Year 621 of the Fourth Era.
The flags rippled sharply in the cool morning breeze, their bold colors defiant against the pale blue sky. Horses shuffled uneasily, snorting and pawing at the ground, their breath visible in the brisk air. Sunlight cascaded over the battlefield, glinting off polished spearheads and the plated armor of the assembled knights. It was a day unmarred by clouds or shadow, and Commander Cassius Kole swelled with satisfaction at the sight.
Perched atop a modest rise, Kole surveyed his forces with an air of unquestionable authority. His bucket helm obscured his face, but his rigid stance and the deliberate tilt of his head delivered the unmistakable weight of his infamous glare. Every man in his army had heard tales of the Kole stare, said to pierce through steel and morale alike. Today, his gaze was fixed forward, the small hill his theater and the assembled troops his audience.
Below him, his knights stood in ordered lines, a bastion of discipline and power. The mounted soldiers held their reins with stoic precision, their steeds pawing the earth impatiently. The infantry stood with spears held tall, shields polished, and visors lowered—an imposing wall of steel. The air around them buzzed with the restrained energy of warriors poised on the brink of battle.
But among the ranks, one figure broke the flawless symmetry. A young man stumbled awkwardly out of step with the others, his motions clumsy against the rigid precision of the knights. He yanked at the reins of a horse too tall for him, his legs dangling as he struggled to find purchase in the saddle. His mismatched armor clinked with every frantic movement, and his ill-fitted helm tilted precariously to one side, threatening to slide over his eyes.
A ripple of restrained amusement spread through the ranks nearest him, quickly quelled by the sharp bark of an officer. The knights' focus returned to the horizon, but the young man's efforts continued to draw furtive glances.
This was Garin Juggesright, the awkward son of a lesser merchant pressed into service to fill the thinning ranks. His presence, though tolerated, was a reminder of how far the army had stretched to gather bodies for this crusade. He cursed under his breath, wiggling and kicking in a futile attempt to steady himself in the saddle.
Garin had been given a "special" task—or so they called it. Perhaps the word was meant to dull the sting, to convince him this was a position of honor rather than one of ridicule. But no matter how they dressed it up, this task was nothing more than a humiliation cloaked in duty.
Above the restless sea of knights, Garin's eyes caught movement. Commander Cassius Kole sat towering atop his warhorse, his figure larger-than-life in the glint of the morning sun. His bucket helm concealed his expression, but his presence radiated authority. By his side, a captain leaned in, listening intently to his orders. Even from several horses back, Garin could feel the gravity of their deliberation, though the words were swallowed by the clinking of armor and the anxious snorts of steeds.
The captain straightened and turned, his gaze scanning the ranks before settling on Garin. The young man felt the weight of that look—dispassionate and cold, yet laced with a flicker of something that might have been pity.
The signal came swiftly. A hand raised, a banner waved, and the message was clear.
A full-front advance.
Garin's heart sank.
This wasn't a tactical maneuver, a clever flanking strategy, or a test of endurance. It was a raw, brutal charge—a reckless sprint into the teeth of the enemy. Even the hardened knights around him stiffened, their grips tightening on reins and weapons. For Garin, the dread was worse. He wasn't just untrained; he was unready.
His task, so "special" in name, had been simple: the horn. A vital tool for communication across a sprawling battlefield, its sounds carried commands to the farthest reaches of the line. But as practical as the role was, it was also the role for the expendable.
And now, the horn he carried would signal his own death sentence.
The reins trembled in his gloved hands as he tried to steady his breathing. His horse shifted beneath him, a tall beast he'd barely managed to mount, its restless movements amplifying his unease. The sharp gust of wind cutting through the slits of his ill-fitted helm brought little comfort. It was cold and cruel, as if mocking him with its clarity.
He glanced down, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the horn hanging from his belt. It felt heavier than it had any right to, its simple design a reminder of his purpose. Opposite the horn, his short sword swung uselessly—a weapon in name only, much like himself.
He dared a glance forward. Commander Kole had already turned his gaze toward the enemy line, his attention unmoving, his infamous glare unreadable behind his helm. The knights around Garin had begun to shift, their unease tempered by duty, their faces grim but resolved.
Garin hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to pull the reins, to turn the horse away from the tide of steel and fury that would soon engulf them. But a deeper instinct, a gnawing sense of obligation, held him in place. Whether it was pride or sheer terror of being branded a coward, he couldn't bring himself to run.
His hands moved almost of their own accord, reaching for the horn. It was cold in his grasp, and the weight of it seemed to press against his chest.
For a moment, everything slowed. The restless clinking of armor, the snorting of horses, even the faint cry of distant horns from the enemy's side—all of it seemed to fade. His breath fogged in the crisp morning air, the warmth a fleeting contrast to the chill settling in his veins.
Then, with trembling resolve, Garin raised the horn to his lips.
The sound rang out, deep and resonant, cutting through the cacophony like a blade. Around him, the knights responded as one, their collective motion a wave of steel crashing forward. The earth beneath him seemed to shake as hooves thundered and voices roared, the momentum pulling him forward despite his terror.
His horse reared slightly, startled by the noise, but Garin held on, his body stiff with fear. Somewhere behind him, he thought he heard laughter—a short, cruel burst lost in the chaos of the charge. He couldn't tell if it came from the knights or from the enemy, but it burned all the same.
And then, like everyone else, he surged into the fray.
"Oh High One, for you can only see me and hear me," Garin whispered, his trembling hands clasped tightly together. The words spilled out like a desperate plea. "Blessed be my path, for this path I've taken serves you and all your glory. Burn your name in all lands as it was so in the beginning. Let me be your tool, for I'll always long to serve you."
The prayer, spoken in a trembling voice, faded into the din of the battlefield. Garin squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to the fragile hope that his words might grant him strength—or protection.
But when he opened his eyes, the divine silence he sought was replaced by a deafening cacophony.
The clash of armies roared like an avalanche, an unrelenting storm of steel and flesh. The ground shook beneath the thunderous charge of horses, their hooves pounding like war drums. The air reeked of iron and sweat, and the screams of men pierced through the chaos, a haunting melody of pain and fury.
Garin froze in place, the horn still gripped in his shaking hand.
Seven years later. Year 628 of the Fourth Era.
Garin awoke with a gasp, his chest rising and falling as though he had run miles. His breath was ragged, and his shirt clung to his sweat-drenched body. For a moment, he remained still, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling above him as his heart pounded relentlessly in his chest.
He wiped his forehead with a trembling hand, but the bitter memories refused to fade. The dream had been so vivid, so painfully real. He could still hear the deafening clash of steel, the anguished cries, and the sound of the horn he had blown as a boy.
But it wasn't just a dream. It was a memory—a scar etched into his mind.
Seventeen. He had only been seventeen. Too young to be a man, too old to be a child. And yet, he had been thrust into the horrors of war with nothing but a mismatched suit of armor and a borrowed horse.
Garin rose from the bed, his legs heavy with the weight of his memories. He paused for a moment, running a hand through his damp hair, then shook off the feeling like dust on a cloak. He had learned to toughen it out—if nothing else, he had mastered that much in the years since the battle.
The world outside his window was quiet, bathed in the pale light of morning. A far cry from the chaos of his past. He clenched his fists, steadying his breath. The past couldn't touch him now—he wouldn't let it.
Garin's childhood had been simpler, untouched by war and death. He had been born into the sprawling dominion of the Holy Kingdom, a vast kingdom known for its zealous devotion to the High One. The kingdom's name alone was a declaration of its purpose, its people united by their faith in a divine order. With lands that stretched far and wide, it overshadowed its smaller neighbors—except for the imposing Korkov Empire to the north and the mysterious elven land of Karrow to the south.
For as long as anyone could remember, its people had worshiped the Holy High One, the supreme deity whose influence shaped every aspect of their lives. The kingdom's size and its deep-rooted faith were sources of immense pride, bolstering its claim as the chosen land of the High One.
As a child, Garin had never questioned these beliefs. How could he? The Holy Kingdom was all he knew, and its teachings were woven into the fabric of his upbringing. He had listened eagerly to the sermons of village priests and marveled at the grand cathedrals that stood like monuments to their devotion. It was a faith that brought unity, purpose, and a sense of belonging.
But everything changed when Garin grew old enough to understand the world beyond his small corner of the kingdom. By the time he reached an age where questions lingered in his mind, news spread like wildfire through the towns and villages.
The king of the Holy Kingdom—believed to rule by divine right—had received an edict from the High One's Messenger. The command was clear: to expand the kingdom's borders in the High One's name. It was a proclamation heralded as a divine mission, a holy crusade to bring light and truth to those beyond the kingdom's reach.
For Garin, it was a wondrous idea. At only ten years old, he barely understood the weight of such news. All he knew was that more people would come to share in the kingdom's faith. The thought filled him with pride and joy. It was proof, he thought, of the High One's power and the righteousness of their land.
But the seeds of that mission, so glorious in its announcement, would soon sprout into something far darker. A shadow that would reach even Garin, tearing away the innocence of his youth and replacing it with the grim realities of war.
It didn't take long for the Holy Kingdom to become something far greater—and far more dangerous. With its relentless crusades, it absorbed two smaller kingdoms to the east, transforming into the Holy Empire. The expansion was swift and uncompromising, a tidal wave of faith and ambition. Yet, not all fell before its might. One kingdom to the east stood firm: the Kingdom of Augustus, a bastion of defiance that refused to kneel.
But it was the battle in the Kingdom of Jabalia, fought on the Hills of Serenity, that marked a critical turning point. The clash would decide the fate of Jabalia, and with it, the Empire's path westward. It was a conflict etched into the annals of history as both a victory and a tragedy. Among the thousands present was Garin who was thrust into the chaos of war as nothing more than a pawn.
Under Commander Cassius Kole, the Empire's forces charged recklessly across uneven terrain. Kole's audacious order shattered the army's cohesion, leaving the soldiers vulnerable to Jabalia's defenders, who struck with precision from the high ground. Victory came only through sheer numbers, but it was hollow—thousands dead, Kole among them, trampled beneath the very cavalry he led.
Garin's survival was pure chance. Thrown from his horse as the charge began, he landed amidst the carnage, unconscious and wedged between two fallen horses.
Garin adjusted his chain mail as he finished his meager breakfast—stale bread dipped in warm broth. The faint rustle of his chain mail followed him as he left the small quarters he'd been assigned, heading toward the military camps stationed outside the city walls.
The streets of this city within Jabalia bustled with life. Now a part of the Holy Empire, the city bore little of its former identity, though its people seemed content under the empire's rule. Bright flags adorned with the Holy Empire's crest fluttered over markets and streets. To Garin's unease, the locals greeted him with smiles, their expressions devoid of the bitterness he expected.
As he walked the cobbled market street, whispers trailed him.
"That's him." A voice whispered.
"The Commander of the Holy Knights!" Another shouted.
Garin caught snippets of awe and admiration, spoken with reverence. Now, he was a symbol of the empire's might, though the weight of that title sat uneasily on his shoulders.
One truth unsettled him most of all: the people of Jabalia, despite their conquest, had always been devout believers of the Holy High One. Their faith had mirrored the empire's all along. Perhaps that was why they accepted their conquerors so easily—a revelation that gnawed at the edges of Garin's soul as he walked nonchalantly.
Garin approached the camp, his boots crunching against the dirt path as the low hum of activity filled the air. Knights milled about, sharpening weapons, tending to horses, or mending their gear. Amid the organized chaos, a commotion drew his attention—a heated argument between two young men near a stack of crates.
"You're wrong!" one of them shouted, his face flushed. He gripped the hilt of his sword as if ready to prove his point by force. "The Holy High One demands our loyalty! The empire is his will made manifest."
"His will?" the other scoffed, arms crossed over his chest. "You think conquest and bloodshed are his will? We fight to spread his glory, not to drown it in the sins of war."
Their voices grew louder, drawing the eyes of nearby knights. Garin sighed, adjusting his belt as he made his way toward them.
"Enough," he said, his voice cutting through their argument like a blade. Both men snapped to attention, their flushed faces paling as they recognized the commander standing before them.
"Arguing over this nonsense?" Garin barked, his voice firm and commanding. "Shouldn't you both be tending to your blades and practicing your swordplay?"
The two young men froze, their argument dissolving as quickly as it had flared. They exchanged nervous glances, their bravado from moments ago replaced with uneasy silence.
Garin crossed his arms, waiting. The pause stretched, and neither dared to meet his gaze, much less offer a reply. They both knew their quarrel had strayed far from their duties, and the weight of their commander's presence made it clear they had no defense.
Finally, Garin sighed, his stern demeanor softening ever so slightly. "Why do you fight?" Garin asked, his tone steady but sharp.
The second young knight raised his head, confused as to why that question was asked.
The first young knight straightened, his chest puffing out. "For the Holy High One, sir! To fulfill his divine plan."
The second nodded fervently. "For the same, Commander! To spread his light and truth to the unbelievers."
Garin stared at them for a long moment. He nodded once, but there was no warmth in the gesture. "Okay, so then that should be more than enough reason to rid of these ridiculous views. What matters is you both fight for the same God."
"Out of curiosity," the first soldier ventured, emboldened by the commander's words, "why do you fight, Commander?"
Garin's gaze lingered on them, his eyes hard. "To make sure idiots like you make it home."
The soldiers blinked, stunned into silence. Garin didn't wait for a response. He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the weight of his words to settle over them like the morning mist.
Garin had seen it countless times before: young men, barely out of their teens, eager to fight for an ideology they barely understood. Once, he had been like them—wide-eyed, clinging to the belief that their cause was righteous, their battles divinely ordained. But those days were long gone. If he still believed in the Holy High One, he had buried that faith so deep it no longer stirred within him.
The last time Garin could recall praying was on the eve of his first battle, seven years ago. That trembling boy—skinny, terrified, unsure if he'd even survive the clash—was a far cry from the man he had become. Now 25, Garin was taller, stronger, and hardened by years of war. His frame was as firm as his resolve, his blade as sharp as his mind. Yet, for all the strength he had gained, a heavy emptiness lingered in his heart.
He wished life had turned out differently. He had no home, no warmth, no love to ground him. The battlefield was his constant, and leaving it wasn't an option. Instead, he devoted himself to ensuring no young man would march into battle as blindly as he once had. It was a bitter irony—leading crusades he despised, fighting for a cause he no longer believed in.
Yet, Garin told himself, if he didn't command these troops, someone else would. And that someone might be reckless, someone who would waste lives like fodder in the slaughter.
Under Garin's leadership, the Holy Empire had conquered two kingdoms—Karmine and Ridge—with far fewer casualties than other commanders could boast. It was a hollow achievement, one that weighed on him every time he saw the faces of those who returned alive, yet scarred.
He stopped atop a rise, overlooking the sprawling camp below. The clamor of preparation echoed faintly as soldiers sharpened blades and adjusted armor, but Garin's gaze lifted beyond them. He stared at the sky, its vastness offering no answers, no solace.
His crusade was far from over. To the far north, the Kingdom of Salaman teetered on the brink of conquest, though other commanders had been tasked with that campaign. Garin's orders led him northwest from Jabalia Kingdom, through The Kingdom of Ridge, toward the Kingdom of Hoover.
Hoover Kingdom was an isolated fortress, surrounded by the mighty Hoover River. The only viable crossing was a narrow choke point—a natural bottleneck that promised bloodshed. Reaching it would require his forces to march along a perilous escarpment, a sheer borderland between Ridge's settled lands and the untamed jungles beyond. The dangers weren't confined to the jungles above the escarpment. Even in Ridge's territory, the wilds had crept close, their perils lurking in shadow and brush.
As he stood there, surveying the horizon, Garin tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. His crusade wasn't for glory or the High One's favor. It was for them—the scared, the young, and the foolish—who followed his orders without question. It was the only way he could bear the weight of his choices.