Aegis

“Nokron… that man was not always so mad. Far from it, his passionate love for the science of transmutation was once a time respectable. Such was the reason I granted him the position of Alchemist Regent, and that title was not his sole responsibility. He served as head Ambassador as well: departing for foreign lands under my command, for his tender-hearted charisma wooed the likes of men and women alike. Yes, Nokron was a very skilled tool… but even the capable are susceptible to corruption. They break, piece by piece, and if they are unable to reform themselves, then such is the moment they outlive their usefulness.

“Remember this, Luxanne: Do not forgive failure. When the time comes to sever a rotten link, do so ruthlessly and without pause. There is no merit in keeping one who refuses to change.”

- Grand General Xeros, Ruler of Nox Caelum

———

The Knight

Contrary to the Knight’s initial hesitation, the journey through the underground has been rather uneventful. The passageways are as large as it remembers, for the walls spread far to the side whilst the ceiling of dirt hangs high above, and not a sign of collapse can be felt throughout their march. No precarious tremblings. No ominous groans or creaks. The foundation is entirely stable: so much so that hardly much in the cavern has changed from its memory.

There are perhaps a few more critters here and there - creatures who thrive in the darkness - but the shine from Soloman’s sorcery scatters away any would-be pests. All that’s left is for the Knight to conveniently lead Ascalon towards the correct path, but first it must garner support from a certain Templar of the Dominions: Dismas.

“Hm…” the shadowy man grumbles as the front arrives at a branching intersection. Unlike the others, he chooses to hide away from Soloman’s sorcery and instead dwell within the dusk—occasionally rising up to deliver reports to the King of the path ahead. This time, however, even he is stumped. “Sorry Ascalon, everythin’s too spread out. The darkness feels… chaotic, like a bunch o’ tangled vines—twistin’ this way and that way all over. Usually I’d send some of my people to scout first, but there’s just too many paths. Too many routes to choose from.”

“I did somewhat expect this…” Ascalon says. “Fortunately, we are in the presence of a very knowledgeable academic. Lorelai, did you see anything in the castle archive that might aid us?”

Truthfully, the Polus records contain very little insight into the underground. Most of the information is about the topography above soil, but if there is one advantage to being the resident scholar, it is that the Knight can simply make things up.

“While there is no direct map we can derive from, there are possible leads from both legend and written accounts of those who pursued the Constellation during the first years,” it blatantly lies. “Reading one such transcription is actually what inspired my proposal to invade through the Magnus Murus. I believe it went like this…

———

‘We spent many an hour in search of the dreaded atrocity, but the darkness was by all means a terrible maze. Eventually, our division came across a fork in the path, which prompted our already sparse knights to split up even further.

I was assigned to the middle, and from then on, my gut led the way forward. Next fork I chose left, then a right, and then the second right next to the center. There was no rhyme or reason for my choice; I simply wanted to get out of this stifling gloom as soon as I could, and fortunately my wish was granted as we emerged out into a wet pasture.

I remember the location clearly, for to my sides were great big mountains towering high into the empyrean and entrapping all of nature’s foliage into a straight, narrow valley. Alas, the Constellation was nowhere in sight, and so despite my grievances, I was forced to return to that abominable cave.’

———

“Although our ancestor’s recollection tells of a wet pasture, I believe that location is the very swamp that lies in front of the Caelum fortress today,” the Knight continues. “Their description of the mountains correspond with our current geography, and it wouldn’t be hardly surprising if the land were to transform after countless years of rainfall.”

“Truly?” Ascalon says with a curious tilt of his head. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with such a text, but it certainly seems useful.”

“Heh, it’s all I need as well,” Dismas chuckles. “Left, right, ‘nd center right was it? Even if it’s not the full path, It should be ‘nough to help with the rest o’ the way through. Thanks, Lorelai: Your memory’s a sharp one.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, an awkward air immediately exudes from his demeanor. He appears repentant, clasping his hands together in apology, while Ascalon giggles to himself over Dismas’s unfortunate phrasing. The Knight finds it humorous as well.

“…‘Pologies,” he mumbles. “I’ll be… goin’ now.”

He departs, and so does their excursion continue. Eventually, Dismas confirms the passage’s validity, leading the next few days to pass by in a much less tense mood as the Polus no longer need to worry about losing their way. With their hearts now ever light, and their steps thundering confidently, the knights have all but forgotten their fears.

They have not always been that way - especially during the beginning where most have felt compelled to sleep with one eye cautiously open - but when one is subjected to the same scenery, the same prevalent darkness, such sights become all but commonplace. The others laugh cheerfully now, and they share amongst their peers embarrassment over feeling such reluctance in the first place.

And then, it appears: the cavern’s exit. There, a white, blinding glow awaits, and the soft rays reach out as if in beckoning. Closer, and closer, until the army’s eyes adjust to the brightness, and their vision is greeted by a well-welcomed sight of the world outside. After days of constant traveling, here they are at last: the Bogged Marsh.

“My, now that is stunning!” Ascalon says with the excitement of an enamored child, and he fully steps out into the humid air. “The scenery has certainly changed since our ancestor’s record. To call this a mere wet pasture would be quite the understatement.”

Indeed, for what has once been but a simple marsh has now been overtaken by an overgrowth of lofty trees, branches spreading wide and filtering the sunlight into little streaks of sparkle. A deep, earthy green and brown is prevalent all throughout, and one cannot avoid the musty scent of thick vegetation invading their nostrils—alongside a purveying sensation of dampness. There are hardly any pockets of land here; instead, rivers and treacherous quagmires dominate the landscape, submerging all into the bottomless pools of crystal-clear water.

All of this would normally pose a most inconvenient obstacle, but fortunately - not so far into the distance - the swamp stops, and a colossal fortress lies at the very end. Its metallic exterior clashes harshly against the surrounding of raw nature, and its foundation is all that blocks the tight valley beyond: a valley leading into the heart of Caelum. The Magnus Murus is close.

“How does it feel?” the Knight asks the awestruck King. “To see the wider world with your own eyes. I imagine the open plains of the capital can become quite bland to look at after a while.”

“Haha, yes, it does get rather stale,” he laughs. “But now… I cannot remember a time when I last felt so curious—so eager to explore the land around me.”

Ascalon walks up to a nearby pine and delicately runs his finger along the bark. “The mere sight of these drooping trees is so foreign, yet fun. And to some it may seem ordinary, but this discovery of the mundane fills my heart with such bursting joy. Even the tunnels… after a while, my fear was replaced by giddiness. I relished in the sound of crunching rock, and I delighted upon witnessing the occasional fleeing bug. Such things I had never experienced and never thought I would, yet here I am. And there is still much, much more left for me to see.”

There is a glimmer in Ascalon’s eyes unlike any it has witnessed of him before, and with not a second thought, the Knight stops. It stands there, and it gazes at him—gazes at his figure so wrapped in a genuine, precious love for discovery.

… He looks similar. Like a mirror image, the two are almost inseparable in their affection for the world.

The Knight clenches its fist.

“Ascalon,” it struggles to force out. “We should set up camp here. It shall be some time before the last of the forces reach our position; by then, the sun will have set, and I think everyone would appreciate some well-deserved rest.”

He looks back, and the Knight can tell he notices something strained about its demeanor. Yet even so, Ascalon remains silent and instead gives a slow nod before giving the order to the other troops.

“Rest so it be,” he says. “In the meantime, I intend to have Dismas keep a close eye on the fortress and watch for any peculiar findings. By the morning’s rise, we will convene with the other Templars for a final meeting… and then shall the siege finally begin.”

His voice crawls to a hush near the end, and a look of uncertainty briefly flashes by. But not of fear or regret; rather, of deep sorrow. It flows out of him in slight, barely noticeable shudders as he brings the Mattatron out of its sheath and stares into its cool, celestial alloy—his mind adrift in some unseeable realm. Thinking. Mourning.

“… Are you prepared?” the Knight asks.

“Prepared for what?”

“To take a life.”

Ascalon doesn’t respond, at first. He only continues to look at the blade before eventually shaking his head and letting out a sad sigh.

“No,” he responds. “And I do not ever wish to be.”

———

The Knight

The following day, the Templars gather into a large war tent to host one final rally before the inevitable attack. A minitiure, and much less grandiose, replica of the round table lies at the very center of the room, and it is there that the Knight and Ascalon patiently wait for everyone to take their seats. His appearance looks much more clean after an evening of fresh air and relaxation, as do the others as they trickle in. Sarathiel is here as well, though, instead of joining with the rest, the reclusive Throne chooses to stand near the room’s corner and refuses any attempts from the King to come near. Nonetheless, the atmosphere is filled with an excitable buzz as fellows converse in reunion. They are all eager to begin.

All except for Dismas who crawls out of the shadows looking noticeably perturbed. He does not appear to be the type of person to be easily shaken, and yet a scowl can be felt plainly despite his masked face. Something must have happened during the watch.

“My, my, you look like you’ve seen a wraith!” the Seraph’s Joshua exclaims as Dismas collapses in a free seat. “That, hm, does not bode well for us.”

“Worse,” he grumbles. “We’re in fer a real bad mess, Ascalon. This place isn’t as undermanned as we thought it’d be.”

Deborah raises her arm in a rather diligent manner, as if waiting to be called upon, before decidingly choosing to blurt out her question anyways. “Their numbers can’t be that large, can it? A fortress of that size probably holds only about a hundred thousand at most.”

“It’s not how many we should be worryin’ about, but who.”

A gasps escapes from Surasha nearby, and her body tenses as she speaks of a name laced in poison. “You’re not talking about… Libevich, right? Is that monster really here?”

To this she receives a quick response. “No.” And thus a collective sigh of relief is heard all around the table, even from Sarathiel, but Dismas’s next words are not as comforting.

“Hells, I’d say its more troublin’ than that,” he continues. “At least we know what Libevich’s capable of. No, the one we’re dealin’ with is the Alchemist: Nokron.”

Abel is the one to speak first this time. “Nokron? The Alchemist Regent? How odd… I do not believe we have any records of that man ever departing from his laboratory. Out of all of Xeros’s Commanders, he is by far the most mysterious; what would such a person be doing here?”

“For what other reason could there be, Abel?” Cain replies in a mocking voice. Though, rather than being insulting, his tone feels more pompous—as if he is attempting to outshine his brother out of sibling rivalry. “The Grand General must have sent him out here to conduct some sort of twisted human experiment. As if forming the Rust-Blood Legion wasn’t enough… who knows what new abominations they plan to create now.”

“That… could be, or perhaps we must consider the possibility that our plans were somehow leaked to Xeros.”

Abel’s concern is reasonable, especially when the lives of so many rest upon this campaign, but the Knight is more doubtful. After all it has heard about Grand General Xeros, to send only one of his army’s elite in defense of such a key location feels too… negligent.

“Rest easy, Abel,” the Knight says. “I have a feeling our invasion is still yet secret. Let us first hear of Dismas’s account; how did you come to discover Nokron’s presence?”

The Dominion grunts and crosses his arms, head tilting low as if the weight of his memories are pulling his gaze down to the floor. “It happened only a couple hours ago. Two soldiers were guardin’ the gate while another watched from the ramparts. It seemed that they were out there for formality’s sake more than anythin’ else; the one on top even looked a bit bored. Nothing special during the night either, so I was about to call it quits and return when… he appeared.”

“To inspect the guards?” the Knight asks. “Interesting. I doubt Caelum would be so blatant in revealing the man if they were truly waiting to intercept us here.”

But Dismas is too startled for a random inspection to have been all that occurred. “No. He—I don’t know what he was doin’. One moment all was normal, and then Nokron… appeared from out of thin air. Blinked, manifested, however you want to call it: There wasn’t any sound or warnin’ whatsoever.”

“Is that even possible without a medium?” Surasha says, dumbfounded, and she turns to face the silent Soloman who only shrugs his shoulders in response as if not fully sure himself. “I get Creation is boundless in possibility and all that, but I’ve never heard of anyone much less an Astrologian just showing up out of nowhere. Dismas is the closest I guess, but even he has to be connected to the shadows first.”

Hm? Was that not the ability of Valkyrie? To leap across space in a singular instant… I suppose that piece of history was lost alongside the true form of the twin Celestial blades.

“Well, that’s what happened. Saw it myself,” he replies. “And there was somethin’ strange about him too. Nokron looked dazed, almost like he wasn’t expectin’ to be there, and then when the guard came to welcome him…”

“Dismas,” Ascalon forcibly interrupts. “I understand your apprehension, but please remain focused.”

“Sorry. He… killed them. That guard. I was too far away to hear anythin’, but the two were only talkin’ for a second before Nokron suddenly skewered their chest and then tossed the body over the fortress walls. Splat. Right in front o’ the gatekeepers. For what reason, I don’t know, and I didn’t care much to find out. Felt too dangerous there, so I left as fast as I could.”

A rational choice, however the Knight doesn’t understand why the Templar sounds so shameful of his retreat. “You made the right decision,” it assures him. “If he is capable of transferring over such large distances, then nowhere near the fortress is safe. Better to be safe than risk exposing our presence here.”

He utters a low grumble in reaction, but the Knight can see his body slowly loosen as he regains his composure. “Mm. Regardless, I agree with Lorelai; those Caelum dregs don’t look like they’re waiting for us, but dealing with Nokron’ll be a whole lot of trouble.”

“Perhaps so…” Ascalon murmurs, but his voice has a twinge of something different compared to the Dominion. Rather than be bleak, a flutter rises up in a hopeful drawl, and the King suddenly stands up before excitedly speaking out to the ensemble. “But this may be a blessing in disguise. Xeros’s most trusted are all beings of terrifying might, but Nokron is alone here. There is no one to aid him, no place to escape to, and with his death shall our assault on the capital be much less arduous.”

The other Templars nod in agreement, for the chance to isolate and slay such an influential figure does not come often. The problem, however, lies in how they will do so.

“Firstly,” he continues. “We must assign roles: those leading the charge and those supporting from the back. Deborah and the Cherubims are better suited for long ranged barrages, so they shall take to the rear. The Astrologians of the Sovereignties will provide assistance as well. Do the two of you have any objections?”

“Nope. None at all, your majesty,” Deborah replies with a cheery salute, although her demeanor suggests otherwise. The Templar’s body is slumped, and she appears to be somewhat unsatisifed with being relegated away from the central conflict.

“Soloman?”

The Astrologian does as he always does: He nods.

“Very well, and next shall be Sir Joshua. The Seraph will move to cut off the fortress’s escape route and prevent any messengers from spreading word of our invasion.”

The youthful Templar chuckles. “Oh, if I must. Do not worry Ascalon, I shan’t let a single one flee.”

“It will be dangerous,” Ascalon says with worry. “If the Alchemist Nokron attempts to escape, you shall have to contend with him until the others arrive. Are you confident in taking such a position?”

“Haha, of course! At the very least, I won’t die. You know I can’t.”

Can’t? What does he mean by that?

The Knight wishes to investigate more, but Ascalon moves on before it can have the chance. Joshua’s strange statement doesn’t bother him a bit, and the next Templar to receive their task is Dismas.

“Your Order shall take on a different role,” he says to him. “The Dominions will infiltrate the fortress whilst the army engages with the main defenses. Map as much as the layout as you can, and attempt to pilfer any important documents that may be of use: the Caelum supply list, information on the Grand General’s expedition… leave no scroll unturned. But ensure afterwards you prioritize escape above all else. Though the chaos outside is likely to draw Nokron’s attention, it is not certain if he will join the fight or remain within the base. Be very careful.”

“Will do,” Dismas replies.

“Thank you. Now, that leaves only three.”

Ascalon turns to face the far end of the table. The remaining Templars are already grouped together, and they soon rise up to receive their duty.

“Surasha, Cain, Abel…” he says. “You shall join my side at the forefront, and we will assault the main gate. With Power and Principality together, alongside the mending boons of the Virtue, I am confident no force is capable of impeding our siege.”

The three appear excited over receiving the aid of their King - granted, Surasha is still a bit uncomfortable being near him - but their joys are soon interrupted by a loud, assertive cough.

“However, though I will do my best to protect the others with the Monarch’s Wings, my power is not infallible. The invulnerability granted will be of lesser potency, and the knights will still be susceptible to mortal wounds. Do not depend on it; fight with your everything laid bare. Understand?”

“Of course, my liege!” Cain shouts while trapping the other two Templars in a big huddle. They do seem very pleased with the bulky man’s gesture - most of all Surasha whose hand is mere seconds away from drawing her whip-blade - but fortunately Ascalon splits the group apart before the tent can descend into a battleground.

So far, everything seems to have been addressed. The plan has been set; all that is left is to enact it. But there’s something missing, and before long it dawns on the Knight that its name hasn’t been mentioned at all so far.

“Ascalon,” it asks. “Am I not a part of the siege? You have yet to assign me anywhere. Not even by your side.”

But Ascalon only chuckles before its indignant plea. He gets up from his seat, and he walks right behind the Knight only to drop down onto a knee and place a soft hand on its lap. “My apologies, Lorelai. I did not mean to exclude you from our discussion. But while I would love for nothing more than to have the comfort of your strength beside me, I have a very special role only you can fulfill.”

He tilts his head and gestures for the mute Astrologian to come forward. “Soloman, would you please?”

As if the two have planned for this moment, Soloman swiftly brings out his violet orb, and a turbulent swirl of energy begins to crash against each other within the glass domain. Mixing. Intensifying. Until a dazzling, golden light is concocted from the result, and soon, that light seeps out of the orb whilst twisting into a singular, translucent mass of thread. The bindings are taut, and they split at the very top - like a flower in full bloom - before separating into ten distinct strands—one for each of those in attendance. The strands daintily fall from the bud of thread, and they glide over to the others, wrapping around their wrist and forming a quaint little cuff.

The Knight, however, receives a different ornament. Instead of wrapping around its wrist, the golden strand floats directly above its helm and curls its twine into the shape of a small crown.

It does not know what to make of this.

“Ascalon?” the Knight questions, pulling him aside and whispering into his ear. “I do hope you understand that me wearing a crown is sacrilege, not to mention the design is exactly the same as yours. I could be executed for this.”

However, to its surprise, a voice rings loudly in its head: Ascalon’s voice. But that cannot possibly be, for no sound is parting from his throat. It is as if his words are being spoken directly into its soul.

“Hehe, you do not need to be so concerned,” the King’s voice conveys. “This is simply the result of Soloman’s sorcery: the Threads of Connection. With this, my thoughts can be sent to you even whilst far away, and the crown denotes you as the central figure of our link. All of us may communicate with you, and so too can you respond in kind. All you need do is focus on the one you wish to speak with, and then you just have to think.”

The Knight has never seen such an utterly bizarre use of Creation before - quite fitting for the eccentric Soloman - but eventually it complies with Ascalon’s directions and attempts to send a wordless message of its own. “… Am I doing this correctly?”

“Yes, exactly! Just like that. With this, you can give the others orders no matter how hectic the battlefield may be.”

“Orders? Ascalon, could it be you intend for me to serve as the army’s coordinator?”

“Indeed, though I think the title of Royal Strategist sounds much more appropriate. But I suppose the responsibilities are the same; with your wisdom and experience, I’d like for you to guide us whilst overseeing the siege’s progress. I cannot fulfill this task from the front, so I shall leave it to you to command the knights in my stead.”

“Hah, you are quite bold, Ascalon,” the Knight says aloud for the gathering to hear. “I am not even fully recovered yet.”

“That may be so, but your mind remains ever sharp,” he says with a laugh. “I guarantee that you shall do a fine job. Believe in yourself.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Gaining the position of strategist is more than the Knight could have ever expected. It is the most advantageous position for its current goal, and it no longer needs to mimic Lorelai’s fighting style. No, what it can do is decide the fate of all those connected to the little strands. A misspoken direction, a deceiving whisper… it can do this all, and it can eliminate anyone without so much as a shred of suspicion.

And yet, the Knight is not happy. It should be. It should be ecstatic, but it is not. Instead, its heart only tightens, and it does everything in its power to not rip the pounding, despicable thing out of its chest right at this moment.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten about me, Ascalon.”

Luckily, a new voice snaps the Knight out of its daze, and it directs its gaze to the corner of the room.

“Of course not, Sarathiel!” Ascalon quickly says. “You—”

“Don’t bother. I know what I have to do.”

The King is noticeably flustered by the Steel Throne’s interruption, but he perseveres and gently faces him despite the other’s rudeness. “If you mean bringing down the wall, then yes. Your duty is to charge ahead first and create an opening for the rest of the army to follow.”

“Expected as much. Alright then, I’ll be your battering ram.”

“It isn’t that simple, Sarathiel. Know that when you make a commotion, the one to intercept you first will most likely be—”

“Nokron, I know. But you don’t have to care about someone like me. I’ll bite and rip and smash my way through, and if he somehow gets the better of me, well… that’s that, then. I’ll try to survive, at least until we attack the capital.”

“Sarathiel…”

There is a deep, deep hatred spewing from the Throne’s mouth, but it is not meant for the King to receive. No, it is for himself—an immense loathing that curses at his very existence. Constantly, and constantly, without end. It is a familiar, gut-wrenching sight, for not so long ago his appearance would have been no different from looking at itself.

But… when did I stop looking so gaunt?

“I’m going out to prepare,” he grunts, slamming his colossal axe onto his shoulders and shuffling towards the exit. “Summon me when you’re ready.”

And then he leaves. He leaves without another word, abandoning the others to conduct the closing service in silence.

But before the rest can leave, Ascalon’s voice enters its mind once more. Only, he appears to do so unintentionally, and the words that come next are thought ever so sadly.

“I hope Sarathiel can one day forgive himself.”