-----Chapter 16: The March of Uncertainty-----
The march slowed, then stopped.
Not from exhaustion. Not from fear.
Something else held them still.
A force unseen, something greater than simple hesitation. A thousand warriors stood frozen, as if the land itself had spoken a silent command. The air was thick—not just with the scent of damp earth and rusted steel, but with something heavier.
Expectation. Dread. Resignation.
Sylvian stepped forward. The sound of his boots sinking into the wet soil was the only noise in the vast silence. He stood alone, before them all—not as a king, nor a prophet.
But they looked at him as if he was something more.
He did not need to raise his voice.
"We fight as we always have."
A single sentence. Simple. Sharp. A blade, not a speech.
"No hesitation. No mercy. We carve our victory into this land, or we let ourselves be erased. But at the end of the day, it will be by our hands, not theirs."
It settled deep, curling into their bones.
Some eyes shone with loyalty—the kind that would follow him into oblivion. Others hesitated, their hands tightening around their weapons, uncertain. And then there were those who did not react at all.
They had already died in their hearts.
Not a single man spoke against him.
Sir Aldric stepped forward. His voice was not sharp like Sylvian's, but it did not need to be. It was steady, carrying the weight of a man who had bled too much, seen too much, lived too long.
"We have seen what our enemies can do. We have seen what they took from us. But look beside you."
Armor clanked as men turned—some with hesitation, others with newfound purpose.
"We stand. Together. If we fall, we fall as one. But if we rise—" A pause. Just enough for the tension to coil, for the moment to sink in. "We rise as legends."
And for the first time, the silence shattered.
A war cry ripped through the sky, raw and unforgiving. A sound that did not ask for permission.
It demanded war.
And so, they marched.
---
A lone figure stood still among many, she was standing, questioning her own reasonings, if they were truely the right way. But she was desperate, she didn't want her people to face the same fate she had.
Sofia, She adjusted the straps of her gloves, flexing her fingers before releasing. A small, meaningless action. But in moments like this, even the smallest of actions felt monumental.
The scent of mud, iron, and dying faith clung to the air.
She stood not at the front, but not idle.
Around her, warriors prepared—each in their own way. Some whispered prayers, gripping their rosaries like lifelines. Others stood in fanatic devotion, eyes empty, mouths moving in silent hymns to gods that had long since stopped listening.
And then, there were those like her.
The ones who did not kneel. The ones who did not beg. The ones who simply stood, waiting, watching, unsure if the gods had abandoned them—
or if they had abandoned the gods.
"Your faith gives them a way, Lady Sofia."
A voice from behind. Deep. Heavy with meaning.
She turned. Bishop Veylin.
His eyes, sharp as a blade, studied her. But beneath that unwavering faith, something stirred. Something even he could not fully bury.
Doubt.
"If you waver, they waver," he said, voice edged with quiet warning. "If you doubt, they crumble. And if they crumble… we are already lost."
A test. A challenge.
She did not flinch.
She should have answered. Should have reassured. But the words caught in her throat, dissolving like ash on her tongue.
So, instead, she walked forward.
And as she moved, the army followed.
Not with faith.
With desperation.
---
The village had long since ceased to be a place of life.
The walls stood, but barely. Homes, once warm with hearth-fire and laughter, were now nothing but rotting bones of a forgotten past.
Two forces met in its shadow.
Sofia's people—priests, warriors of faith, broken survivors—stood stiff, their eyes laced with unspoken curses, with hatred.
Sylvian's knights did not return the sentiment.
Not out of mercy.
They simply did not care.
They weren't here to argue theology.
They were here to win.
The only structure still standing strong was a tavern. A place built for drink, now a meeting ground for war.
Inside, Sylvian, Varen, and Aldric sat across from Sofia and Veylin.
No greetings. No courtesies.
Sylvian leaned forward. His gauntlet tapped once against the wooden table. A simple sound, but final.
"We will be moving forward with the Wedge Formation."
No questions. No explanations.
There was hesitation—not out of doubt, but because the weight of those words settled into their bones.
Then, one by one, they nodded.
Nothing else needed to be said.
And so, the march resumed.
---
Two forces moved as one.
But they were not one army.
Tension walked between them like a silent specter, threading through ranks like a curse.
A knight brushed past a priest. The holy man whispered a prayer beneath his breath, his hands shaking as if fearing that merely standing beside the godless would taint him.
A soldier from Sofia's ranks sneered at the knights, his lips curled in barely hidden disgust.
A younger clergyman muttered under his breath, "What happens when the gods strike them down?"
Another voice answered, quieter.
"If the gods could strike them down… would we still be here?"
But soon, none of it mattered.
Because the city stood before them.
---
It loomed on the horizon.
A relic of war, broken but not dead.
The walls were jagged, crumbling, yet still holding—defiant against the decay of time. Some structures stood untouched. Others had been erased.
Not by fire. Not by siege.
By something worse.
And yet—
It was not empty.
There were still survivors inside.
Sylvian stood at the front, his gaze locked onto the ruins ahead. He inhaled. Slow. Steady.
"We camp here for the night."
His voice was quiet, but final.
"Tomorrow, we reclaim what was lost."
No one spoke.
Because now, they understood what lay ahead.
And with that—
the march toward war truly began.