motion.

"Now ... rise." She bade, taking Sebastian's hand in hers and lifting the infant to a stand causing Sebastian to coo in surprise and with mirth as he stumbled with one foot atop of the other, eliciting the blue-haired woman's laughter in delight.

Scooping up Sebastian into her arms the woman walked ahead, platinum staff in her other hand. Its twin serpents wound around each other like lovers caught mid-breath, their metal eyes faintly glowing with inner fire, the intent to devour a spherical red jewel.

She turned.
Held out her hand.

Sebastian hesitated. His small hand trembled as it reached out, slipping into hers.
Her skin was cool — like snow that never melts.

“You carry a seed, little one.” she murmured, crouching again to meet his gaze. “But the soil you are planted in is still dreaming in nightmares.”

With her free hand, she touched her staff to her chest, then to his. A breath passed between them.
It wasn’t wind. It was knowing.

Light shimmered from her fingertips — not bright, but deep, the color of moonlit water. It seeped into his skin, and Sebastian gasped. For a moment, he could feel every tree in the garden breathing with him. The flowers bent toward him. The sky quieted.

"It will not be easy," she instills her knowledge to him. "For what your roots reach for, you must give back in kind, and pray it is enough for all."

As the light faded from her fingertips, she looked down upon her charge, a faint smile across her expression. She brushes her lips against his temple. “When darkness comes,” she whispered, “I will be there for you.”

She then joined her brow to his with closed eyes, a wistful moment of connection.
"... I shall return you back to your place in the world, but it gladdens my heart to see you and your brother safe."

Sebastian gurgled and reached his hands out to the blue-haired woman whose golden eyes looked down upon the child with happiness. 

"It is time. Time to awaken." spoke the woman but her voice was mixed with another, another woman's as the world begins to tither and distort as the scenery surrounding his visuals.

Cassius -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Evening, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

“Come on, wake up now.”
Vesna’s voice was soft, but insistent.

Cassius stirred with a groan, blinking his eyes open. The noblewoman stood over him, gently shaking his shoulder. In her arms, Sebastian wriggled, eyes already open.

“The camp’s being dismantled,” she informed him. “We’re to gather for the final prayers before the caravan departs.”

Cassius rubbed his face, then sat up on the edge of his cot, leaning forward with a tired exhale. He looked past the open tent flap. The sky had begun to turn a deep, burnished gold—the sun’s last light warming the cold bones of the day. All around, the encampment stirred with activity as tents came down and supplies were packed into wagons.

“I suppose I’m needed for that,” he muttered.
His gaze dropped to the children. Niall still slept peacefully, while Sebastian was now looking at him with sleepy curiosity. Cassius stood slowly.

“Let me splash off at the trough, then I’ll join you at the village,” he said.

Vesna nodded, kneeling to retrieve the basket. She lifted it with care, both infants now bundled warmly inside. “We’ll see you there,” she said, and turned toward the path.

The village—what remained of it—waited ahead. Blackened timber, collapsed beams, and charred foundations formed a crude outline of what once had been homes. The air still carried the scent of brimstone and scorched wood, but beneath it was something else—cleaner. The cloying rot of death had given way to the harsh smell of purification. The ashes had settled after the pyres had burned.

The knights had done their work. The bodies had been consumed and reduced to fragments—bone crushed to powder, buried among the rubble. No headstones, but hallowed ground all the same.

By the time Cassius arrived, freshly washed and robed, the villagers, pilgrims, and soldiers had gathered in a solemn semi-circle. Vesna stood near the front, the basket at her feet, her arms folded as the wind caught the ends of her cloak. Cassius stepped beside her, saying nothing.

Commander Reickart stood before them all—positioned at the edge of the burial site, the ruined village as his backdrop. He took a long moment of silence, staring into the place where so many lives had ended.

When he finally spoke, his voice was clear. Strong, but weighed with meaning.

“Though we did not know a single soul among this community,” he began, “and though we may never know their names, their faces, or what they hoped for in life... we, as humans, recognize the shared burden of hardship.”

He paused. A gust of wind passed through the hollowed village, scattering ash into the air.

“As faithful travelers,” he continued, “we understand that when tragedy visits others, we are not meant to look away—but to stand beside them. And when death comes, as it always does, we remember—"
His eyes shifted to the basket at Vesna’s feet. “—the good and the young are taken into the arms of AVO. To be carried forward. To be given another chance at light.”

“It is a crime before all eyes,” Reickart declared, his voice echoing over the field of ash and earth. “What happened here will not be forgotten.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

“I know many of you have voiced your anger—your frustration at our inability to bring these murderers to justice.” His tone softened, but his conviction held. “But the work of the Lord God is not achieved through wrath, nor does righteousness grant us license for vengeance. Justice demands diligence.”

Murmurs stirred among the gathered crowd—some of agreement, others in uneasy neutrality. Even the infants seemed momentarily stilled by the shift in tone.

“We will petition the Lord of Conevico to dispatch a force against these raiders,” Reickart continued. “We, as pilgrims—and as knights sworn in faith to defend the faithful—must attend to the duty set before us. Today, that duty is vigil. On the final day of this village’s passing.”

He drew breath, then closed his eyes.
“For myself... and for those who share in my belief... we dedicate these final words to the souls now returned to AVO.”

He fell silent.

Around him, every head bowed. Vesna’s gaze dropped to the basket at her feet, where Sebastian and Niall now slept, swaddled in shared warmth. Cassius bowed his head, fingers clutching the amulet at his breast.

Then Reickart’s voice rang out again—measured, solemn, and loud enough to carry across the burial ground.

“Before all angels and men...”

The response came in one voice—soft, reverent:

“We grieve.”

“Before the faithful fallen...”

“We weep.”

“At this hour of loss...”

“We pray.”

“And for those who remain...”

“We depart.”

As the final word echoed into silence, the last light of the sun touched the earth with pale fire, retreating into the horizon. Shadows lengthened across the ruins.

Cassius lifted his head. The amulet trembled in his hand.

Then, quietly, he began to sing.

His voice—tired, raw, but filled with sacred ache—rose above the hushed congregation.

“Salve, Regis. Pater misericordiae:
Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.
Ad te clamamus, exsules, filii Adamus.
Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes,
in hac lacrimarum valle.
Eia ergo, Advocata nostra,
illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte.”

(“Hail, O King, Father of mercy.
Our life, our sweetness, and our hope—hail.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Adam.
To thee do we sigh, mourning and weeping
in this valley of tears.
Turn then, our advocate,
thy merciful eyes upon us.”)

The hymn lingered as the final golden light faded, leaving the village in stillness. And dusk, at last, became night.

The hymn ended, leaving a silence so complete it felt like the world had forgotten how to breathe.

Then—gradually—sound returned.

Boots scuffed through ash. The shuffle of people rising. A murmured command. The clink of bridles and the low groans of timber as wagons were hitched. Torches flared to life, casting dancing orange light across the rubble.

The silence of mourning gave way to the sounds of life moving forward.

Cassius and Vesna moved with the others, basket in tow. The children were tucked securely into the wagon beside them, side by side beneath thick bedding—only the tops of their small heads visible. The adults climbed onto the hooded bench seat as the caravan creaked into motion, departing the remains of Reinhurst for whatever lay ahead.

From their perch on the wagon bench, they watched the landscape shift.

The golden remnants of sunset behind them faded quickly into the dark. Trees rose like sentinels—tall and solemn—stretching skyward to form a cathedral of branches. The path narrowed beneath the forest canopy, their torches painting the trunks in flickering gold.

“The next village should have an inn not far from here,” Vesna murmured, drawing her wolf-pelt cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Provided it’s still standing.”

Cassius didn’t answer right away. He was settling the comforter over the twins, tucking them snugly beneath the warmth while leaving their cheeks exposed to the cool air.

“I’ll be praying that’s the case,” he said quietly. “I feel... I feel exhausted.” His voice drifted, his head slowly sinking until his back found the wagon wall. His eyes shut, and soon, he slipped into sleep.

Vesna smiled faintly at the sight. She remained upright—eyes fixed forward—her hand resting gently on the basket beside her.

The wheels turned, and the road ahead opened into darkness.
But even in darkness, they moved forward.