Chaos to Order

The camp at The Gate was changing. What had once been a disorganized cluster of frightened villagers and exhausted survivors was becoming something else entirely—a gathering with purpose. The people who had once cowered when the Dragles landed now moved with a sense of direction, following orders with grim determination. There was no laughter here, no idle chatter. The weight of what was coming pressed down on them all, but at least now, they had a plan.

Aldric stood with Lysara at the edge of the fortifications, watching as the trenches took shape beyond the gate. The earth was hard, unyielding, but the workers pressed on with pickaxes and shovels, their bodies aching but their resolve intact. The trenches would slow cavalry, break charges, and force Karnax's forces to fight on uneven ground. It was a start.

"They're making progress," Lysara said beside him. Her voice was low, but there was no mistaking the note of satisfaction.

"They are," Aldric agreed, though his gaze remained wary. "But they're building defences with hands more suited to sowing fields, not swinging swords. We need more than earthworks if we're going to hold this place."

She nodded. "We need them to use their gods."

The single shrine to Tellik near the gate stood as a lonely testament to what this place had once been: a stronghold of the faithful, where knights of the Order gathered before taking their vows. But the world had changed since then. Faith alone wouldn't save them, not unless it was channelled and given form.

Aldric turned back toward the centre of the camp, where they had already marked spaces for more shrines.

They moved through the camp, issuing instructions to the workers to begin constructing new shrines. Rough stone and wood were gathered for simple altars, placed strategically around the camp. The shrine to Tellik remained untouched, but now it would be joined by others: one for Huntress Sylva, one for Harvest-Lord Temus, and the rest of the 12. This was just the start.

Those who bore divine marks were separated and brought to the centre of the camp. Lysara stood before them, her posture rigid, her expression severe.

"You have been chosen," she began, her voice carrying across the open space. "Your marks are not random. They are not decorations. They are the foundation of your strength. Today, we give you the words and knowledge that will allow you to access that power."

From a leather pouch, she retrieved the canticles they had salvaged from Vadore. The parchments were worn from their journey, but the divine inscriptions remained sharp and clear. The marks glimmered faintly in the dim light, symbols etched with the weight of ancient prayers. Those with marks already had the link to their god they just needed guidance to accept the gods' power.

The first to step forward were the followers of Huntress Sylva. These were mostly scouts, hunters, and archers who had lived their lives tracking game through forests and hillsides. Lysara read the canticle aloud, her voice resonating with a faint, unnatural clarity.

"Grant sight beyond sight, sharp as the falcon's gaze, quiet as the stalking shadow. Let what is hidden be revealed, let the hunter walk unseen…." The full canticle was fairly long.

The hunters repeated the prayer in unison. Their eyes briefly glowed with a pale amber light. One of the older men, a wiry figure with a scar across his brow, gasped softly. "I can feel it," he whispered. "The woods… I can see the ridge beyond the wall." He turned his head, astonished. "And I can't hear my own steps."

"Huntersight," Lysara said with a nod. "Use it wisely." Lysara went on and explain how they would need to pray to their guardian deity daily to gain the power needed to wield the prayer.

Next came the followers of Harvest-Lord Temus, fewer in number but no less determined. They were mostly farmers who had fled their lands when Karnax's forces marched through their villages. Lysara unfolded the second canticle and read it aloud.

"From soil to root, from root to leaf, from leaf to harvest. Let the bounty of the earth answer the call, let growth defy time, let life rise against the creeping shadow…." Not as long as Huntersight it was still a lenghty chant.

The farmers repeated the words, their voices less certain but no less fervent. The ground beneath their feet stirred, a thin ripple running through the soil like a dormant heart-stirring to life. One of them dropped to his knees and pressed his palm to the earth. "It's warmer," he said softly. "Like spring after frost."

"It will help your fields when the siege begins," Lysara explained. "Faster growth, stronger roots. Enough to keep this camp from starving."

Finally, the surviving squires of Tellik stepped forward. Aldric moved closer for this part. He saw himself in their eyes—that mix of fear and determination, of wanting to prove themselves but not knowing how. He held up the last canticle and cleared his throat.

"Tellik stands as the shield, not for glory but for those who cannot. Let the walls of faith rise unbroken, let harm be diverted, let unity be the bastion against darkness….."

The squires repeated the words together. As they spoke the final syllable, a faint shimmer of golden light spread across the ground, linking them in a circle. The glow thickened into a dome for several seconds before fading.

"Together, you can protect those who stand behind you," Aldric said. "That shield will only hold if your faith holds. If one of you falters, it weakens. Stand as one, or fall apart." His gaze swept across their uncertain faces. "Make sure you continue with your prayers, always track your holy power"

As they stood there, breathing heavily from the exertion of the spell, Aldric couldn't help but notice something. Out here, beneath the shadow of The Gate, they didn't seem like a group of strangers anymore. The distinctions that defined them in their old lives—hunter, farmer, squire—meant little here.

 Their gifts were hidden beneath the surface: the hunters' sharpened vision, the farmers' unnatural stamina, the squires' resilience. It was all subtle, woven beneath the skin, allowing them to work together without fear or division. But it wasn't lost on Aldric that this unity came from their shared invisibility.

Those who bore more obvious signs of their divine marks—scales, glowing eyes, or other physical manifestations—had likely feared to join. And perhaps, if they had, this force might have been even stronger. Maybe that was part of Karnax's strategy all along.

As the dusk settled over the camp, a scouting party returned, riding hard toward the gate. Their leader, a sharp-eyed woman with mud-caked boots and a face etched with worry, dismounted before her horse had fully stopped.

"They've corralled the corrupted," she announced breathlessly. "A thousand, maybe more. They're using stakes and wards to herd from a Tear to the southwest of here. We saw Karnaxian forces patrolling the perimeter."

Aldric's blood chilled. "They're building a beast-driven vanguard," he muttered.

"They're preparing to unleash it," Lysara added. "When they do, it won't be a battle. It'll be a flood."

The scouting captain swallowed. "We also saw something else," she said. "Among the soldiers herding the creatures... some wore old Order armor."

Aldric closed his eyes briefly. More fallen knights. More twisted echoes of what had once been sacred.

"A thousand corrupted," Lysara said softly. "That's not just a raid. That's a spear aimed straight at us."

Aldric opened his eyes, looking toward the wall where the Gate loomed. The stone looked sturdy in the moonlight, but he knew better. Stone alone wouldn't hold against what was coming.

"We have time," he said, more to convince himself than anyone else. "Not much, but enough to prepare."

Lysara nodded. "Let's make it count."

Lysara and Aldric stood near the edge of the fortifications, minds still turning over the implications of the thousand corrupted beasts being gathered beyond the Tear, when a voice interrupted their thoughts.

"Excuse me… sirs. Miss."

The words were uncertain, barely more than a whisper.

They turned to find an old woman standing a few paces away, wringing her hands together. Her knuckles were knotted and twisted, her fingers stretched unnaturally long, curling at odd angles. The skin of her hands was darkened and cracked, the mutations unmistakable.

A follower of Morta, the Death-Guide.

Morta's followers saw death as part of the cycle, an inevitable change from one state to the next. The mutations came to them with time—signs of their faith made flesh. Some grew extra joints, others developed ashen, corpse-like pallor, and a rare few, like this woman, bore changes in their limbs that marked them wherever they went.

Aldric stepped forward, his tone even. "What can we do for you?"

The old woman hesitated. Her eyes flicked between them, haunted by uncertainty, as though she expected to be dismissed or mocked. Her kind were rarely welcomed openly—death was feared, not embraced.

She swallowed hard, then straightened. "I… I might have something. Something that could help."

Lysara tilted her head slightly. "Go on."

The woman nodded and reached into the satchel slung over her shoulder. Her gnarled fingers fumbled slightly, but after a moment, she produced a small ceramic sphere, sealed with a plug of wax.

"I… I made this," she said softly. "From the bogs to the south. The moss there… it secretes an oil when it decays. Thick. Dark. I… I refined it."

Aldric took the sphere from her, turning it over in his hands. It felt heavier than it should have. "What does it do?"

The old woman's mouth twitched in a faint smile, a flicker of pride breaking through the hesitation. "It burns."

Lysara raised an eyebrow. "Burns how?"

The woman gestured to the ground. "Try it."

Aldric knelt and unsealed the wax plug with his knife. The moment the barrier was broken, the heavy, pungent scent of the bogs filled the air. He poured a thin stream of the dark liquid onto the dirt, then reached for his flint. One strike was all it took.

The fire roared to life instantly, leaping higher than expected. The flames burned a deep orange, tinged with sickly green at the edges, and the heat radiated outward with unnatural intensity.

Aldric frowned. He grabbed a nearby bucket of water and splashed it onto the fire. The water sizzled on contact, but the flames remained, stubborn and unyielding.

He tried stamping it out with his boot, but the fire simply curled around the leather, refusing to be extinguished.

Lysara's eyes widened slightly. "It's persistent."

The old woman gave a small nod. "It doesn't go out easily. Not with water. Sand works. Smother it, starve it of air, and it dies. But water… water won't stop it."

Aldric stood, brushing soot from his hands, his mind racing.

"You said you made this yourself?" Lysara asked.

"Yes. I've… been refining it for years. Just a curiosity, at first. But when the war came, I thought… maybe it could help." She glanced away. "But no one listens to followers of Morta."

Lysara's gaze softened. "We're listening."

The old woman smiled faintly, then her expression turned serious. "If you want more, I have some stored. Enough for… maybe a hundred jars like that."

Lysara's eyes flicked to Aldric, and he saw the thought forming before she spoke.

"The Dragles," she said.

He blinked. "What?"

She pointed toward the still-burning patch on the ground. "If we load the jars onto Dralore and Syn… we can use them as firebombs. Drop them over the corrupted herd. The beasts will panic. The flames won't go out easily, and it might break their ranks before they even reach the Gate."

Aldric's mind caught up to hers. He imagined the scene—the Dragles diving overhead, dropping spheres of burning oil into the tightly packed herd of corrupted creatures. The flames would spread through their ranks, igniting flesh, spreading fear, disrupting the Karnaxian forces trying to control them.

A thousand beasts turned into a thousand burning, panicked weapons—against their own masters.

He looked down at the mutated woman. She stood there, expectant, uncertain, waiting for judgment.

He nodded. "We'll need every jar you can spare."

Her eyes glimmered with relief. "I'll get started right away."

As she shuffled away toward her supplies, Lysara crossed her arms and exhaled. "Funny, isn't it?"

"What?" Aldric asked, turning toward her.

"That the people who hide their gifts fit in here, while those who can't… struggle to find a place." She glanced toward the old woman's retreating figure. "I wonder how many more like her are out there. People with power. People too afraid to come forward."

Aldric followed her gaze. The woman's gnarled hands still trembled, but she walked with more confidence than when she had first approached them.

Without thinking, he stepped closer, their shoulders brushing. "Fear keeps the sects isolated," he said quietly. "Karnax uses it like a weapon."

Lysara tilted her head, her expression softening for a moment as she met his eyes. "And we'll use that against him," she replied. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she let her arm drop to nudge his side. "Let's get the Dragles ready. We have some beasts to burn."