ã€ŠThe Last Wallã€‹


 Decay

    The stone road continued beyond the horizon. Cutting through a snow-filled valley, and onto the harsh mountainous landscape of what he knew to be The Gravelands. ¡®The Gravelands,¡¯ he thought, his skin shivering and breath conjured a cloud of frost as he breathed beyond his helmet. ¡®Disgrace of a name. Lastwall sounded better.¡¯

    He knew the Province of Lastwall would be a tragic end to a thriving state. It was ruled by two fair ladies who served as the sword and shield of Vigil, its capital. Kalabrynne, The Sword, and Gwyndria, The Shield. The two held their hands in marriage under the name Iomedar. All before The Radiant Dawn, a spell conjured by the - then captive - lich, Tar-Baphon, incinerated Lastwall. Killing off Gwyndria.

    His hooves trudged through the heavy snow, coated by his black carapaced plate armor with the stalks and signifiers of his allegiance. The six-bladed compass on his right pauldron swayed with the cold heft of each of his steps, only two blades colored in red, marking his rank as Hellknight.

    Both greaves moved with calculated precision through the harsh tundra that Gozreh - God of Nature - decided to erect, much to his dismay. The knight burrowed his gauntlets into his endless side pouch, conjuring a parchment calendar with singed edges on each of the 12 pages. Days, weeks, months, Xed out, revealing that today was the 24th of Arodus, the Eighth month in the 4720th year post-Absalom¡¯s Reckoning. Summer.

    ¡¯Why is it snowing?¡¯ His infernal mind bickered, yet after a prolonged breath, the knight ceased his attack on the natural world.

    His breaths after climbing up and down the valley weren¡¯t troubled. Steady and slow as it was, the uphill battle to reach The Gravelands was nothing to the knight. Atop the large hill, where even the stone road is not beaten at all, the horizons foretold a story.

    Where snow traverses down the hill, the rough patches of visible mud are inked with black decaying ichor. Spots of brown earth can be found throughout the plains overlooked by this valley, but the reign of the hazardous necrotic wastes is just beginning here. And they spread with horrifying speed.

    He breathed deep, as he felt the familiar choking sensation of an air he wasn¡¯t supposed to breathe. He inhaled it in the Hells, where his current Master saved him from utmost doom; he inhaled it there, on the desecrated lands of Black Magic. As the air traveled his wind pipes, it clung onto the inner edges of his infernal body, every instinct of his telling him to not cough, and he withstood the necrotic assault on his lungs. He exhaled it all, every remnant of decay leaving his body, yet he knew he had to endure it.

    He shifted his arm to meet an empty scabbard, one of two on his hip. ¡®I envy your ability to survive without oxygen, Lizard.¡¯ He thought to himself. He ached for a response atop the deadened hill, but the only sound breaching through his visor was the whistling of the cold foul wind. His Master couldn¡¯t respond freely within his mind, that he knew, but the moments of silence would always be ones of grace were they to be broken up by his voice.

    The voice of a Battle-Brother. The bond they share between them as two crusaders is one of endless campaigns. Both swore on the same day that they would fight back anarchy, slice the head of discord, and lay the everlasting seeds of law and order as one. Both meant it. Yet now the two were separated by circumstance, each following their crusade to bring order and topple anarchy. One against Tar-Baphon, the other against a shard of a God.

    The Hellknight scoffed at the empty scabbards on his waist. He didn¡¯t remember the last time he lost any of his weapons. He wagered it was stuck to a monster¡¯s carcass. He veiled his eyes with their lids, sending a wave of hellfire through his entire soul. He felt the incinerating wave pass through his innards, through his mind, and ending at the tips of his gauntlets. He opened his arms and then his palms, as from the bottom of his gauntlets a streak of fire erupted from each. One finger after another was wrapped around the living blaze, as both streaks of fire cooled and turned into silver weapons. Weapons he attuned to his very soul. Reckoning and Absolution. Reckoning, The Long Blade, was a gift from his late husband, made by the knight¡¯s father-in-law. Absolution, The Shortsword, was always its sidearm and companion, delivering quick and righteous retribution.

    The two streaks of fire now made weapons sat in the heating gauntlets of the knight like a familiar spell. He flourished Reckoning, letting the handle escape and twirl on the sides of his wrist before catching it with his palm anew. The weapons - though the knight wouldn¡¯t admit it - made his being warmer.

    He breathed the plagued air anew, his legs twitching for the crusade ahead of him. ¡®It¡¯s time, Tar-Baphon,¡¯ his mind spoke as his eyes opened, the cursed landscape stood unchanged. ¡°For you to face the Godclaw.¡± His voice whispered, sending a cloud of frost at every exhale of air.

    The Godclaw. Five divine beings of order and power held the ground beneath every Hellknight of his order. Abadar, The Lawmaker. Irori, The Master of Masters. Torag, The Protector. Iomedae, The Inheritor. And Asmodeus, The Dark Prince. All held lawful principles that every knight, every crusader, and all potential soldiers wanted to uphold. From now until the end of pandemonium. These five gods gestalted into one entity that all these Hellknights called The Godclaw.

    He closed his eyes again, the inner machinations of his soul begging for the rightful judgment of Abadar. The justice of Iomedae. The orderful mastery of Irori. The protection of Torag and knowledge of Asmodeus. With each prayer, his soul sparked with flame, yet once he reached Asmodeus he felt the fire turn physical, and hellfire ignited the snow around him. His greaves now met stone instead of flakes of powdered snow. That was his sign.

    His left hoof charged behind the right as he started the descent. Like a mad horned beast, the Hellknight stormed his way down the hill, his swords flanking each of his sides. His hooves moved faster and faster as he made his mad dash into the befouled and cursed terrain that marked the beginning of Tar-Baphon¡¯s unjust rule. As he crossed the border, the visitor must pay his tithe, as upon trespassing, the land rose to defend itself. Four dark and translucent silhouettes of humanoids ushered from the darkness on the ground 100 yards ahead of him as they let out a maddened screech. The adrenaline coursed its way through his body, as he started to yell amidst his charge, his two swords pointed as one at the first shade he charged at.

    In the blink of an eye, the Hellknight¡¯s blades cleaved through the first shade in his path, his rampage continuing as his hooves beat. Were he to go further with the momentum he¡¯d arrive embedded into a sheer mountain. With a sudden jolt, he implanted Reckoning into the dirt. The blade shrieked as it hit stone, dragging across a few feet before the friction with foul earth stopped his acceleration, to a halt. His armored form was uncharacteristic in its agility, as he slid to face the other apparitions within a breath. The three shades in front of the hill he had just descended moved with sharp, unnatural, and contorting awkwardness. ¡°This is your defense, Baphon?!¡± The knight¡¯s deep rugged voice echoed from the mountains surrounding him. ¡°Come, meet Yenlar Riek, your doom incarnate.¡± He dislodged Reckoning from the befouled land, pointing it at the nearest shadowy adversary.

    The ghost¡¯s shriek pierced the air as its brethren joined its cursed song. Yenlar, hearing it plain and clear, knew that to regular humanoids this chorus would implant the seeds of doubt within them. Both his resilient mind and his physical body laughed at the attempt of terrifying that which weaponized fear. Two shades, befuddled by the knight¡¯s resolve and sudden laughing fit, charged him.

    A flurry of incorporeal hands battered the knight. He dodged the first set of attacks and immediately hacked at another phantom attempting to flank him. In less than a heartbeat he realized he was surrounded. The last phantom conjured a spectral bow that fired thrice at the flanked knight, only the last arrow managing to find purchase inside his plate. He bit one side of his forked tongue at the stinging serrated pain, feeling blood flowing down his armor, but that was his only reaction.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Ha! Face death again, meet the Godclaw for me!¡± He bellowed as his blades slashed the air around him. Reckoning and Absolution turned astral as Yenlar found the correct slicing method to dispatch even ghosts, the blades now translucent as each sword matched the incorporeal. Yenlar¡¯s strikes were deliberate, calculated, and deadly. One shade was felled by a slice to the midsection and a stab at his head. The one flanking him was dispatched with one decapitating strike with Reckoning. The two shades shrieked in unison, their forms becoming more and more glassy as both met their doom, both now patches of unclean but breathable air.

    Yenlar¡¯s eyes shifted within his visor to meet the last assailant, his head turned too, a breath later. The shade held their bow as stout as a dwarf, but as soon as Yenlar¡¯s helm faced it, it sank back into the ground in retreat, clamoring on its way down.

    Yenlar inhaled and exhaled as the shades that attacked him evaporated into nothingness. The clouds of frost were no longer present even through the cold that pierced his Hellknight Plate. His hand released Reckoning as the blade hit the ground with a loud clang, reaching to meet the horns of his helmet. With the sound of a buckle releasing his helm from his armor, he revealed his form to this befouled land.

    His face was sanguine-skinned, gaunt, and slim. From both sides of his forehead sprouted two char black horns that sat and hovered above his hairline, which slicked back and traveled to his upper back. A Hellspawn. Humanoid as he was, his family line was cursed by the Hells, and he soaked it with this visage.

    He shook his head upon meeting the filthy air of this place, his black hair whirling around his head. He halted his movements after three shakes, looking into the helmet. A visage of a faceless abomination colored black, to match his plate. Horns twist and turn like a flamberge upwards to the heavens, only the visor being distinguishing.

    It was a gift. From a creature that doomed him. He hated this helmet, with every fiber of his being. His gauntlet attempted to mold the steel as he tightened his grip. No avail, it was magically altered by the powers of the Hells.

    Yenlar was doomed by a Rogue Devil he thought to be his mentor. Saved by the Lizard turned Inevitable-Aeon. The one he called his Battle Brother. Yet the Hells are Yenlar¡¯s origins. They are the reasons he adorns the visage of The Damned. The horns, the hooves, the forked tongue, the sanguine skin¡­back then he endorsed it when the Hells gripped him. Now it is him that grips The Hells. Whereas The Master of Blades was chosen by all Five of the Godclaw, Yenlar was heralded by one. The Dark Prince, Asmodeus. The Ruler of Hell. The Master of Blades interacted with each of the gods once. Communing with Iomedae, earning Irori¡¯s mark, signing a deal with Asmodeus, getting Torag¡¯s favor, and convincing Abadar to meld his form to an Aeon¡¯s. Yenlar wasn¡¯t as lucky.

    He took in whatever he could from the Dark Prince, getting a pass as his being was no longer damned, outwitting the Prince to mold Yenlar¡¯s Infernal soul to his own will. And thus he did, imbuing his arsenal with the powers of the Hells, his soul now beckoning the Hells.

    Forever will he be indulged in Hellfire.

    His golden eyes blinked thrice at the mask-turned-helm before the foul landscape reminded him of his mission, as he donned his helm anew. Yenlar scoured his surroundings, his head turned to see that this valley was surrounded by hills and mountains, and the stone road led north, flanked by frosty mountaintops. Yet, at the foot of the snow-covered hill, what hadn''t set in during his adrenaline-filled charge were two swords embedded into the plagued earth.

    With disregard to his weaponry, Yenlar¡¯s plate scuffled towards the half-sunken weapons, crouching at the curvature of the hill that marks the border. As he inched closer toward the swords, he realized a skeletal hand gripping the handle of the leftmost sword. His mind conjured his weapons to his hands, Hellfire sprawling through his being as both killing machines burned their way from the killing site to another potential fight.

    Every nerve in his body yelled at him to be ready. Skeletal remains, in Tar Baphon¡¯s land? The necrotic wasteland? It¡¯ll either rise to fight him or lead the way to the Tyrant¡¯s throne, depending on whose side he¡¯s on. The messenger would die were it up to Yenlar. The knight took his swords and readied them at the implanted weapons, waiting for the slightest hint of movement as he stood completely still, only his breathing bobbing his chest.

    ¡­

    Yenlar waited a dozen heartbeats, alert to all sources of doom that might fell his quest to destroy the anarchic tyrant¡­yet the skeletal hand never stirred. His hands moved back to his sides with haste, as though commanded, as his gauntlet let go of Absolution and, with the utmost care, went to touch the bones. Yenlar could feel the warmth of the skeleton even through steel carapace armor, his brows furrowed at the dichotomy the body exhibited.

    That sent his mind to seek answers. Every possible knowledge of the religious, skeletal remains, and temperature regarding thereof, yet nothing yielded results. Skeletons don¡¯t get warmer the more they stay above ground, especially not in this frostbitten terrain. The works of magic have to set in for that prospect to be achieved. What spell meddled with skeletal remains?

    Then, his mind pieced it all together. Yenlar¡¯s mind sent him back to 4716 AR, just a few months after his initiation to the order. Part of the learning process of The Order of the Godclaw is to respect those who died protecting the keep of the order, Citadel Dinyar, up at the cruel mountains of Isger. There he watched a Signifer, the casters of the Hellknight Orders, perform a burial rite upon a fallen Hellknight, covering his remains with embalming fluids as he weaved a spell. One that made bodies protected from undeath.

    Yenlar¡¯s mind hummed in agreement and he couldn¡¯t help but unknowingly flex his face into a smile at his religious ¡®forte¡¯. Yet his keen eyes noticed something even stranger about one of the swords. He could see the handle of the buried blade turn glassy when viewed from a certain angle. He dropped Reckoning as well as he drew his head closer to the remains as the cold whistling wind drew past his face. When he went to grip the sword, moving the skeletal hand aside, the weapon felt¡­lighter. Absolution wasn¡¯t as long as this sword, even when a part of it was embedded into the earth, meaning it could be either a bastard sword or a longsword. To his hands, its weight classified it as neither.

    He gripped the handle tight, sword still buried, only to hear a slight crack at the handle. His grip left the sword, looking over to see the damage he had caused to the weapon. This handle isn¡¯t supposed to withstand such a strong grip.

    ¡¯Is this weapon ornamental or designed by idiots?¡¯ His mind conjured with his common calm demeanor. ¡®If the handle couldn¡¯t sustain this much pressure it means it¡¯s either hollow or damaged.¡¯ The first stood more intriguing to the knight. The pommel of the sword was slightly dislodged after his tight grip had almost destroyed the handle, and thus he removed it. What he hadn¡¯t expected was the length of the pommel that leads into the hollow channel that is within the handle, as he unearthed a secret compartment within the blade.

    With gingerly curiosity, Yenlar gripped the sword and pulled it from the ground. Feeling as though gravel had all but encased the blade, Yenlar pulled harder but not hard enough to destroy the handle. As the dirt-filled blade pointed skywards, the empty channel within the handle dropped two pieces of folded parchment.

    Now an assortment of fallen weapons at his greave, he let the blade drop, crouching and picking up the two fleeting pieces before the wind could.

    The first was a detailed map of The Gravelands, with no additional details as regards anything of notice, other than cities and landmarks. Identifying where he was was as easy as reading Diabolical to Yenlar, and the closest city was named Opulence, to the northwest. ¡¯Five hours away,¡¯ he estimated, looking over at the legend and scale, as well as a magical hourglass that foretold hours. ¡®For anything to stand here¡­I commend the Knights of Lastwall.¡¯

    The second was a note, it was damp and warm to the touch, as though it was covered by the embalming fluid, yet the parchment wasn¡¯t harmed at all.

    Kalabrynne Iomedar aid you in the quest you are about to be dispatched on.

    You are to travel from your outpost in Opulence to Ravounel. Being the closest to the border, Knight Paladin Yvren, you and your two companions, Bishop Ulin and Marksman Brunn, are to meet a certain Lady Decour in Kintargo. The Capital of Ravounel.

    Show her the hidden insignia in your armor and she will supply us with all the necessary equipment we have asked The Bellflower to aid us in.

    Iomedae be your sword, Head Paladin Juren. 8th of Erastus, 4720.

    He scoffed at the pretty language of the letter.

    ¡®Outpost in Opulence? Just what I needed. Recently written too, about a month ago.¡¯ He stashed the two pieces of parchment in his bag of holding, but not before looking at the map to find his way through Opulence.

    The stone road will bend when flanked by two forests, he must pick the leftmost path to reach Opulence proper and not endanger himself with petty undead.

    But he knows he will have to fight the enemy head-on. Bull charging was always Yenlar¡¯s strong side, ever since he gripped the Hells and the Hells haven¡¯t gripped back.

    His head craned to meet the visage of the valley, mountaintops filled with snow, hillsides showing patches of green amidst beautiful snow. Yet inside there was only dread. The earth was physically dying here, animated into an abhorrent state of endless necromantic decay. And this is just the beginning of these lands.

    Yenlar chuckled at the prospect. The knight knew that the foe was greater than any he had faced before. The Whispering Tyrant was the epitome of undeath incarnate, and he knew the one weapon that could best even gods.

    Zeal.

    If The Master of Blades - his own true Battle Brother - holds zeal in his heart and defies the anarchic powers of a shard of a God¡­Yenlar had to match it.

    Zeal was his faith in the Godclaw. Zeal is his strongest weapon.

 Reckoner

    ~~~ 5th of Abadius, The First Month, 4715 AR ~~~

    The profuse sweat dripped down his forehead and wet his bright brown hair. The endless heat of his surroundings made his breath heavier, and his skin nearly boil. Then, he raised the hammer unto the searing steel with a harsh clang, sending sparks onto his protective clothing. He previewed the heated metal, and it took on the shape of a blade.

    He gritted his teeth at the sword. ¡®<i>It isn¡¯t long enough</i>,¡¯ his medium-pitched voice bellowed in his head as he laid the blade on the anvil, raising the hammer with more rage and attacking the steel anew.

    This process wasn¡¯t a rarity for him, because to him everything needed to be perfect. His purple skin was used to the hot air around him, courtesy of his Hellish nature. The same nature that fed into his perfectionism.

    There wasn¡¯t enough metal in the sword to make the blade both long enough and hold its weight correctly. ¡®<i>If I curve the edges and lose a bit of width in the start¡­¡¯ </i>he thought before the door to the forge opened wide with a loud thud.

    Molded steel in hand, the Hellspawn craned his head sideways.

    A taller, muscular, and gruff figure stood at the door of his forge. Purple skin, blood-red eyes, black goat horns, salt and pepper beard, and a mullet to cover the back of his head. ¡°Hey Dad,¡± The younger Hellspawn peeped out after a small silence.

    The larger Cambion couldn¡¯t resist a smile, looking at his creation. ¡°Uvin, I swear to Abadar,¡± The older man bellowed through a paternal smile. ¡°If you don¡¯t go to your house right now, you¡¯ll be fired.¡±

    ¡°I just wanted to make him a swor¡­¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s your husband¡¯s birthday!¡± The older man rebutted harshly, his face softening as he approached his son.

    Uvin let out an exasperated sigh, knowing his lover¡¯s current position, yet also knowing his father is right.

    ¡°He¡¯s at work anyway, teaching Noble Miknar¡¯s daughter how to spar. Look, Dad,¡± Uvin approached his father, putting down the heated metal on the anvil to rest.

    His father shook his head defiantly, his horns nearly stabbing his sharp ears. ¡°I know what you want to make, son.¡± His voice grew softer, the tone dropping to a gentle and understanding voice as he put a hand on his heating shoulder. ¡°Go prepare the house for when he comes back, I¡¯ll finish the sword.¡±

    Uvin stared into his father¡¯s eyes as his words danced in his ears. Today <i>is</i> his husband¡¯s birthday, but Uvin wanted to make a gift for him <i>himself</i>. He knew his husband''s reaction would be to blush, his sanguine skin turning redder and then mumble about ¡®not needing to¡¯ in his low voice. He loved seeing and hearing that. His work was rough, one of the only sparring schools in Egorian with a modicum of acceptance to all. It is run by a Cambion, and those businesses are looked down upon by the people of The City of Thorns, as seen by Uvin¡¯s family business. Not to mention that as of late, Noble Miknar has been threatening his husband.

    Uvin sighed with his eyes closed as his father¡¯s hand was lifted from his shoulder. He took off the harsh smith¡¯s gloves, extending them out to his parental figure as the hoarse man yanked them out of his hand. His father patted him on the shoulder blade twice, each pat felt like a punch. ¡°Good. Tell Yenlar I said happy birthday.¡±

    Uvin approached the entryway to their home with his eyes looking earthward. The wood was covered in moss, stonework cracked, and rain had all but destroyed parts of the decorated roof. The slums of Egorian were always dilapidated. Their house was situated in the worst part of town, but if they headed anywhere else within the city they would be stoned immediately. His red gown billowed amidst the winds as he approached the door.

    Turning the key, Uvin realized that their future wasn¡¯t there, in Cheliax. Both are celebrating 30 this year, and this place isn¡¯t welcoming to either their horns or personalities. The inside of their house was always simple, common stone with an attempt at enhancing the living room with scabbards, swords, polearms, and shields lining the walls.

    Uvin threw the key at the central table as he closed the door. He leaned on a nearby chair. The purple hellspawn knew his husband¡¯s feelings about surprises. Last time he tried to invite everyone, Yenlar dissociated with utmost haste across the chaotic atmosphere of a party. From then on it was very clear that no surprise parties were to be held, at least for his husband.

    He huddled over to their bedroom, a shared queen-sized bed, with two nightstands holding drawers. Atop Yenlar¡¯s side was a small painting. Two Cambions, one sanguine skin with horns hovering above his long hair, the other hellspawn was violet. Small horns poking out of the forehead leading to a head of short brown hair. The two held each other in a smile, both garbed in white lavished attires, staring at the viewer. Both had a scabbard at their hip. Uvin smiled at the picture, a wave of warmth filled his being as he looked at the small painting. That was until he heard a knock on the door.

    Smile still held high, he bellowed ¡°Coming, dearest!¡± as his legs beat towards the door. ¡°Guess who¡¯s got¡­¡± he said, opening the door, only to be greeted by three figures, stunning him as he stared upwards at them. All three donned black spiked plate mail, whips by their sides, and at least two hid their faces with helmets. He couldn¡¯t conjure a word, not only from awkwardness but the knowledge of what these people were.

    <i>¡®H¡­Hellknights?¡¯ </i>He thought, attempting to look for any signifiers of their order. The two helmed paragons stood behind the helmless one, and upon his breastplate stood five whips forming a star around a circle of blood. The Order of the Scourge. The visage of the tall knight was one of a human. Short black hair covered his head and his brown eyes pierced the short Cambion as both stared endlessly into each other.

    Uvin¡¯s mind tensed, knowing what these horrors of mankind were capable of to achieve their goals, and what methods they used. A wave of anxiety inked its way through his blood vessels as he felt his purple face turn ever so white.

    ¡°Is Yenlar Riek present, sir?¡± The monotone low voice of the unhelmed Paragon of Order hummed smoothly in his ears.¡°N¡­no, but you¡¯re talking to his spouse, Uvin Riek. Why are you here?¡± The Cambion mustered whatever inch of bravery he had in him. He <i>had </i>to find out why Hellknights were after his husband.

    The leader of the detachment - at least that¡¯s what it felt like to Uvin - stared back at his two guards. Both helms turned from the Cambion to their officer, as both shrugged. The unhelmed one turned his face back at the Hellspawn holding the door. ¡°He mentioned in a letter sent to us that his business was at risk thanks to political corruption. We¡¯re here to talk about the details thereof.¡± Uvin narrowed his eyes, his heartbeat with a rhythmic hymn that spelled wrath at the people claiming his husband¡¯s actions.

    ¡°Look¡­who am I even speaking to?¡± Uvin¡¯s rage held the better of him as Thrune¡¯s agents came knocking on <b><i>his </i></b>door without any modicum of hesitation. The Hellknight didn¡¯t budge. He didn¡¯t flinch, Hells, he didn¡¯t even change facial expressions once during their conversation. ¡°Maralictor Myrav. These are Hellknight Junn, and Hellknight Kraan.¡± Myrav opened his palm at the two men. Both knights stood unchanged at their introductions.

    Uvin sighed, with an exasperating wave overtaking his body. ¡®<i>I just want to have </i><b><i>one</i></b><i> normal birthday¡­why can¡¯t my husband have that?¡¯</i>

    The Hellspawn stared at his floorboards as thoughts about his guests soon formed, only to be interrupted by a familiar voice, beyond his entryway. ¡°I see you¡¯ve arrived.¡± The low hum of another Hellspawn¡¯s familiar accent rang the air around Egorian¡¯s slums.

    The three knights and Cambion all looked at the sternguard of the Hellknight detachment. Sanguine skinned, slim face, char black horns adored the long hair of the <i>other</i> master of this house. ¡°What a gift.¡± He murmured to himself, fixing the position of three scabbards on his waist and two on his back. His attire was simple, short, black and red finished with a tattered overcoat that was black with tinges of matte.

    Uvin stared at his husband¡¯s golden eyes, where blood red met celestial gold, with a sour and questioning expression. ¡°<i>Ybnaarl ivel,¡±</i> Yenlar whispered as he stared back. <i>Trust me</i>, Uvin¡¯s mind translated from Diabolical.

    ¡°Now, come in. Let¡¯s talk about your Order¡¯s specialty.¡±

    ~~~ 24th of Arodus, 4720 AR ~~~

    The Gravelands ached every aspect of Yenlar¡¯s body. His soul felt surrounded by foul magic, every bit of it attempting to lash out at his already exposed being, even through his soul-manifested carapace plate.

    His body felt the discontent of the land towards his living form. He felt the ground beneath his greaves actively rebuke the metal that protected his hooves from the rusted nails below. Every force around these dying lands rejected this state of living matter that called itself Yenlar Riek. The steel encasing him was a familiar warmth and the two swords that he held both aided and ached the rejection of his being.

    These weapons <i>are him</i>. The plate mail <i>is him.</i> They are the forces of his soul, his existence, his psyche melded into one gestalt being that were his armaments. When Yenlar¡¯s soul escaped the Hells his body underwent endless tests held by one of The Master¡¯s companions. During these unconscious tests, The Dark Prince murmured in his mind. Advising him to undergo a ritual so he could channel Hellfire as weapons anew. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    The gift of consent was then given to him, but much like The Prince advocates, Yenlar made the ritual under <i>his</i> terms. He vowed for order, he vowed to destroy discord with every swing of his two swords and he vowed that his might will only ever be raised for absolute and objective law. The Hells answered on these conditions, letting Yenlar take hold of his soul back, as he now forges a path for his own. Both the steel he dons every day and the steel he swings every day are his, <i>and only his. </i>No subjective devil shall murmur in his mind anymore, for his soul is to be judged by one God alone. The Lady of Graves, Pharasma. She who judges all mortal souls who are whisked away to death, and hers is the final verdict in <i>all.</i>

    As he marched forward, the road ended at a fork. Two dirt roads split from one, both flanked by blighted forests, the trees¡¯ leaves blackened by necrotic filth. A gnarled sign stands at the split, all its contents now reduced to endless scratching across the wooden post. ¡¯<i>Ghoul claws</i>.¡¯ He affirmed to himself. It was a guess.

    He knew where each road would take him, only one side of this road leads to Opulence proper and if he ever wished to join the crusade for Lastwall¡­his journey mustn''t be late via ghouls.

    The armored menace took one look at the sign before staring earthwards as his head followed the leftmost path. Soon enough, his greaves marched anew.

    The deeper the knight walked down the dirt road, the more he felt like the forest was choking him, alongside the disgusting air. The gnarled, dying branches of the blighted trees extended towards him the more and more he walked forward. Each ruffling of the dying leaves was a new threat that could be assessed, and practically killed given the circumstances.

    This land couldn¡¯t destroy him. Yenlar thought that the only threat that could kill him was himself. Only through a mistake; an error in tactics, bladework, choosing of enemy, or choosing of ally would his soul be sent back to Pharasma. Such is the way of every Hellknight. Yet if he is to challenge Tar-Baphon, The Whispering Tyrant, he could not make a single mistake.

    The last stretch of the walk felt oppressive to him. An unknowing eye was held above his being, staring into his soul-made-manifest, and trying to grip at what seemed to be an intruder.

    His helm didn¡¯t move, but his eyes did as he scanned the innards of the forests flaking his sides. He noticed a flaw in an attempt of stalking, one silvery pauldron bobbing with a slow breath as the assailant¡¯s helmet was visible. They measured him. ¡®<i>Breathing. They¡¯re alive.¡¯</i> He thought, his greaves keeping on the persuasion of his feigned discovery.

    The bearer of the pauldron moved slowly, sticking to the dead growth to the left of the road, tracking the Hellknight through every step. Noticing a pattern, Yenlar¡¯s eyes moved still within his visor to scan the right undergrowth for the same patterns. The dead oak¡¯s color was no longer brown, but an ashened beige¡­which is easy to differentiate from the shoulders of a suit of studded leather. Then he realized he wasn¡¯t being tracked. He was being hunted.

    He halted. His greaves met the road with stillness as the two silhouettes both stood to watch, unphased. ¡¯<i>Fuck it</i>.¡®

    ¡°I can see you, the both of you.¡± Yenlar¡¯s low voice rumbled through the forest, the myriad of dead oak trees absorbing the sound. The two silhouettes that stood at each side of the road, shifted in unison, as he knew what hand signs were.

    ¡°Hands in the air, <i>Hellknight</i>.¡± A masculine voice ordered from the left of the road, the last word of his sentence sneered out.

    Yenlar chuckled at the slight. Sheathing his weapons, his arms moved to hold his waist.

    ¡°Else what, you¡¯ll shoot? You need allies more than you need priests.¡±

    ¡°Listen to the people who have you surrounded.¡± A stern feminine persuasion snapped at him from the right side of the road.

    He knew Iomedaen worship, he <i>is</i> an Iomedaen worshiper. If these people can communicate and can form an ambush in these lands it will be the former protectors of this place, The Knights of Lastwall. He knows they won¡¯t open fire on innocents. Yet to them, he stands as the perpetrator of sin, with their lack of knowledge that Iomedae beats in his heart.

    His lungs let go of all the air they had left, his arms moved to wrap around themselves, as his helm rose to the horizon and he breathed anew. Both figures chose to continue their hide-and-seek.

    ¡°I know of your outpost in Opulence. I know the mission some of you were sent on by Head Paladin Juren.¡± The two figures moved as one again, two of the same movement.

    ¡°How?¡± A feminine voice bellowed from his southwest. ¡®<i>Huh, missed that one.</i>¡¯ His helm turned to the voice, then he saw that he was surrounded, as four additional silhouettes honed from the southwest <i>and</i> southeast. Two from each direction. His posture remained all the same.

    The knight held the silence. It was his to grip. They needn¡¯t know of any escapades of buried swords, destroyed handles, and other menial details, no no. His infernal nature schemed about whether lying was as good a prospect as he thought. Concealing his borderline disrespect for the dead might hand him favors. Perhaps he met <i>Paladin Yvnar</i> as they were dying in Nidal.

    But all of the strategic values of a lie crumbled under a mental sigh. ¡¯<i>What¡¯s the point, they¡¯re crusaders.¡¯</i>

    ¡°Burial site near the border. Hidden in your handle-channels. Stupid choice of positioning, under pressure your handle will break and¡­¡±

    ¡°We will not accept critiques of warfare from you, Hellknight.¡± The southwestern voice once again answered. ¡°You snooped around our burial sites, and now enter our conquered nation to colonize it for yourself?¡± The hidden menace yelled.

    Yenlar was befuddled. His brows furrowed under - what to him was - a stupid question, his crossed arms now looser. A loud chuckle roared at the tense scene, could be that all six - or more - have crossbows aimed at his head. He wasn¡¯t scared. Fear is the fruit of uncertainty. Fear hasn¡¯t gripped him since he swore the oath to The Measure and Chain.

    Yenlar looked over both of his shoulders. ¡°Me and what army? If The Order of the Godclaw wanted your lands we¡¯d have more than one Hellknight.¡±

    ¡°Then why are you here?¡± The same voice commanded.

    ¡°Because I want to help you.¡± Yenlar¡¯s sarcastic act dropped, as his forked tongue ceased its playing. This type of language isn¡¯t in the lexicon of Hellknights. At least, it isn¡¯t for them to use. <i>Help </i>is a word civilians use to get attention and shelter from ongoing attacks. <i>Help </i>is something guards say when they are incompetent enough to not apprehend a criminal. He knew from early on in his life that this type of language makes some people move¡­and some people snicker.

    The road stood in complete silence from these words. Not even the silhouettes moved, only Yenlar¡¯s chest and the arms that wrapped around themselves moved as he breathed with calculated precision. His eyes darted around to meet each humanoid within his gaze. The only two possibilities were for this silence to be broken by a hail of projectiles, a rallying warcry that will spur Iomedaens to attack Iomedaens¡­or a truce.

    A whisper that ended on a low note pierced the deadened woods and right afterward, he heard steel rumble as one from the sides of the road. His instinct took the better of him as both arms went to extend themselves with Hellfire weaponry, but all figures moved from the sides of the road to walk upon it. Six knights, garbed in a mixture of plate and leather emerged from the dying undergrowths. All figures helmed, and all held crossbows. Crossbows they were stowing. The two figures to his front looked over at one of the southwestern knights.

    Stepping forward to meet his gaze from up close, he saw the signifiers of an officer. Adorning a silver set of plate mail, a runed crossbow, and a scabbard of a longsword on the hip was all that was visible to him as he turned to greet their stature. His hands were once again crossed as he towered over the figure. The officer¡¯s gauntlets reached for their helmet which was decorated with a silver sash atop their helmet.

    With a dislodge of a buckle, flowing brown hair came spooled down, as the feminine visages of a human met his gaze. Long face, freckles, and one violet eye met his gaze. The other was brown. Her breastplate was embossed with channels and in the center stood the sunburst that shone on a sword, the symbol of Iomedae.

    ¡°You claim aid, Hellknight?¡± The crusader breathed as she moved her hair into formation with her armored vambrace, her left eyebrow - the one above the hazel eye - raised.

    Yenlar knew they shared a goal. The Hellknight knew that the only way to defeat Tar-Baphon would be to combine the might of The Order of the Godclaw and The Knights of Lastwall. Yet he knew their trust in them was lacking at best.

    <i>¡¯They never trust Hellknights¡¯</i>. He thought. ¡®<i>Even as we saved Drezen from demons, did they scrutinize our efficient techniques¡¯.</i> <b>The Measure and Chain</b>, the book and guideline of all Hellknights, stands to bring incorruptible order, law, and justice. <b><i>By all means necessary.</i></b><b> </b>

    They value ruthlessness. They weaponize fear. They are the endless legion that would do everything to decapitate anarchy and discord. They embody mercilessness, even unto themselves, for they enforce the law, and even they cannot hide behind it. Their tactics, values, and beliefs are not for everyone, and they <i>know it. </i>Yet they always. <i>Get</i>. <b><i>Results.</i></b>

    ¡°Yes.¡± The monotone low voice of the Hellknight commanded back. ¡°Consider me the same as the invitation we gave to Drezen in their fifth, and final, crusade to end the demonic forces of The Abyss. I offer the same against your enemy.¡±

    The Lastwallian looked at her comrades, the violet eye never truly moving, as each of her knights stood unwavering to both her gaze and his. As she returned her gaze to Yenlar her eyes held pity and a modicum of laughter. ¡°Then why is there one of you, and not a whole crusading brigade?¡±

    Yenlar chuckled, smirking behind his helm, shrugging at the incompetence of the question. ¡°I¡¯m all you need. If we wanted the land we¡¯d attack you <i>and </i>Tar-Baphon. To destroy The Tyrant you only need me¡±

    The Lastwallian chuckled at his face, and only after a few breaths did it turn into laughter. If Yenlar could ever feel shame, perhaps he would feel it then. In its stead he saw incompetence galore in the Lastwallian, disbelief in the same zeal he knew could, and was going to, destroy shards of gods. His towering height never wavered, as he saw her knights¡¯ resolve quiver at his indifference to her mockery. ¡®<i>A fool.¡¯</i>

    The crusader came back to her way after realizing her knights weren¡¯t following in her laughing fit, an awkward impression left on her face. ¡°I weaponize fear. Do not. Make me. <b><i>Use it</i></b>.¡± Yenlar threatened, his forked tongue lashing at the knight.

    From jest, her mind went to anger. Brows furrowed with rage, face gnarled at him, gauntlets clenched and teeth bearing. ¡°Don¡¯t you <b><i>dare</i></b> come to my home and threaten me, Knight of Hell!¡± She bellowed, pointing her steel gauntlet at him. He stood unphased, underneath his helm did he raise one brow in indifference and pity at how rage clouded her judgment. ¡®<i>Fragile ego, paladin?¡¯ </i>His mind cooed.

    ¡°Hellknight Yenlar Reik.¡± He introduced himself amidst her seething. He heard the grinding of her teeth in her rage and saw the shift in the Lastwallian¡¯s eyes that bore her drive at introduction. ¡¯<i>They need me.¡¯</i>

    ¡°Knight Paladin Bryann.¡± She spoke through gritted teeth. Bryann sighed, a modicum of anger leaving her system as she breathed out foul air. ¡°This is squad Gold.¡± She gestured to the knights accompanying her. All stood nonresponsive to the introduction, yet none would aim their helm at his¡¯. ¡°I assume I¡¯ll get an express ride to Opulence?¡± Yenlar inquired Bryann, finally uncrossing his arms.

    He saw the doubt in her eyes, the doubt she had in him. ¡®<i>Incompetent,¡¯</i> was the first thought his mind had about her uncertainty regarding people of his Order. She looked at the road ahead, her long hair dancing in the wind as she looked past her knights. After a tinge of thought, she opened her mouth.

    ¡°Yes. One wrong move, <i>Yenlar,¡±</i> She gleamed over her shoulder to meet his helm. ¡°and your body will be sent back to your precious citadel.¡± His mind chuckled at the prospect. ¡¯<i>Wrong move? Sure. Shooting me would be one. It¡¯d also be your last.</i>¡®

 The Right to Rule

    <i>¡°Yenlar,¡± </i>a thousand voices rang in his mind, all in different cadences, languages, and pitches. The Lastwallians that led him to Opulence talked amongst themselves before pointing at Yenlar. They surrounded him in a diamond formation as the voices in his mind continued to ring. <i>¡°The ruler of Promise will hear our piece today. He will be convinced to go back to the rightful rule of objective law.¡± </i>He knew who spoke to him. Though his form has drastically changed, the mien, the intent, and the terrifying stature stayed the same; it was His Master. <i>¡°Aye,¡± </i>Yenlar replied in his mind <i>¡°With your demeanor and your compatriots¡¯...ways, the lot of you can convince even a god, Ishurak.¡± </i>

    <i>Ishurak</i>. The Master of Blades, which Yenlar knew as his only accompanying nail in their squad, Claw Six. Governed and led by the Paravicar, master of Signifers in a Hellknight order, The Adorned. Even the thought of the title grinded Yenlar¡¯s teeth. He used to bear the rank of Paravicar, back when The Adorned gave him diabolical magic. Back when both he and Ishurak were supposed to be damned. Though the hellspawn won¡¯t admit it, the Lizard¡¯s tale was always tragic. He¡¯d reek of rust and blood whenever he¡¯d tap into his former curse¡¯s magic. His eyes sunken and all scales of his famous reptilian regalia would turn a dull gray. An Oracle¡¯s burden is heavy. Ishurak¡¯s Oracular Curse was a blight unto his being.

    The Adorned was a devil of Mephistopheles, The Archduke of Cania, the eighth layer of Hell. The Adorned was the Rogue Devil, who despite all ties to the lawful plane of Hell, threw caution to the wind as he spited the ranks of order. He doomed both nails of Claw Six. Ishurak by a curse and contract, and Yenlar only by contract. Both played a part in an attempt at making The Archduke rule a part of this earth.

    Both succeeded in subverting their demise. Both succeeded in turning eternal damnation into their blooming success within their order. First by Yenlar sacrificing himself, so Ishurak¡¯s Oracular Curse would be lifted¡­and lastly by Ishurak tearing the contract that bound the Hellspawn¡¯s soul to the Hells. Thus, The Lizard killed The Adorned.

    That elected Ishurak to the rank of Paralictor after he swore to upkeep the tenets of Justice to Iomedae and the Godclaw as one, turning him into a Paladin. A few months forward, his ascension to an Inevitable - a creation of Aeons - gave him the rank and title of Master of Blades. Ishurak became a conduit of multiversal law the second he agreed to Abadar''s terms. He became the Bulwark of Civilization, the Parchment of Order, and The Executioner of The Godclaw.

    Yenlar was left to the sidelines.

    In its stead, he received the Dark Prince¡¯s murmurs. A tearing in his contractual relegations to the Hells, and letting his soul roam free. To compare that to Ishurak¡¯s ascension to the mechanisms of utmost law is a fool''s errand.

    Yenlar¡¯s plate clanked upon the blighted dirt road, surrounded by similar steel buckles hitting other steel buckles beside him. The knights stared with awkward suspicion at Yenlar as his Master communed with him through spell, all their helms pointed at the blackened plate bearer. He walked surrounded by Squad Gold, Bryann at the diamond¡¯s head. Half a dozen helms stared directly at the Hellknight, none with the intentions of his defense, but theirs. Their weapons were drawn and held at a ready pose, all whilst walking to a promised city.

    ¡°You¡¯ve mentioned,¡± The familiar voice of Bryann bellowed from the front of the diamond, ¡°That your order is The Order of the Godclaw.¡± The sash that decorated the top of her helm swished in the air as her visor met his¡¯. Yenlar tapped his breastplate twice, the symbol of his order - a five-pointed rotating star colored in gold - painted on it. ¡°We are the crusaders of the Hellknight orders,¡± Yenlar¡¯s low voice exorcized the putrid air, ¡°We stand in prayer for five lawful deities, we call their council The Godclaw. Don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve heard about her but Iomedae is a member of said council.¡±

    Bryann raised a clenched fist as Squad Gold halted their steps as one. Yenlar took another step inside the diamond formation before halting at their surprise. The human leading the squad turned with an eerie slowness at the realization. ¡°I wondered how you¡¯d take my choice of worship.¡± The Hellknight said, his smirk evident upon his honeyed words.

    ¡°<b><i>You?!¡± </i></b>The sash behind her helm danced in the wind as the Knight Paladin¡¯s visor pointed at him. ¡°The Lady of Justice chose <b><i>you?!¡± </i></b>her words shot at Yenlar. His metaphorical plate armor withstood her meaningless words with perfect ease. ¡°I don¡¯t see why not.¡± His forked tongue continued to cut deeper. ¡°I value honor, act with righteous intent, and am temperate. I don¡¯t think the latter stands for the both of us.¡± Though he would never show it, he took joy in the knowledge that it made Bryann seeth. She was a paladin, divine justice was her sword. She had nothing to prove to him - an honest soldier. Yet The Knight Paladin proved everything Yenlar wanted to know.

    The silver strand shook from side to side as Bryann¡¯s head shook, the diamond surrounding the hellknight still with swords drawn, and still with their defense in mind. She groaned as her shaking stopped, and he stood at zero change. ¡°So what other gods do you follow?¡± She subverted her anger with a deflection.

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    ¡°Abadar,¡± Yenlar listed with zealous conviction in his voice. ¡°Irori, Torag, and Asmodeus.¡± At the last name, the diamond sprung to motion. He took once glancing sweep at the knights before realizing all blades were pointed at him. He expected it. He took in every knight¡¯s movement, each of their fighting styles as he realized that the percentages of him getting attacked are now <i>not </i>zero. More like five.

    Some of the knights held their longswords with intent on a bull charge, whereas some held rapiers ready for a sinuous dance, their upcoming reaction bent on mobility. He knew the methods to counter both. He knew the necessary momentum to destroy strength, using his own, and he knew litheness was predictable. All of them trembled in their stances. ¡¯<i>They¡¯re afraid.¡¯</i>

    ¡°Will you now judge me differently?¡± Yenlar held his hips, a smirk not yet evaporated as his eyes darted inside the visor.

    ¡°You worship,¡± Bryann prolonged each word, the speed of her advance matching her tongue as her hand moved to the handle of a longsword on her hip. ¡°The Devil Prince.¡± her words continued to strike Yenlar¡¯s plate like daggers. Still, he withstood. ¡°He is the reason Iomedae fights who she fights.¡± She tried to sink a careful hit onto his impenetrable bulwark. It was useless, he sparred since childhood. Both by blade and tongue.

    ¡®<i>Not only filled with ego but also stupidity.¡®</i>

    ¡°He is the reason,¡± Yenlar uttered with the same slowness. ¡°We still have a world that isn¡¯t eaten by The God of the Apocalypse.¡±

    ¡°You dare raise Rovagug¡¯s jailing as justification for everything Asmodeus did?!¡±

    Two ancient enemies were forged at the beginning of time. Law, and Pandemonium. Asmodeus¡¯ ascension to rule The Nine Hells, alongside his eight infernal generals, made him one of three candidates for law¡¯s sanctity. Rovagug, The Maddened Beast, once ruled The Maelstrom, an everchanging pure conduit of chaos.

    The Beast threatened to eat the entire multiverse, and someone had to cage it. Asmodeus¡¯ coup to jail Rovagug succeeded, using plenty of trickery and might combined. Yet the topic of whom will be his jailer came up in the divine¡¯s court. Who will have the key to The Beast¡¯s prison? Abadar, ruler of Axis, The Perfect City of Law, vouched for Asmodeus due to his objectiveness. Who else would argue? Even the divine conduits that embodied life, kindness, and compassion agreed The Slaving God should be the keyholder for Rovagug¡¯s Prison. Asmodeus would do what the law needed.

    ¡°Yes.¡± Yenlar parried her every strike. He could not see her eyes, but he knew one blood vessel could pop with all the turmoil his sentences carried.

    ¡°His law might be subjective,¡± He continued past her gaze. ¡°Yet so is Iomedae¡¯s.¡±  He said, opening his palm to reveal all five holy symbols of each of the Godclaw¡¯s divine beings. Each for every finger of his clawed gauntlet.

    ¡°Then why do you worship both of them?¡± The Knight Paladin¡¯s sneering voice attempted another jab, a crack in his armor <i>and</i> sense of sentences.

    ¡°We view them differently than you do. Iomedae is law¡¯s sword, Asmodeus is law¡¯s strategic master.¡± Yenlar¡¯s hand climbed slowly to reach for the horns on his helmet, a part of him knew he sowed enough fear for these knights to doubt whether attacking was a good strategy. He revealed his sanguine skin to the undergrowth and Squad Gold for the first time. He wagered a dart of honesty is what these knights needed. He wagered it was how they ticked.

    He heard one knight mouth ¡¯<i>Cambion.¡¯</i>

    ¡°Can we now continue?¡± Yenlar¡¯s golden eyes swiped with a boring look at each knight, ending at the head of the pack, his speech no longer muffled by steel.

    Bryann¡¯s plate bobbed as she sent a chuckle into the cold foul air.

    ¡°You do realize the irony, right, Hellspawn?¡± Bryann let go of the handle of her sword.

    ¡¯<i>Xenophobia? Really?¡¯</i> He thought as he raised a black brow at the sentence. Anger was beyond him. It clouded judgment and made one impulsive. These two things are anathema to hellknights.

    ¡°No. It just makes you racist.¡± Yenlar responded with a monotone voice. His mind jolted him back to the saliva Egorians spat at his family¡¯s crops back when he was a child. How the Riek¡¯s Estate was burned by hate for his family¡¯s horns. It didn¡¯t anger him. <i>It gave his lawful quest meaning</i>.

    ¡°Prejudice lays the grounds for anarchy. Makes you temperamental. I don¡¯t think our Goddess would like either, now would she?¡± Yenlar¡¯s words pierced her plate as his smirk was now reigning victorious, and appeared to all eyes as a part of his infernal nature.

    ¡°That would be for Our Shield to decide.¡± Bryann held her fist once more towards the heavens as the squad around the hellknight marched anew.

    In the distance, as they picked pace, Yenlar saw gates of stone beyond a clearing. His objective was nigh.

 The City of Lux

    The border of trees surrounding Squad Gold and their hellish companion¡¯s sides opened to a wide and decayed clearing. The earth, poisoned. The grass, dead. A city, ruined. Dilapidated and tall stone gates adorned the entrance to this dead clearing, and just beyond it, the hellknight could see the ruins of stone structures. All that was built, destroyed under black ichor, all behind a lowered portcullis. The gateway did not save the city from utmost ruin.

    ¡°Hold, Knight Paladin!¡± a silhouette of a person bellowed from the ramparts of the gate, standing above the portcullis. ¡°What has your expedition found?¡±

    Bryann¡¯s sash whipped around to look at her squad¡¯s careful and precise formation, and then to their blood-red-skinned envoy. Yenlar shrugged under a raised brow. ¡°A Hellknight!¡± The paladin screamed back. The first silhouette seemed frozen under the waned sunlight of this forsaken place. The hellknight knew that at his every introduction eyebrows would furrow, intentions judged, and inspections abound. The only thing that bothered him about all those was that time would be wasted. The silhouette atop the ramparts beckoned as another visage of a humanoid arrived from a rook nearby.

    ¡°Is this routine?¡± Yenlar¡¯s voice wounded Squad Gold¡¯s ears. ¡°The lot of you are really good at wasting time.¡± He continued, adjusting both scabbards as he sat on the befouled ground.

    ¡°You must understand your company is worrying.¡± One of Bryann¡¯s knights, one of feminine persuasion, pointed her helm at his form.

    ¡°My company spells victory, " the hellspawn explained, connecting both his index fingers with his thumbs. His armored legs, ending at cloven hooves, sat cross-legged.

    ¡°For whom? The forces of evil?¡± The knight rebutted.

    ¡°The forces of <i>law</i>.¡± Yenlar corrected, shutting his golden eyes, veiling them from the abhorrent visage of a city in ruins.

    Yenlar¡¯s breathing soothed as he entered back into his mind. There, he <i>felt </i>silence. The sounds of the foul wind filtered out, as he heard the crackling of his fiery soul¡¯s warmth. He was encased in it, both physically, and mentally. He inhaled, as he felt the disgusting air enter his system no longer bothered him, every particle of air squeezed his lungs. He clenched the air there, his lungs full of tension he deliberately held for a dozen heartbeats. Each beat begged for it to be the one where all the air, all the tension, all the reckonings would be released. At an impromptu beat, he finally exhaled. The plagued air escaped as though steam from his mouth¡ªall the tension; was released, as his breathing returned to equilibrium.

    He felt the eyes of the knights gazing at his meditating form. He¡¯d bet their minds thought it was a sort of ritual to summon a Vordine, the infantry of Hell. He realized their idiocy stemmed from their chain of command. Yenlar had to kill a Vordine to gain the rank of Hellknight. Every Hellknight did. He remembered it like it happened hours ago.

    <i>¡®I am Grunndram, 315th Regiment of Cania, Squad 514, Lieutenant of Vr¡¯aan The Desecrator.¡¯ </i>The devil spoke in the crude tongue of Diabolical, its throaty dialect wounding Yenlar. The pentagram-shaped portal that The Adorned opened closed shut as the room reeked of brimstone.

    There, Yenlar saw a mirror of himself. His appearance matched Grunndram¡¯s, from horns to hooves. The devil¡¯s eyes were the one distinguishing factor, as the Vordine¡¯s were irisless-red to his irised-gold. Yenlar stood with his two swords drawn, on the opposite side of that blasted empty chamber. Only a few yards away from the trident-wielding fiend. <i>¡®Armiger Yenlar Riek of Egorian. I serve the Godclaw. May the best of us win.¡¯ </i>He finished as he raised his swords. The Hellknight Test was a fight to the death. Were an Armiger to fail, the order would bury their bodies with zero remorse, stating the soldier was a waste of resources. Grunndram¡¯s body laid headless at the end, though Yenlar also had pronged holes in his armor from the adversary¡¯s trident. That is how he gained his rank of Hellknight.

    Even after he reminisced about his gained rank, he felt their eyes aimed directly at him. They were studying him, testing him. They were¡­looking into his soul. They focused an endless gaze on his being. At that moment Yenlar realized he wasn¡¯t viewed by The Knights of Lastwall. He felt the gaze of one, two, <b><i>thousands</i></b> of eyes at him, each eye shifting to the next one within his being. <i>¡®</i><i>Interesting</i><i>¡¯. </i>Endless voices murmured in his own mind. None were Yenlar¡¯s voice. It was countless voices in unison, one for each eye that he felt stared at his soul. Its speech was akin to Ishurak¡¯s. Whereas His Master¡¯s low authoritative voice is dominant amongst the endless, this being had no true cadence.

    Yenlar tried to look into each eye, to gain some hold, to glean into whatever it was that gazed with unending eyes into his soul and being.

    The hellknight sent his mental clawed gauntlet at the being, to hold one of its eyes. He felt the cringing of the being as Yenlar¡¯s mind gripped at its magical existence. He was in the presence of a soul already judged by Pharasma, The Judge of Mortals. The hellknight knew how it felt to be judged by her. <i>¡®You¡¯re an Outsider¡¯. </i>Yenlar¡¯s own mind, <i>his own voice,</i> confirmed to himself. The hellspawn¡¯s face tensed as he attempted to gain more ground over the adversary. Each grip of an eye gave less and less quarter as Yenlar assaulted that which invaded his mind. Retribution; one eye after the other.

    One out of thousands, Yenlar attempted to peer into an eye, his inner voice yelling at the arduous battle. Each movement of his hands felt like wading through water, Yenlar felt this being hindering the movements of his mind. There, he saw an endless mountain, as his entire being felt the kind and benevolent touch of a different plane. It caressed his being, his soul, his body as the eye revealed the visage of a lawful plane. One that reeked to Yenlar of overwhelming compassion. He gritted his teeth at the difficulty of this mental fight, which he felt the adversary let him have this edge. He felt the mercy of Heaven. <i>¡°Archon!¡± </i>both his physical voice and mental voice rang as one, both troubled.

    Each god of the Godclaw had servants, stemming from their own plane. The Aeons of Axis, the Devils of Hell, and the Archons of Heaven. Irori and Abadar commanded the Order of Aeons. Asmodeus alone leashed The Legion of Devils. Torag and Iomedae led The Choir of Archons.

    He hated his mind being invaded against his will. By fiend, or by celestial. Both are corrupted by malevolence and benevolence, respectively. His law is objective, to be corrupt by either is to destroy The Measure and Chain. Through his gritted teeth he let out a groan, both his hooves stood once again as he fought the heavenly force inside his mind. His mental wail turned into a physical one as he let out a short scream, and both his physical scabbards now stood empty. Hellfire; conjured as weapons to his heated hands. The force banished itself from Yenlar¡¯s mind as the fires of Hell joined their mental dance, and he opened his eyes anew. To a raised portcullis and a squad of knights aiming their weapons at him.

    He still knew how to defeat them, but they had backup. To fight them, the entirety of Opulence, was a fool''s errand. He knew that. He groaned with audible disdain, looking at the Knight Paladin, lowering his Hellfire weaponry. ¡°An Archon crept its way into my head.¡± He said, as his mind sent a jolt of brimstone to disarm him, the weapons appeared back in their scabbards.

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°And this is how you reacted?¡± Bryann did not lower her cold-iron longsword, as he realized its pommel is blessed by the sunburst of Iomedae. Her helmet covered her facial expression, but he knew that now her face was set on fighting him were he to choose the incorrect words.

    ¡°It infiltrated my mind,¡± He argued, measuring what words would net the best situation. ¡°Studied my brain and soul against my will. I will not apologize for my reaction.¡±

    The knights of Squad Gold shared a look, all ending at their Knight Paladin. Her visor turned to Yenlar¡¯s exposed face. ¡°Our Shield doesn¡¯t do that. Are you sure it¡¯s an Archon?¡± Bryann demanded. For all their stupidity, Yenlar was somewhat grateful that there was a conduit of his Goddess amongst The Knights of Lastwall. He didn¡¯t appreciate their subjectiveness in their approach to law, favoring ideals and virtues over actions and results. Yet both he and the forces of Heaven fought for the same goal. So long as that goal didn¡¯t involve the infiltration of his mind.

    ¡°I saw Heaven in its countless eyes. It¡¯s an Archon. Can I meet up with ¡®Your Shield¡¯?¡± Yenlar raised quotation marks at the mention of another Archon.

    The knights never relented from their weaponry, always walking with their weapons drawn at him. Only Bryann held hers at ease as they wandered inside of Opulence.

    The masonry of this once glorious city has all but collapsed and decayed under the ironically radiant spell that destroyed this nation. All stone painted black, corrupted by The Lich¡¯s rule. The wooden market that once sprawled the central plaza of this city turned to fine ash, only evident by partially ruined stone bases. The watchtowers flanking each cardinal point of the city are exposed to the putrid elements, yet they were the bastion that stayed the most intact. Even the destroyed beacon that towers over the city¡¯s buildings in its center could not survive such a horrid wilting.

    ¡°This place has seen better.¡± Yenlar commented, his eyes fixated on a near-ruined sign that he barely identified as <i>¡®Lavosh¡¯s Wares¡¯ </i>hanging off a dilapidated stone building. ¡°It was once called The City of Lux,¡± Bryann called from the front of her star formation. ¡°The Jewel of the Border.¡± she finished with a somber voice, leading the team through the stone road and into one of the main squares.

    She led them near a ruined tavern, its interior all but collapsed into itself as the wood started to decay and turn into black ash. The Knight Paladin sheathed her sword as her gauntlet met the soot-filled stone road next to the dead tavern. She patted the ground half a dozen times, before a confirming noise indicated that she found something. A small black and round handle that she pulled upwards, sending black ash everywhere, but revealing a stairway to a cellar. The star formation stood broken as Squad Gold¡¯s knights went down the stairs, leaving only Bryann and Yenlar at the ruined city. She opened her palm at the stairway, her helm faced the Hellknight. He complied with a fake and cooing smile as his armored form went down to the basement.

    This cold cellar was repurposed in its entirety. Round spots on the brown floorboard and walls stood brighter in neat rows, both vertically and horizontally. Dozens of maps, notes, parchment, and weapon holders adorned the walls of the large room. Several training dummies made of hay and wood stood at the nearby edges, and the room¡¯s main feature is a large desk. Several knights flank three doors at the other side of the chamber, leaving one unguarded. All of them were at ease and not wearing armor. Some ate bits of rations, some played dice, some enjoyed light reading. All the armorless knights stared at Squad Gold, readying to draw daggers from their boots at the visage of a hellknight. Their demeanor turned from hostile to cautious at the sight of Bryann closing the hatch.

    ¡°The Knights of Lastwall,¡± Yenlar stared at the dilapidated barracks combined with a planning room. ¡°Reduced to a sad resistance.¡±

    ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± One of the resting knights trudged towards Squad Gold, ¡°Our Shield is expecting you.¡± The blonde, young human scanned the Hellspawn with his hazel eyes. His scanning finished as he looked at Yenlar¡¯s plate. ¡°Hellknight.¡± The young boy sneered before walking back to his fellowship who threw around dice and bet with silver coins. She nodded twice with boredom before letting her hair drop from beneath her helmet once again, attaching the protective headpiece to a buckle on her belt. ¡°Come, Yenlar.¡± She addressed the hellspawn by his name for the first time in a while. He smirked at the invitation.

    The irked eyes of all the resting knights were laid onto Yenlar¡¯s being when he followed the Knight Paladin towards the door farthest back, guarded by no one. Each pair of eyes he returned a gaze to drop downwards to meet the floor.

    Squad Gold all departed the head of their pack as both Bryann and Yenlar stood at the foot of the wooden door. Bryann breathed heavily at the door, once. Twice. Thrice. It was clear she was either scared or revered what was behind that door. Yenlar¡¯s gauntlet went to meet the handle for the Knight Paladin, as he turned it.

    There, the large room was empty, save for one entity. A floating piece of metal stood hovering above the floorboards, taking the form of a tower shield. Six feathery orange wings spurred from each side of the sextuple aegis as well as four arms, each on random edges. On the ground beneath this giant targe was a golden lance - twice Yenlar¡¯s height - embedded into the floorboards. As the door opened fully, the shield turned on its axis as Yenlar met two sets of eternally watching eyes, irises colored in red. Both knights entered and Bryann closed the door.

    The paladin dropped to her knees with haste, her sword drawn and pointed downwards alongside her face. Yenlar stared at the knight with understanding as he felt her vambrace hit his right greave. ¡°Kneel before a servitor of Our Lady.¡± She whispered through gritted teeth.

    Yenlar debated whether he should kneel inside his infernal mind. He revered Iomedae for her offense on the battlefield, she was the leader of the crusade that once reclaimed this land. He kneeled before devils back when he had to, and the moment he would meet His Aeonic Master he would drop to a knee. Knowing Ishurak, he¡¯d order Yenlar to never kneel before him again.

    Iomedae filled his being with justice. With the fervor of battle. With <i>zeal</i>. She was the lady who gifted Ishurak with power that broke the Lizard from his curse. Right after Yenlar sacrificed himself. That alone merits reverence.

    Yenlar bowed his head before the aegis, bending one knee as he summoned Reckoning to his hand with Hellfire, pointing the long blade at the floor. The shield narrowed its eyes at the kneeling hellknight as he summoned diabolical fire.

    <i>¡°Knight Paladin Bryann,¡± </i>This being didn¡¯t have a mouth, yet spoke. Its will alone emanated a noise that mimicked speech, as the otherworldly powers wished a language that graced both knights¡¯ ears. Every word had a different tone, different gender, different voice. Hells, Yenlar heard the word ¡®Knight¡¯ in Diabolical. <i>¡°Hellknight Yenlar Riek.¡± </i>

    Yenlar never mentioned his name.

 Scourge

    ~~~ Fifth of Abadius, 4715 AR ~~~

    ¡°I cannot believe you actually went through with this crazy idea!¡± The smaller cambion raised his voice. Yenlar went to open his mouth, scabbards clinking as he moved his hands to grasp his husband¡¯s. Uvin snatched his hand away from his beloved¡¯s in anger, his hand moved to hold the queen-sized bed.

    ¡°Uvin¡­¡±

    ¡°No, you¡¯re letting me finish.¡± Uvin¡¯s calm demeanor all but evaporated at his husband¡¯s misconduct. The purple cambion didn¡¯t know what he was specifically upset about. He just knew he felt angry. His husband relented, the coated arm of Yenlar that was sent his way now dangled by Yenlar¡¯s side.

    ¡°I know you¡¯re thinking,¡± Uvin said after breathing, lowering his volume. ¡°That this is the only solution. Have you ever tried contacting the Egoriam Watch?¡±

    Yenlar¡¯s gaze still held his husband¡¯s. His arm went into his tattered coat pocket, golden eyes still locked with blood red. Yenlar¡¯s claws dug out a crumpled note. Displayed to Uvin was a pardon. A pardon that excuses itself. It stated that upon further investigation the establishment of ¡®Yenlar¡¯s Sparring School¡¯ is safe and under no danger. It is signed by the captain of the watch.

    ¡°This was sent to my school five hours after I put the letter in the ballot.¡± Uvin bit his tongue at his husband¡¯s words. However infernal the both of them are, lying is anathema to this relationship.

    The violet cambion¡¯s posture slumped, anger still within him, but every moment of anger is a veil for sadness. At least for Uvin. Yenlar¡¯s two hands jolted to his husband¡¯s, as he laced his fingers with his beloved¡¯s.

    ¡°I know this is a step you don¡¯t want to take, my love.¡± The larger cambion spoke as bits of the coat¡¯s sleeve brushed against Uvin¡¯s hand. Red met gold anew as Uvin¡¯s eyes moved from the floorboards to his beloved¡¯s eyes. ¡°But for us to get the fuck out of here, this is our best shot.¡±

    Uvin sighed as his husband¡¯s words jerked his eyes to tears. Yenlar cared about Uvin¡¯s wishes. These actions aren¡¯t acting on Uvin¡¯s anathema but on his greatest goal.

    ¡°I only need 3 months of salary to get enough to buy rations, a horse for the road, and then we can get to Isger.¡±

    <b>The Kingdom of Isger</b> is a thriving state located to the east of Cheliax. A less cruel code of worship and a more forgiving set of laws embedded the groundwork that flourished in its society. A place of trade, work, education, and prosperity. Still governed by Cheliax, yet not in all aspects. More importantly for the two, prejudice is much less common. Isger was this couple¡¯s haven from all the hate they¡¯ve received. From all the pain they¡¯ve felt. From all the horrors they¡¯ve faced. From the childhood that they both were robbed of.

    Uvin didn¡¯t nod. He didn¡¯t want to agree to this. He knew that these men could be the poison to the theoretical well that was their living. But he also knew they could be the purifier.

    As merciless as law was, it could help them. As cold and heartless as these knights were, their goal, their sect of law¡¯s sanctity, was all about helping Uvin¡¯s husband. It was all about helping the Riek couple.

    Uvin still did not want to agree to this. But his husband already tried everything else. From the city watch to conversations privately with Noble Minkar, to Egorian¡¯s Council. All options failed them.

    Uvin¡¯s tear-soaked eyes stared into the black overcoat of his husband as his mind ran. Every option that could have helped, didn¡¯t. Until they met unprejudiced law. These Hellknights caren¡¯t for their horns. Their skin colors. Their eyes. Their connection to The Nine Hells. All was equal in their eyes. To them, prejudice is the base of anarchy.

    Yenlar watched his husband¡¯s mind running, his golden eyes moved to meet their wedding portrait. He closed his eyes under the inevitability of having to agree with the very things that harmed Uvin¡¯s childhood. The very things that enslaved his mother. The Order of the Chain took her as she wandered Egorian, snooping for the wrong ingredients. Wrong enough to attract the ire of The Chain. That knife stabbed Yenlar¡¯s heart deeper.

    ¡°I know what happened and why you¡¯re against this, all of this, but¡­¡± Yenlar knew what he wanted to say to finish the sentence, but his husband¡¯s face faked a smile as Uvin raised a hand to silence his spouse. ¡°No, let¡¯s just¡­get this over with. So I¡¯ll never have to see this forsaken city again.¡±

    ¡­

    ¡°Sirs,¡± Maralictor Myrav spoke as he sat across the Rieks at their living room table, the wooden chair creaking under his armor¡¯s weight. His monotone voice entered their ears as Uvin stared inwards into his mug of tea. Yenlar held his halfway-finished mug with both hands as he locked eyes with the Maralictor. ¡°You claim social misconduct and abuse by this Noble Miknar, who sits near the Egorian high council. Have you proof?¡±

    Yenlar gripped his mug tighter. ¡°Aside from threats and obvious bribing law enforcement to look the other way,¡± Yenlar reached into his tattered coat that hung on his chair¡¯s backrest, handing the Maralictor the letter of the Egorian Watch¡¯s response. ¡°They gave this to me after less than a day into my visit, very clearly having done zero investigations.¡±

    The Hellknight officer narrowed his eyes at the letter, his squad stood behind him as though automata, unflinching and unmoving. ¡°If he is right, sir,¡± One of the Hellknights behind Myrav mentioned as his commander read the letter. ¡°This is corruption.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re sworn to protect the society from it, no? One of the more kind Hellknight orders that don¡¯t send people to enslavement camps - like The Chain - or deal with devils - Like The Gate.¡± Uvin¡¯s choked voice rang as his eyes were focused on the brown liquid in his container. His blood-red eyes moved to view the Hellknight officer. Myrav¡¯s brown eyes wandered from the bottom of the parchment to meet Uvin¡¯s, his weight shifting as his plate clanged. Uvin saw the star on the Hellknight¡¯s plate better. The Scourge¡¯s Star.

    ¡°Yes.¡± The officer''s tone didn¡¯t change but his glare felt oppressive to the amethyst cambion. As though daggers were to shoot from the Hellknight¡¯s eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll have my men investigate this case. If this corrupt Noble makes the Watch look the other way to his assumed prejudice, I¡¯ll have him Scourged.¡±

    ~~~ 24th of Arodus, 4720 AR ~~~

    He sneered. The pose he held himself in was familiar to Yenlar. He always felt <i>right</i> when he held Reckoning as an extension of his arm: body straight, left arm perpendicular, right arm straight. He snapped to this stance in less than a breath. Without realizing it, he had already conjured Hellfire anew as his right arm felt the silver handle of his trusty sidearm. Sneering was just an intimidation tactic. He knew Archons <i>felt</i> fear.

    ¡°<b>What in the hell are you doing?</b>¡± he heard the voice to his right bellow, pointed shouting. The Aegis remained in the same posture it was in since Yenlar entered the room.

    ¡°How. Do. You. <b>Know. My.</b> <b><i>Name?</i></b>¡± Yenlar¡¯s eyes narrowed, his arms didn¡¯t move, his sharp ears twitched and he felt the warmth of Hell climb up to his eyes as the gold irises turned into a dancing white flame. The Aegis hasn¡¯t reached for its lance. Its eyes blinked out of sync as its gaze moved to meet the same floorboards. <i>¡®Shame?</i> <b><i>Weak.</i></b><i>¡¯</i> Yenlar¡¯s infernal mind insulted the celestial.

    Its movement felt awkward to watch. An axis spinning, wings flapping, eyes blinking, all of it felt wrong to Yenlar. More human was the sound of a sword swinging into the air, pointing at his neck as his face felt the wind of a movement. He felt the coldness of a sword pointed at his throat. His right dancing-fire eye met a hyperventilating knight, distressed but not enough to flinch. His eyes moved back to the Outsider.

    ¡°Answer!¡± The cambion commanded with a harsh rise in his tone, his arm pushing closer to The Archon, as he felt a cold-iron blade moving higher up his neck. The eyes of The Shield moved from the floorboards and met The Knight Paladin, as it raised one of its arms. <i>¡°Lower it, Bryann.¡±</i> It spoke with countless voices. The head of the Lastwallian darted between Her Shield and the Hellknight, her sword arm shaking at Yenlar¡¯s throat. The Cambion wouldn¡¯t even bat an eye. She sneered as the whistling of her longsword being sheathed into her scabbard danced in the air. Its eyes then moved to the Hellknight.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    <i>¡°You are of My Lady¡¯s men. Or at least a soldier of a commander. They mentioned you plenty.¡±</i>

    ¡°Don¡¯t give me bullshit about Ishurak,¡± Yenlar¡¯s blade still stood fixated on one of its eyes, as his forked tongue lashed. ¡°An Archon invades my mind and then you know my name because of my Battle Brother? Like Hells.¡± His white-flame eyes burned brighter as his nostrils flared. ¡°Real reason, my Hellfire burns bright. <b><i>Especially</i></b> through Archons.¡± His voice turned quiet and menacing as he coerced the celestial. Bryann¡¯s arm reached for her sword again.

    <i>¡°Her Armies are all connected into a gestalt mind, Hellknight.¡±</i>

    ¡°So you know who infiltrated my mind.¡±

    <i>¡°No. I know only the why.¡± </i>

    Yenlar¡¯s fiery eyes burned dimmer as he raised an inquisitive brow and heard the sounds of footsteps rushing to the door. He never minded them.

    <i>¡°An Escaped Soul visits our land and claims aid.¡± </i>Bryann¡¯s brow raised beneath her visor at the celestial¡¯s accusation.

    The cambion¡¯s eyes returned to a wildfire as he narrowed his eyes again, his gaze stiffened.

    ¡°I fight for law, and I know something you virtuous Outsiders don¡¯t.¡± He spat the sentence as Absolution disappeared from his right hand, yet Reckoning was still pointed at the Archon. Yenlar saw the strike he¡¯ll take, was the Archon to reach for the lance. Reading this entity was harder. It had no<i> body </i>to read. No mouth to gaze and see meaning. No lips it could bite the interior of. It was metal, with wings, eyes, and hands. ¡®<i>Beats trying to read the stonework that The Lizard turned into.¡¯ </i>Yenlar heard noises through the wooden door but continued ignoring.

    The Shield shook its form with surprising humanity, raising its two sets of eyes to meet fire-eyes. <i>¡°We fight for the same goal, Yenlar.¡± </i>The Aegis spoke as Bryann commanded the investigative knights to stand down.

    ¡°<i>Don¡¯t </i>say my name.¡± Yenlar narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

    The shield, in turn, beat its wings slower. Ease moved through the metal form, one set of eyes locked with the point of Reckoning. The silver point turned more and more white before combusting into Hellfire. White flames danced around Reckoning''s blade and edge, reaching from tip to handle as some wreathed onto Yenlar¡¯s gauntlet. It didn¡¯t seem to phase the Cambion. The Shield could still see the eyes of the Hellknight before him, fully embracing the name of his rank. The Aegis¡¯ opposition was encased by the foul energies of Hell. It wasn¡¯t visible, but it <i>felt </i>the radiating searing heat of Styiga. It felt the neverending screams of Dis¡¯ damned, it felt the endless falls of Cania and the bone-chill of Cocytus. Worst of all, it felt the looming of Nessus, Asmodeus¡¯ lair, in the Hellknight before him. As though an eye watching, face curved into a ruinous smile hung above the Hellknight.

    <i>¡°As you wish, Hellknight.¡± </i>All its voices spoke. <i>¡°We fight to end Tar-Baphon¡¯s rule. Be it through Her justice, or your conviction to The Dark Prince,¡± </i>Bryann¡¯s eyes narrowed beneath her visor, as her arms were sent to wrap around themselves.

    ¡°I speak for order, not for Asmodeus.¡±

    ¡°<i>You reek of him, Hellknight.¡± </i>

    ¡°<b>I </b>use Hell. Not the other way around.¡±

    <i>¡°Order has been abolished in this plane by the abhorred Lich,¡± </i>The Archon ignored the Hellknight¡¯s barging. <i>¡°Do you stand alongside Us? Alongside Her?¡± </i>All its eyes pointed upwards to meet the ceiling. Yenlar rolled his eyes. He knew this wouldn¡¯t solve anything. Killing Opulence¡¯s only method of divine intervention would¡¯ve made him an enemy of The Knights of Lastwall. The Master wouldn¡¯t be pleased. <i>The Master. </i>

    Iomedae helped Ishurak become the paragon of order His Master is today. Did The Master look at Archons the same way? Subjective pieces on the board? To be manipulated for their virtues? Or did he view them as compassionate might, the holy lance unto the discord that is this putrid place? His Aeonic mind was too much for Yenlar to comprehend. It¡¯d take a lifetime to comprehend even one voice amongst his ¡®Kin¡¯.

    ¡°Yes.¡± Yenlar¡¯s tone stayed pointed, harsh, and stabbing, but the white flame consumed the weapon as the flames burned out, leaving nothing in Yenlar¡¯s extended hand. He snapped into an at-ease position. ¡°What are your battle plans? Strategies? What am I to do next to help this sad resistance?¡±

    The Archon hummed with¡­content? <i>¡°Knight Paladin Bryann will fill you in either tonight or tomorrow.¡± </i>The countless voices spoke, pitches changing, and languages plenty. <i>¡°Welcome, Hellknight. You¡¯re an ally to us.¡± </i>

    ¡­

    Yenlar threw his belt that latched his two scabbards and pouch onto his waist onto the bed. The room he was given was adequate, and comparing the room to any other of the barracks, this room was of luxury. He wagered eight men and women slept in one room across this dilapidated tavern-cellar-turned-war-room. The barracks in Citadel Dinyar weren¡¯t better, they sufficed enough. That was the only thing that mattered.

    The smell of vintage alcohol filled this room, as Yenlar cringed at the spicy smell of fermented grapes. He made his discomfort known by making a dissatisfied noise as he sat on a nearby chair, looking at notes he placed on the desk accompanying his chair. He needed a shower and he knew it. He hadn¡¯t disinfected the arrow wound on his chest, and the plasma of the phantoms he destroyed got through his visor and beneath his armor.

    His gauntlets went to snap, as the black steel plate sucked itself into Yenlar¡¯s hand. It turned white with Hellfire as all the metal went into Yenlar¡¯s veins, leaving only black vestments that covered him from waist to toe. He organized the notes before the sound of a door creaking disturbed his planning.

    ¡°So about¡­Iomedae save me.¡± Bryann¡¯s voice shook as she looked at the back of the Hellknight. A sanguine color horror was bestowed to the Lastwallian. Endless lashes of whip-cracks, deformed flesh attempting to mend stab wounds, burn marks, and axe slices. Channels ran through his red skin, accentuating the muscles but desecrating them via countless ugly deformed tissues.

    She blinked twice and opened her eyes wide as the cambion¡¯s horns rose with his craning head, turning his eye beyond his right shoulder. He pushed the chair back, rising to full stature. Yenlar turned around, revealing even more horrifying marks of war. A battle was painted onto Yenlar¡¯s form, brushes were whip cracks, and colors were sword wounds. He was phased by none of them. He raised a brow at her surprise. ¡°Strategy? What of it?¡± His low voice was dragged through his parched throat.

    ¡°Iomedae above, what in the Hells happened to you?!¡± Her eyes intermittently viewed both his torso and eyes. Yenlar gazed down at his form as well, raising both eyebrows with a shrug of his built shoulders. ¡°I¡¯m a soldier. We win wars through strategy. Sometimes the best strategy is being hit.¡± He placed his left palm onto his bicep and dragged the black nails onto three deformed scars in the shape of large dots. ¡°Ever fought a Vordine? That¡¯s how we get our ranks.¡±

    Bryann¡¯s hazel eye looked at the three prongs of what she knew to be a trident strike. With how wide the wound was, the trident went deep into Yenlar¡¯s flesh. ¡°Indeed I had the displeasure of fighting Hell¡¯s infantry,¡± Her eyes wandered to Yenlar¡¯s again as she curled her right elbow tighter, where her helm was held, pressure still held in her speech. ¡°They¡¯re ruthless.¡±

    ¡°How¡¯d you get that eye?¡± Yenlar pointed with his chin across the room at the human¡¯s violet eye. She furrowed her brows before smiling and shaking her head, all the tension gone. ¡°After you display rage at Our Lady¡¯s Shield, I don¡¯t think you¡¯re in a position to ask me these questions. You¡¯re lucky he didn¡¯t strike you.¡±

    ¡°It.¡± Yenlar corrected, ignoring her mistake about what emotions he may have felt. Bryann voiced her confusion via a raised brow and a questioning hum. ¡°Archons are agender by design. They are instruments, not people. They <i>were</i> people, judged by Pharasma. Angels get to retain bits of their previous lives, not Archons. Your Shield isn¡¯t a person, it''s a weapon.¡± Yenlar remembered memorizing this bit of text as his initiation into the Order. All Outsiders bar Angels, Azatas - two celestial Outsiders - and powerful fiends get to hold the concept of individuality. The rest are fodder.

    The Knight Paladin exhaled at the Hellknight¡¯s anecdote as she looked around the room. ¡°Where¡¯s your armor?¡± She asked with her head turning in search. Yenlar pointed at one of the veins in his right arm, a standout from the usual red skin was a glowing line, blinking with intensity. Bryann closed her eyes with exasperation. ¡°So you put your armor inside of you?¡±

    ¡°Perks of it being attuned to your soul.¡± Yenlar¡¯s silver tongue continued to jab as his lips curled.

    ¡°No, I won¡¯t ask.¡± Bryann leaned on the doorframe with an unamused face, buckling her helm to her belt. ¡°We plan to have a conference in Our Shield¡¯s room tomorrow at dawn. We shared with you the basics. Make of it what you will.¡± She pushed herself off the door frame as she finished her sentence, and the Hellknight returned to his parchment notes. ¡°Oh, and Yenlar?¡± He raised a brow before turning his head, ¡°Get decent, please, there are women in these barracks.¡± He heard before the door closed. All he could muster was a chuckle as he snapped the underset of padded armor onto his person.

    Before he could attend the notes with proper mind, his mind whistled again with the familiarity of thousands of voices. The way they caressed his mind was familiar yet alien at the same time, all the voices preluded a dominant one, as though a lighthouse. <i>His Master</i>. ¡°<i>The council went well. We are to fight Dahak¡¯s forces in the marrow. It might be a one-way journey. If I die you are to take all my belongings, rank included.¡± </i>Yenlar scoffed at this level of responsibility. He tried it once, corrupt by a devil as he was. Paravicars matched Masters of Blades in power and command, but not in area of control. One controls a singular brigade, the other controls nine.

    <i>¡°I wish you luck, Lizard,¡± </i>Yenlar began. <i>¡°And I won¡¯t take your rank. If your axe is on the table, I will take it though. Commune with me in my dreams?¡± </i>Yenlar asked but knew His Master couldn¡¯t respond. He could only hope The Aeon would follow through.