The wind was dry and bitter as Rhok stood at the northern edge of the war camp, staring out toward the jagged ridge in the distance. The terrain ahead was bone colored and cracked, a place so dead even the crows refused to fly over it. The soldiers called it Godscar Ridge, and if the plan worked, it would be the grave of half the demon convoy by sunrise. If it failed, it would just be another scar.Behind him, the war camp moved like a wounded beast. Clerics carried salves between tents, officers barked orders, and fresh recruits sharpened blades already stained by someone else's blood. Even the tents looked tired, flapping in the wind like sighs made of canvas. The quiet was uneasy. Everyone knew something big was coming.Caelan stood inside the command tent, boots planted firmly in the ground, one hand over the map like he trying to burn the location into memory. Around him were Runa, Navien, a few senior tacticians, and one chair left conspicuously empty. Rhok entered without speak

The ridge was gone, the demon convoy buried beneath it. But the victory didn’t feel like one.They returned to camp in silence, there were no cheers and no drums. Just the wounded dragging broken gear and the quiet shuffling of blood soaked boots over packed dirt. The healers moved quickly and fast, slipping between soldiers, their hands glowing faintly, as their mouths set in hard lines. Even the wind felt careful now, like it didn’t want to be heard.Rhok walked behind the group, his daggers still stained, his face unreadable. He said nothing as they passed the camp gates, but he felt it, the eyes on him. Hundreds.The nickname started small.“Nameless,” someone whispered.Then again, louder. “Nameless.”He didn’t look back at them, he didn’t correct them. He didn’t need to. The image had burned into their minds, the way the demons had frozen in place and died under the weight of numerous ridges bring exploded, the way Marell had dropped to his knees and cried.Church observers had

The room smelled like incense and myrrh.Sir Dave stood still, boots planted on the marble floor, his shoulders straight. He didn’t like being summoned like this. He never liked being summoned at all. But when the Pope calls you in person, you show up. Whether you're dead tired, half drunk, deep between a woman's legs or already halfway across the country on another mission, you show up.And you listen.Across from him, seated on a throne lined with silver and sunsteel, was... "Pope Elarion IX. Head of the Church. Voice of Luppiter. Untouchable. Untested." Some said the man didn’t bleed, others said he hadn’t blinked in five years.Dave didn’t believe in rumors. But he did believe in pressure, and the pressure in the room felt like gravity had doubled.“You know why I’ve called you,” the Pope said.“I can guess,” Dave answered, his voice flat.Elarion’s face didn’t move. “Don’t guess. Listen.”Sir Dave stayed silent.The Pope gestured to the side where a robed priest stepped forward

Sir Dave was tired.He had spoken to six soldiers, three clerics, two saints, and a cook who seemed unusually interested in his divine sword. None had seen Rhok and they all had the same answer."He comes and goes like a whore that steals your gold when you sleep.""You don’t find him, he just pops up and spooks the living shit outta you.""Ooh, he'll find you for sure."It was starting to feel less like a search and more like chasing fog. The first person he approached that morning was Saint Luke. The man was younger than expected, with eyes that looked like they’d seen longer days than he had been alive."Rhok?" Luke had said, stretching his shoulder with a wince. "Not since the ridge collapsed, he does all that and disappears. He might be scouting or might be sleeping in a cave... or he might be having a drink with a ghost that he talks to when he thinks no one is looking. Honestly, no one knows."Next was Liora. She was sharpening a blade that seemed a bit too big for her, Sir Dav

They left before sunrise.Rhok didn’t say goodbye to anyone and neither did Sir Dave, not that he had someone to bid farewell. Ferrin looked like he wanted to say something to someone, maybe that one pretty healer who always smiled at him ever since the day he got to the battle camps, but he didn’t. He just tightened his straps, double checked his boots, and followed the others out of camp with the sun still hiding under the horizon.The road was empty, there was no noise, no wagons, just three men moving through quiet hills and dried up trees.For the first hour, nobody spoke. Just the crunching of boots on dry dirt and the occasional flap of Ferrin’s cloak as the wind caught it.Then Sir Dave finally muttered, “Horses would've been smarter.”“You said you hated horses,” Ferrin said.“I do,” Sir Dave grunted. “But my knees hate walking more.”Rhok chuckled under his breath. “You could’ve ridden that pony you brought, buttercup was it?”Sir Dave gave him a dead look. “She would’ve bit