「Status Update」
Location: Castle York (House Norwen)
Threat Level: Low
Active Hellschisms: 0
Order Presence: Limited
Available Resources: Scarce
Current Mission: Investigate Southern Watchtower
Morning light spread over worn battlements, long shadows stretching across the courtyard. Orien Majere stood beside Eldric at a wooden rack where three helmets hung—each dented, each bearing the marks of hasty repairs. The squire selected one, testing the fit before offering a nervous, lopsided grin.
"You're sure I'm needed?" Eldric asked quietly, voice barely carrying over the muffled hum of early-morning activity. Nearby, a guard tightened straps on a quiver, another checked the balance of a spear. Each soldier moved with careful purpose, no one wasting words at this hour.
Orien nodded. "You've earned the chance. The patrol heads south, not too far. If it's just brigands, you'll learn how to spot trouble. If something worse lurks there, we need fresh eyes and steady nerves." He reached out and adjusted the helmet's chin strap. "Remember what we discussed: stay alert. And if you must channel a rune, keep your hand steady. A tremor of doubt ruins the line."
Eldric swallowed hard, then took a breath. "I'll manage," he said, and though fear shone in his gaze, there was a steadiness beneath it.
Sir Alden approached, a short cloak draped over his armor. Two other guards flanked him: one with a crossbow slung over a shoulder, the other holding a sword and round shield. Alden's eyes met Orien's. "We're ready. If we leave now, we'll reach that watchtower by midday."
Corene stepped up behind them, arms folded, her gaze drifting between Orien and Alden. "A small patrol, three plus Eldric," she said. "Enough to scout. Send a horn signal if you find anything you can't handle." She paused, considering the younger man. "Eldric, if things go poorly, get behind Alden. You're there to learn and observe, not to charge blindly."
Eldric nodded, cheeks coloring. He understood his place.
A lingering thought tugged at Orien. Letting them go alone felt risky. If the threat proved magical or tied to a rift's echoes, they might need his spells. He cleared his throat. "Alden, I'll join you. Another set of hands can't hurt, and I'm familiar with wards if we must reinforce something on-site."
Alden raised an eyebrow. "You're sure? We can manage."
Orien met his gaze. "Chanting near a watchtower suggests more than common thieves. If they're dabbling in strange rituals, you'll want a mage. I won't slow you down."
Corene said nothing, but her slight nod carried approval. With Orien along, their odds of handling surprises improved.
Eldric exhaled, relief creeping into his shoulders. Perhaps he'd feared going without Orien's steady counsel. Now, they'd face this unknown together.
They set out through the eastern gate, boots scuffing the ground. The improved chain links overhead gleamed faintly in morning light, a reminder of the small victories they'd won. Outside, fields lay quiet and sparse. They passed charred beams of an old barn, its skeleton jutting from the earth, and skirted a half-collapsed wall that once fenced livestock. Beyond that lay open ground broken by patches of dry grass and scattered stones.
Alden took point. The guard with the crossbow—Harren, he'd said—kept to the rear. The other guard, Osric, stayed near Eldric's flank, sword resting easy in hand. Orien walked just behind Alden, scanning the horizon where land dipped gently southward. A distant stand of twisted trees and a faint mound of rubble hinted at old structures reclaimed by time.
No one wasted breath on idle talk. Their footsteps and the soft rustle of gear spoke for them. After an hour's walk, Orien caught the distant shape of the watchtower. It rose crookedly above low hills, a stone finger pointing at a pale sky. Weeds choked its base, and the top looked chipped, as if something gnawed at its edges.
Alden slowed, raising a hand. The patrol knelt behind a scrubby bush, out of direct line of sight. He scanned carefully, brow furrowing. "No sign of life from here."
Orien narrowed his eyes. If there had been chanting, either the source moved on, or they hid well. "We'll approach quietly," Orien whispered. "If it's a trick or a trap, better to catch them unaware."
Alden nodded. Harren set a bolt to his crossbow with deliberate slowness. Osric touched Eldric's shoulder, guiding him to stay low. Orien pulled the hood of his cloak forward, squinting against a mild glare.
They circled a low knoll, boots pressing into crumbly soil. Each step tested their nerves. As they drew closer, Orien noticed the tower's doorframe—no door, just a yawning gap. Inside, faint shapes suggested broken furniture or fallen beams. The air carried a stale scent like old straw and damp stone.
Alden signaled them to halt again. He tilted his head, listening. Orien strained his ears. At first, just wind brushing tall grass. Then, a sound: low murmurs, barely audible, as if someone tried not to be heard. It came from behind the tower, or perhaps a cellar entrance hidden by debris.
Eldric swallowed, knuckles whitening around his spare dagger. Osric shifted his weight, ready to spring. Harren moved the crossbow into firing position, arms steady.
Orien closed his eyes, searching inward for the quiet spark of magic that lived in his core. He had no desire to make a grand display—just a small cantrip to sense if a Hellschism or unnatural presence lurked near. He tapped a fingertip against his belt talisman and released a whisper of energy outward. Nothing flared violently, but he caught a subtle prick of discomfort in the air, as if something unnatural hovered just beyond a veil.
Alden leaned close. "What do you sense?"
"Not a full rift," Orien murmured, "but there's a hint of twisted magic lingering. They might be calling on forces they shouldn't."
Alden's jaw tightened. "We split. Harren and I go left, you and Osric take Eldric right. We'll approach from both sides. If they run, we pin them. If they attack, we strike fast."
Orien agreed with a nod. He placed a hand on Eldric's shoulder before they moved. "Stay close, keep your voice low. If I tell you to fall back, do it."
Eldric nodded, swallowing again but holding steady.
They parted with careful steps. Harren and Alden vanished behind a rise, their silhouettes lost among ruined walls scattered behind the tower. Orien, Osric, and Eldric drifted to the right, circling until they found a narrow path of toppled stones. Ahead, a bundle of old vines concealed what looked like a half-buried cellar door, slightly ajar.
Voices drifted from below, words indistinct but urgent, rising and falling. A strained tone, like people chanting half-remembered lines. Orien caught a scrap of meaning—something about "breaking seals" and "awaken the old hunger." It knotted his stomach. This felt dangerously close to cult nonsense, perhaps a desperate attempt to beckon demons or worse.
Osric clenched his jaw. "We can't let them finish."
Orien nodded. "Eldric, help me." He drew a thin line in the dirt with his boot. "We'll place a quick ward on that doorframe. If they try to rush out, the rune slows them."
Eldric set down his dagger a moment, pulling a piece of chalk from his belt pouch—something Orien insisted he carry. Together, they marked a small symbol at the base of the cellar doorframe, a subtle curve that would take only a spark of mana to activate. Orien pressed a fingertip to the line, channeling a whisper of energy. The chalk flared, then dulled, the rune set.
Osric looked impressed. "That might buy us a heartbeat if they charge."
Orien gripped Eldric's shoulder again. "Good work. Now, be ready."
They inched closer. The cellar door's hinges squeaked faintly. Inside, a dim glow flickered, maybe a torch or candle. The chanting rose to a feverish pitch, and Orien caught sharper words: "Tear this veil, grant us your strength."
From the other side of the tower's base came a muffled thump—likely Alden and Harren shifting into position. Orien hoped they'd wait for a sign before bursting in. Panic could cause these cultists—if that's what they were—to do something rash.
Osric took a stance beside the door. Eldric hovered behind Orien, eyes flicking between runes and blade. Orien breathed slowly. He reached out and pulled the cellar door open just enough to see inside.
In the gloom, three figures knelt around a crude circle drawn on the floor. Their cloaks were ragged, their hair matted. One held a knife above a wooden bowl. Another waved a bundle of dried herbs, producing a bitter smell. The third chanted steadily, voice cracking.
Before Orien could react, the third figure flung a handful of dust into the circle, causing sparks. A low moan rose, not from any throat but from the stones themselves. Osric's knuckles whitened on his sword.
Eldric's breathing grew quick, but he held. Orien steadied him with a glance, then signaled Osric. They would have to stop this now, before the cultists tore open something far worse than a brigand's hiding place.
Osric stepped into the doorway. The rune's subtle influence dulled any sudden move by the enemy—if they rushed, they'd falter. Orien followed, Eldric at his back.
"Stop!" Osric barked, sword raised. The cultists spun around. The one holding the knife dropped it in shock. The figure with herbs hissed and scrambled for a club.
Orien's hand blazed with a quick cantrip: 『Ember Lash』, a thin streak of flame crackling along his fingertips, ready to strike if they lunged. "No sudden moves. Give us no reason to burn you."
Eldric held his dagger low, shaking slightly but standing firm, blocking the exit behind Orien.
From above, a sharp cry signaled Alden's approach from the other side. The cultists panicked, one scrabbling back and hitting the rune-marked frame. He staggered, limbs heavy as if caught in invisible mud. Osric seized the moment, disarming him with a swift strike.
The one who dropped the knife raised empty palms, trembling. "D-don't kill us. We just wanted power… protection…"
Orien narrowed his eyes. "Power against what? Who taught you these rites?"
The cultist swallowed, eyes darting at the half-finished circle. "We heard rumors of monsters, of hungry things beyond the fields. We thought… if we called them first… they'd spare us."
Foolishness. Orien hissed quietly. "They wouldn't spare you. They'd consume you and tear this land apart." He gestured at Eldric. "Tie them. Alden will join us soon."
Eldric stepped forward, rope in shaky hands, but calmer than before. He bound their wrists as Osric covered them with sword and Orien kept his ember-spell ready.
Hoofbeats outside announced Alden and Harren circling to the cellar entrance. They appeared, relieved to find the threat contained.
Alden raised an eyebrow at Eldric's knots and Orien's still-glowing fingertips. "All well?"
Orien let the ember fade. "They tried calling forces that would break us all. It seems you arrived just in time."
Alden nodded, silent approval in his eyes. Harren guarded the prisoners, who whimpered pathetic excuses. Eldric stood straighter, having faced real danger and not fled. Osric looked to Orien and gave a short nod of respect.
Outside, morning had fully matured into a bright day. They would bring these fools back to Castle York, interrogate them further, then decide their fate. This was a small victory, but it carried lessons: alliances and runes mattered, but so did action and courage, even out here, away from carved walls and painted sigils.
Orien stepped over the chalk line, careful not to smudge it. He would remember this moment. Small steps again—teaching Eldric, guiding a patrol, thwarting a foolish ritual. Each act wove a sturdier net against the horrors lurking in quiet corners of the world.