The wind had quieted. But the ash hadn't settled.
The bodies were buried. The trenches shallow, the graves unmarked—save for a single stone placed at the head of each. No names. No epitaphs. Just silence and dust. The kind of silence that lingered long after footsteps had gone.
They marched again.
The village was behind them, buried in shallow graves and fading heat. But its weight lingered. In their cloaks. In their boots. In the hollow quiet between each step.
No one spoke for a while.
Until Elyas, voice low, asked:"Why did he cry?"
Arlen didn't answer at first. He wasn't sure. He didn't want to be sure.
Ahead of them, Ser Caldus slowed his pace.
"Guilt weeps for itself," he said. "Remorse weeps for others. Sometimes, it's hard to tell them apart."
Elyas looked down, chewing at his lip.
Arlen's gaze stayed ahead. "So what do you do?"
Caldus didn't hesitate. "You listen. And then you act. But never in reverse."
They passed beneath a canopy of pale trees, their trunks twisted and old. Moss clung to every root. The light filtering through the branches was thin and colorless.
It was Arlen who broke the silence next.
"This place… it feels different."
Caldus glanced sideways. "It should. You've entered Kirellan. Once a province. Now a battlefield."
"Part of Rethmare?" Arlen asked.
"Yes," another voice said—measured, level.
A knight stepped closer from the column, removing his helm. He was leaner than the others, with dark brown hair streaked at the temple with early gray, and a long scar tracing from jaw to throat.
He gave a nod.
"Elian Var. I was born on Rethmare's northern edge."
Arlen looked at him, surprised. "You're from here?"
"I was," Elian said. "But this is no longer a kingdom. Just a name carved over fire."
Elyas frowned. "What happened?"
Elian looked ahead, eyes distant.
"Three sons," he said. "That's what happened."
Caldus added quietly, "And no father to keep them from drawing steel."
Elyas looked between them. "Wasn't one of them supposed to be king?"
"The eldest," Elian said. "Heir by law and blood. The sword was meant for his hand. But thrones are heavy things, and ambition cuts deeper than oaths."
Arlen's voice was barely above a whisper. "The younger brothers?"
"They made a pact," Caldus said. "Promised peace between them. Swore their elder brother was too proud, too rigid. That the crown would rot in his grip."
"And together, they took the first swing," Elian muttered. "Sieged his seat. Burned his banners. Called him a tyrant before he could even answer."
Elyas blinked. "Did he fight back?"
"He tried," Caldus said. "But the realm split. Some stayed loyal. Others changed colors like cloaks in the rain. Old lords died. Young ones rose. Now no one remembers what started it—only what was lost."
They passed a dead tree split by lightning. Its trunk blackened, hollow, like an open wound in the forest.
"What about now?" Arlen asked. "Who rules?"
Caldus shook his head. "No one rules. They all claim to."
Elian added, "Three armies march in circles. Cities change hands each season. Villages are taxed by one lord in the morning and burned by another at dusk. The war feeds itself now."
Elyas swallowed hard. "And you still came here?"
"We didn't come for their war," Caldus said. "We came for a man who used it to disappear."
Arlen looked up. "The traitor."
Caldus nodded once.
"We don't chase crowns. But when the land suffers, we answer."
Elian gave him a quiet look.
"And the land here has bled too long."
And then—Caldus raised his hand.
"Rest," he said simply.
The order halted. Quiet as always, but not cold. Knights began to move—removing packs, unstrapping cloaks, checking gear and grounding spears. A clearing just wide enough was chosen, nestled between thick roots and an outcrop of stone. No campfires were lit, save one—shielded, small, its glow casting long shadows across iron and bark.
Arlen sat near the edge, Elyas beside him. The boy was tired but watchful, his eyes never still, always flicking from knight to knight. Men in silence. Men who had seen more than they said.
And then Caldus came to them.
He sat without ceremony, his cloak brushing leaves, armor groaning faintly as he settled in.
Elyas broke the quiet first.
"Is he really one of yours?"
Caldus met his gaze. "He was."
"Then why did he run?"
Elian Var had approached as well, crouching nearby with a waterskin. He didn't interrupt.
Caldus looked into the fire. The light caught the lines of his face—deep and weathered, carved by years more than any blade.
"There is a bond among us," he said slowly. "Older than banners. Older than names. We take no vows lightly. We abandon none of our own." A pause. "But once broken, that bond becomes something else. A wound. And wounds fester."
Arlen leaned forward slightly. "What did he do?"
Caldus's jaw tensed.
"He took knowledge meant to die with us. Secrets of the Order. Protocols, movements, safeholds. But more than that…" He paused, searching the fire. "He took trust. Years of it. And he buried it beneath the flag of another war."
Elyas frowned. "So he's working with one of the kings here?"
Elian shook his head. "No king. No loyalty. He moves between camps like smoke, whispering into ears with gold and poison. He doesn't fight for a cause. He fights to vanish."
"But why?" Arlen asked. "Why betray you? What did he want?"
Caldus was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "We do not always know what wakes the hunger in a man. Sometimes it is glory. Sometimes fear. Sometimes… the simple belief that he is right and the rest of us are blind."
He looked up.
"His name was Ser Caldran Meir. He stood where I now stand. He led men I now command. And five winters ago, he vanished in the dead of night—after opening the vault beneath Kharros Hollow."
Elian's expression darkened.
"That vault held records from the founding days. Names. Deeds. The weight of our memory."
"He didn't just flee," Caldus added. "He tried to unmake us."
Silence stretched.
Then Elyas said, very softly, "Are you going to kill him?"
"If justice calls for it," Caldus said. "Then yes."
"But what if he regrets it?" Elyas whispered. "What if… he's like the soldier from the village?"
Caldus's eyes softened.
"I hope, for his sake, that he does. But regret doesn't erase consequence. The dead don't rise for apologies."
Arlen looked into the fire.
"What if he doesn't run?" he asked. "What if he waits for you?"
Elian answered this time.
"Then he's not the man we once knew. He's something else. Something we were sworn to stop."
And somewhere in the trees, an owl cried out.
Its call was low. Mourning.
The fire crackled.
And the knights of the Grey Order sat beneath the dark canopy, listening to the sounds of a world still bleeding.
The owl's cry faded.
Elyas shifted on the moss-covered stone, pulling his knees close to his chest. The fire's light danced in his wide eyes, but his voice was soft.
"Did you know him well?"
Caldus didn't look up at first. He was sharpening a small blade—slow, steady movements. The kind that didn't need thought anymore.
"Well enough," he said.
Elyas frowned. "Was he kind?"
Elian gave a dry chuckle. "Kindness isn't a requirement in the Order."
Caldus stopped sharpening.
"But he was," he said quietly. "Not soft. But fair. He listened more than he spoke. He never raised his voice. Never once drew his sword in anger."
Elyas blinked. "Then… what changed?"
Caldus's hands rested against his knees. The blade lay still in his lap.
"We're taught to serve the land," he said. "Not rulers. Not thrones. The land has no voice—but it bleeds. We feel it. We answer."
He looked at Elyas now.
"But Caldran began to think the land needed more than just swords. That it needed reshaping. Reforming. That the old ways—the quiet way we work—wasn't enough."
Elian added grimly, "He wanted to be a voice, not a shadow."
Arlen tilted his head. "A voice?"
"He thought the Order should lead," Caldus said. "Not follow the land's pain, but prevent it. Preempt it. Strike before things could rot."
"But isn't that good?" Elyas asked, brow furrowed. "If you stop things before they start?"
Elian's eyes met his. "And who decides what should be stopped?"
Elyas went quiet.
Caldus spoke gently. "Power without restraint becomes something else, Elyas. Something colder. He started marking people as threats before they ever acted. Lords. Knights. Farmers with too much sway in their villages."
"He was planning something," Elian said. "Maps. Messages. We didn't know how far it went. Until the vault was opened."
Caldus's voice lowered. "And then he vanished. Took everything. Left behind empty beds and broken trust."
Elyas hesitated.
"But maybe… maybe he was trying to protect people. Maybe he saw something coming."
Caldus didn't dismiss the thought.
He simply said, "Maybe he did. But protection bought with fear is still fear."
Arlen stared into the flames.
"And now he hides here," he muttered. "In this war."
Caldus nodded. "A war no one watches too closely. A war that blurs all lines. The perfect place for a man who wants to move unseen."
"But not from you," Elyas said. "You're still watching."
Caldus gave a small smile. Not proud. Not cruel. Just quiet.
"That's why we were made."
Then he looked at Arlen.
"He'll know we're here soon. If he doesn't already."
Elian added, "He'll send others first. Test us. Try to guess how many we are. If we're weak. If we can be broken."
Arlen's voice was steady. "And if we find him?"
Caldus answered without pause.
"Then the weight of his choices will find him too."
The fire cracked softly.
And somewhere beyond the trees, something stirred that did not belong to night.