The Last Paladin and The Lost Priestess

The battlefield stank of blood and smoke, the dying sun painting the world in fire.

Sir Danton stood at the head of the Holy Knight Coalition, his armour scorched, battered, but unbroken. Behind him, what remained of his forces—knights, squires, and priests, the last remnants of faith in a world turning to ruin.

Beyond them lay Millbrook, their final stronghold. Beyond that, nothing. If they fell here there was no military left in the country that could fight the Karnaxians.

The Karnaxians were coming. The Corrupted war god's chosen, clad in impenetrable bronze, wielding weapons too massive for any ordinary man to lift. They marched without hesitation, without fear, a thundering tide of iron and death.

Danton had fought them for years.

And now, he would die fighting them.

The scriptures were safe—that was what mattered.

The sacred texts, the last vestige of the order's power, the key to wielding holy magic. Without them, their faith was just words, just memory. But with them—faith could still be turned into strength. They had been wrestled from the ruins of Lumina, a city that had fallen in fire and steel, but whose faith had endured.

Now, his squire carried them, bound in leather, pressed tightly against his chest.

Danton's holy mark burned against his skin, the sigil of Tellik, the Guardian, pulsing with raw power. The last Paladin of Alluvue.

Yet, perhaps not the last. Not anymore.

That title would soon belong to his squire. The boy—no, the young man—had the talent, the will. If only he could escape this place.

Danton had convinced him to leave, though it had taken more than words.

Now, he stood alone. One knight left in a world that had forsaken its warriors of faith.

The other sects still served their gods, but they were not warriors. Only those devoted to Tellik had taken up the burden of defence.

His blade glowed with divine fire, his shield heavy with the weight of duty.

Behind him, the remaining knights murmured their final prayers, voices low, steady, resigned.

The enemy was coming.

They would hold the line.

They would buy time.

They would all die here.

But Aldric would live.

Danton turned to face the approaching storm of bronze and steel.

The Karnaxian Bloodsworn—commanders of their war host—rode at the front, their red-plumed helms gleaming like fire. A voice, deep as rolling thunder, echoed across the battlefield.

"For Karnax! Leave none alive!"

Danton exhaled, raising his sword.

He would not falter.

He would not yield.

His mark flared, divine power surging through his veins, strengthening failing limbs, turning pain to fuel. His armour burned with holy light, his blade an ember in the dark.

The first wave struck.

His sword met flesh and steel, cleaving through men and monsters alike. For every step they took forward, he forced them two steps back. Their weapons crashed against him, but Tellik's blessing turned them aside, the power of the Guardian shielding him beyond mortal endurance.

The first Bloodsworn fell, his head rolling from his shoulders.

The second came harder, faster, but Danton was faster still.

Steel met steel. Prayers met battle cries.

The earth ran red, the sky burned gold, and Sir Danton stood alone against the tide.

And then, the tide did what tides always do.

It swallowed him.