The city of Keesh usually slumbered beneath the rumble of merchant wagons and the laughter of late-night revelers, ever wary of zealous guards who blurred the lines between law and religious justice. But tonight, the streets were alive with chaos.


    The scurrying guards flooded the alleys with their own ruckus, howling wolves piercing the uneasy quiet as the city awoke to the sickly glow of a miasma stained sky. Bullhorns blared. Outpost fires dotted the horizon—some quickly extinguished, others consuming entire structures in their hungry flames.


    Amid the chaos, Sir Bradfrey stood motionless atop Keesh’s central tower. The orange banners of Castell’s Crest snapped in the wind, a symbol of unwavering authority against the acid-tinged sky.


    Below, his soldiers took strength from the sight of their leader, standing fearlessly in the face of danger. But Bradfrey did not feel fearless. For too long, he had dreaded the battle he once prayed would never come—not for fear of the pagan hordes, but for Anneliese’s absence.


    Yet the battle did not come that night. Nor the next.


    At dawn, the horizon remained quiet. No assault on the walls. No siege engines. No war cries. Only a small, fortified camp in the distance, its banners unfamiliar. A few hundred men at most—disorganized, ill-prepared. Still, Bradfrey held firm.


    Each day, the camp swelled.


    And each morning, the seasonal fog burned a sickly orange, staining the hillsides like rust. Its foulness crept through the paddocks, contaminating the earth, drying the soil, leaving behind a metallic stench.


    The guards grew restless, pleading for action. But Bradfrey knew this battle to his bones. They would wait.


    Wait for word to reach the queen. For their calls to arms to reverberate across the western kingdoms, drawing banners from rival lords, bound by a cause too great to ignore. For mercenaries to arrive, not in pursuit of gold, but for the honor of the lord’s name.


    The Blood of Templars came first, thundering in from their Steppe-facing fortresses. Then, against the river’s current, came princes from lands divided by seas, bringing with them continental armies, several languages strong. Yet all were drawn by the same call—to march in the name of the One True God, as the holy war loomed on the horizon.


    “My God, we have more horses than bricks in the mortar,” Amos muttered as he crossed the drawbridge to greet the arriving Grand Templar Bernhard von Eberstein.


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    The influx of nobility soon outgrew Sir Bradfrey’s modest chapel, leaving the city’s halls overflowing with lords and commanders, each vying for prominence. The coveted front rows belonged to those whose forces dwarfed Bradfrey’s garrison—Eberstein, with his two thousand knights, and Prince Vergenbrass of Mansour, commanding six thousand foot soldiers.


    Yet even their combined numbers paled before the Vasierian army, led by the shared command of Davos and Arcadius.


    “Make way, make way,” Davos called, shoving his way through the swelling throng.


    Bishop Arcadius followed close behind, flanked by his contingent of blind monks. Their bandaged eyes were wrapped in fresh white cloth, unstained—for now. Beneath the fabric, inky blackness swelled, waiting to seep through.


    Most in the room paid them no mind, too enthralled by the fervor of war. But Amos, sharp-eyed as ever, caught a subtle movement—one monk, his thumb brushing his bandage, smearing the first trace of black.


    Amos said nothing, his tongue held fast behind a wall of white and red crosses.


    “We lack the supplies to sustain such an army,” Bradfrey warned. His entourage, now half priests, half men of rank, appealed to their shared sense of piety.


    Prince Vergenbrass stepped forward, his voice booming above the chatter. “Then we waste no time. We strike now and let God decide our fate.”


    “My knights are but a fraction of our strength,” Eberstein countered. “Even now, my generals are maneuvering the bulk of my forces behind the pagan lines. Soon, we’ll have their retreat, just as we now control their approach. And when the time is right, we will tighten the noose.”


    His words spread like wildfire, stoking confidence among the nobles. Smirks were exchanged, postures stiffened. A fever of self-assurance swept through the room, undermining Bradfrey’s measured restraint.


    “Has anyone here ever defeated an army of battle mages?” Bradfrey asked, his voice slicing through the fervor.


    The room hushed. Uneasy grumbles followed as none stepped forward to claim victory against such an enemy.


    “A wizard is a wizard,” Davos said after a pause. “And you’ve defeated them twice, have you not? Please, enlighten us.”


    Bradfrey shook his head. “Wizards, yes. But battle mages are a different breed. Where a wizard’s magic is their trade, a battle mage’s magic is their weapon. War is their trade.”


    “They are nothing but demonic forces, sent to test our resolve before the Lord,” Eberstein declared, drawing murmurs of agreement.


    Bradfrey met his gaze. “Demonic or not, their magic is finite. Constrained by exhaustion, like any of us. If they’re smart, they’ll hold their mages back until we are fully committed.”


    “And if they’re not?” the Mansourian prince asked.


    “Then, we bait them into conflict—force them to reveal their hand before we show ours.”


    Before further discussion could unfold, a guard burst through the doorway, pale-faced and breathless.


    “The gates of hell have opened!” he shouted.


    The nobles rushed to the city laneways.


    Dark pillars of smoke pierced the sky above the pagan camp, curling into the dimming sun as unnatural clouds gathered. A heavy, cloying humidity settled over the city, pressing against their skin, thick as tar—suffocating even the bravest among them.


    “Verivix,” Bradfrey muttered, his voice barely above a breath.


    Anneliese or not, the city would stand—or it would burn.