CHAPTER 4

  EXT. TEMPLE OF THE CELESTIAL ORDER – DAWN

  The pale morning sun spills over the frost-kissed peaks of Greenhearth, casting golden light across the ancient stone terraces of the Temple. Mist lingers low across the cobbled courtyard, curling around the base of weathered statues and forgotten relics. A quiet peace blankets the mountaintop.

  Cassian crouches near a fire pit, sleeves rolled up, stacking fresh-chopped wood with steady hands. The scent of pine and smoke mingles in the crisp air. Just beyond, Serena stirs a small pot suspended over another flame. Whatever simmers inside releases an aroma both rich and comforting — herbs, smoked meat, and something faintly sweet. She hums to herself, soft and low, the melody old and half-remembered.

  Lucius stands at a table near the temples weathered alter, scanning over a sprawling, faded map of the realm. Inked borders divide the kingdoms, though many of the lines have begun to fade, mirroring the fractures in the world itself. His brow furrows, eyes tracing roads and mountains.

  Footsteps echo lightly on the flagstones behind him.

  ELIAS (measured, grave)

  “We must take the stone to Brother Merrin in Stonevale.”

  Lucius glances up, silent.

  ELIAS (cont.)

  “He is the last of the Archivists. The old rites… the true language of the Order—they live only in his mind now. If anyone can unlock what the stone truly is—or how to unmake it—it’s him.”

  Lucius frowns, gaze drawn to the container once more. Even sealed, the relic breathes malice. The mountain air seems to shiver around it.

  ELIAS (lower, near a whisper)

  “If we carry it much further without understanding… we risk awakening what sleeps inside.”

  He steps beside Lucius, laying the map flat once more, voice heavy with purpose.

  ELIAS

  “We now know what we hold and the significance of this threat. We also know the realm of men is broken. The Four Houses—fractured, Their banners mean little alone. But if we can unite them… if we can warn them… we might yet hold the line.”

  A hush lingers as Lucius’s gaze drops to the map, fingers tracing the faded ink of fractured borders. He locates the sigils of the great houses, each one a flickering ember of power—some dimmer than others.

  ELIAS (Cont)

  “House Blackthorne, seated in Ebonreach, rules the mist-cloaked southwest — a city of grand spires, now riddled with whispers and unrest.”

  “To the northeast of Greenhearth, nestled among silver hills and glimmering walls, lies Stonevale, home of House Valmore—proud and vigilant a Bastian before the mountains and the Veil.”

  “Farther still, in the cold and wind-swept northeast, stands Mournhold, stronghold of House Redwyne, hardened by war and heavy with suspicion.”

  “And to the far east, amid smoldering plains and molten forges, lies Emberfall, the ember-lit seat of House Ashford, fiery and defiant as ever.”

  Lucius’s brow furrows. Four houses. Four crowns. The realm, once whole, now frays like an old banner in the wind.

  ELIAS (CONT'D)

  "You should seek out Brother Merin at once. You are welcome here for as long as you wish. The Temple is your home now—just as it was once before."

  he pauses, walking slowly along the cracked stone floor.

  “There is much to rebuild. The Celestial Order was more than a sanctum... it was a force of balance, of protection. We stood between this world and the darkness. I ask you—help me restore it. Not just the stone and wood, but the soul of this Order. Find those with the will to stand against the darkness.”

  LUCIUS (steady, resolute)

  "I will."

  He gives Elias a solemn nod — not just of agreement, but of promise. A vow carried in silence.

  CASSIAN (grinning faintly, but with surprising sincerity)

  "Wouldn’t miss the end of the world for anything."

  SERENA (tightening the strap on her satchel)

  "And if there’s still a chance to fight for something worth saving… we’ll find it."

  Elias smiles, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening — not in sadness, but pride.

  Lucius turns, fastening the clasp of his cloak, the symbol of the Celestial Order barely visible beneath the folds. Cassian and Serena gather their things swiftly — blades sheathed, cloaks drawn, the weight of the relic secured.

  Without ceremony, without fanfare, they step out into the cold mountain air once more.

  EXT. MOUNTAIN PASS – MIDMORNING

  The trio rides single file along a narrow trail that winds down the slopes of Greenhearth. The path clings to the mountainside, crumbling in places where rockslides have scarred the cliffs. The mountains fall away into rolling hills, soft and endless. The forest here is thinner, trees spaced farther apart, boulders thick with emerald moss. Shafts of golden light pierce the high canopy, and small streams glitter between clusters of stone, worn smooth by time.

  EXT. GREENHEARTH MOUNTAINS – NORTHERN TRAIL – DAY

  They descend the winding paths, the chill of Greenhearth thinning as the world unfolds around them. The rugged cliffs give way to rolling hills — soft, vast, withs tones of green and brown. Trees grow sparser here, scattering across the slopes like lone sentinels.

  Ahead, an enormous open field stretches toward the far northern horizon, where the faint shimmer of a distant coastline meets the sky. Beyond the coastline, towering snowy mountains rise from the ocean, their peaks lost in drifting clouds. The wind carries the sharp scent of salt and earth, tugging at their cloaks and stirring the tall grass around them.

  Scattered across the fields are monolithic boulders, half-sunken ruins, the broken teeth of forgotten towers, and the dark mouths of caves hidden among low hills. Narrow, winding roads snake through the landscape, cutting faint paths between ancient stones and wildflowers.

  CASSIAN (grinning):

  "If I knew the Velwyn Plains looked like this, I might've stayed out of trouble longer."

  Serena smiles faintly, her gaze sweeping the ruins with both wonder and caution.

  SERENA:

  "Ruins like these don’t crumble without reason."

  EXT. VELWYN PLAINS – DAY

  They ride through the rolling hills, the scenery beings to shift as the wind carries the scent of ash and old death. Signs of past battles marred the landscape — splintered banners of House Valmore half-buried in the soil, blood-stained axes abandoned where Northman fell, the bodies of the forgotten left to the mercy of crows and time.

  Cassian tightened his cloak against the rising chill, casting a wary glance at the grim reminders around them.

  LUCIUS (quietly):

  "Every banner, every blade... all of it left to rust and rot. No glory in any of this."

  The path ahead twisted and dipped, and beyond the next rise, smoke — black and heavy, clawing into the sky.

  Lucius pulled his horse to a halt atop the ridge, staring down. Below them, the village of Briarstead burned. Thatched roofs collapsed under the weight of flame; livestock fled into the wilds, their cries lost amid the screaming of townsfolk. Raiders — Northmen by their jagged armor and wolf pelts — rampaged through the streets, dragging villagers from their homes, slitting throats, plundering whatever they could carry.

  But no organized warband remained. The main force had clearly moved on, leaving only these scavengers to pick over the bones.

  Lucius's voice cut the air like steel.

  LUCIUS:

  "There are only a few left. The main force has already moved on. Let's move quickly."

  Without hesitation, they kicked their horses into a charge, thundering down the slope toward the burning village. The Northmen barely had time to turn before the first blade struck.

  Cassian leapt from his saddle with a wild grin, twin daggers flashing as he buried them into the neck of the nearest raider. Serena slid low from her horse, her arrows whistling in a deadly arc, cutting a looter down before he could lift his axe. Lucius rode straight into the thickest knot of them, swinging his longsword with ruthless precision, each blow felling another.

  The battle was brutal and swift.

  When the last Northman collapsed into the dirt, gasping his final breath, silence fell — broken only by the crackle of fire and the whimpers of the wounded. Near the village center, half-collapsed under the weight of a fallen beam, they found a heavy iron cage. Inside, a man — bruised, bloodied, but alive — clutched the bars. His clothes were torn, and a crude iron collar was fastened around his neck. He looked up as they approached, his voice hoarse from smoke.

  PRISONER:

  "Please... please, help me..."

  Lucius sheathed his sword and stepped forward, gripping the rusted lock. With a hard wrench of his dagger, he snapped it open. The man stumbled out, collapsing to his knees. Cassian offered a hand, helping him up with a crooked smile.

  CASSIAN:

  "Looks like you got lucky, friend."

  The man coughed, struggling to speak through cracked lips.

  PRISONER:

  "They... they were looking for something... Something hidden... within Briarstead."

  Lucius exchanged a sharp glance with Serena.

  LUCIUS:

  "What were they after?"

  The man shook his head weakly.

  PRISONER:

  "I don't know. But they didn’t find whatever they were looking for."

  The words hung heavy in the air, thick with ominous promise. Lucius's eyes darkened as he looked toward the smoldering ruins. After a moment, he turned back to the man, his voice steady.

  LUCIUS:

  "What's your name?"

  The man wiped soot from his face, voice rough but steady.

  PRISONER:

  "Edric, sir. I was born here... lived in Briarstead my whole life. It's all gone now. I have nowhere to go."

  He hesitates, glancing back at the town’s ruins.

  "I'm a builder by trade. Or... I was."

  Lucius studied him for a long moment. Something in the man's tone — the quiet resolve, the loss — held his attention. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a worn map, unfolding it carefully. A spot deep in the Greenhearth Mountains was marked with a small sigil.

  LUCIUS:

  "We have a place. It's safe. In the Greenhearth Mountains. It’s run down — needs a skilled hand to restore it."

  Edric blinked, the faintest flicker of hope crossing his face.

  EDRIC:

  "I can help you rebuild. I’ve got nothing left here... If it's safe ill gladly come. I don't ever want to see another Northman as long as I live."

  Lucius nodded, pressing the map into his calloused hands along with a sealed letter.

  LUCIUS:

  "Take this. Find a man named Elias when you get there. He'll tell you what to do."

  Edric clutched the map and letter tightly, voice thick with emotion.

  EDRIC:

  "Thank you, sir. Truly. And if you ever need anything built... you just send word."

  Lucius offered a rare, brief smile.

  EXT. VELWYN PLAINS – EVENING

  The wind shifted, carrying the stench of smoke and blood down the hill. Without another word, Edric set off toward a new future — and the party turned their eyes once more toward the path ahead.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  They rode north from Briarstead, the smoke of the ruined village fading into the morning mist. The road was rough and broken, leading them through hollow fields and abandoned homesteads. On the horizon, another settlement emerged — Greyharbor — but something was wrong.

  As they neared, it became clear: a rough palisade of sharpened logs now encircled the town, thick and brutal, built for occupation. The banners of House Valmore had been torn from the walls, replaced by crude symbols painted in blood and ash — the snarling wolf of the Northmen.

  SERENA (scowling)

  "Northmen. They've taken the whole damn town."

  Lucius reined in his horse, his gaze cold and steady as he studied the fortified ruins of Greyharbor. Smoke curled from the rooftops. He could make out armed figures on the walls — Northman raiders, already digging in like ticks.

  Lucius's voice was low, edged with grim certainty.

  LUCIUS:

  "This fight’s above us. Greyharbor’s lost."

  He turned his horse eastward, toward the distant, glittering towers of Stonevale rising beyond the hills.

  LUCIUS (continuing):

  "We ride for Stonevale and find Brother Merrin.”

  Serena and Cassian exchanged a brief, silent glance — then spurred their mounts to follow without hesitation.

  They left Greyharbor to its fate, the heavy sound of Northmen war drums echoing behind them as they rode hard toward the setting sun.

  EXT. VELWYN PLAINS – DUSK

  They rode east through the fading light, the sun sinking low behind the hills, casting long, bloody shadows across the land. The air grew colder with each passing hour, the winds carrying with them the distant, hollow sound of drums from Greyharbor. None of them spoke much as they traveled. Words seemed small against the weight of what they had seen.

  As twilight deepened into night, Lucius guided them off the road, into a hollow tucked between two rocky ridges. It offered a little shelter from the wind — and prying eyes. There, beneath the skeletal branches of a dead tree, within the crumbling ruins of an unknown structure, they made camp. Cassian gathered what dry wood he could find, coaxing a small fire to life. Serena tended to the horses, checking their hooves, murmuring to them in a voice soft enough to soothe. Lucius kept watch at the edge of the camp, his sword laid across his knees, his eyes never leaving the dark horizon.

  The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows over their tired faces. The smell of smoke and damp earth filled the night. Cassian stares into the fire, his voice low, almost lost beneath the crackle of the flames.

  CASSIAN (quietly, almost to himself):

  "Feels like the world’s bleeding out, bit by bit."

  For a moment, no one answered. The fire popped and hissed, sending up a shower of sparks into the cold night air.

  Lucius finally spoke, his voice steady but grim.

  LUCIUS:

  "Maybe it is. Or maybe it's just being torn apart so something worse can take its place."

  Serena paused from tending her blade, her gaze sweeping over the shattered stones around them.

  SERENA:

  "Let’s hope these ruins arent some sort of omen for what’s to come."

  Cassian raised an eyebrow, a dry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  LUCIUS:

  "Ruins can be rebuilt. If there's anyone left with the will to do it."

  Cassian poked at the fire with a stick, sending another spray of embers into the night.

  CASSIAN:

  "Let's just live long enough to see if we get the chance."

  The three of them fell into silence once more, the weight of unspoken fears heavy between them. They ate what little they had — hard bread, dried meat — in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Above them, the stars pricked the sky, cold and distant. Tomorrow, they would reach Stonevale. Tomorrow, they would find Brother Merrin — and perhaps some glimmer of hope in a world slipping into darkness. But tonight, they rested. Gathered their strength. Because soon, the real storm would break.

  EXT. VELWYN PLAINS – MORNING

  The faint sound of footsteps stirred Lucius from shallow sleep. At first, it seemed a trick of the wind — but as he rose silently, the earth itself seemed to hum with the weight of approaching boots. He motioned sharply to Cassian and Serena, and the three of them crouched low behind the broken stone walls of the ruin. Their horses, hidden in the shadows behind the crumbling structure, remained mercifully quiet.

  Across the ridge, moving like a tide of iron and leather, came a small army — Northmen. About forty strong, armed with axes and round shields, clad in rough furs and mismatched armor. A raiding party — but larger than any they'd seen yet. At their head walked two men, side by side — both bearing the marks of seasoned war. The first was tall and broad, with long, dark hair pulled back into a warrior's braid, a massive two-handed axe resting across his shoulder. His face was grim, scarred, and commanding. Siggard — the elder brother.

  Beside him strode a man slightly younger, his hair fairer, though no less wild. His shield bore the marks of many battles, and his axe hung loosely in his hand, as if it belonged there by birthright. His expression was sharp, almost wolfish. Erik — the younger, but no less fierce. Even at a glance, it was clear: these two were not mere raiders. They were leaders. Brothers. Warriors respected by the men who followed them. Lucius narrowed his eyes, watching as the Northmen marched east — toward Stonevale.

  LUCIUS (thinking):

  "Forty men... even led by warriors like them, it’s madness to approach Stonevale’s gates."

  But before Lucius could wonder further, a horn sounded from the east — sharp and commanding. Across the fields, a second force emerged — a banner snapping in the cold morning wind.

  House Valmore.

  Nearly a hundred soldiers marched in disciplined formation, their armor gleaming faintly in the pale dawn light. Spears and swords at the ready, they moved to intercept the Northmen — a wall of steel against the scattered fury of the raiders. Lucius, Cassian, and Serena remained low, hidden among the ruins. The ground between the two forces stretched wide and open — a battlefield waiting to be bloodied.

  Siggard and Erik, their expressions grim and fearless as the Valmore commander approached — the collision inevitable.

  From the front of the Northman ranks, Siggard stepped forward, his heavy two-handed axe resting easily across his shoulders. His voice, deep and rough like gravel, cut across the distance with a mocking sneer.

  SIGGARD (calling out):

  "A hundred men against forty? I'd have expected better from Stonevale! Seems your fields yield nothing but cowards!”

  The Valmore ranks shifted slightly, but their leader — Captain Roland— rode forward without hesitation, his armour gleaming under the cold morning sun. His expression was calm, almost bored, as he raised his sword casually toward Siggard.

  CAPTAIN ROLAND (loud and steady):

  "Forty or four hundred, makes no difference. Charging Stonevale with that rabble will be your death. Best turn back — if you’ve the sense to value your lives."

  A ripple of grim laughter passed through the Valmore ranks at their captain’s confidence. Siggard’s grin only widened. Beside him, Erik — younger, fiercer — lifted his axe high into the air. The Northmen roared in answer, their shields clashing together like rolling thunder. Without another word, Erik swung his axe downward against his shield in a brutal gesture — the signal to charge.

  The Northman warband surged forward, howling their battle-cries. But Siggard remained still for a heartbeat longer. He reached into the folds of his cloak and drew forth a blue stone, rough-cut and pulsing faintly with inner light. Holding it high above his head, he shouted a word in a harsh, guttural tongue.

  The stone flared bright — brighter than the sun — and then exploded outward with a crack like splitting ice. A massive bolt of frozen magic tore across the battlefield, a screaming shard of winter unleashed. It struck the center of the Valmore line with brutal force — a shattering blast of frost that instantly encased ten soldiers in solid ice, their bodies frozen mid-movement, weapons half-raised, mouths frozen open in silent screams. Panic rippled through the Valmore ranks as the front line staggered and broke. Siggard lowered the stone and hefted his axe with both hands, a savage smile on his lips.

  SIGGARD (roaring):

  "Now... we break them!"

  The Northmen slammed into the Valmore troops with a crash like a thunderclap, axes rising and falling in a tide of chaos. Hidden in the ruins, Lucius, Cassian, and Serena watched the battle erupt with grim faces, knowing that Stonevale — stood on the edge of something far worse than a mere raid. The battle raged on, the numbers thinning with brutal swiftness. The proud line of House Valmore bent under the weight of the Northmen assault — Forty soldiers now stood against twenty howling raiders, the balance of blood tipping steadily in Siggard and Erik’s favor. Axes and blades clashed against shields; men screamed and fell into the mud. Victory for the Northmen seemed all but certain.

  And then — the blue stone Siggard had wielded earlier, suddenly pulsed. A low hum, rising into a shriek. Both armies staggered back as a second surge erupted from the stone — a violent pulse of unnatural magic that shook the ground and the sky. Siggard himself reeled, staring at the stone in stunned disbelief. Whatever power he had called upon — this was something far beyond his reckoning. Before either side could react, the air shimmered and roared as a searing portal of fire and crackling magic burst open at the heart of the battlefield — a towering vortex wreathed in flame and arcane energy. And from it, they came.

  Horrors, twisted and unseen by mortal eyes, poured out in a writhing wave — clawed beasts with gaping maws, demons whose very forms seemed stitched together from smoke and shadow. Creatures from beyond any sane imagining. For a heartbeat, both armies froze, paralyzed by sheer terror. And then the screaming began anew — this time, not at each other.

  Northmen and Valmore soldiers alike turned, instinct taking hold. The battlefield erupted into chaos as former enemies stood shoulder to shoulder, fighting to stem the tide of hell pouring into their world. In the ruins, Lucius, Cassian, and Serena exchanged a single, grim look — and without a word, they rushed from their hiding place, weapons drawn. The trio plunged into the fray, their blades singing through the twisted flesh of demons, fighting alongside Northman and knight alike. Blood — red and black — painted the ground. The air reeked of death and sulfur.

  The battle dragged on for what felt like an eternity, an hour or more of desperate, savage struggle. Every swing grew heavier. Every breath harder. Men who had once sought each other’s lives now fought back to back, trying to survive a nightmare born of broken magic.

  And then — A light appeared from the east, pure and golden, cutting through the smoke like a blade through silk. Chanted words echoed across the battlefield — ancient, powerful, undeniable. Atop a nearby ridge a figure appears, robes aglow in light, unleashing ancient incantations with a voice of crackling thunder. Each word rang with power, holding the line through sheer will — unwavering, unbroken. The heavens answered.

  A blinding spear of light tore down from the sky, striking the largest rift. The portal screamed — the very air shuddered — and with a final, shattering explosion, the gateway collapsed inward, dragging many of the horrors back into the abyss with it. The ground quaked. The skies roared. And then — silence. Only the living remained — bloodied, gasping, stunned. The fields of Velwyn was no longer a battlefield between men. It was a graveyard of demons — and a warning of darker days yet to come.

  Through the smoke, a figure approach — Elias, staff planted heavily in the scorched earth with each step, hands marked by recent spellwork. He moves toward the heart of the devastation — where the rift had once howled against the sky. Nearby, the survivors gather into two broken clusters: Siggard and Erik, standing grim among their battered Northmen — only seven men left alive. Captain Roland, bloodied but unbowed, his shield cracked, standing with five surviving Valmore soldiers. Both groups watch warily, uncertain whether peace or violence will rise next from the ashes. Lucius, Cassian, and Serena stand slightly apart, weapons still drawn but lowered, eyes sharp.

  Elias walks without fear toward the shattered remains of the battlefield. At the epicenter, half-buried in churned mud and ash, lies the blue stone. He signals Lucius to draw the relic container from beneath his cloak —he begins to chant under his breath. The stone’s flickering pulse grows frantic for a moment — as if it senses its imprisonment — but the incantation winds around it like invisible chains. With a final hum, Elias seals the stone inside the container. The heartbeat stops. Silence falls like a hammer.

  As the last hum of Elias’s incantation fades into the charred silence, the sealed relic pulsing faintly within its rune-etched prison, all eyes are drawn to him. For a long, taut moment, Siggard stands utterly still — axe resting heavy across his shoulders, blood spattered across his battered armor. His eyes narrow sharply at the sight of the old cleric binding the stone. A muscle ticks in his jaw. His fingers tighten slightly around the haft of his weapon. Then — a low, humorless growl rumbles from his throat.

  SIGGARD (gruff, cold)

  "You dare cage a thing of such power... right before the eyes of men who bled to obtain it?"

  His voice cuts across the broken field — not a shout, but loud enough that every man left breathing hears him. ERIK shifts slightly at his brother’s side, younger, fiercer — ready to lift his axe at a glance. The battered Northmen murmur low among themselves, distrust flickering like wildfire. On the other side, Captain Roland steps subtly forward, sword lowered but ready, his surviving men mirroring him. The tension hangs — brittle, volatile.

  Lucius’s hand moves slightly to his belt, resting near his sword hilt — a slow, deliberate motion.

  LUCIUS (without looking up, voice calm but carrying weight)

  "Would you rather leave it free, Northman? Let it tear another hole in the sky and vomit forth worse things than your songs dare name?"

  Siggard’s lip curls — a half-snarl, half-smirk — but he doesn’t step forward. He shifts the axe onto his shoulder — not in threat, but as a soldier bearing a heavy burden. His eyes study Lucius, then Elias, with the grim recognition of a warrior who knows he’s met something beyond the reach of steel.

  SIGGARD (gruff, but with measured respect)

  "You did what we could not. You sealed it."

  He spits into the dirt, shaking his head. The Northmen behind him grow quiet — even Erik lowers his axe slightly.

  SIGGARD (fixing Lucius with a hard look)

  "If you are the ones binding such power, then I’ll not cross you."

  "But know this—"

  He steps forward a single, heavy pace.

  "If that thing breaks free again... the North will not bleed for the South."

  His voice drops to a cold, iron promise.

  "We will carve our own fate."

  His words aren’t threat — they are warning, bitter but honest, born of a brutal land and harsher lessons. Lucius meets his gaze steadily, giving the faintest nod — an acknowledgment between survivors, between men who know that no banners or kings matter when true darkness comes.

  CASSIAN (low under his breath, a wry smirk)

  "Charming."

  SERENA (quietly, to Lucius)

  "At least they’re smart enough to see what's coming."

  Siggard turns without another word, gesturing for his remaining warriors to gather their wounded. Erik hesitates — his wild, hungry gaze flickering briefly to the sealed relic under Elias’s cloak — but a sharp grunt from his brother pulls him back. The Northmen retreat from the ruined field towards Greyharbor, limping toward the hills beyond, vanishing like smoke into the mist.

  Captain Roland watches them go, jaw tight, sword still drawn until the last Northman disappears. Only then does he turn to Lucius, Elias, and Brother Merrin — waiting for their next move. The field, once roaring with battle, now lies in broken silence — the war is far from over.

  EXT. EDGE OF THE BATTLEFIELD – STONEVALE RIDGE – MOMENTS AFTER THE RIFT COLLAPSE

  The field still smolders. A bitter wind stirs the ash. Survivors tend to the fallen, their faces pale beneath the rising dawn. Lucius stands at the edge of it all, silent, his cloak drifting in the breeze.

  FOOTSTEPS behind him — steady, deliberate.

  ELIAS

  “Lucius.”

  Lucius turns to see Elias — robes scorched at the edges, eyes bright with urgency and shadowed by exhaustion. Despite it all, he stands tall, staff in hand.

  ELIAS

  “We need to speak. Not here. Not with the stench of death and fresh graves.”

  Lucius watches him for a beat, the wind tugging gently at his cloak.

  ELIAS (cont’d)

  “Meet me in Stonevale. There's a sanctum beneath the Cathedral of Saint Varros —in the Nobels Quarter. That’s where Brother Merin and I will be. We’ll speak freely there… and safely.”

  Elias holds Lucius’s gaze for a moment longer, then turns without another word. He crosses the smoldering field with purpose, the ash swirling around his boots. At the edge of the camp, his horse waits — dark-coated, restless. With practiced ease, Elias saddles up and rides off toward the distant silhouette of Stonevale, its spires catching the first light of dawn.

  CAPTAIN ROLAND

  “I will not forget what you’ve done here.”

  Lucius turns slightly. Roland stands, bloodied but unbowed, his gaze steady.

  CAPTAIN ROLAND (cont’d)

  “We wouldn’t have survived if you and your companions hadn’t stepped in. You turned the tide — and saved more lives than you know.”

  He places a hand briefly over his chest in salute.

  CAPTAIN ROLAND (cont’d)

  “When you reach Stonevale, come find me in the Citadel Bastian. I’ll make sure His Majesty hears the truth of what happened here today.”

  Roland gives Lucius a final nod, then turns to his remaining men — weary, wounded, but alive. With quiet efficiency, they mount their horses, the clatter of hooves subdued against the ashen earth. Without ceremony, the small company rides out, following the trail east toward Stonevale, their silhouettes slowly swallowed by the rising morning haze.

  SERENA (quietly, eyes on the field)

  “So many dead… and this is only the beginning. You sure we’re ready for what comes next?”

  CASSIAN

  “Stonevale will offer answers… maybe even allies. We should speak with the captain — make sure we’re expected.”

  Lucius nods once. Without another word, the three move to their horses — saddles creaking, hooves shifting restlessly in the soot-covered ground. They ride out together, the wind at their backs and the sky slowly bleeding into dawn.