Narrator: Gellia Servatius

  Before I finish this story—and judging by how reluctantly my heart pumps blood through my veins, the finale is near—I must explain where it all began. At least for me. If you think the life of a warrior under a holy banner is nothing but endless radiance and grand speeches, then you clearly haven't lain on cold stone, choking on your own memories.

  The chill of this cellar reminded me of another cold—the one that froze my soul seven years ago when the Mother Superior of the Wings of Erthrusia declared me unfit. For seven years, they broke my will, calling my thirst for vengeance "rust on the armor of faith." To them, I was a defective blade.

  And here I am—in the dust. The Wolf... once I thought he was the most terrifying thing this world could spawn. How wrong I was. In this darkness, I met an enemy far greater and more terrible.

  Vellaris—the city I once called home—had decided to throw a festival on the sand.

  You know that specific kind of heat? It doesn't just warm you; it vibrates deep in your bones, exactly like the roar of the stands. The sand in the arena was so hot it felt as if it had just been shoveled out of a forge. I stood there in heavy plate, and the heat rose to my knees, breathing life into the memories of fire I had tried so hard to bury. Seven years ago, a heat just like this burned my life to ash.

  I grew up here, in a settlement along the trade route. My parents were simple people, smelling of earth and fresh milk. We had a forge, but my father fashioned horseshoes there, not swords for heroes. Listening to the pilgrims heading for Erthrusia, I believed my path was to be a shield for the weak. I entered the monastery of Ilmater, hoping to find peace in the service of compassion.

  And then came the Black Wolf.

  He didn't just plunder—he incinerated the very essence of life. After that day, when the sky over the monastery turned black with the ashes of my friends, Ilmater went silent within me. His place was taken by Tyr—a god whose gaze is stern and whose hand does not tremble. Compassion doesn't stop steel; that much I learned the hard way. And that is exactly why I returned to Vellaris. I needed the right to lead a squad into the Forbidden Lands.

  The prize in this mad tournament was the Key. An exquisite purple crystal, polished to a mirror shine. Officially, it was a symbol of authority over a new unit, a bauble granting the right to give orders. But the longer you looked at him, the more you felt something alien stirring within. A beautiful stone with an unclear purpose, it had become my singular goal.

  Standing opposite me on the sand was Priorin—a Leonin who looked like the embodiment of wild, almost excessive power. A spark burned in his golden eyes; he wanted glory, wanted to prove to his pride that he was worthy of leadership. And I… I just wanted the Key to find the Wolf.

  "Justice is what remains when everything else has already burned," I whispered, feeling a cold certainty spread within me.

  The wind whipped dry dust into my face, tasting of salt and iron. The roar of the crowd suddenly shifted. It grew denser, as if a massive beast had held its breath. In Vellaris, they knew: such silence meant the arrival of one who considered himself the master of this circus.

  "He’s playing with us," a grumbling whisper drifted from the front rows.

  "It’s a King's prerogative," another voice replied, full of that submissive boredom that always infuriated me in townspeople.

  A King's prerogative should be to sit on a throne and use his head, I thought, not taking my eyes off the empty balcony. Not to marinate the people who die for him in this heat.

  Vinidius Lazarius III stepped onto the balcony. In every movement, you could feel how deathly bored he was in this role. A stout man with the face of someone who was infinitely tired of everything. He looked like a plowman at the end of the longest day of the year, the only difference being that Vinidius had never held anything heavier than a goblet. His scarlet robes hung on him like a costly but utterly useless rag he’d been wrapped in against his will.

  "Uh... people of Vellaris," his voice, amplified by magical stones, drifted lazily over the arena. He rhythmically tapped his fingers on the marble, as if counting the seconds until lunch. "Today we honor valor... and hope for new solutions to old problems."

  He cleared his throat. It was obvious that his own speech caused him near-physical nausea.

  "The winner will receive three thousand gold pieces, the title of Champion, and the Key."

  He said it as if he were paying off a stale debt. No passion. Just an item on a checklist. Vinidius waved a hand dismissively and immediately vanished back into the shadows, as if his presence here was a tiresome formality.

  But his place did not remain empty.

  Alexander Trudius, the head of intelligence, stepped forward. Unlike the King, he looked disturbingly alert.

  "And the right to form a squad!" his voice cut through the air like a steel strike. "A squad that will venture into the Forbidden Lands! We will put an end to the Black Wolf and restore peace! This is your chance to save Vellaris!"

  The stands exploded. Some screamed with delight, others with terror. Somewhere beneath the bleachers, coins clinked violently—the bookies were frantically recalculating the odds.

  I listened to all of this only with half an ear. I knew about the Forbidden Lands without Trudius's help—I knew their taste, bitter as ash on the lips, and the cold that no sun can ever burn away. While the crowd celebrated a "chance at salvation," I gripped the hilt of my sword until it hurt.

  The Black Wolf. That name was my prayer and my personal curse. I understood that the tournament was merely a prelude. The real filth awaited where the maps end and the fangs begin. And if I had to become a tool in the hands of a bored King and his sharp-tongued spy to get there—well, my god teaches that justice sometimes requires rolling up your sleeves and getting dirty.

  That memory seeps through the darkness of the cellar as clearly as the taste of blood in my mouth. Before we crossed steel in the final, there was a path we walked shoulder to shoulder. The tournament in Vellaris wasn't just about beautiful duels; it was a massive meat grinder designed to weed out those who couldn't watch their comrade's back.

  At first, it was easy. The qualifying rounds felt like a warm-up—just a check to see if the joints had rusted or if the teachings of the monastery had evaporated. But once the group skirmishes began, things got truly heated. That’s when they added him to my unit. The Leonin.

  He introduced himself briefly, like a branch being snapped off:

  "Priorin. No surname."

  In Erthrusia, we were taught that defense is the key to survival. Closed joints, thick steel, a shield protecting the heart. Looking at Priorin, I felt all my teachers turning over in their graves. Massive shoulders, a bronze mane, fur the color of scorched grass—and no armor. Only a loincloth and a couple of leather straps.

  He was a living challenge to everything I knew. A walking mound of muscle and self-assurance, smelling of wild beast and that terrifying freedom I never had. A youthful spark burned in his eyes—he hadn't come here just to fight; he’d come to win, so his pride in the North would finally recognize him as a leader.

  In our first group fight, everything went off-script immediately. The other trios of gladiators suddenly realized that "these two are the most dangerous" and decided to crush us with numbers. Seven of them came at us at once. I was already calculating how to form a tight defense, but Priorin simply stepped forward without even a break in his breath.

  "I’ll take those three," he tossed over his shoulder, baring his teeth. "You take the rest. If you can handle it, of course."

  And he entered the fight as if he’d been born in it. It wasn't fencing—it was a force of nature. An axe, a roar, a short lunge—everything merged into one continuous motion. While I methodically and calculatingly knocked shields away from my four, trying not to leave myself open, Priorin simply pulverized his trio. There was no duelist’s grace in him; there was the power of an avalanche. I heard his heavy axe crushing helms and saw the sand flying from beneath his massive paws.

  When the dust settled, only the two of us remained among the groaning bodies. He wasn't even winded—only his tail lashed irritably against his legs, knocking away the clinging sand. He looked at me with a challenge, as if to say, "So, how’s that for leadership?" In that moment, I realized: if this cat made it to the final, I wouldn't be in for an easy stroll.

  By the semi-finals, I knew his fighting style by heart. I knew how he tilted his head before a leap; I felt his rhythm. But knowledge didn't ease the weight in my chest—it only made the anticipation sharper.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And now he stood opposite me in the final. The last fight for the Key and the right to lead the squad.

  The wind pulled heat from the sand, causing my braid to lash against my back. Priorin looked at me with amber eyes, and there was no hatred in them—only excitement and that specific recognition that exists between two predators claiming the same prey.

  For him, that prey was glory and the right to declare the northern steppes his own. For me, it was the Crystal Key. That elegant purple thing the priestess had called my only chance to find the Black Wolf. That very Hadozi who, three hundred years ago, was considered a hero, and seven years ago became my personal nightmare. Though back then, among the smoking ruins of the monastery, they didn't tell us about his "heroic" past.

  I gripped the hilt tighter. Tyr, give me strength. Ilmater, let me endure this pain. The battle we had spent the entire month marching toward had finally begun.

  In that instant, time in Vellaris turned into hot glue. The crowd, which had just been roaring under Trudius's cries, fell silent, like a massive beast that had a piece of meat tossed into its maw. Somewhere up there, on his unreachable balcony, King Vinidius slipped back into the saving shadow, closing his eyes—either from the sun or from the unbearable boredom of his own greatness. I felt dozens of gazes on me: from the eager eyes of the commoners in the upper rows to the heavy, evaluating stare of the spy.

  It’s not about them, Gellia, I reminded myself, squeezing the hilt until my knuckles turned white. The Key. The Path. Him.

  Priorin stood before me. Up close, he seemed even more enormous—a mountain of muscle and ginger fur. His eyes were calm, without the cheap rage beginners usually display. A pale scar on his cheek, a tail lazily tracing a semi-circle in the sand—he looked like nature itself, tired of waiting for humans to finish playing at civilization.

  "Ready?" he asked hoarsely. The voice vibrated deep in my gut.

  "Always," I replied.

  I bowed my head slightly. In Erthrusia, we were taught: acknowledging an opponent's strength is also a form of prayer. He mirrored my nod. Respect without compromise. It was honest.

  The gong struck, and the silence shattered.

  Priorin moved first. It wasn't a leap—it was the surge of a heavy mechanism with its brakes torn off. His massive axe whistled an inch from my breastplate, cutting the air with a sound like space itself was tearing. A wave of heat and the scent of the beast washed over me.

  I stepped back and answered with my blade. The Sword of Milather—the one made of matte steel—entered the rhythm of the fight as naturally as if it had been waiting three hundred years for this moment. A strike, a step, a turn. Sparks sprayed when steel met iron.

  I worked precisely. Every thrust was a technique honed to automation. I bet on calculation: the Leonin is as strong as a mountain landslide, but an avalanche cannot last forever. If I could endure his pace, if I didn't let myself be crushed in the first minutes, he would tire.

  Priorin breathed heavily but with disturbing steadiness. The air smelled of sand, bitter sweat, and the first blood. And then, in the darkest corner of my memory, something I’d tried so hard to stifle stirred. Hot air. Smoke blotting out the stars. And not this festive roar, but the screams of those who don't understand why they are being killed. A black flag with the face of a wolf. A gray head of a mentor at the gates...

  The first cut in Priorin’s hide—a thin red line. He didn't even blink. The second strike—I grazed his shoulder. Blood. He only clenched his teeth tighter. The third—my sword sang, slipping under his ribs. The Leonin wavered.

  I felt a terrifying lightness. It’s working. He’s going to tire now. His movements will slow...

  And then he roared.

  It wasn't a cry of pain. A wild, primal fire ignited in his eyes. It wasn't book-magic—it was something more ancient, locked in the very blood. His body seemed to expand, becoming even more massive.

  "You fight well," he growled, licking blood from his fangs. "For a fragile one."

  "I am not fragile," I replied softly and stepped forward.

  But the rhythm changed. Now, every one of his strikes was like a wave during a storm. Overhand, from the side, a backhand swing. No textbooks—only power capable of sweeping away my shield along with my arm. The Sword of Milather rang against the steel of his axe. My faith against his fury. I raised my blade time and again, but each time I felt it: I was late. By a heartbeat, by a fraction of a second, but I was late.

  The sand grew sticky underfoot, soaked with sweat. My shoulders ached as if nails were being driven into them. Another strike, terrifying in its force, knocked my sword away. The blade sank into the sand nearby with a plaintive ring. The world narrowed down to my own knees and a massive shadow looming over me.

  I stood in the dust. Exhausted. And completely disarmed.

  Priorin towered over me. Wounded, smeared in blood. His life was written on his skin—in every scar, without any embellishment. He slowly raised his axe. The spectators gasped, anticipating the end.

  Priorin froze.

  "You are worthy," he exhaled. The beastly fire in his eyes died out, giving way to something human. "I came for a squad, not for meat for the arena."

  He lowered the blade and gave me a short nod:

  "Stand up. Today I won. Tomorrow—we go together."

  The word "squad" hit me in the gut harder than his fist. I lost? I lost the right to the Key? To leadership? To my revenge? The crowd was already chanting his name; Vellaris had found an idol. And I heard only his heavy breathing.

  "Worthy," Priorin repeated, shearing his axe. "The Forbidden Lands will need someone who knows how to stand until the end."

  I slowly raised my head. Inside was only a strange, cold emptiness. The Black Wolf hadn't gone anywhere. My path to him had simply become more difficult—now I would have to walk behind the Leonin's back.

  "Let’s go," I said, standing up and wiping away the blood. "But don't think tomorrow will be easier."

  I reclaimed my sword. My fingers instinctively settled on the hilt. The priestess had given it to me a month ago, and there was no blessing in her eyes. "If you cannot become part of the line—become its sacrifice," she had said. I didn't take the Key. I lost. And now this sword weighed three times more, reminding me of every word from the Mother Superior, who considered me a defective blade.

  The chill of the stone against my cheek is becoming almost familiar. But I am not alone here. A few paces away from me, in this suffocating darkness, there is someone else. I hear breathing—dry, measured, without a drop of unnecessary noise.

  Faurgar. He always knew how to be a shadow, even where there was nowhere to hide. Back then, a month ago in Vellaris, he watched us from above, from the cool of the box, and saw what we ourselves didn't see. He’s the one to tell it... he was always better at reading people than I was at reading prayers.

  Narrator: Faurgar

  From above, the world always looks like an unfinished sketch that some talentless apprentice, in a fit of nausea, doused with cheap wine and smothered in scorching sand.

  On the upper stands, in the shade of the awning where the air at least distantly resembled something fit for breathing—rather than scalding steam—Alexander Trudius stood motionless. He hadn't blinked for several minutes, staring at the arena as if trying to read a future report in the tracks left by boots and paws. I stood beside him—in a light tunic without insignia, just another shadow behind his right shoulder. A charcoal pencil was fidgeting in my pocket; my fingers were itching to sketch that sharp profile of Trudius against the backdrop of the blood-red banner.

  "Well?" Alexander asked softly, without turning. "What do you say, Faurgar? You like to study the 'material' before it goes to work."

  I shifted my gaze to the sand. From a compositional standpoint, the picture was perfect. The dark patch of the Leonin, the glint of the fallen warrior's steel, and the gold of the midday sun.

  "Raw," I nodded toward Priorin. "But strong, like a centuries-old oak. His decisions are simple, like the strike of a mallet. That’s good—his kind won't break at the first sign of trouble. And, more importantly, he’s one of those who can't be bought. He knows exactly what he’s worth, and that figure likely wouldn't fit in your purse, Alexander."

  "And her?" Trudius's gaze slid to Gellia.

  The girl was just rising from her knees. Her movements were painful, slow, but there was no surrender in them. As an artist, I saw it: her silhouette didn't bend; it seemed frozen in a single posture of resistance. Her eyes searched for her sword, buried in the sand up to the hilt.

  "She’s held together by duty alone," I replied, feeling a reluctant sympathy for this overtightened string. "If you look closely, the cracks are already showing, but she won't snap. Not now. Give her a clear goal, and she’ll go to the very edge. Even if that edge is a cliff. She’s an ideal tool, Trudius. It’s just a shame that tools sometimes have a habit of rusting from their own tears."

  Alexander gave a short smirk. There was about as much warmth in that smirk as in a freshly dug grave.

  "So, he is about power," he summarized. "And she is about discipline and a holy belief that the world can be fixed if you hit it with a hammer long enough."

  "As a pair, they will balance each other," I confirmed, mentally choosing the colors for their double portrait. "A functional link. Until their goals diverge. And they will diverge, you know that."

  Alexander looked higher. There, on the royal balcony, Vinidius Lazarius was yawning lazily. The show had clearly gone on too long, and the monarch of Vellaris didn't like anything that required his attention longer than it took to uncork a bottle. Vinidius looked like a man who had accidentally wandered into his own coronation and was now painfully trying to remember where he’d left his slippers.

  "Unless His Majesty decides he’s a great strategist and starts moving the pieces himself," I noted quietly.

  Trudius snorted. Vinidius and command—it would have been the shortest and funniest comedy in the city's history if the tickets didn't have to be paid for with lives.

  At that moment, the wind—gusty and smelling of an approaching storm—caught one of the banners of Vellaris. The fabric tore from the pole, lunged over the sand, twirled in the air like a massive stroke of crimson paint, and settled exactly between them—Priorin and Gellia. A beautiful shot. Haunting, but beautiful.

  The roar of the stands washed over the arena in a new wave. The people below were rejoicing. They laughed and were already arguing over who would win more in the coming campaign—the Leonin or death itself.

  Alexander was no longer looking at the banners. He was looking at faces. At the pale lips of the nobility, at the nervous gestures of the guards clutching their spears.

  "This is not the finale," he whispered, and in his voice, I heard something Trudius usually didn't allow himself to show. Anxiety. "This is only the prologue, Faurgar."

  He went silent, but as someone used to reading subtext, I knew what he wanted to add. To the war. To that very great calamity that was now, lazily stretching, waking up right beneath our feet.

  I adjusted my glove. I had been ordered to ensure that these clockwork parts didn't grind themselves into powder too quickly. But looking at them, I realized: painting them would be much harder than I thought. Because it’s difficult to keep a steady hand when you start to notice the glint in the eyes of your "models."

  Thanks for reading the first chapter of Priorin's Squad! We’re diving into a world where politics are as sharp as the blades on the arena floor. Meet Gellia, a fallen paladin seeking vengeance, and Faurgar, a cynical scout who sees the world through the eyes of an artist. This is just the beginning of their journey into the Forbidden Lands. If you enjoyed the tactical feel and the grimdark atmosphere, please consider following and leaving a comment! What side would you choose in the coming war?

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