---
Third Person POV - The Council Meeting
The council chamber of Arkaneth was unusually crowded, its sturdy wooden beams seeming to press down on the elders gathered around the long table. The room, typically filled with calm deliberation, was tense and suffocating tonight. The heavy silence was broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the restless shifting of those present.
Thalrik stood at the head of the table, arms crossed and face set like stone. Beside him loomed Elder Dagrim, his hulking frame dwarfing the small chair he occupied. Across the table, Elder Lysara sat upright, her sharp gaze flicking between the others, her lips pressed into a thin line of irritation. Kaelith, the village scholar, sat at the far end of the table, observing the room with quiet intensity.
Near the door stood the scout who had rushed back to the village earlier that day. The young man's face was pale, his hands fidgeting as he prepared to recount what he had seen. Thalrik motioned to him with a nod. "Speak," he commanded.
The scout stepped forward, swallowing hard. "Chief… elders… I was patrolling the southern edge of the Great Forest when I saw signs of movement. There were tracks—many of them. Human footprints mixed with those of danger beasts. They led deeper into the forest, toward the Wailing Glades."
Kaelith leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "The glades?" he murmured.
The scout nodded. "Yes, Elder. I followed them carefully, and… I saw bodies. Mostly animals, but a few humans, too. They were—" He paused, struggling to find the words. "—mutilated. Arranged in patterns. Symbols carved into trees and the ground. Blood everywhere."
The room fell silent as the weight of his words settled over them.
"And then?" Lysara prompted, her voice sharp.
"I saw the cultists," the scout continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "There were at least a dozen of them, maybe more. They were chanting, performing some kind of ritual around a fire. It wasn't normal—it felt wrong. The air was heavy, like it was pressing down on me. I—I couldn't stay any longer. I came back to warn you."
The scout hesitated, his face pale as his hands trembled slightly. "The fire… it wasn't normal. It was alive, moving like it had a will of its own. The shadows it cast—" He swallowed hard. "They weren't just shadows. They moved, Chief. Like they were watching me."
The room fell deathly silent. Even Dagrim, who had been leaning back in his chair with a skeptical expression, straightened slightly.
"I wanted to get closer," the scout continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. "But I couldn't. It felt like the forest itself was pushing me back. And the chanting…" He closed his eyes, his face contorting as if he were reliving the moment. "It wasn't human. I don't know how else to describe it. It was wrong."
Lysara exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "The cultists are growing bolder. We can't ignore this. We need help."
"And by help, you mean the Order," Dagrim growled, his voice low and dangerous.
"Of course I mean the Order!" Lysara snapped, glaring at him. "Do you think your ragtag militia is going to handle this? Half of them can't even hold a sword properly!"
Dagrim's face darkened, his fists clenching on the table. "At least my men are loyal to this village, not some self-righteous bastards who think they're gods!"
Lysara scoffed. "Oh, spare me your righteous indignation, Dagrim. This isn't about your precious pride. This is about survival. We can't handle this alone."
"We don't even know what 'this' is!" Dagrim shot back, slamming his fist on the table. "For all we know, they're just lunatics playing with fire. And you want to invite them into our village? The same Order that extorts us for 'donations'? The same Order that burns first and asks questions later?"
"Better them than letting the cultists overrun us!" Lysara retorted, her voice rising. "Or have you forgotten what happened in Ironmere? Oh, that's right—you weren't there. You were too busy playing hero with your little patrols while people were dying!"
Dagrim shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His face was red with anger, and his voice was a low growl. "You think you're so clever, Lysara, but you don't know a damn thing about what it takes to protect this village. All you do is sit here and run your mouth, acting like you're better than everyone else!"
"At least I use my brain, unlike you!" Lysara snapped, rising to her feet as well. "How many men have you gotten killed with your 'brilliant' strategies, Dagrim? Dozens? Or do you even bother keeping count anymore?"
"That's rich, coming from the woman who can't keep a husband!" Dagrim shot back, his words dripping with venom.
Lysara froze, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Say that again," she said, her voice trembling with barely contained rage.
"You heard me," Dagrim growled. "Maybe if you weren't so damn insufferable, you wouldn't be sitting here alone, blaming everyone else for your miserable life."
The room fell silent, the tension crackling like a live wire. Lysara's hands curled into fists at her sides, and for a moment, it looked like she might leap across the table.
"Enough!" Kaelith's voice cut through the room like a whip, silencing both elders. His piercing blue eyes swept over them, his disappointment palpable. "This is not a tavern brawl. You are here to protect this village, not tear each other apart."
Kaelith's piercing blue eyes swept over the room, silencing any further outbursts. "Do you not see what the cultists are doing?" he asked, his voice calm but heavy with authority. "They thrive on chaos and division. Every moment we spend fighting each other is a moment they grow stronger. Is that what you want?"
Lysara looked away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Dagrim muttered something under his breath but didn't meet Kaelith's gaze.
"Good," Kaelith said, his voice softening slightly. "Now, let's discuss how we move forward—together."
Dagrim scowled but sat back down, his broad shoulders tense with barely restrained anger. Lysara followed suit, though her sharp gaze never left him.
Kaelith turned to Thalrik, his voice calm but firm. "Chief, we need to focus. The scout's report is clear—this is not something we can afford to underestimate. The cultists are performing rituals, likely summoning something beyond our understanding. If we fail to act, it could mean the end of Arkaneth."
Thalrik's jaw tightened. He glanced at Dagrim, then at Lysara, his mind racing. He thought of Valaith, of Serenya, of the baby sleeping peacefully in their home. The thought of the Order coming anywhere near them sent a cold chill down his spine.
"And if the Order suspects something… unusual about our village?" he asked quietly.
Kaelith's expression softened. "Then we must ensure they have no reason to. But we cannot let fear paralyze us. The safety of the village must come first."
Lysara nodded, her voice steady despite her earlier anger. "We can hate the Order all we want, but they're the only ones with the strength to deal with this threat. It's a bitter pill, but we have to swallow it."
Dagrim said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Thalrik took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. "We'll put it to a vote."
When the tally was complete, the result was clear. The majority had voted in favor of summoning the Order.
Dagrim stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Fine," he said curtly. "But don't come crying to me when this decision bites us in the ass."
Thalrik said nothing as the council dispersed, his heart heavy with the weight of their decision.
---
3rd POV
The morning sun was barely cresting the horizon when Thalrik sat at the small wooden desk in his home, the dim light from a single lantern casting long shadows across the room. In his hands was a blank parchment, its stark emptiness a heavy weight. The pen hovered above the page, trembling slightly.
Thalrik stared at the blank parchment, his jaw clenched. He had faced danger beasts, raiding parties, and even the wrath of the Order before. But this… this felt different. Every word he wrote would bring them closer, their sanctimonious zeal suffocating the village he had fought so hard to protect.
He thought of Veritas, of the golden-haired child sleeping peacefully in their home. What would the Order see when they looked at him? A miracle? Or a weapon to be used and discarded?
Valaith leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed as she watched her husband struggle. "You don't have to like this," she said softly, "but it needs to be done."
Thalrik exhaled through his nose, his expression grim. "Every part of me hates this," he admitted, his voice low. "But I know you're right."
He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began to write. The words came slowly, each one feeling like a betrayal of everything he stood for:
> To the Honorable Pope Aurelius Solis, Supreme Luminary of the Order of Burning Light,
> The village of Arkaneth humbly seeks your assistance in addressing a grave threat within the Great Forest.
As the letter unfolded, detailing the cultist activity and the potential danger to the surrounding lands, Thalrik felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He knew what this plea would cost them, and it burned at his pride.
Once finished, he sanded the ink to dry and folded the parchment neatly, sealing it with the village's modest crest.
"Gram!" Thalrik called, his voice cutting through the quiet.
The door creaked open, and Gram stepped in, his wiry frame already geared for travel. The scout was known as the fastest rider in the village, and his sharp green eyes mirrored Thalrik's own determination.
"You need this delivered to the Holy Land," Thalrik said, handing Gram the letter. "Ride fast. Don't stop for anything."
"Yes, Chief," Gram replied, tucking the letter securely into his satchel.
"Be careful," Valaith added from the doorway, her voice tinged with worry.
Gram hesitated for a moment, glancing at Valaith. "Don't worry about me, Lady Valaith. I've been running these roads since I was a boy."
"Just because you're fast doesn't mean you're invincible," Valaith replied, her voice softer now. "Promise me you'll come back safe."
Gram nodded, his face grim. "I'll be back before you know it."
The sound of hooves echoed through the village as Gram rode out, disappearing into the morning mist.
---
Later that evening, the Orenda household was unusually quiet. Valaith sat in her favorite chair near the hearth, Veritas cradled in her arms. The baby's golden eyes sparkled with curiosity as he played with a small cloth toy, occasionally letting out delighted giggles.
Serenya sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, drawing on a scrap of parchment. She glanced up when Veritas reached for her with tiny hands, a mischievous grin on his face.
"Hey! No grabbing!" Serenya scolded, scooting back slightly.
But Veritas was determined. With surprising speed for his small frame, he reached out and grabbed one of Serenya's cheeks, giving it a playful tug.
"Ahh! Mama! He's bullying me!" Serenya wailed, her voice more dramatic than truly upset.
Valaith laughed softly, shaking her head. "He's not bullying you. He's just playing."
"Tell him to play nice!" Serenya protested, though she couldn't keep the smile off her face as Veritas giggled, clearly amused by his sister's exaggerated reaction.
Thalrik, leaning against the far wall, couldn't help but smile at the scene. It was a rare moment of levity in an otherwise grim time, and he savored it.
Valaith looked up at him, her expression softening. "You needed this, didn't you?"
Thalrik nodded. "We all did."
As the children continued to play, Valaith's voice dropped to a whisper. "What happens if the Order finds out about him?"
Thalrik's smile faded. "We'll keep them from finding out. Whatever it takes."
Valaith sighed, her gaze dropping to Veritas. "It's not just about protecting him, Thalrik. It's about keeping our family together. I don't know if I could bear it if…"
"They won't take him," Thalrik said firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. "Not while I'm still breathing."
---
The atmosphere in Arkaneth was tense in the days following the council's decision.
Scouts were working double shifts, their sharp eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger. The militia patrolled the perimeter in pairs, their hands never far from their weapons.
Even the villagers who weren't directly involved in defense seemed on edge. Farmers worked with hurried efficiency, their eyes darting toward the forest as though expecting cultists to emerge at any moment. Mothers kept their children close, their conversations hushed and fearful.
At the edge of the village, a group of women worked to weave sturdy barriers from branches and rope. Their hands moved quickly, their faces tight with concentration. Nearby, a young boy struggled to carry a bundle of arrows to the makeshift armory, his small frame nearly buckling under the weight.
"Easy there," Vesimir said, stepping forward to take the bundle. The blacksmith's massive hands made the task look effortless, and he gave the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "You're doing good work, lad. Keep it up."
The boy nodded, his face lighting up at the praise. "Yes, sir!" he said, dashing off to fetch another load.
Vesimir watched him go, his expression softening. "Kids shouldn't have to see this," he muttered under his breath. "But I guess none of us should."
At the blacksmith's forge, Vesimir hammered at a glowing piece of metal, sweat dripping down his brow. His young son sat nearby, wide-eyed as he watched his father work.
---
"Papa, are we going to be okay?" the boy asked quietly.
Bismarck crouched in front of his son, his large hands resting on the boy's shoulders. "We're going to be fine," he said, his voice steady. "Do you know why?"
The boy shook his head, his wide eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Bismarck smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Because we're strong. And because we fight for each other. As long as we stick together, nothing can break us."
The boy sniffled but nodded, his small hands clutching at his father's sleeves. "I'll be strong too, Papa. I promise."
"I know you will," Bismarck said softly, pulling his son into a tight hug. "You already are."
---
In the quiet corner of Kaelith's study, Viviana sat cross-legged on the floor, her hands deftly flipping through the pages of an ancient tome. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on her pale, focused face.
"The Order's arrival has stirred more than just fear," she said without looking up.
Kaelith, seated at his desk, glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. "And what have you observed, my young disciple?"
Viviana's gaze lifted, her icy blue eyes meeting his. "The villagers trust them because they don't know better. But you and I both know they're not here out of charity."
Kaelith sighed, leaning back in his chair. "No, they're not. But their presence may still serve a purpose."
"At what cost?" Viviana asked, her tone sharp. "They'll demand more than just food and loyalty. They'll want control. And they won't stop until they have it."
Kaelith smiled faintly, though his eyes were tired. "You see much for your age, Viviana. But sometimes, even the wise must choose the lesser evil."
---
Two days later, the village council convened once more. Gram had returned with the Order's response, and Thalrik held the letter in his hands, his expression grim.
He unfolded the parchment and began to read aloud:
> To the Chief and Elders of Arkaneth,
> Your request for assistance has been received. The Order of Burning Light shall dispatch a detachment of Ferentes Flammae and Fidelium to address the cultist threat. However, the Order requires adequate compensation for this undertaking. We demand a donation of fifty percent of your village's harvest yield as payment for our services.
The room erupted into an uproar.
"Fifty percent?" Elder Orvian, the blacksmith, exclaimed, his voice rising above the others. "That's half our food! How are we supposed to survive the winter with that kind of loss?"
"They don't care if we survive," Dagrim growled. "They care about filling their own damn stores."
Lysara slammed her hand on the table, her face flushed with anger. "This is extortion, plain and simple! How can they call themselves protectors of the Light when they prey on the very people they're supposed to protect?"
"Because they can," Dagrim said bitterly. "And because we let them."
"You're one to talk about letting people down!" Lysara snapped, her voice dripping with venom. "Maybe if you hadn't been so damn stubborn during the last raid, we wouldn't even need the Order right now!"
Dagrim shot to his feet, his face red with fury. "Oh, here we go again! You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"Why would I?" Lysara retorted, standing as well. "You're a walking disaster, Dagrim! You can't lead, you can't strategize, and the only thing you're good at is breaking things!"
Dagrim's lips curled into a snarl. "And you're so perfect, aren't you, Lysara? Always looking down your nose at everyone. Maybe if you spent less time judging and more time doing, you'd actually accomplish something."
Lysara's eyes flashed. "Doing? Like you? Charging into every situation like a mindless beast? Tell me, Dagrim, how many times has your 'doing' gotten men killed?"
"At least I'm out there fighting!" Dagrim roared, slamming his fist on the table. "Not hiding behind fancy words and a title you don't deserve!"
Lysara leaned forward, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Better to use words than brute force, you idiot. At least words don't leave a trail of corpses."
"At least I don't sit on my ass pretending to be smarter than everyone else!" Dagrim roared.
Kaelith intervened again, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Enough!" he thundered. "The Order is coming. We will argue among ourselves later if we must, but right now, we need to prepare."
The elders fell silent, though the tension in the room was palpable.
Thalrik closed his eyes, the weight of the Order's demands pressing heavily on his shoulders. The cost was steep, but they had no choice.
---
Third Person POV - Thalrik and Valaith
The morning light was dim, the sun hidden behind a thick veil of clouds as Thalrik watched Gram ride off for the second time in as many days. The scout's horse kicked up patches of frost-covered dirt as it disappeared into the mist, carrying Arkaneth's reluctant acceptance of the Order's demands.
Behind him, the elders dispersed silently. Dagrim muttered curses under his breath, his axe swinging heavily at his side. Lysara walked with stiff steps, her forced smile betraying the anger simmering beneath her sharp gaze. Elder Orvian lingered, his lips pressed thin as he clutched his thick leather apron, clearly distracted by thoughts of the Order's demands.
Only Kaelith remained still, his blue eyes fixed on Thalrik. "This isn't easy," the old scholar said quietly, his voice like a low rumble.
"No," Thalrik replied, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. "It isn't."
Kaelith nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then may the Light guide your choices, Chief."
As Kaelith turned and walked away, Thalrik exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. There was no turning back now.
---
Third Person POV - Valaith and Veritas
Later that evening, Valaith sat near the hearth, her fingers working methodically as she bundled herbs. Her brow was furrowed in thought, her mind a storm of worry. She didn't notice the way Veritas was watching her, his golden eyes bright with curiosity.
Across the room, Serenya lay sprawled on her side, fast asleep. Her braids were tangled, and a thin strand of drool glistened on her cheek.
Veritas, however, was wide awake. He sat on a blanket, his tiny hands clutching a wooden toy. But his focus wasn't on the toy—it was on his mother. Her tense expression and downturned lips tugged at something deep within him, something fragmented yet powerful.
The baby shifted, then began to crawl toward her with surprising determination. Valaith didn't notice at first, too lost in her thoughts. It wasn't until a faint ripple of psychic energy brushed against her senses that she looked up sharply.
Her breath caught as she saw Veritas sitting at her feet, his chubby hands cupped together. A small, golden flame flickered to life between them, its light warm and impossibly vibrant.
For a moment, Valaith couldn't move. The flame was unlike anything she had ever seen. It radiated an overwhelming sense of purity and power, like holding a star in the palm of her hand. She had wielded psychic fire before during her time as a Ferentes Flammae, but this… this was something far beyond her understanding.
Then Veritas smiled up at her, his face beaming with pride and joy.
"He's trying to cheer me up," she realized, her heart clenching at the realization.
Her expression softened, and she forced a cheerful tone into her voice. "Well, aren't you clever?" she said, reaching down to scoop him into her arms.
The flame vanished as Veritas snuggled against her chest, a satisfied smile on his tiny face. Valaith held him close, pressing a kiss to his golden hair. "Thank you, little one," she whispered.
---
Third Person POV - The Arrival of the Order
Two days later, the sound of hooves echoed through the village as the Order arrived.
At the gates of Arkaneth, Thalrik and the elders stood waiting, their breath visible in the crisp morning air. The villagers had gathered at a distance, their expressions a mix of awe, unease, and outright fear.
The first figure to emerge from the mist was the Ferentes Flammae. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, with neatly combed blond hair and soft, almost angelic features. His pristine white robes were adorned with golden sunburst patterns, and his calm smile radiated an unsettling serenity.
Behind him marched fourteen Fidelium warriors, their armor polished to a mirror-like sheen. Each carried weapons that seemed to hum faintly with energy—plasma rifles, energy swords, and other relics of a forgotten age.
Thalrik kept his face carefully neutral, though his stomach churned as he watched them approach.
"Welcome to Arkaneth," he said, his voice steady.
The Ferentes Flammae inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, Chief Thalrik. I am Brother Aran, sent by the Order to purge the heretics from your lands." His tone was soft but carried an undeniable weight of authority.
Elder Orvian's eyes were glued to the weapons, his lips parting slightly as if in awe. "By the Light…" he muttered under his breath.
"Impressive, aren't they?" Lysara said, her tone sharp but tinged with bitterness.
Dagrim, meanwhile, was glaring openly at the newcomers, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe. "I hope they can fight as well as they shine," he muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"Dagrim," Thalrik warned, his voice low.
The Ferentes Flammae's smile didn't falter, though his gaze briefly flicked toward Dagrim. "I assure you, our training is second to none."
Thalrik gestured for them to enter. "Come. We'll discuss the situation in the council chamber."
As the group moved through the village, the Fidelium's presence drew stares from every corner. Mothers clutched their children tightly, while men whispered uneasily among themselves.
Inside the council chamber, the air was tense. Brother Aran stood at the head of the table, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. "The heretics must be purged swiftly," he said, his tone calm but unyielding. "Delays only allow their corruption to spread."
"And how exactly do you plan to do that?" Dagrim asked bluntly, his tone almost challenging.
"With precision and efficiency," Brother Aran replied. "We'll strike at the heart of their operations, vanquish the heretics, and ensure their rituals are stopped before they can cause further harm."
Thalrik folded his arms. "The forest is dangerous, even for those who know it well. My men and I will accompany you. We can guide you through the terrain and ensure no one gets lost."
Brother Aran hesitated, his serene expression flickering with faint annoyance. "That won't be necessary—"
"It's not negotiable," Thalrik interrupted, his tone firm. "This is our land. If you want our cooperation, you'll take our guidance."
The room fell silent for a moment. Then Brother Aran nodded. "Very well. We leave at first light."
---
Third Person POV - Valaith and Tara
That afternoon, Valaith sat in her home, her hands working over a pile of herbs. Across from her, Tara leaned back in her chair, her eyes distant as she spoke.
"Do you think it's true?" Tara asked quietly.
Valaith glanced at her. "What?"
"The stories. About the Order. About what they're capable of."
Valaith's hands stilled. "You mean the miracles?" she asked, her tone flat.
Tara nodded. "The miracles. The power. The way they always win, no matter the odds."
Valaith exhaled slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands. "They win because they don't care about the cost. Not to themselves, and certainly not to anyone else."
Tara frowned, her brow furrowing. "You don't trust them at all, do you?"
"No," Valaith replied without hesitation. "And neither should you."
Tara opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Veritas let out a happy squeal, drawing their attention. The baby was playing with a wooden toy, his golden eyes bright with curiosity.
Valaith smiled faintly, though her heart remained heavy. The Order was here, but what they would leave behind was a question that loomed over her like a shadow.
---
Third Person POV - Thalrik and Valaith
The morning air was thick with unease as Gram disappeared into the mist, his horse's hooves kicking up faint plumes of dust along the road. Thalrik stood at the village gate, watching until his scout was out of sight. He had hoped the second message to the Order would ease his growing anxiety, but the weight on his chest only seemed to deepen.
As he turned to walk back, he caught sight of the villagers watching him from their windows and doorways. Their faces mirrored his own: wary, tense, and resigned. A soft breeze carried the sound of a child crying somewhere, the sound cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.
Thalrik entered the meeting hall, where the other elders had yet to disperse. Dagrim stood near the hearth, his massive frame casting long shadows across the room. His scowl deepened when he saw Thalrik.
"So we're just going to roll over, huh?" Dagrim said, his tone sharp. "Hand half our food to the Order and pray they don't take more while they're at it?"
Lysara, sitting near the table, shot him a withering glare. "You've made your feelings clear, Dagrim. Shouting about it won't change the fact that we had no choice."
"No choice?" Dagrim spat. "We could have fought! Could have sent the Order packing like we did last time."
"And how did that end?" Lysara snapped. "The Order doesn't forget, Dagrim. They'll come down on us harder than ever if we step out of line."
"Enough," Thalrik interjected, his voice firm but tired. "The decision's been made. We'll deal with the consequences as they come."
Dagrim muttered under his breath but said no more. One by one, the elders left the hall, their expressions grim.
---
Third Person POV - Valaith and Veritas
The Orenda home was unusually quiet that evening. Valaith sat near the hearth, her hands moving deftly as she prepared bundles of herbs. Her mind, however, was far from her work. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line as she replayed Thalrik's warnings in her mind.
Across the room, Serenya lay sprawled on her back, her mouth slightly open as she snored softly. Veritas, sitting on a blanket nearby, watched his sister curiously.
The baby's golden eyes glimmered as he reached out toward Serenya. With a soft coo, he crawled closer, his small hands patting her cheek. Serenya stirred slightly, swatting at him in her sleep, but Veritas only giggled. He patted her cheek again, this time more insistently.
"Stop it," Serenya mumbled, half-asleep.
Veritas giggled louder, rocking back on his chubby legs as if immensely pleased with himself.
The sound caught Valaith's attention, drawing her gaze from the herbs in her hands. Her tense expression softened as she watched her children.
"You're a little troublemaker, aren't you?" she said softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
Veritas turned toward her, his bright eyes studying her face. For a moment, he seemed to sense the tension lingering in her features. His small body stilled, and a flicker of awareness passed through him.
Then, with surprising determination, Veritas crawled toward her. Valaith didn't notice at first, her gaze dropping back to the herbs. It wasn't until she felt a ripple of energy brush against her senses that she looked up sharply.
Her breath caught. Veritas sat at her feet, his tiny hands cupped together. A small, golden flame flickered to life between them, its light soft and warm but impossibly bright.
Valaith froze, her heart pounding. The flame was unlike anything she had seen before—pure and vibrant, yet carrying an unmistakable weight. It reminded her of the psychic flames she had once wielded, but this was something far greater.
Veritas smiled up at her, his face glowing with pride.
"He's trying to cheer me up," Valaith realized, her heart clenching.
Her lips trembled as she forced a smile. "Well, aren't you full of surprises?" she said gently, reaching down to pick him up.
The flame flickered out as she lifted him into her arms. Veritas cooed happily, nestling against her chest, his expression one of pure satisfaction.
When Thalrik returned home that evening, Valaith recounted the event in hushed tones. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her lingering unease.
Thalrik frowned deeply, his hands resting on his hips. "That confirms it," he said finally. "He's not just special—he's… something else entirely."
Valaith nodded. "And if the Order finds out—"
"They won't," Thalrik interrupted firmly. "You and Veritas aren't leaving this house. Not until they're gone."
---
Third Person POV - The Arrival of the Order
Two days later, the village of Arkaneth stood still as the Order arrived.
The gates creaked open, and a procession of figures emerged from the mist. At their head was a Ferentes Flammae, his pristine white robes embroidered with golden sunburst patterns. His soft blond hair was combed neatly, and his calm smile radiated an unsettling serenity.
Behind him marched fourteen Fidelium warriors, their polished armor gleaming in the pale light.
The Fidelium moved like a single entity, their steps perfectly synchronized. The sunlight glinted off their golden helmets, casting reflections that seemed almost blinding. Children peeked out from behind their mothers' skirts, their wide eyes filled with equal parts fear and awe. The villagers whispered among themselves, their voices hushed as though speaking too loudly might draw unwanted attention.
One of the Fidelium broke formation slightly, his gaze drifting toward a young boy standing at the edge of the crowd. The child, no more than six, stared up at the armored warrior with wide eyes.
"Is that heavy?" the boy asked, pointing at the warrior's ornate shield. His voice was soft, but it carried in the silence.
The Fidelium paused, tilting his head slightly as though considering the question. "It is," he replied, his voice muffled but kind. "But it keeps me safe."
The boy nodded solemnly. "Do you fight monsters?"
"I do," the Fidelium answered, his tone shifting slightly. He straightened, his gaze flickering to the boy's mother, who stood frozen a few steps away. "But only the bad ones."
Before the child could ask another question, the warrior moved back into formation, his steps once again synchronized with the others. The boy's mother quickly pulled him away, her face pale as she whispered something too soft to hear.
They carried weapons that seemed to hum faintly with energy—plasma rifles, energy swords, and other relics of the Old World that made the villagers whisper in awe.
Thalrik and the elders waited at the gate, their expressions carefully controlled. Elder Orvian's eyes were glued to the Fidelium's weapons, his lips parting slightly in awe.
Dagrim, on the other hand, scowled openly, his massive arms crossed over his chest. "Shiny toys don't mean a thing if they can't fight," he muttered.
"Dagrim," Thalrik warned under his breath.
The Ferentes Flammae stepped forward, his soft smile unwavering. "Chief Thalrik," he said, his voice calm and measured. "I am Brother Aran, sent by the Order to aid in purging the heretics from your lands."
"Welcome to Arkaneth," Thalrik replied, his tone steady.
Brother Aran inclined his head slightly. "Let us discuss the situation at once. Heresy must not be allowed to take root."
The elders led the group into the council chamber, where tension hung thick in the air. As the Fidelium took their positions near the door, the villagers outside whispered uneasily, their gazes darting between the gleaming weapons and the warriors who carried them.
Inside, Brother Aran wasted no time. "We will move swiftly," he said, addressing the council with a serene confidence. "The heretics must be vanquished before their corruption spreads."
"And what of the village?" Thalrik asked, his tone carefully neutral. "Will it be protected during this… purge?"
Brother Aran's smile didn't falter. "The Light will protect those who are faithful."
Thalrik's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Then my men and I will guide you. The forest is treacherous—we know it better than anyone."
Brother Aran hesitated, his serene demeanor flickering for a moment. "Your assistance is appreciated," he said finally. "We leave at first light."
---
Third Person POV - Thalrik: The Ambush Begins
The forest was unnaturally quiet as Thalrik's group pushed deeper into the Wailing Glades. Even the Fidelium, with their disciplined formation, seemed unsettled by the oppressive silence. The air felt heavier with every step, a faint metallic tang stinging the back of their throats.
"Something's not right," Gram murmured, his sharp eyes scanning the dense underbrush.
Thalrik nodded, gripping his sword tighter. "Stay alert. They're watching us."
Ahead, Brother Aran walked with an unnerving calm, his white robes glowing faintly in the dim light. Behind him, the Fidelium moved like a machine, their weapons at the ready.
A sudden sound—a snap of a branch—shattered the silence. Before anyone could react, a guttural roar erupted from the shadows, followed by a volley of arrows streaking through the air.
"AMBUSH!" Thalrik bellowed, raising his shield just in time to deflect a projectile. Around him, chaos erupted.
From the trees emerged a wave of cultists, their faces twisted with bloodlust and zeal. Their crude weapons glinted in the dim light, and their wild war cries filled the air.
"FOR KHORNE!" one of them screamed, charging headlong into the fray.
---
Third Person POV - Thalrik: A Duel in the Chaos
Thalrik's blade met the cultist's axe with a resounding clang, the force of the impact jarring his arm. He grunted, stepping back to regain his footing as his opponent advanced, swinging wildly.
"Ughh! Come on, you bastard!" Thalrik growled, sidestepping a downward strike and countering with a swift slash across the man's thigh.
The cultist howled in pain but didn't falter, his bloodshot eyes locked on Thalrik. With a guttural roar, he swung again, his axe carving an arc through the air. Thalrik ducked, feeling the blade whistle just above his head.
He surged forward, ramming his shield into the man's chest. The cultist stumbled, and Thalrik seized the opening. His sword flashed, driving into the man's abdomen.
"AAAGHH!" the cultist screamed, collapsing in a heap as blood pooled beneath him.
Thalrik barely had time to catch his breath before another attacker emerged—a hulking brute wielding a spiked club.
"Chief! Behind you!" Gram shouted, his voice strained.
Thalrik spun just as the club came down, raising his shield to block the blow. The impact sent a shockwave through his arm, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.
"Not today, you bastard," Thalrik hissed, sidestepping the next swing and slamming his sword into the brute's side.
---
Third Person POV - Bismarck: Holding the Line
On the other side of the clearing, Bismarck was a whirlwind of rage and precision. The massive warrior stood his ground as three cultists rushed him, their weapons raised and their faces twisted with zeal.
"Come on, you sons of bitches!" Bismarck roared, his axe gleaming as he brought it down with a mighty swing.
The first cultist barely had time to scream before the blade split his skull, blood spraying in a wide arc.
"Fuck you!" Bismarck snarled, pivoting to block a sword strike from the second attacker. The cultist's blade clanged against Bismarck's axe handle, but the larger man shoved him back with a powerful kick to the chest.
The third cultist lunged with a spear, but Bismarck sidestepped the thrust, grabbing the shaft and yanking it free from the man's grip. With a primal roar, he swung the spear like a club, the blunt end smashing into the cultist's face.
"HAHA! Is that all you've got?" Bismarck bellowed, his laughter booming even as blood dripped from a shallow cut on his cheek.
---
Third Person POV - The Warp Unleashed
"HERETICS!" Brother Aran shouted, his voice ringing out above the chaos. "FEEL THE WRATH OF THE LIGHT!"
A golden glow emanated from his hands as he unleashed a burst of psychic energy, sending two cultists flying backward. The Fidelium advanced with disciplined precision, their plasma rifles humming as they fired searing bolts into the attacking horde.
But the cultists were not without their own powers. From the treeline emerged a High Priest of Khorne, his crimson robes soaked in blood and his eyes glowing with a sickly red light.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" the priest roared, raising his hands.
The air around him rippled as a wave of warp energy surged forward, striking the Fidelium formation like a hammer. Two warriors were thrown to the ground, their armor sparking as the unnatural force tore at them.
Thalrik turned just in time to see the priest advancing on Brother Aran. The Ferentes Flammae raised his hands to counter, but his golden light flickered as the warp energy intensified.
"Get back!" Thalrik shouted, rushing toward the fight.
The priest lashed out with a blade wreathed in dark energy, striking Brother Aran's arm. The Ferentes cried out, blood spilling as the corrupted blade cut deep.
Thalrik slammed into the priest with his shield, knocking him off balance. "Ughh!" he grunted, driving his sword into the priest's side.
The priest howled, his free hand clawing at Thalrik's helmet, but the village chief held firm. With a final, forceful shove, he drove the priest to the ground and ended him with a swift, brutal strike to the neck.
---
Third Person POV - Retreat
The battle raged on, but it was clear the ambush had taken its toll. The cultists were relentless, and the danger beasts emerging from the shadows only added to the chaos.
"We need to fall back!" Thalrik shouted, his voice cutting through the din.
Brother Aran, cradling his injured arm, nodded grimly. "Retreat!"
The group began to withdraw, covering each other as they moved. Gram fired his bow with practiced precision, picking off cultists as they pursued. Bismarck stayed at the rear, his massive frame acting as a shield for the others.
"Go! I've got this!" Bismarck roared, swinging his axe in wide arcs to keep the attackers at bay.
"Don't die on me!" Thalrik called, grabbing Bismarck by the shoulder and pulling him back.
The group finally broke free of the forest, their bodies battered and bloodied but alive.
---
Third Person POV - The Village Prepares
The return to Arkaneth was somber. Villagers gathered to tend to the wounded, their faces pale with fear.
Inside the council chamber, Thalrik and the elders gathered to discuss their next move.
"They're stronger than we thought," Thalrik said, his voice grim. "This isn't over."
"We'll fortify the village," Kaelith said calmly. "Prepare for the worst."
Dagrim slammed a fist on the table. "Let them come. We'll show them what happens when they threaten Arkaneth!"
But even his bravado couldn't mask the tension in the room. Outside, the sound of hammers and saws echoed as the villagers worked to strengthen their defenses.
And in the shadows, the cultists prepared for their next move.
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