Aegis

“Ever since their antiquity, the Powers had been the most prideful and haughty of the Seven Orders. Sir Kay was a boisterous man, one whose ardent passion surpassed even the other Round Table Knights, and it was this very nature that spread prominently amongst his descendants. Against the kingdom’s enemies, they proved to be an ally like no other, crushing their foes with unwavering purpose. But their conduct towards citizens not of Power blood was… unmannerly, to put it lightly.

“Pride without humility only leads to further conceit of oneself, and while I have tried to reform the Powers for the better, it is difficult to change what has been so thoroughly ingrained. They believe themselves to be the superior of the other Orders, always embroiled in competition where there is none. And it is this obsessive desire that inevitably latches onto the children.

“If I am to abolish the noble hierarchy, the Power's influence is not to be underestimated. It will be difficult, but I believe the people also desire change. They suppress it in their hearts, bitterly accept the established system, yet there is always an ache of what could be. To that end, Cain is an ally I must sway to my cause. He is at the forefront of the next generation, and his aid will be invaluable in recruiting the younger knights. Alas, if only he weren’t so pompous himself…”

- King Ascalon, Ruler of the Polus Monarchy

———

Ascalon

“Push forward!” the King bellows to his followers. A barrage of steel rain hounds on them from above - pounding against the roaring sea of raised shields - but the knights of Polus hold strong, for the impact is dampened by a thin, orchid-hued glow. It smothers the explosions of flame bursting about, and it fends off the rime billowing into an icy fog. The Caelum’s mounted armaments continue to spew without rest, but still the Polus assault advances whilst following in the trail left behind by Sarathiel.

The Throne’s figure is but a blur in the distance, and Ascalon cannot help but worry after all the fatigue he must have suffered. From charging through the Caelum barricade, enduring the Astral Arrow, to now contending with Nokron himself… he knows his friend is strong, but there is a limit to endurance. Such tribulation is far too much for one to bear alone; the King must hurry to his aid.

But before he can draw close, an eruption of sinister dark mist consumes Sarathiel in all his entirety. The darkness rises up and shadows the sun, spreading its malevolent fumes to the far ends of the valley, and the Polus division is forced to come to a stop as the shadowy wall prevents any from marching forward. Ascalon dares not even try, for a single look at the haze is all one needs to be overcome with a horribly unsettling chill. It is putrescence given life: vile, of swirling muck, and all the while emitting a ghastly noise that resembles the wails of a thousand damned.

“Lorelai, our path has been halted,” the King urgently relays. “A substance resembling the miasma has just swallowed Sarathiel whole. How is his condition?”

There is no response for a few, awkward moments, and when Lorelai finally does speak, she does so with a surprising uncertainty: almost vulnerable, as if the situation is one even she has not accounted for. “I… do not know. How could the miasma possibly be—no, what is more pressing is that I cannot feel Sarathiel’s connection. The spell is being repulsed by the barrier; I know not if he is even conscious.”

A deep, visceral ache plagues Ascalon in the pit of his stomach. He feels nervous, a premonition that something terrible is about to occur if Sarathiel does not escape soon.

“What if I were to delve in and assist him? If I concentrate the blessing of the Monarch’s Wings on myself, then it should protect me from the mental afflictions.”

“Perhaps so, but we cannot assume this haze will react like the miasma.” A grim tone settles into Lorelai’s voice, and she attempts to mask herself as detached; yet, there is a hesitation in her words. A confusing blend of both familiarity and weariness. “The one I know is different. This thing may seem similar, but its flow is unnatural—reversed. And the most crucial difference is that it’s far too orderly. The original is akin to a curse: a sprawling, chaotic mess with neither pattern nor reason. But the mist I see here is controlled. Uniform. A cohesive force hearkening to the commands of another. We cannot risk endangering you to the unknown, Ascalon.”

“Then what am I to do?” Ascalon pleads. “Merely idle by as Sarathiel is embroiled in danger?”

“… Deborah is currently recuperating from use of the Astral Arrow. Once she is able, I will request for another barrage, and then shall the mist likely scatter from the impact. Until the time comes, all we can do is trust in Sarathiel: trust that he will emerge in safe health.”

Her plan is a reasonable one, but nonetheless a bitter taste plagues Ascalon’s mouth. His foreboding is growing worse, just like the moment right before Lorelai’s disappearance. It forewarns of a tragedy if he does not act soon.

But before he can think of a solution, familiar figures make their way to the front. Cain, Abel, and Surasha move to the King’s side, and they leer at the mist with a similar bewilderment.

“I heard the gist from Lorelai,” Surasha says, attempting to peek through the swirling shadows. “But still, I don’t like this one bit.”

Cain draws his hand near as if to test it, but he instantly recoils back from the touch and scowls before distancing himself far away. “May Cosmos be merciful on his soul,” he says with a dry sneer. “It is a sad day to lose a fellow Power, even one ostracized from the Order. Let us ensure his valorous deeds will be commemorated—”

A cold clear of the throat from Abel stops him from speaking any further. The Templar of Principality only shakes his head in disappointment, and whereas before he has been of aloof demeanor, he now delivers to his half-brother a sharp, piercing glare. “I usually find your candor charming, Cain. But this is one occasion I will not look past. Please, have some respect. I know the Powers are not on the best of terms with Sir Sarathiel, but regardless we are all fighting for a shared cause. Won’t you put aside your disregard for the moment?”

“Disregard? Hah, Sarathiel is fortunate that is all I feel towards him,” Cain says with a scowl. “Do you not remember that day, Abel? Of how he returned like a gaunt corpse: alone. Despondent and weak. He gave no answer for his sole survival, no closure for the lives of our fallen comrades.”

Ascalon understands that grudges cannot be dissolved so simply, but at the very least he will stand for such scorn to be spewed in his presence. “Cain, I must ask you to refrain from speaking any more,” he scolds. “Sarathiel has his reasons, ones that we must respect and allow him to conquer of his own accord.”

Cain covers his heart and leans forward as if to speak in rebuttal, but he stops himself and lowers his head before uttering a conflicted sigh. “I understand, your majesty. Truly, I do. You are our liege, and it is by thine benevolence that you care for every person of Polus.

“But I must be the villain here: Coddling Sarathiel will be of no help to anyone. All we desire is the truth—the truth of what transpired that day. Death is inevitable; who in this nation knows not of this truth? Yet, for all the grieving families from the Powers, the Virtues, and even the Dominions, we would not nearly be so furious if Sarathiel were to simply admit his fault. Instead, he clings on to his pride, no doubt cowering from the responsibility of his failures. That man should have never become a Throne, no matter his strength.”

“Cain,” Ascalon says with a low rumble of warning. The air is being fouled with the Templar’s growing tirade, and the knights waiting behind shuffle uncomfortably as they witness their superior bicker and argue. If Cain does not stop soon, Surasha and Abel appear ready to silence him themselves—forcefully.

This sentiment is not lost on him, and so he frantically shouts out and attempts to garner supporters to his side. “Dismas, I know you are there! Come help me and make the others see reason. Are you not one of those Sarathiel has wronged most? Even now, he refuses to tell you the truth of Belladonna’s end—”

A murky hand rises up from Cain’s shadow and strangles him by the neck before he can even react. Dismas crawls up with a fury, choking the confused man with an anger Ascalon has never seen in him before, yet the Dominion maintains his composure just enough to not slaughter him right then and there.

“Never speak of my sister’s name with that mouth again,” he seethes into his ear. Ascalon and the others quickly move to stop him from making any rash decisions, but Dismas lets go before they have the chance, causing Cain to drop onto his knees and sputter for air.

“Ya’re wrong ‘bout me, Cain. I did hate him, I’ll admit that, but that was long ago. He’s a sad man carryin’ a sad burden, and I’d be nothing more than a pathetic bastard if I were to blame ‘im for livin’. I’d rather curse those Caelum curs; they’re the ones who took her life, and I’ll do anythin’ to put an end to them—even if it means workin’ with a petty wretch like you.”

Having decided enough is enough, Ascalon steps right in-between the two and puts forth his sternest, most regal disposition. “Dismas, please calm yourself. Cain has gone too far, but you have acted rashly as well. Never reach for a fellow’s neck: That is a strict taboo. I will not punish you considering the circumstance, but another instance and my hand will be forced. Do you understand?”

Fortunately, Dismas returns to his senses, and he looks down in dismay—stunned by his own anger. Ascalon knows he is a kind man, and even the kindest of men have their moments of weakness, but it is at times like these that the King must be firm in his judgment.

“I do,” Dismas mutters. “Not very becomin’ of me, is it? Sorry you had to see that, Ascalon. It won’t happen again.”

Without another word, he descends into the shadows and disappears from sight once more. Now, there is but one person left requiring Ascalon’s attention.

“As for you, Cain,” he says with grim clarity. “I am disappointed in you.”

“Y-Your majesty,” the man attempts to reply, but a raised hand from Ascalon conveys all he needs to know of the King’s patience. There will be leniency no longer.

“You are a Templar, a sacred position that all knights of the Power follow and look towards for guidance. And yet repeatedly you have gone against my wishes, slandered a loyal cohort who at this moment is suffering of terrors we know not, while behaving in a manner wholly unfitting for a knight much less one of your position.”

Cain grits his teeth and trembles in offense, but buried deep within his facade of pride is a man that can be reasoned with. Ascalon wants to see the good in everyone, and that good does exist within Cain; he merely needs to drag it out and break free of the boastful influence paved by the Power highborns.

To do so requires a sober awakening. The King must exact a judgment that shall make him see the err of his ways.

“This is a perilous time, Cain. A time of war where even the slightest of conflict must not spread amongst our ranks, and if you continue with this hateful conduct, then I am afraid your title as Templar will be forcibly stripped.”

The man’s body promptly seizes up in fear, and he grovels on the ground with a desperation that shakes Ascalon’s guilty heart.

“Please, your majesty!” Cain says with a frantic plea. “You know not what I shall suffer if I return in such disgrace. The Powers do not tolerate failure. I will be—I do not dare to even imagine…”

There is a terror in his movements that clash quite distinctly with his large and burly figure, as if displeasing those in the capital surpasses any fear of war or bodily harm. The man who has once been so haughty is now reduced to a shriveling mess; it is a sorry sight, and Ascalon cannot help but feel further pity.

Perhaps I have gone too far… No, this must be done. Only then shall Cain change his ways.

“Do you understand why I must go to such extremes?” Ascalon asks. “I do not wish to do this any more than you do, Cain. I truly do not, but it is my duty as King to uphold order. If I allow it to be trampled, then who is to say that such insolence will not repeat in the future?”

“I—” the man begins. “I understand. The fault is mine. I promise, with the full weight of mine noble name as Power, that such treachery shall never be spewed from my being ever again. And… when the time comes, I shall personally apologize to Sir Sarathiel.”

The King lets out a sigh of relief and places a gentle hand upon Cain’s shoulder. “That is good. I am sure Sarathiel will greatly appreciate the gesture.”

The Templar still holds a tiny ember of resentment in his heart, but Ascalon is thankful to see an improvement nonetheless. The path ahead is long; yet, at the end of its course lies endless reward.

“Ascalon,” Lorelai’s voice suddenly transmits to him. “Deborah has finished her preparations for the Astral Arrow. She will fire on your word.”

“Hehe, your timing is most convenient,” he replies. “Very well, then she may begin—”

However, Surasha interrupts him at the last moment with a frantic shout and waves her arms for the others to come near. “Ascalon! Come over here. I think—I think the mist is receding.”

“What?” Ascalon hurries over and peers into the umbral cloud. Indeed, the inside is not nearly as concentrated as before, and soon, he sees the silhouette of a familiar figure.

It is Sarathiel, and he is safe.

As the last few dregs of the fumes disappear, the Steel’s Throne emerges into the world. His broad back is all the army can see from the distance, but there is no mistaking that colossal figure brimming with strength. Whatever has occurred inside the mist, Sarathiel must have emerged victorious.

“Sarathiel!” Surasha shouts, preparing to rush to his side. “Wait a second, I’ll come over and mend your wounds—”

But before she can leave, Ascalon forcibly extends his arm and pulls her back with a jolt. She protests for a moment, but he clutches at her body with a grip that could crush a stone and refuses to let go.

The King pales; sweat drips down his brow, and every muscle in his body tenses in alarm. His instincts warn him not to move, not to approach the man standing motionless despite his fellows crying out in relief.

For there, exuding without a hint of restraint, is the bloodlust of a beast.

Sarathiel turns around, and he bares his face. And Ascalon can see clearly a cascade of silver tears. Flowing, flowing, from the sockets of a helm with neither light nor conscious.

Soon, the air is beset with a savage, booming howl, and Sarathiel begins to change.