The Escape

Blood and mud painted Aldric's world brown and red. The clash of steel rang hollow against the thundering hooves of the Karnaxian cavalry, their bronze armour catching the dying sun like fallen stars. His master, Sir Danton, stood resolute beside their last remaining banner - a patchwork thing sewn from the remnants of a dozen different holy orders.

"Boy! The sacred texts. Now!" Sir Danton's sword-arm trembled, his shield a maze of dents and gashes.

Aldric's fingers had gone numb from gripping Thunder's reins. His own mount lay three leagues back, an arrow in its throat. Another loss in this blood-soaked retreat. Thunder bore them both now, the proud warhorse straining under their combined weight.

"Boy." The word rang hollow. Twenty summers had passed since his naming day, and most squires earned their spurs at sixteen. But he'd chosen this path—remained by Sir Danton's side while others sought glory elsewhere. The title of 'sir' could wait.

The leather satchel held their last hope. Ancient prayers, gathered page by dusty page from temples across the realm. His hands shook as he drew out the text, gold leaf catching the dying sun.

Words of power spilled from his lips. The holy power surged through his blood, through the sacred bond between knight and squire. Sir Danton's bearing steadied, his sword rising once more.

A war cry split the air. Through the chaos, the Karnaxians' commander towered atop his chariot, his crimson plume marking him as one of their Bloodsworn. His voice carried across the battlefield like rolling thunder.

"For Karnax! Leave none alive!"

Sir Danton spun towards Aldric before jumping off the mount, his grey eyes wild beneath his helm. "Ride east. Don't stop until you reach the old temples." He pressed something cold and heavy into Aldric's palm - his silver holy symbol, worn smooth from decades of prayer. "Find the truth in the ancient words. The old gods still whisper, if we but listen."

"I won't leave you!"

"You'll do as you're sworn, squire." Sir Danton's gauntlet caught Aldric's shoulder, shoving their horse spurring it into action. "The knowledge must survive. The faith must survive."

The Karnaxian lines surged forward, a wave of bronze and steel. Sir Danton turned to face them, his sword raised in defiance, shining brightly with holy light. The last thing Aldric saw as he spurred their mount east was his master's silhouette—a lone figure against the tide, a pile of Karnaxian bodies rising at his feet, but merely a drop against the advancing sea.

Arrows hissed past Aldric's head as he bent low over the horse's neck. Tears carved clean tracks through the grime on his face. Behind him, the screams of the dying rose up like a hideous chorus, a requiem for the fallen faithful. He clutched the satchel of sacred texts to his chest, Sir Danton's silver symbol burning cold against his heart.

The horse's hooves thundered across the bloodied earth, carrying him away from everything he'd known, towards temples whose gods had long since fallen silent.

The war horse's laboured breathing echoed through the forest. Thunder – they'd called him that, for the sound his hooves made in a charge. The beast had carried Sir Danton through three campaigns, its scarred flanks telling stories of battles survived. Now those old wounds stretched with each desperate stride.

Aldric's fingers trembled as he unbuckled his breastplate, letting it crash into the underbrush. But it wasn't enough. Thunder's own barding was weighing him down, the chainmail armour that had turned aside so many blows now threatening to be their undoing.

"I'm sorry, old friend," Aldric whispered, fumbling with the straps of Thunder's armour. The horse stood trembling as Aldric stripped away the protective plates, each piece representing years of Sir Danton's careful maintenance. The chamfron that had protected Thunder's face in countless charges. The crupper that had deflected arrows meant for his flanks. Even the elaborately tooled peytral, Sir Danton's gift to the horse after their victory at Thornvale, had to go.

The satchel of sacred texts bounced against his hip with each stride, Sir Danton's silver symbol still cold against his chest.

Deep barks pierced the night. The Karnaxian war dogs.

Thunder stumbled, foam flecking his lips. The proud beast had carried knights into battle for over a decade, but this relentless pursuit pushed beyond even his battle-hardened limits. Aldric slid from the saddle, palm pressed against the horse's heaving flank, feeling the familiar pattern of old scars beneath his fingers.

"Go on, Thunder. You've served faithfully enough." He slapped the horse's rump, sending him galloping east while Aldric veered north. The sight of the warhorse disappearing into the darkness, stripped of his armour like a knight stripped of his honour, made Aldric's throat tight.

More weight had to go. His sword belt caught on a branch. No time for ceremony – he cut it free. The blade that marked him as a squire disappeared into the shadows. His chainmail followed, link by rusted link peeled away as he ran.

A stream glinted in the moonlight. Aldric splashed through the shallow water, boots slipping on moss-slick stones. The current pulled at his legs as he waded downstream, hoping to throw off the dog's ability to follow his scent.

The dogs' barking grew closer.

Aldric grabbed a low-hanging branch, muscles screaming as he hauled himself up. His smaller frame let him slip between the dense canopy where the heavily armoured Karnaxians couldn't follow. Bark bit into his palms as he moved from tree to tree.

A massive war dog burst through the undergrowth below, saliva dripping from its jaws. Its handler wasn't far behind, torchlight catching on bronze armour.

"The tracks lead this way!" The Karnaxian's voice carried through the forest. "The little rat can't have gone far."

Aldric pressed himself against the trunk, hardly daring to breathe. The sacred texts felt heavy against his side. One slip, one rustle of leaves, and it would all be over.

Dawn bled through the trees. Nearly a full day of pursuit, and still they hunted. His legs shook from exhaustion, unused to this desperate scramble through the canopy. But the thick forest that had sheltered the faithful for generations now gave him an edge his pursuers lacked.

The dogs' barking echoed off the trees, making it impossible to tell how many followed. Or how close they truly were.

Aldric's legs buckled with each step. Blood marked his trail where bark had stripped his palms raw. He knew he had to complete the mission given to him.

East. Always east.

He stumbled upon another stream, this one wider than the others. His waterskin shook in his grip as he plunged it beneath the surface. The water ran rust-red until his trembling hands stilled. He could only stop momentarily before he once again ascended into the trees.

The silence hit him first. No barking. No bronze-clad footsteps crushing the underbrush.

His muscles screamed as he scaled a towering oak, fingers seeking purchase in ancient bark. From his perch, the forest stretched like a green sea. There – movement. Three massive war dogs and their handlers stood at the stream's edge, their bronze armour catching the light.

But they wouldn't cross.

The Karnaxians paced the bank, dogs straining at their leashes. One handler dipped his toe in the water and jerked back as if burned. They waited. And waited. As the sun crept across the sky, they turned west and disappeared into the forest's shadows.

Aldric's legs gave out as he slid down the trunk. His mind spun with questions, but his body demanded rest. One more step. One more. Until the ground rose to meet him.

The forest had transformed when he woke. Darkness pressed against his eyes, broken only by shafts of moonlight. How long had he slept? Hours? Days? His muscles had stiffened into knots of fire.

Reality crashed over him like a wave.

The Coalition's banners trampled in the mud. Sir Danton's final stand. The Karnaxians would march on Millbrook next – his home. His mother's small herb garden. Old Tom's forge where he'd watched the smithy repair Sir Danton's armour countless times. The temple where he'd first pledged himself to his guardian deity.

"No." The word came out broken.

Tears once again carved new tracks through the grime on his face. His chest heaved with sobs that echoed through the ancient trees. The silver symbol burned against his skin as if sharing his grief.

A twig snapped in the darkness.

Aldric scrambled to his feet, pressing against a tree trunk. His hands searched for a weapon that wasn't there. Whatever had followed him across that stream, it wasn't the Karnaxians.

A figure emerged from the darkness. Aldric blinked, certain his exhaustion played tricks. Moonlight caught the stranger's head, revealing not hair but scales – hundreds of tiny, overlapping plates that shimmered in rainbow hues. She stood barely as tall as his chest, her skin under her basic leather armour was a dark blue that blended in with the night. Her movements were liquid-smooth as she circled him.

Her nose twitched. She darted closer, scaled head tilted as she sniffed the air around him. Her attention locked onto the satchel at his hip, then the silver symbol against his chest.

Aldric's shoulders eased. No predator moved with such curiosity. No corrupted creature showed such focused intelligence in their eyes. Yet nothing in Sir Danton's teachings mentioned beings like her.

"Do I smell bad or something?"

She jumped back, scales flickering through shades of blue. Her eyes widened, as if shocked to discover he could speak at all.

"Olfacies de diis iuvenibus." The ancient tongue rolled off her lips like water over stones.

Aldric's brow furrowed. Two years of lessons in the old language, and he'd spent most of them dozing in the temple library. "Sorry, I caught 'smell' and something about gods, but that's all."

Her scales rippled, shifting to deep purple. She clicked her tongue, grabbed his wrist, and tugged. When he hesitated, she pointed east with her free hand and pulled harder.

"Right. Follow the mysterious scaled person into the dark forest. Sir Danton would love this." But he let her lead him forward, away from the shadows that had sheltered him.

The scaled girl slipped through shadows like water through stones, her iridescent scales catching fragments of starlight. Aldric stumbled after her, breath ragged in the night air. When he tried to speak, she pressed a finger to her lips, scales shifting to deep indigo-like twilight waters.

Then the ruins revealed themselves.

The Temple emerged from the forest like a giant's crown cast aside by time. Its collapsed dome, once surely magnificent enough to capture the very sky, now curved broken fingers of marble toward the stars. Twelve spires ringed the temple's circumference, their weathered faces still bearing traces of gold leaf that caught the moonlight. Each spire bore unique carvings - scenes of creation, of battle, of healing and harvest - telling the stories of the gods they once honoured.

Aldric's trembling fingers found one of the sacred texts from his satchel, tracing the identical imagery etched there. The ancient artist had captured every detail: the intricate latticed windows, the sweeping buttresses that connected each spire to the central dome, and the processional path that once guided thousands of faithful through its gates.

"Impossible," he breathed. "It's The Temple of The Divine Cradle"

This was the stuff of legend - the great sanctuary where gods walked among mortals before corruption tainted the realm. Where all faiths once knelt as one, their prayers rising together like incense to the heavens. The very cornerstone of belief, lost to time and darkness... until now.

His guide tugged his arm, he couldn't help but notice the coolness of her hand on his arm. She led him through a crumbling archway where master stoneworkers had carved scenes of the gods' first gathering. Stone steps spiralled down, each worn smooth by countless faithful feet. Fragments of ancient mosaics lined the walls - gold and lapis lazuli still gleaming in the dark, depicting the twelve guardian gods in their glory.

The darkness swallowed them whole before giving way to light.

Aldric's boots struck polished marble, the sound echoing in perfect acoustics designed to carry prayers to the heavens. The chamber stretched vast and circular, its dimensions following sacred geometries that made his eyes swim if he tried to trace them. Unlike the ruins above, this sanctuary remained untouched by time's decay, as if the gods themselves held back the weight of centuries.

Thirteen shrines lined the walls, each radiating its own subtle luminescence. They stood in alcoves carved to represent each deity's domain - flowing water, climbing vines, flickering flames all captured in stone. Between them, columns of marble shot through with veins of precious metals rose to support a ceiling painted with constellations that seemed to move in the shrine light.

His eyes found each sacred station in turn, every one a masterwork that would shame the greatest temples of the modern age. Tellik's shield and torch burned with inner fire, wrapped in carved prayers for protection. Karnax's bloodied sword hung suspended over an altar of red-veined marble. The other guardians stood in equal glory: Melora of marriage with her eternal rings wrought from pure silver, Harvest-Lord Temus's altar heaped with stone fruits and grains that looked real enough to eat. Huntress Sylva's silver bow caught moonlight that shouldn't reach this deep underground. Sea-Queen Nerith's shrine perpetually wept salt water that never flooded, while Sky-Father Caelus's lightning bolt crackled with captured storm-light. Night-Mother Luna's stars twinkled in a dome of black opal across from Sun-King Sol's crown of eternal flame. Healing-Hand Vida's staff sprouted living herbs from stone soil, near Child-Friend Pira's cradle that seemed to rock of its own accord. Death-Guide Morta's hourglass poured endless sand that vanished before touching the floor.

His legs carried him to Tellik's shrine as if pulled by a lodestone. Aldric sank to his knees on cushioning stones worn smooth by ancient supplicants. He pressed his forehead to cool marble, feeling the thrum of old power beneath its surface. The prayers spilled from cracked lips, each word a balm to his battered spirit.

"Shield of the faithful, light in darkness..."

Warmth blossomed in his chest where his guardian mark resided. Tellik's blessing washed through him, familiar as his own heartbeat, stronger here than he'd ever felt it before. He felt that something had changed as if his blessing had been improved.

Rainbow light pulled his gaze to the chamber's heart. His guide knelt before the thirteenth shrine - larger than the rest, ancient symbols carved deep in its face. This central altar rose like a mountain's peak, its surface etched with flowing script in languages lost to time. Precious stones and metals were woven through the stone in patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles. His guide's scales blazed with inner fire as she chanted in the old tongue, her voice carrying harmonics that made the very air vibrate. Holy power rolled off her in waves, filling the chamber with static charge that made the light from all thirteen shrines pulse in answer.

The central shrine awakened, its surface beginning to glow with a light older than time itself.

The scaled girl's voice filled the chamber, her words no longer foreign to his ears. [Mother, I have retrieved the one who smells of the young gods.]

Aldric's gaze snapped to her. The way her scales shifted through colours of dawn caught his attention more than the miracle of understanding her words. Each tiny plate caught the shrine light at a different angle, creating mesmerizing patterns of light and shadow on the floor; the effect was captivating. He shook his head and wondered if he had Tellik to thank for his ability to understand the ancient tongue.

Light pulsed from the central shrine. "Come closer, young one, let me look."

He moved before conscious thought, drawn by power ancient as the stones beneath his feet. The scaled girl's presence followed, at his back. Her footsteps made no sound on the marble floor, yet he felt her there.

Divine energy washed over him, different from Tellik's familiar touch. This felt older, deeper, like the roots of the world itself. Like the first dawn breaking over creation. His knees nearly buckled under its weight.

"The mark of Tellik burns bright in you." The voice held the weight of mountains, the warmth of summer winds, the depth of starless nights. "But that will not hinder what must be done."

"You know me as this world Prime, the mother of gods." The light swirled, forming patterns his eyes couldn't quite grasp, geometries that seemed to fold through dimensions he couldn't name. "But this balance is shattered. Another Prime from beyond the veil spreads corruption through my children."

The scaled girl's hand grabbed his arm, steadying him. Her scales rippled with colours he had no names for - deeper than purple.

"This is Lysara, last of the Lightborn." The Prime's voice softened, taking on a mother's tenderness. "Her people stood against the corruption in the void until time itself froze around them. Today, she wakes to find her war continues."

Lysara's fingers lingered on his sleeve. Their eyes met, and Aldric saw countless battles in her gaze, along with something else - a loneliness vast as the ages she'd slept through. Her scales dimmed to twilight blues, then brightened as she held his gaze.

"You two shall be my voice in this broken world." The Prime's light touched them both, weaving threads of power around them like a tapestry of destiny. "Where I cannot act, you must move. Where I cannot speak, you must call out. The corruption spreads through my children, but it cannot touch what you might become together."

Aldric's mouth went dry. "Why us?"

"Because Lysara knows the enemy." The shrine pulsed with each word. "She has fought them across countless years, paid for that knowledge in blood and sacrifice. And you, Aldric, know what we fight to protect. You carry the faith of a fallen order, the strength of those who still believe."

The weight of Sir Danton's silver symbol pressed against his chest, no longer cold but warm with purpose. Lysara's scales flickered with determination, and something in Aldric's heart flickered in answer.

In the light of the ancient shrine, warrior and squire stood together, while the mother of gods wove the first threads of a destiny that would shake the foundations of faith itself.